The Black Dog Mystery (17 page)

“Say, look, Clarabelle,” he said suddenly, “I just thought of a riddle. Want to hear it?”

“Sure,” said Clarabelle, busily painting away.

“Well, it’s like this: If a man had a house, and he wanted to paint it, and he had twelve cans of paint, and every can was a different color, what color would he paint the house?”

Clarabelle looked up in astonishment. “Why, that’s
sill
y
!” she exclaimed. “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard! Nobody can guess a riddle like
tha
t
!”

Djuna grinned weakly. “I know it sounds silly,” he admitted. “But that’s the way it was in the dream. I dreamed it last night. I dreamed that was a riddle I had to guess the answer for, or else they were going to arrest Mr. Boots and put him in prison. And I was so scared because I couldn’t answer the riddle, I woke up. Gee, it was awful!”

Clarabelle’s eyes were big and round. “Golly!” she exclaimed. “That’s the worst dream I ever heard!”

“And the worst part about it, I remember,” said Djuna ruefully, “was the way I kept thinking—in the dream, I mean—that there wouldn’t be enough paint, no matter
what
the answer was. I kept thinking, ‘You can’t paint a house with only twelve little cans of paint, no matter
what
color they are!’ I was so scared that I yelled and woke myself up. And I couldn’t eat any breakfast, hardly.”

“Well, I should think not,” said Clarabelle sympathetically. She put down her brush and leaned her chin on her hand. “Say the riddle again, Djuna,” she begged.

Djuna repeated it, and Clarabelle thought hard for a while.

“Maybe that’s the catch in it,” she said at last, slowly. “Maybe if the riddle didn’t say it was a house, then maybe anybody could guess the answer.”

“Well, then, what would it be?” asked Djuna eagerly.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Clarabelle. “Anything littler than a house, I should think. There’d be enough to paint a wagon, wouldn’t there? Or an automobile, or something.”

Djuna drew a long breath, never taking his eyes from her face. “An automobile!” he repeated, in a wondering whisper. “I never thought of that!”

“Why, sure,” said Clarabelle. “That’s enough to paint a car with, I should think.”

Djuna looked at her excitedly. “Yes,” he said eagerly, “but it was all different colors of paint, in the riddle! Nobody would want to paint an automobile all different kinds of colors! People would laugh at you! You couldn’t go anywhere in a car like that!”

Clarabelle smiled, in a superior sort of way. “Yes, but it wouldn’t
be
all different colors,” she said pityingly. “It would be just
one
color, silly.”

“What do you mean?” exclaimed Djuna excitedly. “How could it be just one color?”

“Well, look,” said Clarabelle, “I’ll show you. What colors were they?”

“Oh, red, and yellow, and green, and white!” said Djuna. “And some blue, but mostly red, I guess. There were two or three cans of red.”

“All right,” said Clarabelle calmly. “Now just watch.”

She picked up her paint-brush again and, washing it off in the glass of water each time, she put into the glass of water one color after another, from her paint-box. The water had been pale green, the color of the grass she had been painting in her picture of the woodchuck, when she began; but as she added one color after another, it changed and changed again. Djuna watched, fascinated.

“There!” said Clarabelle at last. “That’s the color it would be.”

Djuna stared at the glass of water as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. And yet it held nothing but a muddy brown mixture, dark as the water of a mud-puddle.

He jumped to his feet. His face shone with excitement.

“Whoopee!” he shouted. “That’s the answer!”

“Gracious sakes!” exclaimed Clarabelle in alarm. “What’s the matter with you, Djuna? Hey, where are you going?”

But Djuna had already jumped down the steps and was running down the path as hard as he could go.

“Tell you later!” he shouted back. “Thanks a lot, Clarabelle!”

Clarabelle watched him out of sight, shaking her head wonderingly. “He’s the funniest boy I
ever
saw!” she exclaimed. “Well, I don’t care,
I’m
not going to chase after him!”

Picking up the glass of muddy-looking water, she sighed. “Now I’ve got to go and get some fresh water, to finish my picture with,” she muttered. “This is all spoiled.”

Djuna looked around for Champ as he ran, but Champ was nowhere in sight, and Djuna was in too much of a hurry to stop and hunt for him. Nor did he pause when he came to Tommy Williams’s house. “I can tell him later,” he said to himself, as he ran on. “If I have to wait for him now, I might be just too late.”

Straight towards Lost Pond he ran, taking the old road past the gravel pit, just as he and Tommy had done the day before, and then hurrying along the narrow path through the woods around the lake. But when he came to the path leading to Les’ Sedd’s shack, he no longer hurried, but moved forward with infinite caution, stealing through the woods like a shadow. When he reached the bushes enclosing Mr. Sedd’s potato-patch, he wriggled cautiously forward until, peering through them, he found an opening through which he could watch the house without being seen himself.

Les’ Sedd and Mr. Morrison were both sitting on the porch of the shack. They were too far away for him to hear what they were talking about. Djuna settled himself down to wait. They seemed in no hurry to move. Djuna lay flat on the ground and propped his chin on his elbows. The minutes dragged by. Mr. Morrison seemed to be telling an endless story. Les’ Sedd sat with his shoulders hunched over, looking as dejected as ever. After a long while he went into the house. Djuna could hear the rattle of dishes as Les’ washed them, then silence. Mr. Morrison sat peacefully smoking, sometimes humming a tune to himself. Djuna grew uncomfortable. Ants crawled over his legs and tickled him. A gnat buzzed into his nose, and for one frightened moment he thought he was going to sneeze. An hour passed, and then another. And just as Djuna had about decided that he could bear it no longer, Mr. Morrison got up and tossed away his cigar.

“Are you ready, Les’?” he called. “About time we went to get our groceries!”

Mr. Sedd stuck his head out of the door. “Be right with ye,” he said.

The two men climbed into Mr. Sedd’s old truck, with Les’ in the driver’s seat. The engine sputtered and banged, and the truck rattled off. Djuna lay motionless, hidden in the tall grass, as the truck rolled past his hiding-place. Not until its noise had died away in the distance, did he stir.

Then, still keeping carefully concealed, he stole closer to the shack. Twenty feet away from it, crouching behind the bushes nearest it, he listened for a long time. There was not a sound. The house was deserted.

He crept up to the window and peered in. Nothing was in the room except two cots, an old bureau, a rickety table, and three or four chairs. He went on to the next window, opening into the only other room. It, too, was empty. An oil cook stove stood against one wall, an old-fashioned ice-box against the other. In one corner, beside a sink, was a rusty hand-pump, to bring water from the well. The kitchen table stood in the middle of the room. It was heaped with dirty dishes. Djuna wondered how two men could use so many.

One quick glance was enough, and he hurried on, around the corner of the house. The car was there!

It wasn’t a very good job of painting, but it would have been good enough to deceive anyone who looked at it carelessly. There wasn’t a square inch of its body that was black now. The sides of the tires, which had once been white, were painted black, but that was all. The rest was brown—a muddy brown, it was true, like the brown that Clarabelle had mixed from many colors; but still, if anyone had seen it driving past, it would have seemed to be just another of the hundreds of other Catapult Gearmaster cars that are painted brown. There were new license plates on it, front and back. But the dent in the front fender hadn’t been straightened out; and from the edge of the right-hand running-board still hung that torn strip of tin that had hung there before!

Djuna straightened up and began running for home.

It was nearly noon. He ran and ran, till his lungs were almost bursting, his legs aching. “If I can only tell Mr. Pindler,” he thought to himself as he ran, “he can telephone to Captain Crackle right away and it won’t be too late!”

Panting, he reached home at last, stumbled up the steps of Mr. Pindler’s store. He never noticed the truck standing in front of the store. He rushed past it and through the door.

Les’ Sedd and Mr. Morrison were standing at the counter. Mr. Pindler, smiling broadly, was listening to a funny story that Mr. Morrison was telling.

Djuna stopped short, in utter dismay.

“By George, that’s a good one!” laughed Mr. Pindler, as Morrison finished his story. “I’ve got to remember that one! That’s a dandy!”

Morrison chuckled a little. “Not bad, eh?” he grinned. Then he turned around and noticed Djuna.

“Why, hello there!” he said genially. “Where have
you
been all this time?”

Djuna swallowed convulsively. He needed time. It was not easy to recover instantly from the shock of that collision. He stood stock-still.

“I thought you promised to come over and see me, didn’t you?” added Morrison, still smiling.

Djuna did not smile. “Yes,” he said, steadily, looking Morrison straight in the eye. “I went there yesterday, with Tommy. And I’ve been there again, just now.” A cold challenge was in the words.

The smile suddenly left Morrison’s face. His eyes narrowed. “Oh?” he said, in an odd voice.

Tenseness hung in the air. Djuna’s eyes never left Morrison’s face.

And then Morrison gave an easy laugh. “Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t there,” he said. “Try it again, will you?”

Djuna did not answer. He saw Les’ Sedd’s eyes staring at him in frightened appeal from behind Morrison’s shoulder, and he choked down his cold fury. Clenching his hands helplessly, he turned and rushed out of the store. A burst of laughter followed him. “Funny kid, isn’t he?” he heard Morrison saying carelessly.

Djuna was still tense with excitement, when, after he had waited for ten minutes behind the hedge that screened the opposite side of the road, he saw Morrison and Les’ Sedd come out of the store, their arms loaded with groceries. They got into the truck and drove away; and as soon as they were safely out of sight, he hurried back to tell Mr. Pindler about what he had discovered.

“What’s got into you, Djuna?” said Mr. Pindler, with an amused smile, before Djuna had had a chance to say a word. “You acted like you were mad at that fella about somethin’. That ain’t polite, son.”

Djuna blurted out his story of the suspicious-looking car he had seen at Les’ Sedd’s house, and Mr. Pindler listened patiently, but with a twinkle in his eye; and when Djuna had finished, he laughed good-naturedly.

“Now, now, Djuna, take it easy!” he chuckled. “You’ve got yourself so worked up about that there robbery that you’re imaginin’ all sorts o’ things that ain’t so! You hadn’t ought t’ go ‘round sayin’ things like that about decent people! Morrison’s a nice fella,
mighty
nice. Mighty nice talker, smart’s a whip. That’s his car, o’ course it is—ain’t a man got a right t’ have his car any color he wants to? You can’t go around settin’ th’ police on folks just because you don’t like the color of their car, without gettin’ yourself into trouble, son. I’d calm down and quit worryin’ myself if I was you, Djuna. Help yourself t’ one o’ them choc’late crackers there, an’ forget about it.”

“I don’t
want
one of your crackers, thanks!” said Djuna hotly. “I
know
that’s the same car the robbers were in, I tell you! Don’t you
see?
If he isn’t hiding it, why didn’t he drive over here in it, instead of in that crazy old truck? He doesn’t
dare
let anybody see it, that’s why!”

Mr. Pindler patted him on the shoulder. “There, there,” he said soothingly. “I’ll tell
you
somethin’ you prob’ly don’t know—them bank robbers aren’t nowhere near here! They caught all three of ’em yestiddy, up in Canada. Didn’t know that, did ye?”

Djuna stared at him in speechless amazement. His whole house of cards seemed tumbling down around his ears.

“I—I don’t believe it!” he stammered, growing red. “Who said so?”

“Why, Morrison was tellin’ me about it right now,” said Mr. Pindler. “Said he read it in th’ paper yestiddy. That satisfy you?”

“Why, of course he’d say so!” exclaimed Djuna. “I don’t believe it!”

Mr. Pindler flushed. “Now, look here, Djuna,” he said testily. “Don’t ye go callin’ folks a liar!”

“I didn’t mean to,” stammered Djuna. “But, please, please, Mr. Pindler, won’t you tell Captain Crackle about that car? He’ll get away if you don’t!”

Mr. Pindler hesitated. “Well, I think you’re just goin’ t’ get yourself in trouble if I do,” he said. “I think you’re barkin’ up the wrong tree. There’s nothin’ th’ matter with that man Morrison. Anyway, I’m not figurin’ on goin’ over t’ Clinton before tomorrow. I’ll stop in an’ see Cap’ Crackle then, if ye want me to, but I tell ye it’s a mistake.”

Djuna choked down a groan. There was nothing more that he could do.

“Well, all right,” he said miserably. “Can I go over with you, please?”

“Why, I guess so,” said Mr. Pindler. “If Miss Annie says so, I’ll take you.”

Djuna went home dejectedly. If Mr. Pindler wouldn’t do anything, his last hope was gone. Nobody in Edenboro had a telephone except Mr. Pindler. Djuna knew that it would be no use to tell Miss Annie, or Tommy’s mother. They would just be frightened.

The afternoon seemed endless. Tommy wasn’t home, and neither was Clarabelle. Clarabelle’s aunt had taken them both to see the movie in Clinton, and he had been left behind because they hadn’t been able to find him. Champ had disappeared somewhere, too. It was a lonely afternoon, and his head ached with his worry.

Supper didn’t taste right. He tried to read a book after supper, but he could not keep his mind fixed on it. The sun went down, and it grew slowly dark. And still Champ hadn’t come home. Djuna began to worry about him. He called and called, but there was no answer.