The Purple Bird Mystery (18 page)

Swift took off like a sprinter. He was convinced at last of his danger. He obviously realized that he had only one chance of escape: to get to his car.

He cast one malevolent look at Jimmy, as though debating whether he had time to stop and shoot the boy; snarled a curse; and with gun still clutched in one fist, stretched out before him toward his enemies, he ran past Djuna, Grandma and Jimmy. And he ran past Mr. Douglas.

That is, he almost ran past Jimmy’s father. But not quite. For Mr. Douglas was on his feet, gripping his five-iron with strong quick professional hands. His back swing was as fluid and accurate as though he were hitting his second shot to the green out on the golf course. Yet the five-iron flashed into its forward arc so fast that Djuna’s eyes had trouble following the club head.

But he had no trouble seeing where the stroke ended its flight.

With a sharp crack the head of the golf club connected cleanly with the outstretched wrist of Mr. Swift, just above the hand that held the pistol. Mr. Swift shrieked, high and keening, like a stricken woman. The pistol flew across the room, struck the wall near the hall archway, and dropped with a clatter. And Djuna saw Mr. Swift’s hand—the one that had so recently held the gun against his forehead—sag from the shattered wrist that could no longer support it. It was an awful thing to see, even if the wrist did belong to Mr. Swift, Djuna thought. He shut his eyes tightly.

When he opened them again, Mr. Swift was gone from the room, Mr. Douglas was untying Grandma quite calmly, Jimmy was looking worshipfully at his father, and Socker Furlong and Cannonball McGinnty were bursting through the archway into the living room.

“M
R
. Swift got away!” Djuna shouted at Socker.

Mr. Douglas, industriously sawing away at Grandma’s bonds with a pocket knife, said calmly, “He won’t get far. He’s got a broken wrist.”

Jimmy, still gagged, could only signal triumphantly with his eyes toward his father’s five-iron lying discarded on the floor, to show why Mr. Swift had a broken wrist.

At Djuna’s warning, Cannonball McGinnty paused only long enough to snap at Socker, “You handle this. I’ll get Swift!” Then he ran across the hall and out the front door.

Socker got out a pocketknife of his own and began to cut Djuna free. “Boy, oh boy, am I glad to see you!” Djuna gulped. “That Swift was going to
shoot
Jimmy! And he hit Grandma on the knee with his gun. And he slapped me….”

“Calm down, calm down, you hear?” boomed Socker. “Everything’s under control now that Socker Furlong, the demon reporter, and Cannonball Mc Ginnty, the pride of the state police, are on the scene!” He clucked deprecatingly and kept his tone light to head off the near-hysteria he detected in Djuna’s voice. “Seems as if you’ve been having a little tea party here, Djuna. This Swift was a bad actor, heh? What was he after?”

“The King’s Talisman!” Djuna said. “A jewel that belongs to Jimmy’s family. But Socker, go and help Cannonball catch Mr. Swift. Please! He’s a bad actor, all right. If he gets away….”

“Relax, relax,” Socker answered. “We have another man outside watching the front door, in case Swift tried to sneak out to his car and make a getaway. Between Martin and Cannonball, old Swifty is probably wearing handcuffs on his busted wrist right this minute.”

“Whom did you say? Between
whom
and Cannonball?”

“Fellow named Martin,” Socker rejoined promptly. “Seems like a pretty nice fellow.”

“But Socker, he’s a crook!” cried Djuna. “He won’t help Cannonball catch Swift—he’ll help him get away! He’s the one I asked you to look up for me in Philadelphia!”

“I know he is. And I did. And I still say he seems like a pretty nice fellow.” Socker said no more, until Djuna asked, bewildered, “What do you mean?”

“Mr. Conrad C. Martin is an attorney, Djuna. He’s not a crook at all. He’s a respectable, honest, hardworking lawyer taking a golfing vacation.” Socker cut the last cord holding Djuna in his chair. Djuna jumped up immediately, trying to work out the pins-and-needles feeling of returning circulation.

“Hey!” Djuna felt a wave of relief. “We don’t have to worry about Mr. Martin, Jimmy!” He turned to his friend, who was now nearly free, as both Grandma and Mr. Douglas worked on his bonds. “Mr. Martin is okay! It was only Mr. Swift and Joe Morelli who wanted the purple bird.”

“The purple bird?” Socker repeated. “What in thunder is
that?”

Djuna looked at Jimmy and grinned. Jimmy grinned in turn. “You know something? That’s exactly what Mr. Swift kept asking us, Socker. Only he asked with a gun.”

At last Jimmy was free of his bonds and was on his feet, testing his legs and stamping his numb feet. Mr. Douglas introduced Socker to Grandma and Jimmy, then insisted that Grandma go lie down for a while. She refused to do so, showing more interest in whether Swift would be laid by the heels. “That scoundrel!” she kept repeating. “That scoundrel! Picking on boys and old women! If he’d fight without a gun, I’d let him have it, believe me!”

“You’re tough, all right, Grandma,” Mr. Douglas said, laughing. “Nobody denies that. All the same, it’s lucky for us that these friends of Djuna’s came along when they did. And Djuna—” Mr. Douglas sobered “—that was one of the bravest things I’ve ever known a boy to do … to speak up and draw Swift’s attention to you in order to keep Jimmy from getting shot. I knew that help was at hand, but you didn’t. And especially when you didn’t know any more about their purple bird than I did.”

Djuna flushed with embarrassment. “Oh, I wasn’t being brave, Mr. Douglas. I
did
know something about the purple bird. Or at least, I thought I did.”

“Trust this kid to know about mysteries, Mr. Douglas!” Socker chimed in, looking affectionately at Djuna. “And if he doesn’t explain to his old pal Socker what’s been going on around here, I’ll shoot it out of him myself!”

He turned as Canonball McGinnty strode into the room. His hat was in his left hand in deference to Grandma. His uniform was still precisely pressed and spotless. His manner was calm and unruffled. He wasn’t even breathing hard. In fact, he looked like anything but a policeman who had just captured a desperate criminal. Yet, attached by a metal cuff to his right wrist, was a pale, bedraggled, pain-wracked Anthony Swift, his bravado gone, his arrogance turned to groans of self-pity. His once neat suit was covered with dust and grease; the elbows of his coat and the knees of his trousers showed several large tears; and one of his tinted spectacle lenses was a sunburst of cracks. He had tucked his injured wrist tenderly into the front of his jacket.

“You got him!” Djuna cried. “Good for you, Cannonball!”

“I didn’t get him,” Cannonball grinned, “except after the action was over.” The policeman jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Mr. Martin, who had followed him and his prisoner into the room.
“He
got him. By one of the best flying tackles I ever saw.” And in truth, a flying tackle must have been the weapon to which Mr. Martin had resorted in bringing down the fleeing antique dealer. For Mr. Martin’s own modish golf clothes would never be the same again—not until the damage inflicted by pine needles, grass stains and gravel had been erased from his expensive slacks, alligator shirt, and two-toned shoes.

“Where’s Joe Morelli?” Djuna asked suddenly, remembering that the caddy had not put in an appearance since leaving the room to investigate the squeaking sound.

“Is he the runty character we clobbered in the kitchen?” Cannonball asked. “If so, he’s locked in the broom closet.”

Jimmy Douglas wagged his head. “Poor Joe,” he muttered to Djuna. “I just can’t believe he’s a crook.”

Djuna looked earnestly at Cannonball. “Today, Joe Morelli tried to keep Mr. Swift from hurting us when they tied us up. He didn’t even want Mr. Swift to capture us. He’s been working with Mr. Swift as his confederate, I guess, but he isn’t as bad as Mr. Swift is. What do you think, Cannonball?”

Cannonball shrugged. “I don’t know what the charges will be against Swift and Morelli, because I don’t know yet what they’ve done—aside from tying up three people, assaulting them, and threatening them with a gun.”

Socker said grimly, “That’s not bad for a start.”

“This man—” Cannonball nodded at Swift “—needs medical attention for that wrist right away. And we want to put Morelli in a safe place, too. So you’ll all have to come down to the local state police barracks with me, if Mrs. Douglas is feeling up to it. Maybe they can get a story out of somebody as to what this is all about.”

“First, I’ve got to telephone Miss Annie that I’m okay,” Djuna said.

Socker snapped his fingers. “That’s right. We promised to let her know as soon as we found you.” He went into the hall with Mr. Douglas to find the telephone. “Be right back.”

Quietly, Djuna stooped and picked up his list of questions; it still lay on the rug in a corner where Mr. Swift had dropped it when he took to his heels. Djuna put it back into his shirt pocket.

As soon as Socker finished talking with Miss Annie on the telephone, assuring her that Djuna and Jimmy were all right, and that they’d be home for dinner eventually, even if late, they all set out for the barracks. It was arranged that Cannonball, the two prisoners, Socker and Djuna should ride in Socker’s car while Grandma, Jimmy, Mr. Martin and Mr. Douglas went in the Douglases’ station wagon.

At the barracks, Cannonball reported to the sergeant on duty, turned Mr. Swift over to a police doctor with a trooper to guard him until he could be locked up, saw Joe Morelli put in a cell, and stationed the rest of the party in whatever available positions the sergeant’s office permitted. Djuna and Jimmy sat on the floor, their backs against the wall; Socker and Cannonball stood beside them; Grandma, Mr. Douglas, and Mr. Martin got the only chairs.

“Now then,” said the sergeant, whose name was Scott. He faced them from behind his steel desk. “Will somebody please tell me what this is all about?” He looked at Mr. Douglas.

Mr. Douglas shook his head. “I’m as much in the dark as you are,” he said, “except that an heirloom of my family seems to be mixed up in it somehow.”

“You?” the sergeant asked Grandma.

Before she could answer, Socker Furlong drawled, “Sergeant, you’ll save a lot of time by just asking this kid here to fill you in.” He put down a hand and ruffled Djuna’s hair. “He’s as good as a detective first grade when it comes to things like this. And he called me in on this thing. I called Trooper McGinnty.”

“All right, son,” said the sergeant to Djuna. “Get started, and make it snappy. I’m about to go off duty. It’s chow-time.”

So Djuna, in clear detail and chronological order, described all the odd incidents of the past few days which, taken together, had seemed to him to indicate the existence of a conspiracy of some sort; or, at the least, of a mystery involving Jimmy’s antique chest.

“So you see,” concluded Djuna, turning apologetically to Mr. Martin, who was regarding him with a quizzical smile, “I kind of thought for a while there, Mr. Martin, that you were Mr. Swift’s partner. But now I know you’re not. I’m sorry I suspected you, sir.”

Mr. Martin said, “Don’t apologize, Djuna. I can see quite clearly why you suspected me. Don’t give it another thought. Matter of fact, it’s been a privilege to be in on this—to witness how amazingly well you and Jimmy Douglas have handled yourselves.”

The sergeant said ponderously, “I don’t doubt that this antique chest you’ve mentioned, with the inscription, is at the bottom of the whole thing.”

Djuna said, “Yes, sir. But only because the old chest was supposed to have the King’s Talisman in it. Mr. Swift and Joe Morelli were after the King’s Talisman. They thought it was hidden in the chest.”

Mr. Douglas spoke up. “The King’s Talisman, Sergeant, is the family heirloom I mentioned.” He told the officer about it briefly. “It was lost fifty years ago, disappeared in Malaya. Stolen from my greatgrandfather, James Douglas, like as not. Anyway, it’s long gone, forgotten for three generations. So who could even dream it would turn up in Jimmy’s chest?”

“According to the boy, the chest was sent to you from Malaya at your great-grandfather’s death, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, and I grant you there’s a very remote possibility the King’s Talisman might have been kept in the chest at one time, concealed in it by my great-grandfather. By some remote chance the Talisman might even still be concealed in it. But if so, what’s the purpose of that inscription? What’s this ‘purple bird’ Swift was so hot after? And most important of all, who
is
Swift, where does he come from, and how’d he find out about the King’s Talisman and Jimmy’s chest in the first place?”

The sergeant said, “Cannonball, bring in that caddy, Morelli, will you?”

When Joe appeared, he cast an appealing glance at Djuna and Jimmy before turning to face the sergeant. Cannonball held his arm in a loose grip. “Answer sharp and quick and tell the truth,” Cannonball said to him.

The sergeant said, “These people have told me, Morelli, that you did your best to talk Swift out of using violence this afternoon. That’s a mark in your favor.”

Morelli said bitterly, “I’ve had Swift and his doings up to here!” He put a hand under his chin. “He got me into this jam. I’ll tell you anything I can.”

“First of all, Morelli, you’re not a real caddy, are you?”

“No, I’m a private detective.”

“What!” Socker, Djuna, Jimmy and Cannonball all exclaimed at once. “A
detective?”

“Yep. My right name is Joseph Morell. I’m licensed in Pennsylvania, and I live and work in Philadelphia.”

“And you were working for Swift in that capacity? As a detective?”

“I was at first. He wrote me from Scotland and offered me a trace job. I took it. It was a perfectly legitimate assignment.”

“From Scotland,” Djuna said. “That explains Mr. Swift’s funny accent, Jimmy.”

Jimmy nodded, bewildered by the news that his caddy friend had turned out to be a private detective.

“What was this ‘legitimate assignment’?” asked the sergeant.

“Swift hired me to locate a man for him. He said he’d probably be living around Philadelphia somewhere, but he didn’t know exactly where. It could be in Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware, even New York. He also told me the man might be located in connection with golf, because back in 1927, he said, this man had been a greenskeeper at a golf club somewhere in the Philadelphia area. His named was Angus Douglas.”