The Purple Bird Mystery (9 page)

“I know I did.”

Jimmy lowered his voice, looking around in a conspiratorial manner. “Maybe Mr. Swift’s a murderer in disguise,” he suggested darkly, “or a bank robber on the lam, or something like that!”

“Oh, I don’t think he’s anything dangerous. Just not a real antique dealer.”

“How about this?” Jimmy’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “He’s got that old tigerskin book, you said. So maybe he’s the robber the man in the diary was writing about. The man who locked somebody up in a room while he searched the house!”

Djuna considered this suggestion. “The date on that last entry was thirty-five years ago, so that couldn’t be it. Mr. Swift isn’t that old. I wish I’d had time to read some more in the book.” Then he noticed Jimmy’s eagerness. “Listen, Jimmy,” he warned, “whoever Mr. Swift is, don’t say anything about him to Miss Annie, will you? I haven’t told her about last night. But we should tell somebody about Mr. Swift. How about your father? He’d know what to do.”

“What can we tell Pop?” Jimmy asked, reasonably enough. “All Mr. Swift’s done so far is to try and buy my chest for a whole lot of money. He hasn’t done anything bad, has he?”

“No. Except to grab Champ by the neck yesterday and hurt him.”

“Well, Pop already knows about that. Grandma told him last night at dinner.”

“What did he say? Did he think he might sell the chest to Mr. Swift?”

Jimmy shook his head regretfully. “He said the same as Grandma. No sale.”

Djuna pondered. “I wish there were some way we could find out who Mr. Swift is, if he’s not a real antique dealer.”

“Me, too.”

Suddenly Djuna straightened up. “Hey!”

“What?”

“I’ll call my friend, Socker Furlong, in Philadelphia on the telephone!”

“Who’s he?”

“He’s a reporter on the Philadelphia
Morning Bugle
. I told you. And he’s about the best reporter there is, even if Mr. Canavan, his boss, is always saying he’s lazy.”

“But how would he know about Mr. Swift?”

“He wouldn’t, probably. But he could find out for us.”

“How?”

“Do you remember what Mr. Swift’s business card said?”

“Just that he was an antique dealer in Philadelphia…. Philadelphia! Socker Furlong lives there, and that’s where Mr. Swift’s shop is!”

“Let’s try it!”

“That’s long distance,” Jimmy said doubtfully.

“Socker lets me call him sometimes and reverse the charges. Is there a telephone around here?”

“Sure, one in the pro shop, one in the caddy-house.”

“We don’t want anybody to hear us.” Djuna looked up and saw Joe Morelli leaning negligently against a post in the breezeway, watching them.

“What are you kids up to out here?” Joe called, strolling to where they sat. “Are you planning to rob a bank or something? Why all this secrecy?”

Djuna said the first thing that occurred to him. “We’re wondering where there’s a phone we could use.”

“In the caddy-house,” Joe said.

“But Mr. Jonas might not like us to …”

“It’s long distance,” Jimmy explained.

“What’s the difference? Ask for the charges and pay Mr. Jonas.”

“We’ll call collect,” Djuna said. “But Mr. Jonas is pretty busy in there.” He was trying to think of some good reason for refusing to use the caddy-house phone.

Joe grinned. “Mr. Jonas isn’t even here now. Didn’t you see him go over to the pro shop a minute ago? So go ahead and use the phone if you want to.”

“Oh,” said Djuna, getting to his feet with alacrity. “That’ll be fine. Thanks, Joe.”

“I’ll stay outside here if you want privacy.”

“Well, that’ll be okay,” said Djuna, relieved. “We won’t be more’n a couple of minutes.”

Joe Morelli went back to sit on the caddy-bench after closing the door into the caddy-house. Djuna put in a person-to-person call for Mr. Socker Furlong at the Philadelphia
Morning Bugle
. “And ask him if he’ll accept the call in reverse. I mean, collect,” Djuna told the operator.

In a surprisingly short time, Djuna heard the newspaper switchboard operator come on the line with a “This is the
Morning Bugle.”
The Edenboro operator asked if Mr. Furlong would accept a collect call from Edenboro. There was a click, and then Socker’s deep voice on the line. “Furlong speaking!” When the operator told him of the collect call, Socker said heartily, “From Edenboro? That’s Djuna! Of course I’ll accept the call.”

“Hello! Socker! Socker?” Djuna said excitedly.

“Djuna? Hel-LO! How’s the boy? I haven’t heard from you for positive ages! Been meaning to drive up there and visit you, but it’s been a real rat race around this slave market for months! And my slave-driver boss won’t let me leave. What’s cooking with you, Djuna? Got another mystery, by any chance?”

“Well, there’s a man here who’s acting kind of supicious, Socker, and I wondered if you could find out something about him for me. His name is Anthony Swift … we think, and he’s from Philadelphia.”

“Never heard of him,” Socker boomed. “But then I never heard of Ellery Queen, either, till I read his first book. What do you mean, this Anthony Swift is acting suspicious?”

“He’s trying to buy an antique chest from a friend of mine, and we don’t believe he’s a real antique dealer. I thought maybe you could find out for me.”

“If anybody can do it, I can,” said Socker modestly. “A fake antique dealer, you say? Sounds as though you might have another story for me, Djuna. Do you want to tell me about it?”

“Sure, Socker, but this man may not be a fake. If you could just find out whether Mr. Swift is who he says he is—”

“Okay, we’ll save the story till later. Now who does this Swift character say he is?”

Cupping his hand around the mouthpiece of the phone, Djuna said, “His business card says he runs a place called Swift’s Antique Shop at 406 Hallmark Street, in Philadelphia.”

“Swift’s Antique Shop, 406 Hallmark,” Socker repeated. Djuna surmised from his voice that Socker was writing this information down. “I never heard of such an address,” Socker said, “and I’ve lived in this town for lo, these many years. But that doesn’t mean anything. It’s a big city. What’s the zone number? The zip code?”

“That wasn’t given on his card,” Djuna replied. “But you could find the shop in the phone book and ask about Mr. Swift, couldn’t you?

“Sure. What does he look like?”

Djuna described Mr. Swift.

“Good,” Socker said. “Anything else?”

“Well, he’s driving a 1964 Chevrolet, black two-door sedan with a Pennsylvania license.”

“License number?”

“VDVM-113.”

“You don’t miss much, do you?” Socker chuckled. “All right, Djuna, relax and I’ll see what I can find out about this Swift. But remember, my lad, if there’s a story in it, your old pal Socker Furlong gets first crack at it. Agreed? Do you want me to call you back, or will you call me?”

“I’ll call you, Socker, if that’s all right. You see, I’m a caddy now, and I’m away from Miss Annie’s all day, and …”

“A caddy!” Socker’s voice expressed shock. “Why, that’s hard work, Djuna! All those miles lugging a heavy golf bag on your back! It makes me tired just to think of it. Haven’t I always told you that hard work is the bane of man’s existence?”

Djuna laughed. “I like it,” he said. “It’s fun. And Socker, thank you for helping me.”

“Forget it. You’ve helped me often enough. Give my regards to Miss Annie.”

“I will, Socker. And I’ll call you again tomorrow, okay?”

“Okay. Goodbye, Djuna.” Socker hung up.

Djuna followed suit. Jimmy was standing close beside him. “Did you hear what he said?” Djuna asked.

“You bet! That Socker sounds like a swell fellow. I hope he can find out about Mr. Swift.”

“He will.” Djuna gave a sigh of relief. “I feel better with Socker helping us,” he said. “He’s so smart nobody can fool him for long.”

The two boys left the caddy-house, stepping into the breezeway just as Mr. Jonas returned from the pro shop. “We used your phone, Mr. Jonas,” Djuna told him, “to make a long distance call, with the charges reversed. Was that all right?”

Mr. Jonas nodded with a preoccupied air. “This time,” he said. “But ordinarily the caddies are supposed to use the pay phone behind the pro shop.”

“Gee,” said Jimmy, embarrassed, “we didn’t know that. I’m sorry. Joe Morelli told us you wouldn’t mind if we used yours, long as the club didn’t have to pay the charges.”

“That’s right.” Mr. Jonas disappeared into the caddy-house.

Jimmy and Djuna sat down in the breezeway with the other caddies. Djuna looked around him. “Where
is
Joe?” he asked Jimmy. “I thought he was out here while we phoned.”

Jimmy shrugged. “Maybe he got tired waiting for an assignment and went home.”

“Where’s he live?” Djuna asked curiously.

“In Brookville, he told me yesterday. He hitches rides to and from the club.”

“He must have left.”

One of the other caddies spoke up. “Joe? He left right after you two went inside to phone.”

“Where’d he go?” Djuna asked.

The caddy shook his head. “Search me. He said he had a chance for a ride, that’s all I know.”

Djuna frowned, vaguely troubled by Morelli’s absence. He would have been even more troubled had he known that during his telephone conversation with Socker, Joe Morelli had stood out of sight of the caddies against the side wall of the caddy-house below an open window, and listened intently to every word that Djuna had said on the telephone.

The ensuing hours dragged by; hopefully, Djuna and Jimmy waited all morning for their names to be called by Mr. Jonas. But most of the lady golfers ran true to form and preferred to hire carts. By noon, when the pangs of hunger began to assail both boys, there were still six caddies ahead of them for the next carry.

“Let’s eat our lunch, anyway,” said Djuna. “Where’ll we eat?”

“Right here in the breezeway. All the fellows do it. I’ll buy you a root beer out of the machine if you spent all your money on a leash for Champ.”

“Thanks, Jimmy, but I’ve still got enough for a drink.”

They secured a bottle apiece from the soft-drink vending machine, unwrapped their packages of sandwiches, and ate their lunch in companionable silence. When his sandwiches were finished, Djuna said, “Miss Annie gave me a banana for dessert today. What did Grandma give you?”

“Nothing,” said Jimmy, “except an old apple and a plum. Wish I had some of that chocolate cake she gave me yesterday.”

“Oh, boy, that was
cake
!
“
Djuna said at once. “Is it all gone?”

“No, there’s still some left. If Grandma was home, I’d go ask her if we could have a piece. But she’s marketing in Brookville with our station wagon.”

“All day?”

“She’ll be home this afternoon sometime. If we don’t get a carry pretty soon, Djuna, what say we go to my house and see if she’s there and ask her for some cake?”

“That will suit me fine,” Djuna agreed promptly.

It was two o’clock by the time Mr. Jonas came out of the caddy-house and told Jimmy and Djuna that, since the chances of getting a carry that day were now almost nil, they could go home if they wanted to. “But be here tomorrow,” he told them, “because Friday’s a jammed-up day and we’ll need you.”

The boys got on their bikes and set out for Jimmy’s house on the winding track through the golf course. When they came into the turnaround, they knew Jimmy’s grandmother wasn’t home yet; they saw no gray station wagon parked under the trees.

What they did see, however, was a man standing on the terrace. His back was to them, but there seemed something familiar about it.

“Why, it’s Mr. Martin!” Djuna exclaimed. “Hi, Mr. Martin!”

Mr. Martin, with a start, whirled around. “Oh!” he said. “Hello, boys. I’ve been trying to get somebody to answer your door, Jimmy. But without any success.”

Jimmy said, “There’s nobody home, Mr. Martin. Grandma’s shopping in Brookville, and Pop’s at a meeting in the clubhouse with the golf committee—it’s his first day as pro, you know. He expected the meeting would last ’most all afternoon.”

“Well, I didn’t want anything very important, anyway. Aren’t you caddying today?”

“Ladies’ Day,” said Jimmy. “Not much call for caddies.”

“I know. That’s why I’m not playing today myself,” said Mr. Martin. “I was just out for a stroll, and I thought I might catch your father here for lunch and arrange for him to give me a couple of golf lessons. I’m leaving Fieldcrest in a day or two. My vacation’s almost over.”

Djuna was watching Mr. Martin closely, thinking to himself that despite Mr. Martin’s mildly suspicious actions during the past few days, this smartly dressed, friendly man couldn’t, after all, be anything more than an avid golfer who had got interested in the new pro and his family. And just as this reflection passed through his mind, Mr. Martin suddenly broke off what he was saying.

From an expression of rueful disappointment, Mr. Martin’s heavy brows drew themselves into a frown of startled surprise—a look that Djuna knew from the movies was called a “double take.” “Say!” Mr. Martin said, a note of urgency in his voice. “Did you say
nobody
was home, Jimmy?”

Jimmy nodded.

“Then who,” Mr. Martin inquired, “was making all the slamming and tapping noises up in your bedroom just now, Jimmy?” And he pointed a finger straight overhead to the open window of Jimmy’s bedroom above the front door.

“Golly!” Jimmy said in a high voice. “Honest?”

“That’s why I kept ringing your doorbell, Jimmy. I thought it was your Grandmother moving furniture, or cleaning. But if she’s at the market … and your father’s at the clubhouse …”

“Then somebody
else
is up there!” Jimmy finished in a whisper.

“Unless I scared him with my ringing. Listen!” The three listened intently for a few moments, their heads tilted back to stare at the open window above them. All that could be heard was the chirping of a robin in the tree beside the terrace and the voices of two women golfers who were just leaving their golf cart to drive off number seven tee. No sound at all reached them from the bedroom upstairs.

Mr. Martin said quietly, “Is this front door locked, Jimmy?” He pulled open the screen door.