Voices at Whisper Bend (11 page)

Paul held a rope by the bow. “Go ahead, climb in. I'll steady the boat.”

“Where are the life jackets?” Charlotte asked.

“Life jackets? To go rowing on the Monongahela? We'll stay close to the banks, I promise. Come on.”

Charlotte climbed in and the little boat rocked from side to side. When Robbie stepped in, she leaned hard to balance his weight. Little boats were so tippy. Compared to this tub, the
Rose
was an ocean liner.

Paul stepped aboard smoothly and took up the oars. He rowed close to shore as he'd promised, and soon they were making good time against the current. “Get out your fishing poles,” he said. “And try to look like you know what you're doing.”

A large working boat passed them in the middle of the channel, sending out a hefty wake. The rowboat rocked and Charlotte's stomach rocked right along with it. She dropped a line in the water. She knew how to fish, but she was used to a bigger boat.

As they headed upriver, the sun sank lower, turning the sky and the water around them pale pink. Paul pulled closer to the shoreline, into a small cove. “About here, don't you think?”

Robbie shifted so he could see the bank, and then leaned out, nearly sending Charlotte overboard. “Yeah. I see the stuff. There's a whole pile there. Boy oh boy! I'm gonna—”

“You're gonna sit tight, buster,” Charlotte growled. “Otherwise you'll get us all wet. Wait till Paul pulls the boat in before you start jumping around.”

Paul shoved on the oars and the boat scraped along the river bottom. Robbie hopped out with a splash and yanked on the rope, pulling the nose of the boat onto shore. Charlotte climbed out carefully, glad for solid ground underfoot. When Paul climbed out, he beached the boat and looped the rope around a low-hanging tree.

Robbie ran ahead toward the stash of metal. “Oh, wow! Look at this. So much stuff!”

By the time Charlotte caught up to him, he was climbing over the junk. “Watch out,” she ordered. “If you're not careful, you'll get cut again or twist an ankle, and it's a lot harder to get to the doctor's office from here.”

“But, Charlie—”

“Listen to your sister,” Paul said. “You don't want another shot, do you?”

“No, but look. Right up here. I collected this baby buggy once before. Look, Charlie, it's the exact same one.”

“Come on, Robbie. You're nuts.”

“It
is
the same. Look.” He yanked hard and some of the metal came loose from the pile.

“What's he talking about, Charlotte?” Paul asked.

“We cleaned out an old lady's backyard and cellar for the scrap drive. He thinks he recognizes junk from her place.”

“Is it possible? If it's the same baby buggy … that means …”

Charlotte's breath caught. “It means we've found the thief's hiding place,” she whispered. “That's halfway to catching him. Let me see that buggy, Robbie.”

She climbed up to where she could reach the old buggy. With Robbie and Charlotte each holding up one end, they picked their way down the pile of junk and set the frame on flat, damp ground.

“Look, it's gray cloth, just like the one we found in Mrs. Dubner's cellar.” Robbie shoved the frame. Like before, three wheels worked, but one stuck. The left rear one.

“Is it the same?” Paul asked.

“You bet,” Robbie said.

“Charlotte?”

“I … I think so. The color matches, and the stuck wheel. The one we found had a rough, rusty place under the handle, on the right side.”

Paul studied the handle. “Right here? Like this?”

Charlotte ran her fingers along the bar. On the right side something snagged her fingertips. She looked underneath and found a circular patch of rust. “We found it, then. The thief's hiding place.”

“What should we do next, Charlotte? What do you think?” Paul had a serious look on his face.

She scanned the bank on both sides of the junk pile. Then she rubbed her arms to chase away a sudden chill. “I think we should get out of here. Right away, before he comes back.”

C
HAPTER
10

N
IGHT
F
ISHING

I say we go back after supper tonight and watch for the thief,” Paul began. “We know to be careful now. With three of us, we'll be all right.” He'd beached his rowboat near his house and was tipping it on one side to dump out any water.

“I don't know,” Charlotte said. “What if there are three of
them
? Or five? There's so much metal there, you'd need an army to carry it all.”

“You're just being chicken again,” Robbie said. “If Jim were home, he'd come.”

“Make sense, Robbie. If Jim were home, there wouldn't be a war on and we wouldn't be collecting all this junk in the first place.” She sighed.

“What do
you
think we should do, Charlotte?” Paul asked.

“How about telling the police? Wouldn't they be better at catching the thief? We could tell them where to look.”

“Yeah,” Robbie said. “They could set up a trap, like in the movies.”

Paul shook his head. “Do you think they'd bother with a pile of junk? They don't have enough men for their regular work these days. They'd call this kid stuff. They'd laugh.”

“Maybe.” Charlotte frowned. If Paul was right, then the three of them had to catch the thief. Or thieves. “Okay,
if
we go back and keep watch, I'd like to figure things out better first. So we know what we're looking for.”

Robbie rolled his eyes at her. “Come on, Charlie, we're looking for a thief. You know that.”

“Okay, Mr. Smarty-Pants.” Charlotte shook her head. “What I'd like to know is
why
the thief took the stuff. And how he knew about it in the first place. That might tell us what kind of thief we're trying to catch. If it's some robber gang with knives or guns, I'm not going near the place.”

“But, Charlie—”

Paul tipped his head to one side. “Your sister's right,” he said. “If we think things through, try to put ourselves in the criminal's mind …”

A shiver went up Charlotte's back. She couldn't help remembering all those newspaper articles Paul brought to school. “You can think like a criminal if you want, but I'm not going to.”

“I bet you already have, without knowing it,” he said. “Good cops do it all the time. I know, 'cause I'm going to be a cop one of these days.”

“Really? Is that why you're always collecting crime stories?” Charlotte began.

Paul shook his head at her. “That's my business. Right now, we've got a thief to catch. I bet you've already figured out how he knew about the metal. Haven't you?”

Charlotte looked at him, puzzled.

“It just makes sense that he's connected to the school,” Paul said. “He must go there, or work there, or something. He knows about the metal because he's there. And if he's not a stranger, nobody gets suspicious.”

Charlotte thought about Paul's words. She
had
known that, maybe not in words, but inside. Most of the people on her old suspects list were connected to the school. A shadow flitted across her mind. Mr. Willis. No, absolutely not. She wouldn't think that about a nice old man who was kind to everybody. “Okay, but why? Why take all that junk?”

“He's mean, that's why,” Robbie said. He picked up a stick and smacked it against the rowboat. “I want to catch him and pop him one, right in the kisser.”

“I don't think that's the reason,” Paul said. “I've been trying to figure it out all along. There's only one reason a person would take the stuff. He's planning to sell it. He needs the money.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Swell—that helps a lot. Who wouldn't like a pile of free money? Last time I looked, Braddock wasn't exactly swimming in millionaires.”

Paul looked at her like she was Robbie's age. “There's a difference between wanting money and needing it. Sure, most people would like extra moolah. Who wouldn't like to find a ten-spot on the sidewalk?”

“Think of all the candy bars you could buy.” Robbie patted his stomach and grinned.

“Shh. Go on, Paul.”

“It's simple. With the war on, most people are working hard. Bringing in good money. So they're doing okay. If a family has boys in the service, they get an allotment every month too. My ma does.”

“So?” Where was he going with all this?

“Taking that metal is like stealing from the war. A person would have to be pretty desperate. Flat-out broke, if you ask me.”

Charlotte rubbed her forehead. “If you're right, that's all the more reason we should tell the police and stay away. If the thief's a desperate person—”

“Aaack!” Robbie grabbed his own neck with his hands and made nasty, choking sounds.

“Desperate poor, not desperate mean,” Paul said. He scowled at Robbie. “There's a difference, believe me.”

The way he said it gave Charlotte a creepy feeling, like Paul might know what it was like to be that poor. She needed to change the subject right away.

“I still don't want to sit there in a little rowboat and watch for the crook,” she began. “But maybe I'd do it if there were some way to hide. If we could watch without being spotted …”

“We can do that,” Robbie said. “Easy as pie. All we've got to do is row up there at night. Once it's dark, nobody will see us. Of course, we'll have to wear dark clothes and sneak around and not talk, but we can do that.”

“Ridiculous,” Charlotte began.

“Swell,” Paul said at the same moment. “We'll take along the fishing gear, just in case.”

Robbie grinned. Paul punched his shoulder. And Charlotte's stomach began to tie itself in knots.

On the river? In a rowboat? At night? She'd never survive it.

The sky had turned a deep bluish gray by the time Charlotte and Robbie rejoined Paul beside the river. Full darkness would come in a half hour, and they'd need that time to get themselves into position.

Charlotte carried a bag of supplies—some cheese and crackers, a jar of water, a flashlight, a sweater. In the other hand she held Jim's baseball bat, and slung over her shoulder, a life jacket. “I can't believe I let you two talk me into this,” she grumbled. She'd tried to get Betsy to come along, but with no success.

“Come on, Charlie, get in the boat,” Robbie said. “I can't wait to get started. It's a real spy mission.”

“Real spies are quiet,” Paul reminded him. “Get all your gabbing done before we reach that cove.”

“Roger, capt'n.”

Paul reached out and messed Robbie's hair, just like Jim always did. Charlotte had to bite down on her bottom lip to keep from crying.
Don't think of him now,
she scolded herself. But wait—Jim was the exact person she ought to think about. He was a sailor. He was good with boats. And he was brave. So maybe if she thought about him, some of his courage might rub off. And besides, this hunt for the thief, the scrap drive, all of it—if it wasn't for Jim, who was it for?

Paul settled into the rowboat and dipped his oars. Charlotte felt the current surge and push against them. It seemed stronger somehow than it had in the afternoon. Along the bank, trees and bushes became shadow creatures with long arms and sharp claws.

Robbie leaned forward in the boat and pointed upstream. “Look, Charlie, the sky. It's like the Fourth of July.”

In the distance, she could see the mill chimneys—skinny, shadowy pipes that blasted the darkening sky with red and orange flame. On flat land beside the chimneys, slag heaps burned like yellow-gold mountains. As Charlotte stared, a huge ladle poured a stream of liquid fire from furnace to mold. Steel, running like water but so hot that just the fumes could scorch a person's lungs. Ma was in there, in that mill, working a crane near those furnaces. It was nearly as scary as being on the river.

“Shh. We're getting close. I'll row upstream a ways and let her drift back so we can watch the whole cove. But we'll stay away from the bank so if he comes, he won't see us.”

“Right, Paul,” Charlotte said. “And so we can escape if there are a bunch of them.”

“Chicken,” Robbie whispered.

“Shh.”

That was the last talking anybody did. Paul had the boat pointed upstream, and every once in a while he'd row a few strokes beyond the bend in the river and then let the current carry them back.

Charlotte focused her eyes on the dark riverbank. When she'd looked at the mill chimneys, the flaming sky had taken away some of her night sight. So she kept her eyes down—down where she had to look at the black water rippling past, carrying them backward. The water reminded her of black velvet, except that velvet was soft and warm and comforting. The Mon was harsh and cold and threatening, even on a May night. A train whistle blew, and downstream a tug's whistle answered. She pulled her sweater from her bag and slipped it on.