Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1947

by The Sleuth Patrol (v1. 1)

  “We all work on dinner,” said Sherlock. “Doc, you have a merit badge for cookery, don’t you ? And you’re the right weight for a judge of good cooking, too. How’d you like to run the detail?”

  “Sold,” said Doc. He consulted the sheet with the week’s menus, ready drawn up. “This looks like a good first-night dinner—hunter’s stew with vegetables, bread and butter, tomato juice, bananas roasted in the ashes for dessert. Start peeling spuds, two of you. Somebody fetch water. I’ll build the fire as it ought to be built.”

  Then everybody was busy helping Doc with the dinner, helping Doc serve it. Nobody needed any help to eat. After washing up, both patrols met at a common council fire. The Hounds sang, then the Eagles, then both. The singing was fairly tuneful, and undeniably loud. Mr. Brimmer told a story about Indians, and Lew Sheehan followed with a story about treasure hunting. Half a moon was. up, and everybody pleasantly tired, when the council broke up.

  “Nature hike tomorrow morning,” Mr. Brimmer told the boys as they separated to go to their tents.

  Sherlock, for one, did not lie awake long. His last thoughts before drifting into sound slumber were in the form of a debate: Was it more fun to be making your first camp, with everything new and expected, or to be a veteran Scout and able to relish many items of the week’s activity in advance ? He was too sleepy to decide.

  The morning sun was peeping into the tent when he woke. Max Hinkel, half-dressed and excited, was shaking the foot of his cot.

  “Wake up!” Max yelled. “You too, Doc! I thought detectives never closed their eyes!”

  “What’s the excitement?” demanded Sherlodk, alert in an instant.

  “Excitement, he asks me!” cried Max. “Plenty of excitement! Mr. Brimmer’s car disappeared during the night!”

  THE TRAIL THAT LED TO NOTHING

  The wooded slope where the camp had been pitched was probably as cheerfully bright in the morning sun as it had been yesterday. The trees were as green, the skies as blue, the gurgle of the spring as musical as ever. But every camper, man and boy, stared glumly at the place where Mr. Brimmer had parked his car the night before.

  It had been a new gray sedan, with new tires, and it had hauled half of the Scouts and their possessions the day before. Mr. Brimmer had carefully driven it up the rocky slope in high gear to place it near the tent which he and Lew Sheehan occupied. Lew’s car, several years older, and far dimmer, was still in place on the other side of the tent. Sherlock, hurrying to join the group, scowled at this remaining vehicle as if more surprised to see it there than the other vanished.

  “I’ll have to head for the nearest town and telephone in a report,” said Mr. Brimmer, gravely but with less visible excitement than any of the others.

  “And I’ll lend you my car,” offered Lew at once. “What I can’t see is how anyone could have driven yours away. You’d have heard it, or I would, or somebody.”

  “Wait,” said Sherlock suddenly. “Your tires were new, Mr. Brimmer. I noticed ’em myself, especially those rear ones. They had a zigzag pattern. Aren’t there any marks going anywhere?”

  “Not on this rocky downslope,” Max replied for Mr. Brimmer. “We already looked, without waiting for you or any other crime expert.”

  “How about on the road below?” Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock headed down toward it through the trees. Max followed, then Mr. Brimmer and Doc. At the edge of the road, Sherlock came to a halt, peering at the dusty surface.

  “Your rear tires did have a zigzag pattern, didn’t they?” he asked Mr. Brimmer.

  “They certainly did, and I can see traces of the marks they made yesterday on the way up here,” replied the Assistant Scoutmaster. He pointed to the road. “See them there? But several cars, Lew’s and others, ran over this stretch of the road since mine did. I don’t see any fresh marks of my tires this morning.”

  He was right. Sherlock explored, and so did Doc and Max. The freshest tracks were of tires worn so smooth as to be unidentifiable by make or original pattern. No zigzag track showed except the one Mr. Brimmer pointed out, nearly obliterated by later cars but still recognizable.

  “I’m going at once to report the theft,” said Mr. Brimmer.

  “And the thieves will be getting away in the meantime,” pleaded Sherlock. “Every minute means another mile they can put between us and themselves. If the marks aren’t on this road, they must be somewhere else.”

  The memory of the way Sherlock and Doc had unmasked the prowler at Sig Poison’s shop was still fresh in Mr. Brimmer’s mind, and he listened to Sherlock with special respect. “Somewhere else?” he repeated. “What theory?”

  “Theories may not be too good,” said Sherlock. “We have to look for evidence, and it’s apt to bob up in an unlikely place.”

  They hurried back up the slope together. Ranny Ollinger met them and conferred.

  “We’re farther along the slope than you Hounds,” he said. “One or two of the boys explored down beyond the swimming hole, and there’s another road there, better than the one we came on.”

  “Show me,” commanded Sherlock, and followed him away through the trees. Max and Doc followed at a little distance.

  “This is fantastic,” protested Max. “It’s impossible that the car ran on the dirt road back there, but how could it run away over this other direction ?”

  “How could it run away at all?” rejoined Doc. “Starting it would surely have wakened somebody. Mr. Brimmer said so.” '

  “As to starting it,” said Max, “the keys were on the camp chair beside Mr. Brimmer’s bed. Of course, cars can be started by someone who knows how to put the ignition wires together just right. But that’s pretty hard to do. Improbable, I’d call it.”

  “Improbable,” Doc repeated the word after him. “A minute ago you said it was impossible for the car to have left by that closer road. Well, eliminate the impossible and whatever remains, even if it’s improbable, must be the truth.”

  Max stared at him. “Where did you pick that up?”

  “The Sign of the Four,” Doc grinned. “My favorite of all Conan Doyle’s detective stories. Ever since I got acquainted with Sherlock—Sherlock Hamilton, I mean— I’ve been rereading all of Doyle’s stories about the original Sherlock. I’ll give you another quotation: ‘The more bizarre a thing is, the less mysterious it proves to be.’ ”

  “Let’s hurry, or we’ll lose Ranny and Sherlock.” Max quickened his pace, keeping their leaders in sight along the narrow trail Ranny had found. “While we’re going on about improbabilities and impossibilities, how about the angle of a car having to drive along this little pee- wee path? There’s not even room for you and me to go side by side, and the two of us are plenty narrower than a car.”

  “Maybe it’s not the only way,” suggested Doc. “There might even be a secret tunnel.”

  “Now you sound like something out of DraculaT broke in Max. “Stick to Conan Doyle. He’s rich enough for my blood.”

  The boys came to the narrowest part of the stream below the swimming hole and crossed on a fallen log. Beyond was some swampy ground, then another rise, and finally the road Ranny had promised. It had been well paved once, but the asphalt was worn and pitted.

  “How will you find tracks here, Sherlock?” challenged Max, catching up with the rest of the group.

  “I won’t, right here,” replied Sherlock, “but maybe I will there.” He pointed ahead, where the pavement came to an end, and hastened in that direction. The others kept pace with him, and at the juncture of pavement and a stretch of sand road Sherlock knelt, gesturing eagerly.

  “Look!” he bade them. “Zigzag tire markings, I mean the markings are zigzag, not the tires or the tracks. Mr. Brimmer’s!” He turned to Ranny. “Somebody go and find him.”

  But there was no need. A motor sounded on the damaged pavement behind them. They looked, and saw Lew Sheehan’s old car approaching. Mr. Brimmer was at the wheel. He stopped beside them and got out.

  “I found
a long way around,” he announced. “Now, what do you seem to be finding?”

  For answer, Sherlock pointed. “Look at those tracks, Mr. Brimmer. Aren’t they your tires?”

  “I think you’re right, Sherlock.” The Assistant Scoutmaster gazed eagerly at the double ribbon of tire trail. “How could they have sneaked the car out this way, though?”

  “We can’t tell you, but apparently they did,” said Doc. “What I’m wondering is, which way did it go ?”

  “Straight ahead,” and Sherlock gestured onward. “These tracks are at the right side of the road as we stand facing this way.”

  Mr. Brimmer and the boys stared at Sherlock with undisguised respect. All but Max. He was polishing his spectacles.

  “Brilliant,” he muttered, “or elementary. Car thieves always obey traffic rules. They’re so-o-o-o law-abiding.”

  “Oh, I think Sherlock’s probably right,” said Doc. “Anybody who was driving a stolen car would abide by all the rules so as not to attract any attention, especially at night.” He grinned at Sherlock. “See? Your genius is catching.”

  Mr. Brimmer turned to where Pete Criley had caught up. Pete had brought his camera, and was carefully angling it to take a picture of the tire marks. “You’ll want some of these for evidence,” he began.

  “Go back to camp,” Mr. Brimmer directed him, “and tell Lew Sheehan he’s in charge for the next few hours. I’m going to go ahead on this trail at once.”

  “Let me go with you,” said Sherlock.

  “We’ll go,” added Max.

  “Not all of you,” decided Mr. Brimmer, shaking his head. “I want you veterans, or most of you, to be there with the new Scouts. Sherlock goes with me, and perhaps Max. Doc, you and Ranny head back to their Patrols.”

  They obeyed, not too cheerfully. Mr. Brimmer got back into the borrowed car. “Sit in the front with me,” he bade Sherlock. “You can keep your eyes on the trail while I drive. Max, you sit in the back seat. We’ll follow these tracks to where the car is.”

  Starting the motor, he shifted gears and moved slowly along the sandy road. Ahead of them the tracks showed plainly for a mile, another mile, a third. They approached a gathering of houses and stores.

  “This is Oatville,” said Mr. Brimmer, “second biggest village in Garroway Township. And here we seem to leave the pavement. No more tracks, but some of the townspeople may be able to give us information.”

  They gained the short main street of Oatville, with cars parked on either side. Sherlock, leaning out of the window, suddenly lifted his hand.

  “Those tires,” he said.

  “Where?” Mr. Brimmer stepped on the brake. “I don’t see any car like mine.”

  “Those tires,” repeated Sherlock excitedly. “I’ve been looking at every tire as we go along. And there’s the zigzag pattern.”

  He got quickly out, and pointed to the rear tires of a car parked midway on the block. They bore the zigzag tread pattern that had shown itself on the sand.

  “Brillianter and brillianter,” said Max, joining him. “How Mr. Brimmer’s new car has changed! It’s aged ten years, turned its color from a bright gray to a dull black, and it’s a coupe instead of a sedan.”

  “Maybe it’s not the one we were following,” said Sherlock. He put his fingertip to the tread of a rear tire. “No, this is sand caught between the tread-faces, the same sand that’s on the road.”

  “What’s the fuss?” inquired an old man in farm clothes, strolling out of a store. One or two other passing pedestrians stopped to gaze and listen.

  “We were looking at this car,” said Mr. Brimmer. “Whose is it?”

  “Used to be mine,” volunteered another farmer, “up till about a month ago. I sold it to Riley’s used car lot when my new one came from the dealer. He gave me a dollar or so better than the trade-in offer. I don’t know who could have bought it from him.”

  Others of the Oatville citizenry inquired as to the cause of the excitement, and Max explained about the theft of Mr. Brimmer’s car and their attempt at trailing it. The first old man who had spoken wiped his brown face and smiled a little.

  “Maybe it’s the ghost up where you say you’re camping,” he suggested slyly.

  “Ghost?” repeated Max, and Sherlock pricked up his ears.

  “Sure thing. Don’t you know they say there’s a haunted house in them parts, about two miles down the dirt road from that slope you say you picked to camp on?” He smiled again. “Leastwise, so I’ve heard tell for years. Don’t pay much attention to such things, myself.”

  One or two of the listeners laughed. Mr. Brimmer turned to Sherlock, who looked abashed.

  “I’m sorry,” Sherlock began. “I guess I figured too much from too little.”

  “Anybody would have figured the way you did,” replied Mr. Brimmer. “We had to be sure the trail led to nothing before we went to look for another, didn’t we? Now I’ll do what I intended to do from the first, telephone a report to the county seat, and then drive over myself to see if I can help the investigating officers in any way. Do you two mind hiking back to camp on foot?”

  “Hiking’s a pleasure,” said Max.

  Mr. Brimmer drove away, and Sherlock and Max started along the sidewalk. The little crowd that had gathered began to chatter about the story the Scouts had told, and Sherlock glanced briefly at them, then paused, glanced again, then began to walk faster.

  “Wait up,” called Max, hurrying to draw alongside. “Don’t race your motor, we’ve got a good three miles to stroll.”

  “I didn’t want that man to see that I knew him,” said Sherlock in an undertone.

  “What man ? Who ?” demanded Max.

  “Don’t look back there. You wouldn’t know him anyway, you didn’t see him. It’s the man who tried to pull that fraud at Sig Poison’s, or anyway someone who looks like him.”

  “The bean burglar? Corey James? Are you sure?”

  “I said the man looks like him. He was grinning, and he had big blocky teeth like Corey James.”

  “But you aren’t sure?”

  Sherlock shook his head and rumpled his hair. “No, and I’m not going to go back and make sure. But if he’s here, maybe we’re closer to the right trail than we thought.”

  LET'S HAUNT A HOUSE!

  Sherlock and Max did not get back to camp until past ten o’clock, and they were ravenous, for they had gone on the chase without stopping for breakfast. They rekindled the cooking fire, fried themselves eggs and opened a bottle of milk, while Doc and others of the Hound Patrol gathered to consult with them.

  To Doc only did Sherlock speak of the man he had seen in Oatville and who had looked to him like Corey James. “But I can’t be sure,” he finished.

  “Max talked you into not being sure,” Doc said at once. “When Mr. Palmer comes to camp, tell him. James being here may not have anything to do with the car thefts reported in this part of the country, but I’m like you; I think it’s an angle not to be neglected.”

  Sherlock knit his black brows over his food, to denote a sense of duty bungled. His nickname, his detective hobby, the fact that his father was a chief of police, should have been enough to make a success of him. If they weren’t, his initial triumph in the Sig Poison bean burglary demanded another triumph in this more serious matter. He felt embarrassed and guilty without realizing just why.

  “No clues, no noises in the night, no tracks,” he said dolefully to Doc as he washed his dishes. “Maybe that old farmer at Oatville was right. Ghosts may have gobbled up Mr. Brimmer’s car.”

  “Is there really a haunted house around here?” asked Chuck Schaefer from in front of his pup tent, where he was lashing poles together into a rustic rack for the Patrol’s cooking utensils. “I’ve never seen one except in the movies.”

  “I wish Mr. Palmer would show up,” nodded Doc Watson. “He’s my idea of a really efficient police officer. He’d go to work on this case.”

  “And the first thing he’d do would be explode a
ll the ghost theories,” interrupted Max Hinkel, strolling back from the pit where he had been burying some garbage. “Ghost stories—haunted houses. You sound middle-agey, Sherlock.”

  “I’m not middle-aged,” punned Sherlock, his good humor returning. “I was sixteen last birthday. I don’t believe in ghosts, anyway.”

  “I don’t, either,” chimed in Doc. “I’m just kind of afraid of them.”

  “Not me,” sniffed Max. “Let’s visit this alleged haunted house and rattle the skeletons a little.”

  Lew Sheehan, alone in charge of the camp and anxious to distract the attention of his charges from the mysterious loss of the car, had planned a hike for the afternoon. At Max’s suggestion, he willingly altered the route to come back along the winding road. They tramped for an hour along leaf-bordered trails, topped a backbone of wooded height, and finally approached the place where the haunted house was said to be.

  “Two miles along the road below our camp,” remembered Max, tramping just behind Lew. “Were about there. Yes, I see a trail branching off. That must be it.” The trail apparently served as a water course in rainy weather, for it was paved with a jumble of smooth- washed rocks of all sizes. Lew led them along it, under the shade of thick dark branches interlacing above them, and finally called a halt, holding up his hand.

  “Let’s not go any farther,” he said. “Just take a good look from this point, then back to camp. I don’t want any nightmares among you boys tonight.”

  “I can see the house down there, all right,” said Max, peering into a hollow full of tall, gloomy trees.

  A lofty old structure was visible among half-masking thickets. Sherlock, standing beside Max, could see that the house was two stories high, with a sizable basement, to judge from the foundation, and a full attic above. Its ancient roof, crowned with the ruins of a cupola, looked ready to fall apart and scatter its slates on the ground like so many dead leaves. Its paint had been weathered and faded to a sorrowful gray. No windowpane showed whole, and the blank spaces of the windows were covered with ancient planks, securely nailed to the sills. The wide porch was especially ruinous, its roof half broken in, several of its upright pillars down.