Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1947
Page 5
“You want to tie up the car-stealing and the haunted house,” said Doc. “Amazing.”
“Elementary,” flung back Sherlock, and the other two grinned with relief at finding him able to joke. “But there’s a third tie-in. Corey James, the man I saw at Oatville.”
“I insist you can’t be sure it was Corey James,” said Max.
“All right, I can’t be sure. But suppose it was, and it might be. Look what we have in this little farming community. A major crime, a mysterious old house, and a known thief and swindler. I can’t imagine all three things happening separately in such a place.”
“Why do they happen here at all?” demanded Max. “Why don’t they happen in a big town, where there’s an underworld ?”
“Because in a big town there’s also an adequate modern police department,” replied Sherlock, without waiting for Max to finish. “Let’s theorize a moment. Say that Corey James, and some partners of his, for it doesn’t make sense to me that one man could or would do what’s being done, took time to figure on a way to make some easy money. Automobiles are worth plenty these days. The new ones are just beginning to show up in something like good numbers, but there are still more customers for new cars than there are cars. Right?”
“Right,” agreed Doc. “My father’s waiting for delivery on a new car, and he needs it badly. He’s a doctor.”
“Now then,” went on Sherlock, “this is Garroway
Township, with quite a few prosperous farmers. They’ve been getting their share of new cars. A car thief might figure on selling any new models he could grab very easily, and at a good price. Here in the country, with only small-town police and constables, that kind of loot would be quickly picked up and hard to trace.”
“The haunted house,” reminded Max. “Where does that fit in?”
“I’m coming to the haunted house,” said Sherlock. “Well, Mr. Palmer will be looking things over at Oatville, along with his friend the local minion of the law. But the haunted house is pretty remote, set back from a road that few people travel. The people around here have plenty of their own business to mind. Farming takes lots of time and energy. If they don’t have reason to pass the place, they don’t bother about it. Meanwhile, the few who do come there are scared away, the way we were.”
“Where does it fit in?” repeated Max.
“I don’t know,” and Sherlock drew a long breath, as if to brace his own determination. “We’re going back again to find out.”
“Not me,” vowed Max quickly.
“Nor me,” added Doc. “Let’s be sensible and turn the whole thing over to Mr. Palmer.”
“We can’t, just yet. All we have so far is the beginnings of a theory about the house. We think it may fit in, but we’re not sure how.” Sherlock was talking like a lecturer. “Mr. Palmer is doing his own job along his own lines. I’ve learned, and I’ve explained to you before, that you can’t overdo the business of explaining to the police. Your ideas and clues may be stupid, and may only interfere and waste time. You must have something real to offer, and I say we’ll go back and find it—tomorrow night.”
“I vote against it,” said Max. “Don’t you, Doc?”
“You bet I vote against it,” Doc assured them. “That closes the meeting, Sherlock. The vote’s two to one for letting the police handle the thing without us.”
“Hold on,” Sherlock almost snarled. “We came down here to talk the problem out, but nothing was said about a decision by majority vote. If you two are afraid—” “We’re afraid, all right,” Max admitted readily, “and so are you, or you’re even more meat-headed than I figure, which is considerable.”
“If you’re afraid,” went on Sherlock, “just give me your word that you won’t say anything about it yet, and let it go at that. I’ll tackle the house alone.”
“He means what he says,” Max told Doc, and Max’s voice was as solemn as Sherlock’s. “I know this Sherlock Holmes Hamilton of old. For him to get started on something is easy. But as for quitting, the quit talent’s left completely out of his makeup. Bulldogs are Easter bunnies compared to him.”
“I’ve said all I’m going to,” said Sherlock, with an air of finality. “Do you promise to keep quiet until I get back tomorrow night? I’ll give you a full report.”
Max took off his spectacles in the gloom and gropingly polished them on his neckerchief. “Now, just a darned supercharged minute,” he said suddenly.
Sherlock had turned as if to go back to camp, but at Max’s voice he paused and faced around once more. “Well?”
“You win. You don’t go up against that what-is-it alone. If you’re going to be bullheaded as well as meat-headed about it, okay, I’ll string along with you. All the way to Horror Hacienda and back, I hope.”
“And so will I,” said Doc. He thrust out his hand. “Shake on it. Scout shake, and Scout honor.”
They shook hands, and the hands were steady. Max put his spectacles back on and chuckled.
“Sherlock knew all the time he could count on us, or he’s not the detective he thinks he is. Well, how about hitting the sack. Something whispers pretty loudly that we’re going to have an eventful day, and an eventful evening, tomorrow. We’ll need our sleep.”
“Sleep?” echoed Doc. “Who’s going to do any sleeping? Not me, I’m afraid I’ll have dreams.”
But the three boys slept, so soundly that they were almost late to the wake-up whistle of Mr. Brimmer, who had returned from the fruitless search for his car. There was a quick plunge in the pool, a breakfast of flapjacks, milk and fruit, and an assembly of both patrols.
“The morning’s program is given over to friendly challenges,” announced Mr. Brimmer. “The Eagles pay their compliments to the Hounds, and offer to beat them in the following events:
“First, a special swimming challenge. Each patrol will enter one contestant. The contestants will start at the edge of the water, dressed in shirt and trousers over swimming trunks, and will have on socks and shoes laced and tied. At the signal, they will strip to swimming trunks, dive in and swim fifty yards to opposite side of pool, return, and dress again to satisfaction of judges. First to complete dressing will win.
“Second, fire with rubbing sticks. Each patrol to enter one contestant, who will provide his own fire sticks. At call of time, each to start fire-making. First to show a blaze in his tinder will win.
“Third and fourth, athletics. The Hounds, as challenged party, to choose two events. These two events will make up a total of four contests. The Troop staff, myself and Lew Sheehan, will announce a fifth contest for this afternoon, and the patrol winning three events out of the five will be declared winner of the complete list of challenges.”
Mr. Brimmer turned toward where the Hound Patrol stood in line, Sherlock one pace to the front as Patrol Leader. “How about it, Hounds? Do you accept?”
“With pleasure,” said Sherlock. “May we have a few minutes to choose our men?”
“Half an hour,” replied Mr. Brimmer. “We’ll begin, I suggest, with the fire-making. That will give your breakfast a chance to settle in the midriffs of the opposing swimmers. Any questions? No? Then fall out, and reassemble in thirty minutes.”
Chattering, the formation broke up. Each patrol fairly whirled into a compact little mass for discussion. Max and Doc, standing together, gazed at the businesslike Sherlock in the midst of his patrol, then at each other.
“This couldn’t be better,” said Doc in an undertone. “His mind’s off the haunted house, the car theft, everything but winning against the Eagles.”
“Your ignorance about Sherlock is refreshing,” rejoined Max. “He has a brain all divided into compartments, separate offices, like some big business turning out a variety of goods. Certainly he’s set on winning. But that’s only in one office. There’s another office in the back of his head where the haunted house business is chugging away full blast, sixty minutes to the hour, twenty-four hours to the day. Let’s get in there and see if we can’t b
e the heroes of at least two of these events.”
HOUNDS VERSUS EAGLES
Sherlock crouched down in the center of the ring of Hounds, like a quarterback in a football huddle.
“First,” he said, “let’s get set for the fire-making. Max, you and I have both done it and instructed in it Which is fastest?”
“Maybe I’ll do,” spoke up Doc. “I’ve rubbed fire against time before, and it so happens that I’ve a set of fire sticks in my duffel bag. Brought ’em along just in case, you know.”
“You’ll be better than either of us with your own sticks,” said Max. “Let’s appoint Doc to that event, gentlemen, and me to the undress-swim. I’m at least as good as the next of you at swimming, and I’ve a hunch about picking up a few seconds in the undressing part of it. Okay?”
“Both our volunteers are accepted,” decided Sherlock, “and now for the athletic events. If you’ll let me, I’ll be arbitrary and choose the events and the entries too. Let’s ask for a fifty-yard dash, and enter Pete Criley. I’ve seen you in the gym and on the school track, Pete. You’re as fast a sprinter of your age as there is in Hillwood. Accept?”
“I’ll do what I can,” said Pete, a little shyly.
“Than which a jack rabbit couldn’t do more,” chimed in Max. “What’s the other event?”
“Shot put,” said Sherlock. “And I’ll do my best, too, if you let me handle it. This is playing it low on Ranny Ollinger, who’s their best bet in that event. He and I were in the same physical ed. class in school this spring and last, and both times I outscored him. But he picked his events, and we can pick ours. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” the others chorused, and Sherlock sought out the Troop leaders to announce his decisions.
Ranny Ollinger joined them to hear and accept the new challenges. “About the shot—” he began.
“It so happens,” said Sherlock, “that I brought an eight- pound shot with me.”
“What I was going to say,” finished Ranny, “is that I brought one too. What will the event be, Mr. Brimmer, two out of three, or one trial?”
“The best two out of three would be more conclusive,” said the Assistant Scoutmaster. “I take it, Ranny, that you’ll represent the Eagles in the shot put.”
“I suppose I will,” said Ranny, “and now I’ll hurry back to help pick our dash man.”
But he paused to survey Sherlock calculatingly, and Sherlock returned the long appraising look. The two realized, perhaps for the first time, that they were well matched in size and volume of muscle. And Sherlock, remembering their earlier efforts at shot putting, suddenly was aware that though he had won both times, it had not been by so great a margin.
Then time was called, and the two patrols gathered again. Doc Watson submitted his homemade fire sticks for examination and approval. The Eagles’ entry, a spider-slim boy named Joe Davis, had a set of equipment purchased from a Scout supply house, and handled it with an air of knowing its use.
“Contestants will take places facing each other,” announced Mr. Brimmer, “set up their equipment, and be ready to start at my word.”
Doc and Joe knelt at opposite sides of a patch of hard level ground. Each put his notched hearth piece flat on the earth, and under the notch tucked dry tinder. Each set up the straight drill with its point in the notch, looped the thong of his bow around the drill, and fitted on his socket to hold the drill in place. Joe’s socket was of hard wood, with the hole that held the drill’s upper end well waxed. For a socket Doc used a small glass top from a coffee percolator.
“Are you ready?” warned Mr. Brimmer. “Get set, then. Go!”
At once the two fire-makers began to saw back and forth with their bows, using long, parallel, rhythmic strokes that twirled the drills back and forth in the notches of the hearth pieces. As they felt the drills bite grindingly into the wood of the hearths, they increased the speed of the bow-strokes and the pressure on the sockets. Faster and faster spun the drills.
“Smoke!” cried Chuck Schaefer, watching, and threads of gray vapor rose from both hearths. A few more quick strokes, and both Doc and Joe had dropped bows and drills and lifted the hearths. The two wads of tinder were smoking, and at almost the same instant the fire-makers grabbed them. But Doc was a thought quicker in lifting his wad close to his face and blowing gently upon it.
“Doc Watson, by a split second,” said Lew Sheehan, and Doc held up his flaming tinder-tuft amid applause from both patrols.
“First score to the Hounds,” announced Mr. Brimmer. “Next, the swimming event. Who represents the Eagles?”
“I am,” said Ranny Ollinger. “Who’s my adversus from the Hounds?”
“Max Hinkel,” replied Sherlock. “Max! Where are you?”
“Here,” called Max from his tent. “Go on to the pool, I’ll catch up.”
The Scouts followed their leaders to the waterside. Mr. Brimmer paused at a firm earthy shelf where a dive could be properly performed, while Lew Sheehan trotted off to circle the pool and gain the opposite side.
“At the point where Lew will station himself,” said Mr. Brimmer, “the distance across will be fifty yards, or close enough for our purpose. He will check there to see that each swimmer touches the bank with his hand before turning back. I’ll stand here to judge start and return. Now, where’s Max?”
“Here and ready,” called Max, and came forward into view.
All stared, then burst into loud laughter. Max had exchanged his own clothing for slacks and a shirt from the wardrobe of Doc Watson. The garments of the pudgy
Doc hung on Max’s lean body and limbs like the fabric of a closed umbrella against the handle.
“Hey, we protest,” gurgled Ranny Ollinger between whoops of merriment. “All Max has to do is shake himself and these things will fall off of him before I can undo my buttons.”
“I protest against the protest,” rejoined Max stoutly. “Conditions of the contest said we must both start fully dressed. How can anybody be dressed any fuller than I am in these size-and-a-half hand-me-downs?”
“I think Max has the technicalities on his side,” ruled Mr. Brimmer, smiling for the first time since he had lost his car. “He deserves some consideration for the idea, anyway. Take your places, both of you. Are you ready? Get set! Go!”
As Ranny had foreseen, Max dropped his borrowed slacks and shirt with no more than one explosive, kicking struggle. Dropping to one bony knee, he hurried off one shoe, then the other, and flung his socks upon them. Before Ranny had progressed to unlacing his own shoes, Max, stripped to trunks, had leaped into the water.
But Ranny, though delayed in diving after him, showed his superiority as a swimmer. Max’s swarthy head strove hard to maintain its start, and Ranny gradually shortened the distance between them. Max touched the bank at Lew Sheehan’s feet a scant yard ahead of Ranny, and on the way back Ranny forged to the front. Amid the concerted cheers and urgings of their partisans, the two churned their way back to the starting point. Ranny scrambled ashore well ahead and reached for his clothes. Max, climbing after him, also began to dress.
“It’s 'sheer genius!” howled Doc in Sherlock’s ear, above the yells and laughter of the onlookers. “What Max loses in the water, he makes up in dressing. Look at him! He’s caught up with Ranny! He’s ahead! We’ll win this, too!” But he spoke too soon. Hurrying over his shoes, Max broke a lace. A moment later Ranny tied the last bow and stood up, fully clad. The second event was adjudged to the Eagles.
The third event was the fifty-yard dash, and Pete Criley, his early diffidence gone, easily outran tall Dade Coleman, the swiftest of the Eagles. With the score two to one for the Hounds, Sherlock and Ranny came to the front for the shot put.
“Best two out of three,” Mr. Brimmer said. “Just how do you two want to interpret that ? The longest distance among three trials for each of you? Or put against each other three times, the one who wins two out of three separate trials to win the whole event?”
“Two out of three s
eparate trials, I’d say,” volunteered Sherlock. “That will rule out any freak performance by either of us. Winner of two trials out of three to take the event.”
“I’m for that,” said Ranny. “May the best man win.” “Thanks, Ranny,” called Max, kneeling to adjust his broken shoelace. “Sherlock will.”
Mr. Brimmer and Lew Sheehan had produced a fifty- yard steel tape, and laid a fallen branch to mark the point from which the distances would be measured. At drawing of straws, Sherlock won first try. He peeled off his shirt, flexed his muscles calculatingly, and picked up the eight- pound shot. Turning so that his left foot was toward the branch, he doubled his arm so that his hand cupped the shot in the hollow of his neck and shoulder. His other arm lifted to balance and point his effort. Twice he half- crouched to gather all the power of his young body behind the cast, then made a sidling leap forward. His left toe came to earth just at the branch, and with a sudden mustering of all his strength he sent the shot flying up and forward. It struck the ground, hopped twice and rolled to a stop.
Lew Sheehan had the tape to earth, measuring the distance to the first fall of the shot. “Thirty-six feet four inches!” he cried.
Sherlock frowned and rumpled his hair. He had been overzealous, had made what was, for him, a poor cast. He stepped aside while Ranny, picking up the shot as Lew Sheehan rolled it back, took his place.
Ranny was left-handed, and, as he set himself for the put, Sherlock judged that he had practised considerably in recent weeks. Perhaps Ranny had been galled at losing to Sherlock in the physical education class. Ranny took time to adjust and set himself for the effort, then with a grunt and a summoning of energy sent the shot away. It struck, so Sherlock thought, almost where his own try had reached. Lew Sheehan measured.
“Almost a tie,” the Junior Scoutmaster announced. “Thirty-six feet nine inches.”