Mystery of the Missing Man (9 page)

Mrs. Trotteville sympathized with Fatty just then, because she had become very tired of Eunice at the bridge table that evening. Eunice had had remarkably good cards, and had won every game. She had then proceeded to give the others a most competent lecture on how the game of bridge ought to be played, and Mrs. Trotteville had suddenly longed to slap her.

So she could quite see Fatty’s point about keeping her busy the next day. “Yes, of course, Frederick,” she said. “I’ll ask her if she will take round the Parish magazines for me - I’m sure she will be thrilled to go round the village with them and tell everyone how to keep their gardens tidy or how to train their dogs!”

Fatty laughed and gave his mother a hug. “Thanks!” he said. “All the same, I wouldn’t put it past Eunice to deliver all the magazines at top speed, and then come racing after us to see what we’re doing!”

“You’d better put a mouse into your pocket,” said his mother, much to Fatty’s amusement. “You’d be quite safe then!”

Fatty and Bert the Clown

Fatty really enjoyed himself next morning down in his shed. He waited until Eunice had started off with the bundle of Parish magazines and then he began his disguising, whistling quietly to himself.

He gave himself a very brown face indeed. “As brown as the boy in the shooting-range!” he said. He then stuck on some shaggy eyebrows over his own, which gave him rather a forbidding expression. He ruffled his hair so that most of it stood up on end.

He dug his fingers into some dark earth just outside the shed and got his nails extremely dirty, and his hands too. Then he dressed himself in the old clothes, and finally put in the prominent false teeth. He looked in the glass and grinned, half startled himself to see the big teeth that stuck out over his lower lips.

“You’ll do,” he said. “What’s your name, now? Bert? Sid? Alf? Yes, Alf, I think. Come on, Alf, it’s time you went to make your enquiries at the Fair.”

He slipped out of the shed, went to the little gate that led into the lane at the bottom of the garden and looked out. No one was about. He could go in safety.

He put his hands in his pocket and slouched down the road, whistling as best he could through his prominent front teeth. He had had to leave Buster behind, for Buster following at his heels would certainly give him away!

He had one very bad moment when he passed the gate of a house not far from his own. Someone came hurrying out and bumped into him. Fatty was about to raise his cap and apologize when he remembered that he was Alf. And then, to his horror, he saw that it was Eunice who had bumped into him. Some of her magazines had fallen to the ground.

“Well, you might at least say you’re sorry, young man!” she said. “And can’t you pick those up for me?”

“Pick ’em up yourself,” mumbled Fatty, and ambled off, grinning at the look on Eunice’s face. She hadn’t had the slightest idea who he was. His disguise must be quite perfect!

Eunice stared after the slouching youth in disgust. “Dirty, ill-mannered lout,” she said, and picked up her magazines. “I’d like to box his ears!”

Fatty made his way to the cross-roads, where he had planned to meet the others. Ah, yes - there they were, waiting. Good. They were looking down the road for him, but not one of them recognized him as he came shambling up, hands in pockets. He went right past them, grinning to himself.

He sat down on the bus-stop seat. “Got the time, Mister?” he called to Larry.

“Almost ten,” said Larry.

There was a pause, and the others began to talk among themselves. “I hope he’s got rid of Eunice,” he heard Larry say. He called out to him again.

“Got a fag, Mister?”

“No,” said Larry, shortly.

“When’s the next bus?” asked Fatty. “’Arf-past ten, ain’t it?”

“There’s a time-table there,” said Pip, pointing to one. They all looked at the youth in disgust. Goodness, what a lout!

“He probably belongs to the Fair,” said Daisy, and that made Fatty chuckle to himself. Then he heard the bus rumbling round the corner and stood up. The others gave a despairing look down the road. “Fatty’s missed the bus,” said Bets dolefully. “What do we do? Wait for the next one and see if he turns up?”

“No need to do that,” said Fatty amiably, in his own voice. “We’ll all catch this one. Come on!”

He roared at their amazed faces. They were so astonished that they almost missed the bus, for they stood rooted to the ground! Fatty had to hustle them in.

“Say nothing,” he hissed. “Don’t speak to me in the bus. I’ll find some way of talking to you at the Fair.”

The other four sat silent in the bus, quite overcome by Fatty’s surprising appearance. Bets shot sidelong glances at him. Never, never would she have thought that it was Fatty sitting alongside her. Was it? Well, it must be, because of his voice. How clever he was!

They all got off at the Fair and went in at the gate. “You can follow me around,” said Fatty, in a low voice. “Keep your eyes and ears open. I’m going to find the clown first.”

He went on in front of them, and they followed. He came to the little boxing-tent and looked for the clown, but there was no one there. The tent was empty, except for the little boxing-ring.

“Who are you looking for, mate?” said a boy, passing by, carrying a bucket of water.

“Bert,” said Fatty, remembering the clown’s name. “The clown, you know.”

“He’s gone to have a tooth out,” said the boy. “He’ll be back in a few minutes, He was half-mad with toothache in the night.”

“Right. I’ll wait,” said Fatty, and sat down on the grass. The other four heard all this, and wandered off, keeping a watch in case Bert came back.

Nobody recognized Bert when he did come back for he was not in his clown-suit. He had a shock of thick dark hair, and the whole of his face, except his sharp eyes, was covered by a dirty scarf. He came to the boxing-tent and was just about to go inside when Fatty spoke to him.

“Hey? You Bert the clown?”

“Yep,” said Bert, from behind his scarf. “What’s biting you, chum? You waiting for me?”

“Yep,” answered Fatty. “I…”

“Oh - then you’d be the boy old Dicky said he’d send along to help me,” said Bert.

“Yep,” said Fatty, thankfully. This was a bit of luck! “What do I have to do?”

“You good at figures?” asked Bert, his face still hidden by his scarf. “Here - I’ll show you what kind of figures you’d have to keep. I’m no good at head-work, I’m not.”

He disappeared into the tent and came out with a small account book which apparently showed the takings for each day. Fatty glanced at the hand that held it out to him. What a knobbly one! All bones. A little feeling of excitement crept up his spine.

“If only I could see his face now he hasn’t got on any paint, I’d know then about the scar,” thought Fatty, pretending to go through the account book. “His hair’s right - and his eyes and eyebrows - and his height. How can I get him to take off that scarf?”

He handed back the book. “Reckon I could keep them figures for you okay,” he said.

“When could you start, chum?” asked Bert.

“Tell you later on,” said Fatty. “I got to go and see a bloke about another job first. That do?”

“Okay by me,” said Bert. “Long as you let me know today.” He was about to go into the boxing-tent when Fatty spoke to him again.

“What you done to your face?” he said. “Got a cold or something?”

“No,” said Bert. “Had a tooth out, that’s all, and the dentist said I’d better keep my face covered up with this cold wind about.”

“Was it a bad tooth?” said Fatty, with much sympathy in his voice.

“Pretty bad,” said Bert. “Right in the front too. Good thing I haven’t got teeth that stick out like yours, or the gap would show like anything!”

“Let’s see it,” said Fatty. “I bet it won’t notice much.”

Bert promptly pulled down his scarf and opened his mouth. He pointed to a gap in his top teeth. “See? That’s where he took it out. Had a root as long as a tree’s!”

But Fatty was not looking at the teeth - he was looking for a thin, curving scar just above the mouth! He stared hard.

There was no scar there! Not even the sign of where one might have been! Fatty was bitterly disappointed, for he really had thought that the clown was the man he wanted.

“Nasty place,” he said. “I reckon it will soon heal though. “Well - so long!”

He could see the four others nearby, all gazing as hard as they could when the clown pulled off his scarf. He walked by them. “No go,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “He’s not the man. Everything fitted except the scar!”

“Let’s go to the flea-circus now,” said Larry to the others in a loud voice, meant to reach Fatty’s ears. And off they all walked, passing Fatty on the way. They went in the direction pointed out by a wooden hand that had “Flea-Circus” painted on it.

But the flea-circus was not yet open. A flag flew at the top of a fairly big tent, with “Fangio’s Famous Fleas” printed across it. Fatty peeped inside.

There was only an old woman there - the same old woman who had been sitting in a chair outside the shooting-tent the day before. She was over by a table that held big glass cages, gazing intently into them.

“’Afternoon, Ma,” said Fatty, and the old lady jumped at the sound of his voice. She turned her wrinkled face to him, pulling her dirty shawl over her head. “Is the flea-circus open, Ma?” asked Fatty. “There’s some kids here want to see it.”

“My daughter ain’t here yet,” said the old woman, in her cracked voice.

“Oh - does she run the flea-circus?” asked Fatty. “Who’s Fangio then?”

“He was her father,” said the old woman. “Dead now, though, so she runs it herself, Lucita does. Wunnerful creatures, them fleas. You can make ’em do anything you want to. And strong! Why, you should see what a load they can pull in this little cart!”

“Pull a cart! Surely fleas can’t pull a cart!” said Larry, coming right into the tent. “Can we see the cart?”

“Yes, you come in,” said the old woman, her face wrinkled up into what Larry supposed was meant to be a smile. How wrinkled she was - he wondered if she was a hundred years old! The untidy hair sticking out from under her shawl was white - a dirty white, it is true - but it would have been snowy-white if it had been clean.

“Are you Mrs. Fangio?” asked Daisy.

“That’s right,” said the old woman. “Come to help my daughter and my son at the Fair. My son’s over at the shooting-tent.”

Fatty remembered the son. So did they all! He had been so very like the photos of the escaped prisoner - except that he had no scar above his mouth, and his hands were not knobbly or bony.

“You see here now,” said the old woman, eagerly. “Here’s the little cart - and here’s a crane the fleas work - and they can roll this little barrel along.”

“How amazing!” said Daisy. “But where are the fleas? I hate fleas but I must say I’d like to have a look at such miraculous ones!”

“I’ll show you!” said the old woman - but before she could even undo the tiny cages where the fleas were kept, an angry voice called loudly:

“Didn’t I say you weren’t to touch them fleas? You just keep your hands off them!”

Fatty Asks a Question

Everyone turned round at once. A girl stood in the doorway, a dark-haired, sharp-eyed, gypsy-looking young woman. Her thin mouth looked sulky as she stared at the little company.

“Now where have I seen her before?” thought Fatty at once. “She reminds me of someone. Where have I seen someone like her?”

The girl came into the tent, scowling. “Clear out,” she said to the children, and then turned to Fatty, evidently regarding him as belonging to the Fair. “Clear those kids out. We don’t allow anyone in the tent when there’s no show on. Them fleas are valuable.”

She then turned on the old woman. “Didn’t you say you’d keep your hands off of them fleas?” she said. “Interfering again, I suppose! You let them be, they’re mine.”

“You shouldn’t ought to talk to your old mother like that,” said the old woman, darting a fierce glance at the young woman. She opened her mouth as if to make a sharp retort, looked at the children standing near the doorway, and thought better of it.

“Want any help here?” said Fatty, still wondering who it was that the girl reminded him of.

“Well, she’s supposed to keep the tent clean,” said the girl, with an angry look at the old woman. “But you can sweep it out if you want. I’ll give you a shilling.”

“But are you sure your mother won’t mind?” said Fatty. “I don’t want to do her out of a job.”

“I’ve got another job tomorrow,” cackled the old woman. “You can have this job, young feller - and I hope you don’t feel the edge of that girl’s tongue as often as I do! Fleas! I could manage fleas better than she can, before she was born.”

“Oh, get out,” said the young woman. “And don’t go near Josef. He’s in a vile temper today.”

“What an unpleasant family!” thought Fatty, taking a broom from the back of the tent and beginning to sweep the littered ground. “Who’s Josef?” he asked.

“My brother. Over at the shooting-tent,” said the girl. “He’s my twin.”

Fatty stopped sweeping and looked at her. Of course! That was whom she reminded him of - the young man over at the shooting-tent, the one who was so like the escaped prisoner. The same sharp eyes, dark brows, the same springing dark hair, thin mouth and sulky look. So they were twins - that explained the likeness!

“Got any more brothers or sisters?” he asked, wondering if perhaps there was another brother who might be the man he wanted.

“No. Josef and I are all that’s left of our family,” said the girl.

“And your mother,” said Fatty, sweeping hard.

“Oh her - yes,” said the girl, who obviously had no love for the old woman.

“Do you sleep here in this tent?” asked Fatty. He could not see any bedding and he wondered what the girl and her brother did at night.

“No! Wc have a caravan, down in Barker’s Field,” said the girl. “There’s a crowd of them there. Want to know a lot, don’t you? You new to the Fair?”

“Yes,” said Fatty, truthfully. “Always had a liking for Fairs, so I came here to look for a job. I wouldn’t mind working in a circus, either - especially with animals.”