The Mystery of the Spiteful Letters

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!

Mr. Veale, the butcher, was surprised to see Mr. Goon. ‘Bit of nice tender meat, sir, for you today? ’ he asked, sharpening his knife.

‘No thanks,’ said Mr. Goon. ‘I want to know if you’ve got a red-headed boy here, delivering your meat.’

‘I’ve got no boy,’ said Mr. Veale. ‘Only old Sam, the fellow I’ve had for fifteen years. Thought you knew that.’

‘Oh, I know old Sam,’ said Mr. Goon. ‘But I thought maybe you had a new boy as well. I expect it’s the other butcher’s delivery-boy I want.’

He went off to the other shop. This was a bigger establishment altogether. Mr. Cook, the owner, was there, cutting up meat with his two assistants.

‘You got a boy here, delivering your meat for you?’ asked Mr. Goon.

‘Yes, two,’ said Mr. Cook. ‘Dear me, I hope they haven’t either of them got into trouble, Mr. Goon. They’re good boys, both of them.’

‘One of them isn’t,’ said Mr. Goon grimly. ‘Where are they? You let me see them.’

‘They’re out in the yard at the back, packing their baskets with meat-deliveries,’ said Mr. Cook. ‘I’ll come with you. Dear me, I do hope it’s nothing serious.’

He took Mr. Goon out to the back. The policeman saw two boys. One was fair-haired with blue eyes and the other was black-haired, dark as a gypsy.

‘Well, there they are, Mr. Goon,’ said Mr. Cook. ‘Which of them is the rascal?’

The boys looked up, surprised. Mr. Goon took one look and scowled. ‘They’re neither of them the boy I want,’ he said. ‘I want a red-headed fellow.’

‘There aren’t any red-headed delivery-boys here, sir,’ said the fair-haired lad. ‘I know them all.’

Mr. Goon snorted and went back into the shop.

‘Well, I’m glad it wasn’t one of my boys,’ said Mr. Cook. ‘The fair-haired one is really a very clever fellow - he...’

But Mr. Goon didn’t want to hear about any clever fair-haired boys. He wanted to see a red-headed one - and the more he tried to, the less likely it seemed he would ever find one.

He clumped out of the shop, disgusted. Who was the telegraph-boy? Hadn’t he seen him delivering a telegram to those children some time back - and again at night when he had bumped into him? And what about that red-headed butcher-boy that Mrs. Hilton and Philip Hilton both said they had seen? Who were these red-headed fellows flying around Peterswood, and not, apparently, living anywhere, or being known by anyone?

Mr. Goon began to feel that he had red-headed boys on the brain, so, when he suddenly heard the loud yelping of a frightened dog, and looked up to see, actually to see a red-headed messenger-boy within reach of him, it was no wonder that he reached out and clutched that boy hard!

That was when Fatty had been trying to comfort the dog he had nearly run into. Mr. Goon had felt that it was a miracle to find a red-headed boy, even if he wasn’t a telegraph-boy or a butcher-boy. He was red-headed, and that was enough!

And now he had lost that boy too. He had just walked out of a locked room and disappeared into thin air. Hey presto, he was there, and hey presto, he wasn’t.

Mr. Goon forgot all about the boy's bicycle in his worry. It had been left out in the little front garden when he had pushed the boy into his house. The policeman didn’t even notice it there when he went out to get his mid-day paper. Nor did he notice Larry waiting about at the corner.

But Larry had been posted there by Fatty to watch what Mr. Goon did with his bike. Fatty was afraid that Mr. Goon might make inquiries and find out who the right owner was, and he didn’t want the policeman to know that.

Larry saw Mr. Goon come out. He imagined that having found that Fatty was gone, he would at least lock up his bicycle, and take a delight in doing it. He didn’t realize poor Mr. Goon’s stupefied state of mind. The puzzled man had sat down in his chair to think things out, but had got into such a muddle that he had decided to go out, get his paper and have a drink. Maybe he would feel better then.

Mr. Goon went out of his little front garden as if he was walking in a dream. He saw neither Larry nor the bicycle. He drifted on towards the paper-shop.

Larry gaped. Wasn’t old Goon going to lock up the bicycle? Surely he ought to do that! Could he possibly have overlooked it? It really did seem as if he had.

Mr. Goon went into the paper-shop. Larry acted like lightning! He shot across the road, went into the little garden, took Fatty’s bike out, mounted it and rode off at top speed. Nobody even saw him!

Mr. Goon got his paper, and had a little talk with the owner of the shop. As he went out again, he suddenly remembered the bicycle.

‘Lawks! I ought to have locked it up at once!’ thought Mr. Goon, and began to hurry back to his house. ‘How did I come to forget it? I was that mazed.’

He hurried into his front garden - and then stopped short in dismay. The bicycle was gone! It was now of course, half-way to Pip’s house, ridden furiously by Larry, who was absolutely longing to know the whole of Fatty’s story. But Mr. Goon didn’t know that.

He gulped. This was getting too much for him. Three red-headed boys all vanishing into thin air - and now a completely solid bicycle doing the same thing. He supposed that red-headed fellow must have taken it somehow without his seeing - but how?

‘Gah!’ said Mr. Goon, wiping his hot forehead. ‘What with these here letters - and hysterical women - and red-headed disappearing fellows - and that cheeky toad, Frederick Trotteville - my life in Peterswood ain’t worth living! First one thing and then another. I’d like to talk to that Frederick Trotteville. I wouldn’t put it past him to write me that cheeky anonymous letter. It’s him that done that - I’d lay a million dollars it was. Gah!’