Mystery #04 — The Mystery of the Spiteful Letters

He had left a corner of the newspaper on his side, and this he now pulled at very gently. The whole of the newspaper sheet came under the door - bringing the key with it! Such a clever trick - and so simple, thought Fatty.

It took him just a moment to put the key into the lock his side, turn it and open the door. He tool the key, stepped out softly, locked the door behind him and left the key in.

Then he stood at the top of the little stairway and listened. Mr. Goon was evidently in the middle of a long routine telephone call, which he made every morning about this time.

There was a small bathroom nearby. Fatty went into it and carefully washed all the freckles off his face. He removed his eyebrows and wig and stuffed them into his pocket. He took off his rather loud tie and put another one on, also out of his pocket.

Now he looked completely different. He grinned at himself in the glass. ‘Disappearance of another red-headed boy,’ he said, and crept downstairs as quietly as he could. Mr. Goon was still in his parlour, telephoning. Fatty slipped into the small empty kitchen. Mrs. Cockles was not there today.

He went out of the back door, down the garden and into the lane at the end. He had to leave his bike behind - but never mind, he’d think of some way of getting it back! Off he went, whistling, thinking of the delight of the Find-Outers when he told them of his adventurous morning!

 

THE MYSTERY OF THE RED-HEADED BOYS

 

Mr. Goon finished his telephoning and went clumping upstairs to give that boy What-For, and to Properly-Put-Him-Through-It. Mr. Goon was sick and tired of chasing after red-headed boys that nobody seemed to have heard of. Now that he had got one really under his thumb, he meant to keep him there and find out a great many things he was bursting to know.

He stood and listened outside the door. There wasn’t a sound to be heard. That boy was properly scared. That’s how boys should feel, Mr. Goon thought. He’d no time for boys - cheeky, don’t-care, whistling creatures! He cleared his throat and pulled himself up majestically to his full height. He was the Law, he was!

The key was in the lock. The door was locked all right. He turned the key and flung open the door. He trod heavily into the room, a pompous look on his red face.

There was nobody there. Mr. Goon stared all round the room, breathing heavily. But there simply wasn’t anybody there. There was nowhere to hide at all - no cupboard, no chest. The window was still shut and fastened. No boy had got out that way.

Mr. Goon couldn’t believe his eyes. He swallowed hard. He’d been after two red-headed boys that morning, and nobody seemed to have heard of either of them - and now here was the third one gone. Disappeared. Vanished. Vamoosed. But WHERE? And HOW?

Nobody could walk through a locked door. And the door had been locked, and the key his side too. But that boy had walked clean through that locked door. Mr. Goon began to feel he was dealing with some kind of Magic.

He walked round the room just to make sure that the boy hadn’t squeezed into a tin or a box. But he had been such a plump boy! Mr. Goon felt most bewildered. He wondered if he had got a touch of the sun. He had just reported over the telephone his capture of a red-headed boy, for questioning - and how was he to explain his complete disappearance? He didn’t feel that his superior officer would believe a boy could walk out of a locked door.

Poor Mr. Goon! He had indeed had a trying morning - a real wild-goose chase, as he put it to himself.

He had first of all gone to the post-office to ask the post-master to let him talk to the red-headed telegraph-boy.

But when the telegraph-boy had come, he wasn’t red-headed! He was mousey-brown, and was a thin, under-sized little thing, plainly very frightened indeed to hear that Mr. Goon wanted to speak to him.

‘This isn’t the lad,’ said Mr. Goon to the post-master. ‘Where’s your other boy? The red-headed one?’

‘We’ve only got the one boy,’ said the post-master, puzzled. ‘This is the one. We’ve never had a red-headed fellow, as far as I can remember. We’ve had James here for about fourteen months now.’

Mr. Goon was dumbfounded. No red-headed telegraph-boy? Never had one! Well then, where did that fellow come from? Telegraph-boys were only attached to post-offices, surely.

‘Sorry I can’t help you,’ said the post-master. ‘But I do assure you we’ve got no red-headed boys at all here. But we’ve got a red-headed girl here - now would you like to see her?’

‘No,’ said Mr. Goon. ‘This was a boy all right, and one of the civilest I ever spoke to - too civil by a long way. I see now! Pah! I’m fed up with this.’

He went out of the post-office, feeling very angry, knowing that the post-master was thinking him slightly mad. He made his way to one of the butcher’s, frowning. Just let him get hold of that there red-headed butcher-boy, delivering letters for the anonymous letter-writer. Ho, just let him! He’d soon worm everything out of him!