The Purple Bird Mystery (14 page)

“Wal, now,” greeted Mr. Boots, looking up from the miter box in which he was carefully trimming a corner from a length of beautiful hardwood, “you boys a-runnin’ from somethin’?”

“We are in a kind of hurry,” Djuna said, “and we know you’re busy, Mr. Boots, so could we ask you just one question, please?”

Mr. Boots smiled. “Th’ day ye can’t ask George Boots a question’ll be th’ day they knock th’ chocks out from under my coffin and lower away!” He put down his saw. “What’s th’ problem, Djuna?”

From behind his back, Djuna brought forth the two pieces of broken wood—the fragments of Jimmy’s chest drawer that he had carried all the way to Brookville and back in the bike basket.

Mr. Boots’s gaze sharpened. “What are them scraps?”

“They’re the other two pieces of the drawer you fixed for Jimmy.”

“What d’ ye want to know about ’em?”

Djuna said, “You know more about wood than anybody, Mr. Boots. So I thought maybe you could tell us about the writing on this wood. How do you think these letters were made on it? With a pen, a crayon, or what?”

Mr. Boots said, “Lemme see,” and took the fragments into his own gnarled hands, turning them this way and that to catch the light. “Say, these are the same as the scrap Champ found under my bench th’ other night, ain’t they?”

“Yes. But about the writing….”

“Some feller was here less’n an hour ago,” said Mr. Boots, “askin’ about that board I gave Champ.”

“What!” Jimmy looked wide-eyed at Djuna. “Who was it?”

“Feller said his name was Swift. A antique dealer, way I got it.”

Djuna and Jimmy exchanged glances.

“What’d he want to know about Champ’s board?” Djuna asked.

“Claimed he heard about Jimmy’s old chest drawer bein’ busted, and that I fixed it. Said he wanted to get a holt of any scraps o’ that drawer I happened to have kickin’ around my shop. I asked him what fer, an’ he says he wants some scraps o’ genuine ancient wood, so’s he can test ’em to see how aging affects wood fibers, or some such stuff. Anybody knows when wood gits old, it gits dry, that’s all.”

“Did you tell him Champ took the board?” Djuna felt a stab of anxiety.

The old man nodded. “Why, yes, I did, Djuna. Shouldn’t I of?”

Djuna’s head buzzed with thought. Suddenly he said, “Is this what Mr. Swift looks like, Mr. Boots?” and he proceeded to describe, not Mr. Swift, but Joe Morelli. Jimmy looked puzzled.

Mr. Boots said, “Didn’t look like that at all. This feller was short and kind of bent over, and wore colored glasses and talked like a furriner.”

“That was Mr. Swift, all right,” cried Jimmy. “But Djuna, you were describing Joe Morelli. How come?”

Djuna scratched his nose. “Joe Morelli’s the only one who saw the writing on these two pieces of the drawer after we got ’em out of the rubbish barrel today. And I thought he might have come to get
Champ’s
piece from Mr. Boots to see what writing was on
it
. By putting the words on the three pieces together, he’d know the whole message that was on the bottom drawer of your chest.”

“The
burglar
saw the writing on the other two drawers, don’t forget,” said Jimmy. “So he could figure there was writing on the bottom one, too. So if Mr. Martin was the burglar, or Mr. Swift—”

“What’s all this about a burglar?” Mr. Boots demanded.

“Mr. Boots, we’re in an awful hurry,” said Djuna. “Will you excuse us, please? If Mr. Swift knows Champ has that scrap of wood, he might try to take it away from him. Jimmy and I better go and see right now. We’ll tell you about the burglar some other time.”

Mr. Boots wagged his head philosophically. “If that’s the way ye want it, Djuna.” He gestured with the two pieces of wood in his hands. “Ye asked about this writin’. I’d say it was burned into th’ wood with a hot poker, maybe, or a sharp piece o’ heated metal o’ some kind. And quite a while back, too, ’cause the charred lines is gettin’ pretty faint. Is that what ye wanted to know?”

“That’s fine, Mr. Boots. Thank you very much. We’ll see you later!” Djuna and Jimmy left the old man’s shop on the run, pedaled as rapidly as they could toward Miss Annie Ellery’s house. “Gosh,” said Djuna worriedly as his friend’s bike drew level with his, “I hope Champ’s all right. If anybody’s hurt him….” He pedaled faster.

Jimmy managed to get out a question as they pumped up the path to Miss Annie’s house. “Why did you want to know how the writing was put on the drawers, Djuna?”

“I just wondered whether it could have been burned on, that’s all. And Mr. Boots says it was.”

“What difference does that make? The words are still crazy.”

Before Djuna could answer, they came to Miss Annie’s house and zoomed through the front gate like twin tornadoes.

“Around back!” said Djuna, and led the way to the back yard. They leaped from their bikes while they surveyed the yard anxiously for some sign of Champ. The Scottie was nowhere to be seen.

With a dreadful feeling in his chest, Djuna pursed his lips and gave the special whistle which Champ knew as well as he knew his feeding dish—the whistle he never disregarded.

They waited, listening hard. At length, to their enormous relief, a faint, complaining whine reached their ears from the direction of the shed at the back of Miss Annie’s lot.

“That’s Champ!” yelled Djuna, taking off like a rocket, “He must be hurt!” Jimmy dashed after.

“Champ! Champ!” called Djuna, entering the shed. After the bright sunlight outdoors, the shadowed interior made it hard for the boys to see clearly. But when another whine came from the direction of Champ’s doghouse, Djuna ran over and sank to his knees beside the small black bundle of fur. “Champ!” he choked, patting the dog. “What happened?”

Champ did his best to tell them. He raised his shaggy head slowly, as though he were very tired, thumped his tail against the floor in a series of weak thuds. He did summon enough energy to put out a tentative tongue and lick Djuna’s face. When he was thoroughly convinced that this was indeed his master and friend, his frightened whines turned into a joyous yelp, and he struggled to his feet, shaking his head with determination.

“He’s okay, Djuna, he’s not hurt!” caroled Jimmy. “Boy, I thought there for a minute—!”

“Somebody
hit
him,” Djuna said in an astounded voice. “Feel right there on the side of his head, Jimmy. Who would hit a dog?”

Jimmy gently felt the indicated area. Indignantly he said, “Say, he’s got a big lump on his head!” He turned away and began to look around the shed. “Do you think maybe somebody hit him with this two-by-four?” As he spoke, he picked up a three-foot length of wood that had lodged in the corner behind Champ’s kennel, where it had evidently been flung.

Djuna examined the two-by-four closely. “There’s a couple of black hairs on it right here,” he pointed out. “This is it, all right. It belongs up there by the shed door with the rest of that lumber.” He dropped the stick, picked up the Scottie in his arms and stroked him, avoiding the lump on his head. “Who hit you, Champ?” he said. “Tell ol’ Djun’. Who did it?”

Champ regained his good spirits rapidly, now that he was safe in his master’s arms. He wiggled until Djuna put him down, then went sniffing fiercely around the shed.

“What’s he looking for?” Jimmy wondered.

“His chewing board, I expect. Or the man who stole it.”

Jimmy’s mouth opened. “Is it gone? The board with
Purp
on it? ”

“Champ kept it in his house. And it’s not there now.” Djuna peered into the kennel. “Jeepers, what kind of person would hit a little dog with a club?” His voice cracked with anger. “He could have killed you, Champ!”

Jimmy said, “Mr. Swift.”

Djuna nodded. “Mr. Boots told Mr. Swift Champ had the scrap of wood. And right after, Champ gets hit on the head and the wood disappears. Yes, it’s pretty plain that Mr. Swift did it.”

“What’ll we do now? Go find old Swift and arrest him? Or get my Pop to beat him up? Or what?”

“I promised Socker I wouldn’t go anywhere near Mr. Swift till he and Cannonball got here. Cannonball’s a state policeman and he’ll know what to do about Mr. Swift. But what I want to do before Socker and Cannonball get here is talk to your father, Jimmy.”

“But what if he’s still in his meeting?”

“Then I’ll talk to Grandma instead,” Djuna decided. “She can answer my questions as well as your father anyway, probably. She ought to be home from marketing by now.”

Jimmy shook his head, trying to get rid of his bewilderment. Things were moving too fast for him now, what with suspicious club guests, curious caddies, fake antique dealers, secret inscriptions, tigerskin diaries, dogs knocked on the head, lists of questions, and heaven knew what all. So, gritting his teeth against the confusion, Jimmy decided to leave the detective decisions to Djuna, who was an expert.

Djuna said, “Come on into the house a minute.” He snapped his fingers for Champ, left the shed, and headed for Miss Annie’s back door. Jimmy trailed along behind the little dog, who was now frisking in circles as though nothing had happened to him at all.

Miss Annie was in the kitchen, shelling fresh peas. When Djuna and Jimmy came in, she said, “Hello, boys. You got away a little early from the Club today, I gather?”

“It was Ladies’ Day,” Djuna said quickly. “And they mostly use carts instead of caddies, Miss Annie.” He hesitated, then plunged. “Did you notice whether Champ was barking a while ago?”

“Out back? Well, he did make a terrible racket about half an hour ago. But then, he barks at mice and cats and chipmunks.”

“And pheasants and tigers,” Jimmy broke in eagerly.

Miss Annie’s hands grew still.

“And he barks at men who hit him on the head with a club!” said Djuna bitterly. “Miss Annie, somebody knocked poor old Champ out cold and stole that piece of wood Mr. Boots gave him to chew on.” Thereupon, the story of their afternoon’s adventures tumbled from Djuna’s lips in such a flood of words that even his guilt at disobeying Miss Annie’s edict about getting involved in mysteries couldn’t stem it until the final syllable was uttered.

When he finished, Miss Annie looked at him reproachfully, but Djuna saw a gleam of sympathetic concern in her eyes as well. “Great day in the morning!” she exclaimed. “After all I’ve said, here you are in the middle of another dangerous case! And now you’ve got Jimmy involved, too. Djuna, don’t you realize that anybody who will knock a dog unconscious, just to steal a little piece of wood, might injure or kill a couple of boys without turning a hair?”

This hadn’t occurred to Jimmy before. Djuna could see plainly that the thought was not a comfortable one to his friend. But Jimmy, a little pale, spoke up stoutly. “Gosh, Miss Annie, if Djuna’s mixed up in anything he shouldn’t be, it’s my fault. Because it’s
my
chest that started the whole thing.”

“I’m not blaming either of you,” Miss Annie said. “But I’m worried sick you might not be safe from these criminals, whoever they are. Djuna, I want you to tell Jimmy’s father everything you’ve just told me. As quick as ever you can. And then you call up your friend Cannonball McGinnty and ask him to come help you.”

Djuna went over to the old lady and hugged her tight. “I’ve already talked to Socker Furlong on the telephone,” he said, “and Socker’ll be here in less than an hour to have dinner with us, Miss Annie.
And
he’s bringing Cannonball with him. So Jimmy and I’ll be okay, don’t worry.”

“Great land o’ Goshen, why didn’t you say so right off?” Miss Annie cried in relief. “You go wash up while I start dinner. Those two men eat even more’n
you
do.”

“Miss Annie, Jimmy and I’ve got to go over to Fieldcrest for a few minutes to ask Jimmy’s Grandma some questions that Cannonball will want the answers to when he gets here. We won’t be long. And we won’t go anywhere near anybody who might hurt us. Is that all right?”

“I’d feel better if you’d wait till Socker and Cannonball get here.”

“We’ll watch out, Miss Annie,” Jimmy spoke up. “Nothing’ll happen to us. We’re going straight to my house and back again.”

“Well, go on, then,” Miss Annie said reluctantly. “But be careful, you hear?”

“We will!” Djuna started for the door. “We’ll probably be back before Socker and Cannonball get here. But if we aren’t, we won’t be long. Be sure to ask them to wait for us.”

“They’re coming for
dinner,”
Miss Annie said, laughing. “They certainly won’t run away till you get back.”

But Miss Annie sent an anxious look after the boys as they ran out to where they had dropped their bikes. She watched them mount hurriedly, and pedal around the corner of the house as though they were going to a fire.

T
HEY
covered the distance from Edenboro to the entrance gates of Fieldcrest Golf Club in record time.

“Shall we go to the clubhouse and see if Pop’s still tied up?” Jimmy asked as they turned in at the gates.

“Let’s go to your house. If your father’s finished his meeting, he’s probably gone home. And if he hasn’t, Grandma’ll be there, anyway.”

So they went directly to Jimmy’s house, pulled into the turnaround where the Douglas station wagon was now parked, and left their bikes under the trees. While they mounted the steps to the terrace, Jimmy called, “Pop! Grandma! Anybody home?”

Grandma appeared in the doorway. “I’m here, Jimmy,” she said. “Been home for half an hour. Hello, there, Djuna.”

“Where’s Pop?” Jimmy asked. “Still at the Club?”

“I suppose so. I’m about to get dinner. I’d have started before this, but that nice Mr. Martin….”

“What about Mr. Martin, Grandma?” Jimmy’s alarm was immediate.

“I happened to meet him as I turned in the Club gateway with my marketing a while back. He offered to help me with my groceries. So he rode home with me and carried all my bundles in for me. Wasn’t that friendly of him?”

“Y-y-es,” said Jimmy. “Was that all he did, carry in your packages?”

“Whatever’s got into you, Jimmy! Of course that’s all he did, except to stay for a few minutes’ conversation.”

Djuna and Jimmy followed Grandma into the house and back through the passage to the kitchen, where she slyly brought out the large cake tin in which was stored the remnants of yesterday’s chocolate cake. “Supper won’t be ready for another hour of so,” she said. “Could you boys handle a small piece of this for an appetizer?”