“He will?” Harry exclaimed. “Golly, that’s terrific!”
“It is simple, my boy,” Hugenay said. “I will tell you the circumstances, Mr. Bert Clock, the former actor, has — if you have not already guessed it — been the brains behind a gang of art thieves that has been operating for years in this area, stealing valuable paintings from wealthy motion picture people who did not guard them well enough.”
“Of course!” Bob said. “That’s why Mr. Clock changed his name some years ago and has been acting so mysterious. He’s a thief. I’ll bet he stole those paintings that were hidden under the linoleum in Harry’s kitchen.”
“Perhaps he did not steal them himself,” Hugenay said as they rolled along. “He had assistants to do that. Jerry, the former jockey, was one. He used several jockeys, because they are small men and can get through windows easily. He sold the pictures to wealthy South American collectors who would keep them safely hidden. Carlos was a contact with the South Americans.
“A couple of years ago, several paintings were stolen that Mr. Clock could not get rid of. Two of his best South American customers had just been put in jail after the failure of a plot to overthrow their government. So Mr. Clock hid the paintings, and told his men he would sell them later, when the time was ripe.
“However, he made no move and Jerry and Carlos decided to act on their own. They stole three paintings and brought them to Mr. Clock to sell, demanding that he also produce the five — yes, it was five — that were hidden.
“However, by one of those freakish coincidences with which life is full, the police investigating this latest art robbery turned their attention to someone in Mr. Clock’s own house — your father, Harry. Frightened lest they learn too much, Mr. Clock hid the three new paintings where the police would find them and blame your father.”
“He framed my father!” Harry said bitterly. “And Mom and I always thought he was such a nice guy.”
“Yes, he framed your father. Then, shortly after that, he vanished. I believe Carlos and Jerry and perhaps Jeeters were pressing him too hard. He didn’t dare bring the missing pictures out of hiding, so he left for South America and hid himself. From everyone but me, that is. I have connections all over the world, if I may boast a bit.
“I contacted him, suggesting he let me have the pictures to handle — you see, I had made it my business to learn all about his activities — but he refused. He was sick, in fact he was dying, and he was feeling remorse about your father, Harry. He sent off the strange screaming clock and several messages to various old friends, and then he died.”
“But why did he send the messages and the clock, Mr. Hugenay?” Bob asked. “Wouldn’t it have been simpler just to write a letter to the police?”
“Bert Clock was never a simple man,” Mr. Hugenay said. “He did it the way he did for some reason. Perhaps we will guess that reason when we decode the strange messages.”
“But Mr. Jeeters burned the messages,” Jupiter reminded him. “He burned all of the first two and half of the third message.”
“But naturally you remember them?” Hugenay asked, a trifle anxious.
“I remember the first two,” Jupiter admitted. “But the third was all numbers. I couldn’t possibly remember it. Anyway, I only saw it once, then Carlos got the bottom half from me. The first message said, ‘I suggest you see the book’ and the second message said, ‘Only a room where Father Timehums’.”
“Book?” Hugenay frowned. “What book, I wonder? The room where time hums is simple enough, of course. It can only be the room of many clocks. I assumed all along our starting point would be there. Well, here we are. Once we are inside we can ponder the message further.”
The car stopped at the kerb. They all got out and walked up the path to the home of Bert Clock. Harry let them in and went to look for his mother.
As he called her name, they heard a pounding on the cellar door. He quickly unlocked it and Mrs. Smith emerged.
“Thank goodness you came, Harry!” she said. “That awful Mr. Jeeters and his friends! They locked me in the cellar and said I’d have to stay there until they got back. I see you have some policemen with you. Well, I want them arrested right away!”
“They have been taken care of, madam,” Mr. Hugenay said, making a bow. “Indeed, we are here on business that vitally concerns you.”
“This is Mr. Hugenay!” Harry said excitedly. “He says he can prove Dad is innocent.”
“Really? That’s wonderful!” his mother exclaimed.
“In order to do that,” Mr. Hugenay said, “we must be allowed into Mr. Clock’s — or Mr. Hadley’s if you prefer the name he used — library. We may have to do some damage. I assure you it is necessary to prove your husband innocent. Have we your permission?”
“Yes, of course. Anything!” Mrs. Smith said happily. “Tear the house down if it will clear Ralph.”
“Thank you. Now I shall ask you and Harry and Bob to remain outside the library while I and my men are at work. You will communicate with no one. If the telephone rings, do not answer it. Is it agreed?”
“Yes indeed. The boys and I will stay in the kitchen and have a bite to eat — I haven’t eaten for hours. Go right ahead, Mr. Hugenay.”
“Thank you,” Hugenay said and turned to Jupiter. “Lead us to the library, my boy.”
Meanwhile, unaware of the excitement into which Bob and Jupiter had been plunged, Pete was at home watching television with his father. Mr. Crenshaw was a technical expert with the motion picture industry, and often travelled to the far corners of the world to help make films.
Pete was having trouble keeping his mind on the TV detective story. He was still thinking about the mystery of Mr. Clock and his strange clock. As the programme ended, he asked his father a question.
“Did I know Bert Clock?” his father replied. “I certainly did. Not well, of course, but I ran into him on a couple of pictures. What a screamer that fellow was! Made your blood turn cold. There was an old picture — oh, back twenty years ago, I guess, in which he pulled a very interesting trick.”
“Trick!” Pete idly reached for a potato chip from the bowl on the table and munched on it. He loved potato chips. “What kind of trick, Dad?”
“What?” his father asked, already watching the next programme. Pete repeated the question. His father, absorbed in an exciting Western, answered somewhat absent-mindedly. Pete blinked. This was something Jupiter didn’t know. Pete couldn’t see how it possibly fitted in, but Jupe liked to know everything possible about his cases. Maybe he ought to call Jupe and tell him.
Even if First was in bed, he’d want to know.
“It’s getting late,” Mr. Crenshaw said abruptly. “Time for you to be in bed, boy. Up you go!”
“Okay, Dad,” Pete agreed and went off to bed without phoning. He could tell Jupe when he saw him in the morning.
19
A Fruitless Search
Inside the room of clocks, Mr. Hugenay became very business-like. He directed his two men to pull the shades tightly. Then he switched on all the lights and surveyed the room.
“Hundreds of books,” he murmured. “Three paintings, probably worthless. A large mirror. Many clocks. Some panelled walls where a hiding place could be concealed. Now the first message tells us to see a book. The second message directs us to this room where time hums. The third message — let me see the third message, boy.”
Jupiter handed him the torn top half of the third message. Hugenay looked at the numbers and scowled.
“Reference to words on certain pages of a book, obviously,” he said. “But meaningless without the proper book. Boy, what book do you think it might be?”