The Yellow Cat Mystery (19 page)

They climbed into the old man’s pick-up truck, and a moment later they had crossed the bridge over Miller’s Brook and were on their way to Beekman’s Landing.

“Tell me some more about Captain Jonas Beekman,” Djuna asked the old man. “How could he go hunting for whales, away up here? I mean, this is pretty far from the ocean. I thought all the whale hunters lived in places right on the ocean, like Nantucket, or somewhere, didn’t they?”

“Well, they did, mostly,” Mr. Boots said. “But, don’t fergit, this town is right on th’ North River, an’ th’ North River runs right straight down to th’ ocean. Why, some day I’ll take you up to Northport, that’s only thutty mile from here, on the river, an’ show you a whale’s jawbone right in front o’ one o’ them old houses where th’ whaleship cap’ns lived! Yessir! There was a lot of whalers in Northport in the old days, but Cap’n Jonas he was th’ only one that lived here. I’ll show you his house, tain’t fur from th’ railroad station, when we git to it.”

“Away down there?” Djuna said. “Didn’t he live where Aunt Candy lives?”

“Oh, no,” Mr. Boots said, shifting gears as they started up a hill. “He bought that farmland where Aunt Candy’s house is now — ‘twan’t nuthin’ but farmland an’ wood lots then, all growin’ wild, when he bought it — an’ he used to like to come out there to go fishin’ an’ huntin’. There was some swamp land on it, too. He used to shoot wild duck an’ Canady geese an’ snipe, an’ I dunno what not. Got a deer when he wanted it, too. They was plenty of deer around here, them days. He didn’t begin to build that house where Aunt Candy lives until th’ year he died. By th’ time it was finished, he was too sick to move into it, so they tell me.”

“Does anybody live in the old house by the river now?” Djuna asked.

“Well, yes,” the old man said with a chuckle. “But it stood empty a long time, an’ folks got to sayin’ it was haunted. Said old Cap’n Jonas’s ghost used t’ prowl around there, nights, in a white nightshirt, moanin’ ‘Thar she blo-o-o-w-s!’ Lot o’ nonsense, o’ course.

“But about six months ago Aunt Candy’s boys, Olin and Dolan, hired me to reshingle th’ roof for ’em — they was too busy pickin’ their apple crop to do it — an’ then a couple o’ months later, Jedge Blackford — he’s Aunt Candy’s real-estate agent — rented it for her to a feller from Philadelphy by the name o’ Perry, that was openin’ up a drugstore in Brookville —”

“Oh, I know!” Djuna interrupted. “It’s got a lunch counter. Miss Annie took me in there once, and we had ice cream.”

“That’s the place,” Mr. Boots nodded. “Well, this Doc Perry, he wanted a place to live, and didn’t want t’ pay too much, so the Jedge rented it to him cheap. Doc Perry, as they call him, don’t do much business at th’ drugstore, most of the folks go to the big drugstores over at Riverton or up to Northport, but he makes out, I guess. An’ now he wants t’ turn Cap’n Beekman’s old house into a mu-seum.”

“A museum!” exclaimed Djuna, looking surprised. “What kind of a museum?”

“Oh, jest a kind a gener’l one, I guess,” said Mr. Boots. “You remember, I was jest a-tellin’ you about the birds an’ fish an’ animiles old Cap’n Beekman got when he was out huntin’ an’ fishin’? Well, appearently, th’ Cap’n got ’em all stuffed an’ mounted an’ put in glass cases whilst he was still livin’, an’ they’re still there in th’ house. An’ now Doc Perry has got the idee that he can call it a mu-seum an’ charge admission, an’ git rich. But I dunno. Mebby Aunt Candy won’t like it.”

“Jeepers, I’d like to see it!” exclaimed Djuna. “Do you think we could, after we meet Bobby?”

They were now reaching the main cross street of the little village of Brookville, where the Landing Road crossed the Federal Highway that ran north to Northport and West London and south through Riverton. Mr. Boots put on his brakes and brought the truck to a stop.

“I dunno,” he repeated. “There’s Doc Perry’s drugstore over there on the corner, but we ain’t got time to stop now. Better go an’ meet Bobby, and then stop at th’ house on the way back.”

The red light at the crossing changed from red to green and they went ahead.

“But if there’s nobody at the house,” Djuna objected, “We’ll have to come all the way back here to ask Doc Perry when we can see it, won’t we?”

“Well, mebby not,” Mr. Boots said. “I was just a-goin’ t’ tell ye that mebby we’ll find someone there, on our way back.”

“Who?” asked Djuna. “Doesn’t he live there by himself?”

“Kloop will prob’ly be there,” said Mr. Boots, keeping his eye on the road.

“Kloop?” Djuna exclaimed. “That’s a funny name!”

“Sounds consid’able like a cow pullin’ her foot out of a mudhole,” Mr. Boots agreed. “But that’s it — Karl Kloop, his name is. He’s a right nice young man, turned up here about a month ago and got hired by Doc Perry for his helper. He don’ do much at th’ drugstore, spends most of his time gettin’ th’ mu-seum ready t’ open. So I reckon we’ll find him there, and mebby he’ll let us have a look at whatever is ready to be looked at. No harm tryin’, anyways.”

In another minute or two Mr. Boots pointed out Captain Beekman’s old stone house, but as they drove past it Djuna could see no one there. The old house stood on high ground, a bluff that sloped steeply to the edge of the great North River, fifty feet below. Djuna couldn’t help giving a whoop of wonder as he stared at the broad surface of the mighty stream, almost a mile wide, as it went on its majestic way south to flow into the ocean, ninety miles away. But he caught only a glimpse of it, because almost at once they reached the railroad station at Beekman’s Landing.

Mr. Boots parked the truck, and they hurried through the railroad station and down the outdoor iron stairway that led to the railroad tracks at the river’s edge. The tracks ran along a narrow strip of ground at the foot of the steep bluff, between it and the very edge of the great river. Mr. Boots pointed to a tiny bay a short distance to the north.

“They say that’s the cove where old Cap’n Beekman used to anchor his whalin’ ship when he got back from a voyage,” said the old man. “He must ha’ had consid’able trouble h’istin’ his barrels o’ whale oil up that steep cliff.”

“Oh, I don’t think he did that,” Djuna said. “From his log he sold the oil he brought back before he sailed up the river. At New York, I mean. At least, that’s the way I understood it from the logbook Aunt Candy showed me this morning. He must have made a lot of money, don’t you suppose?”

But before Mr. Boots could answer, they heard the hoot of a locomotive whistle, and the train came puffing around the bend and ground to a panting stop beside them. People began coming down the steps of the cars. Djuna peered anxiously from one to another, and then gave a whoop of joy that caused Mr. Boots to jump.

“There he is!” he shouted. “There’s Bobby!”

A moment later Djuna was pounding the back of a sturdy, good-looking boy of his own age and Bobby Herrick was pounding him back like a wild Indian while they both whooped with rejoicing.

“Just look at you!” said Djuna, when he could get his breath. “You’re tanned as brown as an old saddle!”

“Oh, a little,” said Bobby, with a smile.

“Have you had your lunch?” asked Djuna.

“Oh, sure,” said Bobby. “I ate in the diner, coming up here.”

“You did? All right, then, here we go!”

Bobby stared at Mr. Boots very respectfully as Djuna introduced them. “I’m very glad to know you,” he said. “Djuna told me all about you. He said you saved his life once.”

“Nothin’ of th’ sort!” said the old man, modestly. “It was him that saved mine!” But it was plain that he was very proud of Djuna’s account.
*

When all three had settled themselves on the seat of the little truck, with Bobby’s suitcase safely stowed in the back, Djuna explained to Bobby a little about the old whaler, Captain Jonas Beekman, and why their first stop on the way home would be at the house in which the old captain once lived.

“Hoist the anchor, Mr. Boots!” said Djuna. “Here we go!”

But when they reached the old house a minute later, it looked as if they were going to be disappointed. No one seemed to be at home. The window blinds were drawn and the house looked deserted. They pulled the knob of the old-fashioned bellpull, and waited. There was no sound inside the house. Finally, they pounded on the door. Still no answer. Again they knocked, more loudly this time. No one appeared. But just as they were about to turn away they heard footsteps, coming down a stairway in the hall. The door swung open.

A tall and rather slender young man stood staring at them. He was bareheaded, and his hair, which was red, was rumpled. His complexion was pale, and the dark sunglasses which he wore made his skin seem even paler. He was coatless and was wearing a pair of rumpled gray trousers, very dusty at the knees.

“We rang the bell,” said Djuna, “but I guess it doesn’t work.”

“Yes,” said the young man. “I mean no, I —”

“And then we knocked,” said Djuna. “Twice, loud.”

“I — I guess I didn’t hear you the first time,” the young man stammered. “I — I was down in the cellar. Sorry.”

Djuna and Bobby glanced at each other. The sound of the footsteps had plainly been coming
down
stairs, not
up
.

“Oh, that’s okay,” said Djuna. “We just wanted to ask if we could see some of the things in the museum, please. You’re Professor Kloop, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m Professor Kloop,” the young man said. “But about the museum, I’m sorry. We aren’t quite ready to admit visitors. You see — ah — well, really, there’s a lot of work still to be done on the exhibits. We won’t be ready for another month. Suppose you come back after we announce our formal opening.”

Mr. Boots, who had been wandering around the front of the old stone house, studying the masonry, came around the corner of the house just in time to hear the young man’s last words.

“You remember me, don’t ye, Professor?” he asked. “George Boots is my name. Guess you’ve seen me down at Doc Perry’s, hain’t ye? I come from Edenboro, an’ so does this boy Djuna, but this here lad Bobby has just arrived from Floridy t’ visit Djuna. He can only be here a few days and they’re both mighty anxious to see whatever
is
ready in your museum. They’ll be awful disappointed ef they can’t!”

The young man’s somewhat worried look gave place to a pleasant smile. “Why, I’ll be glad to, Mr. Boots,” he said. “If you don’t mind the way everything is mixed up and dusty. Come in, boys, I’ll show you what little there is to see. But don’t touch anything, please, you’ll get dirty.”

He ushered his three visitors into a big room at the right of the hall. Bobby, who was the first one to go in, jumped back. Facing him, and crouching on a table near the door, was a huge cat, ready to spring, its lips drawn back in a snarl, its sharp fangs gleaming.

“Oh, don’t mind
him!
” said Professor Kloop, laughing. “He’s just a stuffed bobcat. I suppose old Captain Jonas shot him, out east of here, a long, long time ago. Here, let me explain what I mean when I say we aren’t ready. You see this fawn?”

He pointed to a graceful little deer, with spotted hide, that stood near. “I don’t believe Captain Jonas killed this,” he said. “I can’t really guess where he got it. But our plan is to fasten the branch of a tree under this ceiling, fasten the bobcat on it, and put the deer under it, to look as if the cat was about to spring on it. You know, make it as realistic as possible.”

“Golly, that would look swell!” said Bobby.

The next thing they noticed was an enormous stuffed fish, almost ten feet long, that was fastened to a wide plank leaning against the wall.

“What’s that?” exclaimed Djuna. “A baby whale?”

“It isn’t a tarpon,” said Bobby, before Professor Kloop could answer. “I’ve seen tarpon as big as that, down in Florida, but they don’t look like that. And it doesn’t look like a tuna, either.”

“No,” said Professor Kloop, “that’s a sturgeon. They used to be more plentiful in the North River than they are now. They used to be called ‘Albany beef.’ We’re going to label him as the fish who caught himself.”

“How?” exclaimed both boys at once.

“Well, he wasn’t caught by a fisherman with a hook or a net,” said young Professor Kloop, smiling. “Some people were crossing the river, right near here, in a big rowboat — there weren’t any steam ferries or motorboats in those days, of course — and when they were almost across, suddenly, whoosh! — up jumped this big sturgeon out of the water, clear into the air, and fell plop into the bows of the big rowboat! He flopped around in the bottom of the boat, almost up-setting it, but luckily his tail got wedged under the wooden seat at the front of the boat, so he couldn’t flop around any more. So, you see, he caught himself. After that, I suppose, they hit him on the nose with an oar, and stunned him. When they got ashore, they measured and weighed him. He is eight and a half feet long and weighed one hundred and fifty pounds. There must have been enough Albany beef that day to feed the whole village! By the way, this sturgeon wasn’t one of Captain Beekman’s trophies — he was off on a whaling voyage when it caught itself. We borrowed it from the family who owns it, for an exhibit. We plan to see if other families here haven’t other interesting things to lend. But it all takes time!”

He led them around the big room, pointing out one thing and another. There was a stuffed fox, and a stuffed squirrel, and a black-and-white striped skunk — stuffed, of course — and even a fat woodchuck, sitting on its hind legs. There were several wild ducks, with beautiful feathers, a Canada goose, big as a turkey, with black head and black neck, and a gray body; and a great white owl, with staring yellow eyes, made of glass, that Professor Kloop said was called a snowy owl, and had also flown down from Canada.

Another white bird, not nearly as big as the owl, with a rather small body but very long legs, stood in a glass case. The glass case rested on a square pedestal of black wood. Djuna bent down to read a card that was fastened to the case.

“That’s a snowy egret,” said Professor Kloop.

“Gee, I’ve seen those down in Forida!” exclaimed Bobby. “They nest in the Everglades swamps, I guess, but sometimes you see them flying around.”