Mystery of Holly Lane (6 page)

Fatty shot in at his side-gate and cycled down to his shed. He tore off his errand-boy things. Then he shut Buster up in the shed, with many apologies, and went back to the house. Was Mr. Goon still there? Well, he could say what he liked! Buster was safe!

Mr. Goon Gets a Shock.

Mr. Goon had been at Fatty’s house for about five minutes, and was thoroughly enjoying himself. He knew that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Trotteville liked him, and it was pleasant to Mr. Goon to bring them such bad news about Buster.

Fatty sauntered into the room, and Mr. Goon looked at him triumphantly. “Morning, Mr. Goon,” said Fatty. “Lovely April day, isn’t it? Got any mystery in the offing yet?”

“I’ve come about that there dog of yours,” said Mr. Goon, almost joyfully. “Been caught chasing sheep again.”

“Rubbish,” said Fatty, briskly. “Never chased one in his life!”

“I’ve got evidence,” said Goon, going slightly purple. “And I’ve got the dog too, see? Locked up in my shed.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Fatty. “I’ll have to see the dog first, before I believe it’s old Buster. He’s not the dog in your shed, I’ll be bound.”

Mr. Trotteville looked at Fatty in surprise. Fatty winked at him. His father heaved a sigh of relief. He had no idea what Fatty was up to; but he began to feel that somehow, somewhere, Goon was not going to get away with this tale about Buster.

Goon went very purple indeed. He turned to Mr. Trotteville. “If you’ll be so good, sir, as to come along with me and identify the dog, it would be a great help,” he said. “Master Frederick had better come too. After all, it’s his dog.”

“I’ll come all right,” said Fatty. “You coming too, Dad?”

“Yes. I’ll get the car out,” said his father, still puzzled over Fatty’s attitude. “You can come with me, Frederick. You cycle off, Goon, and we’ll be there as soon as you are.”

Mr. Trotteville went to get the car. Goon disappeared on his bicycle, purple but still triumphant Fatty went to the telephone.

“Oh — is that Mrs. Hilton? Good morning. Please may I speak to Pip? Shan’t keep him a minute.”

Pip was fetched. Fatty spoke to him urgently. “Pip? Listen. No time for explanations. I want you to do something for me.”

“Right,” said Pip’s voice, sounding excited. “I say — is this a mystery starting up?”

“No. Nothing like that. Listen now. I want you to come up here quickly, unlock my shed, get old Buster out of it, and bring him down to Goon’s house. Put him on a lead. Don’t come into Goon’s — just wait outside till I come out. Tell you everything then!”

Click, Fatty put down the receiver. He rubbed his hands and grinned. Aha, Mr. Goon, you are going to be very, very surprised!

He got into the car beside his father, who glanced at him sideways. “I gather, Frederick,” he said, “that you are quite happy about this Buster affair now? But you possibly do not want to tell me why?”

“How right you are, Dad,” said Fatty, cheerfully. “I’ll just tell you this: Goon played a very dirty trick, but it’s not going to come off!”

There was silence after that. Mr. Trotteville drove straight to Goon’s house, and the two of them got out. Goon himself had just arrived, and was astonished to find the house completely empty. No Mrs. Mickle, no Bert!”

Mr. Trotteville and Fatty went in at the front door, and at the very same moment Mrs. Mickle and Bert arrived at the back. Bert’s eyes were red, and he looked frightened. Mrs. Mickle was in a rage.

She spoke to Mr. Goon. “I’m sorry to have left the house so sudden-like, Mr. Goon — but that dratted boy of the butcher’s came along and told me I was wanted at home — so I left Bert here in charge, and rushed home — and I wasn’t wanted after all. Just wait till I get that butcher’s boy!”

Bert gave a sudden sniff. Mrs. Mickle looked at him in disgust. “And Bert — who I left here just to stay till you were back, sir — he come racing home, howling like I don’t know what. Scared of being left in your place alone, and telling such tales as I never heard the like of in my life!”

“Mr. Trotteville, this is the boy who caught Buster chasing sheep last night,” said Goon.

“I never!” said Bert, suddenly, and burst into tears. “I never, I never!”

“Bert! How can you tell stories like that?” said his mother. “Why, you stood there and told Mr. Goon all about it this morning. I heard you!”

“I never, I never, I never,” said Bert, and sniffled again.

“He’s a bit nervous, I expect,” said Goon, surprised and most displeased. “You caught the dog yourself, didn’t you, Bert?”

“I never,” said Bert, who seemed quite incapable of saying anything else.

Goon gave it up. “Well, the dog’s in the shed, and it’s the very dog Bert brought in and put there himself.”

“I never!” said Bert, making Mr. Goon long to box his ears. The big policeman strode out through the kitchen and into the garden, taking with him the keys of the shed. He inserted one into the lock, and flung the door open, expecting Buster to rush out and declare himself.

But no dog arrived. Instead, Mr. Goon’s extremely large black cat strolled out haughtily, sat down outside the shed, and began to wash himself.

Goon’s eyes nearly fell out of his head. Fatty gave a roar of laughter and Bert howled in fright. Bert had put Buster into the shed; and to see the black cat come out instead of the dog was quite terrifying to poor Bert.

“I never, I never, I never!” he sobbed, and hid his face in his mother’s apron.

Goon’s mouth opened and shut like a goldfish’s, and he couldn’t say a word. The cat went on washing itself, and Bert went on howling.

“Well, Mr. Goon, if it’s a cat that was shut into this shed, and not Buster, I really don’t think it’s worthwhile our wasting our time with you any more,” said Mr. Trotteville, sounding quite disgusted. “Did you say that you yourself saw the dog that was put into the shed?”

Goon hadn’t seen Buster. He had been out when Bert arrived with the dog and he had just taken Bert’s word for it. Now he didn’t know whether Bert had shut up a dog or the cat. He glared at the boy as if he could bite him.

Bert howled afresh. He put his hand in his pocket and took out half a crown. He held it out to Goon. “Here you are. I’ve been wicked. Here’s the half-crown you gave me, Mr. Goon. I’ll never go after dogs again for you.”

“Well, I think we’ve heard enough,” said Mr. Trotteville coldly. “Goon, you deserve to be reported for all this. I’ve a good mind to do so. Come on, Frederick.”

“But — but I don’t understand it,” said Goon, his eyes popping out of his head. “Why, I heard that dog barking in the shed, I tell you! Hark! Isn’t that him barking now?”

It was! Pip was walking up and down outside, with Buster on the lead, and Buster had recognized Mr. Trotteville’s car parked nearby. He was barking his head off in delight

They all went to the front door — and poor Goon nearly fainted when he saw Buster, Buster himself, pulling on Pip’s lead and barking frantically.

“Hallo, Pip,” said Fatty, in a very ordinary voice. “Thanks for taking Buster for a walk. Slip him off the lead, will you?”

“No. No, don’t,” said Goon, finding his voice suddenly. “Wait till I’m indoors.”

He shot into the house and slammed the door. Fatty grinned at his father. “I should like to know how the cat took the place of the dog,” murmured Mr. Trotteville, getting into the car with Fatty and Buster. Pip got in too, puzzled, but grinning all over his face.

“Tell you when we get home,” said Fatty. “My word — I wouldn’t like to be young Bert right now!”

Young Bert was indeed having a bad time. Mrs. Mickle was crying, Bert was howling, and Goon felt rather like howling himself. He felt a fool, an idiot — to bring that high-and-mighty Mr. Trotteville down to show him a dog locked up in his shed — and then his own black cat walked out! Gah!

Bert told a peculiar tale of voices in every comer, when he had been left alone in the house. Goon looked round uneasily. Voices? What did Bert mean? He suddenly remembered Fatty’s ability to throw his voice, just like any ventriloquist. Could Fatty have been here? No, impossible!

The more Goon thought about it, the more impossible everything seemed. He looked at Bert with so much dislike that the skinny little boy decided he’d slip off home. What with his Mum cross with him, and Mr. Goon looking as if he’d like to eat him up, and those voices he had heard, life wasn’t worth living! So Bert slipped off home.

“I think Pip and I will get out of the car, and have an ice-cream, Dad,” said Fatty to his father, as they drove down the main street. “I somehow feel like one. You can have one too, Buster.”

“Right,” said his father and stopped. “I’m glad Buster’s all right, Frederick. I’ll hear all about it later.”

Fatty and Pip got out with Buster. “I say — do tell me what’s been happening!” said Pip.

“Come in here and I’ll tell you,” said Fatty. “Goon tried to play a very dirty trick — and it didn’t come off. Come along.”

And over three ice-creams Fatty told the horrified Pip the dreadful story of how Buster had nearly been shot for doing something he hadn’t done! Pip almost choked over his ice-cream!

“Look — there’s Larry and Daisy and Bets,” said Pip, suddenly. “Let’s have them in and tell them too.”

But it turned out that the other three had already had ice-creams, and were now on their way to fetch something. “Larry left the leather behind in the garden of that bungalow whose windows he cleaned the other day,” explained Daisy. “And Mother’s been hunting for it everywhere. So we thought we’d better go and find it in the bushes. It’s sure to be there still.”

“We’ll all come — and then you can come back home with me and I’ll tell you a most peculiar tale,” said Fatty. “Most peculiar — isn’t it, Buster?”

“Not a mystery, is it?” asked Bets, hopefully, as they all went along together. Fatty shook his head.

“There’s not even the smell of a one,” he said. “Look — isn’t this the place, Larry — that little bungalow there?”

“Yes,” said Larry, and went into the garden. He came back quite quickly, looking rather scared.

“I say — there’s somebody shouting like anything in that bungalow. It sounds as if they’re yelling ‘Police! Police! Police!’ “

“Really? Come on, we’ll see what’s up,” said Fatty, and they all trooped in at the gate. Fatty went to the door. It was shut. From within came a curious croaking shout

“Police! Police! Fetch the police!”

“Whatever can be the matter?” said Fatty. “I’d better go in and see!”

The Old Man in the Bungalow.

The five children and Buster went up the path. The front door was shut. Fatty went to look in at one of the windows, and the others followed.

Green curtains were drawn back to let the light into the room. In the middle of the room sat an old man in a small arm-chair. He was beating on the arms and shouting “Police! Police! Fetch the police!”

“It’s the old man I saw when I cleaned the windows,” said Larry. “What’s the matter with him? Why does he want the police?”

They all looked at the old fellow. He had on a dressing-gown over pyjamas, and a night-cap that had slipped to one side of his bald head. He had a small beard on his chin and a scarf tied loosely round his neck.

By the stove stood a wheel-chair with a rug half-falling off it, and on a shelf nearby was a small portable radio, within reach of the old man’s hand. The children could hear it playing loudly.

“Something’s upset the old fellow,” said Fatty. “Let’s try the door and see if it’s unlocked.”

They went back to the door, and Fatty turned the handle. The door opened at once.

They all went in, Buster too. The old man neither heard nor saw them. He still sat in the chair, beating its arms, and wailing for the police.

Fatty touched him on the arm, and the old fellow jumped. He stopped shouting and blinked up at Fatty with watery eyes. He put out his hand and felt along Fatty’s coat

“Who is it? Is it the police? Who are you?”

“I’m someone who heard you shouting and came to see what was the matter,” said Fatty speaking loudly. “Can we help you? What has happened?”

It was clear that the old man could hardly see. He peered round at the others and drew his dressing-gown around him. He began to shiver.

“Look — you get back to the fire,” said Fatty. “I’D take one arm — Larry, you take the other. The old fellow has had a shock of some kind — he’s trembling. Turn off that radio, Bets!”

The old man made no objection to being helped to his own chair. He sat down in it with a sigh, and let Daisy arrange his cushions and rug. He peered at them again.

“Who are you all? Fetch the police, I say,” he said, and his voice quavered as he spoke.

“Do tell us what’s the matter,” said Daisy. But he couldn’t hear her, and she repeated the question loudly.

“Matter? Matter enough. My money’s gone!” he said, and his voice rose to a howl. “All my money! Now what’s to happen to me?”

“How do you know it’s gone?” said Fatty, loudly. “Didn’t you keep it in the bank, or the post-office?”

“Banks! I don’t trust banks!” wailed the old fellow. “I hid it where nobody could find it. Now it’s gone.”

“Where did you hide it?” asked Larry.

“What? What’s that?” said the old man, cupping his hand over his ear. “Speak up.”

“I said, ‘WHERE DID YOU HIDE IT?’ ” repeated Larry. A sly look came over the old fellow’s face. He shook his head.

“I shan’t tell you. No, that’s my secret. It was hidden where nobody could find it. But now it’s gone.”

“Tell us where you hid it, and we’ll have a good look for ourselves,” said Daisy loudly. But the old man shook his head more vigorously than ever.

“You get the police!” he said. “I want the police! Two hundred pounds, that’s what’s gone — all my savings. The police will get it back for me. You get the police.”

Fatty didn’t in the least want to go and find Mr. Goon. Goon would turn them all out and not let them help at all. He would be bossy and domineering and a perfect nuisance.

“When did you miss the money?” he asked the old man.

“Just now,” he said. “About ten minutes ago. I looked for it — and it was gone! Oh, I’m a poor old man and people have robbed me! Get the police.”