“Two of them, eh?” Mr. Grant frowned. “And you don’t know which is the right one?”

“Mrs. Miller just said it was a one-storey bungalow with brown shingles and a round window in the attic.”

“It’s a common type of house here,” Mr. Grant muttered. “Let’s keep going. We’ll survey the next block.”

In the next block they spotted another brown-shingled bungalow, standing between two stuccoed homes. This one also had a round upper window. Mr. Grant brought the car to a halt. “Three possibilities,” he said. “That makes it harder. But we seem to be here first. I don’t see any cars parked on this street, nor any sign that Three-Finger and the others have beaten us to it. We’ll park on a side street so we won’t be conspicuous, and then we’ll just have to investigate three houses until we find the right one.”

It was almost dark as they approached the first of the brown-shingled bungalows. Mr. Grant cast a quick look up and down the block. No one was in sight on silent, deserted Maple Street.

He tried the door. It wouldn’t open.

“Locked,” he said. “But as it’s going to be torn down, we don’t have to be careful how we get in.”

He took a small crowbar he had carried from the car and inserted the thin end between the front door and the door jamb. As he pressed, wood splintered and the door sprang open.

He entered, with The Three Investigators at his heels. Inside it was quite dark. Mr. Grant flashed a light on a wall. They were in a dusty room with a few papers littering the floor. It was apparently the living room.

“We might as well start here,” he said. “Though I’d expect the hiding place to be in a back room or maybe the hall. Got a knife, Jupiter?”

Jupiter brought out his prized Swiss knife and opened the big blade. He made a cut in the flowered wallpaper on the nearest wall. Mr. Grant eased the edge of a putty knife into the cut and turned back a strip of the paper. Underneath was only plaster.

“Not here,” he said. “We’ll have to try different spots on this wall, then the other walls, then go to the other rooms.”

He and Jupiter repeated the process several feet away. Again there was nothing beneath the paper but plaster. They went around all four walls of the room, testing in several spots. Each time they drew a blank.

“All right, now we’ll try the dining room,” Mr. Grant said.

The flashlight beam showing the way, they proceeded to the dining room. Jupiter made a cut and Mr. Grant turned the edge of the paper back. Pete gave a yip.

“Something green underneath!” he said.

“Jupiter, shine the light close,” Mr. Grant said. “Maybe we’ve found it!”

Jupiter brought the light to within inches of the uncovered space. A checked green surface showed.

“Just another layer of wallpaper,” Mr. Grant said. “Well, we’ll look underneath it.”

Underneath, however, was plaster wall again.

They finished with the dining room and went into the first bedroom. Their tests were still negative. The second bedroom was the same. The bathroom and kitchen had painted walls. Jupiter climbed a narrow ladder to the small attic. There was no wallpaper up there.

“Well, we didn’t hit the jackpot on this one.” Mr. Grant’s voice was tense and he was sweating a little. “Let’s try the next house.”

They emerged into the darkness. Only the street lights at each corner still were on. The houses were all dark and very spooky. Mr. Grant led the boys to the next block and the first brown-shingled bungalow there. The front door was unlocked this time.

Inside, the layout was much the same as in the first house. But the wallpaper looked newer.

“Maybe this is it,” Mr. Grant said hopefully. “Make a cut, Jupiter.”

Jupiter again cut into the wallpaper, Mr. Grant turned it back — and there was nothing underneath.

In growing excitement, they moved through the rest of the house, swiftly testing all the walls in different places. They found nothing.

“That leaves just one more house,” said Mr. Grant. His voice was slightly hoarse. “That has to be it!”

He led the way across the street to the third bungalow that fitted Mrs. Miller’s description. As Mr. Grant prepared to force the locked door, Jupiter flashed a light on to the door frame. Metal street numbers screwed into the white woodwork around the door reflected the light.

“Don’t do that!” Mr. Grant said sharply. “We don’t want to attract any attention.”

“But I think I’ve spotted something,” Jupiter said. “I think this used to be Mrs. Miller’s house.”

“How can you tell, Jupe?” Bob said, almost whispering. The dark desertion of the street somehow made whispering seem proper.

“Yes, how can you tell?” Mr. Grant demanded.

“This house is number 671,” Jupiter said. “But when it was moved, naturally the street number would have been changed. I think I saw the marks where the old numbers were taken off.”

“Oh? Then let’s have another look. Make it as fast as you can.”

Jupiter briefly pressed the button of the flashlight. A small circle of light focused on the numbers. And they all saw, just above the new numbers, marks in the paint where the old numbers had been. They were faint but clear.

“Number 532!” Pete exclaimed. “We’ve found it.”

“Good work, Jupiter,” Mr. Grant said. “Now let’s get inside and find that money.”

The door opened with a splintering noise, and they rushed into the living room. Bob found himself breathing fast with excitement. Now, for sure, they were right. Somewhere in this house fifty thousand dollars were pasted beneath the wallpaper.

“Give us some light, Jupiter,” Mr. Grant said. Jupiter flashed the light on each wall in turn. The room was papered in a heavy raised design.

“It could easily be in here,” the man said. “Rough wallpaper — easy to hide bills underneath it. Let’s get to work.”

Jupiter quickly made a cut and Mr. Grant turned the paper back. Underneath was only the plaster wall.

“We’ll start near the corner and work our way right round the room,” Mr. Grant said. “Fifty thousand dollars in large bills wouldn’t take up a whole wall. Let’s make it snappy.”

He and Jupiter had finished the first wall and started on the second, with Pete and Bob pressing close to watch, when a sudden noise made them freeze.

“What —” Mr. Grant began. He never finished the sentence. The front door was flung open and heavy feet came into the room with a rush. The beam of a large flashlight centred on the little group. And from behind the flashlight an ugly voice growled:

“All right, all of you! Put up your hands!”

They all turned, putting up their hands. The strong beam of light made them blink and squint and prevented them from seeing who was behind it.

“If you’re the police,” Mr. Grant started to say, “I’m George Grant, special investigator for —”

A brash laugh cut him short.

“George Grant! That’s a good one. Is that what you told the kids?”

Jupiter blinked. A sudden sick realization came to him.

“Isn’t he Mr. Grant from the Bankers’ Protective Association?” he asked.

“Him?” The deep, grating voice laughed again. “That’s Smooth Simpson, one of the slickest cons in the business.”

“But he has an official card,” Pete protested.

“Sure he has. Printed special for him. He has a million of ’em. Don’t feel bad if he fooled you. He’s fooled the cops themselves, plenty of times.

“Thought you could grab the cash right under our noses, didn’t you, Smooth? But when the fat kid went into that junkyard and didn’t come out again even when they closed, we knew something was up. We knew the house had to be over here someplace — got the info from the super of that apartment house after Fatty did yesterday — so we came here in a hurry. Spotted your light when you came into this house. Now we’re here and we’ll just take charge.”