Mystery of the Invisible Thief (10 page)

Fatty was so taken-aback that he almost forget he was a tramp. He remembered immediately though, and put his finger to his forehead in exactly the same way that his father’s old coachman did when he came to see him.

“Thank you kindly,” he wheezed.

There was no sign of Mr Goon. He had gone hurriedly into the back-door of his house, and was now engaged in stripping off his disguise. He was going out in his official clothes this afternoon - P.C. Goon - and woe betide any cobblers or others who were rude to him!

Soon Daisy came slipping back with a picnic-lunch, done up in a piece of newspaper. Fatty approved of that touch! Just what he would have his lunch in if he really was an old tramp. Good for Daisy! His troop were coming along well, he considered.

Daisy sat down on the bench, bending over to do up her shoe. She spoke to Fatty out of the corner of her mouth. “Here’s your lunch. Best I could get. Larry’s looked up the names of houses in the directory he borrowed. There’s only one beginning with Rod, and that’s one called Rodways, down by Pip’s house.”

“Thanks. You go to the Rodneys about the jumble with Bets, and tell Larry and Pip to go to Rodways and snoop,” said Fatty. “Find out if there’s anyone there with large feet, who might be the thief. Rodways is only a little cottage, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Daisy. “All right. And you’re going to trail Goon, aren’t you, to see if he’s up to something? We’ll meet at your shed later.”

She laced up her shoe, sat up and whispered goodbye. Then off she went - and behind her she left the newspaper of food. “Very clever!” thought Fatty, opening it. “Good old Daisy.”

He had a very nice lunch of egg sandwiches, tomato sandwiches and a large slice of fruit cake. Daisy had even slipped in a bottle of ginger beer with an opener! Fatty ate and drank everything, and then put his clay pipe back into his mouth again. He opened the newspaper, which was that day’s, and began to read very comfortably.

Goon went into his little front room and sat down to go through some papers. He glanced out of the window, and saw the old tramp on the bench.

“Turned up again like a bad penny!” said Goon to himself. “Well, I can certainly keep an eye on him if he sits there. Still, he can’t be the thief - he’s too doddery.”

The tramp read his paper and then apparently fell asleep. Goon had his lunch, did a little telephoning and then decided to go on with his next job. He looked at his notes.

Frinton Lea. He had crossed that out. What with watching it all day and enquiring about it, he had come to the conclusion that he could wash that out. Now for the other people or places - the Rodericks - the Rodneys - and that house down the lane - what was it called - Rodways. One of them must be the Rods on this scrap of paper. “Rods. It’s some sort of clue, that’s certain. Good thing those children don’t know about these bits of paper. Ha, I’m one up on them there.”

Poor Mr Goon didn’t know that Tonks had shown them to Fatty, or he wouldn’t have been nearly so pleased! He put his papers together, frowned, thought of his plan of campaign, and got up heavily, his great boots clomping loudly as he went out into the hall.

The old tramp was still on the bench. “Lazy old thing!” thought Mr Goon. He wheeled his bicycle quickly to the front, got on it and sailed away before Fatty could even have time to sit up!

“Blow!” said Fatty. “He’s out of disguise - and on his bike. I’m dished! I never thought of his bike. I can’t trail him on that.”

He wondered what to do. Well, the others were taking care of the Rodneys and the house called Rodways. He’d better go and find Colonel Cross’s house. As he was apparently the only other person in Peterswood who wore size twelve or thirteen shoes, he certainly must be enquired into!

Goon had shot off to the Roderick’s first. There he found out what Fatty already knew - that there was no man in the house at all. Right. He could cross that off.

He went to see the Rodneys - and the very first thing he saw there were two bicycles outside the front fence - girls’ bicycles, with Daisy and Bets just coming out of the gate towards them!

Those kids again! What were they doing here? And whatever were they carrying? Goon glared at them.

“Good afternoon, Mr Goon,” said Daisy, cheerfully. “Want to come and buy a pair of shoes at the jumble sale?”

Goon eyed the four or five old pairs of boots and shoes wrathfully. “Where did you get those?” he said.

“From Mrs Rodney,” answered Daisy. “We’re collecting for the jumble sale, Mr Goon. Have you got anything that would do for it? An old pair of big boots, perhaps?”

“Mrs Rodney let us look all through her cupboard of boots,” said Bets, “and she gave us these.”

Goon had nothing to say. He simply stood and glared. The Rodneys! So these pests of kids had got on to that clue too - they were rounding up the Rods just as he was - but they were just one move in front of him.

He debated whether to go in or not now. Mrs Rodney might not welcome somebody else enquiring after shoes. He cast his eye again on the collection of old boots and shoes that Daisy and Bets were stuffing into their bicycle baskets.

Daisy saw his interest in them. “No. None size twelve,” she said with a giggle. “Size ten is the very largest the Rodneys have. That will save you a lot of trouble, won’t it, Mr Goon?”

“Gah!” said Mr Goon, and leapt angrily on his bicycle. Interfering lot! And how did they know about the Rods, anyway? Had Tonks shown them those scraps of paper? He’d bite Tonks’ head off, if he had!

He rode off to Rodways, the cottage down the lane that led to the river. He was just putting his bicycle against the little wall when he noticed two more there - boys’ bicycles this time. Well, if it was any of those little pests’ bicycles, he’d have something to say!

Larry and Pip were there. They had stopped outside the cottage, apparently to have a game of ball - and one of them had thrown the ball into the cottage garden.

“Careless idiot!” Pip shouted loudly to Larry. “Now we’ll have to go and ask permission to get the ball!”

They went in and knocked at the door, which was wide open. An old woman, sitting in a rocking-chair, peered at them from a corner of the room inside.

“What do you want?” she asked, in a cracked old voice.

“We’re so sorry,” said Larry, politely. “Our ball went into your garden. May we get it?”

“Yes,” said the old woman, beginning to rock herself. “And just tell me if the milkman’s been, will you? If he has, the milk bottle will be outside. And did you see the baker down the lane?”

“No, we didn’t,” said Pip. “There is a bottle out here on the step. Shall I bring it in?”

“Yes, thank you kindly,” said the old woman. “Put it in the larder, there’s a good lad. That baker! He gets later every day! I hope I haven’t missed him. I fall asleep, you know. I might not have heard him.”

Larry looked round the little cottage. He saw a big sou’wester hanging on a nail, and an enormous oilskin below it. Aha! Somebody big lived here, that was certain.

“What a big oilskin!” he said to the old woman. “Giant-size!”

“Ah, that’s my son’s,” said the old woman, rocking away hard. “He’s a big man, he is - but kind and gentle - just like a big dog, I always say.”

Pip had pricked up his ears too, by this time. “He must be enormous,” he said. “Whatever size shoes does he wear? Sixteens!”

The old lady gave a cackle of laughter. “Go on with you! Sixteens! Look over there, on that shelf - those are my son’s boots - there’s a surprise for you!”

It was a surprise - for the shoes were no more than size sevens, about Larry’s own size! The boys looked at them in astonishment.

“Does he really only wear size seven?” said Larry. “What small feet he has for such a big man.”

“Yes. Small feet and small hands - that’s what my family always have,” said the old woman, showing her own misshapen but small feet and hands. Pip looked at Larry. Rodways was definitely ruled out. The thief didn’t live here!

Someone came up the path and called in. “Granma! Baker-boy here!”

“Gosh - it’s that awful little peacock of a baker again!” said Pip, in disgust. “We can’t seem to get rid of him.”

“One loaf as usual, baker!” called the old lady. “Put it in my pan for me.”

The baker put down his basket, took a loaf, and strutted in. He saw the two boys, and smiled amiably. “Here we are again! Come to see old Granma?”

He flung the bread into the pan in the larder and strutted out again. He picked up his basket and went off, whistling, turning out his feet like a duck.

“Now you go and look for your ball,” said the old woman, settling herself comfortably. “I can go to sleep now I know the milk and bread have come.”

They went out, found their ball, and Larry threw it out into the road. There was an angry shout.

“Now then, you there! What are you doing, throwing your ball at me?”

Mr Goon’s angry red face appeared over the hedge. The boys gasped in surprise. “Golly - did it hit you, Mr Goon?” said Pip, with much concern. “We didn’t know you were there.”

“Now look here - what are you here for?” demanded Mr Goon. “Everywhere I go you’re there before me. What are you playing at?”

“Ball,” said Larry, picking up the ball and aiming it at Pip. It missed him, struck the wall, bounced back, and struck Mr Goon on the helmet. He turned a beetroot colour, and the boys fled.

“Toads!” muttered Mr Goon, mopping his hot neck. “Toads! Anyone would think this was their case! Anyone would think they were running the whole show. Under my feet the whole time. Gah!”

He strode up the path to the front door. But the old lady had now gone fast asleep, and did not waken even when Mr Goon spoke to her loudly. He saw the oilskin on the peg, and the same thought occurred to him, as he occurred to the two boys. Big oilskin - Big man - Big feet - The thief!

He crept in and began to look round. He fell over a shovel and the old woman awoke in a hurry. She saw Mr Goon and screamed.

“Help! Help! Robbers! Thieves! Help, I say!”

Mr Goon was scared. He stood up, and spoke pompously. “Now, madam, it’s only the police come to call. What size shoes does your son take?”

This was too much for the old woman. She thought the policeman must be mad. She began to rock herself so violently that Mr Goon was sure the chair would fall over.

He took one last look round and ran, followed by the old woman’s yells. He leapt on his bicycle and was off up the lane in a twinkling. Poor Mr Goon - he was no match for an angry old woman!

Mostly About Boots

Fatty had gone off to find Colonel Cross’s house. It was a pleasant little place not far from the river. Sitting out in the garden was a big man with a white moustache and a very red face.

Fatty studied him from the shelter of the hedge. He looked a bit fierce. In fact, very fierce. It was quite a good thing he was asleep, Fatty thought. Not only asleep, but snoring.

Fatty looked at his feet. Enormous! The cobbler was right - the Colonel certainly wore size twelve or thirteen boots. Fatty thought he could see a rubber heel on one of them too. Goodness - suppose he had at last hit on the right person! But Colonel Cross didn’t look in the least like a thief or burglar. Anything but, thought Fatty.

Fatty wished he had a small telescope or longsighted glasses so that he could look more closely at the rubber heel. He didn’t dare go crawling into the garden and look at the heels. The colonel was certainly very fast asleep, one leg crossed over the other - but he might be one of those light sleepers that woke very suddenly!

The Colonel did wake suddenly. He gave an extra loud snore and woke himself up with a jump. He sat up, and wiped his face with a table-cloth of a handkerchief. He certainly was enormous. He suddenly caught sight of Fatty’s face over the hedge, and exploded.

“Did you wake me up? What are you doing there? Speak up, man!”

“I didn’t wake you, sir,” said Fatty, in a humble voice. “I was just looking at your feet.”

“Bless us all - my feet? What for?” demanded the Colonel.

“I was wishing you had an old pair of your boots to give me,” said Fatty, very humbly. “I’m an old tramp, sir, and tramping’s hard on the feet. Very hard, sir. And I’ve big feet, sir, and it’s hard to get boots to fit me - cast-off boots, I mean.”

“Go round and ask my housekeeper,” said the colonel gruffly. “But see you do something in return if there’s an old pair to give you! Hrrrrrumph!”

This was a wonderful noise - rather like a horse makes. Fatty stored it away for future use. Hrrrrrumph! Fine! He would startle the others with it one day.

“Thank you, sir. I’ll chop up wood or do anything if I can have a pair of your boots!” he said.

He left the hedge and went round to the back door. A kindly faced woman opened it.

“Good day, Mam, the colonel says have you got a pair of his old boots for me,” asked Fatty, his hat in his hands, so that his straggly grey hair showed.

“Another old soldier!” sighed the housekeeper. “There’s not a pair of boots - but there may be an old pair of shoes. And even so they’re not really worn-out yet! Dear me - the colonel only came back yesterday and here he is giving his things away as usual!”

Fatty pricked up his ears. “Where has he been?” he asked.

“Oh, India,” said the woman. “And now he’s home for the last time. Arrived by air yesterday.”

“Ah,” thought Fatty, “then that rules out the colonel. Not that I really thought it could be him - he doesn’t look in the least like a burglar! Still, all suspects have to be examined, all clues have to be followed.”

The woman came back with a pair of old shoes. They had rubber heels on. Fatty’s eyes gleamed when he saw them. The pattern of the heels looked extremely like the pattern he had drawn in his notebook! How peculiar!

“Did you say you often give the colonel’s shoes away?” he asked.

“Not only shoes - anything,” she said. “He’s fierce, you know, but he’s kind too - always handing out things to his old soldiers. But since he’s been away I’ve sent his things to the Jumble Sales each year.”

“My - I hope you didn’t send any of this size boots or shoes!” said Fatty jokingly. “They would have done fine for me!”