Читать книгу The Mystery of Holly Lane - Enid blyton - Страница 4

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The four children went out of the station and looked up the road. Where had the men gone?

“There they are,” said Larry. “Look—just at the corner!”

“But who’s the man with Fatty?” said Pip, puzzled, “He never said anything about coming back with somebody.”

“Look—they’ve shaken hands,” said Daisy. “I expect old Fatty just fell into conversation with him to trick us a bit more. Come on—I’m sure the man who’s gone off to the right is Fatty. He’s got his walk, somehow.”

“And he’s going in the right direction,” said Pip. “It’s Fatty all right.”

They hurried after him. When they got to the corner they paused. Now, where was he?

“There he is—talking to that woman,” said Larry. “Hurry!”

They hurried. The man, his coat-collar turned up, wearing thick glasses over his eyes, was saying something very earnestly to a thin little woman with a shopping-basket.

The four came up behind him and listened with amusement. Oh Fatty, Fatty!

“I seek my sistair’s house. You will tell me, pliss? The house, it is called Grintriss.”

“Never heard of it,” said the woman, looking most suspiciously at the bundled-up man.

“Pardon? Where is zis house?” asked the man anxiously.

“I said, ‘NEVER HEARD OF IT,’ ” said the woman. “There’s no house called Grintriss that I know of. What’s your sister’s name?”

“Her name is Françoise Emilie Harris,” said the man, going suddenly very French.

“Never heard of her either,” said the thin little woman, looking more suspicious than ever. “Why don’t you ask at the post-office?”

“Pliss? What is zis postoffis?” began the man, but the woman walked off impatiently, leaving him standing there with his bag.

Pip nudged Larry. “This is where we come in,” he said, in a low voice. “We’ll tell old Fatty we know where his sister lives, and that we’ll take him there—and we’ll lead him straight to his own house. That’ll show him we’ve seen through him! Come on.”

“Where’s his school trunk?” said Bets, pulling Pip back as he started off after the man. “Are you sure it’s Fatty?”

“He’s sent his trunk carriage forward, of course,” said Pip. “Come on—look at that walk—it’s exactly like old Fatty’s.”

They set off after the man. Daisy suddenly thought of something. Where was Buster? She looked round but he wasn’t there.

“What happened to Buster?” she said. “Surely he didn’t stay behind? I was just wondering why he didn’t know it was Fatty, and dash round his legs.”

“He would have, if he’d been with us,” said Pip. “He didn’t recognize him in that crowd at the station and he’s probably patiently sitting under the seat again, waiting!”

“Oh, poor Buster!” said Bets. “Look—Fatty has stopped another woman. What a scream he is!”

The second woman had no patience. She just shook her head and hurried off. Larry put his fingers to his mouth and let off a piercing whistle, making the others jump.

“Don’t,” said Daisy. “You know you’re not allowed to do that. It’s a horrible noise and makes people awfully angry.”

“It’s stopped old Fatty, anyway,” said Larry, pleased. “Look, he’s turned round.”

“He’s gone on again,” said Bets, with a giggle. “Let’s catch him up. He’s going the wrong way home now.”

They hurried after the man. “We’ll pretend we don’t know it’s Fatty,” said Pip. “We’ll make him think he’s deceiving us—but we’ll have the laugh all right, when we take him to his own house instead of to his mythical ‘sistair’s’ house.”

They caught up the man, and he stopped, peering at them through thick glasses. He had a small black moustache. His coat-collar was turned up, and not much could be seen of his face.

“Ah! Some children! You will help me, yes?” said the man. “I look for my sistair’s house.”

“Vous cherchez la maison de votre soeur?” said Pip, in his best French. The man beamed at him.

“Oui, oui! It is called Grintriss.”

“Grintriss! Oh, yes, we know where that is,” said Larry.

“Grintriss! Oh, yes, we know where that is,” said Larry, most untruthfully, playing up to Fatty for all he was worth. “This way, please. Everybody knows Grintriss. A very nice house. Big one, too.”

“Beeg? No, my sistair’s house is leetle,” said the man. “Vairy, vairy leetle. Grintriss it is called.”

“Oh, yes. Grintriss. Vairy leetle,” said Pip. “Er—do you feel the cold, Monsieur? You are well wrapped up.”

“I have had the bad cold,” said the man, and he sniffed, and gave a hollow cough. “I come to my sistair for a leetle holyday.”

“Holiday, you mean?” said Daisy, and the four of them began to laugh. “That’s a nasty little cough you’ve got. Very nasty.”

The man coughed again, and Bets began to giggle. Didn’t Fatty know they were pulling his leg? How often had she heard Fatty cough like that when he was disguised as some poor old man?

They all went up the road together, the man hunched up in his bulky coat. He pulled his scarf over his chin as they met the wind at a corner.

“We are soon at Grintriss?” he asked, anxiously. “This wind is too—too—”

“Too windy?” said Pip, obligingly. “That’s the worst of winds. They’re always so windy.”

The man gave him a sudden stare and said no more. Larry guided him round the next corner and over the road to Fatty’s own house. Mrs. Trotteville was nowhere to be seen. Larry winked at Pip.

“We’ll take him up to the front door and leave him there,” he said, falling behind to whisper. “We’ll just see what old Fatty says then!”

They marched him in firmly at the gate and right up to the front door. “Here you are,” said Pip. “Grintriss! I expect your sistair will answer the door herself. I’ll pull the bell for you.”

He pulled the bell and banged on the knocker too. Then the four of them retreated to the front gate to see what Fatty would do. Would he swing round, take off his glasses and grin at them? Would he say “One up to you! You win!”

The door opened, and the house parlour-maid stood there. An argument seemed to arise, though the children couldn’t hear all of it. The maid raised her voice.

“I said, ‘there’s no one here of that name. And what’s more I’ve never heard of a house called Grintriss, either.’ ”

Bets suddenly heard quick footsteps coming up the road, and then a familiar bark. She ran through the gate, sure that it was Buster’s bark.

She gave a shrill scream. “Buster! FATTY! It’s Fatty! Oh, Fatty, then that wasn’t you after all! FATTY!”

She rushed down the road and flung herself into Fatty’s arms. There he was, as plump as ever, his eyes laughing, his mouth in a wide grin.

“Fatty! That wasn’t you, then? Oh, dear!”

“What’s all this about?” asked Fatty, swinging Bets into the air and down again. “Gosh, Bets, you’re getting heavy. I soon shan’t be able to do that. Why weren’t you at the station to meet me? Only Buster was there.”

Now all the others were round him too, astonished. Fatty? How had they missed him?

“You are a lot of donkeys,” said Fatty, in his cheerful voice. “I bet you met the train that comes in four minutes before mine. Buster was much more sensible! He knew enough to wait for the right one—and there he was, prancing round the platform, barking like mad when he saw me. I looked for you, but you were nowhere to be seen.”

“Oh, Fatty—we must have met the wrong train—and we’ve made an awful mistake,” said Daisy, troubled. “We thought you might be in disguise, just to play a joke on us—and when we couldn’t see you anywhere, we followed a man we thought was you—and oh, Fatty, he asked us the way to some house or other—and we took him to yours!”

“Well!” said Fatty, and roared with laughter. “You are a lot of mutts. Where’s this poor fellow? We’d better put him right.”

The man was even now walking out of the gate, muttering and looking furious—as indeed he had every right to be. He stopped and looked at the name on the gate.

“Ha! You do not bring me to Grintriss. This is not Grintriss. You are wicket! You treat a sick man so!” He began to cough again.

The children were alarmed, and felt very sorry. However could they explain their mistake? He would never, never understand! He stalked up to them, blowing his nose with a trumpeting sound.

“Wicket! Wicket!” he repeated. “Very bad. Wicket!”

He began to shout at them in French, waving his arms about. They listened in dismay. Suppose Mrs. Trotteville came out? It would be even worse to explain their silly mistake to her than to this man.

A bell rang loudly and a bicycle stopped suddenly at the kerb. A very familiar voice hailed them.

“Now, then! What’s all this?”

“Mr. Goon!” groaned Larry. “Old Clear-Orf. He would turn up, of course.”

Buster danced round Mr. Goon in delight, barking furiously. Mr. Goon kept a watchful eye on him, thankful that he had on his thickest trousers.

“Nasty little yapping dog,” he said. “Call him off or I’ll give him a kick.”

Fatty called Buster, and the Scottie came most reluctantly. Oh, for a bite at that big, loud-voiced policeman! Goon spoke to the bewildered Frenchman.

“What’s all this? Have these children been annoying you? I’ll report them, if so.”

The man went off into a long and angry speech, but as it was all in French Mr. Goon didn’t understand a word. He debated whether he should ask Fatty to translate for him—but how was he to trust that fat boy’s translation? Fatty looked at Goon with a gleam in his eye.

“Don’t you want to know what he’s saying, Mr. Goon?” he said politely. “I can just catch a few words now and again. Er—he doesn’t seem to like the look of you, I’m afraid. It sounds as if he’s calling you names.”

Mr. Goon felt out of his depth. These pests of children again—and this foreigner who appeared to be quite mad—and that nasty little dog longing to get at his ankles! Mr. Goon felt that the best and most dignified thing to do was to bicycle away immediately.

So, with a snort that sounded like “Gah” he pushed off from the kerb and sailed away down the road, followed by a fusillade of barks from the disappointed Buster.

“Thank goodness!” said Daisy, fervently, and all the five agreed.