The Red Chipmunk Mystery (9 page)

“Oh dear,” Joan said after a long, happy silence. “This is the time in the evening a woman always hates—cleaning up after supper.”

“Now, Pet, don’t you worry about it to-night,” Mr. Scissors said. “The boys an’ me’ll just clean up and then after one song we’ll all get to bed. All right, boys?”

“Sure!” Djuna and Buddy said together.

“But say!” Mr. Scissors said, and he scratched his head. “We forgot to get any straw for the boys to sleep on. I tell you what you can do, Joan. Take two of them heavy blankets up in the rack and put one on each side under our bunks, and then put a light blanket there for ’em to put over ’em. Gets chilly in the early morning.”

“I hope neither of you snore,” Joan said, giggling when Champ snored from his bed under the wagon where Djuna had fastened his leash.

“C’mon, boys, let’s get it over with,” Mr. Scissors said.

After they had washed the dishes and stowed the mess boxes away in the wagon, Mr. Scissors got out his accordion and they all sat around the gentle glow from the dying camp-fire.

“Just one song,” Mr. Scissors said, “then Joan can go in and get ready and get into bed because we’re all tired and we got to get up early in the morning. What’ll it be, boys?”

“Mr. Scissors. Do you know ‘Good Night, Ladies’?” Djuna asked. “I know that and I could join in.”

“Oh, you
do
, do you?” Mr. Scissors said, and he chuckled very hard and looked at Joan. But Joan was looking into the fire and if she had heard what Djune had asked Mr. Scissors to play she didn’t show any indication of it, although her face did look very red in the glow from the camp-fire. “Okay,” Mr. Scissors said, and he began to play very softly and very sweetly.

When Mr. Scissors had played it over three times and the music had gone echoing out into the shadows and down the valley he put the accordion down beside him and said, “Run along now, Joan.”

“Yes, Granpa,” she said, and she rose and kissed Mr, Scissors on the end of his nose and bowed to the boys and went over to the wagon. After she had gone up the steps and had pulled the curtain almost closed she called, “Sweet dreams!” and disappeared.

“Well, boys,” Mr. Scissors said, “to-morrow we work Cliffton Village, which reminds me I must remember to stop in Mike Tromboni’s shop and see if he has repaired Old Blade’s bridle yet. It’s a mighty pretty bridle with some fancy decorations on the blinders. Old Blade seems to like it better than the one he’s wearin’ now. It’s the one I bought at the auction at your grandmother’s old place, Buddy.”

“Is that so?” Buddy said politely, but he was so sleepy he couldn’t show much interest.

“Yes, Old Blade’s mighty proud of it,” Mr. Scissors went on. “
Say!
Did you ever hear about the robbery up there at Hilltop?”

“Why, I kinda remember something about it,” Buddy said, “but I was only a kid then.”

“Well, I don’t remember too much about it myself,” Mr. Scissors said as he scratched his head. “But I do remember that one of the robbers was a man cook she had up there—one of them French chefs. The other one was Mrs. Hill’s coachman. You know that was a pretty lonely place up there and the old lady lived alone, with just the housekeeper, part of the time.”

Mr. Scissors stopped speaking for a moment to listen to the long, shivering wail of an owl in the distance. When he went on he had dropped his voice almost to a whisper and it was a little hoarse. “Yes, sir,” he said,“ when the wind howls through them pines up there on a cold night it’s just like the wail of a banshee. Sends the cold shivers right up your back to hear it. These fellows had planned the whole thing beforehand, I guess. They stole up to Mrs. Hill’s room one night after she was in bed asleep. They were all ready to strangle her if she woke up, but lucky for her she didn’t wake up. This Frenchman was a reg’lar gar-garroter—–”

“What—what’s that, Mr. Scissors?” Buddy whispered.

“It’s a French word for a man who strangles people so he can rob ’em,” Mr. Scissors said. “But she didn’t wake up, so they just stole everything she had that was worth takin’.”

“Did—they ever catch them?” Djuna asked with wide-eyed interest.

“Sure, they caught ’em,” Mr. Scissors said. “Caught ’em and sent ’em to jail for twenty years, and that’s where they belong. They were a couple of tough customers.”

“What’s a banshee, Mr. Scissors?” Buddy asked.

“Why, a—a banshee,” said Mr. Scissors hesitantly. “Why a banshee is somethin’ that ain’t no thin’,” he finished triumphantly. “It’s time for you boys to go to bed now. Joan!” he called, raising his voice a trifle. When there was no answer he said, “You boys go ahead now, I’m goin’ to potter around for a few minutes longer.”

As Djuna and Buddy started to go up the steps of the wagon they heard a loud crash in the underbrush near the knoll and, a moment later, the sound of running feet.

“
Gee!
Who’s
that
, Mr. Scissors?” Buddy asked.

“Probably a cow gettin’ a runnin’ start to jump over the moon,” Mr. Scissors said dryly. “Good night, boys.”

“Good night,” they whispered back as they went up the steps and into the wagon.

DJUNA DOES SOME THINKING

I
T WAS
while Djuna and Buddy were washing their faces and hands the next morning in the wash-basin, after being ordered to do so by Joan, that Djuna found the footprints. He had finished washing and was combing his hair with Buddy’s comb, while thoughtfully looking at the ground, when he noticed them. He remembered the running footsteps the night before and handed the comb to Buddy and went over to the tree where the footprints began, and bent down to examine them.

“
Hey!
” Buddy said as he combed his tousled mop of red hair. “
Now
what have you lost?”

“Nothing,” Djuna said very calmly for any one who was as excited as he was. “Remember those sounds last night just before we went in the wagon to go to bed? Like someone running?”

“Sure. It was a cow that was going to jump over the moon,” Buddy said, and he snickered.

“I’ll bet you it was two men!” Djuna said, and he let some of his inward excitement climb into his voice. “Look here. You see the ground is soft here because of the overflow from the spring. You can see where they were standing and you can tell there were two men, because one of them had just plain smooth soles on his shoes and the other one had soles with crossed welts in them.” Buddy leaned down to look closer and some of Djuna’s excitement gripped him.

“And you see how the prints get deeper and farther apart as they go away,” Djuna said. “That’s because they were running!”

“
Jiminy crimps!
” Buddy said. “You know, I bet you’re right. He turned and shouted, “Oh, Mr. Scissors!
Mr. Scissors!
”

“Hey! Wait!” Djuna said, and he grabbed at Buddy’s arm to silence him. “Don’t tell him!”

“Why not?” Buddy demanded. “Gosh, I think we
ought
to tell him.”

“He’ll just think I’m having crazy ideas,” Djuna said miserably.

“But suppose it’s someone who wants to steal his wagon and Old Blade,” Buddy said. “He can see the tracks, too, can’t he?”

“Yes, but—–”

“What’s the matter, boys?” Mr. Scissors asked as he came around the knoll. “Didn’t fall in the spring, did you?”

“No, sir,” Buddy said, and he turned to Djuna. “You tell him,” he urged.

“Well,” Djuna said, and he looked at the footprints and then at Mr. Scissors rather doubtfully. “You remember those noises we heard over here just before we went to bed—like someone running?”

“Oh, sure,” Mr. Scissors said. “What was it, a pig instead of a cow?”

“It was two of them,” Djuna said, and he pointed. “I—–”

“
Two
pigs!” Mr. Scissors said, and he chuckled so hard his shoulders shook up and down.

“No, sir,” Djuna said, and his face grew red with confusion. But he stuck stoutly to his belief. “I think it was two men who were hiding here, listening. You can see their footprints right there and then when they started to run they get deeper as far as the ground is moist.”

“Well!” Mr. Scissors said, and he gave Djuna a searching glance before he bent over to look at the footprints. After he had looked at them for a moment he straightened up and said, “Two men were standing here
some time
, all right, but I don’t think it was last night, Djuna. I guess that noise kind-a got on your nerves. I didn’t suppose you would think any more about it after you got to bed.”

“I
didn’t
think about it, last night,” Djuna said quickly. “I had almost forgotten it until I noticed these footprints just now. Then I remembered.”

“Well, don’t you worry your head about it,” Mr. Scissors said, and he gave Djuna a kindly pat on the shoulder. “Nobody’s a-goin’ to stand around wastin’ their time in the dark listenin’ to what
we
have to say. And, besides, why would they run away like a couple of wallowin’ buffaloes? Nothin’ around here could have done ’em any harm, unless maybe Champ got angry at ’em. You just forget it. C’mon now. We got to have breakfast and get on our way.”

“Yes, sir,” Djuna said as he thoughtfully stared at the footprints. Then he looked at Buddy when Mr. Scissors turned away and although he didn’t say anything his glance said, “You see?”

Just before Mr. Scissors got to the knoll he turned around and came back and said in a low voice, “Don’t mention anything about the footprints or the two men to Joan. I don’t want her to be frightened.”

“Oh, of course not, Mr. Scissors,” Djuna said, and Mr. Scissors’ eyes twinkled.

“Bring along that wash-basin if you’re through with it, Buddy,” he said. “I’ve got to check on the wood in my cache and see if there is enough left for the next time we stop here.”

It was almost eight-thirty when Mr. Scissors skilfully drove Old Blade on to the Cliffton Valley road and gave the reins to Buddy, because it was his turn to drive.

They hadn’t gone more than a quarter of a mile before they came to a place where the road rose quite gradually over a low hill. As they started up it Old Blade turned his head around to see if any one was going to get off the wagon and walk to make it easier for him to pull. He slowed his gait until he was barely moving, and Mr. Scissors shouted, “GIDDAP, BLADE!” When he slowed down even more Mr. Scissors chuckled and said, “I’ll fix him! He’s had a good night’s rest and can pull us up here without any trouble at all. He’s just being stubborn.”

Mr. Scissors reached back and picked up his accordion and slipped his hands into the straps. “Makes him madder’n a wet hen when I sing this at him,” he said, and he began to play “The Old Grey Mare,” and sang:

The instant Mr. Scissors started to sing, Old Blade turned his head again and wrinkled his nose. Then the breastband on his harness tightened as he began to lift his feet like a show pony and swing his tail back and forth faster and faster. Almost before Mr. Scissors had finished the song he had pulled the wagon to the top of the hill and was
trotting
down the other side.

Joan and both of the boys began to giggle and Buddy said, “Do you suppose he
really
knows what you’re singing to him?”

“Sure he knows,” Mr. Scissors said, with his eyes twinkling. “That’s why he gets so mad and puts his back into it. At least I don’t think any one could prove that he
doesn’t
know!”

“Gee! I bet you could put Old Blade in a circus, or something, Mr. Scissors,” Buddy said with real admiration.

“Well, ‘spect I could,” Mr. Scissors said, “but he wouldn’t be happy there. He likes to be out in the country where he can see the sun come blazin’ up from behind the hills in the mornin’ an’ go to bed with a lot of pretty colours at night. He told me one time he thought about the prettiest thing in the world was a nice big meadow of red clover with a cool brook windin’ through it.”

“He
told
you?” Buddy said, with frank amazement.

“Not in just them words, of course,” Mr. Scissors said. “Old Blade an’ me have a way of talkin’ that’s all our own.”

“I think I know what you mean, Mr. Scissors,” Djuna said. “Champ and I sort of talk the same way.”

Champ barked twice from the back of the wagon where he was riding to say, “That’s right!” and every one laughed.

“Oh, Granpa!” Joan said. “There’s a man waving his hands at you, from over in that field.”

Mr. Scissors turned his head to look in the direction Joan was pointing and saw a man running towards them and shouting and waving his arms. Mr. Scissors laughed and said, “That’s Pierre Doomont. Pierre is French for Peter. He’s a foreign-born Frenchman. He gets so excited that some day he’s a-goin’ to blow up just like a soap bubble.”

“She don’ cut! She don’ cut! She don’ cut!” he shouted at Mr. Scissors as he neared the fence bordering the road. “She don’t do what you tol’ me!”

“Now take it easy, Pete,” Mr. Scissors called mildly as Mr. Doomont broke into a flood of French. “What’s the matter now?” Mr. Doomont reached the fence, put both hands on it and put his head down as though he were counting to himself for about ten seconds.

“My mow machine she don’ cut,” Mr. Doomont said when he looked up; and he sounded almost as though he were crying. “I file him. I feex him. I coax him. Ple-e-ase, Me-e-e-ster Sceessor, feex him!”

“Okay, Pete,” Mr. Scissors said, and he pulled Old Blade over on the side of the road and wrapped the reins around the whip-socket and climbed to the ground. “You got some tools out in the field there, to take the blades out of the cutting bar?”

“Everyt’ing, Me-e-ester Sceessor. Everyt’ing!” Mr. Doomont sobbed.

“You boys just take the tarpaulin off the top,” Mr. Scissors said as he climbed over the fence, “and get the ladder in position.”

“
Gee!
That man must be
crazy
!” Buddy said, as he and Djuna scrambled to the ground to follow Mr. Scissors’ orders.

“He’s always like that,” Joan said. “One time he got mad at his lawn-mower and knocked it all to pieces with a hammer. Then he almost cried when Granpa couldn’t fix it for him. Granpa says it’s the Latin in him.”