Читать книгу The Mystery of the Strange Messages - Enid blyton - Страница 7

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Next morning Fatty was waiting for the others down in his shed. He had biscuits in a tin, and lemonade in a bottle. He also had the four notes set out in their envelopes.

Larry and Daisy were the first to arrive. “Hallo, Fatty! Solved the mystery yet?” said Daisy.

“I don’t somehow think it’s going to be very easy,” said Fatty. “That box is for you to sit on, Daisy. I’ve put a cushion on it—and there’s a cushion for Bets too.”

Pip and Bets arrived almost immediately, and then Ern came running down the path. Buster greeted him loudly, leaping round his ankles. He liked Ern.

“Hallo, everybody,” said Ern, panting. “Am I late? I thought I wouldn’t be able to come, but Uncle said he’d be in all morning, so here I am. I’m on duty this afternoon.”

“Has he paid you anything yet?” asked Bets.

“No. He says he’ll pay me each dinner-time,” said Ern. “I asked him for a bit in advance, but he wouldn’t give me any. If he had I’d have bought some sweets and brought them along for us all, but I’ll do that tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Ern,” said Fatty. “Tell us—did you have any luck in seeing anyone snooping around, placing notes anywhere?”

“No. No luck at all,” said Ern. “Uncle’s quite disappointed there’s no more notes. I watched him testing the one he got yesterday morning for finger-prints. All that powder and stuff! Beats me how it fetches up finger-prints!”

“Oh! Did Goon test for finger-prints too?” said Fatty, interested. “Did he find any? The note he had wouldn’t have any prints of ours on it—it would show up a strange print at once.”

“Well, it didn’t show anything,” said Ern. “Not a thing. Uncle said the writer must have worn gloves. Didn’t mean to be found out, did he?”

“No, he didn’t,” said Fatty, looking thoughtful. “It rather looks as if he was afraid that his finger-prints would be recognized ...”

“And that would mean that he’d had them taken already for some reason,” said Larry, at once. “So he might be a bad lot—might have been in prison.”

“Yes, that’s true,” said Fatty. “I wonder if the man who writes the notes is the one who’s putting them all about Goon’s garden. No wonder Goon wants to spot him, if so.”

“Coo,” said Ern, looking startled. “Do you think he might be dangerous? Do you think he’d shoot me if he saw me spying for him?”

“Oh no—I shouldn’t think so!” said Fatty. “I don’t think you will spot him, Ern. He’d be very careful indeed. I wish I knew what he meant by these notes, though. And why does he go to so much trouble cutting out letters and words from the newspapers, and putting them laboriously on strips of paper, and then sticking the strips on writing-paper. Why couldn’t he just disguise his writing? It’s easy enough to do!”

“It might be easy for you, Fatty, but not for most people,” said Daisy.

“You say you saw and heard nothing at all to make you think anyone was around, and that no note was found this morning?” said Fatty to Ern. “I wonder if that was because you were there? Who is in the house when Goon is out?”

“Only Mrs. Hicks, the woman who comes in to clean,” said Ern. “She’s not there all the time, anyway. And I don’t believe she’d notice anyone around unless they rang the bell or banged on the knocker. Why, she never even noticed the boy next door when he hopped over the fence to get his ball.”

“The boy next door? Did he come over?” said Fatty, at once. “It’s possible someone might pay him to slip the notes here and there.”

“Well, I watched him like anything,” said Ern. “I was peeping out of the bedroom window, see—and I saw two kids playing ball next door—and suddenly their ball came over the fence. And then the boy climbed over, got his ball and went back, looking all round in case my uncle came rushing out. He didn’t have any note—he just picked up his ball and ran for his life.”

“He doesn’t sound suspicious,” said Fatty, and the others nodded in agreement. “Still—you’ve got to suspect anyone who comes, Ern.”

“Right-o. I’ll even give the next door cat the once-over if he comes,” said Ern, grinning.

“Now let’s consider these notes carefully,” said Fatty, and spread them out in a row on the table. “I’ll read them all out again. Listen, everyone, you too, Ern, because you haven’t heard them before.”

Fatty picked up the first one. “Number one—‘Ask Smith what his real name is’. Number two—‘Turn him out of the Ivies’. Number three—‘Call yourself a policeman? Go and see Smith!’ Number four—‘You’ll be sorry if you don’t go and see Smith’.”

“And I can tell you Number five,” said Ern, eagerly. “It was on Uncle’s desk when he was doing the finger-print test, and I saw it. It said, ‘Why don’t you do what you’re told, egg-head?’ ”

Everyone laughed. Ern grinned. “Uncle didn’t like that,” he said.

“Well,” said Fatty, “what does anyone gather from these notes?”

“There’s a house called The Ivies somewhere,” said Bets.

“And a man called Smith lives in it,” said Daisy.

“And it’s not his real name, it’s a false one,” said Larry.

“And if he’s using a false name there must be some reason for it,” added Pip, “and possibly it means that at one time or another he’s been in trouble—and doesn’t want people to know his real name now.”

“But why should the writer of these notes want him turned out of the Ivies?” said Fatty, frowning. “And what reason would there be to turn him out? Well—until we find the Ivies, it’s impossible to do anything. To find a house called The Ivies must be our very first step.”

“I suppose we can’t find the writer of the notes, can we?” suggested Daisy. “It might be a help if we knew who he was!”

“How can we?” asked Larry. “He doesn’t give a thing away, not a thing—not his handwriting, not his finger-prints, nothing! He’s so jolly careful that he’s spent ages and ages snipping printed letters or words out of newspapers and pasting them on the sheet!”

“I wonder if we could find anything out about him from these little snippings,” said Fatty, gazing at them. “Newspapers are printed on both sides. There might be a guide to us in something on the other side of the snippings. I rather think the man is using only one newspaper. The letters all seem to be the same type of printing.”

“But goodness me—we can’t unpaste the letters from the sheets,” said Bets.

“I could,” said Fatty. “It would be a very tricky job, but I think I could. I’ve got some special stuff somewhere for that very purpose, but I’ve never yet used it. I’d forgotten about it. I might be able to do something tonight. It’s worth trying, anyhow.”

“Yes. And surely we ought to be able to find the house called The Ivies?” said Daisy.

“I’ve looked in the street directory and examined the names there of every house in Peterswood, and I’m sure Goon has too,” said Fatty, gloomily. “There isn’t a single one called ‘The Ivies’, not a single one.”

“What about Marlow?” said Daisy. “There might be a house called ‘The Ivies’ there.”

“There might. And there might be one in Maidenhead and one in Taplow,” said Fatty. “But it would take absolutely ages to look up all the houses in the directory.”

“What a pity the man took the name of Smith—the man who apparently lives at The Ivies,” said Pip. “There are so many Smiths.”

“Yes. I looked them up in the telephone directory to start with,” said Fatty. “There are dozens there—and this man may not even be on the telephone. We can’t go ringing up all the Smiths in the neighbourhood to find out if any of them have a false name!”

“No. Of course not,” said Pip.

“Well, I simply do not see how we can even make a start,” said Larry. “Have you any ideas, Fatty?”

“None,” said Fatty. “Ern—what about you?”

Ern looked startled. “Well—if you haven’t got any ideas, ‘tisn’t likely I would,” he said. “You’re the cleverest of us all, Fatty, you know you are.”

“Let’s have a biscuit and some lemonade,” said Fatty. “And Ern—what about that poem of yours? Did you bring it along?”

“Er—well, yes, I did,” said Ern, blushing, and dived into deep recesses of his clothing. He brought out a little black notebook, and opened it.

“Read away,” said Fatty, handing round the biscuits. “We’re waiting, Ern.”

So Ern, looking very serious, read out his newest “Pome” as he called it.

“ ‘The Old Old House

by Ern Goon

There was a poor old house

That once was full of folk, ...

But now was sad and empty,

And to me it spoke.

It said, ‘They all have left me,

The rooms are cold and bare,

The front door’s locked and bolted ...’ ”

Ern stopped, and looked at the others. “Well, go on, Ern—it’s very good,” said Fatty, encouragingly.

“I’m stuck there,” said Ern, looking miserable. “It took me six months to write those lines—and now I can’t go on. I suppose you can’t help me, Fatty? You’re so good at making up poetry.”

Fatty laughed. “Yes—I can tell you how your poem goes on, Ern. Here, let me read what you’ve written—and when I come to the end of it, I’ll let my tongue go loose, and maybe we’ll see what the end of the verse is. Here goes!”

And Fatty began to read Ern’s poem out again. He didn’t stop when he came to where Ern had finished. No—he went straight on, just as though he was reading more and more lines! No wonder Ern stared in the greatest astonishment!

“There was a poor old house

That once was full of folk,

But now was sad and empty,

And to me it spoke.

It said, ‘They all have fled,

My rooms are cold and bare,

The front door’s locked and bolted,

And all the windows stare.

No smoke comes from my chimneys,

No rose grows up my wall,

But only ivy shrouds me,

In green and shining shawl!

No postman brings me letters,

No name is on my gate,

I once was called The Ivies,

But now I’m out of date,

The garden’s poor and weedy,

The trees won’t leaf again,

But though I fall to ruin,

The ivy—will—remain!’”

There was a silence after this. Everyone stared at Fatty in astonishment and admiration. Ern hadn’t a word to say. He sat open-mouthed. How did Fatty do it? He, Ern, had slaved for six months over the first few lines—and then Fatty had stood up and recited the rest. Without even thinking! And Ern sorrowfully confessed to himself that Fatty’s lines were much better than his.

He found his tongue at last. “Well, it’s what I thought. You’re a genius, Fatty, and I’m not. That’s your pome, not mine.”

“No, Ern. It’s yours. You began it, and I expect that’s how it was meant to go,” said Fatty, smiling. “I shouldn’t have been able to think of the ending, if you hadn’t thought of the beginning.”

“It beats me. It really does,” said Ern. “I say—fancy you putting in that bit about The Ivies, too—and the ivy growing up the wall. Well—even if it had no name on the gate, like you said, anyone would know it was still The Ivies, because of its ‘green and shining shawl’—that’s a lovely line, Fatty. You’re a real poet, you are.”

But Fatty wasn’t listening to Ern’s last few words. He stood still, staring into space, and Bets felt quite alarmed. Was Fatty ill?

“What’s the matter, Fatty?” she said.

“Well—don’t you see?” said Fatty, coming to himself again. “What I said in the verses—even if there’s no name on the gate, even if the house hasn’t got a name, it must still have got the ivy that gave it its old name. Why don’t we go out and look for a house covered with ivy? We can easily cycle all round and about. We might find the very house we want!”

“Loveaduck!” said Ern, in awe. “You’re a One, Fatty. You really are. You make up a pome—and it gives us the first clue! I never knew anyone like you—honest I didn’t!”