Mystery of the Hidden House (13 page)

He then read the other book. He only glanced at the Clues and other Notes which he had read before. But when he came to the bit Ern had written in that very night his eyes grew rounder than ever.

“Robbery committed January 3rd. Loot will be hidden in the old mill in Christmas Hill. Ern Goon detailed to find it on night of Jan. 4th.”

Mr. Goon read this several times. What an extraordinary thing! What robbery? And how did anybody know where the loot was? And who had detailed Ern to get it? That boy Frederick, of course! Mr. Goon gave one of his snorts. Then he sat and thought very deeply.

It was a real bit of luck that he had got Ern’s notebooks tonight! Now he could go and find the loot instead of Ern. That would be a bit of a blow to that boy Frederick! Aha! He wouldn’t like Mr. Goon turning up with the loot instead of Ern. And what would Inspector Jenks say to all this? He wouldn’t be pleased with anybody but Mr. Goon!

He read the bit of portry about himself again, and felt very angry indeed. Ungrateful boy Ern was! He determined to give Ern something to remember. Where had he put that cane?

Ern heard Mr. Goon go downstairs. He heard him come up again. He heard him open his door and switch on the light - and oh, what a horrible sight, there stood his uncle at the door with a cane in his hand!

“Ern,” said Mr. Goon, in a sad voice, “this is going to hurt me more than it hurts you. I’ve read that pome you wrote about me. It’s wicked, downright wicked.”

Ern was astonished and alarmed. “What pome, Uncle? I haven’t written anything about you at all.”

“Now don’t you go making things worse by telling stories,” said Mr. Goon. He opened the portry notebook at the right page and to Ern’s consternation he saw, written in his own handwriting, a poem addressed to “My Dear Uncle.” He read it and quaked.

“Uncle! I didn’t write it. I couldn’t. It’s too good a pome for me to write!”

“What do you mean, it’s ‘too good!’ ” demanded his uncle. “It’s a wicked pome. And how you can sit there and tell me you didn’t write it when it’s in your own handwriting, well it beats me! I suppose you’ll say next it isn’t your writing?”

Ern looked at the “pome.” “It is my writing,” he said in a faint voice. “But I don’t understand it at all, Uncle, because honestly I don’t remember writing it. I don’t believe I could make up a pome as good as this. It’s - it’s like a dream, all this.”

“And there’s another thing, Ern,” said Mr. Goon, bending the cane to and fro in a very alarming manner, “I’ve read what’s in your other book too. That robbery - and the loot hidden in the old mill. You never told me anything about that, nothing at all. You’re a bad boy. And bad boys get the cane. Hold out your hand!”

Poor Ern! He began to cry again, but there was nothing to do but hold out his hand, or else be caned on other places that might be still more painful.

Swish! “That’s for the pome,” said Mr. Goon, “and so is that! And that’s for not telling me about the robbery and so is that.”

Ern howled dismally and held his hand under his armpit. Mr. Goon looked at him grimly. “And don’t you think you’re going loot-hunting tonight, because you’re not! I’m going to lock you in your bedroom, see? And you can just spend the night thinking of what happens to bad boys who write rude poems and don’t tell their uncle the things they ought to know!”

And with that Mr. Goon switched off the light, shut the door - and locked it! Ern’s heart sank. Now he was Properly Done. No going up to the old mill for him tonight. A horrid thought struck him. Would his uncle go instead? Poor Ern put his head under the pillow and wept for his smarting hand, his locked door, and his lost hopes.

He heard Mr. Goon dress. He heard him go quietly out of the house. Ern knew he was going up to Christmas Hill. Now he’d find the loot. All Fatty’s plans would come to nothing because of him, Ern Goon, and his silliness. Ern felt very small and very miserable.

Then a thought struck him. He remembered the rude “pome” about his uncle. He got out of bed and switched on the light. His portry notebook was on the chair where his uncle had tossed it. Ern picked it up and found the page with the rude “pome” on it. To My Dear Uncle.

Ern read it through six times. He thought it was remarkably clever. And yes, it was certainly in his own handwriting, though he couldn’t for the life of him remember when he had written it.

“I must have done it in my sleep,” said Ern, at last. “Geniuses do queer things. I must have dreamt it last night, got out of bed in my sleep, and written it down. Coo Fancy me writing a good pome like that. It’s wonderful! It’s better than anything Fatty could have done. Perhaps I’m a genius after all!”

He got into bed again, and put his notebook under his pillow. He recited the poem several times. It was a pity it wasn’t finished. He wondered why he hadn’t finished it. Funny he couldn’t remember doing it at all! It showed how his brain worked hard when he was asleep.

Ern didn’t mind his smarting hand now. He didn’t even mind very much that his uncle was finding the loot. He was so very proud to think that he, Ern Goon, had written a first-rate pome - or so it seemed to Ern.

He fell asleep reciting the pome. He was warm and cosy in his bed. But Mr. Goon was not. He was far up on Christmas Hill, looking for loot that wasn’t there!

Unpleasant Night for Mr. Goon

Mr. Goon laboured up Christmas Hill in a cold wind. He kept a sharp eye for mysterious lights and noises and hoped fervently that cows and hens and cats wouldn’t suddenly moo and cluck and yowl as they had done the time before.

They didn’t. The night was very peaceful indeed. A little moon shone in the sky. No mysterious lights appeared. There were no noises of any kind except the little crunches made by Mr. Goon’s big feet on the frosty hillside.

The old mill loomed up, faintly outlined in the darkness by the moonlight. Mr. Goon went cautiously. If the loot was there, the robbers might be about also. He felt for his truncheon. He remembered the man who had attacked him the other night, and once more thought proudly how he had sent him flying.

Everything was quiet in the old mill. A rat ran across the floor and Mr. Goon caught sight of its two eyes gleaming in the darkness. An owl moved up above, and then swept off on silent wings, almost brushing Mr. Goon’s face, and making him jump.

After standing quite still for some time to make sure there was nobody there, Mr. Goon switched on his powerful torch. It showed a deserted, ruined old place, with holes in the roof and walls, and masses of old rubbish on the floor. There were holes in the floor too and Mr. Goon decided that he had better move cautiously or his feet would go through a rotten board.

His torch picked out what looked like a pile of rotten old sacks. The loot might possibly be hidden under those! Mr. Goon began to scrabble about in them, tossing them to one side. Clouds of dust choked him and a nasty smell rose around him.

“Pooh,” said Mr. Goon, and sneezed. His vast sneeze echoed round the old mill and would certainly have alarmed any robber within half a mile. Fortunately for him there was nobody about at all.

Mr. Goon then began on a pile of old boxes. He disturbed a nest of mice, and made a few rats extremely angry. One snapped at his hand and Mr. Goon hit at it with his torch. The torch missed the rat but hit the wall behind - and that was the end of the torch. It flared up once and then went out. No amount of shaking and screwing would make it light up again.

“Broken!” said Mr. Goon, and hurled the torch at the wall in anger. “Drat that rat! Now I can’t see a thing.”

He had some matches in his pocket. He got them out and struck one. He saw some sacks in another corner. The match went out and Mr. Goon made his way across the floor to the sacks. His foot sank into a hole in the boarding and he had a hard struggle to get it out again.

By this time Mr. Goon was feeling so hot that he considered taking off his top-coat. He reached the sacks and began feeling about in them. Any cases of jewels? Any cash-boxes? His fingers felt something hard, and his heart leapt. Ah - this felt like a jewel-case!

He pulled the box out of the sacks. He opened it in the dark and dug bis fingers in. Something sharp pricked him. Mr. Goon lighted a match to see what was in the box.

Rusty tacks and nails lay there, and Mr. Goon felt his heart sink. Only an old box of nails! He licked his bleeding finger and thumb.

Mr. Goon worked very hard indeed for the next hour. He went through all the piles of dirty, dusty old rags and sacks and newspapers. He examined every old or broken box, and put his hand down every hole in the wall, disturbing various families of mice but nothing else. He had a most disappointing night.

He stood up and wiped his hot face, leaving smears of black all across it. His uniform was cloudy with the old fine dust of the mill. He scowled in the darkness.

“No loot here. Not a sign of it. If that boy Frederick has been pulling Ern’s leg about this, I’ll - I’ll - I’ll…”

But before Mr. Goon could make up his mind exactly what he would do to Fatty, a frightful screech sounded just above his head.

Mr. Goon’s heart stood still. The hair on his head rose up straight. He swallowed hard and stood absolutely still. Whatever could that awful noise be? Was somebody in pain or in terror?

Something very soft brushed his cheek and another terrible screech sounded just by his ear. It was more than enough for Mr. Goon. He turned and fled out of the old mill at top speed, stumbling and almost falling as his foot caught in the rubbish lying around.

The screech owl saw him go, and considered whether to go after him and do another screech near his head. But the movement of a mouse down below on the floor caught his eye, and he flew silently down to catch it.

Mr. Goon had no idea that the frightful noise had come from the screech owl that lived in the old mill. All kinds of wild ideas went through his mind as he stumbled down the hill, but not once did he think of the right one - the harmless old owl on the rafters in the ruined roof.

His heart beat fast, he panted loudly, and little drops of perspiration ran down his face. Mr. Goon made up his mind very very firmly that never again would he go looking for loot on Christmas Hill in the dark. He’d rather let Ern go, yes, a hundred times rather!

He steadied down a little as he reached the bottom of the hill. He had wrenched his right ankle, and it made him limp. He thought of Ern safe in his warm bed and envied him.

He walked home more slowly, thinking hard. He thought of the rude “pome” in Ern’s book. He thought of all the clues and other notes he had read. He marvelled that Fatty should have let Ern go to look for the loot - if there was any loot. That boy Frederick was always at the bottom of everything!

Mr. Goon let himself into his house, went upstairs and switched on his bedroom light. He stared in horror at himself. What a sight he was! Absolutely filthy. His face was criss-crossed with smears of dirt. His uniform gave out clouds of dust wherever he touched it. What a night!

Mr. Goon washed his face and hands. He took off his dirty uniform and put it outside on the little landing, because it smelt of the rubbish in the old mill. Ern found it there the next morning and was most astonished.

Mr. Goon got into bed tired out, and was soon snoring. Ern was asleep too, dreaming that he was broadcasting his poem about Mr. Goon. Lovaduck! Fancy him, Ern Goon, at the B.B.C.!

In the morning Ern was sulky, remembering his smarting hand. He sulked too because he knew that his uncle had gone off to get the loot. Had he found it? Would he tell him if he had?

Mr. Goon was late down for breakfast. He was feeling very very tired. Also, in the bright light of morning, he couldn’t help thinking that perhaps he had been rather foolish to rush off to Christmas Hill in the middle of the night like that. Loot in the old mill didn’t seem nearly so likely now as it had seemed to him the night before.

Ern was eating his porridge when his uncle came down. They both scowled at one another. Ern didn’t offer to get his uncle’s porridge out of the pan for him.

“You get my porridge, and look slippy about it,” said Mr. Goon. Ern got up, holding bis caned hand in a stiff kind of way as if he couldn’t possibly use it. Mr. Goon saw him and snorted.

“If your hand hurts you, it’s no more than you deserve, you rude, ungrateful boy.”

“I don’t see what I’ve got to be grateful to you for,” mumbled Ern. “Hitting me and caning me and always ticking me off. Can’t do anything right for you. Serve you right if I ran away!”

“Gah!” said Mr. Goon, and began to eat his porridge even more noisily than Ern.

“Locking me in my bedroom so that I couldn’t do my bit,” went on Ern, sniffling. “And you went off after the loot, so you can’t pretend you didn’t, Uncle. It was a mean trick to play. You wait till I tell the others what you did.”

“If you so much as open your mouth about anything I’ll take that cane and show you what it really can do!” said Mr. Goon. “You just wait.”

Ern sniffled again. “I’ll run away! I’ll go to sea! That’ll make you sorry you treated me so crooly!”

“Gah!” said Mr. Goon again, and cut himself a thick slice of bread. “Run away! Stuff and nonsense. A boy like you hasn’t got the courage of a mouse. Run away indeed!”

Breakfast was finished in silence. “Now you clear away and wash up,” said Mr. Goon at the end. “I’ve got to go out for the rest of the morning. You get that pot of green paint out of the shed and paint the fence nicely for me. No running round to those kids, see?”

Ern said nothing. He just looked sulky. Mr. Goon, who had come down to breakfast in his dressing-gown, now put on his mackintosh and took his uniform into the garden to brush. Mrs. Murray next door was amazed to see the clouds of dust that came out of it.

“Been hiding in a dustbin all night to watch for robbers?” she inquired, popping her head over the fence.

Mr. Goon would have liked to say “Gah!” but that kind of exclamation didn’t go down very well with Mrs. Murray. He just turned a dignified back and went on brushing.

Ern collected the dirty breakfast things and took them into the scullery to wash. He brooded over his wrongs. Uncle was hard and unkind and cruel. Ern had hoped to have such a wonderful time with Mr. Goon, and had actually meant to help him with his “cases” - and all that had happened was that he was always getting into some kind of trouble with his uncle, There was no end to it.