The Mystery of the Talking Skull, стр. 7

As he entered the living room with Socrates, his aunt glanced up and gave a slight scream.

“Stars and comets, Jupiter!” she exclaimed. “What is that awful thing you’re carrying?”

“It’s just Socrates,” Jupiter told her. “He’s supposed to be able to talk.”

“Be able to talk, eh?” Titus Jones looked up from his newspaper and chuckled. “What does he say, my boy? He has a rather intelligent appearance.”

“He hasn’t said anything yet,” Jupiter admitted. “I’m hoping he will, though. But I don’t really expect him to.”

“Well, he’d better not talk to me or I’ll give him a piece of my mind!” Mathilda Jones said. “The idea! Get him out of my sight, Jupiter. I don’t want to look at him.”

Jupiter took Socrates up to his bedroom and set him on his ivory base on the bureau. Then he went back downstairs to watch television.

By the time he went to bed he had decided that Socrates couldn’t possibly talk. The answer must be that The Great Gulliver, his owner, had been a very gifted ventriloquist.

He had almost fallen asleep when a soft whistle roused him. It came again, and it sounded as if it were right in the room with him.

Suddenly wide awake, Jupiter sat upright in bed.

“Who’s that? Is that you, Uncle Titus?” he asked, thinking for a moment that his uncle might be playing another joke.

“It is I,” came a soft, rather high-pitched voice from the darkness in the direction of his bureau. “Socrates.”

“Socrates?” Jupiter gulped.

“The time has come… to speak. Do not turn on… the light. Just listen and… do not be frightened. Do you… understand?”

The words came as if with difficulty. Jupiter stared through the darkness to where Socrates was but could see nothing.

“Well — all right.” He spoke the words with a slight gulp.

“Good,” said the voice. “You must go… tomorrow… to 311 King Street. The password… is Socrates. Do you… understand?”

“Yes,” said Jupiter, more boldly. “But what is this all about? Who is talking to me?”

“I… Socrates.” The whispering voice trailed away. Jupiter reached out and switched on the bedside lamp. He stared across at Socrates. The skull seemed to grin back, quite silent now.

Socrates couldn’t have been speaking to him! But — the voice had been in his room. It hadn’t come from the window.

At the thought of the window, Jupiter turned to it. He peered out. The yard outside was quite open, and there was no one in sight anywhere.

Extremely baffled, Jupiter got back into bed.

The message had been for him to go to 311 King Street the next day. Maybe he shouldn’t — but he knew he would. The mystery was getting more perplexing.

And if there was anything Jupiter couldn’t resist, it was a good mystery.

6

A Mysterious Message

“You’re sure you don’t want me to come in with you, Jupe?” Pete asked.

Sitting in the front seat of the light truck, which Hans had driven into Los Angeles for them, Pete and Jupiter were staring at the dingy building which stood at 311 King Street. A faded sign on the porch said Rooms. Underneath was a smaller sign that said No Vacancies.

The neighbourhood was run-down. There were other rooming houses and some stores, and everything needed paint and repair. The few people on the street were quite old. It seemed to be a street where elderly people with small incomes lived.

“I don’t think so, Second,” Jupiter answered. “You wait here for me in the truck with Hans. I don’t think there’s any danger.”

Pete swallowed hard. “You say the skull told you to come here?” he asked. “Just like that? Sitting on your bureau it talked to you in the dark?”

“Either that or I had a very remarkable dream,” Jupiter told him. “But I wasn’t asleep so I don’t think I was dreaming. I’ll go in and see what it’s all about. If I’m not out in twenty minutes, you and Hans come in after me.”

“Well, if you say so,” Pete agreed. “But there’s a lot about this business I don’t like.”

“If there’s any danger,” Jupiter said, “I’ll yell as loudly as I can for help.”

“Be careful, Jupe,” said Hans, his big, round face showing concern. “And if you need help, we come quick!”

He flexed his powerful arm to show that, if necessary, he’d break down doors to rescue Jupiter. The First Investigator nodded.

“I’ll count on both of you,” he said as he got out of the truck.

Jupe went up the path to a small front porch, climbed some steps, and pushed the doorbell. He waited for what seemed a long time before he heard a step inside.

The door opened. A heavy-set man with swarthy features and a moustache looked at him.

“Yes?” he asked. “What do you want, boy? No rooms for rent. All full.”

His accent was slightly foreign and Jupiter could not place it. He put on his stupid look, which he sometimes adopted when he wanted adults to think he was just a dumb, pudgy boy. “I’m looking for Mr. Socrates,” he said, using the password.

“Hah!” For a long moment the man stared at him. Then he stepped back. “You come in. Maybe he here, maybe he not. All depends. Lonzo will ask.”

Jupiter stepped inside and blinked his eyes in the dim light. The hall was dusty and small. Opening off it was a large room where several other men sat reading newspapers or playing draughts. All had swarthy features, very black hair, and muscular builds. All looked up and stared at Jupiter with expressionless faces.

Jupiter waited. Finally the man with the moustache came back from a room at the far end of the hall.

“You come,” he said. “Zelda will see you.”

He led Jupiter down the hall into the room, then left and closed the door behind him. Jupiter blinked his eyes. The room was bright and sunny, and after the dark hall it took him a moment to see the old woman sitting in a big rocking chair. She was knitting something while looking at him keenly through old-fashioned spectacles.

She wore a bright red-and-yellow robe and had large gold rings in her ears. As she peered up at him, Jupiter suddenly realized she was a Gypsy. Her first words confirmed this.

“I am Zelda, the Gypsy,” she said in a soft, husky voice. “What does the young man wish? To have his fortune told?”

“No, ma’am,” Jupiter said politely. “Mr. Socrates told me to come here.”

“Ah, Mr. Socrates,” the old Gypsy woman said. “But Mr. Socrates is dead.”

Thinking of the skull, Jupiter had to admit that Socrates was dead, all right.

“But still he spoke to you,” Zelda murmured. “Strange, very strange. Sit down, young man. There, at that table. I shall consult the crystal.”

Jupiter sat down at a small table made of rich wood inlaid with ivory in strange designs. Zelda rose and seated herself opposite him. From beneath the table she picked up a small box out of which she took a crystal ball. She put the ball in the centre of the table.

“Silence!” she hissed. “Say nothing. Do not disturb the crystal.”

Jupiter nodded. The old Gypsy placed her hands lightly on the table and leaned forward to stare into the shiny crystal ball. She was very still. Indeed, she seemed to have stopped breathing. Long moments passed. At last she spoke.

“I see a trunk,” she murmured. “I see men — many men who wish the trunk. I see another man. He is afraid. His name begins with B — no, with G. He is afraid and he wishes help. He is asking you to help him. The crystal clears! I see money — much money. Many men want it. But it is hidden. It is behind a cloud, it vanishes, no one knows where it goes.

“The crystal is clouding. The man whose name begins with G is gone. He has vanished from the world of men. He is dead, yet he lives. I can see no more.”

The old Gypsy woman, who had been leaning forward to stare intently into the crystal ball, straightened with a sigh.