Except for the gaudy rings on his fingers, the man who came to greet them looked like any businessman from Main Street. His hair was thinning at the temples, he wore glasses, and he had teeth so perfect they had to be dentures. He bit off the tip of a cigar as he walked forward.
The auctioneer shook their hands as the Bob-Whites introduced themselves. Unsmiling, he asked, “May I get you something to drink?”
“No, thank you,” Trixie said quickly. She saw at once that the man was not going to make this easy. “We’re, uh, looking for a Shetland pony.”
“Looking for” seemed to be a magic phrase for the auctioneer. The words meant business, and business meant money. “I have no Shetland listed for immediate auction, but I can scout around for one for you,” he said.
“No,” Trixie said, “I mean that we’re hunting for a pony you may have sold.”
The man looked wary. “I don’t deal in stolen goods. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“No, no!” Trixie said, shaking her curls. “We want to know if the Dodges sold their Shetland at their auction.” She gulped and plunged on, watching his face. “A friend of ours, er, Moses White, would very much like to get in touch with the person who might have bought the black pony.”
Trixie heard both Jim and Honey exhale slowly and carefully.
“Oh, that pony.” Elmer Durham lit his cigar and puffed smoke that rose like a mushroomshaped cloud around his head. “I have no immediate recollection of what it brought or who bought it, but it must have gone on the block. I recall listing it.”
“Do—do you have a copy of the inventory and sales record?” Trixie asked, trying not to sound anxious.
“Jeff Higgins keeps the files,” he replied. Trixie was silent, wondering if she dared let this man know she recognized the name.
Durham assumed that she didn’t and explained politely, “My clerk.”
“Would he let us see the Dodge file?” Trixie asked.
The auctioneer blew another cloud of smoke and shrugged. “Why not?” he asked, more of himself than of his callers.
Having reached this point in her investigation, Trixie decided she couldn’t take the risk of having the door slammed in her face. “Would you please give us a note to show Mr. Higgins?” she asked.
Elmer Durham unclipped a pen from his shirt pocket, rummaged through his pants pockets for a piece of paper, and scrawled a note. Then he handed it to Trixie, who, pretending to be casual, folded it and put it into her pocket without glancing at it.
As they returned to the car, being careful not to walk too fast, Honey said, “I don’t think I care for him.”
“He certainly didn’t know what to make of us,” declared Jim.
“He must have decided we were harmless,” Trixie said, patting her pocket. She waited until Jim had pulled away from the curb before snatching the paper from her pocket. “It’s on his official stationery!” she exulted. Then she read aloud, “ Jeff, let these kids see the Dodge file. They’re friends of Moses White. Know him?’ ” The note was signed, “El.”
Honey looked proud. “Moses White—that was pretty clever, Trixie.”
“Let’s just hope we didn’t open a can of worms,” Jim said. “Wouldn’t it be cute if there were a real person with that name?”
By that time, they had reached Balsam, which was the first street east of Hawthorne, in Sleepy-side’s least desirable neighborhood. Trixie looked about uneasily and edged closer to Jim as they went up the Higginses’ walk. Honey was already holding Jim’s arm.
At the end of the walk was an ordinary square duplex split down the middle, with a door on each side of the railing that cut the narrow front porch in half. A dingy card coated with plastic showed that Jeff Higgins lived in apartment A.
The man who answered the door wore trifocal glasses and had ink on his hands. He doesn’t look like a criminal, thought Trixie. Jeff Higgins simply looked worn out.
And so did his living room, Trixie discovered when he invited them in while he read Elmer Durham’s note.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll get the Dodge file.” While he was gone, a younger man stepped over the porch divider rail and came in through the screen door with an opened can of beer. He shouted, “Hey, Pop, I want to borrow your—” Then he stopped in his tracks at the sight of the three visitors.
Trixie never did find out what he wanted to borrow. He plopped down on the arm of a threadbare davenport and stared at them. Roger Higgins was larger than his father, with a great brush of brown hair, a moustache, and a bushy beard. There were puffs under his eyes and a bulge over his belt. This definitely wasn’t his first can of beer.
Jeff Higgins came back into the room, ruffling through papers.
“Whatcha got there?” the younger man asked. “Keep your shirt on, Rog,” Jeff said. “These people want to see the Dodge papers.”
“They can’t do that,” Roger said, scowling. “Oh, yes, they can,” his father said mildly, handing Jim the folder.
Roger Higgins snatched for it as it passed in front of him but missed. “Hey, Pop, aren’t you even asking for identification?”
“Here’s El’s note,” Jeff said, handing it to Roger. Then he left the room.
Quickly Jim put in, “I’m Jim Frayne. This is my sister, Madeleine Wheeler, and our neighbor, Trixie Belden.” Then he gave Trixie the folder.
She spread it on her knees and stared at the neat handwriting. “Where do we start?” she whispered.
Honey looked over her shoulder and murmured, “You can skip that section on tools and household goods.”
“And the description of their motor vehicles,” added Jim.
“Let’s see,” Trixie mumbled. “A ten-year-old Dodge pickup... a late model Dodge compact... oh, here it is—livestock.”
Trixie looked up and dropped her lashes at once. Roger Higgins was listening to every word they said. He shifted his position and then stood up to see what she was reading. When she tilted the paper, Roger walked over to stand behind her. Without being too obvious about it, she kept her arm covering as much of the page as she could. She didn’t say a word when she found the section describing the black Shetland-.
“Item number 204,” Trixie murmured. She added nonchalantly, “Is the auction sales record here, too?”
“The kid’s lookin’ at it,” Roger growled.
As Trixie glanced toward Jim for confirmation, Roger, pretending to be helpful, took the inventory folder from her hands. He took the sales record from Jim and then managed to spill the entire contents of the Dodge file on the floor. He scooped up the papers and did not return them.
“Who are you kids?” he demanded. “Why are you stickin’ your noses into our business?” He tilted his can and drank noisily. “Frayne... Wheeler... Belden,” he muttered. A light dawned. “From out near Glen Road somewhere?”
“Right,” Jim said politely.
“Slumming, huh?” Roger’s red, full lips moved halfway between a smile and a sneer. He drummed his fingers on his beer can and announced, “Okay, the party’s over. Now get out.”
“But—” Trixie protested.
Roger held open the screen door and made a sweeping bow. Hot with anger, Trixie had no choice except to go through the door and down the walk, followed first by Honey, then by Jim.
The minute they were back in the car, Trixie turned to Jim. “The pony—was it sold?”
“There’s no record of a sale,” Jim said as he hurried to get them safely out of the neighborhood.
“Good. That means Davy got his hands on him first,” Trixie said. “If we find one, we’ll find the other.”
Jim looked at his watch. “We’re late for lunch. Why don’t we stop at Wimpy’s?”
Both Honey and Trixie voted to go home. “Every minute that passes is moving us closer to nine o’clock,” said Trixie.
“Besides, I feel uneasy about Dodgy since meeting Roger,” Honey added apprehensively. “What if he follows us home?”
“He see
med to know where we live,” Jim agreed.
“I wish he didn’t,” Trixie fretted.
“He could have checked our car license number,” Jim said. “We were at his mercy.”
As Jim drove up the farm lane, Trixie drew a deep breath. “Smell that bread! Come on in!”
“Just try to keep us out,” Jim dared her.
Before the three could take more than a few steps away from the car, Bobby charged across the yard toward them, round-eyed and out of breath. “Just guess who’s coming!” he shrieked.
Trixie looked where Bobby was pointing, unsure whether to be fearful or ecstatic. There, coming down the bicycle trail, was Brian on the handsome chestnut gelding, Starlight. Behind him was Dan riding Spartan, with Mart following on Strawberry, his favorite mount from the Wheeler stable. And behind them, led by a rope held by Mart, was a friendly, willing captive—a small, black, shaggy pony.
Since learning to ride Mr. Pony, Bobby considered himself to be an authority on ponies. “The littlest pony I ever did see” was his joyful comment.
“Where on earth—” began Trixie.
“Dan came over to help us with our chores,” explained Brian, “and we finished in record time.”
“So,” Dan interrupted, “we decided to follow up on those tracks you found at Ten Acres. You people must not have looked closely enough last night, because—”
“Because,” Mart concluded dramatically, “that is where our equestrian expedition reached a favorable termination, and our exploration evoked an ebony—”
“I can’t listen to any more of this!” cried Trixie.
“I have to call Sergeant Molinson!”
The sergeant was properly impressed with the Bob-Whites’ discovery. “Hang on to him,” he ordered. “Davy will follow.”
Trixie gulped. Now, how was she going to report about the trip to Sleepyside? Well, all she could do was tell him. So she did just that.
“What?” From the other end of the line, Trixie heard sounds decidedly like muffled curses. “I thought I asked you to search for the boy and the pony, while I looked for the crook!” he snapped.
“We didn’t hunt crooks,” Trixie said in a small voice, “just an auction clerk. I had to know more about Wicky.”
“You could have asked Mrs. Dodge!” the sergeant roared.
“She isn’t here. She went home last night,” Trixie reported.
Words crackled into Trixie’s ear. “This case is getting out of hand! I suppose she took the baby?”
“No, sir. Dodgy is here. Di’s watching him.”
“Well, see that somebody stays with him. I’m not sitting on my hands, you know! I’ve been doing some more checking on Roger Higgins.
A few weeks ago, he sat in on a poker game where the stakes were way over his head. Now that he’s made the connection between the Dodge children and you, he may decide to pull something!”
“I—I know. That’s what Honey was worried about,” Trixie confessed miserably.
“Congratulate Honey for keeping her common sense!” the sergeant barked. “And keep in touch with me, y’hear? If the slightest thing goes wrong, call me!” Bang went the receiver.
What’s Mutual? ● 13
TRIXIE FELT LIKE A ROBOT in slow motion as she walked back to Honey. “The sergeant is mad,” she said stiffly.
“How mad?” Honey asked, tears of sympathy welling.
“Plenty,” Trixie admitted. “We’d better find Davy and get both those kids to the police station.”
“How about some lunch first?” begged Mart.
“I’m famished,” agreed Trixie. “Where are Moms and Dad?”
“Who cares?” Mart yelped, making a run for the kitchen. “They left us fresh bread to make sandwiches!”
“They went over to the Dodges’ to help them pack,” said Brian. “And also to help them with errands, since the Dodges sold their cars.”
“Dodgy was napping, so they left him here with me,” Di put in proudly.
All the Bob-Whites got to work in the kitchen. Bobby wanted to share the excitement. “ ’Member. that sandwich I put on the doghouse?” he asked. “Well, you know what? Something ate it! I found the napkin on the ground behind the tool shed.”
“Reddy probably picked it up and carried it back there to eat,” Brian said, putting the finishing touches on his ham and cheese sandwich.
“No tooth marks on the napkin,” Bobby chirped. “I looked.”
Mart groaned loudly. “Methinks our youngest sibling doth create clamor like unto a shamus.”
“Nope to whatever you said,” retorted Bobby. Trixie paused between bites of her peanut butter sandwich. “I think Bobby may have found a clue,” she mused.
Bobby moved to sit beside the one who recognized his detective skills.
“Then why aren’t we hunting?” Dan asked. “Because the sergeant thinks Davy will follow the pony, and we’re giving him a little time to do that before we start tearing the woods apart,” Trixie said.
Bobby felt very important. “Know what else? I answered the phone a while ago. A man said he had a message about a pony from a mu-mutual friend named Moses White. I told him, ‘Moses Bob-White is our baby’s name. What’s mutual?’ Then the man hung up!”
Jim, Trixie, and Honey heard that news with sinking hearts.
“Oh, I wish you hadn’t said that,” sighed Trixie. Then she related the morning’s adventures, including the encounter with Roger Higgins, to the others. “That had to be Roger calling, and he’s up to no good,” she finished.
“Let’s get going, then,” urged Dan.
“Wait a second,” Brian spoke up. “Moms demanded that Mart and I fix that washing machine before we do another thing this afternoon. The laundry’s piled up to the ceiling, she says.”
“And we Beldens will be forced to go au naturel soon,” Mart added.
“Speak for yourself,” said Trixie. “Oh, it’s just as well. Now we can go out in the yard and wait for Davy to show up.”
“I’ll fetch Dodgy,” volunteered Di. “He could use some sun.”
Brian and Mart went to work, and the other Bob-Whites gathered around Dodgy outside. Trixie leaned against a maple and anxiously watched the baby, who cooed in a friendly effort to talk to her. As worried as she was, she couldn’t help giggling. “You little salamander,” she teased.
Bobby dashed out of the house, swinging his jump rope. “Sit still,” he hissed in Trixie’s ear. “You’re the kidnapper, and I’m gonna tie you up while I go find the police!”
“Okay, I surrender.” Trixie’s fright wasn’t just for Bobby’s benefit. She was feeling uneasy.
Clumsily but thoroughly, Bobby tied her to the tree. Then he raced away.
After a while, Trixie had to change position. The rope scraped the skin under her arms when she turned. A few seconds later, the same thing happened. She glanced down at the rope that Bobby had tied across her front, and her mental computer shifted gears. She tried to picture a boy, a baby, and a few supplies. It would be no small task to climb on a Shetland unless... “I know!” she yelled.
Honey looked concerned and rushed over to untie Bobby’s knots. At once, Trixie ran toward the house, shouting, “Brian, I know how Dodgy got bruised!”
Brian came outside, wiping machine oil off his hands. Immediately Trixie scooped up Dodgy and asked Honey for the long, sheer scarf she was wearing to tie back her hair. Dodgy squeaked like a mouse.
“Trixie, Dodgy’s not a rag doll, you know!” said Di, appalled.
Trixie flung the scarf into place under Dodgy’s tiny bare arms. “Wait just a minute, Di. Here, take the baby, Brian, and pretend you have to get on a horse. You’re not very tall, and you need both hands free. So you tie him to your own chest, and you climb up.”
Brian whistled. “So Dodgy wasn’t battered, after all. Davy was just trying to get organized. Poor baby.” By this time, Dodgy was screaming. Brian cuddled him close to calm him.
“We keep saying ‘poor baby,’
” Trixie fretted. “But what about Davy? What a brave boy he must be! He tried so hard to take care of Dodgy.
What could have caused him to run away? What did his parents do to him?”
Honey was aghast. “Trixie, what are you talking about? Both of his parents seem kind and loving.”
“How do we know what happens when doors are closed?” Trixie asked darkly. “Remember Davy’s note? What made him think he was going to be sold? Who would cast away their children like they were, you know, old cars or something?” Then her mental computer clicked again. “Cars!” she shouted.
Everyone turned to look at her as though she had cracked up completely.
“Honey, Jim, don’t you remember the inventory list?” Trixie rushed on. “They auctioned off two vehicles—an old Dodge and a new Dodge!”
“That’s a coincidence,” admitted Jim, “but so what?”
Honey jumped up in excitement. “The new Dodge,” she breathed. “Eileen said that’s why they called the baby Dodgy—because he’s the new Dodge!”
“I see,” Jim said. “So you think Davy ran away because he thought they were selling the baby, not the car. What could possibly make him believe something so weird?
“I don’t know, but it makes sense, doesn’t it? countered Trixie.
“I think it makes sense to let Dodgy get some rest,” Di spoke up firmly.
“Right,” said Brian, setting Dodgy back down on his blanket. “Oh, I’m sorry. I knew I’d get oil on him.”
Trixie smacked her brow with her palm. “Of course,” she said with sudden understanding. “There was machine oil as well as tar at that old Dutch barn. There was even alfalfa. And Davy had been washing Dodgy’s clothes without soap in the spring across the road.”
“Well, so much for the clues Dodgy brought with him,” said Brian.
Just then, Mart loped into the yard and tossed a grease-smeared pin into Trixie’s lap. “The culprit!” he announced dramatically.
Bobby followed behind Mart, saying, “That’s the biggest safety pin I ever saw.”
“It’s a horse’s blanket pin, that’s why,” Dan pointed out.
“From the fly sheet!” exclaimed Trixie and Honey at the same time.
The Mystery of the Castaway Children Page 10