Chapter Three

Clues

“Now we better get to the top of this,” they said. “Now to find out his phone number,” said Lee. “Let me see how we find it,” said Sylvia. So they walked off to the bazaar to find out the villain’s phone number. There were rich plum puddings, chocolate cakes, apple pie, cherry tarts, pineapple biscuits, roast beef with gravy, corn, rice, and chicken and steak. They pushed their way through the crowd to the door and into the lobby hall. They walked through the lobby hall until they came to a door with a sign on it which read: Head of Bazaar, Mr. Grits. They opened the door which was not locked and stepped into the room which was dimly lighted. A black man with white hair and a white beard sat on a chair by the desk, his head facing down, writing with a black ink pen on some paper. He turned his head up when he saw us and said, “What do you want?”

I said, “How many people were robbed?” “900,” he said. “How many people were killed?” “601,” he said. “How many houses were ruined?” we said. “700,” he said. “May you give me a piece of paper?” I said. “Sure,” he said. He handed a piece of paper to me. I wrote down 900 601 700. “His phone number!” we cried, took the paper, and rushed out. Mr. Grits shook his head and said, “Crazy kids, never know what they’re talking about, crazy crazy.”

Meanwhile our parents were worried about us and asked Flow, a French girl who knew us. She said, “They were going to the bazaar to get information from Mr. Grits. Come, I’ll show you.” She led the way on the path through the woods onto a green lawn past the beach club on a old road to the right of the old-fashioned windmill. They too pushed their way through the crowd to the lobby hall and went into the dim room. Mr. Grits looked up and smiled when they told him that their kids were last seen at the bazaar. “They ran out somewhere,” he said. But the parents knew their kids. They would surely come back for supper with good or bad news.

Meanwhile we were at the new street with the telephone booth on it for special calls. They took a dime, put it in, and dialed 900 601 700. On the telephone a mean gruff voice said, “Hello, who is this?” “Red Romer you tried to kill us, this is Lee Shypman and . . .” “LEE!” roared the voice. “Yes,” Lee said. “Lee, what do you want?” he said. There was a pause. “Speak!” roared the Red Romer, not as loudly as before. “What are you afraid of?” I said. “The special mirror which will reflect back my powers. It has been passed on to you from your grandfather and hidden under your house. If you die it shall be mine,” he said and hung up.

I told the rest of the gang. They said good and dug to find the mirror. Soon we found it and we had to find the villain’s hideout, so we went from all the paths to each house he had been in. It led to a oak tree with a brown rope hanging down that nobody could see because of the brown of the tree. We looked up into the branches. There was a tree house. The door was bolted and locked and chained securely. How could they get in? The windows were closed and locked, except one which was closed but not locked, so they went to it and pushed it open, climbing through. They saw bombs, tanks of oil, huge batteries of electricity, chains, ropes, locks, and firecrackers as big as tanks. Rifles and guns were scattered about. A sleeping guard was lying by the door. Quietly we tiptoed through the mess, past the guard, and into the next room.