“You know, Fred looks familiar to me,” I said.
Matt snorted. “Of course he does. You see him practically every day.”
“No, I mean, I feel like I have seen him somewhere else. Maybe on TV or something. Hey! Maybe on Crimewatchers!”
Crimewatchers is one of my favorite TV shows. It has stories about real criminals and how their crimes were solved. Maybe one day I would be on Crimewatchers myself, as a crime-solver.
Matt rolled his eyes. “I do not think so, Karen,” he said.
“Okay, maybe not on Crimewatchers,” I said. “But I still think I have seen Fred somewhere else.”
“Whatever,” said Matt.
We put my book away and went back down to the lobby, because we could not think of anything else to do. We sat on the steps leading up to the second floor, watching people. I just love watching people. People are interesting, even if they are not crime suspects.
Our mail carrier came and went. Somebody dropped off a bouquet of flowers. A boy dropped off some dry cleaning for apartment twenty-four.
“Hi, Donald!” said Fred Patterson. He gave Donald a smile and winked at us kids. We smiled and waved at him. Then Donald signed for a package for Mr. Winkle in apartment thirty-nine. “I also have a pickup from Mrs. Posden on the fifth floor,” said Fred.
“Okeydoke,” said Donald.
Fred got into the elevator. Silently Matt and I watched the numbers light up as the elevator rose. One, two, three, four. Number four lit up, and we waited for five. But five stayed dark.
I frowned.
Matt frowned. “I thought Fred was getting off on five,” he said.
Then I gasped. “Oh, my gosh! I know where I have seen Fred before!”
The Suspect Trapped
“Where?” Matt asked.
Suddenly I felt confused. I was sure about something, but it did not make sense. “Fred is the man in that photograph in your grandmother’s apartment,” I said slowly. “The man who gave her the paintings, before she married your grandfather.”
Matt stared at me. “That is impossible!” he said. “Fred is much too young. That picture was taken a very long time ago.”
“I know,” I said, shaking my head. “It does not make sense. But I am sure that Fred is the man in the picture. Somehow.”
“Anyway, he sure is acting fishy,” said Matt. “Come on. Let’s see why Fred got off on the fourth floor.”
We started to run up the stairs. (Taking the elevator would give us away.) We were rounding the corner to the third floor when we heard footsteps on their way down. Matt and I scrambled to one side and hid by the trash chute. We saw Fred, slinking quietly downstairs!
“Where is he going?” I whispered.
“Maybe to the basement,” whispered Matt.
“Let’s go tell your grandmother,” I said. “She will know what to do.”
We ran up the stairs to the fourth floor. (My legs were very tired.) We told Mrs. Arthur that Fred was acting suspicious. I said I thought he was definitely the man in her photograph, her old suitor. Mrs. Arthur frowned. She did not know what to think. But she called Donald. He said he would meet us in the basement.
Luckily the elevator was still right there on the fourth floor. The doors whooshed open and Matt, Mrs. Arthur, and I piled in. I pressed B, for the basement.
Down in the basement, we stood for a moment, not knowing which direction to head. Donald came down the stairs from the lobby. We looked up and down the hallway. We did not see anyone. It was very quiet. To tell you the truth, it was a little bit creepy.
“Now, why are we looking for Fred down here?” asked Donald.
Matt and I looked at each other. If we were right, it would be great. If we were wrong, a lot of grown-ups would be upset.
“Um,” I said. “We were just wondering about —”
“They think he took my paintings,” said Mrs. Arthur firmly. “And I for one want to find out if that is true.”
We looked all over and did not find Fred anywhere. Donald knew he had not left through the lobby, so where could he be? He had not gone upstairs on the elevator because we had been on the elevator. It was very mysterious.
We were in the brightly lit laundry room, wondering what to do next. Then Donald’s eyes narrowed. He pointed at a closet door that was in one corner of the laundry room. As quietly as possible, the four of us tiptoed to it.
I put my hand over my mouth. We could hear faint noises coming from inside! I was about to burst with excitement.
Donald squared his shoulders. Then he lunged forward, grabbed the doorknob, and yanked the door open.
There was Fred, holding several mailing tubes!
The Criminal Is Caught
I do not think I have ever seen anyone look as surprised as Fred looked when Donald yanked the door open on him. His eyes were wide, and his mouth formed a large “O.”
“The jig is up!” I cried.
“My goodness!” said Fred with a little laugh. He put his cap back on his head and pushed the mailing tubes into a large canvas pouch. “What is this?”
“Well, Fred,” said Donald. “That is what we want to know. Why are you down here in the basement? I thought you were picking up a package on the fifth floor.”
Fred tried to smile. “Um, well, Mrs. Posden said, um, she had, uh, stored the packages down here….”
Donald frowned at him and crossed his arms. Matt and I stood back. I did not know what to think. Fred was a nice guy. He had always been so friendly.
“What is in those mailing tubes, Fred?” asked Mrs. Arthur in a no-nonsense tone.
“Huh? Oh, these.” Fred looked as if he were trying to think. He started to edge out of the closet. He looked up at us again. “How would I know? They belong to Mrs. Posden.”
Donald tried to pick up one of the cardboard tubes. “As the doorman, I am responsible for everything that goes in and out of this building,” he said.
But Fred pulled away from Donald. “They are not yours,” he said loudly. Then he pushed Donald out of the way and ran for the door.
“Do not let him get away!” I cried.
Donald shoved a laundry cart toward Fred. It bumped his legs and he stumbled. But he caught his balance and rushed through the laundry room doorway. We raced after him, but then we heard a big crash and a muffled “Oof!”
In the hallway, Fred had run into Mrs. Borgen from apartment twenty-six. She had been carrying a humongous pile of laundry, and now it was all over everything. Fred and Mrs. Borgen were sitting on the ground. Fred picked himself up fast and tried to run down the hall, but he slipped on Mrs. Borgen’s comforter cover and fell again.
“Just a minute, young man!” commanded Mrs. Arthur. She held up her hand, and Fred looked at her. “You just stop right there. The police are already on their way. In fact, I believe I hear them coming down the stairs now.”
We all listened, but I could not hear anything.
“There is no point in resisting,” continued Mrs. Arthur firmly. “It is time to tell us the truth.”
Fred looked confused and panicky, but he stayed put. He looked toward the stairs to see if the police were coming.
“That is better,” said Mrs. Arthur. “Now, let’s get to the bottom of this. Is Patterson your real name?”
“Why do you want to know?” asked Fred grumpily.
“Because I think your last name is Morris,” said Mrs. Arthur. Her face softened. “You are the spitting image of Howard Morris, who was a very dear friend of mine a long time ago.”
When Fred heard this, he sort of crumpled down onto the pile of laundry again. Mrs. Borgen stared up at Mrs. Arthur, then at Fred, then at Mrs. Arthur again. Donald leaned over and helped her up. Then he made sure she was okay.
“I am going to the lobby to sit down for a moment,” said Mrs. Borgen. “I will get my laundry later.” She left.
I turned to Fred. “Is it true?” I asked. “Are you related to Howard Morris?”
Fred nodded and rub
bed his hands over his face. “Yes,” he said. “Howard Morris was my father. My brother and I changed our name after Dad died.”
Matt and I stared at each other, and I nodded. I knew it!
The Paintings Are Found
For a moment no one said anything. Then Mrs. Arthur stepped forward and gently took the mailing tubes out of Fred’s canvas bag. He did not try to stop her. Mrs. Arthur opened the ends of the tubes and looked inside. She looked at Matt and me and nodded. From one of the tubes she pulled a small piece of stiff, rolled canvas. She opened it up and showed us what looked like a fuzzy landscape. It was small, and very pretty. But I could not believe that it was worth tons of money.
“So it was you, after all,” said Donald to Fred. Fred looked ashamed. He nodded.
“The paintings are not damaged,” said Mrs. Arthur. “Fortunately. But tell me, why did you do it? You have been delivering packages here for years.”
Fred sighed. “Well, it is a long story.”
“Please tell us,” I said. “We want to know.”
Fred nodded. “After my father knew you, he married my mother,” he said. “He quit acting, and started his own company. The company did very well, and he and my mother were very happy together. They had my younger brother and me. Then my mother died. My father became so sad that he could not work anymore. My brother and I were too young to know what to do. My father lost all his money, and the company went out of business. Last year my father died also. That’s when I changed my name — so that bill collectors would not bother me.”
“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Arthur softly. “I had no idea.”
“That is a terrible story,” said Matt. I nodded.
“Not long after my father died, I was going through his things, dividing them between my brother and me,” said Fred. “I found a note that mentioned the paintings. He did not say who he had given them to. Those paintings would have meant so much to us! My younger brother is in medical school. But we have no money for him to finish his education. He might never be a doctor. Then one day, when I was delivering a package to you, I saw the paintings on your wall! I was amazed. I felt that I needed them more than you did, and that my father should have given them to my brother and me, instead of to you.”
Fred hung his head. I felt like crying. Mrs. Arthur looked very, very sad also.
“I do not know what I was thinking,” said Fred. “I have never taken anything in my life. But I stole the paintings one day while you were out. I am ashamed of what I did. I know my father would be very unhappy if he were alive.”
Fred looked at us. “Anyway, I am glad it is over. Once I had the paintings, I did not know what to do with them. That is why I hid them in the building. They are too famous to sell, and I do not even know anyone who would buy stolen paintings. Today I wanted to look at them again. I was trying to figure out if I could sneak them back into your apartment somehow. I was very stupid. I am glad you have them back.”
Just then the police finally did come running down the stairs.
And That Wraps It Up
The two police officers hurried down the hall and looked at us. They saw Donald, Matt, Mrs. Arthur, and me all standing around poor Fred, who was still sitting on the laundry.
“Um, a Mrs. Borgen called us?” said one of the police officers. “Is there a problem here?”
“Yes,” said Fred, standing up. “You must arrest me for burglary.” He told them how he had stolen Mrs. Arthur’s paintings.
“So, it was an inside job,” said the other officer. “I thought so. Mrs. Arthur, we will need you to come down to the station to press charges against him.”
Mrs. Arthur threw her head back. “I cannot!” she said dramatically. “This poor man is not a criminal. He is just down on his luck. I think we should let him go.”
Matt and I stared at each other. This was the most exciting day I had had all summer.
“Um, well, we cannot just let him go,” explained the officer. “He has confessed to breaking the law. But your leniency will make things easier for him, if he has no criminal record.”
“I am guilty,” said Fred. “I know I must pay for what I did.”
But before the police took him away, Mrs. Arthur went up to her apartment. She came back with the lovely framed photograph of Howard Morris, Fred’s father.
“I want you to have this,” said Mrs. Arthur. “Howard was a wonderful person, and you were lucky to have him as your father. I promise to stay in touch with you, and help you in any way I can.”
“Thank you,” said Fred. “You have been very kind.”
We all watched sadly as Fred climbed into the police car. Matt and I had solved the mystery. I felt both glad and sad.
* * *
Several days later, I heard that Fred would not go to prison. Instead, the police would just keep an eye on him for awhile. I was very glad.
Mommy and Seth and Andrew could not believe that Matt and I had solved such a big mystery. They were very proud, and they were glad we had gotten Mrs. Arthur and Donald to help us, instead of chasing Fred all by ourselves.
With the mystery solved, I had a lot more time to play. Matt started hanging out with Andrew and me. We went to the little corner park together. Sometimes we walked Midgie around the block.
One day Mommy took us to get ice-cream cones at the ice-cream parlor three blocks away.
“Maybe one day we should open our own detective agency,” said Matt, licking his cone.
“We could call it K and M, Private Eyes,” I said.
“Or K and M and A, Private Eyes,” said Andrew. “Next time I will skip preschool for a couple of days.”
I laughed. “Good idea.”
“Oh, guess what,” said Matt. A drop of chocolate ice cream splashed onto his red sneaker. “Grandma says she might try acting again. She always said she would not, but after catching Fred, she thinks she might try it after all.”
“You mean she liked pretending the police were on the way?” I asked.
“Yup,” said Matt. “And she did a good job. We did not know that Mrs. Borgen had gone upstairs to call the police. But Grandma enjoyed acting as if she knew they were already coming. So she is going to try out for a play.”
“That is wonderful!” I said. “I will come back to Chicago for her opening night, no matter what.”
“Good,” said Matt.
The three of us (and Mommy) walked back to Mommy’s apartment. I still did not want to live in Chicago. But I was having a great visit. And Mommy, Seth, and Andrew would be coming back to Stoneybrook in a few months. Hmm, I thought. Maybe Matt should come to Stoneybrook too. Then we could solve an exciting Stoneybrook mystery!
About the Author
ANN M. MARTIN is the acclaimed and bestselling author of a number of novels and series, including Belle Teal, A Corner of the Universe (a Newbery Honor book), A Dog’s Life, Here Today, P.S. Longer Letter Later (written with Paula Danziger), the Family Tree series, the Doll People series (written with Laura Godwin), the Main Street series, and the generation-defining series The Baby-sitters Club. She lives in New York.
Copyright © 1998 by Ann M. Martin
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This b
ook is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First edition, 1998
e-ISBN 978-1-338-06058-4
Karen's Big City Mystery Page 4