Mystery of the Hidden House (11 page)

“What’s up?” he said. “Give me the paper. Boys shouldn’t read at meal-times.”

Ern handed it over, his head in a whirl. It had happened! The robbery was committed. Soon the loot would be in the old mill - and he’d find it. He’d be a hero. His uncle would admire him tremendously and be very sorry indeed for all the hard things he had said. Ern sat in a happy dream all through his breakfast, much to the surprise of his uncle.

Mr. Goon read about the robbery too - but he didn’t for one moment think it had anything to do with Ern or himself. Robberies didn’t concern him unless they were in his own district. He wondered why Ern looked so daft that morning. Had he found any more clues, or got any more news?

No, said Ern - he hadn’t. He felt guilty when he remembered how he was going to find the loot, without telling his uncle anything about it - but he wasn’t going to split on Fatty any more. He was going to behave like a real Find-Outer!

The Find-Outers were busy that day. Pip and Bets had laid their plans very carefully, hoping not to arouse their parents’ suspicions when they asked about the Hollands.

“We’ll talk about people who have queer names,” decided Pip. “I’ll remind you of a girl you used to know whose surname is Redball - you remember her? Then you say ‘oh yes - and do you remember those people called Tinkle?’ or something like that. And from that we’ll go on to people with names of towns or countries - and when we get to the name Holland, I’ll ask mother if she knows people of that name.”

“Yes, that would be a safe way of finding out,” said Bets, pleased. So they began at breakfast time.

“Do you remember that girl you used to know - she had such a funny name,” said Pip. “Redball, I think it was.”

“Oh yes,” said Bets. “That was a queer name. I remember somebody else with a funny name too - Tinkle. Don’t you remember, Pip?”

“Yes. It must be queer to answer to a name like that,” said Pip.

“You get used to it,” said his mother, joining in unsuspectingly.

“Some people have names of countries and towns,” said Pip. “There’s a composer called Edward Germany, isn’t there?”

“Edward German,” corrected his father, “not Germany. Plenty of people are called England, and I have known an Ireland and a Scotland too.”

“Have you known a Holland?” asked Bets. This was going much better than they had hoped!

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Hilton at once. “I know a Mrs. Holland quite well.”

“Is there a Mr. Holland?” asked Pip.

“Yes, I think so,” said Mrs. Hilton, looking rather surprised. “I’ve never seen him. He must be an old man by now, because Mrs. Holland is a very old lady.”

“Did they have any children?” asked Pip, ruling out old Mr. Holland at once, because it didn’t seem very likely that he would be engaged in any sort of mystery if he was so old.

“Well - their children would be grown up by now,” said his mother.

“Was there a boy?” asked Bets. “A boy who would be a man now?”

Mrs. Hilton felt surprised at these last questions. “Why all this sudden interest in the Hollands?” she asked. “What are you up to? You are usually up to something when you begin this sort of thing.”

Pip sighed. Mothers were much too sharp. They were like dogs. Buster always sensed when anything was out of the ordinary, and so did mothers. Mothers and dogs both had a kind of second sight that made them see into people’s minds and know when anything unusual was going on. He kicked Bets under the table to stop her asking any more questions.

She understood the kick, though she didn’t like it, and tried to change the subject. “I wish I had another name, not Hilton,” she said. “A more exciting name. And I wish people would call me Elizabeth, not Bets.”

“Oh no,” said her father. “Bets suits you. You are a proper little Bets.”

So the subject was changed and nothing more was said about the Hollands. But Pip and Bets were rather downcast because they hadn’t found out what Fatty would want to know.

They went up to the playroom. Lorna the maid was there, dusting. “It’s a pity we didn’t find out anytbing more about the Hollands,” said Bets. “Oh - hallo, Lorna.”

“The Hollands?” said Lorna. “What do you want to know about them for? There’s not much to know! My sister’s in service with old Mrs. Holland.”

Well! Who would have thought that Lorna knew all about the Hollands! She told them in half a minute all they needed to know.

“Poor old Mrs. Holland, she’s all alone now that her husband’s dead,” said Lorna. “She had two daughters, but they’re both living in Africa - and her son was killed in the last war but one. So she’s nobody to care for her at all.”

Pip and Bets thought this was very sad. They also thought that their Mrs. Holland, at any rate, didn’t belong to the family of Hollands that Fatty was looking for.

“I wonder how Larry and Daisy are getting on,” said Pip.

They were getting on quite well! They had decided to ask their postman if he knew of any Hollands. He was a great friend of theirs. So they swung on their front gate that morning and waited till he came.

“Well, aren’t you cold, out here so early?” said the postman, when he came. “Expecting something special?”

“Only our circus tickets,” said Larry, truthfully. “Ah - I bet they’re in this envelope.”

He and the postman then had a very interesting talk about the various circuses they had both seen. “Well, I must be off,” said the postman at last, and he turned to go.

As if he had only just thought of it, Larry called after him. “Oh - half a minute - do you know any one called Holland in Peterswood?”

“Holland - let me see now,” said the postman, scratching his rough cheek. “Yes, there are two. One’s in Rosemary Cottage. The other’s in Hill House. Which one do you want?”

“One with a man in it,” said Daisy.

“Ah - then you don’t want old Mrs. Holland of Rosemary Cottage,” said the postman. “Maybe you want the Hollands of Hill House. There’s a Mr. Holland there - but I did hear he’s in America at the moment. Yes, that’s right, he is. I keep taking post cards from America to the house, for all the children. Five of them and little monkeys they are too!”

“Thank you,” said Larry, as a loud knocking came from behind him. It was his mother knocking on the window for him to come in to breakfast. He and Daisy fled indoors. It didn’t look as if either of the Peterswood family of Hollands was the right one. Perhaps the Marlow Holland was the one they wanted!

Fatty was out on his bike when the other Find-Outers went to find him. “Gone over to Marlow, I expect,” said Larry. “Well, we’ll wait for him. He’s left the oil-stove on in his shed. We’ll wait there.”

So they sat down in the cosy shed. Buster was not there. He had gone with Fatty, sitting upright as usual in Fatty’s bicycle basket. Fatty had set off soon after breakfast before his mother could plan any jobs for him to do. It was not very far to Marlow - hardly three miles. The wind was cold, and Fatty’s cheeks grew redder and redder.

He had made himself up just like Ern, enormous cap and all! Ern had teeth that stuck out, so Fatty had inserted his set of false celluloid teeth, which were very startling when displayed in a sudden grin. But they did make him look like Ern. He had put on a wig of rather untidy, coarse hair, very like Ern’s, an old mack, and corduroy trousers. He wished the others could see him!

Buster was used to Fatty’s charged appearances by now. He never knew when his master was going to appear as an old woman, a bent old man, an errand boy or a correct young man! But Buster didn’t mind. Fatty always smelt the same, whatever he wore, so Buster’s nose told him the truth, even if his eyes didn’t.

Holland’s garage was in a road off the High Street. Fatty cycled to find it. He saw it from a distance and then dismounted. Taking a quick look round to make sure that nobody saw him, he let all the air out of one of his tyres, so that the wheel bumped dismally on the ground.

Fatty then put on a doleful expression and wheeled his bicycle to Holland’s Garage. He turned in at the big entrance. There were a good many men working about on different cars, but nobody took any notice of him.

Fatty saw a boy about his own age washing down a car near the back of the garage. He went up to him.

“Hallo, chum,” he said, “any chance of getting my bike mended here? Got a puncture.”

“Not just now,” said the boy. “I do the punctures usually, but I’m busy.”

“Oh come on! Leave the washing alone, and do my bike for me,” said Fatty. But the boy was keeping an eye on a little window let into the wall of the wooden office near him. Fatty guessed correctly that the Boss might be in there.

“Can’t do it yet,” said the boy, in a low tone. “I say, is that your dog in the basket? Isn’t he good!”

“Yes. He’s a fine dog,” said Fatty. “Come on Buster, you can get down now!”

Buster leapt out of the basket. and ran to the hose. He barked at it and the boy gave him a spraying, which delighted Buster’s heart.

“This is quite a big garage, isn’t it,” said Fatty, leaning back against the wall. “And a lot of men working in it. You must be pretty busy.”

“We are.” said the boy, still vigorously hosing the car. “Busier than any other garage in the district.”

“I wouldn’t mind taking a job in a garage myself,” said Fatty. “I know a bit about cars. Any chance of a job here?”

“Might be,” said the boy. “You’d have to ask Mr. Williams there - he’s the foreman. The Boss would want a look at you too.”

“Who’s the Boss?” asked Fatty.

“Mr. Holland, of course,” said the boy, his eye still on the window nearby. “He owns this garage and another one some miles away. But he’s usually here. Slave-driver, I call him.”

“Bad luck,” sympathized Fatty.

At that moment another dog ran into the garage, and Buster darted at him. Whether Buster thought this was his own particular garage for the moment or not Fatty didn’t know - but Buster certainly acted as if he thought it was! He caught the other dog by the back of the neck, and immediately a terrific howling, snarling and barking filled the place.

The little window near Fatty and the boy flew up at once. “Who does that black dog belong to?” said a harsh voice.

“To this boy here, Mr. Holland, sir,” said the garage boy, scared.

“What’s your name?” demanded Mr. Holland of Fatty, who was too surprised not to answer.

“Frederick Trotteville of Peterswood,” he said. “What’s the fuss about, sir?”

“I won’t have dogs fighting in my garage,” snapped the man. “I shall report your dog to the police if you bring him in here again. What have you come for? I’ve seen you chatting to this boy here for ages, making him do his work carelessly!”

“I came to ask if I could have my bike puncture mended,” said Fatty. He eyed Mr. Holland, wondering whether to take a shot in the dark. He decided that he would.

“I want to ride over to a place called Harry’s Folly, sir. It’s got some fine iron gates, I’m told, and I’m interested in them, sir. Do you happen to know the best way to get to Harry’s Folly? Or perhaps you’ve never heard of it?” Fatty paused for breath, watching Mr. Holland’s face.

Mr. Holland had certainly heard of Harry’s Folly! He started a little when Fatty mentioned it, and a peculiar expression came over his face. Then his face smoothed out, and he answered immediately.

“Harry’s Folly! No, I’ve never heard of it. We can’t mend your bike here now. We’re too busy. Clear off and take your dog with you.”

Fatty winked at the boy, who was now hosing the wheels of the car very very well indeed. He called Buster. “Hey, Buster! Come on!”

Buster left the fascinating hose and ran to Fatty’s feet. Fatty wheeled his bike slowly out of the garage. He had a very satisfied expression on his face.

He was sure he had found the right Mr. Holland! He had seen the little start the man gave at the mention of Harry’s Folly. He knew the house all right - then why did he deny all knowledge of it?

“Very very fishy,” decided Fatty, wheeling his bicycle into another side road. He pumped up the tyre swiftly, put Buster into the basket, and rode home, pleased with himself. Frederick Algernon Trotteville, you certainly are a good detective, Fatty told himself.

Back at the garage Mr. Holland sat in his office, quite silent. He took down a telephone directory and found the name Trotteville in it, and the address. He dialled a number and spoke to somebody.

“That you Jack? Listen - what was the name of that kid who cleared up the Missing Necklace affair. Smart lad, you remember? It was in the papers. Frederick Trotteville? Ah, I thought so. It may interest you to know he’s just been here - complete with a dog called Buster - and he told me he wanted to bike to a place called Harry’s Folly! What do you make of that?”

Somebody evidently made a lot of it at the other end of the telephone, for Mr. Holland listened intently for a few minutes. Then he spoke in a low voice, very near the mouthpiece.

“Yes. I agree with you. Kids like that must be dealt with. Leave it to me!”

Mr. Goon is Mystified

Fatty cycled back to Peterswood, his mind hard at work. So Mr. Holland was connected with Harry’s Folly - and something was going on there, though Fatty couldn’t imagine what! And Mr. Holland didn’t want people to know that he knew Harry’s Folly - very peculiar altogether!

“Shall I ring up Inspector Jenks?” wondered Fatty. “Or shall I just jog along on my own for a bit and try to solve the mystery? I’d like to do that. Funny to think of old Goon getting all excited about an imaginary mystery, and here are the Find-Outers on the edge of a real one again!”

He camo to Peterswood. He stopped and put Buster down. The little Scottie bounded gleefully along by the bicycle.

In the distance Mr. Goon loomed up, on his way to talk severely to somebody who had let their chimney get on fire. To his enormous surprise he saw somebody he thought was Ern riding a bicycle not far off. Mr. Goon stopped and stared. He simply couldn’t believe his eyes.

“I’ve left Ern at home, clearing out my shed,” he thought. “And I told him to clean my bike too. And now there he is, riding my bike, calm as a cucumber. I’ll tell him off! Can’t trust that boy at all, not for one minute!”