Thank you!

We hadn't written humor together for years when we decided to take another stab at an old idea we had in the drawer about a shlubby would-be writer who befriends a superhero. We had so much fun revising and completing it that we immediately jumped into a new idea, sort of a tribute to the old movies we love and the high-speed typewriter jockeys of the past we admire, about a couple of screenwriters in '40s Hollywood who are desperate to make their mark with their original ideas—and who just won't accept the fact that their ideas are way out of step with their times.

So then we had two books in the works and we didn't quite know what to do with them. We knew they were going to be hard for the publishing industry to niche: they weren't exactly "literary fiction" or "genre fiction" or "humor" as the bookstores define it; and they weren't exactly novels and they weren't exactly short story collections, but rather series of self-contained stories that interwove more and more as they went along until they came together like one big story in the end. They had more in common with the pulp series of Frank Gruber or the humorous stories of P. G. Wodehouse or, for that matter, modern sitcoms than they had with anything being printed on paper these days. But we really, really wanted to know if these stories would amuse people other than ourselves and if it was worth trying to get them out there where they could be read.

That's when we heard about this crazy new thing called "the internet."

For the last year and a half we've been uploading our books to these pages, chunk by chunk. Million Dollar Ideas first, My Pal Splendid Man soon after. Then, intoxicated with the possibilities of the internet for finding and republishing images, we created the screwy Million Dollar Ideas—The Photonovel, where we illustrated the adventures of Ed and Johnny in Hollywood with photos and ads and magazine cover art from the 1940s. And then we decided to see what people thought of the first eight chapters of our newest brainstorm, The Burly Boys, an ostensibly funny novel about America's most famous junior detectives finding themselves flung into the Summer of Love.

Now they're all done. Or, at least, three of them are done and the last is waiting to see if we come back to it. Two whole books, a third of another one, and a few hundred pictures, sitting here online for anyone who wanders by to discover. The result of all this is that we now know there are people out there who like these stories. Who sometimes even get really excited over them. We've even made a few new friends from all this. And a lot of you have heaped inspiring praise on our heads and given us great suggestions for how to improve this stuff. The drafts of Million Dollar Ideas and My Pal Splendid Man that we're now sending to publishers are better for your help.

We don't know how this is going to turn out yet—the book publishing business is still in the midst of its biggest recession since forever, and offbeat humor fiction isn't at the top of every editor's Must Have list. But we know they'll find their way. And when they do, it'll be thanks to you.

Chapter One. A Letter from Frisco!

Flint Burly
June 6, 1967

Dear Dad,

It’s hard to believe it’s only been one day since I last wrote to you. It seems like we’ve gone to another world. Or like we fell asleep and woke up a thousand years in the future when all of mankind’s customs have changed. Like if a knight from the middle ages, along with his younger brother and their portly page, had fallen asleep in the year 967 and then woken up in modern Balmy Bay. Except all we did was drive across a bridge. I think I’m starting to understand why Chief Chalk thinks someone’s taken over Frisco. Only I can’t imagine even the Reds changing a place so completely. I mean, even in Moscow they still get haircuts and wear real clothes, right?

The first suspicious thing was the weather. All the way across our great nation it was hot. Which is how it’s supposed to be in June, of course. Heck, you don’t even need to be a junior detective to figure that one out! Sometimes it was sunny and hot and sometimes it was cloudy and hot, but it was always hot. But as we came around the big curve and first saw the San Francisco Bay, all of a sudden the temperature started dropping! It must’ve been 90-some degrees at this nifty little restaurant called the Nut Tree we ate lunch at, but by the time we got to the bridge to Frisco it couldn’t have been more than 70.

And as we rode into the city of Frisco itself, what do you think we saw all around us? Fog! Thick, gray, mysterious fog! Every bit as thick as it was in The Mystery of the Singing Foghorn—except that was in January! (I remember, because Chip and I had to rush back for first semester finals right after we deposited those swarthy lighthouse burglars with the Coast Guard.) How does a city get to be so cold and foggy in June, I ask you? Unless someone’s been messing with the weather by way of a Russian space satellite or something! Well, I’m betting that mystery will be unraveled as we discover the secret behind Lucy Diamond’s disappearance.

As we came off the freeway exit into the city, the old wooden houses were barely visible though the fog. Like ghosts, you could say. I’ll have to remember to describe it to Mr. Fairchild. I know he’ll give it just the right literary touch when he writes our next adventure. But here’s something our young readers probably won’t even believe: the street we came onto was called Fell Street! And I remember from Mrs. LeBlanc’s English class (I know you’ll be proud that I remember), “fell” used to mean “destructive, fierce or terrible”!

It got so cold that Jelly Roll wanted to pull over so he could put on an extra sweater. I started to oblige, but then what I saw emerging from the mist made me think twice—Negroes! We were in a neighborhood full of Negroes, but Negroes the like of which none of us had ever seen. There were Negroes in colorful tribal clothing and Negroes in huge hats and Negroes with high-heeled boots. They all had tons of bushy hair, except some of the women, who had short hair, even shorter than the men’s. Really curly hair, as curly as the men’s, not straight and shiny like a normal Negro lady’s. A lot of the Negroes were wearing sun glasses, too, even in the fog. And none of them seemed very friendly as they looked at us. At least, they sure didn’t seem like good old Roscoe who takes care of the yacht club.

When I looked carefully at one man in especially bright magenta pants and a shirt with little amoeba-like designs on it—searching for clues, of course—he said, “What are you staring at, honky?” What could that mean? “Honky” makes me think of an automobile horn or a goose. And although it’s true that Chip and I have horns on our motor bikes, we sure weren’t honking them at the time. And I can’t imagine why anyone would connect us with geese—but then those young people at the campfire I told you about in my last letter were asking if we were “pigs.” Perhaps there’s some sort of animal theme to this hippie language. When I finish this letter I’ll make a thorough list of all the strange words I’ve been hearing and see if a pattern presents itself.

Then, no sooner had the one Negro called me a “honky” than one of his fellow Negroes, who was dressed all in black so that he might have looked like a priest except that part of his garb was a leather jacket, raised his clenched fist in the air and shouted, “Power to the people!” I nearly answered him by yelling, “You said it! I believe in democracy too!” But there was something about his manner that made me think he might not appreciate it. It’s hard to explain, but I almost think he meant that “power to the people” was something that he had to fight for—as if it’s something we don’t have in our great country, rather than being every American’s birthright. I’m starting to feel as if everyone out here is seeing the world in some sort of topsy-turvy funhouse mirror. As much as I wanted to solve this mystery, I was actually kind of relieved when the light turned green and we continued on our way.

Soon, following our trusty Rand McNally maps, we turned left on Masonic Street and rode up toward Haight Street, as we’d decided to start our investigation on the street that the hippie girl had mentioned the night before. We passed a stretch of park and on the other side we found that there were suddenly far fewer Negroes. But if you think fewer Negroes meant there would be more regular people, you couldn’t be much wronger! Because as strange as the Negroes were, they were nothing compared to the Caucasian people we spied emerging from the fog!

At first I thought we’d fallen asleep and awakened in the future again—only this time we’d slept for four months and twenty-six days and woken up just in time for Halloween! Everybody seemed to be in costume. We saw robes and Army jackets and cowboy boots. We saw weird hats and old-fashioned dresses and funny sandals. But what really struck me was the colors of the costumes. Colors so bright that not even the fog could mute them. People seemed to emerge from the fog like lighthouse beacons. One after another, like in a procession. Or like in a Halloween parade, like we have every year in Balmy Bay. Only nobody was trick-or-treating!

But they were on the move. Walking up one side of the street and then across it and back again. A constant motion. Motion! Like it says in the song I wrote you about in the letter dated June 3rd. People in motion! Is this what that crazy song is referring to? But what does it mean? Why are they in motion? What’s the explanation? Explanation! Like in that song again! A new explanation! But of what? And why wouldn’t an old explanation serve just as well?

After cruising the street for a while we pulled over and killed our motors. That’s when the sounds hit us! Mostly it was the sound of music. People stood or sat here and there strumming guitars or blowing into flutes or pounding on bongos and tambourines. But it wasn’t like in our school band where everybody is on the same page of the score and diligently follows the rise and fall of Mr. Wasp’s baton. It seemed like everybody was playing whatever came into their heads, regardless of what somebody else was playing just a few feet away. And added to that was the music blaring from store fronts and the transistor radios that seemingly half the kids were toting around. Strange music with jarring rhythms and odd, disconcerting words. It made even those crazy pop songs that Chip listens to sound tame! And added on top of all that was a cacophony of bells. People waving bells in the air or wearing bells around their necks or sown into their costumes so that they jingle-jangled as they walked up and down and up and down the street.

After a while we found ourselves walking with them. And I choose the words “found ourselves” carefully. I don’t remember ever deciding to join the procession. It was as if our feet started operating of their own volition. Or as if we were suddenly following some weird Pied Piper. Or maybe I should say Pied Bell Ringer, or Pied Tambourine Man. I felt like I could bolt anytime I wanted to, though. So don’t worry. I’m pretty sure we hadn’t fallen under on of those malignant influences. Not yet, anyway. (Although I should add parenthetically that I am getting a little concerned about Jelly Roll. You know how impressionable he is, dad. Where Chip and I walked around slack-jawed, bewildered and overwhelmed by everything we saw, heard, and smelled—more to come on the latter following the parenthesis—Jelly actually seemed to be…well, "delighted" is the word that seems best to fit his wide-eyed wonderment and tremulous smile. But we’ll keep real close tabs on him. If he really is enjoying any of this we’ll make sure to crack down on him hard!)

It wasn’t until I saw Chip’s nose twitching that my sensory apparatus switched over from the aural to the olfactory. Golly, how I wish it hadn’t! I’ve never smelled such a smell before. At first it was just an all-pervading effluvium, but my trained nose enabled me eventually to isolate its components. It was comprised of one part human sweat, one part incense like you sometimes catch a whiff of when you pass the Catholic Church on the outskirts of Balmy Bay, one part baking bread, and one part smoke. Lots of the kids were smoking, but most of the cigarettes we saw were hand-rolled, like the type favored by tars, Negroes, and gunsels. And the smoke had a peculiar sweet tang to it that I couldn’t place, even though I’ve trained myself to detect the differences in most commercial brands. I also noticed that the kids here share their cigarettes, passing them from hand to hand. I heard one boy say, “Pass me the Reefer, Jack,” and another exclaim, “Hey, man. Don’t Bogart that Joint.” Have you heard of either brand, dad? Reefer or Joint? I ask because I can’t help wondering if they might be popular brands in Moscow.

Well, dad, I guess we don’t have to wonder anymore where all the young people who abandon everything and leave their homes go. It’s obvious they wind up right here in Frisco! Why, I don’t know yet. But I mean to find our just as surely as I mean to find poor Lucy Diamond. If this place is so creepy and repugnant to Chip and me, just imagine how horrible it must be to a young girl!

I have to admit that we weren’t the efficient junior detectives we usually are, because we spent so long just walking around trying to take it all in. Heck, Chip said “Whillikers” 48 times! But at last, drawing on all my inner discipline, I did bring us back to the task at hand and started showing people Lucy’s picture in the hopes someone would have seen her. (Well, me and Chip, anyway. Jelly Roll just followed us around with that goofy grin on his face, saying “Wow” at everything he saw. Actually, now that I think about it, by the end of the evening he was starting to say “Groovy,” like these strange people on the street. Boy, now I am worrying about him!)

Unfortunately, we didn’t really get anywhere with that. The first boy we asked, who had a hair and beard sort of like the pictures of Jesus back in the good old Balmy Bay Non-Denominational Christian Church, but also kind of a glassy look in his eye, took a look at the picture, smiled at me—and then gave me a flower! Except I didn’t take it. After what we heard about Lucy, I realized immediately that this might be a flower plucked illegally from the city park, and Flint Burly sure as heck wasn’t going to be caught accepting stolen goods! Jelly reached for the flower, but with a quick move I was able to block him. “Psst!” I hissed. “I smell a trap!” You’d have been proud of me, dad—this is just the sort of thing you’ve warned me against since I first showed an aptitude for detective work in kindergarten and those other kids were trying to frame me for taking too many Graham crackers.

Well, that oddball didn’t run off cursing his luck, like I expected him to. He just stood there, still holding the flower out toward us, with a grin on his face that I’d have to describe as downright dopey. I showed him the picture of Lucy again and asked if he knew this girl, but all he would say was, “We all know each other, man. It’s about love.” Finally he walked on and gave the flower to someone else.

The rest of our investigation wasn’t as strange, but it wasn’t any more productive, either. Everyone we showed the picture to looked suspiciously at us, and just like at that campfire I described in my previous letter, a few of them asked us if we were “pigs.” Some of them even started making fun of our clothes! But how can anyone make fun of corduroy slacks, oxford shirts, and v-neck sweaters? How can you make fun of what’s normal? Especially since the one who was making the most fun of us was dressed like an early 19th century pioneer in a fringed buckskin jacket, with a bunch of mysterious buttons pinned to it. “Make Love, Not War.” “Haight is Love.” “Stamp out Reality!” What does it all mean?

I tell you, dad, it’s got me stumped so far. I know there’s got to be a pattern to all this. But how does it connect? Strange music, animal references, illegal flower picking? I can understand how the music is used to give kids strange ideas, but why would someone go to all this trouble just to deface a few city parks?

There was only one good thing from the whole experience. At one point I looked up the street and saw a black car disappearing around a corner—a car that looked just like the one that knocked Chip over in Balmy Bay! If Chief Chalk is right, and that car belongs to our pals at the FBI, then it shows that someone in authority is also checking out this situation! I’m hoping we meet up with the G-Men soon so we can coordinate our efforts.

After a little while of that fruitless questioning it was getting pretty dark, so we decided to call it a day. It was hard to find any normal food around there, but there was a place that called itself a drugstore (except they’d misspelled it as “Drogstore”) where we got some sandwiches. I asked the shaggy-haired boy at the counter where the nearest campground was and he told us we could just sleep in the nearby park. That didn’t sound right to me, but when we checked into it we discovered that, sure enough, there were dozens of people already setting up camp and no one stopping them, so here we are. We’ve rolled out our sleeping bags and set up our good old Coleman lanterns to do our homework by (and write this letter, of course!), and it’s almost like being back in the normal world.

Except we keep smelling a funny, sweet smoke blowing over from some of the other campsites. And there’s plenty of weird guitar music. And we hear a heck of a lot of campers thrashing around and making grunting and moaning sounds, guys and gals alike. I wonder if these odd cigarettes are giving them strange nightmares or something.

Well, dad, I’ll write again tomorrow. If you see any clues or patterns in these details that I’ve missed, write back and tell me. As I’m sure you can deduce, being the master detective that you are, the address to reach us at is Flint Burly c/o General Delivery, San Francisco. (Just joking, dad!) Chip and Jelly say hello. Give our love to Aunt Hortense. Tell Mrs. Diamond not to worry. The Burly Boys are on the case!

Love,
Flint

PS: Please remember to pass this letter on to Mr. Fairchild so that he can use these details when he writes this adventure up into a book packed with mystery and action!

PPS from Chip: And don’t worry, dad! We’re not going to get caught by any of those malignant influences! Scout’s honor!

Chapter Two. The Missing Pal!

“Gosh,” Flint Burly said, “it looks like the whole town turned out for the picnic!”

“The whole town except for Lucy Diamond,” said Pixie Powers. “And she and I were bound to win the three-legged race this year!”

“Oh, I’m sure she’ll get here in time,” Flint said.

“She’d better!” Pixie said.

It was Memorial Day, and the people of Balmy Bay had gathered in McCarthy Park for the annual celebration. Music wafted from the bandstand. Some of the younger boys had started up an impromptu softball game, and a group of girls were jumping rope. Adults stood conversing in small knots under the shade of stately elms and maples. Wieners roasted over red-hot coals and Aunt Hortense stood proudly over her prize-winning potato salad, ready to start spooning out portions. Pitchers of lemonade tinkled on the tables. Roscoe, the custodian at the yacht club where the Burly Boys berthed their sloop Shamus, flashed a genial smile for everybody as he scurried here and there, scooping up the trash.

“Now where has that brother of yours gotten to?” Pixie asked.

“Oh, near the music, no doubt,” Flint said. “Probably practicing his dance steps for the sock hop in a couple of weeks.”

Sure enough, they found Chip before the bandstand, where most of Balmy Bay’s teenagers had clustered. Mickey Milk and the Milkmen were holding forth on stage, playing one dance tune after another. As expected, Chip was studiously attempting to master the Mashed Potato. Pixie ran to his side and joined in.

“Shootin’ spitballs!” Chip cried. “How’s my favorite gal?”

Flint was soon joined by Candy Horton, who arrived bearing plates heaped with potato salad and hot dogs.

“It’s another wonderful day, don’t you think, Flint?”

“It sure is, Candy!” Flint said.

“Your aunt’s potato salad is delicious!”

“And so are these hot dogs!” Flint said.

“I hope we do well in the limbo contest!”


“Oh, we’ll show them a thing or two, all right!”

Just then Flint Burly noticed the stranger. Although he didn’t presume to know every citizen of Balmy Bay, he had the man pegged as an outsider in no time. If his swarthy complexion, heavily shadowed jowls, and pointed Italian shoes weren’t enough to make him stick out from the crowd, the way he furtively eyeballed the proceedings was the clincher.

The music stopped, and Flint caught his brother’s eye and motioned him over. Candy, he saw, had struck up an animated conversation with Pixie, and he took the opportunity to lead Chip away from the crowd of teenagers. Discreetly, he indicated the stranger.

“Galloping comets!” Chip said. “That guy sticks out like a letterman sweater on a moose! Do you think he’s up to no good?”

“The way he’s furtively checking everything out makes me think he might be a look-out man,” Flint said. “I suggest we keep an eye on him in turn.”

“Then let’s enlist Jelly Roll’s help,” Chip said. “I want to practice some more dance steps before the games start. That Frug is giving me conniptions!”

The boys went off in search of their friend Jelly Roll Horton. They soon found him sitting on the grass under a tree. With him was Peanuts Salter, the tuba player in the school band, and Eddie Muskie, the captain of the chess club. Jelly Roll was reading aloud from a book, and as the boys drew near they realized that it was their latest adventure, The Mystery of the Cross-Eyed Smuggler, as recounted by Jefferson W. Fairchild, the author of all of their published adventures. Still unnoticed by the trio on the grass, the boys listened for a few moments as Jelly Roll intoned:

The floor creaked under their shoes as the trio prowled through the dark, abandoned lumber mill. Flint, dark and intense, had the lead. Chip, a year younger and impetuous where Flint was cautious and deliberate, had to be restrained from dashing off, and possibly alerting their quarry to their presence. Jelly Roll, their stout chum and frequent assistant on their exciting mystery cases, brought up the rear. Unlike the impetuous younger brother, he had to be constantly urged not to fall too far behind.

Suddenly Flint came to a halt. “What’s that sound?” he hissed warily.

“Gibbering gumdrops!” exclaimed Chip. “I thought we were hearing the floors creak. But we’ve stopped walking and I still hear it!”

“Gosh, fellas,” moaned Jelly Roll in a quavering voice. “That’s my stomach rumbling! We haven’t had a bite to eat in nearly two hours.”

The Burly boys, sons of a famous American detective, threw back their heads and laughed good-naturedly.

Jelly tossed down the book. “Can you believe this garbage?” he demanded. “Not only is it the worst writing on the face of the earth, but this Fairchild bum always makes me out to be a food-obsessed maniac!”

“But you are a food-obsessed maniac,” Chip said, stepping forward. He and Flint laughed.

“Go ahead and laugh,” Jelly said. “But the last laugh’s on you chumps! Think about it for a minute. You’re both practically grown men. But what does it say on the back of all your books? For boys aged 10-14, that’s what. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

The brothers were no longer laughing. Flint shrugged and said, “Well, boys read about boy detectives. What’s wrong with that?”

“What’s wrong is that we’re not boys anymore! They publish mysteries that adults read too, you know! Why can’t that damn Fairchild start taking us seriously? Sure, we were thirteen and twelve when the series started, but that was five years ago! We’ve grown up, damn it!”

Jelly Roll reached into his back pocket and pulled out a battered paperback. The boys saw that it was entitled One Fearful Yellow Eye, and it was written by somebody named John D. MacDonald. “This is what our books should be written like!” Jelly Roll said, waving the book in the air. “A book about men. And women. Real women!”

“Hey, can I see that?” Peanuts said.

Flint and Chip exchanged a glance. Neither spoke.

“Ah, the hell with it,” Jelly Roll said. “Let’s go scrounge up some hot dogs.”

“Not just yet,” Flint said. “Look over past the bandstand. See that man with the furtive look?”

“No.”

“The fellow with the three-day growth of whiskers,” Chip added.

“I still don’t see him.”

“With the dark complexion,” Flint pointed out.

“Okay, I got him pegged,” Jelly Roll said. “What about him?”

“We need you to help us keep an eye on him,” Flint said.

“Why? Because he looks like a foreigner?”

“Not just that,” Flint said. “I suspect he might be a look-out man for some hold-up artists!”

But before Flint could elucidate further the speeches started. Pastor Whitehead mounted the bandstand and led everybody in a prayer. He was followed by Charley Langendorf, the head of the local chapter of the American Legion, who spoke of the need for our armed forces to halt the Domino Effect in Vietnam, no matter what a few crazy protesters in other cities might say. His speech drew a prolonged hurrah.

Finally Chief of Police Chalk took the stage. He sang Balmy Bay’s praises, specifically citing the city’s low crime rate, and concluded that one family was largely responsible for this shining record, the Burlys. “I know Slate Burly is wrapping up a case and couldn’t be here,” he concluded, “but let’s give those swell boys of his a great big hand. Flint! Chip! Step forward and be counted.”

But suddenly the boys were not to be found.

During the prayer, Flint had noticed that the stranger was acting particularly agitated. On a hunch, he’d whispered to Jelly Roll to start walking toward the ticket booth, which had been set up at the Hoover Street entrance to the park.

“You think somebody’s going to rob the proceeds?” Jelly Roll had whispered back.

“Why, that’s dastardly!” Chip had hissed. “The proceeds are slated to help out underprivileged Negro children in a neighboring community!”

“And they still will, if we have anything to say about it!” Flint had said.

No sooner had Jelly Roll ambled off than Flint observed that the stranger had noticed him and his eyes widened in consternation. The stranger lost no time in taking off after their stout chum.

“This way!” Flint said to his brother, and they rounded the bandstand and made a beeline for a copse of trees, all the while endeavoring to stay out of the stranger’s line of sight. Once under cover of the foliage, the boys broke into a run and soon emerged near the Hoover Street entrance. Before their horrified eyes they saw Jelly Roll sprawled on the ground, apparently knocked unconscious, and just beyond him Miss Sheets wrestling with three men for possession of the day’s receipts.

Running on the balls of their feet, they made not a sound as they dashed toward the tableau. Just as one of the swarthy man’s companions wrested the lockbox from Miss Sheets’s hands Flint brought him down with a flying tackle. That left the other two, but fortunately for Chip they were grouped closely together and he was able to topple them both with a hook slide. One of his victims, he heard more than saw, smacked his head against the table. As he pounced on the other one he saw Flint’s meaty fist land on his opponent’s jaw. The one below Chip was still squirming, but a rabbit-punch to the thief’s throat took care of that.

Back at the bandstand, Chief Chalk was calling for the boys to step forward for the third time, a puzzled look on his grizzled face. And suddenly they were there. But to everyone’s shocked surprise, they herded before them three dark strangers, all with hands bound behind their backs with their own neckties. Next to them marched Miss Sheets, the cashbox cradled in her arms, and a woozy-looking Jelly Roll Horton, who had nevertheless latched onto a hot dog on the way.

Explanations and congratulations followed, and when Chief Chalk left to cart the three thieves off to the jailhouse, Mrs. Edelweiss, who was in charge of the entertainment that year, called for the games to begin.

The water balloon toss and Hula Hoop contest were first, and the teenagers gathered together to watch their younger siblings participate. The limbo contest was slated next, to be followed by the three-legged race.

“I just don’t understand it!” Pixie Powers said. “Why hasn’t anyone seen Lucy?”

“Oh, haven’t you heard?” said Albie Snow, another of their classmates. Albie, Pixie remembered, was also Lucy’s next-door neighbor.


“Heard what?” Chip said.

“Lucy’s been missing for three days!”

“What’s that you say?” Flint asked intently.

“I’m surprised you hadn’t heard,” Albie said. “I thought for sure Mrs. Diamond would hire you fellows to find her.”

“You mean to say Lucy Diamond has vanished?!” Chip said.

“I thought I’d already said that,” said Albie.

“No wonder I haven’t seen her!” Pixie cried. “Come to think of it, I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Mrs. Diamond, either. The poor dear must be worried sick!”

“I’ll say,” Albie said. “To make matters worse, Lucy was acting quite strange in the days leading up to her disappearance!”

“How so?” Flint demanded, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

“Well, I have that on second hand,” Albie said. “From her mother, in fact. But I know this much for sure. She was dressing really strangely, and she’d let her grooming go entirely!”

“Not a living doll like Lucy!” Jelly Roll said, around a mouthful of wiener.

“I don’t believe it!” Candy said.

“So are we going to take on the case?” asked Jelly Roll.

Flint looked thoughtful, and after a moment shook his head. “We don’t handle cases like that, Jelly.”

“Like what?” Jelly demanded.

Flint fumbled for the right words. “You know the cases we usually work on as well as I do, Jelly. Smuggling operations. Missing Aztec idols. Weird goings-on in abandoned towers and ziggurats. Tracking down a teenaged girl who’s been acting strangely is a whole other ball of wax, best left to adult authorities.”

They all fell silent as Roscoe shambled by, stooping to pick up the three hot dog wrappers discarded by Jelly Roll. They all sensed it wouldn’t be right to talk about poor Lucy’s problems in front of a hired hand. But as soon as Roscoe had moved on, grinning and bobbing his head, Jelly Roll said, “That’s ridiculous, Flint Burly! It’s like I was saying earlier, we’re grown men now. How will we ever be taken seriously if we don’t take ourselves seriously?” Angrily, he yanked the paperback from his back pocket again and brandished it in the air. “Travis McGee wouldn’t hesitate to take on a case like this! In fact, it’s tailor made for him. Lookee here. Right here on the cover it describes him as ‘an amiable and incurable tilter at conformity, a hopeless sucker for starving kittens and women in distress!’ Why can’t we be like that? Why in hell can’t we help out a school chum in distress?”

“He might have a point there, Flint,” said the younger brother.

Flint again looked thoughtful. Finally he said, “We’ll do this. When dad gets home we’ll see what he has to say. That suit you, Jelly?”

“I guess it’ll have to,” Jelly Roll said.

Just then Mrs. Frost announced that the limbo contest was commencing. Flint took Candy’s hand and said, “Ready?”

“You bet I am!” Candy said.

And off they went, ending the discussion for the present.

Chapter Three. Danger Comes to Balmy Bay!

“Yes, I know,” Slate Burly said. “I’m sure Mrs. Diamond must be very concerned.”

Chip gaped open-mouthed at his father. Flint’s reaction, as ever, was less apparent, but he was no less surprised than his brother.

“How long have you known?” Chip asked.

“Mrs. Diamond called the police three nights ago,” Slate said, “when Lucy didn’t get home in time to watch Family Affair. Chief Chalk spoke to me about it the next morning.”

“Then you’re helping the police look for her?” Flint asked.

Slate looked uncomfortable for an instant, then turned back to the book he was reading, a well-worn copy of Modern Methods of Detection. “I don’t think my help is called for in this case,” he said.

“Not called for!” Chip cried. “But whillikers, Dad! You’re one of the best-known private investigators in the country—after having served for years at the ace detective of the Baltimore Police Force—and are famous for all the seemingly unsolvable missing persons cases you’ve cracked!”

Slate looked sharply at him. Too sharply, Chip thought. “That’s very well put, son,” he said slowly. “But not every case of a missing young person is necessarily a mystery. Nor will a detective, no matter how skilled, necessarily be able to help.”

“But we don’t understand, Dad,” Flint said. “How can it not be a mystery when a nifty gal like Lucy Diamond suddenly leaves the hometown she loves?”

Slate closed the book. He looked thoughtful. “Yes,” he said softly. “A mystery indeed. But not in the sense you boys understand.” Then he looked at them again, first Flint and then Chip, but with something in his eyes that looked like a deep sadness. “This is a mystery that even the greatest detective cannot solve.”

“But dad!” Chip said. “We were going to ask you if you thought we should take on the case ourselves!”

“No!” Slate snapped. Then, catching himself, he softened his voice. “Listen, boys, I know how much you want to prove to me that you’re mature and capable enough to become private investigators in your own right—"

“You said it, Dad!” Chip said. “Ever since Flint and I cracked our first case, The Mystery of the Whistling Whirligig, when we were fourteen and thirteen years old respectively, we’ve been trying to convince you that your detective firm should be Burly and Sons!”

“I understand that,” Slate said patiently. “And after you’ve gone to college and grown up a bit more, we’ll discuss it again. But there are some things that are simply not appropriate for boys of your age to investigate.”


Flint nodded soberly. “That’s what I was saying, Dad.”

“Okay, okay!” Chip said. “But gibbering krill, this is one of our classmates who’s disappeared! And one of the keenest girls you’d ever hope to—"

“She was,” Slate said. “I’m sure Lucy was as ‘keen’ as they come, as you youngsters say. But people change, son. Especially these days. I think you should just try to remember your friend as she was.”

“What do you mean, Dad?” Chip asked. His voice was quiet, like a little boy’s.

Slate looked at him for a long time, apparently weighing a great decision in his mind. At last he closed his book, rose up out of his easy chair, and stepped to the window. He gazed at the perfectly even lawn and neat hedges of the Burly home as they glowed in the light of sunset. Across the street old Mrs. Ash tilted a watering can over her roses. The Colgate boy, Skip, zipped past on his paper route. Slate reluctantly turned away from the window and said, “All right. I suppose it’s time you boys learned the truth. You’ve probably heard some mention of it on television or in those pop songs you kids listen to anyway.”

Some of Chip’s favorite songs ran through his head—Happy Together by the Turtles, Sweet Pea by Tommy Roe, Wooly Bully by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs—but if any held a clue to his Dad’s meaning, he just wasn’t seeing it.

“Whatever it is, Dad,” Flint said, “we can handle it.”

Chip nodded and looked as resolute as he could through his fear.

“The times,” Slate said. “They are changing. And not for the better, I’m afraid. Every day, everywhere, in the best towns and the best families in America, young people are suddenly abandoning everything they’ve held dear and striking out for who knows where. It’s as if they are turning on some deadly device within their minds, tuning in to some strange broadcast the rest of us can’t hear, and dropping out of normal life. Some are swallowed up in the anti-war movement, or phony organizations claiming to defend ‘free speech’ or a ‘democratic society.’ I honestly don’t know where they go, and I don’t know that I want to know. I only know that few go of their own volition. And those who are tracked down and brought home…just don’t seem to fit anymore somehow.”

There was a long silence. At last, Flint asked, “Then you think Lucy is one of those kids?”

“If she had simply disappeared, I wouldn’t be so sure,” Slate said. “But her mother told Chief Chalk that Lucy had been dressing strangely for weeks before her disappearance, and spending time with some peculiar people from out of town. Including a young man who…played the guitar.”

“But who could they be, Dad? What could they be doing to kids like Lucy? How are they tricking them into leaving Balmy Bay?”

Slate fixed his gaze on Flint, and there was a terrible light in his eyes. “There are mighty forces out there, son. I’m sure you’ve heard them whispered about. Forces devoted to undermining our American way of life. Infiltration, propaganda, and brainwashing are only a few of the tools they have mastered in order to carry out their ends. Our brave agents in the FBI and CIA are doing all they can to counter their efforts, but there’s a limit to what they can do—since our side is committed to honesty and legality in all our tactics.”

“Whillikers,” Chip said. “It’s almost like there’s a disadvantage to being the good guy!”

“You could argue that,” Slate said. “But the rewards of hewing to the strait and narrow are well worth the cost. You wouldn’t want to be like them, would you?”

“But what can we do against such forces, Dad?” Flint asked. “How do we protect kids like Lucy?”

“Vigilance,” Slate said. “And a willingness to expose evil whenever you see it. These groups always hide behind the same sorts of disguises. ‘Peace’ movements. Political agitators. Chemical gurus. College organizations that aren’t fraternities, sororities, or sports teams. Couples cohabiting out of wedlock. Folk music.”

“But there’s nothing we can do for Lucy now?” Chip asked.

“There is one thing you can do,” Slate said. He stepped up to his sons and put a hand on the shoulder of each. He paused for a moment, looking from one to the other. Then he said, “You can pray, boys. You can pray.”

***

After praying, the boys decided they needed to get out of the house to clear their heads. Although their father’s talk had sobered them, and they’d put away all thoughts of investigating the Lucy Diamond disappearance, both felt subtly troubled in ways they couldn’t identify. Chip suggested that they go see their girls and talk about the sock-hop, but Flint pointed out that they’d already talked to their girls about the sock-hop all day. Flint suggested that they drop in on one of their friends, like Jelly Roll Horton or Buff Powers or Vinnie Frito, and this time it was Chip who reminded his brother that they’d spent ample time with each of the aforementioned chums at the picnic. Finally they decided to just take their motor bikes for a spin.

But before they could make their exit they were confronted by their Aunt Hortense. “Why the long faces?” she bellowed. Aunt Hortense had a voice like a bullhorn, which caused people meeting her for the first time to think her ill-tempered. Yet in reality she was a kindly old maid, and very solicitous of her nephews’ well being.

Flint shrugged. “Dad just talked us out of taking a case, is all.”

“Well, father knows best,” Aunt Hortense said. “But where are you restless jitterbugs off to now? You’d think you’d be all done in after the way you cavorted at the picnic.”

“We’re just taking the motor bikes for a spin, Aunt Hortense,” Chip said.

“Well, don’t be gone too long, unless you’re not interested in trying some of my fresh-baked cherry pie.”

“Stuttering magpies!” Chip cried. “Fresh cherry pie!”

“You bet we won’t be gone long!” Flint said.

True to their word, the boys kept their ride short. They took the Old Coast Road south, but turned back when they reached the bridge over Smoky Creek, only a few miles out of town. Ordinarily, they were vigilant motorists, but the wind in their faces, the lowering red ball of the sun, and the wavelets lapping on the shore lulled their senses.

Neither noticed the black car until it was too late. Flint, in fact, didn’t notice anything until he happened to glance to his left and saw his brother’s bike veer off the road and carom off the hillside. It took a moment for the fact that the bike was riderless to penetrate his mind. Finally he heard a whoosh and felt a blast of air as a black car passed him on his right, barreling along at a good seventy-mile-an-hour clip. Flint turned in time to see the driver glance over his shoulder at him, a man wearing dark sunglasses.

A moment later the car vanished around a curve in the road. Finally, Flint slammed on his brakes and turned to see what had become of his brother, a lump lodged in his throat. But the first thing he saw was Chip lifting himself off the road, apparently none the worse for wear. As Flint tooled back his brother was brushing angrily at his slacks and v-neck sweater.

“Flappin’ flapjacks!” Chip said. “That guy clipped me as he shot past!”

“And he didn’t even have the decency to stop,” Flint said. “You all right?”

“I’m fine. But, golly, I hope my bike isn’t busted!”

A little paint had been scraped off the rear fender, but other than that the bike seemed to be undamaged.

“What say we try to head that guy off?” Flint suggested, a grim look darkening his visage.

“You mean go over the hill? Sounds good to me!”

Although the hills bordering the western edge of the Old Coast Road were quite steep, the boys had often tackled the ascent on their motor bikes. They did so now, and after following the curve of the crest for a couple of minutes, they spotted the black car in the distance just as it was entering the town of Balmy Bay proper. Keeping their quarry in sight, they proceeded to fly down the far slope, having cut the black car’s lead significantly by the judicious use of this shortcut. When they had jolted back to ground level they momentarily lost sight of the black car. Putting on a burst of speed, they raced up Harding Boulevard, slowing slightly at each intersection to peer up and down the street.

Finally, at the third one, they spotted their baby. They spun a left onto Dulles Avenue just as the car was making a sharp right.

Suddenly Flint was holding up his hand, motioning for Chip to slow down. “He turned up Coolidge Avenue!” Flint cried. “Lucy’s street!”

“What the heck?” said Chip.

The boys screeched to a stop just shy of the intersection. Leaving their bikes parked at the curb, they edged to the corner and squatted down behind a parked car, from which they commanded a view of Coolidge Avenue. The black car, they saw, had pulled to a stop right in front of Lucy’s house.

“Your hunch was right!” Chip said.

“Maybe he’s one of Lucy’s new friends that dad was telling us about,” Flint said.

“Wouldn’t surprise me a bit,” Chip said. “They sound like the sort of people who would knock a teenager off his motor bike!”

But then the man in the dark sunglasses was climbing out of his car and the boys were forced to revise their opinions. Decked out in a natty black suit and glistening black shoes, his stride bold and imperious, he exuded an air of power and authority.

“Hmm,” Flint said. “He doesn’t look like any college student I’ve ever seen.”

“Or like any folk singer I ever saw on Hullabaloo,” Chip said. “I wonder. Could there be more to this than even Dad suspects?”

“You really think so?” Chip said, clearly troubled by the possibility. “Jumpin’ jeepers, I can’t ever remember dad being wrong!”

They watched the man approach the Diamond residence. He cut across the lawn toward the front door, but suddenly veered left and, after casting a furtive glance up and down the street, made straight for the side yard. The boys watched in stupefaction as he disappeared around the far side of the house.

“What in Sam hill?” Chip cried. “Do you think he’s a burglar?”

“Don’t know,” Flint said, his brow beetling. “But I think it’s time we had a little talk with this man in black, whoever he is.”

As one, the boys broke into a run and the made for the side yard of the Diamond residence. When they rounded the corner, however, their quarry was nowhere to be seen. They sped down the side of the house and emerged in the back yard. Once again, there was no sign of the man in black.

They were pondering where to look next when they heard the sound of a car engine starting up front.

“C’mon!” Flint yelled.

They rounded the front of the house just in time to see the black car screeching around a corner.

“He gave us the slip!” said Chip.

“Yes,” Flint agreed. “But what I want to know is, what could he have wanted with the Diamonds?!”

Chapter Four. Malignant Influences!

When Mrs. Diamond opened the door she looked as if she’d seen a brace of ghosts. “Why, Flint and Chip Burly! I was just about to call you boys and hire you to find Lucy! Don’t tell me you include mind-reading among your many talents.”

“Heavens no, Mrs. Diamond!” Flint said, blushing. “We just chased off a prowler from your yard!”

Mrs. Diamond clutched the collar of her chiffon dress. “A prowler, you say?!”

“Well, we don’t really know what he was.” Flint went on to describe the man’s appearance and his odd behavior. “Do you know anybody who matches that description, Mrs. Diamond?”

“Not that I can think of,” said Mrs. Diamond. “Do you suppose…that he might have anything to do with Lucy’s disappearance?”

“That we can’t positively answer, ma’am,” Chip put in. “But it seems funny that some strange man would come poking around your digs only days after Lucy turned up missing! If there’s one thing we’ve learned in this business it’s that coincidences are rarely coincidences!”

“Oh, my,” Mrs. Diamond said. “I can’t imagine what to think! But please, don’t just stand there. Come in. Come in!”

The boys hesitated. Their father’s admonitions rang in their ears. But they couldn’t very well refuse to enter, not while Mrs. Diamond stood there holding the door open. Finally, Flint roused himself and crossed the threshold. Swallowing with an audible gulp, Chip followed in his wake.

Mrs. Diamond seated them in the front room and offered them some cold milk, which the boys gratefully accepted. While she was getting it the boys took a glance around the room. It was very attractively appointed, and the brothers both noted that its furnishings were not at all dissimilar to the style favored by their mother. Over the fireplace mantel hung a portrait of the family. It had been completed, Flint and Chip remembered, only weeks before Mr. Diamond’s tragic death in a boating accident. Between the two beaming parents posed a thirteen year-old Lucy, already as pretty and wholesome as the young lady she would grow up to be. It seemed impossible to them both that she would willingly leave such a happy home, especially with the sock hop barely two weeks away. Could it be that their father really had erred in his assessment of the situation?

“Hey, Flint,” Chip whispered. “What are we going to do? You know what dad said!”

“We can’t very well just get up and leave!” Flint hissed back.

“But…”

“Let’s just hear what she has to say,” Flint said. “Where’s the harm in that?”

Mrs. Diamond returned bearing a tray on which sat two tall glasses of cold milk. She handed them out to the boys, watched with satisfaction as they took appreciative swallows, then said, “I imagine you’ve heard about my poor Lucy.”

Flint cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am. We understand that she’s been gone for three days, now.”

Mrs. Diamond glanced at her watch. “Nearly four, actually.”

“That’s right!” Chip cried. “Tonight it’ll be four days since Family Affair last aired!”

Mrs. Diamond nodded vigorously. “That’s when I knew that something was horribly wrong. Lucy loved Mr. French. Nothing in the world could make her miss that show.” With that, tears misted her eyes.

Chip hastily held out his glass. “Would you like a sip of my cold milk?” he offered.

Mrs. Diamond looked at him blankly for a moment, then shook her head. “No, thank you, dear.” She seemed to be in better control of herself now, as if Chip’s gesture had cheered her a little.

A silence ensued. Flint knew that, as detectives, they should be asking questions, but he also knew that their father had indicated in no uncertain terms that they were not to take this case. Thankfully, Mrs. Diamond jumped into the breach.

“Chief Chalk seems to think she wasn’t kidnapped, as he believes we would have received a ransom demand by now. And he was kind enough to check with all the hospitals in the area and, thank God, Lucy was not admitted into any of them.”

“That’s wonderful news,” said Flint.

“No kidding!” added Chip.

“So that just leaves one possibility,” Mrs. Diamond said, and her hands clutched at the string of pearls at her throat. “That Lucy left of her own volition.”

“No!” said Flint, realizing she was almost certainly right, but not knowing what else to say.

“I won’t believe it!” Chip said, finding himself in the same boat.

But Mrs. Diamond was forlornly shaking her head. “I’m afraid it’s true,” she said softly. But then an edge came into her voice when she added, “But I’m positive leaving home was most emphatically not her idea!”

“No?” asked Flint.

“Now that I can believe!” put in Chip.

Mrs. Diamond went on as if she hadn’t heard them. “And I’m certain she succumbed to malignant influences!”

Flint and Chip locked eyes. This was starting to sound uncomfortably familiar. “Malignant influences?” Flint asked, in a small voice.

“Yes. She started spending time with strange new people…but especially that Schwartz boy! She took up with him a month ago and would hardly see anyone else! Siddhartha, he called himself.”

“Hominy! What a loony name!” Chip said.

“I’ll say it is,” Mrs. Diamond said. “I was simply aghast when Lucy brought him home. Why, he wore a string of beads around his neck! And open-toed sandals! Oh, if Lucy’s father had been alive…”

“Kaboom!” Chip cried.

A silence fell again. Mrs. Diamond was looking at them expectantly. Flint realized that he couldn’t keep on pointedly not asking questions. They were, after all, supposed to be detectives, even if only of the boy variety. At length he decided that making a few inquiries did not commit them to taking the case, and he said, “Was he from around here?”

“I should hope not. But tragically, I never asked. If we only knew where he came from…”

“We would have had a clue!” Chip completed the sentence for her.

Flint cleared his throat again. “What specific…uh…influences do you think he had on Lucy, Mrs. Diamond?”

Their hostess’s eyes fell. When she spoke her voice trilled with grief. “You boys attend the same school as Lucy. Surely you noticed.”

Flint closed his eyes in concentration. A moment later they snapped open. “Holy cow!” he said. “Even though I didn’t have Lucy in any of my classes this year, I remember seeing her around school. And, now that I think about it, I realize she had abandoned the grooming and hygiene that she always took such pride in!”

“Why, I’ll be a brittle pork rind!” Chip cried. “Even though Lucy is a year older than me, I’ve seen her around the campus, too. And I realize now that she’d taken to dressing in a most peculiar way!”

“Most peculiar indeed,” Mrs. Diamond said. “Why, do you know what that girl did? She…she started wearing her grandmother’s dresses!”

“Crawlin’ crawdads!” Chip said.

“What else, Mrs. Diamond?” Flint pressed.

“Well, that boy played the guitar, you know.”

“The guitar!” Flint said, remembering his father’s words.

“Yes. But he didn’t play any of the nice love songs Lucy liked so well. Or any of those dance tunes Mickey Milk and the Milkmen favor. He played these peculiar songs. Songs about purple mists, and about being able to see for miles and miles, and about hard rain!”

“Hard rain?” Chip said. “Doddering daffodils! Don’t they use that stuff to make A-bombs?”

“That’s hard water,” Flint said.

“Oh.”

But Flint was thinking about the other things his father had told them. “Tell me, Mrs. Diamond. Did Lucy ever say anything to you about an anti-war movement?”

“A what?”

“Or anything about…uh…free speech or a…a democratic society?”

“Oh, please, Flint Burly. Now you’re starting to scare me! Why are you asking about these…things?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Diamond. I’m not trying to alarm you. But please bear with me. Did that Schwartz boy ever mention those things? Did he strike you as a political agitator, for instance? Or as a…a chemical guru?”


“A what?”

“I’m not sure what it means either, Mrs. Diamond. But you hear things. About forces assiduously undermining our American way of life. Or something like that.”

“And you think this boy…”

“I don’t know, Mrs. Diamond. And again, please don’t be alarmed. I’m just fishing. Trying to get a handle on this…this beatnik. For all we know, he may not have a thing to do with Lucy’s disappearance. Come to think of it, it’s quite possible that Lucy may have fled to escape his clutches.”

“Say, I hadn’t thought of that,” Chip said. “Or maybe she ran off to get away from that mysterious stranger we followed here!”

“Oh, dear. I’d forgotten about him.”

“Have you seen any other strange men hanging around her in the last few days?”

“No. I can’t say I have.”

“How about a black car?”

Suddenly Mrs. Diamond sat stiffly erect. “A black car? Why, now that you mention it, I did notice a black car parked right up the street! I remember noticing it just yesterday. And, yes! It’s all coming back. When I saw it just parked there, I remembered thinking that I’d seen it before! But with all the worry that’s been consuming me, I guess I just put it out of my mind. What can it mean?”

“I wish I knew, ma’am,” said Flint.

“It might provide us with a clue!” Chip noted.

Flint took a sip of his ice-cold milk and pondered his next question. “Can you think of anybody else we could talk to, Mrs. Diamond? Anybody who might have a clue to Lucy’s whereabouts?”

“Well, there’s Susie Charmin, of course, Lucy’s best friend.”

“Oh, yes," Flint said. “Lives over on Patton, right?”

Mrs. Diamond nodded. “Between Taft and Lodge. So how much do you boys charge? Or should I speak to your father about money?”

“Oh, no!” Chip blurted. “I wouldn’t do that!”

“What he means,” Flint put in, “is that we can’t guarantee that we’ll be able to take this job, Mrs. Diamond.”

Mrs. Diamond blinked. “Why ever not?”

‘Well, you see…” Flint began. “Our father…well…he seems to feel that Chip and I aren’t quite ready to handle a missing persons case. You see, we usually just tangle with smugglers, counterfeiters, pirates, and the like. Right, Chip?”

“That’s right, Flint!”


“Then shall I talk to your father? Will he take the case? I just thought that since you boys are Lucy’s age…or a year younger, in Chip’s case…”

“I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Diamond. Before you talk to dad, let’s see what Chip and I can learn from Susie. If we turn up a solid lead, then we’ll talk to our father again, and take it from there.” Then a thought occurred to Flint, something he remembered that his father always did when he took on a missing persons job. Not that he had any intention of taking on the case, but it seemed like the right thing to do anyway. “One more thing,” he hastily put in. “Would it be all right if Chip and I had a look at Lucy’s bedroom?”

The look that came over Mrs. Diamond face surprised the boys mightily. For the first time since their talk had begun a smile brightened her features. “Certainly, Flint. Although I’m sure it won’t be of any help.”

“Why’s that?” Chip asked.

“You’ll see.”

Sure enough, the moment the boys had climbed the stairs and entered Lucy’s room, they saw what Mrs. Diamond meant. At first glance, it was clearly apparent that the boys would find nothing anomalous that might point the way to where Lucy had gone.

“This room has been my only comfort,” Mrs. Diamond said. “Despite all the changes Lucy went through, she never changed a thing in here. It’s as if she knew that eventually she’d come back to her senses, and find comfort in the familiar.”

Neither Flint nor Chip had had many occasions to enter the bedrooms of their girlfriends, but they’d done so just enough to recognize a typical teenaged girl’s quarters when they saw one. Posters of Frankie Avalon, the Dave Clark Five, and Rock Hudson hung on the walls, interspersed with school pennants and pom-poms. The canopied bed was covered with stuffed animals and the vanity littered with bottles and vials and jars of cosmetics. A little bookshelf was filled with the adventures of the Merry Barristers and the spine-tingling mysteries of Nancy Reagan, girl detective. The room pointed to the past, not to the future or the mysterious present.

“Swinging meathooks!” Chip said. “It feels familiar, all right!’

“Have you had a good look around, Mrs. Diamond?” asked Flint. “You spotted nothing out of the ordinary at all?”

“Not a thing,” Mrs. Diamond said.

But then Flint’s trained eye spotted something sticking out from beneath a stuffed penguin on the bed. He strode over and yanked out what he recognized as a record album. Chip and Mrs. Diamond were instantly at his side, peering at the jacket’s cover.

“Why, I’ll be a monkey’s third cousin!” Chip cried. “Do you think it’s a clue?”

Depicted on the jacket where four scruffy people, two men and two women, all crowded into a bathtub. Next to the tub sat a naked toilet bowl.

“Who the heck are these oddballs?” Flint said, his lips curling with distaste.

“They’re called the Mamas and Papas,” Chip said. “They’re really popular, only they’re a little too…weird for my taste.”

“Are these more of those English moptops you’re always complaining about?” Flint asked.

“No, I think they’re Americans,” Chip said. “But not really American, if you know what I mean. There’s just something about them that isn’t wholesome. Why, their lead singer is almost as portly as our chum Jelly Roll Horton!”

Flint turned to Mrs. Diamond. “Ma’am, does this look like anything Lucy would have bought?”

“Heavens no!” said. Mrs. Diamond. “Lucy would never bring such horrible music into the house. Not that I’ve ever heard any of it, of course, but…look at them!”

“Hmm,” Flint said. “Might it have been a present from that Schwartz boy, do you think?”

“Yes!” cried Mrs. Diamond. “It must be! Another malignant influence!” And suddenly she had covered her face with her hands and her body shook with sobs.

Except for a gun-moll that the boys had crossed paths with in their sixteenth adventure, The Clue of the Chattering Tommy Gun, they’d never seen a grown woman cry, and both felt terribly uncomfortable. They stood watching her for a moment, but when Mrs. Diamond showed no signs of calming down they quietly let themselves out of the room.



Click Older Posts for Chapters Five on!