by Enid Blyton
Tuesday Night At Last.
Tuesday night did come at last. For once in a way it was a cloudy night, and it almost looked as if the longed-for rain was coming. It was a little cooler, and every one was thankful.
"How are you going to manage about your father and mother tonight?" asked Pip. "I mean—you want to set off about 7:30, don't you? And that's the time you have dinner with them."
"They're away for a couple of nights," said Fatty. "Bit of luck, that. Larry, you come to dinner with me, and we'll have it at seven, together. Then you can walk down with me to the Hall, to make sure no one will see me."
"Right," said Larry. "I will. Wish I was going to come into the Hall with you, too, and see everything. Will you come back and tell us what's happened, Fatty, even if it's awfully late? I'll keep awake."
"All right. But I'd better not go to Pip's," said Fatty. "Mrs. Hilton is sure to hear me if I call up to Pip. Her room is just nearby."
"Oh, Fatty! We can't possibly wait till the morning! "cried Bets.
"You'll have to," said Fatty. "I can't go round to you all and tell you what's happened. Anyway, you'll be fast asleep, little Bets!"
"I shan't. I shan't sleep a wink all night," said Bets.
The day dragged by very slowly. At half-past six Fatty left Pip's, with Larry, and the two of them went to Fatty's house. They were to have dinner early, at seven—then their adventure would begin. All the children felt excited, but only Fatty did not show it. He appeared to be as calm as ever.
The two boys made a very good meal indeed. Then Fatty put the pink stuff on his face and after that they set out to go down to the river. They meant to take the path over the fields, then go by the water-side, and so come to the Fair without meeting a lot of people.
They arrived at the Waxworks Hall. "How are you going to get in?" whispered Larry, suddenly seeing that the place was shut and in darkness.
"Didn't you spot me undoing the catch of one of the windows when we were here this morning?" whispered Fatty. "I'm going to get in there. I say—what about you coming in too, in case I get into difficulties over dressing? You can easily hop out of the window afterwards."
"Yes, I will," said Larry, pleased at the idea of watching Fatty dress himself as Napoleon. "Where's the window?"
"It's this one," said Fatty, and looked cautiously round. "Anyone about? Not a soul I Here goes, then!"
He opened the window quietly, hauled himself up and dropped down into the hall. Larry followed. The boys shut the window carefully, in case any one noticed that it was open.
The hall wasn't dark, because a lamp from the Fair nearby shone into it, and gave a fint and rather eerie light to the still waxworks.
The boys looked round them. The figures somehow seemed more alive than in .the daytime, and Larry gave a little shiver. Silly fancies crept into his head. Suppose wax figures came alive at night and walked and talked!
What a dreadful shock it would give him and Fatty!
"They all seem to be looking at us," whispered Larry. "They make me feel quite creepy. Look at Nelson—he's watching us all the time!"
"Idiot!" said Fatty, walking over to Napoleon. "Come on—help me to undress him, Larry."
It was a queer business, undressing the rather plump figure of the wax Napoleon. It wasn't easy, either, because Napoleon didn't help in any way! In fact, it almost seemed as if he quite deliberately tried to make things difficult for the two boys!
"If only he'd raise his arms a bit, or give a wriggle, or something," whispered Larry. "We could get his things off easily then. But he just makes himself as stiff as possible!"
Fatty chuckled. "I'd get a shock if he did raise his arms or wriggle!" he said. "I'd just as soon he didn't. There—his coat's off, thank goodness—but I've torn his high collar a bit. Now for his trousers."
Soon poor Napoleon stood stiff and straight in nothing but some kind of shapeless under-garment. The boys lifted him up and carried him to a cupboard. They put him inside and shut the door. Then Fatty proceeded to undress himself very quickly. He stuffed his own clothes into the cupboard with Napoleon.
Then, with Larry's help he put on Napoleon's clothes. They fitted him quite well, and he only had to use one of Daisy's safety-pins. He pulled on the coat, and the medals made a little jingling noise.
"Fatty! You look marvellous in that uniform!" said Larry, in admiration. "You honestly do! Now the hat—golly, it fits you as if it was made for you!"
Fatty made Larry hold up a small mirror and looked at face in it. It was all covered with pink, and looked very like the faces of the wax figures around. Fatty pulled a strand of hair on to his forehead, just like the one the wax Napoleon had had. Then he put his hand under his coat, stood absolutely still and stiff, and stared straight in front of him.
Larry couldn't find enough words of praise. "Nobody, nobody could possibly guess you weren't a wax figure!" he said. "You're marvellous, Fatty! Honestly, you're more of a wax figure than Napoleon was before! I wish you could see yourself, I really do. Golly, it's wonderful!"
Fatty was pleased. He beamed modestly at Larry, but not too broadly in case the wax on his face cracked a bit.
"It's only your eyes that are different from the other wax figures," said Larry. "They've got a proper light in them—the others haven't. Yours shine."
"Well, I hope they won't shine too much!" said Fatty. "Now, you'd better go, Larry, old boy. It's about half-past eight, isn't it? The men might be here early."
"Right," said Larry—and then he suddenly stood stock-still in fright. It sounded as if some one was fumbling at the door of the hall!
"Go, quickly!" said Fatty, in a whisper, and Larry fled, threading his way carefully between the silent figures till he came to the window at the back of the hall. He opened it cautiously, climbed up and dropped out, shutting it again at once. He dived under a bush and sat there, hardly daring to breathe, mopping his forehead with his handkerchief.
He pictured the gang walking in silently, and he felt glad he was not Fatty, all alone there, hidden in the rows of waxwork figures. Golly, he'd only got out just in time!
Fatty was waiting in the greatest excitement for the hall door to open. Who would come in? The leader of the gang? All the men? Would he know any of them?
The fumbling at the door went on. Somebody seemed to be having difficulty with the key. But at last it turned and the door opened quietly. Somebody stepped in, and shut the door—and locked it! Why lock it? Fatty was puzzled. Weren't the others coming in too, then?
The silent-footed person moved down the hall, and the light from the Fair lamp outside shone down on him. Fatty got a most tremendous shock.
It was Mr. Goon!
"Goon!" thought Fatty, and he almost fell off his step. "Old Clear-Orf! Goon! But—is he one of the gang then? Goon here, with the thieves! What's it all mean?"
Mr. Goon proceeded to do a few very peculiar things. He walked behind Fatty until he came to one of the wax figures. Fatty did not know which one, for he dared not move or turn round to see what Goon was doing.
Mr. Goon then lifted up the figure, and, panting noisily, carried it to a big window, where a voluminous curtain hung. Then Fatty was able to see which figure Mr. Goon was carrying.
It was the wax policeman! Mr. Goon carefully placed him behind the curtain, and then creaked back to the place where the wax figure had stood.
And, in a flash, Fatty understood everything. He almost groaned in disappointment.
"Of course—Goon has read the secret message in that grocery list after all—he found out, as we did, that a meeting of the Gang will be held here tonight—and he I’ll got the same brain-wave too. He thought he'd come and be one of the wax figures, and listen in to everything! Golly—he's got more brains and pluck than I'd have thought he had!"
Poor Fatty! It was a great shock and disappointment to him to know that the policeman would hear everything, and be able to solve the Mystery after all. He would know the Gang—and their plans—a
nd would be able to arrest the whole lot of them at once!
But surely he wouldn't dare to tackle the whole gang single-handed? No—that couldn't be his plan. Then what was it? Fatty stood and puzzled his brains, angry and miserable to think that Goon should have been clever enough to think of exactly the same idea as the Find-Outers.
"But it was much more difficult for me" thought Fatty. "I had to undress the figure of Napoleon and dress myself up again—Goon only had to go and stand in the place of the wax policeman. We always did think that the wax figure was like Goon! Blow! Everything's spoilt."
Fatty would have given anything to turn round and see what Goon looked like, standing stiffly there some way behind him. Goon was breathing very heavily, as he always did when he was excited. Fatty wondered if he would remember to breathe quietly when the Gang came in! Then Goon did a little cough, and cleared his throat.
"Of course, he thinks there's nobody here at all," thought Fatty. "So it doesn't matter what noises he makes. I want to cough, myself—but I daren't, because Goon would be very suspicious at once. What a shock it would give him, to hear one of the waxworks cough.
I wonder if he'd get scared and go flying out of the hall at once! No, I don't think he would!"
Mr. Goon shuffled his feet a little and sniffed. Then he got out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
Fatty immediately wanted to blow his too! It was most irritating wanting to sniff and cough and blow his nose when he dared not make a single movement. Spoiling everything! Enjoying himself sniffing and coughing. Waiting for his Big Moment—and thinking of Promotion!
There came the sound of voices outside. Then a key was put into the door, and it opened. "Ho!" thought Fatty, "Mr. Goon had a duplicate key, had he? He made his plans well. Locked the door after him, too, so that the men shouldn't get suspicious, as they would have if the door had been unlocked!"
Four men came in. Fatty strained his eyes to try and see what their faces were like. But one and all wore soft hats pulled well down over their foreheads. They did not light a lamp, nor did they even use torches. The faint light from the Fair lamp outside seemed to be enough for them.
They got chairs and sat down. They waited for a while, saying nothing. Fatty wondered why. Then he knew.
"Where's Number Three?" said one of the men impatiently. "He ought to be here. Didn't you warn him, Number Five?"
"Yes, I sent him a message," said another man. "In a cigarette I gave to old Johnny. He'll turn up soon."
They waited in silence again. One of the men pulled out a watch and looked at it.
"Can't wait any longer," he said. "The job's on tonight."
'Tonight?" said another man. "Where? All of us in it this time, or not?"
"All of us," said the first man. "Except Number Three, as he's not here. It's the Casfleton pearls tonight."
"Whew!" said two of the men. "Big stuff!"
"Very big," said the first man. "Now see here—these are the plans. You, Number Two, have got to drive the car, and you..."
Fatty and Mr. Goon watched and listened intently. Mr. Goon remembered not to breathe loudly, and as for Fatty, he was so excited that he hardly breathed at all. They heard all the details of the new robbery to be pulled off that night. But try as he would Fatty could not see clearly the face of any of the men at all.
He began to think hard. The men would soon be gone. Once they were gone he would get to the telephone and tell the Inspector all he knew—and the robbery could be stopped. Then he remembered Mr. Goon. Blow! Goon would be in charge of this, not Fatty.
Poor Mr. Goon was not feeling very happy just at that moment. He wanted to sneeze. He could feel it coming quite distinctly. He swallowed violently and wriggled his nose about. No—that sneeze meant to come. Whoooshooo!
Mr. Goon Plays a Mean Trick.
It wasn't a very big sneeze, because Mr. Goon had tried most valiantly to stop it, and it came out in quite a gentlemanly manner. But it was enough to startle all the men, and Fatty too, almost out of their skins!
The men sprang to their feet at once, and looked all round the hall. "What was that? There's somebody here! Somebody spying on us!"
Fatty was suddenly frightened. The men's eyes gleamed under their hats, and he could hear a savage tone in the voice of the man who spoke. The boy kept absolutely still. Silly, idiotic old Goon, to give the game away like that!
"There's somebody here! Who is it? Show yourself!" shouted one of the men. Neither Goon nor Fatty made any movement, and all the wax figures stared stolidly at the group of men.
"It's creepy in here, with all those figures looking at us," said the first man. "But one of them's real! No doubt about that! Come on—well soon find out. I've got a torch."
Fatty's heart beat fast. He hoped and hoped that the men would find Goon before they found him. But most unfortunately Fatty was in the front row, and Goon wasn't.
One of the men had a powerful torch. He walked over to Nelson and flashed it in his face. Nelson stared unblinkingly in front of him. "He's wax all right," said the man, and passed to the next figure, a tall soldier. He flashed the torch in his face.
The soldier didn't make a movement at all. It was obvious that he was wax, for there was a little crack down one cheek, where he had once struck his face, when being carried from one place to another.
One after another the wax figures had the torch flashed into their faces, and one after another they stared unblinkingly past the man's head. Fatty began to tremble a little. Would he be able to stare without bunking too? He hoped so.
His turn came. The torch was flashed suddenly in his face, and the boy could not help a sudden blink. His eyes did it automatically, although he did his best not to. He hoped the man hadn't noticed. But there was something about Fatty's bright, shining, living eyes that caught the man's attention at once, as well as the bunk. He grabbed at Fatty's arm, and felt it to be warm and soft.
"Here he is!" he said. "Here's the spy. Standing here staring at us, listening to everything!"
Poor Fatty was dragged down off his steps and pulled into the middle of the hall. He was frightened, but he meant to put a bold face on it.
"Who are you?" said the first man, and shone his torch into Fatty's face.
"Napoleon," said Fatty, trying to brave things out. "Just doing it for a joke!"
"He's only a boy," said one of the men, pulling off Napoleon's hat. "How old are you? "
"Fourteen," said Fatty.
The men stared at him. "What are we going to do with him?" said one. "Can't take him off in the car with us—too risky. And we can't waste time dumping him anywhere, because if we're not on time with this job, we’ll fail. What he wants is a jolly good questioning and a good thrashing, and he'll get it—but not now. It's time we went."
"We'll be back here again tonight with the stuff," said another man. "Well tie him up, gag him, put him into the cupboard over there, and lock him in. He can't give the game away then. Well deal with him when we come back. He can't know anything about the job tonight, except what he's just heard, so he won't have warned any one."
"Right," said the other men, and then began a bad time for poor Fatty. He was rolled up in a curtain, with his hands and feet tied, and a big handkerchief was bound across his mouth. Then he was popped into the cupboard with Napoleon, and the door was shut and locked on him.
His only comfort was that Mr. Goon was still there, posing stolidly, quite unsuspected. As soon as the men had got away, Goon would surely come to his rescue and untie him. Then he, Fatty would be in at the last, after all.
He could hear nothing in the cupboard. He did not hear the men go out of the hall and lock the door. He did not see Goon wait on his step for a few moments and then relax and give a deep sigh. Mr. Goon had had a most surprising and unpleasant time himself from the moment he had sneezed to the moment the men had at last gone.
When he had sneezed, he had felt certain that the men would search the figures and find him. He had no idea at all
, of course, that Fatty had been one of the figures too. When the boy had been found and hauled off his stand, Mr. Goon's eyes had almost fallen out of his head.
What—somebody else in the hall—somebody who must have been there when Mr. Goon himself had come in and changed places with the wax policeman? Who was it!
Mr. Goon recognized Fatty's voice as soon as the boy had spoken. He went purple with rage. That interfering boy again! So he, like Goon himself, had read the secret message—and he hadn't told the police. The bad, wicked ... well, words failed Mr. Goon as he stood there thinking about Fatty.
The policeman shook when he thought that the men would probably find him next. When they did not think of looking any further, his heart beat a little less fast. Well, serve that boy right, if he got caught! He deserved to! Keeping information from the police! Mr. Goon's face went red again.
He had been so very pleased with himself at thinking of this idea—posing as the wax policeman, and listening in to the gang and their plans. Well, he knew a lot now, he did—and if only those men would go off to the job and leave him alone, he'd soon do a spot of telephoning, and arrange to catch them all neatly—red-handed, too! Mr. Goon glowed when he thought of it.
But the men hadn't gone yet. They were tying up that fat boy—hadn't even given him a clip over the ear, as Mr. Goon would himself have very much liked to do. The policeman watched with pleased eyes the efficient way in which the men rolled Fatty up in the curtain, his hands and legs well and truly bound, and a handkerchief over his mouth. Ha! That was the way to treat people like Fatty!
Mr. Goon watched the men pop Fatty into the cupboard and turn the key on him. Good! Now that boy was properly out of the way. If only the men would go, Mr. Goon could step down and get busy. He smiled as he thought of how busy he would get. Inspector Jenks would be surprised at his news. Yes, and pleased, too.
The door closed and the men were gone. Mr. Goon heard the sound of a car starting up. He thought it would be safe to step down into the hall, and he stood there, looking round, feeling extremely pleased with himself.