The Grub-and-Stakers Spin a Yarn (13 page)

Pausing to take a picture of the water tower just in case anybody was still watching, Osbert located the opening of the path to the mere with no difficulty since all he had to do was follow the bicycle tracks, of which he found a tasteful assortment. It would have been nice if he’d been able to pick out Quimper Wardle’s tire prints, assuming Wardle had in fact come this way, but the fact that there were bicycle tracks at all encouraged him to proceed.

The day, now that he had time to consider the matter, was crisp and sunny, the breeze of exactly the right velocity to cool the overheated brow without ruffling the equanimity. The path was wide enough to follow easily, narrow enough to let the tall, yellowing grasses brush against his legs now and then in a friendly way. This would be good country for ostriches, Osbert couldn’t help thinking, though he supposed they’d have to wear mufflers in the wintertime.

Thus musing, Osbert realized after a time that he was enjoying his walk. Like all clean-living, high-thinking Western writers, he was an outdoorsman at heart though not always in practice. The only trusty Remington he owned was that trusty old office-model typewriter, which performed well enough back in the dining room on Applewood Avenue but would have been an awkward piece of equipment to take on a hike.

After an hour or so among the beauties of nature, Osbert was almost disappointed to find himself confronting a line of weeping willow trees and hearing the quack of ducks not cast by Mrs. Phiffer. He’d reached the mere.

As meres went, Osbert didn’t find this a particularly exciting specimen. Its main attraction must be that it was here where other meres were not.

“Merely a mere,” he murmured aloud.

It gave him rather a jolt to hear a croaky, froggy voice reply, “Speak up, sonny. How’m I s’posed to hear if you mumble?”

“Oh,” cried Osbert, “I beg your pardon. I thought you were a stump.”

Osbert’s had been an excusable misapprehension. The elderly person hunkered down on the bank of the mere did not actually have moss growing over him or her, as the case might have been. However, there was an overall effect of mossiness that might have deceived an even eaglier eye than Osbert’s, particularly if that eye happened to be somewhat distracted by ducks. Evidently accustomed to being fed by the cyclists, a picked squadron of them were closing in on him, uttering loud demands for popcorn and sandwich crusts.

Osbert did happen to have a couple of hermits in his pocket which he’d brought along in case of emergency, but he was darned if he’d part with them to this rowdy lot. He was groping for words to convince them that they were quacking up the wrong pant leg when the elderly person took a hand in the matter.

“Garran! Gerrahahere! Cussed critters! Just like the rest of ’em these days, always looking to get something for nothing. Back in my day, a duck wasn’t too proud to stick its head in the mud and grub up a few roots. Nowadays they want everything handed to ’em on a silver platter. Why shouldn’t a duck do an honest day’s work for its living, same as I had to back when I was its age? That’s what I’d like to know. Eh, Bub? Answer me that, will you?”

“I—er—”

“How come you ain’t working? Young sprout like you ought to have something better to do than lollygag around here bothering the ducks, getting ’em all riled up, start ’em quacking and stomping and making a nuisance o’ theirselves worse’n them boom-boxes the kids bring with ’em. You got a boom-box with you?”

“No, I—er—”

“Huh! Then why ain’t you out earning the money to buy one? I bought my own ukulele when I was ten years old, with money I earned turning the wringer for my Aunt Josephine. She used to do all the washing for the mincemeat factory, just herself and me to help when I wasn’t in school. We was awful workers in them days! Had to be; Mother Matilda was one fussy woman, I can tell you. Was that how come she wouldn’t hire you?”

“What makes you think she wouldn’t hire me? I’m doing an errand for Mother Matilda right now.”

Perhaps this was indiscreet, but Osbert had decided he might as well tell the truth since this elderly person most likely wouldn’t be listening anyway. As luck would have it, the elderly person was.

“What kind of errand?”

“One of her employees is missing. She sent me to find him.”

“That so? Wouldn’t happen to be the fella who drowned himself last Friday night?”

“You—er—?”

“Yup, that’s why I’m here. I’m guarding his clo’es. I don’t like to take ’em away till I’ve made certain sure he ain’t coming up. But if anybody gets ’em that ain’t entitled to ’em, it’s going to be yours truly.”

Looking to get something for nothing, then. This elderly person was a fine one to criticize the ducks, thought Osbert, refraining from saying so.

“I don’t want the clothes myself,” he explained, “but I’d very much like to take a look at them, if you don’t mind. Where are they?”

“I’m sitting on ’em.”

“Then would you mind—er—”

“Yup, I would.”

“How about if I pay you to get up?”

“How much?”

“What’s your customary fee?”

“Four bucks if you touch, two if you look.”

“Fair enough.” Osbert dug in his pocket and pulled out two dollars. “I won’t know whether I’ll want to touch the clothes until after I’ve seen them.”

“How do I know you won’t grab ’em and run?” said the elderly person sneakily.

“Here, I’ll put the other two dollars over on this big rock. No, I won’t,” Osbert contradicted himself as a couple of ducks started after the money with gleams in their eyes.

“Put another rock on top, so’s they can’t get at it,” the elderly person suggested.

That made sense, so Osbert did. “All right, there’s your money. Now would you mind standing up?”

“Nope, I wouldn’t mind a bit. Question is, how’m I going to manage it?”

“Would you like me to give you a hand?”

“Now you’re talking! Just let me get my feet under me.”

That took some doing. Eventually, however, the elderly person managed to get satisfactorily adjusted for the maneuver and held out a hand that appeared to have been fashioned from the sort of roots a duck might drag up from the bottom of the mere. “Okay, Bub. Take ’er slow and easy.”

Osbert tugged. This was harder than he’d expected—it felt like hauling a waterlogged stump. At last the elderly person stood more or less upright and tottered a step or two from his or her previous location, then settled down in the new spot with an air of being about to take root.

Osbert didn’t care whether he or she rooted or not. The clothes were now exposed to view and must, he thought, have made for awfully damp sitting. Both the dark green jersey and the gray flannel slacks were soaking wet.

“Is this how you found them?” he asked.

“How I found ’em was, I tripped over ’em trying to get away from them cussed panhandling ducks,” the elderly person replied with no doubt justifiable acrimony.

“I meant is this where they were lying? Right in this very spot?”

“If that’s what you want to know, why didn’t you say so in the first place? Anyways, I ain’t telling.”

“Why not?”

“Because you ain’t given me them other two dollars yet. You’re going to touch them clothes, I can tell from the grabby look in your eyes. Just like them ducks over there, trying to beak me out o’ something for nothing.”

“All right,” said Osbert. “Yes, I am going to touch these clothes and yes, I’m going to give you the other two dollars, but not till you quit playing games and answer my question. Were they where they are now and were they folded up like this, or did you fold them yourself so they’d be more comfortable to sit on?”

“They was where they are, but spread out like as if they was put to dry. Only they wasn’t wet then, just sort of damp. They keep getting wetter on account of soaking up the dew or something. I ain’t telling you whether I folded ’em till you give me them other two dollars. That’s another question an’ you said only one.”

“Fair enough. Here you are, then.” Osbert removed the top stone and handed over the money. “Since you’ve already handled the clothes, I don’t see any harm in my handling them again. I want you to watch and make sure I don’t carry anything away.”

“Watching’s extra,” said the elderly person.

“Now who’s being a duck?” snapped Osbert. “Don’t watch, then. See if I care.”

That settled the matter. The elderly person stared without flickering an eyelash while Osbert examined first the green jersey, which told him nothing of interest, then the gray flannels, which told him all he needed to know.

In the first pocket he tried, Osbert found a wallet containing forty-seven dollars and thirteen cents Canadian and five British pence, along with an expired membership card in the Royal Society of Anchovy Buyers bearing the signature of Quimper Wardle, Hon. Sec. In the other side pocket he found a sheet of paper that had been roughly torn off a memorandum pad, headed
FROM THE DESK OF VP LEMON PEEL
. On it were hastily scribbled figures and symbols which could only refer to the part played by that vital ingredient in the manufacture of Mother Matilda’s Mincemeat.

“GOOD SHOW,” CRIED OSBERT
. “Now we have to find the bicycle.”

“You going to search the bicycle, too?” asked the elderly person.

“No, I’m going to ride it back to town and see the police chief about getting the mere dragged.”

“Dragged to where?”

“What I meant was, I’m going to arrange for somebody to bring a boat and a kind of a scoop thing with long ropes on it that they can drag along the bottom.”

“Won’t work,” said the elderly person.

“Why not?”

“Because this mere don’t have no bottom.”

Osbert permitted himself a little laugh. “I can’t believe that. All meres have bottoms.”

“Then how come they call this one Bottomless Mere, eh?”

“I wasn’t aware they did.”

“Well, they did and they do and it is,” the elderly person retorted snappishly. “What do you want to drag the bottom for, anyway?”

“Because if Mr. Wardle has actually drowned himself, we’ve got to get him out.”

“I don’t see what for. He ain’t going to be much good to anybody if you do, far as I can see. Mother Matilda won’t want him back all bloated an’ slimy, will she?”

“No, I shouldn’t think she would,” Osbert had to admit, “but she does want to know what’s become of him. If Mr. Wardle’s not coming back to work, she’ll have to hire somebody to take his place. Surely you can understand that?”

“I s’pose I could if I was o’ mind to work on it for a while,” the elderly person conceded. “So what it boils down to is, you’re hoping to show her you’ve killed him off so’s you can grab his job, eh. Is that it?”

“No, that’s darned well not it,” Osbert retorted irately. “I don’t want his job. I wouldn’t take his job if Mother Matilda offered it to me on a silver platter.”

The elderly person was not impressed. “Huh, that figures. Them ducks don’t want his job, neither. They just want to lollygag around looking for somebody to give ’em a—”

This seemed to be where Osbert had come in. He left the elderly person berating the ducks and went to hunt for the bicycle.

He couldn’t see why Mr. Wardle would have bothered to hide his bike since the indications were that he hadn’t been planning to use it any more. Why wasn’t it right there with the clothes? If some thief had come along and stolen the bicycle, why hadn’t he taken the money out of Mr. Wardle’s wallet while he was about it? Perhaps there’d originally been more money than there was now and the thief had left some for the next thief, although that did suggest a remarkably forbearing attitude in a person of criminal tendencies.

Further exploration exploded the hypothesis of any thief at all, philanthropic or otherwise. Osbert found the bicycle leaning against a tree over on the other side of the mere. What was it doing here? Being a writer, Osbert could easily picture the distraught apprentice peel buyer riding aimlessly around the mere, wearying of the bike, parking it here and wandering back to the other side. Perhaps Wardle had sat and brooded for a while on the bank until at last he’d torn off his outer garments in despair and waded into the murky waters.

Perhaps the ducks had swum quacking after him in the hope that he might after all be good for a handout. They’d have been in for a sad letdown when the allegedly bottomless deeps closed over Wardle’s head and the former Hon. Sec. of the Royal Society of Anchovy Buyers became one at last with the finny denizens of the mere.

After a moment’s reflection, Osbert realized he might perhaps be overoptimistic in supplying the mere with even hypothetical finny denizens. The ducks could well have eaten them all, if there’d been any around in the first place. What difference did it make? He had more pressing things than fish to think about.

Even though Wardle’s slacks and jersey had been lying relatively unmolested since Friday night, Osbert felt uneasy about leaving them here any longer. He took a photograph of the garments as they lay on the bank, and another of the elderly person as witness to the taking of the first picture. Then, to the loudly expressed chagrin of the elderly person, he strapped the soggy evidence down on the bicycle carrier and set off awheel to find Lammergen’s police chief.

True to his reputation, Fridwell Slapp did his utmost to keep from being found. Little did he reckon with Deputy Monk, though. Barely fifteen minutes after Osbert had pedaled into town much in the manner of Young Lochinvar coming out of the west, he had Slapp cornered in the hindmost booth of the Du-Kum-Inn Café and Live Bait Shop.

Osbert’s first thought on entering the café was “This is no place to order a sardine sandwich.” Recollecting, however, that breakfast had been a long time ago and that any prospect of getting back to Dittany’s home-cooking might be even farther in the offing, he did request a glass of milk and a mincemeat tart. As a goodwill gesture, Osbert also offered to buy a tart for the police chief, but Slapp said traitorously that he was fed to the eyeballs with mincemeat and would have two chocolate eclairs instead.

While they consumed their dainties, Osbert explained the need for a boat and a dragging device. Fridwell Slapp explained why he didn’t see much sense in dragging the mere. Osbert then suggested they call in the Mounties. Slapp demurred that he didn’t like to bother them. Osbert looked Slapp square in the eye and said, “In that case, I expect what I’d better do is go over to the mincemeat factory and ask Mother Matilda what she thinks.”