The Green Turtle Mystery (5 page)

“Shine, sir?” he said briskly. “Shine ’em up?”

They both looked at him as if they didn’t see him and shook their heads. The shoe-shine box was getting heavy and Djuna was beginning to be a little discouraged as he moved away. Around the corner he saw a regular two-chair boot black stand and both chairs were empty. He wouldn’t have thought anything more about it if it hadn’t been for the short, burly man who stood in front of it with his legs widespread and his arms folded across his chest. When Djuna met his gaze he was glaring at Djuna so ferociously that he almost jumped out of his shoes.

“You keepa away from dis corner!” the man shouted suddenly and he threw his hands out so violently that if Djuna’s heart hadn’t been pounding so hard he would have been worried for fear the man’s arms would come loose and go floating away.

Djuna’s face grew red and he was so embarrassed that he wished he wasn’t there, as people turned to stare at him. He scuffed the sidewalk with his toe a couple of times and then went slowly across the street and back to the park. He sat down wearily on a park bench and wished that he was back in Edenboro.

Then his dejection passed as quickly as it had come as he spied Ben Franklin coming across the park, whistling as he walked. He stood up and waved at him and Ben waved back and headed toward him.

“Hi,” Ben said.

“Hi,” said Djuna.

They sat down side by side and didn’t say anything for a couple of minutes.

“Oh!” Djuna said suddenly. “Did you knock on the door of that old house this morning?”

“Yes,” said Ben. “And it was awful early in the morning to go knocking on that door, too.” He giggled. “I waited until there were a lot of men coming up the street and then I ran up on the porch and pounded hard on the door for a miuute, and then went back on the steps to wait.”

“Did anyone come to the door?” Djuna asked, breathlessly.

“Not a single soul,” Ben said. “So I waited until there were some more men coming and ran up and knocked again.”

“No one answered that time, either?” asked Djuna.

“No one,” Ben replied, and added worriedly, “I think two times was enough, don’t you?”

“I should think so,” Djuna said and he looked frankly puzzled. “Only, they may have been in bed and didn’t have time to get downstairs.”

“Oh, the man must have been up,” Ben insisted. “He must have to go to work some place.”

“Maybe he’d already gone to work,” Djuna argued, “and the little girl was still in bed.”

Ben’s eyes grew round. “In bed,
alone
, in that house?” he asked. “Besides, she must have a mother.
She’d
have been up to get the man’s breakfast.”

“That’s so,” Djuna admitted and he looked even more puzzled.

They sat silent until Ben said, suddenly, “Say, did you see any furniture in the house last night when you went to the door?”

“I could hardly see in at all,” Djuna said. “The little girl just had a lantern and I couldn’t see behind her because it was so dark.”

“It’s the funniest thing I ever heard of,” Ben said, shaking his head from side to side.

“What’s funny to me is that the man who wants to rent the house told Mr. Furlong it was haunted,” Djuna said. “He ought to know that
no one
would want to live in a haunted house.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Ben said. “Some people are awful funny. Besides, the man didn’t want Mr. Furlong to write the piece for the paper so that someone would rent it. He thought that if a lot of people heard about it one of them might know how to chase the ghosts out of it.”

“That doesn’t make much sense either,” Djuna said and he giggled. “From all I’ve heard and read about ghosts, ghosts don’t
get
chased. They chase people.”

“Gee, that’s right!” Ben agreed. Suddenly he dug one hand down into his pants pocket hard and then he uttered a little moan and sat back on the bench dejectedly.

Djuna looked at him in alarm and said, “What’s the matter?”

“Gosh,” Ben said miserably. “You don’t know how I miss Waterbury. He was an
awful
lot of company. I used to take him with me and talk to him all the time when I ran errands.”

Djuna flushed, gulped and looked uncomfortable.

“I—I guess I ought to tell you, Ben,” Djuna said.

“You ought to tell me what?” Ben asked.

“Waterbury is
in
that house!” Djuna said.

“
In that house
!” Ben shouted so loud that a man on the next bench turned and looked at him.

“Yes,” Djuna said, miserably. “You handed Waterbury to me just a couple of seconds before we saw that light last night. I guess you forgot. I had him in my hand when I went up to the door. When the little girl’s father shouted to close the door I thought there was something awful funny about everything and I pretended I had to tie my shoe. So, I—”

“What in the world
are
you talking about?” Ben asked as he stared at Djuna as though he thought he was crazy.

“I pretended to tie my shoe, but I didn’t,” Djuna went on. “I put Waterbury down on the doorsill and I saw him wander into the house.”

“You
did
!” Ben said and he was still staring at Djuna as though he thought he was crazy. “What did you do that for?”

“Well, I thought that if I did we could go back again when the man wasn’t so mad.”

“To see the little girl, you mean?” Ben asked.

“No!”
Djuna said. “I don’t want to see any little girl. I want to find out what’s so—so peculiar about that place.”

“And Waterbury’s
all alone
in that house!” Ben said in a stunned voice.

“I’m awful sorry, Ben. Honest!” Djuna said. “But I was thinking that probably we can get permission from the man who wants to rent the house to go in to find Waterbury.”

“But suppose he has climbed out throngh one of the broken windows into all that tall grass,” Ben wailed. “Then we’d never find him.”

“Yes, we can,” Djuna said, confidently. “I was thinking about that, too. You know I told you about my dog Champ, up in Edenboro?”

“Sure, I remember,” Ben said. “But I don’t see what
he
has to do with it.”

“Wait until I tell you,” Djuna said, triumphantly. “Champ could find any turtle or snake in the world. Why, there are millions of snakes and turtles along Miller’s Brook and Lost Pond at Edenboro and Champ finds every one of them.”

“What does he do with them?” Ben asked, his interest aroused.

“Oh, he just barks at ’em,” Djuna said. “The only trouble is how to get Champ down here, and where I’d keep him if I did.”

“Oh, boy!” Ben said, excitedly, “You could keep him over at my house.”

“Wouldn’t your father and mother mind?” Djuna asked and he was excited now, too.

“Naw!” Ben said. “They wouldn’t
even
notice him, there are so many of us around.”

“So many what?”

“So many brothers and sisters,” Ben said. “I’ve got sixteen.”

Djuna looked startled, and then his expression changed to one of admiration and awe.

“You have sixteen brothers and sisters?” he asked. “
Honest?
”

“Cross my heart,” Ben said, modestly. “But they don’t all live there now. A lot of ’em are married or live someplace else. My father named me Benjamin because I’m the seventeenth child and was barn on Sunday, just like Benjamin Franklin. That’s why I’m morking on a newspaper so I can learn to be a writer and a publisher.”

“Is
that
so?” Djuna said, round-eyed. He had almost forgotten all about Champ. He was more impressed than he cared to admit that Ben had sixteen brothers and sisters and was the namesake of Benjamin Franklin, and, like the original Benjamin, was going to be a great man.

“Have you written anything yet?” said Djuna respectfully.

Ben sat silent for a moment and acted as though he was trying to make up his mind about something. After a mute struggle he suddenly plunged his hand into his hip pocket and pulled out a notebook. He lowered his voice so that it was almost a whisper.

“You’ve heard about
Poor Richard’s Almanac
, haven’t you?” Ben asked in a low voice.

Djuna thought and thought. He bit his lip but he finally had to admit that he hadn’t ever heard of it. Once, while he thought it over, he almost gave in to the temptation to say that he
had
heard of it. But he didn’t. He told the truth.

“No,” he said. “I’m—I’m afraid I haven’t.” He said it with the humility he thought should go with such an admission. And Ben was properly horrified.

“You’ve never even
heard
of
Poor Richard’s Almanac!
” he said. “Why, almost everyone in the world has read it. Benjamin Franklin wrote it. It has almost everything in it. I’m writing one just like it.” He held up the notebook in front of Djuna and then started to put it back in his pocket.

“Gee!” Djuna said in the same low voice that Ben was using. “Can I look at it?”

“Well,” said Ben, and it was he who looked a little embarrassed this time, “I haven’t done very much with it yet. I just started yesterday.”

“Could I see what you wrote?” Djuna asked.

“Well,” Ben said and reluctantly he opened the notebook at the first page and held it out for Djuna to see. Across the page was scrawled: “
Monday
. One skate is as good as a pair—when there isn’t any ice.”

Djuna studied it for a moment and then he threw back his head and laughed and laughed. “Oh, boy!” he said, “That’s wonderful!”

Then, suddenly, he stopped laughing and he said, “But why do you have to mention skates at all if there isn’t any ice?” Ben put the notebook back in his pocket and his disgust was very evident on his freckled face.

“Gee!” he said. “You always have to stop and figure everything out, don’t you?”

“I
like
to figure things out,” Djuna said, defending himself stoutly. “It’s fun, I think. If something puzzles me, or I can’t see any reason for it I like to find out the reason. I was only fooling about your not mentioning the skates. I think the thing you wrote is really very funny.” And he began to laugh again.

They both laughed together for a few moments and then fell silent again and Djuna was unusually thoughtful.

“You know,” Djuna said, finally, “I bet if I could think of some way to get Champ down here, and he could stay at your house, he could help us figure out something about that haunted house.”

“My gracious,” Ben said. “How could a
dog
figure it out?”

“Well,” Djuna said, to prove his point, “one time when some robbers robbed the bank at Clinton, that’s near Edenboro, Champ helped catch the robbers.”
^*

“He
did!
” Ben gasped. “
Really
?”

“Really,” Djuna said. “And another time when I was visiting Aunt Patty Tubbs up on Long Island Sound he solved a mystery and helped Aunt Patty get out of some awful trouble she was in.”
^**

“Oh, you’re kidding,” Ben said.

“No, I’m not,” Djuna said, and suddenly his face brightened. “Hey, there comes Mr. Furlong.”

“Jeepers!” Ben said and he looked at the big clock on the tower of the
Morning Bugle
. “I’ve got to get back to work so I can get out to wake him up before one o’clock. Don’t forget to tell me about that robbery.”

“I won’t,” Djuna called as Ben ran toward his office.

^*
See “The Black Dog Mystery.”

^**
See “The Golden Eagle Mystery.”

S
OCKER
F
URLONG
covered the distance between the entrance to the Square and the bench where Djuna was sitting in long, slow strides. He watched Ben running toward the newspaper building and asked himself, “
Where
does he get the energy?”

When Socker arrived at the bench where Djuna was sitting Djuna rose and said, respectfully, “Good afternoon, Mr. Furlong.”

“Prithee,” Socker said. “Such deference will harden all my arteries.” He sat down on the bench so hard that Djuna watched it with alarm as it quivered under the assault and threatened to collapse. “Look, Djuna,” Socker went on and there was honest curiosity in his eyes, “how old do you think I am? I’ll even give you a tip—I didn’t fight in the Revolutionary War.”

“Oh, gee, Mr. Furlong,” Djuna said, and he snickered. “I couldn’t guess.”

“Give it a try,” the reporter said, “just for fun.”

“W-e-e-ll,” said Djuna, and suddenly his face brightened. “Did you fight in the Spanish-American War?”

“O-o-o-h!” Socker moaned and he clasped one hand to his forehead and covered his teeth with his lips and mumbled, “If I had my teeth I’d bite you! The Spanish-American War was over forty years ago, and I’m still on the sunny side of thirty. But let’s skip it before you sell me to the rag man for a bag of old bones.”

“Oh, gee, Mr. Furlong,” Djuna said. “I’m awful sorry. It’s pretty hard to guess people’s ages, I think.”

“I know it is,” Socker said, and the way he spoke made him sound as though he was talking to himself. “I lived in a little town in Pennsylvania until I was ten years old and we moved to the city. When I went back to the town fifteen years later, all the men that I thought were tottering on the edge of their graves when I left there were all in a hale and hearty middle age. As you say, it is pretty hard to guess people’s ages. And if I keep on rambling like this you’ll have a perfect right to think I fought in the Spanish-American War. Did Ben stop at that house this morning?”

“Yes,” Djuna said eagerly to the question because Mr. Furlong had been mixing him up terribly.

“And what opened the door this time—a couple of elves?”

“No,” Djuna said, and he laughed. “Nobody opened it. There wasn’t anyone there.”

“Oh, Mister Canavan! Oh, Mister Canavan!” Socker sang to the tune of “Gallagher and Shean,” but didn’t sound very happy.

“Mr. Canavan is my boss,” Socker explained to Djuna, because he looked so perplexed. “When I try to explain about that house to
him
I might just as well keep my big mouth shut. But let’s skip that, too, until the time comes. What about a shine?”