Freddy realized what had happened. The dress he had got into upstairs must be one belonging to the girl’s mother. He’d better do something quick! “Sssssh!” he whispered. “Not a word here! Meet me upstairs in five minutes and I’ll explain.”
He got away while she was still thinking over what he had said. But he didn’t go upstairs. He went down cellar. In the little laundry he stripped off the hat and dress. There was a window over the tubs; he climbed up on the tub rim and unlatched it. And there, right outside and within reach, were his derby and the medicine case.
In another minute or so he would have been outside with them. But someone was coming down the cellar stairs. And while pigs are swift and agile on level ground, climbing is not their stuff. Freddy reached out and grabbed the derby, put a dent in it, crammed it on the back of his head, and when a large woman in an apron who might have been the cook came into the laundry, he was kneeling with his back to her, examining the waste pipe under the tub.
“Well!” she said. “How’d you get in here?”
“Same way you did—down them stairs,” said Freddy in a hoarse voice. “Look, missis; there ain’t anything the matter with that there drain. Why don’t you make sure it’s plugged before you go callin’ me up? I’m a busy man.”
“What are you talking about?” said the woman. “Nobody called you to fix any drain.”
“Certainly did. Said hurry up over to 83 Elm Street and …”
“This is 22 Elm Street,” she interrupted.
“What?” said Freddy, starting up. “Lordy, lordy, how’d I get in here? I got to get over to 83—they’ll skin me alive for taking so long.” And he pushed past the woman and up the stairs.
Outside, he picked up his medicine case and met Georgie at the gate. “Wrong man,” he said. “We’ve got to get back to the diner.”
“OK,” said the dog. “Wipe that lipstick off your face first.”
“Lipstick?” said Freddy. “Oh, I must have got that when the bride thought I was her mother.”
“She thought you were her mother? With a derby hat on?” said Georgie. Of course he hadn’t seen Freddy in the woman’s dress and hat. And he began to giggle. “Don’t give me that stuff! And don’t give me any bride, either. I saw you through the cellar window. Boy, if Jinx ever gets hold of that you’ll never hear the last of it. Kissed by the cook! I bet she thought you were cute!”
“Well, it wasn’t the cook,” said Freddy. “And if you go making up any stories, I’ll tell ’em about the time that little girl that visited the Beans tied a pink ribbon around your stomach and talked baby talk to you. ‘Oh, oo twe-e-et ickle itsy-bitsy pupsy wups! I kiss’m and hug’m and kiss’m and hug’m.’ Wasn’t that it?”
“OK,” said Georgie. “You win. I didn’t see a thing.”
It was about noon now, and people were beginning to go into the diner to get their dinner. Freddy stood across the street and watched Georgie, who took up his post beside the door. As each new arrival turned in, the dog would run up to him, wagging his tail. Nearly everyone would say a word to him, or stoop to pat his head, and he had a chance to get a good sniff at their pockets. He smelt a lot of different things—tobacco, peppermint, peanuts, hair tonic; Mr. Beller smelt of fried onions, Judge Willey—rather surprisingly—of bubble gum. But no mothballs—until Mr. Anderson, the real estate man, went in. Georgie took one sniff and ran across the street to Freddy. “Got him,” he said. “What do we do now?”
Freddy said: “That’s funny. He’s about the right height for Mr. Eha, but he’s an important citizen. Doesn’t seem like the kind that would be playing silly ghost tricks.”
“That’s your problem,” said the dog. “He smells of mothballs, that’s all I know.”
“We have to investigate him, then,” said Freddy. “If he’s our man, there are three mothballs in the upper outside pocket of that coat.”
“When he comes out,” said Georgie, “suppose I run between his legs and trip him up, and then old Dr. Hopper comes along and feels him over for broken bones, eh?”
“Sure. I could feel of his heart to see if it’s still beating. That pocket is right over his heart. That’s an idea, Georgie.”
They had to wait about half an hour. Then as Mr. Anderson came out and started up the street, Georgie darted after him. Freddy followed more slowly. The dog trotted along beside Mr. Anderson, waiting for a chance to trip him. But Mr. Anderson did not like dogs. He turned and aimed a kick at Georgie which would certainly have broken a rib or two if it had landed square. But Georgie ducked, and the toe of the shoe caught him a glancing blow on the shoulder that shot him out into the street. Mr. Anderson just walked on.
Georgie picked himself up and came back to Freddy. “No use feeling of that guy’s heart,” he said. “He hasn’t got any. The big bully, he might have killed me.”
“I guess we’ll have to be more careful,” Freddy said. “He plays kind of rough. We’ll wait a while and then go up to his place. I’ve got an idea.”
Chapter 12
Mr. Anderson’s office was in his house, on Clinton Street. Georgie hid behind a bush with yellow flowers on it in the yard, and Freddy went up and rang the bell. When no one answered, he pushed the door open and walked in. The office was on the left. A sign on its door said: “Back at 3 P.M.” Freddy said: “Well, well,” thoughtfully, and a woman came out of a door at the end of the hall and said: “You want to see Mr. Anderson? He’s taking his nap now and can’t be disturbed. Come back at three.”
“Nonsense!” said Freddy sharply. “I’m Dr. Hopper. Where’s the patient?”
The woman said: “There’s nobody sick here.”
“If he isn’t sick, why did he send for me? And why isn’t he in his office?” said Freddy.
“He takes a nap every afternoon after dinner, that’s why. You ought to know that.”
“I’m a doctor, not a mind reader,” said Freddy. And he thought: “Takes a nap every day, eh? Sounds like Mr. Eha. If he’s up all night haunting a hotel, he has to get his rest some time.” He said to the woman: “Upstairs, is he? I’ll go right up.”
“Well,” she said doubtfully, “if he sent for you …,” and turned away.
One door in the upper hall was closed; Freddy rapped lightly and then walked in. The window shades were down. Mr. Anderson was lying on the bed, fully dressed, but he wasn’t asleep, and he turned a scowling red face towards the intruder, and then sat up.
“Hey, who are you? How’d you get in here?”
“I’m Dr. Hopper,” said Freddy. “Now, take it easy; I came as soon as I could get here. Ha, you do look bad! But don’t worry; we’ll have you on your feet in a week or two, or my name’s not Henry Hopper.” He put his bag down on the table.
Mr. Anderson swung his feet off the bed. “Are you crazy?” he shouted. “I’m not sick, I didn’t send for you. Get out! Get out!”
“Stick the tongue out a little farther, please,” said Freddy, peering into the man’s mouth as he roared at him. “Ha, thought so! Acute frustration of the gulper, with flushed face, bloodshot eyes …”
“My eyes are not bloodshot!” roared Mr. Anderson. “Stop talking nonsense and get out of my room. I didn’t send for a doctor. There’s nothing the matter with me.”
Freddy stood back. “Ha! Certainly I’ll go,” he said in an offended tone. “Never treat a patient against his will. But let me tell you, sir, you’re a very sick man. Whether you think so or not, whether you sent for me or not, you’re a ve-ry sick man! See here, sir; can you honestly tell me that you haven’t any pain in the legs, any backache, any soreness in the joints?”
Freddy knew that if this was Mr. Eha, he would certainly be pretty lame from the wrestling match he had had with Mr. Camphor and Bannister. And he saw that his words had hit the mark. Mr. Anderson frowned and said more quietly: “Well … I’ve got some soreness in my shoulders and my left hip. But it’s nothing but …”
“Nothing but! Nothing but!” Freddy interrupted. “My dear sir, it’s nothing but a
severe strain of the spigrastrium, with perhaps a misplacement of the rostrum! Due to some too severe physical exercise. Seen the same thing hundreds of times, and if it isn’t taken care of, it always ends badly, badly. Why, look at the back of your hand—complications setting in already!”
“Pooh, that’s nothing but a touch of poison ivy,” said Mr. Anderson.
“Poison ivy, hey? H’mph, well, it’s your funeral.” He picked up his bag.
“Just a minute,” said the other. He got up and looked at himself in the glass. “Maybe I do look a little flushed. Well, as long as you’re here, it won’t do any harm if you look me over.”
“That’s better,” said Freddy, putting the bag down again. “Just take off your coat and lie down on the bed. On your face. That’s it.” He took the coat and as he hung it over the back of a chair, felt in the upper outside pocket. Yes, there were the mothballs. Well, the thing now was to get out as quickly as possible.
He bent over Mr. Anderson and poked at his back, saying: “H’m. Ha. Just as I thought.”
“You don’t really think anything is wrong, do you, Doctor?” said Mr. Anderson.
“Nothing that a change of climate won’t cure,” Freddy said. “I’ll write you out a prescription.” He picked up a pencil at the desk and began making squiggles and curlicues on a piece of paper.
“A change of climate!” Mr. Anderson exclaimed. “I can’t leave Centerboro. My business …”
“Your business is your affair,” Freddy interrupted. “Your health is mine. And I’m telling you that you’ve got to get away. Another month in this climate and you’re a gone goose. Want to spend the rest of your life in a wheel chair? All right. Take six months at the seashore. Then come see me again.” He held out the slip of paper on which he had been writing. “Have this filled and take one after every meal until you feel better. Good afternoon, sir.”
Mr. Anderson had put on his coat. “Hold on,” he said, looking at the paper. “I can’t read this.”
“Nobody asked you to,” said Freddy. “Let the druggist worry about that. If he can’t read it, he’ll guess at it. He’s pretty good at that. Never killed but one of my patients that way, and that one was no loss.”
“Say,” Mr. Anderson said, “don’t you ever take that hat off?”
“Certainly not. Too busy to waste time. Taking off hats, putting on hats, wastes minutes; minutes add up to hours; I get a week’s extra work in the year by keeping this hat on.”
Mr. Anderson grinned unpleasantly. “Just the same,” he said, “I’d like to see what you look like.” And he snatched off the hat. “Great Jerusha!” he exclaimed. “A pig!” And he made a grab for Freddy.
Georgie had curled up under the bush in the yard and was sleeping, as dogs often do, with his eyes open. Suddenly he raised his head. He heard a roaring voice inside the house, and then a great banging and thumping as if a piano was falling downstairs. And then Freddy, hatless, and clutching his medicine case, burst out of the front door and tumbled down the steps, and behind him came Mr. Anderson, shouting: “Stop him! Stop that man—I mean that pig!”
Freddy, clutching his medicine case, burst out the front door.
Mr. Anderson’s big red hand with the poison ivy on the back was not two inches from Freddy’s coat collar. And then Georgie darted out from his bush and dove between his legs.
Mr. Anderson didn’t fall at once. But his feet had been stopped by Georgie’s body; they had fallen behind his own body which went right on and got ahead of his legs, and though his legs worked hard to catch up and get under him again, they couldn’t make it. He took four more steps and then dove headlong into the fence, knocking out four pickets.
“I got him that time!” Georgie yelled. “Beat it, Freddy!”
Freddy was a good runner. But Mr. Anderson was a tough customer; he didn’t stop to feel of his bruises; he was up and after the pig in a matter of seconds. They dashed down Clinton into Elm, and down Elm into Main Street. Freddy had only half a block lead, and he knew he could keep it; but his pursuer was yelling: “Stop thief!” at the top of his lungs, and he felt pretty sure that before he got through town somebody would grab and hold him. He turned a corner on two legs and darted into the open door of Beller & Rohr’s store.
Mr. Rohr was alone in the place. “Hide me!” Freddy panted, and ran into the back room.
Mr. Rohr was a good friend of Freddy’s. He didn’t ask any questions—indeed, there was hardly time, for a few seconds later Mr. Anderson rushed in.
“Is there a pig in here?” he demanded.
“We don’t carry pigs, sir,” said Mr. Rohr politely. “This is a jewelry store.”
“Certainly I know that, Rohr, you fool,” said Mr. Anderson. “I’m looking for a pig in a dark suit that just ran in here—at least he ran into one of these stores.”
Mr. Rohr shook his head and smiled faintly. “Pigs in dark suits—if I had seen anything like that, forgive me, Mr. Anderson, but I think I would consult a doctor instead of a jeweler.”
“Bah!” said Mr. Anderson disgustedly. “You know the pig I mean, all right. One of those smart animals of old Bean’s—I recognized him. Claims to be a detective.” He stopped, looking startled. “A detective! By George, I wonder!” He turned and went quickly out of the store.
“Thanks, Mr. Rohr,” said Freddy, coming out of the back room. “I’ll tell you what it’s all about later—can’t stop now. Got to find Bannister and get back to Mr. Camphor’s. But …” He broke off as a loud angry voice began shouting somewhere outside.
Before they could run to the door Georgie came prancing in. “Got him again, Freddy,” he said happily. “He pretty near busted the lamp post in front of the bank—dove right into it. I guess I’m even with Mr. Edward Henry Anderson now!”
“Oh, my goodness gracious!” Freddy exclaimed. “Edward Henry Anderson! On that handkerchief—those were his initials: E.H.A.! Mr. Eha! And look at all the work I’ve done to find out who Mr. Eha was, and there it was right in front of my nose all the time!” Freddy felt pretty angry at himself for being so stupid. But that’s the way detective work is—you pass over things forty times without really seeing them at all, and then all at once they seem to jump right up and hit you in the eye. And you wonder how you could have missed them.
Chapter 13
Freddy didn’t go straight back to Mr. Camphor’s. Instead he went down to call on his friend the sheriff, at the Centerboro jail. The prisoners were all in their cells, getting dressed to go over to a dance that evening at Tushville, and the sheriff took Freddy and Georgie and Bannister into his office and opened a big box of candy, and they sat and munched while Freddy told his story.
The sheriff tugged thoughtfully at his long mustache. “I dunno, Freddy,” he said. “I’m sorry for that Mrs. Filmore; she’s a real nice woman. And I don’t like Anderson—never did. But we haven’t got enough against him to do anything legal. Of course, if you got something illegal in your mind, I might help you, as long as you don’t tell me what it is. I’m an officer of the law, you know; it wouldn’t look right if I was to go round committin’ crimes.”
“Well, they couldn’t put you in jail,” said Georgie, “because you’re there already.”
“That’s as true as you’re born,” said the sheriff with a grin. “But they could take me out of jail, by not electing me next year, and that would be worse.”
“I don’t want to do anything illegal,” Freddy said. “Not now, anyway. All I want is to find out where Simon is. I want to have a talk with him.”
“Why the rats could be most anywhere,” said the sheriff. “Hold on, though—you say you think Anderson picks ’em up every night and takes ’em over to Lakeside in a canoe? There’s a lot of little camps along the south shore of the lake, east of Camphor’s; it might be any one of ’em. They’re all vacant this time of year.”
“Is there any place along there where there’s a lot of poison ivy?” Freddy asked.
“There’s little patche
s of it all along that shore. Say, hold on a minute! There’s one camp—used to belong to Herb Garble. Come to think of it, Garble bought it off Anderson, seven-eight years ago, but there was so much ivy round the place he couldn’t use it much. He was broke out all summer. Place is abandoned now—nobody ever goes there any more. That’s the spot I’d pick for a hideaway if I didn’t mind doin’ a lot of scratching.”
“Why don’t I drive you up there now?” said Bannister. “He won’t be there in the daytime.”
“Guess I’ll come along,” said the sheriff. “I feel kind of out of sorts, seein’ the boys all primping and prettying themselves up for the party. Kind of lonesome bein’ left here.”
“Then why don’t you go?” Georgie asked.
“There’s two reasons. For one thing I’d have to wear a necktie, and it kind of shuts off my gullet so I ain’t got any conversation. For another, my kind of dancin’ is the old-fashioned kind—stompin’ and yellin’ and cuttin’ pigeon wings, and folks don’t seem to care for it any more. Gone out of style, I guess, like plug hats and red suspenders.”
Bannister drove them up to the lake, and then along the southern shore. They passed several camps and cottages, and came to an open space which was covered with the shiny, dark green leaves of poison ivy. In the middle of the space was a tumbledown camp, and the ivy even twined up around the porch posts, and hung in festoons over the boarded-up windows. It didn’t look as if anybody had been there in a long time, but Freddy noticed that the path from the road up to the front door had been kept clear. He and Georgie got out, leaving the two men in the car, and walked up to the porch.
“Somebody’s been here not later than yesterday,” said Freddy, pointing to a leaf on the path, which was crushed, as if somebody had stepped on it, but still green and unwithered.
The flimsy door was padlocked, but Freddy put his shoulder to it and broke it in. There were two rooms. There was nothing in the front one but some odds and ends of furniture, but when they pushed open the door to the kitchen: “Golly!” said Georgie. “This is a regular rat heaven!”
Freddy Goes Camping Page 8