The Mystery of the Hichcocke Inheritance (4 page)

Where’s The Crate?

THE NEXT MORNING the boys were awakened by
the smell of fried eggs and bacon. They quickly dressed and hurried
down to the kitchen where Ben and Patricia were already eating.

“Good morning!” said Ben heartily. “I trust
you slept well. No bad dreams, I hope, Pete.”

“Only one where I missed breakfast!” laughed
the tall Investigator.

A plump, stern-looking woman in a maid’s
uniform set a platter of eggs in front of the boys and poured them
tall glasses of orange juice.

“Boys, I’d like you to meet Julia
Abernathy,” said Patricia. “She has worked for my father for almost
thirty years. Her fiancé, Winston, is our butler. They are recently
engaged and are planning a wedding right here on the estate.”

“Aye,” said Julia bitterly, “’twas a sad day
when Mr. Hichcocke passed. Winston didn’t even get to meet the dear
man. And now our future in this house is uncertain.” She stood for
a moment, clasping her hands, then returned to the stove.

“The house will be put up for sale in a
month,” explained Patricia in a low voice. “We’d like to keep
Winston and Julia on as part of the estate, but we can’t promise
them that the new owners won’t already have servants. Julia has
lived in the servant’s quarters – a cottage behind the house –
since my father purchased the manor.”

Just then a tall man in an immaculate black
tuxedo entered the room. He had a long, narrow face with a
protruding, hawkish nose. His hair was starting to gray and the
dome of his head was completely bald. He bowed to the boys and
offered them a warm smile.

“Good morning, sirs,” he said in a crisp
British accent. “My name is Winston, and I shall be at your service
throughout the duration of your stay here at Hichcocke Manor.”

“Good morning, Winston,” replied Jupiter.
“That is very kind of you. Might I ask you a question?”

“Certainly, sir,” replied Winston.

“Do you know of any secret passageways on
the third floor of this house? Possibly any false walls or
doors?”

The butler drew himself up straight as if he
were preparing to give a lecture that he had memorized and
delivered a million times before.

“Every floor was built with a hidden room,”
he explained. “The design was copied from ancient castles in which
the king would have a secret room on each level in case the castle
fell under attack. The king wanted to be sure that no matter which
level his family was on, they would have a safe haven to retreat to
should they need to hide from enemies. However, to my knowledge,
there is no secret room on the third floor. The only connection to
the other floors besides the stairway would be the dumb-waiter,
used to lift food from the kitchen, and the soiled dishes back
down.”

“I see,” said Jupiter Jones.

“Anything else, sir?” asked the butler.

“Just one more thing,” said the First
Investigator. “Since you’ve worked at Hichcocke Manor, have you
ever seen any kind of apparition or ghostly presence here in the
house?”

“You must be referring to Molly Thibidoux,
the poor French maidservant who hanged herself from a tree,”
laughed Winston heartily. “My heavens, no. That is simply an old
fright story conjured up to give the house atmosphere, just as Mr.
Hichcocke would have done in his movies.”

Jupiter was about to ask Julia if she had
ever seen a ghost at Hichcocke Manor, when he was interrupted by a
commotion of arguing that soon found its way into the kitchen.

“Dear heavens!” said Patricia. “I had
forgotten all about the Fitchhorns!”

“The who?” asked Pete.

“You’ve never met anyone like Timothy and
Stella Fitchhorn,” said Ben. “They claim to be some distant
relative of Aunt Patty’s, and are here from Scotland to claim their
share of the treasure.”

Jupiter, Pete, and Bob stared wide-eyed as
the bickering Fitchhorns brought their cat-fight into the kitchen.
Timothy Fitchhorn was a fat, sweaty man with beady eyes and
horn-rimmed glasses. He was constantly pushing his stringy black
hair into place when it fell in front of his eyes. He wore a gaudy
striped blazer that was too tight, and trousers that were too
short.

To the boys, Timothy Fitchhorn almost seemed
to be the complete opposite of his nagging wife. Stella Fitchhorn
wore a striped jacket that was identical to her husband’s –
although it was a better fit. She was a small, birdlike woman who
was shorter than the boys and seemed to weigh half as much.

“I never!” she was screeching.

“You’re always complaining about the way I
drive!” he shouted, oblivious to the boys sitting at the table.
“Why they drive on the wrong side of the road in this land is
beyond my comprehension.”

Stella Fitchhorn seemed ready to lay into
her husband with a retort when she noticed the group sitting at the
table.

“Oh my,” she gasped. “Patricia, it’s so nice
to see you again. And Ben, too!” When she saw The Three
Investigators, however, she looked utterly confused. “But who are
these boys?”

“Money-grabbers, I’ll bet,” accused Mr.
Fitchhorn, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Well, I’m due my fair
share, and I’ll see that I get it!” he said matter-of-factly.

Jupiter, seeing that Patricia’s temper was
ready to boil over, quickly took control of the situation. “I
assure you we are not money-grabbers,” he said. “In fact, we’re
friends of Ben here on vacation from the United States. Rocky
Beach, California to be exact. I understand you’re from Scotland,”
he went on smoothly, “might I ask from what area?”

“Chestershire,” said Timothy Fitchhorn.
“Braxton,” said Stella Fitchhorn at the same time. They looked at
each other and Stella cleared her throat.

“That is to say we lived in Braxton before
moving to Chestershire, right dear?”

“Right,” her husband agreed. “Well,” he
said, pushing his oily hair back into place, “I’ve got a legal
right to any fortune found on this property while you boys are
here. There’s no such thing as finders keepers in this
country.”

“You mean there’s buried treasure somewhere
on this land?” Bob asked innocently. “Golly, we should get digging
fellows!”

“Yeah,” joined in Pete, trying to hide a
smile. “Do you have any shovels, Ben?”

Timothy Fitchhorn looked about ready to
explode. He mopped at his brow with a handkerchief and sputtered at
the boys. “Now see here!” he was saying. But the boys weren’t
listening. They excused themselves from the table and ran out of
the kitchen, trying hard not to laugh out loud.

“That was a really cruel joke, Bob,” laughed
Jupiter, as the boys ran into the great entrance hall.

“But really necessary!” chuckled Ben. “We’ll
have to be careful with our treasure hunt with those two in the
house.”

“Boy, you aren’t kidding!” said Pete. “Say,
where do you suppose we should start looking for the treasure,
First?” he asked Jupiter.

Jupiter quickly got back to business. He
pinched his bottom lip and thought for a moment. “We’ve already
deduced that we have to locate some kind of crate,” he said. “But
let’s read the clue again anyway so we can start fresh.”

Bob pulled his notebook out and flipped to
the right page. The boys all crowded around to read the strange
paragraph once more.

***

“
Article 33: Skip the H20
and within my estate you’ll find the Crate that leads you to the
paddy wagon. Follow the clues and pay your dues and the 2nd of 55
will reward you.”

***

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” said Bob.
“Maybe we’re not supposed to find a box at all.”

“What do you mean, Records?” asked Jupiter,
as he read the paragraph again.

Bob Andrews scratched his head and re-read
the clue as well. “Well, I guess what I’m wondering is – why is the
word ‘Crate’ spelled with a capital ‘C’”, he said. “Every other
word is spelled correctly, but that word is capitalized as if it
were the name of something.”

“Maybe we have to find something in the
house with the word ‘Crate’ on it,” suggested Pete. “Or someone
named ‘Crate.’”

Jupiter was pulling his lip again. “If we
were to find a specific person, the riddle would have simply said
to ‘find Crate.’ But it doesn’t. It says quite clearly to “find the
Crate.”

“Unless my grandfather put that in there on
purpose, just to throw us off track,” offered Ben.

“That’s a distinct possibility,” Jupiter
admitted. “Do you or your Aunt Patricia know any of Mr. Hichcocke’s
friends named Crate?”

Ben shook his head. “I would have to ask
Aunt Patty,” he said. “But if it was someone my grandfather knew in
the movie business, it would most certainly be in his private
office.”

“Can we look in there?” asked Pete.

“It’s always locked, but I can get the key
from Aunt Patty.”

The boys followed him as he retrieved the
key from his aunt, and then they marched down a narrow hallway to a
large oak door that was the private office of Alphred Hichcocke.
Ben inserted the key, but before he could turn it, he
stiffened.

“What’s wrong?” asked Pete. “Do you have the
wrong key?”

“No,” said Ben slowly. “The door has already
been opened – look!” He pushed the door with his hand and they
watched as it slowly creaked open.

Jupe bent down to inspect the lock. “The
lock has been jimmied,” he reported. “And not very long ago. There
are fresh scratches on the brass key-plate. Someone probably used a
bobby-pin or a small screwdriver to turn the catch.”

“And boy did they leave a mess!” said Bob,
pointing at the large desk in the middle of the room.

Papers were scattered everywhere on the
desk, some even falling onto the floor. Folders had been pulled out
of filing cabinets and the drawers of the desk had been left half
open.

“Someone in this house is obviously trying
to beat us to whatever is hidden,” said Jupiter.

“The Fitchhorns!” Ben seethed. “Wait until I
tell Aunt Patty! She’ll have them out of the house by lunch!”

Jupiter shook his head. “We have no proof of
their guilt. It could just as easily have been your Aunt Patricia’s
cousin Jeb, or Winston and Julia.”

“Not Julia,” said Ben. “She’s been here much
too long to do something like this. But I sure wouldn’t put it past
Jebediah. He’s creepy!”

As Ben was talking, Jupiter had moved closer
to one of the walls. A hand-carved wooden trim about three feet
high ran around the bottom length of the office, but from there on
up to the ceiling the walls were covered in picture frames – just
like Mr. Hichcocke’s home in Hollywood.

“What is it, First?” asked Bob.

“I just remembered something,” said Jupiter
quietly. “A film Mr. Hichcocke made many years ago. In it there is
a man wrongly accused of murder, and in the big courtroom scene at
the climax of the film, the star points out the man who was
actually guilty of the crime.”

“What does that have to do with someone
breaking into Mr. Hichcocke’s office?” asked Pete.

“Not the office – the riddle!” said
Jupiter.

“Sure, I remember now,”
Bob said excitedly. “That film was
The
Fine Art of Murder
and it starred Creighton Duke! Say – do you
suppose that could be the ‘Crate’ he was talking about?”

Jupiter was scanning the hundreds of
pictures that lined the walls of the office. “Spread out!” he
commanded. “Look for a photograph of Creighton Duke!”

The boys each took a wall and began studying
every photograph minutely. Within minutes Ben cried out in triumph.
“I found it!”

The Three Investigators
hurried over to see the black and white picture. It was a still
frame from the thrilling climax of
The
Fine Art of Murder.
Creighton Duke,
playing the part of the wrongfully accused man, stood in a
courtroom pointing his finger at the actual killer. The still photo
was signed in black ink. It said:

*

“
To Hitch – I didn’t do
it! Your pal, Crate.”

*

“That’s
got
to be the Crate in
the riddle,” said Jupe. “Now let’s see which way Creighton Duke is
pointing. It should lead to a photo with a paddy wagon in
it!”

The boys followed the actor’s finger. It
pointed towards more pictures on the far wall. They looked at every
picture between the Creighton Duke picture and the wall, but
nothing looked like it had anything resembling a paddy wagon in
it.

“It’s got to be here somewhere!” said Pete.
“Let’s look again.”

“Wait a minute,” said Jupiter, holding up
his hand. “Let’s think about this logically. Mr. Hichcocke has
already shown us that he’s not above using a play on words. This
might be another one of his tricks. What else could a paddy wagon
be?”

The boys stood quietly in the messy office
for a moment, each thinking hard.

“Could it be an ambulance?” offered
Pete.

“Or some kind of police car?” said Bob.

“Maybe a fire truck,” suggested Ben.

“Wait a minute, wait a minute!” cried
Jupiter. “I think I’ve got it, and what an excellent play on
words!” he sang. “Ben, your aunt’s name is Patricia, right?”

“Correct,” the British lad replied.

“But you don’t always call her that, do
you?” he persisted.

“Sometimes I call her Aunt Patty,” he said,
“but I fail to see – Oh!” Understanding dawned on Ben’s face as he
realized what Jupe was driving at. “Patty,” he cried, “as in paddy
wagon!”

“Exactly,” Jupe crowed. “Creighton Duke must
be pointing to a photograph of your Aunt Patricia, probably one of
her as a little girl in a wagon!”

“And here it is!” exclaimed Bob. The boys
crowded close to see the picture. In this photograph, a little girl
in a frilly white dress sat in a red wagon, holding a dolly. On the
side of the wagon, painted in crude white letters, were the words:
PATTY’S WAGON.