Читать книгу The Mystery of the Strange Messages - Enid blyton - Страница 4

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Fatty took Mr. Goon in at the side door and then into the sitting-room. “Is your mother in—or your father?” asked Goon, thinking that it would be good for them to see their wonderful son properly ticked off by him.

“No, they’re out,” said Fatty. “But Larry and the others are here. I’m sure they would be interested to hear your little tale, whatever it is. We’ve been a bit dull these holidays, so far—no mystery to solve, Mr. Goon. I suppose you haven’t one that you want any help with?”

“You’d talk the hind leg off a donkey, you would,” said Mr. Goon, glad to get a word in. “So those friends of yours are here, are they? Yes, you bring them in. Do them good to hear what I’ve got to say!”

Fatty went to the door and gave such a loud shout that Mr. Goon almost jumped out of his skin. It made Buster come out from under a chair and bark madly. Mr. Goon glared at him.

“You keep away from me, you pest of a dog,” he said. “Master Frederick, can’t you send that animal out of the room? If he comes near me I’ll give him such a kick.”

“No, you won’t,” said Fatty. “You wouldn’t want me to report you to the police for cruelty to an animal, would you, Mr. Goon? Buster, sit!”

There was the sound of feet coming down the stairs, and Larry, Daisy, Pip and Bets rushed in, eager to know why Fatty had yelled so loudly. They stopped short when they saw the stout policeman.

“Oh—hallo, Mr. Goon,” said Larry, surprised. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“So you’re all here, are you?” said Mr. Goon, glaring round. “Hatching mischief as usual, I suppose?”

“Well, not exactly,” said Pip. “Fatty’s mother is having a jumble sale, and we’re turning out the attic for her to see what we can find. Have you got any jumble to spare, Mr. Goon—a couple of old helmets that don’t fit you, perhaps—they’d sell like hot cakes.”

Bets gave a sudden giggle, and then retreated hurriedly behind Fatty as Goon looked sternly at her.

“Sit down, all of you,” commanded Mr. Goon. “I’ve come here about a serious matter. I thought I’d see what you’ve got to say about it before I report it to Headquarters.”

“This sounds very very interesting,” said Fatty, sitting on the couch. “Do sit down too, Mr. Goon. Let’s all be comfortable and listen to your bedtime story.”

“It won’t do you any good to be cheeky, Master Frederick, I can tell you that,” said Mr. Goon, seating himself majestically in the biggest arm-chair in the room. “No, that it won’t. First of all—why weren’t you upstairs in the attics with the others?”

Fatty looked astonished. “I brought some jumble downstairs to stack in the garage,” he said. “Then I heard old Buster barking and came to see who the visitor was. Why?”

“Ho! Well, let me tell you that I know what you’ve been doing this morning!” said Goon. “You’ve been putting on that butcher-boy disguise of yours, haven’t you? Oh yes, I know all about it! You got out your striped butcher-boy apron, didn’t you—and you put on that red wig—and ...”

“I’m sorry to say that I didn’t,” said Fatty. “I agree that it would have been much more exciting to parade round as a butcher-boy, than to stagger downstairs with smelly old jumble—but I must be truthful, Mr. Goon. You wouldn’t like me to tell a lie, just to please you, would you? I’m afraid I haven’t been a butcher-boy this morning!”

“Ho! You haven’t—so you say!” said Mr. Goon, raising his voice. “And I suppose you didn’t leave a note in my peg-bag when you came to my house? And you didn’t leave one on my coal-shovel and ...”

Fatty was too astonished for words. So were the others. They looked at one another, wondering uneasily if Mr. Goon had gone mad. Peg-bags? Coal-shovels? What next?

“And I suppose you thought it was very clever to stick a note on my dustbin lid?” went on Mr. Goon, his voice growing louder still. He stared round at the silent children, who were all gazing at him, astounded.

“Where will you put the notes next?” he said sarcastically. “Go on, tell me. Where? I’d like to know, then I could look there.”

“Well, let’s see,” said Fatty, frowning hard. “What about inside a watering-can—if you’ve got one, have you Mr. Goon. Or in your shopping-basket ...”

“Or on his dressing-table,” said Larry, joining in. “He wouldn’t have to go and look for a note there. It would be right under his nose.”

Mr. Goon had gone purple. He looked round threateningly, and Bets half-thought she would make a dash out of the door. She didn’t like Mr. Goon when he looked like that!

“That’s not funny,” said Mr. Goon, angrily. “Not at all funny. It only makes me more certain than ever that you’ve planned those silly notes together.”

“Mr. Goon, we haven’t the least idea what you’re talking about,” said Fatty, seeing that the policeman really had some serious complaint to do with notes sent to him. “Suppose you tell us what you’ve come about—and we’ll tell you quite honestly whether we know anything about it or not.”

“Well, I know you’re mixed up in it, Master Frederick,” said Goon. “It—it smells of you. Just the sort of thing you’d do, to make a bit of fun for the others. But sending anonymous notes isn’t funny. It’s wrong.”

“What are anonymous notes?” asked Bets. “I don’t quite know.”

“They’re letters sent by someone who is afraid to put his name at the end,” explained Fatty. “Usually anonymous notes have no address and no signature—and they’re only sent by mean, cowardly people. Isn’t that so, Mr. Goon?”

“That is so,” said the policeman. “And I tell you straight, Master Frederick, that you’ve described yourself good and proper, if you sent those notes!”

“Well, I didn’t,” said Fatty, beginning to lose patience. “For goodness’ sake, Mr. Goon, come to the point, and tell us what’s happened. We’re completely in the dark.”

“Oh no, you’re not,” said Goon, and took the four notes from his pocket, each in their envelopes. He handed them to Fatty, who slid the notes out of their envelopes, one by one, and read them out loud.

“Here’s the first note. All it says is ‘Ask Smith what his real name is.’ And here’s the second. ‘Turn him out of the Ivies.’ And this one says ‘Call yourself a policeman? Go and see Smith!’ And the last one says ‘You’ll be sorry if you don’t go and see Smith!’ Well—what queer notes! Look, all of you—they’re not even handwritten!”

He passed them round. “Whoever wrote them cut the words out of newspapers—and then pasted them on the sheets of writing-paper,” said Larry. “That’s a common trick with people who don’t want their writing recognized.”

“This is really rather peculiar,” said Fatty, most interested. “Who’s Smith? And where is the house called ‘The Ivies’?”

“Don’t know one,” said Daisy. “But there’s ‘The Poplars’—it’s in our road.”

“Gah!” said Mr. Goon, aggravated to hear “The Poplars” suggested once more. Nobody took any notice of him.

“And there’s ‘The Firs’,” said Bets, “and ‘The Chestnuts’. But I can’t think of any house called ‘The Ivies’.”

“And this Mr. Smith,” said Fatty, staring at one of the notes. “Why should he have to be turned out of the Ivies, wherever it is? And why should Mr. Goon ask him what his real name is? It must be someone going under a false name for some purpose. Most peculiar.”

“It really sounds like a mystery!” said Pip, hopefully. “We haven’t had one this hols. This is exciting.”

“And the notes were put into a peg-bag—and on a coal-shovel—and stuck to the dustbin,” said Fatty, frowning. “Isn’t that what you said, Mr. Goon? Where was the fourth one?”

“You know that as well as I do,” growled the policeman. “It came through the letter-box. My daily woman, Mrs. Hicks, found them all. And when she told me that the butcher-boy arrived this morning at the same time as the last note—well, I guessed who was at the bottom of all this.”

“Well, as I wasn’t that butcher-boy, why don’t you go and question the real butcher-boy,” said Fatty. “Or shall I? This is jolly interesting, Mr. Goon. I think there’s something behind all this!”

“So do I. You are, Master Frederick Trotteville!” said Mr. Goon. “Now don’t you keep telling me it wasn’t you. I know you well enough by now. You’ll come to a bad end, you will—telling me fibs like this!”

“I think we’ll bring this meeting to an end,” said Fatty, “I never tell lies, Mr. Goon, never. You ought to know that by now. I’ve had my jokes, yes—and played a good many tricks. But I—do—not—tell lies! Here—take the letters, and get your bicycle.”

Mr. Goon rose up majestically from his arm-chair. He took the letters from Fatty and then threw them violently on the floor.

“You can have them back!” he said, “You sent them, and you can keep them. But mind you—if one more of those notes arrives at my police-station, I go straight to Superintendent Jenks and report the whole lot.”

“I really do think you’d better do that anyhow,” said Fatty. “There may be something serious behind all this, you know. You’ve got a bee in your bonnet about me—I don’t know a thing about these anonymous letters. Now please go.”

“Why didn’t you have the envelopes and the writing-paper inside tested for finger-prints, Mr. Goon?” said Pip, suddenly. “Then you’d have known if Fatty’s were there, or not. You could have taken his too, to prove it.”

“As it is, we’ve all handled the notes, and must have messed up any finger-prints that were there already,” said Fatty. “Blow!”

“Finger-prints! Bah!” said Goon. “You’d be clever enough to wear gloves if you sent anonymous notes, Master Frederick Trotteville. Well, I’ve said my say, and I’m going. But just you mind my words—one more note, and you’ll get into such trouble that you’ll wish you’d never been born. And I should burn that butcher-boy rig-out of yours, if I were you—if it hadn’t been for you acting the butcher-boy this morning I’d never have guessed it was you leaving those notes.”

He went out of the room and banged the door so violently that Buster barked in astonishment, and ran to the door, scratching at it eagerly.

“Be quiet, Buster,” said Fatty, sitting down on the couch again. “I say, you others—what do you think about these notes? A bit queer, aren’t they?”

Larry had picked them all up and put them on the table. The five looked at them.

“Do we do a little detective work?” said Larry, eagerly. “Goon’s given it up, obviously—shall we take it on?”

“Rather!” said Fatty. “Our next mystery is now beginning!”