The shop of A. Felix — Clockmaker turned out to be a narrow store on a side-street off Hollywood Boulevard, Hollywood’s famous main thoroughfare.

“You may park here, Worthington,” said Jupiter to the English chauffeur who had just driven them from Rocky Beach. Jupiter had won the use of Worthington and a superb antique Rolls-Royce some time before, as a result of winning a contest conducted by the Rent-’n-Ride Agency. The time during which he could use the car had recently expired, however, and the boys had been afraid they could not continue as investigators without this means of covering the vast distances of southern California. But because of the generosity of August August, a boy for whom they had located a valuable inheritance, they again had use of the fabulous car and chauffeur.

“Very good, Master Jupiter,” replied the dignified Englishman. He parked the car, and the three boys got out.

They peered into a dusty, narrow shop window with the name A. Felix — Clockmaker lettered on it in peeling gold paint. The window was full of clocks, large and small, new and antique, plain ones and clocks ornately decorated with birds and flowers. As they watched, a door in a tall wooden clock opened and a toy bugler marched out, lifted his bugle, and blew several times to indicate the hour.

“That’s pretty neat,” Pete observed. “I’d rather be bugled at than screamed at.”

“Let’s go in and see if Mr. Felix can tell us anything,” Jupiter said.

As they entered the shop they were confused by a loud buzz, as of millions of bees. Then they realized it was the sound of many clocks, maybe a hundred or more, all ticking away together.

A tiny man in a leather apron came towards them down an aisle crowded with clocks. He had bushy white eyebrows and sparkling black eyes.

“Are you looking for something special in a clock?” Mr. Felix asked cheerfully. “Or perhaps it’s just a broken watch you wish me to fix?”

“No, sir,” Jupiter replied. “We wanted to consult you about this clock.”

He opened the zipper bag he carried and took out the screaming clock.

Mr. Felix studied it for a moment.

“A rather old electric alarm clock,” he said. “Of little value. I do not believe it is worth fixing.”

“It doesn’t need fixing, sir,” Jupiter said. “Plug it in, if you don’t mind.”

The tiny man shrugged. He plugged in the clock.

“Now turn on the alarm, sir,” Jupiter requested.

Mr. Felix did. Instantly the terrifying scream filled the little shop. Mr. Felix hurriedly moved the small knob on the back of the clock. The scream died away to a mere whisper. Mr. Felix picked up the clock and studied the back. He smiled.

“I remember this clock now,” he said. “That was a tricky job, though no more tricky than others I have done.”

“Then you made the clock scream?” Pete asked.

“Yes, I did. An ingenious mechanism, wouldn’t you say? But I am afraid I cannot tell you for whom I did it. All work that I do is confidential.”

“Yes, sir,” Jupiter said. “But you see, this clock was found thrown out in some trash. It must have been an accident. The owner obviously paid you a lot of money to make it scream for him, and he can’t have meant to throw it away. We’d like to return it.”

“I see,” said Mr. Felix thoughtfully.

“We were hoping there might be a reward,” Bob put in.

Mr. Felix nodded. “Well, that’s perfectly proper. Yes, it must have been discarded by accident. The clock works perfectly well Under the circumstances I believe that I can tell you as much as I am able. The name of the customer for whom I did the work was Clock.”

“Clock?” Bob and Pete repeated the word in surprise.

“He called himself A. Clock. Of course I always thought he was making a joke because he brought me a number of clocks to work on from time to time.”

“It doesn’t sound like a real name,” Jupiter mused. “But if he gave you his address, it wouldn’t matter. We could go there anyway.”

“Unfortunately, he just gave me a telephone number. Still, you could call him.”

He popped behind a counter and brought out a big record book. He turned a few pages, and stopped.

“A. Clock,” he read, “Telephone number — ”

And he gave a number which Bob, as record keeper, jotted down in a notebook.

“Can you tell us anything else, sir?” Jupiter asked. Mr. Felix shook his head.

“That’s all,” he said. “Perhaps I have said too much. Now excuse me, I have work to do. Time is precious, young gentlemen, and must be used well. Good-bye.”

He scurried off. Jupiter squared his shoulders.

“Well, we’ve made some progress,” he said. “Now we’ll go out and telephone that number. I saw a telephone booth at the corner.”

“What are you going to say?” Pete asked as Jupiter was entering the booth.

“I’m going to use strategy to get the address,” Jupe replied.

Bob and Pete squeezed in with him so they could listen to the conversation. The First Investigator dropped in a coin and dialled the number. After a moment a woman’s voice answered.

“Good afternoon,” Jupiter said, making his voice deep enough to sound like an adult. Jupe had a lot of acting ability, which he occasionally put to good use. “This is the telephone company calling. We are having trouble with crossed circuits.”

“Crossed circuits? I don’t understand,” the woman answered.

“We have had complaints of parties in your section getting wrong numbers,” Jupiter said. “Could you tell me the address from which you are answering? It will help us check the circuits.”

“The address? Why, this is 309 Franklin Street. But I don’t see how — ”

She was interrupted by a scream. It was a deep-voiced scream, as of a large man terribly frightened. All three boys would have jumped at the sound if they hadn’t been wedged into the phone booth so tightly. Then the phone went dead.

“This Must Be the block, Worthington,” Jupiter said. “Drive slowly and we’ll look for the right number.”

“Very good, Master Jones,” Worthington agreed. He drove slowly down Franklin Street. It was in the older part of town, once fashionable, and the houses that lined it were large, though somewhat rundown.

“There it is!” Pete cried.

Worthington stopped at the kerb. The boys climbed out and started up the walk, eyeing the house with interest. The shades were pulled down and the house almost seemed abandoned. There were two steps to the front door. The boys climbed them and Jupiter rang the bell.

For a long time nothing happened. Then the door creaked open. A woman stood there. She was not very old but she looked tired and unhappy.

“Excuse me,” Jupiter said. “May we speak to Mr. Clock?”

“Mr. Clock?” The woman seemed puzzled. “There’s nobody here by that name.”

“Perhaps that isn’t his real name,” Jupiter said. “But he’s someone interested in clocks. And he lives here. Or at least he used to.”

“Interested in clocks? You must mean Mr. Hadley. But Mr. Hadley is — ”

“Don’t tell them anything,” a voice suddenly broke in, and a black-haired boy of about seventeen pushed in front of the woman. He scowled at The Three Investigators. “Don’t even talk to them, Mom. Shut the door. They have no business coming here and asking questions.”

“Now, Harry,” his mother reproved the boy. “That’s not polite. They seem like perfectly nice boys and they’re looking for Mr. Hadley. At least I guess it’s Mr. Hadley.”

“Was it Mr. Hadley who screamed a few minutes ago?” Jupiter asked unexpectedly.

The boy glared at him. “Yes, it was!” he replied loudly. “That was his dying scream. Now you better get away from here, because we have to bury Mr. Hadley.” With that he slammed the door shut. “Did you hear that?” Pete exclaimed.