“I knew it was your mule, Mrs. Llewellyn, even if I hadn’t happened to hear that radio broadcast. I was out looking for her first thing this morning—not really looking for her, you understand, but thinking it might help find the children. There aren’t many mules left around here any more.”
“Has Alice ever been there before?” asked Ted.
“I thought I saw her once last year, and I suppose it was on her mind that the grass was greener over there and she intended to come back. Only the traffic would be too heavy for her, most times.”
“How about the railroad bridge?”
“That would be shorter, but I don’t think she could get on the right of way. It’s fenced off. I sure hope she didn’t come that way. It would be too dangerous.”
He drove off, after accepting the children’s thanks for returning their mule. Then Ted and Nelson felt it was time to leave as well. The children tried to persuade them to take a ride on the mule, but they declined, not being quite sure of Alice’s friendship at that point.
Finding they could not hold the visitors there any longer, the children made them promise to come back before leaving East Walton, and they drove off amid many shouts of thanks.
“So that was Alice,” Nelson muttered. “I thought all mules were named Maude.”
“How many mules have you ever known?”
“None, I guess. Half horse and half donkey, with ears that remind you of a rabbit besides—I wonder if Alice really knows what she is?”
“Mrs. Llewellyn seemed to think Alice considers herself human.”
“Maybe she does, maybe she does. But I still don’t think she’d win any beauty prize.”
Ted nodded. “Yes, I’m afraid Alice couldn’t win a beauty prize—even in a contest for mules.”
CHAPTER 4.
THE BAD SAMARITANS
EXPECTING to arrive in East Walton within a few minutes, the boys were again delayed. They were hardly back on the main road when they passed a car beside the highway, the driver bent over the engine.
“Want to stop and help him?” Nelson inquired.
Ted shrugged. “That’s up to you. Maybe he’s getting along all right without us.”
“No, I don’t think so. From the look on his face he seems pretty frustrated. Anyway, the idea is to get acquainted with as many people in East Walton as we can, isn’t it?”
He backed up the car and they got out.
“Bad trouble?” asked Nelson.
“Bad enough. Little or big, I can’t find it, so it doesn’t much matter what it is. I’m stuck here,” he answered shortly.
“Let me have a look,” Nelson said.
“I hope I didn’t sound too ungracious,” said the motorist to Ted, as Nelson began to check the engine. “I don’t know anything about cars. I’ve been here an hour already, and looking at that motor is about the same thing as looking at a map of the moon, as far as I’m concerned. If I’d been smart, I would have started hoofing it right away.”
“Are you in a hurry?”
“No, except that anything I’ve got to do would be more important than standing around here, hoping someone will stop to help me. I should have known better. Apparently people around here have never heard about the Good Samaritan.”
“You can hardly blame them,” Ted pointed out. “You read so much about crime in the newspapers.”
“Well, I’m not a criminal. Yes, I am, too. Everybody’s a criminal. How could you possibly obey every law that’s passed today? Anyway, I’m Patrick Sorrel.”
“I’m Ted Wilford, and my friend is Nelson Morgan.”
Ted shook hands with Mr. Sorrel, and Nelson nodded.
“I’m grateful to both of you,” Mr. Sorrel went on, “though I can’t help but be a little sour when I have to depend on strangers for help, while half a dozen people I’ve known for years drove by without so much as looking at me.”
“Friends of yours went by without stopping?” asked Ted.
“I didn’t say they were friends. I said they were people I knew. I don’t have any friends.”
Ted was thinking how odd that sounded when Mr. Sorrel went on to explain:
“You might think it’s all my fault, and it is possible you are right—but that doesn’t necessarily follow, either. People don’t like me because I’m ambitious and want to better myself. Does that sound like such a crime?”
“No,” Ted agreed cautiously, “but it might depend on how you went about it.”
“I’m not stealing the savings of widows and orphans, if that’s what you mean. I have a straight-forward business proposition.”
“Just what is your business, Mr. Sorrel?”
“I’m a real-estate promoter, or at least I’m trying to be one. I’m developing the property across the river, known as West Walton. That’s been a dream around here for generations, and I’m trying to make it come true.”
Nelson looked up suddenly from his work. “West Walton? We’ve been talking about you lately—only we didn’t know that you were the person we were talking about.”
“Do you own the property of West Walton?” asked Ted.
“I own some of it outright. I control most of the rest of it through leases and options. You may hear stories that I cheated people, paid them less than the property was worth, but don’t you believe them. We agreed upon price, and I paid whatever seemed a fair value at that time. Now do you see anything dishonest about what I’m doing?”
“Sounds all right, the way you describe it,” Ted agreed. “Just why do people have it in for you?”
“I’ll tell you why,” said Mr. Sorrel bitterly. “It’s because I wasn’t satisfied to be a coal miner. The miners seem to think I’ve deserted them. How is it going to hurt East Walton if I build a nice section of homes in West Walton? They will be for wealthy retired people, and the executive and professional type of working people. I’m afraid they’d be outside the reach of most coal miners—even if the mine were open.”
Ted smiled a little ruefully. “Haven’t you answered your own question? People resent you because you are catering to a wealthier class of people, and more or less leaving them stranded.”
“Well, what do you expect me to do?” said Mr. Sorrel sharply. “Coal mining is a dead issue, as far as East Walton is concerned. We were all caught in the same trap. I’ve managed to wriggle out—maybe—by the skin of my teeth. It’s up to the others to try to figure out some way of wriggling out, too. If they sit around waiting for the mine to open again, I think they’re in for a long, long wait.”
“Is it really that bad?” Ted questioned.
“I’m afraid it is, Ted. Everything is booming except coal, and that’s fallen way, way off. You might almost as well raise your son to be a blacksmith as a coal miner.”
He was painting a pretty dismal picture. But was that all there was to the story?
“What do the people in East Walton think about it?” asked Ted.
“That’s just it, they don’t think. The people who think have left already, and the children are all planning to leave, just as soon as they are old enough. All the others have settled down into a poverty-stricken apathy. How are you making out, Nelson?”
Nelson beckoned to him. “See that nut down there?”
“Don’t try to explain it to me. I don’t know the first thing about engines. The important thing is, can you fix it?”
Nelson shook his head. “I think you need a new part.” He wiped his hands on a rag.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Sorrel, in exasperation, “how about giving me a lift into town where I can hire a mechanic? I’d better lock up my car, in case some juveniles are prowling around.”
“What do you make of this guy, Ted?” Nelson asked in a low voice. “Isn’t he a screwball?”
“Maybe he just acts that way.”
“Act that way long enough, and he’s likely to be that way,” Nelson muttered, but had no time to say more as Mr. Sorrel returned to them.
They piled into the f
ront seat of Nelson’s car and had barely started when Mr. Sorrel said:
“If you’re not in a hurry, you might turn off on this little side road. It’ll take you closer to the river, and you’ll be able to see my development.”
So they turned off onto a dirt road that cut between two hills, then circled around behind them along the river bank. Chances were that this road might be under water in flood time, and that was the reason it had not been developed.
“Draw up here, Nelson,” Mr. Sorrel suggested. “Now, you see that?” Mr. Sorrel pointed with pride. “That’s West Walton.”
“Hm, the grass does look greener on the other side,” Nelson murmured.
“What’s that?”
“Just a private joke.”
Ted regarded the green, gentle hills. “Is there anything over there?”
“Surveyors’ stakes, and things of that sort. It’s all laid out. All that’s necessary is for my bank loans to come through, and we’ll be ready to shovel dirt.”
“Expecting any trouble there?”
“There’s always the possibility of trouble, but I’m not expecting any. I expect to finance it one way or another.”
He turned to Nelson. “How do you like the view?”
“Pretty nice, but I don’t think I’d like to retire by a river. That flowing water always reminds me that I ought to be up and doing things.”
“Aren’t we on the wrong side of the river?” asked Ted.
“What do you mean, Ted?” Mr. Sorrel responded.
“It isn’t so important what sort of view we have from here. What’s important is what sort of view they have from over there.”
“There’re some pretty hills over here, Ted. There’s the coal mining, of course, but that doesn’t mean much. Anyway, I don’t expect to see it renewed in my lifetime.”
Nelson drove on slowly along the curving road, until it had rejoined the main highway. In a few minutes they had reached the outskirts of East Walton. The small city, though close to the river, did not share the view they had just seen, for it was cut off by a low range of hills. Following Mr. Sorrel’s directions, they dropped him off at a small auto repair shop.
“I can handle everything from here on. Thanks for the lift, and for listening to my babbling,” said Mr. Sorrel, and with a wave of his hand he left them.
“So that’s West Walton,” Nelson murmured. “You might better call it ‘Sorrel’s Pastures.’ ”
“Funny how you can have so much prosperity on one side of a river,” Ted said, “and so much poverty on the other.”
“It’s still a pasture over there,” Nelson reminded him. “The coal mine might come back before those homes are ever built. You think he’s got any customers yet?”
“I don’t suppose so, but I don’t think he’ll have any trouble selling them—if and when he gets them built. It’s a nice quiet little community, but still not too far away from some big cultural centers.”
“And if he does get them built, then what is poor little Alice going to do? She won’t be able to go across the river to eat some of that nice green grass on those open, rolling hills. Say, Ted, where would a mule go during a storm?”
“Does it matter?”
“I’d just like to know, that’s all. I think Alice is too smart to stay out in a storm like that, and anyway she didn’t look like she’d been drenched. We know she wasn’t in the mine, so where was she?”
“Suppose you tell me.”
“I think maybe somebody sheltered her.”
“And then what?”
“Took her across the river by truck after the storm was over.”
“Why in the world would anybody do that?” Ted asked.
“How should I know? I don’t figure things out, I just have fun. Why?” he said, noticing a suddenly startled look on Ted’s face. “Did I say something brilliant?”
“I’m not sure whether you did or not. It does seem an awful way for Alice to go all by herself. I don’t see how she could have made it except by walking through the rain last night—and I agree she didn’t look particularly bedraggled. I should think her normal reaction when the storm came up would be to forget all about that green grass across the river, and turn around and head for home and shelter.”
“Are you forgetting a mule’s one-track mind, Ted?”
“Maybe I am,” admitted Ted.
“Any chance that Alice swam across the river?”
Ted frowned. “She didn’t look as though she had been wet. And then, both Mr. Stevens and Mrs. Llewellyn assumed right from the beginning that Alice must have gone around by the road. Apparently it never even occurred to them that she might have swum.”
“Do we have a mystery here, Ted?”
“We didn’t, until you started something going—I don’t know whether it was your head or your tongue.”
“My tongue,” said Nelson.
“Well, where does it leave us? We don’t know where Alice went, but we don’t think she got wet. If she didn’t, that eliminates the possibility of swimming the river, or going around by the road during an all-night storm. Somebody could have sheltered her, then taken her across the river early this morning in a truck or delivery wagon, and dumped her off. But why would anyone want to do a crazy thing like that?”
It was Nelson’s turn to look suddenly startled. ‘Ted,” he said, “don’t think I’ve flipped, but look at it this way: what always happens after the mule runs away?”
“Why—the children go out to look for her, I suppose.”
“Right. Do you think the idea was to lure the children out?”
Ted shook his head. “That doesn’t make much sense, either. They’re not wealthy, so why kidnap them? Just the same, you’ve got me stirred up. I want to find out where Alice spent last night. Maybe there’s a simple answer, but let’s try anyhow.”
CHAPTER 5.
MRS. ALLEN’S ACCUSATION
IT was agreed that any suspicions the boys had about Alice’s trips should be kept strictly to themselves.
“We don’t know who’s who in town yet,” Nelson pointed out, “and if we get to talking, it may reach the wrong person.”
“Yes, and I’m not anxious to upset Mrs. Llewellyn, either, about something that may be nothing more than a wild idea.”
Nelson shook his head. “I’m not so sure it’s a wild idea, Ted. A person would only need to lure the children to the mine and let them lose themselves. And maybe that’s just what would have happened if we—if you—hadn’t seen them in time. No matter how poor they are, they could be heirs, or something like that.”
“I just can’t believe it, Nel. Nobody could be that mean to children, for the sake of a little property.”
“Don’t count on it, Ted. Some people are mean enough for anything. If there’s even a chance we’re right, shouldn’t we go to the police?”
“And tell them what? After all, maybe some kind-hearted person noticed Alice this morning, dried her off and combed and brushed her a little, then sent her along her way. It might be as simple as that.”
“But let’s keep our eyes and ears open just the same,” Nelson suggested, and Ted agreed.
They had spotted a motel near the edge of town, and had no trouble engaging a cabin. They cleaned up and took care of their clothes in a self-service laundry. Ted looked at his watch.
“Eleven o’clock. Do you want some lunch, or shall we go looking for Phil Royce?”
“Let’s go talk to Royce. I can wait awhile for lunch, after those pancakes. And after lunch I’m going to sleep. Last night wasn’t the most comfortable one of my life. By the way, what do you know about Phil Royce?” asked Nelson, as they set out in the car.
“Not a whole lot. He’s a good correspondent—always sends in more copy than we can use. I don’t think there is much going on that escapes him. But he never seems annoyed when we can’t use everything. His copy is neat, and he always respects our deadlines—everything comes in on time.”
“You’re t
alking about his copy,” Nelson objected. “What about him?”
“I’ve never met him. I hear he’s an intelligent and pleasant person. He’s young, has had some college. He works in his father’s drugstore. That’s probably it on the corner up ahead. There might not be more than one in a small place like this.”
Ted’s guess was right, but the shades on the display windows were down, and there was a sign on the front door that read:
Open again at four p.m.
“Closed at this time of the day?” asked Nelson, puzzled. “How do they expect to get any business?”
“Maybe Phil and his father had to attend to personal matters, and there’s no other clerk.”
“Do you suppose they always pull down their shades when they close up?”
“Maybe they’re changing window displays,” Ted suggested.
They walked past the store and looked at the side of the building. There seemed to be living quarters on the second floor, in the rear of the building, but there was no sign that anyone was at home just then. The boys returned to the car having agreed to return at four.
Consulting their watches, they decided there might be time to call on Mrs. Allen before lunch, “If there is a Mrs. Allen,” said Nelson skeptically. “If she’s a busybody, she probably wouldn’t sign her right name to a letter.”
“She sounded more worried than malicious,” Ted recollected.
They stopped at an outdoor telephone booth, and Ted found Mrs. Allen’s name in the directory. He put through a call, and it turned out that this was the right Mrs. Allen. She acknowledged writing the letter, but she answered cautiously.
“I didn’t think anyone would come all the way to East Walton about the letter, Mr. Wilford. I was really hoping that Mr. Dobson would print an editorial about it.”
“As long as I’m here, is it all right if I stop in to talk with you?”
“Well . . . when do you want to come?”
“I can come right now.”
“Come along now, then.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Allen. Goodbye,” but he hung up with a feeling that Mrs. Allen’s invitation was most reluctant. “I wonder why she wasn’t happy about it?” he asked of Nelson. “You’d think she’d be glad that she managed to stir up a little action.”
The Abandoned Mine Mystery Page 3