Mystery of Holly Lane (5 page)

“Oh, dear — what a wonderful morning you had,” said Larry, as Fatty handed over two half-crowns to the delighted Daisy. “Now I’ll tell my story.”

“Yes, tell yours,” said Daisy. “You should have seen him dressed up as a window-cleaner, Fatty! He borrowed an old pair of dirty blue dungarees, put on a frightful old cloth cap that has hung in the shed for ages, and made himself filthy — hands, face and neck! HONESTLY, I’d never employ him as a window-cleaner. He looked more like a sweep.”

Fatty grinned. “Good work,” he said to Larry. “Go on — tell us what you did.”

“Well,” said Larry, “I dressed up, just as Daisy’s told you. And I took an old pail and a leather, and off I went.”

“Where did you go?” asked Fatty.

“Well, I remembered I’d better not choose a house that needed a ladder for upstairs windows,” said Larry. “So I tried to think of a bungalow somewhere, with the windows all on the one floor, And I remembered seeing one next to that house called Green-Trees — do you remember, the one that that foreigner went to — the man we mistook to be Fatty.”

“Oh, yes, I remember the bungalow too,” said Fatty. “Good for you! In Holly Lane, wasn’t it? A little place with an untidy garden, standing a bit back from the road.”

“That’s right. What a memory you’ve got, Fatty! You never miss anything,” said Larry. “Well, I took my pail and my leather and walked up the path to the bungalow. I knocked at the door.”

“Was anyone in?” asked Bets.

“I didn’t think so at first, because nobody answered,” said Larry. “So I knocked again, very loudly. And a voice said ‘Come in.’ I opened the door and yelled inside. ‘Window-cleaner! Is it all right to do the windows now?’ And somebody shouted ‘Yes!’ “

“Who was it? Did you see?” asked Fatty.

“No, I didn’t,” said Larry. “Anyway, I got some water from a water-butt outside, and started on the back windows — two of them. There wasn’t any one in the room there; it was a bedroom with a single bed, a chair, and a table — rather poor. As I was doing these windows I heard the front door slam and somebody went up the path to the road. I didn’t see him — or her, it might have been.”

“Was the house left empty then?” asked Fatty.

“I thought so, at first. But when I came round to the front to do the front windows, I saw there was someone inside that room,” said Larry. “And this is the queer part of my story.”

Everyone sat up at once.

“Queer — how do you mean?” asked Fatty.

“Well, at first I thought there wasn’t anyone in the room,” said Larry, “and I thought I’d buck up and clean the windows and go, glad to have finished the job — actually, when I was doing it, I thought it was a bit silly! And then I suddenly saw someone on the floor.”

“On the floor! Hurt, do you mean?” asked Pip.

“No. He didn’t seem to be hurt,” said Larry. “He seemed to be feeling the chairs — he felt first one, and then another, muttering to himself all the time.”

“But what for?” asked Fatty. “And who was he, anyway?”

“I don’t know. He looked a very old man,” said Larry. “He had a kind of night-cap on his head, and he wore pyjamas and a dressing-gown. He kept feeling one chair after another — underneath them — and then he came to a chair that seemed to satisfy him. He nodded and gave a chuckle.”

“Extraordinary! What did he do next?” asked Fatty, most interested.

“He crawled over the floor to a kind of wheel-chair, and somehow got into it,” said Larry. “His night-cap slipped off and he was quite bald, poor old fellow. He sat in front of some kind of stove, and then he dropped off to sleep as I watched him.”

“Didn’t he see you looking in?” asked Bets.

“No. I think he’s almost blind,” said Larry. “He had to feel for the chairs — as if he couldn’t really see them. Funny, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. Very queer,” said Pip. “I wonder what he was feeling all over the chairs for. Do you suppose he had got something hidden in one of them? Money, perhaps?”

“Possibly. He might be afraid of robbers and have hidden his little hoard somewhere odd that he considered safe,” said Fatty. “Well, it’s a peculiar story, Larry, and it’s a good thing you weren’t a real window-cleaner — a dishonest one might easily have guessed what the old man was doing! Making sure his savings were still safe!”

“I stripped off my dungarees in the bushes, cleaned myself up a bit with the leather, and went home,” said Larry. “I’d really rather work on a real mystery than do all this pretend shadowing and disguising and window-cleaning. It doesn’t really lead to anything!”

But Larry was wrong. Quite wrong. It led to quite a lot of things. It led, in fact, to a really first-class Mystery!

Where is Buster?

For the next day or two Fatty kept a sharp eye on Buster, wondering if the skinny little boy would really try to kidnap him. But there seemed to be no sign of Bert.

And then one evening Buster disappeared! Fatty had gone out on his bicycle with the others to the cinema, and had left Buster safely in the kitchen with the Cook, who was very fond of him. When he came back, he sat down and finished a book he was reading, and it wasn’t until he had finished it that he realised that Buster had not come scampering to be with him as usual.

He went to the door and shouted. “Buster! Where are you?”

It was half-past ten. Cook and Jane had gone to bed. His mother and father were out playing bridge and the house was very quiet

“BUSTER! Where are you?” yelled Fatty again.

A voice came from upstairs. “Oh, Master Frederick, is that you shouting? You did give me a start! Isn’t Buster with you? He wanted to go out at half-past nine, and we thought he heard you coming in to put your bicycle away, so we let him out. Didn’t you see him?”

“No, Jane! I haven’t seen him since I’ve been in,” said Fatty. “Where on earth can he be? I’ll open the front door and yell.”

He stood at the front door and shouted. “Buster! BUSTER!”

But no Buster came. Fatty was puzzled. Where could he have gone? Well, perhaps he would come in when his mother and father came back.

But Buster didn’t. It was a very worried Fatty who greeted his parents when they came in at twelve o’clock.

“Frederick! Why aren’t you in bed?” began his mother. “It’s midnight!”

“Have you seen Buster?” said Fatty…. “You haven’t? Gosh, then, where can he be?”

“He’s probably gone to visit one of his friends and forgotten the tune, like you do sometimes!” said his father. “Get to bed now. Buster will be back in the morning, barking outside at six o’clock and waking us all.”

There was nothing for it but to go to bed. Fatty undressed and got between the sheets. But he couldn’t help remembering the whispered conversation he had heard in Goon’s little hall — and Bert’s mean little face. Had Bert somehow got hold of Buster?

Buster didn’t come barking at the front door in the morning. He hadn’t even appeared by breakfast-time! Fatty was by now quite certain that somehow or other the skinny little boy had managed to get hold of the little Scottie. He went out into the garden to investigate. Perhaps he could find something to explain Buster’s disappearance.

He did find something. He found a small bit of liver attached to a short piece of string. Fatty pounced on it, frowning fiercely.

“That’s it! That little beast Bert must have come along with some liver, tied it on a bit of string and drawn it along for Buster to follow him. And old Buster leapt at it and got the liver and chewed the string in half. Then he must have followed Bert — and probably more liver — till Bert managed to slip a lead on him and take him off.”

He threw the bit of liver away and went indoors angrily. The telephone bell rang as he walked into the hall. His father was there and took up the receiver.

“Hallo! Yes, this is Mr. Trotteville speaking. Who’s that? Mr. Goon? What’s that? Do speak up, please, I can only hear a mumble.”

There was a short silence. Fatty stood nearby, listening. Mr. Goon! Now what was this?

“I can’t believe it!” said Mr. Trotteville into the telephone. “Buster has never chased a thing in his life — except your ankles. All right — come and see me. I don’t believe it!”

He put the receiver down and faced Fatty. “That fellow Goon says your dog Buster was caught red-handed last night, chasing sheep.”

“It couldn’t have been Buster,” said Fatty. “It must be some other dog.”

“He says he’s got Buster in his shed now,” said Mr. Trotteville. “He’ll be shot, you know, if this is true. Where was he last night?”

“Someone came and enticed him away,” said Fatty. “Someone who’s told a lie about Buster! Who says they saw him chasing sheep?”

“A boy called Bert Mickle,” said his father. “Goon says this boy was out walking in the fields last night, and actually saw Buster worrying the sheep. He managed to catch him, and slipped a rope under his collar. He took him to Mr. Goon’s, but the policeman was out, so the boy locked the dog into the shed there — and he’s there still. Now what are we to do?”

“It’s an absolute untruth,” said Fatty, looking rather white. “It’s a plan laid between them. I’ll pay Goon out for this. When’s he coming, Dad?”

“In half an hour’s time,” said Mr. Trotteville. “I’ll have to see him. I can’t bear the sight of him.”

Fatty disappeared. He knew quite certainly that Buster had not been chasing sheep. He also knew that the horrid little Bert had told a lot of lies, and he was sure that Goon knew it. And Buster might be shot because of all that!

Fatty raced down to his shed. He put on a red wig, inserted some false plastic teeth in front of Ms own and dressed himself in an old suit, with a butcher-boy’s blue-and-white apron in front. Then he jumped on his bicycle and rode off down to Goon’s house. He stood whistling on the pavement opposite, apparently reading a comic with great interest — but all the time he was watching for Goon to come out.

Goon came at last and wheeled his bicycle out of the front gate. He looked exceedingly pleased with himself, and hummed a little tune as he rode off.

The butcher-boy opposite scowled and folded up his comic. Leaving his bicycle beside the kerb, he crossed the road and went round to the back of Goon’s house.

He glanced at the shed in the garden. A subdued but angry barking came from it. Then a scraping at the door. Fatty bit his lip. That was Buster all right!

He knocked at the back door. Mrs. Mickle came, wiping her hands on her apron as usual.

“You’re wanted up at home, Mrs. Mickle,” said Fatty. “Message to say you’re to go at once.”

“Oh, dear! oh, dear! I hope my mother’s not been taken ill again,” said Mrs. Mickle. “Bert! I’m wanted up at home. You’d better keep on here till I come back. Mr. Goon’s out.”

“Bert had better go with you,” said Fatty, firmly. He wanted them both out of the way as quickly as possible.

“No. I’m staying here,” said Bert, thinking of the tarts and buns he could take out of the larder with both Mr. Goon and his mother out of the house.

That was that. Bert was not going to move, Fatty could see. All right — he would make him!

Mrs. Mickle took off her apron and fled up the street. Bert stood at the front door and watched her go. Fatty nipped in at the back door and hid himself in a cupboard outside the kitchen.

Bert came back, having shut the hall-door. He whistled. Ha, now for the larder! Fatty heard him go into the kitchen and open the larder door. It creaked. Fatty peeped out of the cupboard.

A hollow voice suddenly spoke behind Bert. “Beware! Your sins will find you out. BEWARE!”

Bert turned round in a hurry. There was nobody in the kitchen at all. He stood there, trembling, a small jam-tart in one hand.

“Who took that dog away last night?” said another voice, which seemed to come from behind the kitchen door. “Who took him away?”

“Don’t, don’t!” cried poor Bert, and the jam-tart fell from his hand. “I took him, I took him! Who is talking to me?”

A loud growling came from another corner and Bert yelled. He looked round for the dog but couldn’t see one. Then a loud me-owing began. “MEEE-ow! MEEE-ow!”

But no cat was to be seen. Bert began to howl and tears poured down his cheeks. “Mum!” he cried. “Mum!”

But Mum was far away up the street. Fatty began again. “Who told a lie? Who took that dog away?”

“I’ll tell the truth, I will, I will!” sobbed Bert. “I’m a bad boy, I am.”

“BEWARE!” said the deep hollow voice again. It was too much for Bert. He fled into the hall and out of the front door, leaving it open as he went. Fatty heard the scampering of his feet, and grinned. So much for Bert Served him right — trying to get an innocent dog shot!

Fatty went to the garden shed. He had with him a bunch of keys that he had seen hanging from a hook on the kitchen dresser. One of them unlocked the shed.

Buster flew at him, barking in delight. He careered round Fatty, and Fatty picked him up and squeezed him till the little Scottie had no breath left in his body. He licked Fatty’s face vigorously.

Then Fatty suddenly caught sight of something — Mr. Goon’s enormous black cat sitting high up on a wall, watching Buster out of sleepy insolent eyes. He knew he was too high up for any dog to catch. An idea came to Fatty.

“Just half a minute, Buster old fellow,” he said, and put the Scottie inside the house, shutting the kitchen door on him.

Then he went to the great tom-cat. He stroked it and murmured flattering things into its pricked-up ears. It purred loudly. Most animals loved Fatty!

It allowed him to lift it off the wall and fondle it. He walked with it to the shed and took it inside. He set it down on a sack that had evidently been placed there for Buster, and stroked it.

Then he went swiftly to the door, shut it, locked it and took the keys back to the kitchen. Buster had been frantically scraping at the door, trying to get to Fatty. Fatty picked him up, and went out of Goon’s house, across the road to his bicycle. He put Buster in the basket, and rode off whistling shrilly like an errand-boy, thinking happy thoughts!

“All right, Mr. Goon! You can take my father down to see Buster in the shed — threaten to have him shot! You’ll find nothing there but your own black tom-cat!” Fatty grinned at his thoughts, and Buster yapped happily in the basket. Why had he been shut up like that? He didn’t know. But nothing mattered now. He was with Fatty, and Buster’s world was cheerful and happy once more.