Mystery #04 — The Mystery of the Spiteful Letters tff-4

by Enid Blyton

  Fatty rode off, whistling. He soon came to Rectory Field. He saw the caravan standing at the end, its little tin chimney smoking. Mrs. Nosey was outside, cooking something over a fire, and Nosey was sitting beside it, sucking at an empty pipe. Fatty rode over the field-path and jumped off his bicycle when he came to Nosey.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Parcel for you! Special delivery!’

  He handed the parcel to the surprised Old Nosey. The gypsy took it and turned it round and round, trying to feel what was inside. ‘Anythink to pay?’ asked Mrs. Nosey.

  ‘No. But I must have a receipt, please,’ said Fatty, briskly, and whipped out a notebook, in which was printed in capital letters:

  RECEIVED, ONE PARCEL,

  by ..............

  ‘Will you sign your name and address there, please, in capital letters?’ he asked, showing Nosey where he meant.

  ‘I’m not signing nothing,’ said Nosey, not looking at Fatty.

  ‘Well, if you want the parcel, you’ll have to sign for it,’ said Fatty. ‘Always get a receipt, you know. It’s the only thing I’ve got, to show I’ve delivered the parcel. See?’

  ‘I’ll sign it,’ said Mrs. Nosey, and held out her hand for the pencil.

  ‘No,’ said Fatty. ‘The parcel is for your husband. I’m afraid he must sign it, Madam.’

  ‘You let me,’ said Mrs. Nosey. ‘Go on - you give it to me to sign. It don’t matter which of us does it.’

  Fatty was almost in despair. Also he thought it a very suspicious sign that Nosey didn’t seem to want to sign his name and address in capital letters. It rather looked as if he was afraid of doing so.

  ‘I shall have to take the parcel back if your husband doesn’t give me a proper receipt for it,’ he said, in as stern a voice as he could manage. ‘Got to be business-like over these things, you know. Pity - it smells like tobacco.’

  ‘Yes, it do,’ said Old Nosey, and sniffed the parcel eagerly. ‘Go on, wife, you sign for it.’

  ‘I tell you,’ began Fatty. But Nosey’s wife pulled at his elbow. She spoke to him in a hoarse whisper.

  ‘Don’t you go bothering ’im. ’E can’t write nor read!’

  ‘Oh,’ Said Fatty blankly, and let Mrs. Nosey sign a receipt without further objection. He could hardly read what she wrote, for she put half the letters backwards, and could not even spell Peterswood.

  Fatty cycled off, thinking. So Old Nosey couldn’t write. Well, he was ruled out too, then. That really only left Miss Tittle - because Mrs. Moon had had one of the letters and could be crossed off the List of Suspects.

  He went home and fetched a cardboard box into which he had packed a piece of stuff he had bought from the draper’s that morning. He was just in time to catch Miss Tittle setting out to go for the day to Lady Candling’s again.

  ‘Parcel for you,’ said Fatty briskly. ‘Special delivery. Will you please sign for it - here - in capital letters for clearness - name and address, please.’

  Miss Tittle was rather surprised to receive a parcel by special delivery, when she was not expecting one, but she supposed it was something urgent sent to be altered by one of her customers. So she signed for it in extremely neat capital letters, small and beautiful like her stitches.

  ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘You only just caught me! Good morning.’

  ‘That was easy!’ thought Fatty, as he rode away. ‘Now - I wonder if it’s really necessary to get Mrs. Moon’s writing? Better, I suppose, as she’s been one of the Suspects. Well, here goes!’

  He rode up the drive of Pip’s house. Pip and the others were lying in wait for him, and they called out in low voices as he went past.

  ‘Ho there, Sid!’

  ‘Hallo, Bert!’

  ‘Wotcher, Alf!’

  Fatty grinned and went to the back door. He had a small and neat parcel this time, beautifully wrapped up and tied with string and sealed. It really looked a very exciting parcel.

  Mrs. Moon came to the kitchen door. ‘Parcel for you,’ said Fatty, presenting it to her. ‘Special delivery. Sign for it here, please, in capital letters for clearness, name and address.’

  ‘Me hands are all over flour,’ said Mrs. Moon. ‘You just sign it for me, young man. Now who can that parcel be from, I wonder!’

  ‘’Fraid you’ll have to sign it yourself,’ said Fatty. Mrs. Moon made an exasperated noise and snatched the pencil from Fatty’s hand. She went and sat down at the table and most laboriously pencilled her name and address. But she mixed up small letters and capital letters in a curious way. The receipt said:

  RECEIVED, ONE PARCEL,

  by .............................

  WInnIe MOOn,

  ReDhoUSe

  peTeRSWOOD

  ‘Thank you,’ said Fatty, looking at it closely. ‘But you’ve mixed up small letters and capital ones, Mrs. Moon! Why did you do that?’

  ‘I’m no writer!’ said Mrs. Moon, annoyed. ‘You take that receipt and be off. Schooling in my days wasn’t what it is now, when even a five-year- old knows his letters.’

  Fatty went off. If Mrs. Moon didn’t very well know the difference between small and capital letters, he didn’t see how she could have printed all those spiteful anonymous letters. Anyway, he didn’t really suspect her. He thought about things as he rode down the drive and back through the village. Nosey couldn’t write. Rule him out. Mrs. Moon couldn’t have done it either. Rule her out. That only left Miss Tittle - and the difference between her small and beautiful printing and the untidy, laboured scrawl of the nasty letters was amazing.

  ‘I can’t think it can be her writing, in those letters,’ thought Fatty. ‘Well, really, this case is getting more and more puzzling. We keep getting very good ideas and clues - and then one by one they all fizzle out. Not one of our Suspects really seems possible now - though I suppose Miss Tittle is the likeliest.’

  He was so deep in thought that he didn’t look where he was going, and he almost ran over a dog. It yelped so loudly with fright that Fatty, much concerned, got off his bicycle to comfort it.

  ‘What you doing to make that dog yelp like that!’ said a harsh voice suddenly, and Fatty looked up, startled, to see Mr. Goon standing over him.

  ‘Nothing, sir,’ stammered Fatty, pretending to be scared of the policeman. A curious look came into Mr. Goon’s eyes - so curious that Fatty began to feel really scared.

  Mr. Goon was gazing at Fatty’s red wig. He looked at Fatty’s messenger-boy hat. He looked very hard indeed. Another red-headed boy! Why, the village seemed full of them!

  ‘You come-alonga me!’ he said suddenly, and clutched hold of Fatty’s arm. ‘I want to ask you a few questions, see? You just come-alonga me!’

  ‘I’ve done nothing,’ said Fatty, pretending to be a frightened messenger-boy. ‘You let me go, sir. I ain’t done nothing.’

  ‘Then you don’t need to be scared,’ said Mr. Goon. He took firm hold of Fatty’s arm and led him down the street to his own small house. He pushed him inside, and took him upstairs to a small box-room, littered with rubbish of all kinds.

  ‘I’ve been looking for red-headed boys all morning!’ said Mr. Goon grimly. ‘And I haven’t found the ones I want. But maybe you’ll do instead! Now you just sit here, and wait for me to come up and question you. I’m tired of red-headed boys, I am - butting in and out - picking up letters and delivering letters and parcels - and disappearing into thin air. Ho yes, I’m getting a bit tired of these here red-headed boys!’

  He went out, shut the door and locked it. He clumped downstairs, and Fatty heard him using the telephone though he couldn’t hear what he said.

  Fatty looked round quickly. It was no use trying to get out of the window, for it looked on to the High Street and heaps of people would see him trying to escape that way and give the alarm.

  No - he must escape out of the locked door, as he had done once before when an enemy had locked him in. Ah, Fatty knew how to get out of a locked room! He felt in his pocket and found a
folded newspaper there. It was really amazing what Fatty kept in his pockets! He opened the newspaper, smoothed it out quite flat, and pushed it quietly under the crack at the bottom of the door.

  Then he took a small roll of wire from his pocket, and straightened one end of it. He inserted the end carefully into the lock. On the other side, of course, was the key that Mr. Goon had turned to lock the door.

  Fatty jiggled about with the piece of wire, pushing and moving the key a little. Suddenly, with a soft thud, it fell to the floor outside the door, on to the sheet of newspaper that Fatty had pushed underneath to the other side. He grinned.

  He had left a corner of the newspaper on his side, and this he now pulled at very gently. The whole of the newspaper sheet came under the door - bringing the key with it! Such a clever trick - and so simple, thought Fatty.

  It took him just a moment to put the key into the lock his side, turn it and open the door. He tool the key, stepped out softly, locked the door behind him and left the key in.

  Then he stood at the top of the little stairway and listened. Mr. Goon was evidently in the middle of a long routine telephone call, which he made every morning about this time.

  There was a small bathroom nearby. Fatty went into it and carefully washed all the freckles off his face. He removed his eyebrows and wig and stuffed them into his pocket. He took off his rather loud tie and put another one on, also out of his pocket.

  Now he looked completely different. He grinned at himself in the glass. ‘Disappearance of another red-headed boy,’ he said, and crept downstairs as quietly as he could. Mr. Goon was still in his parlour, telephoning. Fatty slipped into the small empty kitchen. Mrs. Cockles was not there today.

  He went out of the back door, down the garden and into the lane at the end. He had to leave his bike behind - but never mind, he’d think of some way of getting it back! Off he went, whistling, thinking of the delight of the Find-Outers when he told them of his adventurous morning!

  THE MYSTERY OF THE RED-HEADED BOYS

  Mr. Goon finished his telephoning and went clumping upstairs to give that boy What-For, and to Properly-Put-Him-Through-It. Mr. Goon was sick and tired of chasing after red-headed boys that nobody seemed to have heard of. Now that he had got one really under his thumb, he meant to keep him there and find out a great many things he was bursting to know.

  He stood and listened outside the door. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. That boy was properly scared. That’s how boys should feel, Mr. Goon thought. He’d no time for boys - cheeky, don’t-care, whistling creatures! He cleared his throat and pulled himself up majestically to his full height. He was the Law, he was!

  The key was in the lock. The door was locked all right. He turned the key and flung open the door. He trod heavily into the room, a pompous look on his red face.

  There was nobody there. Mr. Goon stared all round the room, breathing heavily. But there simply wasn’t anybody there. There was nowhere to hide at all - no cupboard, no chest. The window was still shut and fastened. No boy had got out that way.

  Mr. Goon couldn’t believe his eyes. He swallowed hard. He’d been after two red-headed boys that morning, and nobody seemed to have heard of either of them - and now here was the third one gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Vamoosed. But WHERE? And HOW?

  Nobody could walk through a locked door. And the door had been locked, and the key his side too. But that boy had walked clean through that locked door. Mr. Goon began to feel he was dealing with some kind of Magic.

  He walked round the room just to make sure that the boy hadn’t squeezed into a tin or a box. But he had been such a plump boy! Mr. Goon felt most bewildered. He wondered if he had got a touch of the sun. He had just reported over the telephone his capture of a red-headed boy, for questioning - and how was he to explain his complete disappearance? He didn’t feel that his superior officer would believe a boy could walk out of a locked door.

  Poor Mr. Goon! He had indeed had a trying morning - a real wild-goose chase, as he put it to himself.

  He had first of all gone to the post-office to ask the post-master to let him talk to the red-headed telegraph-boy.

  But when the telegraph-boy had come, he wasn’t red-headed! He was mousey-brown, and was a thin, under-sized little thing, plainly very frightened indeed to hear that Mr. Goon wanted to speak to him.

  ‘This isn’t the lad,’ said Mr. Goon to the post-master. ‘Where’s your other boy? The red-headed one?’

  ‘We’ve only got the one boy,’ said the post-master, puzzled. ‘This is the one. We’ve never had a red-headed fellow, as far as I can remember. We’ve had James here for about fourteen months now.’

  Mr. Goon was dumbfounded. No red-headed telegraph-boy? Never had one! Well then, where did that fellow come from? Telegraph-boys were only attached to post-offices, surely.

  ‘Sorry I can’t help you,’ said the post-master. ‘But I do assure you we’ve got no red-headed boys at all here. But we’ve got a red-headed girl here - now would you like to see her?’

  ‘No,’ said Mr. Goon. ‘This was a boy all right, and one of the civilest I ever spoke to - too civil by a long way. I see now! Pah! I’m fed up with this.’

  He went out of the post-office, feeling very angry, knowing that the post-master was thinking him slightly mad. He made his way to one of the butcher’s, frowning. Just let him get hold of that there red-headed butcher-boy, delivering letters for the anonymous letter-writer. Ho, just let him! He’d soon worm everything out of him!

  Mr. Veale, the butcher, was surprised to see Mr. Goon. ‘Bit of nice tender meat, sir, for you today? ’ he asked, sharpening his knife.

  ‘No thanks,’ said Mr. Goon. ‘I want to know if you’ve got a red-headed boy here, delivering your meat.’

  ‘I’ve got no boy,’ said Mr. Veale. ‘Only old Sam, the fellow I’ve had for fifteen years. Thought you knew that.’

  ‘Oh, I know old Sam,’ said Mr. Goon. ‘But I thought maybe you had a new boy as well. I expect it’s the other butcher’s delivery-boy I want.’

  He went off to the other shop. This was a bigger establishment altogether. Mr. Cook, the owner, was there, cutting up meat with his two assistants.

  ‘You got a boy here, delivering your meat for you?’ asked Mr. Goon.

  ‘Yes, two,’ said Mr. Cook. ‘Dear me, I hope they haven’t either of them got into trouble, Mr. Goon. They’re good boys, both of them.’

  ‘One of them isn’t,’ said Mr. Goon grimly. ‘Where are they? You let me see them.’

  ‘They’re out in the yard at the back, packing their baskets with meat-deliveries,’ said Mr. Cook. ‘I’ll come with you. Dear me, I do hope it’s nothing serious.’

  He took Mr. Goon out to the back. The policeman saw two boys. One was fair-haired with blue eyes and the other was black-haired, dark as a gypsy.

  ‘Well, there they are, Mr. Goon,’ said Mr. Cook. ‘Which of them is the rascal?’

  The boys looked up, surprised. Mr. Goon took one look and scowled. ‘They’re neither of them the boy I want,’ he said. ‘I want a red-headed fellow.’

  ‘There aren’t any red-headed delivery-boys here, sir,’ said the fair-haired lad. ‘I know them all.’

  Mr. Goon snorted and went back into the shop.

  ‘Well, I’m glad it wasn’t one of my boys,’ said Mr. Cook. ‘The fair-haired one is really a very clever fellow - he...’

  But Mr. Goon didn’t want to hear about any clever fair-haired boys. He wanted to see a red-headed one - and the more he tried to, the less likely it seemed he would ever find one.

  He clumped out of the shop, disgusted. Who was the telegraph-boy? Hadn’t he seen him delivering a telegram to those children some time back - and again at night when he had bumped into him? And what about that red-headed butcher-boy that Mrs. Hilton and Philip Hilton both said they had seen? Who were these red-headed fellows flying around Peterswood, and not, apparently, living anywhere, or being known by anyone?

  Mr. Goon began to feel that
he had red-headed boys on the brain, so, when he suddenly heard the loud yelping of a frightened dog, and looked up to see, actually to see a red-headed messenger-boy within reach of him, it was no wonder that he reached out and clutched that boy hard!

  That was when Fatty had been trying to comfort the dog he had nearly run into. Mr. Goon had felt that it was a miracle to find a red-headed boy, even if he wasn’t a telegraph-boy or a butcher-boy. He was red-headed, and that was enough!

  And now he had lost that boy too. He had just walked out of a locked room and disappeared into thin air. Hey presto, he was there, and hey presto, he wasn’t.

  Mr. Goon forgot all about the boy's bicycle in his worry. It had been left out in the little front garden when he had pushed the boy into his house. The policeman didn’t even notice it there when he went out to get his mid-day paper. Nor did he notice Larry waiting about at the corner.

  But Larry had been posted there by Fatty to watch what Mr. Goon did with his bike. Fatty was afraid that Mr. Goon might make inquiries and find out who the right owner was, and he didn’t want the policeman to know that.

  Larry saw Mr. Goon come out. He imagined that having found that Fatty was gone, he would at least lock up his bicycle, and take a delight in doing it. He didn’t realize poor Mr. Goon’s stupefied state of mind. The puzzled man had sat down in his chair to think things out, but had got into such a muddle that he had decided to go out, get his paper and have a drink. Maybe he would feel better then.

  Mr. Goon went out of his little front garden as if he was walking in a dream. He saw neither Larry nor the bicycle. He drifted on towards the paper-shop.

  Larry gaped. Wasn’t old Goon going to lock up the bicycle? Surely he ought to do that! Could he possibly have overlooked it? It really did seem as if he had.

  Mr. Goon went into the paper-shop. Larry acted like lightning! He shot across the road, went into the little garden, took Fatty’s bike out, mounted it and rode off at top speed. Nobody even saw him!

  Mr. Goon got his paper, and had a little talk with the owner of the shop. As he went out again, he suddenly remembered the bicycle.