“Then,” Jupiter said urgently, “there’s no time to lose! If Java Jim tried to destroy the journal, it only mean one thing — he thinks he knows all he needs to find the treasure! We’ll have to move fast now. Come on, men!”
Jupiter led the way back through the dense brush to the massive old house. Mrs. Gunn stood waiting anxiously. Hans was with her, having left the truck to investigate all the excitement. “The vandal escaped,” Rory growled. “If I’d come from the house a minute sooner, I’d ha’ collared him.”
“You were in the house, Mr. McNab?” Jupiter asked.
“That I was, boy. Smelled the smoke.”
“Arson should be reported,” Professor Shay said. I only came to warn you about young Stebbins being a parole violator, and now I must get back. But I’ll stop at the police station and report Java Jim and this latest outrage.”
“Ay, ye better,” Rory agreed. The surly Scotsman’s voice was grudgingly friendly. “It’s an apology I may be owing ye, boys. I’m not saying there is any treasure, but I know now that others besides ye yersel’s think there is.” Rory shook his head. “Dangerous men, I’m thinking. For the police to handle. It’s no’ a job for boys.”
Professor Shay nodded. “I’m afraid I must agree, boys.”
“Perhaps?” Mrs. Gunn began doubtfully. “We’re not in any danger, ma’am,” Jupiter said quickly. “It’s obvious that Java Jim thinks he has all he needs. He didn’t try to attack us. And at the island, Stebbins ran away. It’s the treasure they want, and our best course is to find it first! Bob and Pete are careful, and Cluny and I will have Hans with us.”
“I’m still no’ liking it,” Rory insisted.
“I’m sure the boys will be responsible,” Mrs. Gunn said quietly. “They’re old enough now.”
“Thanks, Mum!” Cluny beamed.
Professor Shay smiled. “I have faith in their judgment too, Mrs. Gunn. Now I must attend to my duties. But keep me informed, eh, boys?”
The little professor returned to his station wagon and drove off. Rory reluctantly helped Hans load the truck with the items Mrs. Gunn was letting Uncle Titus have. Then he walked towards Mrs. Gunn’s old Ford.
“Ye all may ha’ time to waste, but not I,” Rory said grumpily. “That fire burned the small generator in the shed. I’ll ha’ to go to ha’ it repaired.”
Rory drove the Ford back to the burned shed, and Bob and Pete got their bikes from the truck to ride to Rocky Beach.
“Look sharply,” Jupiter admonished them before they rode away. “These are the last two steps of old Angus’s course!”
Then Jupiter and Cluny climbed into the truck, and Hans started north for Santa Barbara.
Jupiter fidgeted on the seat of the truck as they drove north for Santa Barbara.
“Faster, Hans,” he urged. “We must get there first!”
“We get there in good time, Jupe,” Hans said placidly. “Hurry too much, maybe we don’t get there at all.”
Jupiter sat back chewing on his lip. Cluny, who had been looking at old Angus’s second journal, looked up in confusion.
“Jupiter, I just noticed this entry for Santa Barbara doesn’t say where Angus went! Where do we go when we get there?”
Hans grunted. “Santa Barbara is big town.”
“Big enough to have well-kept records,” Jupiter said a little smugly. “We’re going to find where Angus went by using the one important fact he did give us.”
“What’s that Jupe?” Cluny asked.
“That he bought something at a shop that had recently been gutted by fire!” Jupiter said triumphantly. “In 1872 Santa Barbara was small enough for the newspaper to write about any local fire!”
They reached the lush outskirts of Santa Barbara in mid-afternoon and found the imitation-Moorish building of the Santa Barbara Sun-Press on De La Guerre Plaza. The receptionist sent them to a Mr. Pidgeon on the second floor. The editor was a thin, smiling man.
“In 1872?” Mr. Pidgeon said. “No, we weren’t in existence then. There was a local paper, though, and you’re right, young man, a fire would have been reported.”
“Where would we find the old paper’s morgue, sir?” Jupiter asked.
“Well, we took over all its assets and files,” Mr. Pidgeon said, “but, unfortunately, all records before 1900 were lost in an earthquake and fire.”
Jupiter groaned. “All the records, Mr. Pidgeon?”
“I’m afraid so,” the editor said. He thought for a moment. “However, there might be a way. I know an old writer who worked on that paper over sixty years ago. I’m not sure, but I think he kept a private morgue on the old paper. Sort of a hobby.”
“Is he in Santa Barbara now, sir?” Jupiter exclaimed.
“He certainly is,” and Mr. Pidgeon opened a small, revolving address file on his desk. “His name’s Jesse Widmer, and he lives at 1600 Anacapa Street. I’m sure he’d be glad to see you boys.”
In the truck again, they drove up to the 1600 block of Anacapa Street. Number 1600 was a small adobe house set at the end of a long walk, behind a larger house. Jupiter and Cluny hastened up the walk while Hans remained in the truck. Jupiter stopped suddenly on the path.
A door had slammed somewhere, and feet ran away behind the small adobe.
“Look, Jupe!” Cluny pointed.
The front door of the small house stood ajar. As they stood listening, a weak cry came from the adobe.
“Help!” And then louder, “Help me!”
“Someone’s in trouble in there!” cried Jupe and dashed forward with Cluny. Hans leaped out of the truck and sprinted after them.
The adobe’s front door opened on to a small, neat living-room lined with books and framed front pages of old newspapers.
“Please! Help!”
The cry came from an inner room on the left. The boys followed it into a study, crammed with stacks of ancient newspapers and magazines. A typewriter stood on a desk with typed pages in a box beside it, as if someone were writing a book.
An old man lay on the floor. His glazed eyes rolled up at the boys. Blood trickled from his mouth, and his face was cut.
“Mein Gott” swore Hans when he saw the old man. He lifted the writer up gently and helped him into an easy-chair. Cluny got a glass of water. The old man drank thirstily.
“A bearded man,” the old man said. “With a scarred face, wearing a pea-jacket. Who… who are you?”
“Java Jim!” Cluny exclaimed.
Jupiter told the old man who they were. “Mr. Pidgeon at the Sun-Press sent us to you, sir. If you’re Jesse Widmer.”
“I am.” The old man nodded. “Java Jim? That’s the man who attacked me?”