Читать книгу The Mystery of the Strange Messages - Enid blyton - Страница 3

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Mr. Goon, the village policeman, was in a very bad temper. He sat at his desk, and stared at three pieces of paper there, spread out before him. Beside them were three cheap envelopes.

On each sheet of paper separate words were pasted in uneven lines. “They’re all words cut out of some newspaper,” said Mr. Goon. “So’s the writer’s handwriting wouldn’t give him away, I suppose! And what nonsense they make—look at this one now—‘turn him out of the ivies!’ What does that mean, I’d like to know. And this one—‘ask smith what his real name is.’ Who’s Smith?”

He stared at the last piece of paper, “call yourself a policeman? better go and see smith.”

“Gah!” said Mr. Goon. “Better put them all into the waste-paper basket!” He took one of the envelopes and looked at it. It was a very cheap one, square in shape, and on each one was pasted two words only.

Mr. goon.

Each word was pasted separately, as if cut from a newspaper. Goon’s surname had no capital letter, and he nodded his head at that.

“Must be a fellow with no education that put my name with a small letter,” he said. “What’s he mean—all this business about some place called The Ivies, and a fellow called Smith? Must be mad! Rude too—‘Call myself a policeman!’ I’ll tell him a few things when I see him.”

He gave a sudden shout. “Mrs. Hicks! Come here a minute, will you?”

Mrs. Hicks, the woman who came in to clean for Mr. Goon, shouted back, “Let me wipe me hands and I’ll be there!”

Mr. Goon frowned. Mrs. Hicks treated him as if he were an ordinary man, not a policeman, whose frown ought to send her scuttling, and whose voice ought to bring her in at top speed. After a minute or two she arrived, panting as if she had run for miles.

“Just in the middle of washing-up,” she began. “And I think I’d better tell you, Mr. Goon, you want a couple of new cups, and a ...”

“I’ve no time to talk about crockery,” said Mr. Goon, snappily. “Now see here ...”

“And me tea-cloth is just about in rags,” went on Mrs. Hicks. “How I’m supposed to wash up with ...”

“mrs. hicks! I called you in on an official matter,” said the policeman, sternly.

“All right, all right,” said Mrs. Hicks, in a huff. “What’s up? If you want my advice on that fellow who goes round stealing the vegetables off our allotments, well, I can give a good guess. I ...”

“Be quiet, woman,” said Mr. Goon, fiercely, wishing he could clap her into a cell for an hour or two. “I merely want to ask you a few questions.”

“What about? I’ve done nothing wrong,” said Mrs. Hicks, a little alarmed at Goon’s angry face.

“Look—see these three letters you brought in to me?” said Goon, pushing the envelopes over towards Mrs. Hicks. “Well, where exactly did you find them? You said one was in the coal-shed, on the shovel.”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Hicks, “set right in the middle of the shovel it was. And all it said on the envelope was ‘Mr. goon’ and I brought it straight into you today.”

“And where did you say the others were?” asked Mr. Goon, in his most official manner.

“Well, one come in through the letter-box some time,” said Mrs. Hicks, “and you weren’t in so I put it on your desk. And the second one was on the dustbin lid, sir—stuck there with a bit of sticky paper. Couldn’t help but see it when I went to empty the dustpan. And what I say is, it’s pretty queer to have notes all ...”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Goon. “Have you seen anyone sneaking about round the back? Somebody must have climbed over the fence to put the notes in the coal-shed and on the dustbin.”

“I haven’t seen no one,” said Mrs. Hicks, “and what’s more if I had, I’d have taken my broom and given him a whack on the head. What’s in the notes, sir—anything important?”

“No,” said Mr. Goon. “It’s probably all just a silly joke—you don’t know of any place here called The Ivies, do you?”

“The Ivies?” said Mrs. Hicks, considering. “No, I don’t. Sure you don’t mean ‘The Poplars,’ sir? Now, a nice gentleman lives there, sir, I do for him each Friday when I don’t come to you, and he’s ever so nice to me, he ...”

“I said the Ivies, not the Poplars,” said Mr. Goon. “All right. You can go, Mrs. Hicks. But keep an eye on the back garden, will you? I’d like to get a description of whoever it is leaving these notes about the place.”

“I will that, sir,” said Mrs. Hicks. “And what about me getting you a couple more cups, sir—one broke in my hand, and ...”

“Oh, get the cups,” said Mr. Goon. “And I don’t want to be disturbed for the next hour. I’ve important work to do!”

“So’ve I,” said Mrs. Hicks. “That kitchen stove of yours is just crying out for a good clean and ...”

“Well, go and stop it crying,” snapped Mr. Goon, and heaved a sigh of relief as Mrs. Hicks disappeared in a huff.

He studied the three notes again, puzzling over the cut-out, pasted on words. What newspaper had they been cut from? It would be a help to find out, but Goon could see no way of discovering that. Who had sent them—and why? There wasn’t any place called “The Ivies” in Peterswood.

He took up a local directory of roads and houses again, and went through it carefully. Then he picked up the telephone receiver.

When the exchange answered he asked for the postmaster. “P.C. Goon here,” he said, importantly, and at once he was put through to the right department.

“Er—Postmaster,” said Goon, “I want a little information, please. Is there a house—possibly a new one—called The Ivies here in Peterswood?”

“The Ivies?” said the Postmaster. “Let me think—Ivies. No, there isn’t, Mr. Goon. There’s The Poplars, though, that might be ...”

“It is not The Poplars,” said Goon. “I’m also looking for someone called Smith, who ...”

“Smith? Oh, I can give you the addresses of at least fifteen Smiths in Peterswood,” said the Postmaster. “Do you want them now?”

“No, I don’t,” said Mr. Goon, desperately, and put down the receiver with a bang. He gazed at the three notes again. No address on them. No name at the bottom. Where did they come from? Who had sent them? Did they mean anything—or was it a fat-headed joke?

A joke? Who would dare to play a joke like that on him, P.C. Goon, representative of the law for Peterswood? An uneasy feeling crept over Mr. Goon, as a vision of a plump boy with a broad grin on his face came into his mind.

“That fat boy! Frederick Trotteville!” he said, out loud. “He’s home for the holidays—and he won’t have gone back to school yet. Gah! That toad of a boy! He’d think it was clever to send me notes like this—sending me off on a false trail—putting me on a wrong scent—deceiving me and making me look for houses called The Ivies. gah!”

He sat down to do some work, but at the back of his mind was the continual thought that it might be Fatty Trotteville playing a joke, and he found himself unusually slow with the making out of his reports. In the middle of his second report Mrs. Hicks came running in, breathless as usual.

“Mr. Goon, sir—here’s another of them notes!” she said, panting as if she had run a mile, and putting another of the familiar square envelopes down on Mr. Goon’s desk. He stared at it. Yes—his name was there as usual, pasted on the envelope. “Mr. goon”. No capital letter for his surname—so it was obviously from the same sender.

“Did you see anyone? Where did you find it?” demanded Mr. Goon, slitting it open very carefully.

“Well, I went to hang out my dish-cloth—and a real rag it is too,” said Mrs. Hicks. “And when I put my hand into the peg-bag, there was this letter—on top of the pegs!”

“Was anyone about?” asked Mr. Goon.

“No—the only person who’s been this morning is the butcher-boy with your chops, sir,” said Mrs. Hicks.

“butcher-boy!” said Goon, starting up, and making Mrs. Hicks step backwards in fright, “ho! Now we know where we are! Butcher-boy! Did you see this boy?”

“No, sir. I was upstairs making your bed,” said Mrs. Hicks, alarmed at Goon’s purple face. “I just called out to him to leave the meat on the table, and he did, because I found it there, and he went off whistling, and ...”

“All right. That’s enough. I know all I want to know now,” said Goon. “I’m going out, Mrs. Hicks, so answer the telephone for me till I’m back. And you’ll be glad to know that’s the last of these notes you’ll find. Butcher-boy! I’ll butcher-boy him! I’ll ...”

“But Charlie Jones is a good lad!” said Mrs. Hicks. “He’s the best boy the butcher ever had, he told me so. He ...”

“I’m not thinking of Charlie Jones,” said Mr. Goon, putting on his helmet, and adjusting the strap. “Ho no—I’m thinking of someone else! And that someone else is going to get a Nasty Shock.”

Mrs. Hicks was puzzled and curious, but not another word would Mr. Goon say. He strode out of his office, fetched his bicycle and rode off. In his pocket were the four notes he had received. He thought over the fourth one as he rode down the street. Ten words, cut out from newspapers again, and pasted on the sheet. “You’ll be sorry if you don’t go and see Smith.”

“It’s that fat boy, Frederick Trotteville, I’m certain it is,” thought Goon, pedalling fast. “Ha—he disguised himself as a butcher-boy again, did he? Well, he’s done that before, and he’s made a great mistake doing it again! I can see through you, you toad of a boy! Wasting my time with idiotic notes! I’ve got you this time. You just wait!”

He turned in at Fatty’s gate, and rode up the drive to the house. At once a small Scottie raced out of the bushes, barking gleefully at the policeman’s ankles.

“You clear orf!” shouted Mr. Goon, and kicked out at the delighted dog. “Bad as your master you are! Clear orf, I say!”

“Hallo, Mr. Goon!” said Fatty’s voice. “Come here, Buster. You can’t treat your best friend like that! You seem in a hurry, Mr. Goon.”

The policeman dismounted, his face red with pedalling so furiously. “You keep that dog off me,” he said. “I want a word with you, Master Frederick Trotteville. In fact, I want a Long Talk. Ha—you thought you were very clever, didn’t you, sending all those notes?”

“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Fatty, puzzled. “But do come in. We’ll have a nice cosy chat together!”