Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1947

by The Sleuth Patrol (v1. 1)

  “Trouble, all right,” decided Sherlock grimly. “And no fingerprints, or—”

  “Or Mr. Palmer would already know about them by now, and would be catching whoever made them,” finished Doc. “Well, we can deduce this much: It was a robbery or other violent caper. It happened some way from inside this window. Where do we go from here? Start earning your right to that Sherlock nickname.”

  “There should be tracks,” said Sherlock, studying the ground again. “And I see some.”

  “Only dog tracks, and a pretty sturdy dog,” nodded Doc.

  “Blucher’s,” said Sherlock. “I know Blucher well, one of Hillwood’s leading citizens. Sig’s only family. Hey!” Sherlock’s eyes brightened. “Blucher was running. Look at how he zigzagged, how far apart his tracks are! He jumped out of the window, broke the glass, to chase something!”

  They followed Blucher’s tracks to the front walk. Sergeant Palmer came out and got into his car, nodded to them briefly. They watched him drive away, then turned to where Sig had followed the sergeant to the door.

  “What’s up, Sig?” asked Sherlock.

  Sig shook his head slowly. “Don’t know yet. Ain’t to talk.”

  “Something stolen?” suggested Doc.

  “Don’t know,” repeated Sig. “If we know, maybe could do somethings. Is funny.”

  “Is certainly funny,” mused Sherlock, more to himself than to Sig. “If you don’t know whether anything was stolen, that means you checked and didn’t miss anything. Sig, how about Blucher? Did he come home again last night?”

  Sig stared. “How you know about Blucher? Yes, is back. Is asleep in room behind. Tired.”

  Doc had gone across the street. Now he raced back, swift for all his plumpness, and caught Sherlock’s elbow in an excited grip.

  “More tracks in the alley over there,” he said between gasps for breath. “Come on.”

  Sherlock raced with him to the mouth of the valley opposite.

  “Man tracks. Doc,” he said at once, pointing to the dirt. “Far apart, the toes dug in deep. That man was running, but fast. And here’s where Blucher caught up, but the man scrambled over that fence yonder.”

  They walked to the board fence. “Blucher got over by jumping on this ash can,” went on Sherlock. “Come on, let’s go where he went.”

  He vaulted over, and Doc followed, a little less athletically. Beyond the fence was a muddy creek, with a thicket of trees on its far side.

  “The man ran into that creek and splashed across,” said Doc, walking down to the brink.

  “And Blucher didn’t follow,” added Sherlock, gazing at more dog tracks. “Not very bulldoggy of him, was it ? He stopped here at the edge. He pawed into the stream. Why?”

  Kneeling, Sherlock rolled back the sleeve from his corded young forearm and rummaged in the muddy water. He touched something, clutched it and pulled it into view. It was a quart jar, the lid sealed on with red wax. Inside were beans, of various shapes and sizes. Doc exclaimed and stared, first at the jar, then at his companion.

  “See what I see?” he demanded. “Deduce what I deduce?”

  “I hope so,” said Sherlock. “I’m going back to Sig’s. Phone at the nearest house for Mr. Palmer to come there, then follow me.”

  The shop was open, and Sig was serving an old lady who was buying candied fruits. When she was gone, Sherlock came close to the counter.

  “Sig, I wouldn’t butt in if I didn’t know I could help,” he said earnestly. “Sergeant Palmer said for you not to talk, so just listen. I know pretty well what happened. Somebody got in here last night by forcing the lock on your front door.”

  “Had a key,” corrected Sig. “Skeleton key. Is old fashion lock, easy open. How you know, boy?”

  Sherlock pointed to the door that led to the rear rooms. “You were asleep in there, and your door was shut. He must have come in this way. You didn’t wake up when he began fumbling around, but Blucher did. When the man ran out with what he stole, Blucher jumped at the window, broke through it, and chased him. We saw the tracks, and Scouts know how to read them. Blucher stopped when the man dropped the—”

  “Was nothing stole,” insisted Sig. “I check. Nothing took.”

  Sherlock had been holding the jar beneath the counter. Now he lifted it up so that Sig could see it. Sig peered, stared and frowned in mystification.

  “No, I look there first thing.” Tramping to the front of the shop, Sig studied his window display. “Beans ain’t been took. You got some other jar there.”

  “That jar in the window’s a duplicate,” Sherlock announced. Doc came in and listened as Sherlock plunged ahead. “The thief took your jar and left his own, a jar he’d made for a substitute, with beans in it that he’d very carefully counted.”

  “I called Harry McMurray, the one who said he’s after a photography badge,” said Doc. “He’s on his way over with his camera, to photograph those footprints in the alley across the street.”

  Sig reached into the window and brought out the jar of beans. He grunted and muttered over it, then turned to gaze at the jar Sherlock had brought.

  “So ha,” he said. “Right, you got my jar. Look, I make that mark on wax. There is no mark on this other jar.”

  Somebody else came in, not the blue-uniformed police sergeant Sherlock hoped to see. This was a stranger, neatly but flashily dressed, with shoes that gleamed with recent and thorough polishing. Sig walked back of his counter, set the bean jar on a shelf and faced the customer, who grinned, showing a lot of teeth, and laid a fifty-cent piece on the counter.

  “I’m new in town,” he announced brightly, “but I saw your sign out there, and I’m a champion bean-guesser from ’way back. Gimme some kind of candy or stuff and let me make my guess.”

  Sig pushed a ruled sheet of paper toward the man. “Write down name and how many you think,” he said.

  Blucher began to bark behind the closed door to the rear. That decided Sherlock. His heart was racing and the roof of his mouth was dry, but he made his voice steady as he spoke:

  “Blucher recognizes somebody out here. Somebody he doesn’t like. Mister, did you really stop to look at that window display? Because Sig just took the jar of beans out.”

  “So he did, son,” said the stranger genially. “Now you speak of it, I see it on the shelf. I guess there’s maybe about—”

  He wrote something down. Sherlock pointed to his glittering shoes.

  “You cleaned off the mud this morning, but I think they’ll match some tracks in the alley across the street.”

  “What street?” The stranger turned around and looked down at Sherlock, his big teeth showing. “What alley?”

  Blucher was barking more loudly. “Listen to him in there,” Sherlock urged the man. “He only does that when he’s excited. It must be you who excite him. Because he knows you’re the one who came here last night and switched the bean jars.”

  Doc closed the door and set his stout young back to it. Sig came from behind the counter, his face solemn and a little embarrassed, but determined. The man started at Sig, then again at Sherlock.

  “I don’t get you,” he said. “I’m new in town, I say—”

  “Ha,” growled Sig. “Fine start for you in new town. You try to rob away prize. I don’t like.”

  “And I don’t like, either,” blazed the stranger. “Get out of my way and let me out of here.”

  Doc was opening the door, and Sergeant Palmer came in rapidly. At sight of him the man seemed to teeter on his feet, to shrink inside his gaudy clothes. He clicked his tongue and spread his hands as if to argue.

  “Look,” he said, “it wasn’t really anything but a gag. Anyway, you can’t say I really stole anything, only beans. Best you can do with the rest of the charge is only attempt.”

  Palmer gazed at him, with only slight comprehension.

  “This man is saving me a lot of trouble by confessing something,” he said to Sherlock. “What do you know about it?”

  “Nea
rly everything,” said Sherlock happily. “May Doc and I come and see you at the station after you’ve booked this man? We’ve a whole special patrol program to get your approval on.”

  MYSTERY COMES TO CAMP

  The bean burglar gave his name at police headquarters as Corey James, and telephoned at once to the county seat for a lawyer. On the same day he appeared before a judge, pleaded guilty to attempted fraud, and paid a fine. Jail sentence was pronounced, and then suspended. Before sundown he had packed his possessions, paid his rent at his rooming house, and left Hillwood.

  Max Hinkel, reporting for the Hillwood Weekly Banner with all the enthusiasm of a newcomer to the newspaper world, wrote a genuinely fascinating story about the case and the part played by Sherlock and Doc in its solution. In print as in conversation Max was a relentless joker, but he could not conceal his admiration . for his friends. Chief Hamilton, sitting in his favorite chair at home, read the story on the Banner s front page, then laid the paper aside and called Sherlock upstairs.

  “You’ve won yourself considerable publicity, son,” he remarked. “Let me ask you if you’re satisfied with it. Was it enough or too much?”

  Sherlock sat down opposite his father and rumpled his hair, as was his habit. “Why,” he ventured, “I suppose it’s bad for a detective to get too famous, or he can’t work well in secret.”

  “You want to be a detective very much, don’t you?” suggested the chief. “You feel that you’ve made a good start. I won’t talk about beginner’s luck, though you and your friend Doc will admit that you were lucky. As a matter of fact, you were level-headed and brave, and your Dad’s proud of you. But now what? How do you plan to get ready for a full-time career in crime investigation?”

  “I want to learn as much as I can from you and Sergeant Palmer,” Sherlock said at once, “and when I’m at the state university, I want to take the course in criminology.”

  “Good, good,” nodded the chief. “But that’s just the beginning. Even if you pass a police department’s test with high marks, you’ll begin as a rookie policeman, with lots of hard work for every step of promotion. Think of the hard side of the thing as well as the pleasant side.”

  “Didn’t you feel the same way about police work as I do, when you were my age?” asked Sherlock. “Don’t you think it’s a worthwhile line of work, and needs plenty of the best men?”

  “I thought so at your age,” his father told him, “and I think so now, or I wouldn’t stay in it. But I want you to be sure, son, and when you’re sure I’ll help you in any way I can. If you truly set your mind to it, you’ll be one of the best. But I say again, be sure of what you want.” Sherlock had no doubt of his own choice in the matter, the more so when his new companions of the Hound Patrol gathered at the next Patrol meeting and listened with rapt admiration to the story he and Doc told of the adventure. Max, who came in late from attending the organization meeting of the other Patrol, and had been appointed scribe for Troop Fifteen, achieved his usual chuckle.

  “Were going at this thing wrong,” he said. “Sherlock’s basement is so much like an outlaw hide-out we should play bandit instead of cop. Call him Sherwood instead of Sherlock. Meanwhile, I’ve got a message from the Scoutmaster. When school lets out next month, he wants to take us on a week’s outdoor camping. Let him know if you’ll be able to make it.”

  “Camp where?” asked Doc.

  “The Troop committee got permission for us to go to Lake Washington,” replied Max. “Far from the brutal city, with its thieves, confidence men and other prey for the daring detective. You and Sherlock need a rest before you score your next triumph.”

  “There may not be a next time,” Sherlock interposed, “and won’t Max be sad, with nothing to razz us about?”

  “The day I haven’t anything to razz you about,” rejoined Max, “you’ll ask what made me mad, because I’m so coldly polite. But shall I tell you about the other patrol ? It’s named itself the Eagles, figures itself the best Patrol ever scooped together. It wants to give us a challenge in camp on some sort of game or contest. Their Patrol Leader’s Ranny Ollinger, as big as you, Sherlock, and fairly half as stuck up. He wants to be a Junior Assistant Scoutmaster. As to who’ll be Senior Patrol Leader of you two, I think it’ll depend on which Patrol shows the best at camp.”

  “It’ll be no contest,” said Harry McMurray, who gave himself airs because his photograph of Corey James’s tracks had been praised at police headquarters. “We’ll do some challenging ourselves.” Troop Fifteen’s organization was now complete. Sergeant Palmer’s Assistant Scoutmaster was Mr. Brimmer, a young clerk at the Hillwood Post Office. One Junior Assistant had been named, eighteen-year-old Lew Sheehan, a Senior Scout who had transferred like Sherlock and Max from Troop Five. Most of the thirteen Scouts of the two Patrols eagerly signed for the week’s camp, and as the end of school approached they began to get equipment in order. Then, one evening, Sergeant Palmer dropped in at the Hamilton home for a conference with the chief. Later he looked in on Sherlock’s basement den.

  “They want me in two places at once,” said the sergeant. “I’ve applied for a week’s leave for the camp, but someone else knows I have a vacation, and is asking for my help.”

  “Police help or Scout help?” inquired Sherlock.

  “In a way, both,” and Sergeant Palmer smiled. “It’s Scout custom to do a favor when you can, isn’t it? The man I mean is Constable Gibbs, in Garroway Township in the next county. He was a friend of my father, and first interested me in police business, long ago. He has a problem, some auto thefts in his Township, and wants me to drop over and help him. It wouldn’t be too big a job, but Garroway Township and Lake Washington are pretty far apart.”

  “How are the camping grounds there?” asked Sherlock. “I’ve been in Garroway Township, and I remember seeing woods and swimming holes.”

  “There’s an idea,” said Sergeant Palmer eagerly. “We might hold our camp there instead of at the Lake. I’ll talk to the Troop committee.”

  The following Saturday Mr. Brimmer and Lew Sheehan, with two members of the committee, visited Garroway Township and secured permission from the owner of a large tract of timber to camp on his property. The site chosen was a wooded hill in the midst of a considerable stretch of tree-clothed land, which could be reached only by one dirt road, little used and winding. Near by was a stream, with a deep stretch for swimming. Sergeant Palmer again conferred with Sherlock.

  “It’s all set, and the camp site’s better, if anything, than Lake Washington. But Mr. Brimmer will be in charge when you pitch camp. I’ll be out of it the first day or so, and only you know why. I want to help Constable Gibbs, without anyone knowing that I’m in the thing with him. You understand why.”

  “Roger,” said Sherlock eagerly. “I’ll tell nobody.”

  School was over for the summer, and the campers gathered for their week’s adventure. Mr. Brimmer’s and Lew Sheehan’s cars made two trips apiece to bring the dozen Scouts and their equipment to the camp site. It was a cheerful slope, with bright skies overhead, shade enough but not too much, a gurgling spring and firewood at hand.

  The Hound Patrol went to work eagerly to set up its tents. Sherlock, Max and Doc, trained in many such outings, supervised the tenderfeet. When the three shelters were arranged in a row, ditched around in case of rain, and the Patrol flag with its rather stern hound’s head raised in front of the tent where Sherlock and Doc made their headquarters, cots were arranged inside and the bedding unrolled upon them. Mess kits and toilet articles were laid out for inspection by Mr. Brimmer, and midway in front of the tent row wood was collected for the dinner fire.

  “Pick up dry fallen branches,” Max cautioned Pete Criley, who was on the kindling detail. “Don’t cut any live trees. We want the owner of this little paradise to invite us back.” He turned to Sherlock. “Now, what’s all the mystery?”

  “Mystery?” repeated Sherlock. “Everything’s wide open.”

  “Sure, sure,”
said Max, his glasses shining. “First we’re going to Lake Washington. Then Mr. Palmer arranges for the transfer of the camp to this place, nice place, too, I’m not kicking. But why isn’t he here to see his Scouts pitch tents?”

  “Ask him when he shows up,” said Sherlock.

  “When will that be?”

  Just then Ranny Ollinger, leader of the Eagle Patrol, came across from his own tent group, and Sherlock was grateful for his interruption.

  “Hiya, Hounds,” said Ranny. He was a tall, rugged boy, a former Assistant Patrol leader from Troop Five. “You look all set. We tied you, at least, for speed and efficiency in pitching camp. Maybe we’ll nose you out in something else.”

  “Try it,” urged Max eagerly. “We defy competition. How about athletics? Sherlock here will tackle anybody at Indian wrestling, high jumping or putting the shot.”

  “No, thanks,” said Ranny. “I’ve seen Sherlock in action. We’re more handicraft minded. We have one ax expert who’ll compete with any of you. Troop leaders to judge. If there’s water enough at the swimming hole, I myself will stump any of you to a fifty-yard race or competitive diving. Or maybe some of you think you’re speedy in wigwag—”

  “Your own choices, eh?” said Doc, strolling up. “Why don’t you decide on one challenge, and so will we, and both bring it up tomorrow morning.”

  “Good deal,” agreed Ranny, and returned to his own Patrol group. “He’d make a good Senior Patrol leader, Sherlock, but the Hounds have their heart set on you. We’ll hound you through, we hope.”

  “We hope,” echoed Doc fervently.

  Mr. Brimmer and Lew Sheehan came through on their inspection of the new camp, made one or two suggestions, and complimented the boys. At Mr. Brimmer’s request, Sherlock hunted out and cut a long dry sapling on which to hoist the Stars and Stripes in front of the Scoutmaster’s tent. It was near evening by now, and the boys felt the first hint of the universal camper’s appetite.