Mystery of the Invisible Thief (8 page)

The others poured out of the post office and stared in astonishment at Fatty, who grinned back.

“Fatty! Have you left him? How did you get home and change so quickly? What’s happened?” asked Larry.

“Oh, he went immediately you left,” said Fatty. “So I left too, of course.”

“Did you follow him? Where did he go?” asked Daisy.

“No. I didn’t follow him,” said Fatty; “There wasn’t any point in doing so - I knew quite well where he was going. Did you telephone Goon?”

“Yes. He was out the first time - but we got him the second time,” said Larry. “I told him all about the frightful fellow in the boat - all the details, of course - and he just gave a snort and banged the receiver down. I suppose he didn’t believe me.”

Fatty suddenly began to laugh. He laughed as if he had been keeping it in for some time. He exploded, held on to the railings, and laughed till the tears came into his eyes. Bets began to laugh too. He looked so funny, and his laughter was really infectious.

“What’s the matter?” said Larry suspiciously. “What’s the joke? You’re acting most peculiarly today, Fatty. So is Goon.”

“Yes. You’re right about him,” said Fatty, wiping his eyes. “Oh dear - I’d have given anything to see Goon’s face when you rang him up and told him what a hideous fellow he was, with his big feet and hands and protruding eyes!”

The others stared, puzzled at first - and then a great light dawned on them. Larry sank down on to a wooden bench by the bus-stop. He felt suddenly weak.

“Gosh! You don’t mean to say - you don’t really mean to say that that frightful fisherman in the boat was Goon - Goon himself!”

“Well - think back to him,” said Fatty. “How you could all fall for that ridiculous disguise of his I really don’t know. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Why, Goon himself stuck out a mile in that frightful get-up. And you actually go and think he’s the thief!”

“Oh, Fatty - I put the idea into the others’ heads,” said Bets as if she was going to burst into tears. “I saw his big feet - and hands - oh, Fatty!”

“You beast, Fatty - you told us to go and telephone to Goon - and we’ve gone and described him to himself!” said Daisy, full of horror. “Oh, Fatty - you really are a beast.”

“Serves you right,” said Fatty unfeelingly, and began to laugh again. “Fine lot of detectives you are, I must say - go and hunt for a thief and pick on the only policeman of the village, in disguise! As Goon would say - Gah!”

“No wonder he snorted and banged the receiver down,” said Daisy, still more alarmed. “I say - I hope he won’t go round and complain to our parents again.”

“He won’t,” said Fatty. “He doesn’t know whether you really fell for his disguise or not. If he thinks you did he’ll be very bucked to think he took you in. If he thinks you saw through his disguise and were pulling his leg when you phoned, he’ll feel a bit of an idiot. He won’t say a word either way. He’ll only snort.”

“He won’t be very fond of us now,” said Pip.

“He never was,” said Fatty. “All the same, I was surprised to see him there this morning. I spotted him at once out in that boat.”

“You would!” said Larry, half-annoyed, and half-admiring.

“When I saw him I knew he’d had the same idea as we had about Frinton Lea,” said Fatty. “And what’s more he’ll probably go and snoop outside Rods now, wherever that is.”

“Do you think it’s much good snooping round either Frinton Lea or Rods, wherever that is?” asked Larry.

“No, I don’t think I do,” said Fatty, considering the point. “But we can’t afford to leave any clue unexplored. If we do, it’s bound to be the only one that might lead us to the solution! Anyway, I had a bit of luck this afternoon, just before you came to talk to me, Larry and Daisy.”

“What?” asked Larry. “You’re a lucky beggar, Fatty - you always have any bit of luck that’s going.”

“I was sitting fishing, when the artist woman came by,” said Fatty. “I expect you saw her. My hat blew off at that very moment and she picked it up for me. I began to talk to her - and it turned out that she lived at Frinton Lea!”

“Golly!” said Larry. “So you asked a few leading questions, I suppose?”

Fatty grinned. “I did! And I found out that the only man staying at Frinton Lea has been very ill and is only just allowed to get up. So we can rule him out as the thief, who must be an agile fellow, to say the least of it!”

“Oh - well, that’s good,” said Daisy. “Your day hasn’t been wasted, Fatty. You didn’t see the thief, but you did find out he wasn’t at Frinton Lea.”

“Your day wasn’t wasted either,” said Fatty, beginning to laugh again. “I hope I don’t think of you telephoning old Goon when I’m having dinner with my parents tonight. I shall choke if I do.”

“What about tea?” said Bets. “I’m getting hungry.”

“You’ve just had two ice-creams and a lemonade!” said Pip.

“Well, they don’t make any difference,” said Bets. “You don’t eat those, you just swallow them. Anyway, we’d better go home quickly, or we shall be too late for tea.”

“I’ll treat you all,” said Fatty generously. “I’ve got enough money on me.” He pulled out a handful of change and examined it. “Yes, come on. We’ll go to Oliver’s and have meringues and chocolate slices - in celebration of finding the thief-who-wasn’t.”

Everyone laughed. Bets took Fatty’s arm. Dear, generous Fatty - he always seemed to have plenty of money, but he always shared it round. Bets squeezed his arm affectionately.

“The mystery’s getting on, isn’t it?” she said. “We’ve ruled out Frinton Lea. Now we’ve got to find out what Number 1 Rods is, and rule that out too.”

“Well, we shan’t be much further on with the mystery, silly, if we keep examining our clues and finding they’re no good,” said Pip, exasperated with his small sister. “Anyway, Number 1 Rods sounds more like a note made by someone going fishing than anything else.”

“It’s an idea,” said Fatty, taking them all into Oliver’s. They sat down and ordered lemonade, egg-sandwiches, meringues, chocolate eclairs and chocolate slices. Bets’ mouth began to water.

“I never know whether to eat as quickly as possible so as to enjoy everything before I stop feeling hungry, or to eat slowly and taste every single bit,” said Bets, eyeing the pile of delicious-looking cake.

“Idiot,” said Pip scornfully. “You stop feeling hungry as soon as you’ve eaten a certain amount, whether you’ve eaten it quickly or not.”

“You eat how you like, Bets,” said Fatty, who always stuck up for Bets when her brother ticked her off. They all began on their tea, having a friendly argument as to whether the meringues were better than the eclairs. The dish was soon empty, and Fatty, after examining his money again, called for a fresh supply.

“About this Rods place,” said Fatty. “It’s either the name of a house, shortened - or else it’s the name of a family, either complete or shortened. I’ve never heard of anyone called Rods though.”

“How could we find out?” wondered Larry. “We could look in the telephone book for names beginning with Rod or Rods.”

“Yes, that’s a good idea,” said Daisy, taking her second eclair. “And we’ve got a street directory at home, with everyone’s house in it, and the name or number.”

“You’re talking good sense,” said Fatty, sounding pleased. “Anyone got an idea for finding a person with enormous feet? Apart from examining the feet of everyone we meet, I mean. I’ve rather ruled that out - it would be frightful to look at nothing but feet, feet, feet all day long wherever we go.”

Bets giggled. “And even if we find someone with colossal feet we can’t very well stop them and say, ‘Excuse me, may I see the pattern of the rubber heels you’re wearing?’ ”

“No, we can’t,” said Pip. “But I say - I tell you what we could do - I’ve just thought of it. It’s a brain-wave!”

“What?” asked everyone together.

Pip dropped his voice. One or two people in the shop seemed rather too interested in what they were all saying, he thought.

“Why can’t we go to the cobbler’s - there is only one in Peterswood now the other fellow’s gone - and ask if he ever has any size twelve boots in for repair, and if so, whose are they?”

There was a little silence after this remarkable suggestion. Then Fatty solemnly reached out and shook hands with Pip.

“First-class!” he said. “Brilliant! Talk about a brain-wave! Go up top, Pip. That really may lead us somewhere!”

Fatty, the Cobbler - and Goon

The next day they set to work to follow out the suggestions made at the tea-shop. Daisy and Larry said they would look up the street directory and read down every single street to see if there was a house name beginning with Rod or Rods.

Pip and Bets were to look in the telephone directory for names. Fatty was to go to the cobbler’s. Nobody particularly wanted to do that, because they couldn’t think how to go about it without making the cobbler think they were either mad or silly.

“I’ll manage it,” said Fatty. “I’ll think of a way. And for goodness sake don’t get taken in again by any disguise of Goon’s - he’s been studying hard, I can see, on his referesher course, and goodness knows what he’ll produce next.”

“I shall just look at his feet,” said Bets, “and if they’re enormous I’ll know they belong to Goon!”

Fatty considered carefully how to approach the cobbler. He was known to be a hot-tempered man who would stand no nonsense at all. He would have to go to him with a sensible idea of some sort. But what?

Fatty remembered an old secondhand shop he had once seen in Sheepridge. He tried to remember if they sold boots. Yes, he had an idea they did. In that case it would be a good idea to catch the bus to Sheepridge, look in the secondhand shop and buy the biggest pair there - they would presumably want mending, and he could take them to the cobbler. Fatty felt certain that with that opening he could soon find out if the cobbler had any customers with really enormous feet.

“Then I’ll get their names, and see if any of them might be the thief,” he thought. So off he went to catch the bus to Sheepridge. He found the secondhand shop, and, feeling as if he wanted to hold his nose because of the musty, dusty smell, he went inside.

There was a special box for boots and shoes. Fatty turned them all over, and at the bottom he found what he wanted - a pair of elevens, down at heel and with a slit in one side.

He bought them and went off with them pleased. He caught the bus back to Peterswood and went home. He debated whether or not to disguise himself, and then decided that he would, just for practice.

He went down to his shed and looked round at his things. An old tramp? He was rather good at that. Yes - that wouldn’t be a bad idea at all - he could wear the frightful old boots too! They would make him limp but what did that matter? It would look all the more natural.

Fatty began to work deftly and quickly. He hoped his mother wouldn’t come and look for him. She would be scared to see a dirty old tramp in the shed. After about half an hour the door opened, and the tramp came out and peered round cautiously.

He looked dreadful. Fatty had blacked out two of his front teeth, and had put in one cheek-pad so that it looked as if he had tooth-ache on the right side of his face. He had put on grey, untrimmed eyebrows, and had stuck on a bristly little grey moustache. His face was lined with dirty creases and wrinkles. Fatty was an adept at creasing up his face! His wig was one of his best - grey straggling hair with a bald patch in the middle.

Fatty had laughed at himself when he looked in the long glass he kept in his shed. What a tramp! He wore holey old gloves on his hands, dirty corduroy trousers, and equally dirty shirt - and the boots.

Fatty could only hobble along in them, so he took an ash-stick he had cut from the hedge on one of his walks to help him along. He stuck an old clay pipe in the corner of his mouth and grinned at himself. He felt really proud, and for half a minute wondered if he should present himself at the back door and ask for a crust of bread from the cook.

He decided not to. The last time he had done that the cook had screamed the place down, and his mother had very nearly caught him. He went cautiously out of the shed to the gate at the bottom of the garden. He was not going to risk meeting any of his household.

The old tramp hobbled down the road, sucking at his empty pipe, and making funny little grunting noises. He made his way to the cobbler’s and went inside the dark little shop.

The cobbler was at the back, working. He came into the shop when the bell rang. “What do you want?” he said.

“Oooh - ah,” said Fatty, taking his pipe out of his mouth. “It’s my boots, Mister. They hurt me something crool. Too small they are, and they want mending too. You got any bigger ones to sell?”

The cobbler bent over his counter to look at Fatty’s feet. “What size are they - elevens or twelves?” he said. “No, I haven’t got that size to sell. It’s a big size.”

The old tramp gave a peculiar wheezy laugh, “Ah yes, it’s big. I was a big man once, I was! I bet you haven’t got anyone in this here neighbourhood that’s got feet bigger than mine!”

“There’s two people with big feet here,” said the cobbler, considering. “There’s Mr Goon the policeman and there’s Colonel Cross - they’re the biggest of all. I charge them more when I sole their boots - the leather I use for their repairs! Do you want me to mend your boots?”

“Ay, I do - if you can get me another pair to put on while you mend these,” said the old tramp, and he gave his wheezy laugh again. “Or couldn’t I borrow a pair of Colonel Cross’s - have you got a pair in to mend?”

“No, I haven’t - and you wouldn’t get ’em if I had,” said the cobbler sharply. “Get along with you! Do you want to get me into trouble?”

“No, no,” said the old tramp. “Do his boots have rubber heels on?”

The cobbler lost his temper. “What’s that to do with you? Coming in here wasting my time! You’ll be wanting to know if the butcher has brown or black laces next. Be off with you, and don’t come back again.”

“That’s all right, sir, that’s all right,” wheezed the old man, shuffling to the door, where he stopped and had a most alarming coughing-fit.

“You stop smoking a clay pipe and you’ll get rid of that cough,” said the cobbler, bad-temperedly. Then he saw someone else trying to get past the coughing tramp. “Get out of my shop and let the next person come in.”