The Purple Bird Mystery (16 page)

“Whatever you have to say, say it fast,” Swift ordered Djuna.

Djuna ran the tip of his tongue over the corners of his mouth. When he finally spoke, it was very distinctly. “It won’t do you any good to hurt Grandma, Mr. Swift,” he said. “She doesn’t know anything.” Djuna gulped. “
I
do.”

“You?” Mr. Swift was grimly incredulous.

Djuna nodded. He had a double purpose in volunteering this information to Swift. First, he knew beyond any doubt that the man was perfectly capable of harming Grandma in his eagerness to force information from her about the purple bird. And second, the only hope for the three of them, tied up and helpless, was to keep Swift and Morelli occupied as long as possible on the chance that Mr. Douglas would come home from the Club and somehow manage to rout the two men. Djuna was inclined to agree with Jimmy that Jimmy’s father was a pretty special sort of father; somehow, he knew that Mr. Douglas could save them, even though Swift was armed.

So at Swift’s question, Djuna said in a deliberately timid voice, “There’s a piece of paper in my shirt pocket, Mr. Swift, but I can’t get it out with these ropes holding my arms.”

Mr. Swift said curtly to Morelli, “Take a look, Joe.”

Joe Morelli put two fingers into Djuna’s shirt pocket and brought out the list of questions.

“Bring it here,” Swift snapped. He glanced at the paper Morelli handed him, then turned back to Grandma. “Put the old lady’s gag back on, Joe,” he growled, “and hurry.”

Joe complied with a muttered word to Grandma which Swift didn’t hear.

The self-styled antique dealer carefully read what Djuna had written on the paper. Then he raised his head and regarded Djuna intently from behind the tinted glasses. “You snooped in my suitcase the other night when you were in my room. You saw the tigerskin diary.” His voice rose. “You’re quite a lad, aren’t you? Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. But underneath, you’re a two-faced little operator. Sticking your nose into other people’s business! You and your dog!”

Innocently Djuna asked, “What makes you think I read any diary, Mr. Swift?” His heart was beating so heavily that he wouldn’t have been surprised to see it break out through his ribs and fall into his lap.

“It’s clear from the first four questions on this list that you’ve read the last entry in my diary.” Swift spoke impatiently. “That’s the only possible explanation for those questions. And I know the answers to all four. But what I
don’t
know—and what you or Mrs. Douglas is going to tell me—is what these other questions are all about?”

Djuna cleared his throat. “Which particular question do you mean?”

“Stop stalling!” Swift jumped up and came to stand over Djuna threateningly. “What’s the point of this question about what kind of golfer the Prince of Wales was?”

“One time, about 1895 I think it was, Jimmy’s great-grandfather played golf with the Prince of Wales,” Djuna replied. “I mean, he didn’t play golf with him, he caddied for him. That’s what Grandma told us one day.”

“And?”

“And I just wanted to know whether the Prince was a good golfer.”

Mr. Swift launched his left hand at Djuna’s cheek. The resulting slap was loud enough to be heard out on the seventh tee, if anyone had been there to hear it. Finger marks leaped out on Djuna’s face, and he swayed in his chair, conscious of Grandma’s and Jimmy’s horrified stares. “Don’t try to give me any doubletalk, I strongly advise you,” Swift said. “What’s the Prince of Wales’s golf game got to do with the purple bird?”

“I don’t know,” said Djuna, trying to blink away the tears which had been brought to his eyes by Swift’s blow. “I just thought there might be a connection between that and the word
bird
in the inscription. Do you know anything about golf, Mr. Swift?” This last was asked with such a disarming air that Swift found himself answering before he realized it.

“Not much,” he snapped. “Why?”

“Well, if a golfer takes one less stroke than par in playing a hole, you see, they say he got a birdie on that hole. And since the word
bird
appears in the inscription on Jimmy’s chest of drawers, I thought maybe if the Prince of Wales got a birdie on some hole the day Jimmy’s great-grandfather caddied for him…. Do you see?”

“No! I don’t see!”

Djuna shrugged. It took all his will power to force his shoulders to rise even a half inch, but they did. “I’m not really sure, sir. But Jimmy’s great-grandfather once owned the chest, remember. And he might have written on it about the Prince’s birdie …
if
the Prince got a birdie, that is.”

The man with the pistol interrupted this flow of absurdities in a voice grown cold with fury. “Do you, or do you not, know what the purple bird is?” He jerked the silencer-gun around until its muzzle touched Djuna’s forehead. To the terrified boy, it felt like a circle of fiery ice. “Answer me!”

Djuna forced himself to say, “No, sir, I’m sorry. I don’t know for sure.”

Swift bent forward. Even through the tinted shields of his spectacles, Djuna could see that the antique dealer’s eyes were as hard and inhuman as the stare of a snake. “Well,” Swift said softly, “I know one thing for sure. And that is that you’re stalling again! So now you find out what happens to smart-aleck kids who don’t cooperate with me!”

I
T
was a quarter to six when Socker Furlong and Cannonball McGinnty drew up before Miss Annie Ellery’s house in Socker’s battered convertible. Socker looked at his watch.

“A man of my word, as always,” he said to Cannonball. “I told Djuna we’d be here before six, and we are. Wonder where he is?”

“Usually, he’d have been out here to welcome us with the solution of his mystery while we were still a block away,” Cannonball said, grinning. “That kid is one of the sharpest I ever knew.”

Just then Miss Annie appeared on the front porch of her house and waved to them. “Hello, Mr. Furlong, Officer McGinnty. Come on in!”

They went up the porch steps and greeted her warmly. Both these men—the plump newspaper reporter and the tall policeman—were very fond of the tiny old lady.

“Where’s Djuna, Miss Annie?” Socker asked her. “Did he tell you we were coming?”

“Indeed he did. And I’m delighted you’ll be able to have supper with us. Djuna promised to be back here by the time you arrived.”

“Where’d he go, Miss Annie?” Cannonball asked. He held his wide-brimmed state policeman’s hat in his hand, but the lowering sun shone on the metal buttons of his uniform and made him look absolutely resplendent, Miss Annie thought. She said, “He and Jimmy Douglas, his friend, said they were going to ride their bikes to Fieldcrest Golf Club. They left about an hour ago. Djuna said he wanted to ask Mr. Douglas some questions. But they should have been back by now. I’m beginning to worry a little bit. Land’s sakes, Mr. Furlong, Djuna is mixed up in another mystery.”

Socker soothed her. “I know, Miss Annie,” he said. “Djuna told me about it on the telephone. At least, he told me a
little
about it. Cannonball and I came up here to help get him out of trouble, if he’s in any. And to prevent him from getting in if he isn’t. Did he see Mr. Boots this afternoon, do you know?”

Miss Annie nodded. “And somebody came into my yard and hit poor Champ over the head with a club this afternoon, too!”

Cannonball’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

“Yes! And there’s a fake antique dealer Djuna told me about….” Miss Annie took herself in hand with an effort. “Mr. Furlong, will you and Officer McGinnty please go to Fieldcrest and find out whether Djuna is all right?” she asked simply.

All at once, Socker found himself sharing Miss Annie’s uneasiness. He knew Djuna as a boy who scrupulously kept his word. Therefore, Djuna would have kept his promise to come home quickly from Fieldcrest—if he could. Djuna had promised
him
to keep away from Swift and Martin, too, until he and Cannonball arrived. Djuna would have tried to keep that promise, also. Something was wrong.

“Where is this Fieldcrest Club?” Socker asked Miss Annie.

“Down the road two miles toward Brookville, a pair of unmarked brick gateposts on the left,” Miss Annie informed him. “The boys should be at Jimmy Douglas’s house—the new pro’s house—out beside the seventh fairway, I believe, if they’re not at the clubhouse. Hurry, Mr. Furlong, please?”

“Calm down, Miss Annie,” Cannonball advised her in his comforting voice. “We’ll see that nothing happens to Djuna, don’t you worry. The boy’s probably come up with a punctured bike tire, or something like that. We’ll let you know the minute we find him. Will you relax, now?”

Socker and Cannonball found the entrance gates to Fieldcrest without difficulty. They shot through the gates and rocketed up the drive as far as the clubhouse. It was a few minutes past six o’clock.

Socker stopped the car at the caddy-house, while he and Cannonball peered through the dust they had raised in search of somebody to direct them. “Looks as if they’ve shut up shop for the day,” Cannonball said. “Caddy-house and pro shop both closed.” He turned. “But there’s a couple of men on the practice tee, Socker. Let’s get down there.”

When they pulled up with squealing tires beside the practice tee, Cannonball jumped out of the car and approached the two men. A golf bag lay on the ground near them, flanked by several wire baskets full of practice balls. Cannonball said abruptly, “I’m looking for the house of the club pro, a Mr. Douglas. Can you direct me?”

One of the men on the tee, the taller, thinner one, said, frowning, “Douglas’s house?” He was staring at the state trooper’s uniform Cannonball was wearing. “I’m Douglas, Officer,” he said in a sharp voice.

“What’s the trouble?”

“We’re looking for a boy named Djuna, Mr. Douglas. Supposed to be at your house. Will you show us how to find it, please?”

“Sure.” Mr. Douglas turned to the second man on the tee. “Mr. Martin, I’m sorry to break off your lesson just as we’re starting….”

Mr. Martin raised a hand. “Forget it,” he said. “First things first. I’ll come with you, if I may. I was going to tell you….”

“Come on,” Cannonball barked. “We’re in kind of a rush.”

Mr. Martin dropped his golf club and ran after them to Socker’s car. He piled into the back seat with Mr. Douglas, who still clutched in one hand the five-iron whose use he had been about to demonstrate to Martin when the state trooper arrived. Cannonball hopped into the front seat and slammed the door.

“Let’s go, Socker. This is Mr. Douglas.”

Socker grunted.

“Go back down the drive to that narrow dirt road on your left,” Douglas said, pointing. His voice was tight. “Who called you, Officer?” he asked as Socker turned the car on a dime and headed for the dirt road. “What’s wrong at my house?”

Cannonball jerked a thumb at Socker. “He called me,” he said. “But Djuna called
him
in Philadelphia and arranged to meet us at Miss Annie Ellery’s house in Edenboro some time ago, with your boy, Jimmy. The kids didn’t show up as arranged. So Miss Annie sent us over here to see why not. She says the kids are at your house.”

With this unsatisfactory explanation of why a stranger from Philadelphia and a state trooper should be in such a tearing hurry to find his house, Mr. Douglas was forced to be temporarily content; for he was fully occupied for the next few minutes in directing Socker around the blind turns and over the deep potholes of the road that wound through the golf course to the Douglas house. Only once did he find time to interject a question. “But why did Djuna call you?” he asked Socker. “I don’t understand this at all.”

He received an equally unsatisfactory answer from Socker. “Neither do I,” said the newspaper reporter, “but I aim to find out! In the past, Djuna has turned up for me some of the best stories I’ve ever written for my paper. He’s a real bearcat for getting mixed up in mysteries.”

Mr. Douglas looked bewildered.

“And it seems that your son, Jimmy, is aiding and abetting him in
this
one, whatever it is!”

At that moment they topped the last rise in the road. Down the slope the road came to a dead end in the Douglas turnaround. “That’s our driveway,” Mr. Douglas said, just as Socker, without warning, slammed on the brakes of the convertible. The car slid to a jarring halt.

“Hey!” protested Cannonball. “You trying to send us all through the windshield, Socker?”

“No,” said Socker, pulling on the emergency brake and opening the door beside him. “This is the end of the line. Everybody out.”

“Why?” asked Cannonball.

“Do you see that car down there under the tree? The Chevrolet?”

Cannonball nodded. “Is that your car, Mr. Douglas?” he asked the pro.

“No, that’s mine parked on the other side,” Douglas answered, puzzled. “The station wagon.”

Socker took a slip of paper from his inside coat pocket. “License number VDVM-113,” he muttered. “Check. That car down there is the one Djuna reported was being used by an Anthony Swift, an antique dealer. So let’s go a little carefully, shall we? Swift must be in your house right now, Mr. Douglas.”

Douglas shrugged. “Why all the caution? He’s just an antique dealer with a yen for Jimmy’s old chest.”

Socker shook his head. “Correction, Mr. Douglas. Swift is just a
fake
antique dealer with a yen for Jimmy’s old chest.”

Mr. Douglas looked from Socker to Cannonball and back again. “You both seem to know a lot more than I do,” he said quietly. “What do you suggest?”

“Let’s get closer,” Cannonball ordered. “But without noise. Walk on the grass at the edge of the road.”

The four men sneaked down the slope and paused in a huddle under a tree to the side of the terrace, which Mr. Douglas assured them was not visible from the front windows of the house.

“Council of war,” Cannonball McGinnty murmured in his deep drawl. “Is this antique dealer character you mentioned, Socker, likely to get rough?”

Mr. Douglas paled.

Socker shook his head. “Search me. All Djuna said is that he’s been acting kind of funny.”

“Well, we’ve got to go on the assumption that he’s in the house. And we’ve got to figure that Djuna and Jimmy are there, too, as Miss Annie says.”