The Black Dog Mystery (14 page)

“They’s somethin’ queer about this!” he exclaimed. “I hain’t used a bit o’ that paint, myself! But they couldn’t walk off by themselves!”

“Gee, that’s funny!” said Djuna. “Do you remember what kind of paint it was?”

“Why, it was all kinds o’ paint,” said Mr. Boots wrathfully. “All colors! They was some red, an’ some yeller, an’ some blue—oh, they was all sorts o’ colors! Cost me a-plenty o’ money, too! What in tunket’s happened to ’em beats
m
e
!”

“Gee whiz, Mr. Boots,” exclaimed Djuna, his eyes getting bigger, “do you suppose somebody stole them?”

“Yes, but who’d want t’ steal paint, here in Edenboro?” said Mr. Boots irritably. “There ain’t nobody in this town would want to do a thing like that. They’re all good folks here. The’ ain’t anybody in this town ever locks a door, so far as I know. This shop hain’t ever been locked once, not since I built it. Ef anybody wanted paint, all they’d had to do was come an’ ask for it, an’ I’d give it to ’em. No, sir, I can’t make head nor tail out o’ this, unless ’twas some outsider come along.
You
hain’t seen any tramps around, have ye?”

Djuna shook his head. “No, but they might have come along at night,” he said. “If you didn’t lock the door, they might have come in.”

“No, no,” said the old man sharply. “I wake up awful easy. I’d have heerd ’em. Besides, how could one tramp carry away all that paint? ’Twould have been a load for six men, without spillin’ it. No, sir, it’s a mystery!”

Suddenly Djuna’s face lighted up. “Oh, gee, I’ll bet I know!” he exclaimed. “I’ll bet somebody came over from Clinton and stole them! I’ll bet those were the paint cans I saw over there in the woods!”

“In the woods?” repeated Mr. Boots, staring at him. “What are ye talkin’ about?”

Djuna looked embarrassed. “Well, I guess I didn’t tell you,” he stammered. “That was where Champ got all that paint on himself. I was going to tell you, but you—well, we sort of got to talking about something else, and I didn’t have a chance to tell you.”

“Well, you c’n tell me now,” said the old man irritably. “Where was this paint you found? How did Champ get hisself into it? What’s all this about?”

Mr. Boots listened intently as Djuna told him this and his face grew more and more worried.

“This is a mighty bad business, Djuna,” he said, shaking his head gloomily. “It kind o’ skeers me. If that
was
my paint, what would anybody want t’ take it ’way off there in th’ woods fer, an’ dump it there exceptin’ out o’ sheer meanness? That’s a mighty mean trick! ‘Tain’t an ordinary stealin’ at all!”

Djuna looked thoughtful. “Gee, Mr. Boots, do you suppose you’ve got an enemy?” he asked excitedly.

“Enemy?” exclaimed Mr. Boots. “I hain’t never harmed man nor beast in all my life!” But his eyes darted here and there as he spoke, and there was alarm in his voice. “What makes ye say that, Djuna?” he asked nervously. “You hain’t seen anyone hangin’ around here, have ye?”

Djuna shook his head. “No,” he answered, “but I should think you’d tell the police about it. I tried to get Captain Crackle to do something about it yesterday, but he just said nobody had told him that their paint had been stolen. But if
you
would tell him, he’d just
have
to do something!”

“What?” exclaimed Mr. Boots, with a nervous start. “You went an’ told Cap Crackle? When did ye do that, Djuna?”

“Why, right after I found the paint,” answered Djuna, looking at him in surprise. Mr. Boots’s strange nervousness puzzled him. “I went there right away.”

“I don’t know, I don’t know,” muttered the old man, twisting his hands nervously together. “Mebbe I ought to go there. I dunno
what
t’ do!”

“Well, I should think you’d tell him,” repeated Djuna. “It must have been somebody in Clinton, somebody that owns a truck, prob’ly. If Captain Crackle would just look, maybe he could find paint marks on the truck, don’t you suppose?”

The old man made no answer immediately, but stood staring at the floor as if lost in thought, and shook his head in hopeless indecision. Aimlessly he picked up one of the remaining cans of paint and moved it to another part of the shelf. Suddenly he gave a grunt of surprise.

“By jiminy!” he exclaimed. “They’ve took my brushes, too! I kep’ ’em here in a big two-gallon can, an’ that’s gone, too—brushes an’ all, th’ whole kit an’ kaboodle!”

“Gee whizz!” exclaimed Djuna. He thought hard for a moment. “Are you sure?” he asked. “There weren’t any brushes, or any can as big as that, there in the woods. I’m sure there wasn’t.”

“Well, that don’t make any difference,” grumbled the old man. “They’re gone, all right. They might o’ slung ’em away somewheres else. But I guess you’re right, Djuna—I guess I’ll have t’ go an’ tell Cap Crackle about all this. I’ll go over there in a day or two, soon as I think things over a leetle more.”

“But why don’t you—” Djuna started to say, but stopped short. Something had fallen with a thump on the attic floor overhead. He glanced up, startled. “What was that?” he exclaimed.

Mr. Boots had jumped as if he had been shot. Sheer terror was in the glance that he flung at the ceiling, then jerked away to look at Djuna. “Why—why—” he stammered, then forced his lips into a twisted smile. “Guess somethin’ must o’ fell off th’ table,” he said hastily. “You wait here; I’ll go see.”

With eager haste he hobbled up the wooden stairs that led to the attic He was gone only a moment, and when he came back he was carrying an empty milk bottle in his hand. He held it up for Djuna to see.

“ ‘Twa’n’t nothin’ but this,” he cackled, grinning. “I allays take a drink o’ milk ’fore I go to bed, but last night I left th’ bottle on th’ windowsill. Window jest blew open an’ knocked it off! Good thing there wa’n’t no milk in it!”

Djuna stared at him. The thump that he had heard had sounded as if it had been just overhead, and had not come from the end of the attic where the window was. He said nothing.

The old man carried the empty bottle over to the sink where he washed his dishes, then went to his work-bench and began hunting through the contents of a cigar-box in which he kept odds and ends of all sorts.

“I used to have a padlock in here,” he muttered. “Oh, here ’tis! It’s about time I fixed me a lock on this door, if they’s goin’t’ be sneak thieves around here. ’Tain’t much use lockin’ th’ barn door after th’ horse is stolen, they say, but we’ll see.”

But having found the padlock, he seemed in no hurry to fasten it on to the door. Instead, he wandered around the shop, nervously rubbing his bald forehead. He seemed even more worried than he had been before.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Boots?” asked Djuna anxiously. “Don’t you feel well?”

“I don’t feel so good, an’ that’s a fact,” the old man admitted. “Reckon I’ll take a walk, an’ see if that does me any good. What I need is some fresh air.”

“Are you going to go over to Clinton and tell Captain Crackle about the paint?” asked Djuna eagerly. “Could I go with you?”

Mr. Boots faced about, with a queer, angry look in his eyes.

“Now, see here, Djuna,” he snapped, “I ain’t a-goin’ t’ go over there till I get good an’ ready! I’m goin’ t’ think it over, an’ that’s all! Don’t ye go a-pesterin’ me!”

Djuna was so startled by this outburst from his friend that he could scarcely believe his ears.

“Aw, gee, Mr. Boots,” he stammered, miserably, “I didn’t mean to make you mad! I—”

“Shucks, Djuna, I didn’t mean to go hurtin’ your feelings,” the old man interrupted, stretching out his hand. “I’m mighty sorry, boy. It’s jest that I’m so worrited about one thing an’ another, I ain’t rightly myself. Don’t ye be mad at me, now, will ye?”

Djuna swallowed hard. “I—I guess I’d better go home,” he said miserably. “I’m just sort of in your way, I guess.”

“No, you ain’t,” the old man assured him. “Not a bit! But, ef ye don’t mind, I think I’ll walk over t’ Johnson’s an’ see if that won’t cheer me up a mite. You run along, Djuna, an’ don’t pay no attention to my foolishness. I don’t mean nothin’ by it, you know I don’t. Ferget it, will ye?”

Djuna nodded, but he could hardly trust himself to speak. The old man walked to the door with him, his hand on Djuna’s shoulder, and there they parted. It was still raining a little, but Djuna scarcely cared whether it was raining or not. He walked home with his head hanging, and his heart heavy. Why, he wondered, did Mr. Boots act so strangely? Why was he so reluctant to go to the police? Worst of all, what had so suddenly made him short-tempered and irritable, for the last two or three days, when he had always been so friendly and kind in the past? Djuna was so miserable that his throat ached. Even though Mr. Boots had apologized for his outburst of temper, he had still shown Djuna that he didn’t want him to visit in his house any longer.

The afternoon was spoiled. Djuna opened the kitchen door quietly, hung up his raincoat, and started to go upstairs to his room. Miss Annie was in the sitting-room, sewing, but he didn’t feel like talking. He didn’t want to go over and see Tommy. Champ had rushed into the kitchen as soon as he heard Djuna come in, but he didn’t even feel like talking to Champ. His eyes felt hot and smarting, as he leaned to pat Champ silently. Then he went on. He just wanted to be alone for a while.

As he went through the hall, to the stairs, Miss Annie called out to him, cheerfully.

“Well, Djuna, did you have a nice time at Mr. Boots’s?” she asked.

Djuna struggled to keep his voice steady. “Yes, Miss Annie,” he answered. “I—I’m going upstairs for a while.”

He couldn’t trust himself to say more, but hurried up the stairs and into his own room. He threw himself on the bed, face down.

He might have forgiven Mr. Boots for everything, he thought miserably, his face buried in the pillow, except for one thing. Why had Mr. Boots tried to fool him about that noise in the attic? He was sure that Mr. Boots had just made up that story about the milk bottle. There was something that Mr. Boots was trying to hide from him, he was sure of it! And why couldn’t Mr. Boots, whom he loved more than anybody in the world, except Miss Annie, tell him the truth?

Djuna, for the first time in his life, had been wounded by the cruelest thought in life—the thought that
a friend
had tried to deceive him.

Miserably he lay there, miserably trying to think it all out.

I
T WAS
sunny the next morning, but not even the sunshine was enough to bring Djuna back to his usual cheerfulness. He still felt miserable about the way Mr. Boots had treated him, and he was still puzzling over it all as he sat on the grass by the kitchen door, watching Champ eating his breakfast.

“Hi, Djuna!” It was Tommy Williams, shouting as he came along the path that led from his house to Miss Annie’s.

Djuna scrambled up and hurried to meet him. It might help to talk things over with Tommy, he thought, hopefully.

“Gee, I’m glad you came over, Tommy!” he exclaimed. “Say, listen, you remember what I told you about the way Champ got paint all over him?”

“You mean about those old paint cans you found?” asked Tommy. “Sure, I remember. What about it?”

“Well, I’ve found out something new about them,” said Djuna, lowering his voice. “Somebody stole ’em from Mr. Boots!”

“From Mr. Boots?” exclaimed Tommy, looking excited. “Gee whizz, did Mr. Boots say so?”

“He didn’t say so; he didn’t have to. I was right there in his shop when he found out about it,” said Djuna. “We were looking for some to paint Champ’s house with, and then he saw that a whole lot of his paint was gone. And then he counted up, and there were eleven cans gone, and that’s just the same number I found in the woods! And they were the same colors, too, so of course that’s where they took them after they stole them from Mr. Boots! Gee, I don’t know
what
to do about it!”

“Do about it?” said Tommy wonderingly. “
You
don’t have to do anything about it, do you?
You
don’t know who stole it, do you?”

“Listen!” said Djuna mysteriously. “Let’s go somewhere where we won’t be interrupted, or anything. We’ve got to decide what to do!”

Tommy looked a little alarmed, but followed Djuna as he led the way back to the woodshed by Tommy’s house, which was their favorite place for important meetings.

“The trouble is, you see,” explained Djuna in a whisper, when they had settled themselves on the pile of wood in the shed, “Mr. Boots isn’t going to do anything about it. I don’t know what’s the matter with him. He doesn’t want to tell the police about it, or anything. He acts awful funny, Tommy. Anybody else would get sort of mad if somebody stole something from them, but he wasn’t exactly mad—he just acted as if he was scared of something.”

“Gee whizz!” said Tommy, his eyes widening. “What was he scared of?”

“I don’t know,” said Djuna. “He wouldn’t tell me. He just looked scared, that’s all.”

“Why should he be scared?” said Tommy thoughtfully. “Do you suppose it’s because he’s afraid whoever stole the paint will do something mean to him if he tells the police?”

Djuna nodded. “That’s just what
I
think,” he said eagerly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he knows exactly who it is, and he’s afraid of ’em. But I asked him if he had any enemies, and he said he didn’t. So, even if he knows, he won’t tell.”

The two boys sat in silence for a minute, thinking. “Gee, it’s funny, isn’t it?” said Tommy at last.

“Yes, and here’s another funny thing, too,” said Djuna. “Do you remember what Clarabelle told us that day we rode over to Clinton with Mr. Morrison—that she heard Mr. Boots drive off in his truck somewhere, in the middle of the night? Well, there’s something queer about
that
. I think he went over to Riverton and stayed there all night, and he was just getting back at noon the next day, when he picked us up on the way home, remember? I’ll tell you why—there weren’t any tracks of his truck around his house, but there were some other tracks! It was some other truck that Clarabelle heard, and that’s when they were stealing the paint! She didn’t hear it come; she only woke up when it started off. See?”

“My golly!” exclaimed Tommy, round-eyed.