“Why — uh —” Mr. Gelbert spluttered. “I was just trying to make it sound more, well, more splashy and interesting.”
“Quite likely,” Jupiter agreed, “but the way it reads to me is that the winner gets the use of the Rolls-Royce until he has used it for twenty-four hours thirty times. In other words, thirty days, each made up of twenty-four hours’ use of the car. And according to my calculations —” he opened his notebook and studied what was written in it—“according to my calculations we have used the car for a total of seventy-seven hours and forty-five minutes. So we have almost twenty-six days’ use of the car left. Twenty-six days of twenty-four hours each, that is.”
Pete and Bob could hardly believe their ears. It didn’t seem possible Jupiter could be right, yet the way he explained it certainly sounded awfully plausible. After all, the contest had said, “thirty days of twenty-four hours each” and if each twenty-four hours’ use made up one day, then — well, Jupe was right.
Mr. Gelbert seemed to have trouble speaking. He grew very red in the face.
“That’s absurd!” he cried. “I never said anything like that. At least I didn’t intend to say any such thing.”
“That’s why it’s very important always to be careful you’re saying what you mean,” Jupiter replied. “In this case you did say —”
“I didn’t!” Mr. Gelbert roared. “Anyway, if you think you can use my best car and driver free practically forever, you’re crazy. I don’t care what I said in the advertising. I meant thirty days, period. Your use of the car is finished! Period again!”
“But we were away for a week, Mr. Gelbert,” Bob spoke up. “So we couldn’t use the car. Couldn’t we have that time added on to the thirty days, at least?”
“No!” the man started to shout automatically. Then he nodded abruptly. “All right, I’ll make a concession. Providing you promise not to bother me any more, you can use the car two more times. That’s two more times and after that — out!”
Jupiter sighed. He hated to have one of his schemes go wrong, and he had been counting on the wording in the advertising of the contest to win them the use of the car for some time to come. After all, what he had told Mr. Gelbert was perfectly logical. When you said “thirty days of twenty-four hours each,” you meant thirty times twenty-four hours’ use of the car. But adults, of course, were frequently neither reasonable nor logical.
“All right,” he said. “Two more uses of the car. One of them at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. Thank you, Mr. Gelbert.” He turned to his friends. “Come on, Second and Records.”
Pete and Bob followed him out in silence, and they started back for the salvage yard.
“Gosh!” Pete said gloomily. “What are we going to do after we’ve finished the two times’ use of the car? If we get any more mysteries to solve, we can’t get around southern California on bicycles!”
“We’ll have to work harder in the yard,” Jupiter said, “so Aunt Mathilda won’t mind letting us use the light truck, with Hans or Konrad to drive it.”
“But half the time they’re busy or the truck is away,” Bob said. “This just about sinks The Three Investigators, Jupe. You know it does.”
“We still can use the car twice more,” Jupiter said firmly. “Something may turn up. I’m very much looking forward to our meeting tomorrow with Alfred Hitchcock. I have a feeling he has a real mystery for us to work on.”
3
The Mysterious Message
“LADS,” rumbled Alfred Hitchcock, “I want you to meet a young English friend of mine. His name is August. In fact, it is August August, which makes it slightly unusual. August, this is Jupiter Jones, Pete Crenshaw, and Bob Andrews. They have solved several interesting mysteries, and they may be able to help you.”
The Three Investigators were seated in the famous producer’s luxurious Hollywood office. The boy who now rose from a chair beside Mr. Hitchcock was tall and thin — taller than Pete, and much thinner, with very light hair cut rather long. He wore horn-rimmed glasses, which seemed to perch on top of a thin, high-bridged nose.
“I’m certainly glad to meet you fellows,” August August said as he strode over to shake their hands. “Please call me Gus.”
He sat down again, and went on, “I certainly hope you can help me because I’m stumped — that’s what you Americans say, isn’t it? My great-uncle, Horatio August, died recently and his lawyers sent me a paper that — well, I can’t make head or tail of it.”
“Nor, I confess, can I,” Mr. Hitchcock added. “Yet Horatio August seemed to think his great-nephew could unravel it. Young August, show these lads the paper.”
Gus took a wallet from his pocket and carefully removed from it a folded sheet of fine paper. It was covered with lines of spidery handwriting.
“Here,” he said, handing it to Jupiter. “See what it means to you.”
Bob and Pete crowded close to Jupiter and read the writing over his shoulder. It said:
To August August, my great-nephew:
August is your name and August is your fame and in August is your fortune. Let not the mountains of difficulty in your way stop you; the shadow of your birth marks both a beginning and an ending.
Delve deeply; the meaning of my words is for you alone. I dare not speak more plainly lest others find what is meant for you. It is mine; I paid for it and I own it, yet I have not dared its malevolence.
But fifty years have passed and in half a century it should have purified itself. Yet still it must not be seized or stolen; it must be bought, given or found.
Therefore take care, though time is of the essence. This and all my love I leave you.
Horatio August
“Wow!” Bob said. “That’s some letter.”
“It’s all Greek to me,” Pete said. “What does ‘malevolence’ mean?”
“It means — well, that somebody or maybe something would like to hurt you,” Bob said.
Jupiter held the paper to the light to see if he could find any secret message on it.
“A natural thought, young Jupiter,” Mr. Hitchcock said. “However, there is no secret writing, no invisible ink, nothing of that kind on the paper. I have had it tested by technical experts here at the studio. The lawyer who sent it to August reports that he saw Mr. August write it a few days before his death. He handed it to the lawyer immediately with instructions to forward it when the time came. So, whatever message it holds is contained in the written words. What do you make of it?”
“Well —” Jupiter spoke cautiously — “in one way it is very clear.”
“Very clear!” Pete snorted. “I like that! To me it seems as clear as a Pacific fog at midnight!”
Jupiter didn’t seem to hear him. He was concentrating on the strange message.
“For one thing,” he observed, “it is clear that Mr. August wanted to send his great-nephew a message no one else would understand. He’s hidden something, and it sounds as if it’s been hidden for fifty years. It’s something valuable, so other people might steal it if he just came right out and told his great-nephew where it was. All of that is clear enough.”
“Well — yes,” Pete agreed. “But the rest of it, that’s clear as mud.”
“It’s possible,” Jupiter continued, “that some of the words mean something, and the others are thrown in to put people off the track. Let’s start at the beginning. ‘August is your name.’...”