The Green Turtle Mystery (7 page)

Djuna stopped scuffing his shoe back and forth and raised his head. “Say, Mr. Furlong,” he said. “I have already used forty cents of the money you paid me to call up Mr. Boots, but I can give you back the dollar and twenty cents. You’ll probably need it if you don’t have a job.”

“I should say
not!”
Socker said and he gave Djuna a whole-hearted grin. “I can’t go around looking for a job with my shoes falling apart, can I? What you’d better do is sit down and give me four more shines before I start.”

“Yes,
sir!”
Djuna said as Socker put his foot out and Ben went scooting back to work.

Socker Furlong closed his eyes happily and Djuna began to wield his brushes again.

But Djuna wasn’t thinking about the shoes he was shining. He was worried because Socker Furlong had lost his job, and because he felt in some way responsible. He determined that he would solve the mystery of the haunted house and help Mr. Furlong get his job back.

A
T FIFTEEN MINUTES
to one, the next afternoon, Djuna and Ben were sitting side by side on the bench in the Square where Mr. Furlong always got his shoes shined.

They weren’t talking very much. Mostly, they were hoping. They were hoping that the thing that had happened to Mr. Furlong the day before wasn’t true, and that within the next few minutes Mr. Furlong would come walking across the Square to take a nap before he went to work.

But as the clock on the tower crept closer and closer to one o’clock, and finally the clock struck one, they knew there wasn’t any use in hoping any longer. They knew that Mr. Canavan hadn’t called up Mr. Furlong on the telephone to ask him to come back to work.

“It wouldn’t be so awful if he wasn’t such a nice man!” Djuna said. “I’ll bet that Mr. Canavan is going to be pretty sorry he fired Mr. Furlong, before he gets through.”

“Before he gets through what?” Ben wanted to know.

“Oh, just before he gets through,” Djuna answered. “He said himself that Mr. Furlong was his best reporter.”

“I bet he will, too,” Ben said, and suddenly his eyes grew wide. “Say! He
has
forgotten already that he fired Mr. Furlong! Just before I came out here someone called him on the telephone and after he was through talking he shouted at his assistant, ‘When Furlong comes in tell him to go over to the Mint to see a man named MacHatchet to get some more stuff on that counterfeiting story.’”

“
A counterfeiting story!
” Djuna said. “What did he mean?”

“Didn’t I tell you about the people who have been fooled with counterfeit ten-dollar bills?” Ben asked, carelessly.

“Why,
no!
” Djuna said and his eyes were as big as saucers. Djuna wasn’t just sure what a counterfeit ten-dollar bill might be. So, he tried to figure in his own mind how he could find out without asking Ben, because Ben was acting as though
everyone
ought to know what they were. After a moment he said, “I’ve never seen a counterfeit ten-dollar bill, I guess. I don’t see many bills.”

“I’ve never seen any either,” said Ben. “I guess I don’t want to.”

“What
is
a counterfeit ten-dollar bill?” Djuna finally asked in desperation.

“Gee! I thought you knew,” Ben said, and then he confessed. “I didn’t know myself until I heard some of the reporters at the office talking about them. I listened because it’s awful exciting.”

Djuna squirmed on the bench and he said, “I
still
don’t know what they are.”

“Well,” Ben said. “You know what a regular ten-dollar bill is–the kind the gover’ment makes?”

“Ye-e-s,” said Djuna slowly. “But I don’t remember just what they look like.”

“Oh, gee!” Ben said. “I wish we had one. I could show you better.”

“Would a one-dollar bill do?” Djuna asked and he reached in his hip pocket for his wallet. “I still have the one Mr. Furlong gave me yesterday.”

“Sure,” Ben said. “It’s just like a ten-dollar bill, only it’s good for one dollar and has different pictures and things on it.” They both leaned over and very carefully studied both sides of the bill Djuna held in his hand.

“Well, in the first place,” Ben said, “nobody in the world can get the kind of paper that money is printed on except the gover’ment.”

“Nobody?” Djuna asked.

“
Nobody!
” Ben repeated. “The gover’ment has it made special, just for bills. That’s so counterfeiters can’t get hold of it and use it for counterfeit bills.”

Djuna nodded his head and didn’t say anything because he was still pretty puzzled.

“Then the gover’ment has some men who make a picture of George Washington or Abraham Lincoln or Alexander Hamilton or somebody like that, and all the tiny lines, and lettering and seals that are on a bill,” Ben went on. “They–”

“Do they draw pictures on every single, separate bill?” Djuna asked in astonishment.

“Good gracious, no,” Ben said. “They
engrave
them on a flat piece of steel. That’s called a plate. They call the men engravers. They make all those tiny little lines on the plate with a great, big machine, so that no one else could ever make lines just like them.”

“Then what do they do?” Djuna asked.

“Why, then,” Ben said, “they put the plate in a printing press and print the bills and make millions and millions of dollars’ worth of them. Then the gover’ment stacks the bills away some place, where they are safe, until they want to use them.”

“Then,
who
makes counterfeit ten-dollar bills?” Djuna wanted to know.

“About the worst men in the world!” Ben said. “They’re just no good.”

“But what do they do?” Djuna insisted.

“Well,” Ben went on, “they get some paper that is as much like the gover’ment paper as they can find. They steal it, or–oh, they get it anyway they can. They don’t care
how
they get it as long as they get it.”

“Then what do they do?” Djuna asked.

“Why,
they
make a plate as much like the gover’ment’s plate as they can, and then they print bills just like the gover’ment,” Ben said. “Only the counterfeit bills never look exactly like the real ones, because it’s awful hard work, and they have to use three or four different kinds of colored ink on each bill. The counterfeiters can’t make those little lines on the bills the way the gover’ment can, because they can’t get one of those machines.”

“How in the world can they ever make people think they are good bills?” Djuna asked.

“Mr. Furlong told me it’s because most people are just careless,” Ben said. “They don’t bother to look at a bill carefully when someone hands them one.”

“If anybody handed me a ten-dollar bill
I’d
look
good!
” Djuna said.

“So would I!” Ben said. “But they’re awful mean people, counterfeiters. It’s just like
stealing
money when they hand someone a bad ten-dollar bill and get real mdney back in change.”

“It’s
worse!
” Djuna said.

“You know what Mr. Furlong told me?” Ben asked in honest indignation.

“No,” Djuna said. “I don’t think I do.”

“Well, do you know that old, old lady who is almost blind who runs the little newspaper stand on the corner behind the newspaper office?” Ben asked.

“No,” Djuna said. “But I know where you mean.”

“Well, one of those counterfeiters passed one of those ten-dollar bills on her and got almost ten dollars back in change. Isn’t that terrible?”

“It’s the most awful thing I ever heard of,” Djuna agreed. “Does Mr. Furlong have any idea who the counterfeiters are?”

“No,” Ben said. “If he knew who they are he could get about a million dollars reward. Secret Service men are trying to catch them and even
they
haven’t been able to find them.”

The boys sat silent for a few minutes while they thought the whole thing over and then Ben said, suddenly, “
Say!
Maybe Champ could find the counterfeiters. You said–”

“No, sir!” Djuna replied to that suggestion. “They’d be awful dangerous men. He couldn’t ever do anything like that.”

“Maybe if you helped him a little he could,” Ben said.

“No, sir!” Djuna said again. “All I said was he could probably find Waterbury. And I tell you what I think we ought to do, before Champ gets here. We ought to go up and ask that man who wants to rent that empty house on Carpenter Street if we can go in to find Waterbury.”

“Jeepers!” Ben said. “I think an awful lot of Waterbury, but I don’t know if I want to go in that house. Why don’t we wait until after Champ comes.”

“Well, let’s go and ask him, anyway,” Djuna said. “Where is his office?”

“His name is Mr. Firkins,” Ben said. “He has an office just over there on Market Street. I know where it is. But I don’t know if I dare go in that house.”

“It won’t hurt us to ask him,” Djuna said. “We can’t just leave Waterbury there to starve to death. He’s probably awful hungry by this time.”

“Maybe he has climbed outside and Champ could find him in the grass,” Ben said, hopefully.

“Oh, come
on
,” Djuna said, and they rose and started toward Mr. Firkins’ office.

When Djuna and Ben arrived at 234 Market Street they found a sign on each of the first floor windows that read:

ORVILLE P. FIRKINS
Real Estate and Rentals

They peered in both windows and saw a woman sitting in a thing that looked like a cage with a little door in the front, another woman pounding a typewriter so fast that her fingers looked as though they were dancing, and two or three men with their hats on the back of their heads sitting at desks. None of the people inside paid the slightest bit of attention to them as they studied the situation.

“Do you see Mr. Firkins in there?” Djuna asked Ben.

“No,” Ben said and he looked harder. “At least I don’t think so. He’s probably in that office in the back. He’s awful fat. I think I’d know him if I saw him.”

“Well, let’s go in,” Djuna said, determinedly, after they had peered in the window again.

“All right,” Ben said. But he didn’t look very comfortable.

They stood at the counter behind which the girl was pounding the typewriter so hard and waited patiently. After a couple of minutes she became aware of them and looked up and stopped typing. But she seemed to be just as much in motion as she had been before, because she was chewing gum so hard.

“Something I can do for you?” she asked, smiling sweetly and not missing a stride in her chewing.

“Could–could we see Mr. Firkins, please?” Djuna asked.

“If you want to list a rental I can take care of it for you,” she said, smiling.

“Oh, gee, no,” Djuna said. “We just wanted to get permission from Mr. Firkins to go in that old house at 777 Carpenter Street.”

“You want to do
what?
” the girl asked and they both watched her with alarm, because she stopped chewing her gum and gulped as though she had swallowed it.

“We just want to go in that house to get a turtle,” Djuna said with a tone of relief when he saw her start to chew again.

“A
turtle!
” the girl gasped. “My stars and glory!” She turned to one of the men sitting at a desk and said, “Oh Bill! Here are a couple of kids who want to go in that old house up on Carpenter Street to get a turtle. Can you tie that?”

The man she called Bill looked up and laughed and started to say something just as a big man with a round, red face appeared in the doorway of the inner office and glared at him. The man’s laugh turned to a silly-looking grin and he didn’t say anything.

“What’s this about a turtle?” the fat man asked and scowled at Djuna and Ben.

“These boys want to see you, Mr. Firkins,” the girl said.

“Come in, boys. Come in,” Mr. Firkins said very pleasantly and he waddled out to open the counter door for them.

“Thank you, sir,” Djuna said and he and Ben went through the outer office into Mr. Firkins’ office in the back. Mr. Firkins followed them and carefully closed the door behind him.

“Sit down, boys, and make yourselves comf’table,” Mr. Firkins said and sat down slowly in a chair before his desk. “Now, what is it you want to see me about?”

“We–we just wanted to get your permission to go into that old house up on Carpenter Street,” Djuna said, taking heart as Mr. Firkins smiled at him. “We–”

But the smile died on Mr. Firkins’ face as he leaned forward and interrupted Djuna.

“You ain’t thinkin’ of goin’ in that haunted house, are you?” he said in a hoarse, hollow voice. Ben’s eyes grew so large and so round that they looked as though they might pop right out of their sockets.

“We’d like to, sir,” Djuna said, stoutly. “You see we went by there the other night and saw some lights. Ben, here, works on the
Morning Bugle
and he had told me about the story Mr. Furlong did about that house. So, when we saw the lights we went up and knocked on the door. I had Ben’s turtle–it’s name’s Waterbury–in my hand and while I was talking to the little girl who came to the door the turtle got into the house. We’d just like to go in to get him.”

“A turtle, eh?” Mr. Firkins said. “How big a turtle?”

“Just a little one, about so big,” Djuna said and he made a circle with his thumb and forefinger.

“Humph!” Mr. Firkins said. “Who was this little girl that came to the door?”

“I don’t know who she was, sir,” Djuna said. “She
said
she lived there. I didn’t talk to her very long because her father shouted at her and told her to close the door.”

“You’re
sure
you saw her?” Mr. Firkins asked doubtfully and he looked very frankly puzzled.

“Oh, I’m positive,” Djuna said.

“Did
you
see her?” Mr. Firkins asked Ben sternly.

“N-n-no,” Ben said, “but–but I heard her, and–and I heard her father.”

“That’s a very peculiar thing,” Mr. Firkins said, “because there is
nobody
livin’ in that house. Did you go back to ask the people if you could get in to get your turtle?”