The Purple Bird Mystery (13 page)

“Oh, that one.” The girl flicked some cards over in a file box on her desk. “He’s staying in Unit 15. Down at the other end. About all he does is play golf at Fieldcrest. Is that the Mr. Martin you mean?”

“Yes, Miss,” said Djuna. “Is he from Northport?”

“I’m not supposed to give out information like that. It’s confidential.”

“But I
know
Mr. Martin. I caddied for him yesterday.”

“My father’s the new pro at Fieldcrest,” Jimmy cut in importantly. “And
he
could tell us in a minute where Mr. Martin came from if we asked him. But we’re pretending to be detectives; we’re trying to find out by ourselves. I think Mr. Martin’s from Northport, because he’s the guest of a Northport Fieldcrest member. But Djuna, my friend here, thinks maybe Mr. Martin comes from somewhere else, because he doesn’t talk sort of the same as folks around here.”

Jimmy wiped a soiled forearm across his forehead after this amazing burst of improvisation, while Djuna looked at him with new respect. The red-haired girl laughed and consulted a card in her file box.

“Then I’m sure you won’t misuse the information if I give it to you,” she told Jimmy. “But I’m afraid your friend wins the argument. Mr. Martin is
not
from Northport, according to his address on our registration card.”

“Where
is
he from?” asked Djuna, with a feeling that he already knew the answer to that question.

“Philadelphia.”

“Thank you very much, Miss.” Djuna nudged Jimmy ahead of him through the office door. They had mounted their bikes and were scooting toward the highway before Jimmy said in a small voice, “Philadelphia!”

“See what I mean about matching up information and people?” Djuna said. “Mr. Martin’s from Philadelphia. And so’s Mr. Swift. And both of them have been fooling around your house showing an awful lot of interest in your chest. So Mr. Martin
might
be Mr. Swift’s partner, if Mr. Swift is a crook instead of an antique dealer.”

“But we don’t know for sure that Mr. Swift’s a crook.”

“No, but I’m going to call Socker Furlong again tomorrow. He’ll tell us all he’s found out about Mr. Swift, and
then
we’ll know.”

Jimmy didn’t answer. He was examining with lively interest the quiet main street of Brookville, along which they were now pedaling. “Aren’t there any drug stores in this town?” he asked Djuna.

“Sure, Evans’s Drug Store is over there on the corner. Why?”

“I think I need a chocolate peanut sundae.” Jimmy licked his lips. “I feel hungry, don’t you?”

“Now you mention it, I’m starving,” Djuna agreed. “You have any money with you?”

“Enough for a sundae. Have you?”

“Yeah. I don’t like peanuts very much, though.” They stood their bikes against the window of Evans’s Drug Store, and entered the place together. “The peanuts are the best part of it,” Jimmy insisted. “They only cost a nickel more most places. And are they worth it!”

Evans’s Drug Store was the most popular gathering place for the teenagers of Brookville. They congregated there after school on winter days; boys brought their dates there after the movies; the younger employees of neighboring stores and businesses took their coffee breaks at the battered wooden tables.

Along one side stretched the soda fountain with its high stools. A prescription department was masked behind a partition at the rear. The remaining floor space was taken up by as many tables and chairs as it could accommodate without crowding.

At one of these tables, three young men whom Djuna recognized as employees of Brookville’s only bank were drinking Cokes and gossiping.

Djuna and Jimmy took stools at the soda fountain. Mr. Evans himself came out of the prescription department to serve them. “Hello, Mr. Evans,” Djuna said. “This is Jimmy Douglas. His father’s the new golf pro out at Fieldcrest.”

Mr. Evans said affably, “Jimmy Douglas, eh? Glad to know you, son.”

“He wants to try your special chocolate peanut sundae, Mr. Evans,” Djuna said. “I told him you make the best.”

“Very kind of you to advertise me that way,” Mr. Evans said, smiling. “What about you? What’ll you have?”

“My regular cherry marshmallow on chocolate, please.” Djuna hooked his heels over the footrest on his stool. In four minutes, Mr. Evans set a couple of formidable concoctions before them. “There you are,” he said, and started back to his prescription department.

“Here’s where I was going to try to get a job,” Djuna whispered to Jimmy. As they took the first bite of their sundaes, Mr. Evans called across the end of the soda fountain to one of the young bankers at the only occupied table.

“You, Jack Curtis!” he barked indignantly. “You know better than that!”

A curly-haired fellow wearing a stylish red vest looked up in surprise. “Me, Mr. Evans? What do I know better than?”

“Look at your cigarette!”

“Whoops!” Jack Curtis, with a guilty look on his round face, hastily picked up a smoldering cigarette that he had placed on the edge of the table and forgotten. “I’m sorry, Mr. Evans. I’ll watch it next time.”

“What do you suppose I put ashtrays on the tables for?” Mr. Evans asked the world. “To keep people from burning my tables, that’s why! Look at those burn marks! On every tabletop in the place! Please be more careful, will you?” Mr. Evans disappeared behind the partition, mumbling.

Djuna turned on his stool and looked at the black burn scar that Jack Curtis had made with his cigarette on the wooden table top. Curtis had moistened his paper napkin and was rubbing away at the mark, trying without success to erase it.

“Burn,” Djuna said, through a mouthful of cherry marshmallow. He swallowed quickly.
“Burn
!
“
he repeated in a thoughtful tone. “Maybe that’s what it meant.”

“What?” asked Jimmy, chewing peanuts busily.

“That writing in the tigerskin book.”

“What are you talking about?” Jimmy complained.

“What writing?”

Djuna began to eat more rapidly. “Never mind, Jimmy. Finish your sundae, huh? I want to stop at the library before we go home.”

Jimmy looked at Djuna as though he was out of his mind. “We just started on these sundaes!” he protested. “Why do we have to go to the library?”

“I think I can find out something about that secret inscription on your chest. I’ve got a whole new idea about it. It just came to me in a flash.”

“It did? What is it?”

Djuna gobbled up the rest of his sundae and jumped down from his stool. “Listen, you finish your sundae while I go to the library, okay? Wait for me here?”

Jimmy nodded, relieved.

Djuna left money for his sundae on the counter and hurried out of Evans’s Drug Store, driven by a new excitement. He cycled left on Main Street and was soon out of sight.

Jimmy finished his sundae, smacked his lips, and called to Mr. Evans to make him another one.

T
WENTY
minutes later, Djuna was back at Evans’s Drug Store beside Jimmy. His eyes were shining. “Did you find out what you wanted?” Jimmy asked, licking the last of the chocolate syrup from his spoon.

“I think so.”

“What were you looking up?”

“Other words to substitute in the inscription, and stuff like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like that St. Andrews place in Scotland your father mentioned. And the kind of golf balls they used to use. But I’ll tell you about that later. Right now I want to telephone Socker Furlong again. I’m not going to wait till tomorrow.”

“Why? He won’t have the facts yet about Mr. Swift, probably.”

“Mavbe not. But I want him to find out about Mr. Martin, too, now.”

“Because you think he’s Mr. Swift’s partner?”

“Yes. And because he comes from Philadelphia where Socker lives.”

Jimmy slid off his stool. “Shall we call from here or the Club?”

“Can you call collect from a pay phone?”

“Sure.” The two boys went to the booth. Djuna entered and left the folding door ajar so Jimmy could hear. Then he dropped a coin in the slot, dialed long distance, and put through his call to Socker Furlong at the Philadelphia
Morning Bugle
, asking to have the charges reversed.

Soon Socker’s voice was booming over the wire. “Djuna?” said Socker. “I thought you said you’d telephone tomorrow? Is anything wrong?”

“No, Socker,” said Djuna. “But some more funny things have been happening here. I wonder if you could find out for me about another man who lives in Philadelphia—I mean, while you’re checking on Mr. Swift.”

“
If
he lives in Philadelphia, and
if
he is going under his own name, I can,” shouted Socker with pretended sarcasm.
“If
he’s not another phony like your dear friend, Mr. Anthony Swift!”

Djuna gasped. Jimmy squeezed closer to the booth to hear better. “Mr. Swift is a fake, Socker?” Djuna cried. “He isn’t an antique dealer?”

Socker breathed fiercely. “I beg to inform you, my young detective friend, that there is no such place in Philadelphia
or
suburbs as Swift’s Antique Shop. Furthermore, there exists no such address in Philadelphia
or
suburbs as 406 Hallmark Street! And what do you think of
that?”

Djuna’s only comment was, “No kidding!”

“No kidding, indeed.” Socker’s voice became deadly serious. “Look here, Djuna, if you’re mixed up with a fake antique dealer who has fake business cards printed up to fool honest citizens, then you’re probably playing with dynamite. This sounds like a bad guy, Djuna. It sounds, in fact, like an interesting story for my paper. But it also sounds as if it could be very dangerous for you to be sniffing around.” Socker grunted. “Why, that’s not even his own car he’s driving, Djuna. The license number you gave me is for a car that belongs to a rental outfit here. The name of the current lessee, according to the rental company’s records, is Anthony Swift, but that’s obviously a phony. Do you agree?”

“I-I-guess I do,” said Djuna in a weak voice.

“Speak up, young fellow!” roared Socker. “I can hardly hear you. Answer me one question loud and clear.”

“I’ll try, Socker. What is it?”

“Do
you think there’s any danger to you in whatever it is you’re fooling with?”

“Honestly, I don’t think so. I don’t know for sure, of course. There’s still a couple of things I have to check on before I’ll know whether there’s anything at all wrong.”

“What things?”

“Well, I want to see Mr. Boots. You remember Mr. Boots, Socker.”

“Of course! What do you want to check with him?”

“I’d rather not say. You’d laugh at me. It’s a-a technical thing.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Detective. All right, check up. But meanwhile, I strongly suggest you tell your old pal Socker the whole story of what’s going on up there in Edenboro!”

“I will, Socker, as soon as there’s anything to tell. You can help me the most now by looking up this Mr. Conrad C. Martin, please.” Djuna had learned Mr. Martin’s full name by stealing a look at the registration card the young lady-receptionist at the Millstream Motel had consulted. “Will you, Socker? Please?”

“Sure. Conrad C. Martin. No address?”

“Just Philadelphia is all I know.”

“Roger.” Socker was silent for the space of three breaths, then he came back on the line with a boom. “I’ve made up my mind, Djuna! I’m coming up there right now! This afternoon! I don’t trust you as far as I can throw you when you’re nosing into dangerous doings. You’ll get yourself hurt one of these days if you’re not careful. Tell Miss Annie I’ll be in Edenboro, at your house, two hours from now—for dinner, of course. And I’m going to bring Cannonball McGinnty with me. You haven’t got a cop worthy the name in that whole county of yours.”

Djuna felt a warm glow. “Gee, Socker, that’ll be swell.”

“I’ll call Cannonball at the State Police barracks and make sure he’ll be ready for me to pick him up on my way to Edenboro.”

Djuna couldn’t resist one teasing remark. He said innocently, “Do you think Mr. Canavan will let you leave the office early?”

Socker shouted ferociously, “I’d like to see the old goat stop me! Two hours, Djuna. See you at Miss Annie’s.”

“And don’t forget to look up Mr. Martin, will you?”

“Leave it to me, chum. And, Djuna?”

“Yes?”

“You promise me faithfully to stay away from that Swift guy and this Martin, too … until Cannonball and I get there. They sound rough to me. Promise?”

“I won’t go near either of them, Socker. I just want to see Mr. Boots for a minute, and then the new golf pro at Fieldcrest Club….”

“Holy tomato!” Socker roared. “What has a fake antique dealer got to do with a golf pro?” He hung up with a crash, and Djuna turned to Jimmy with a grin.

“Boy!” he said, hanging up the receiver. “Old Socker talks so loud he hurts your ear. He’s coming up to Edenboro!”

“I heard him,” Jimmy said. “He’s bringing a real policeman! Gosh, did he mean he’s going to write about us and Mr. Swift and Mr. Martin in his newspaper?”

“Sure, if there’s anything to write about. I tried to tell him we weren’t
sure
of what’s behind the mystery….”

“But he found out Mr. Swift’s a fake,” Jimmy argued with spirit. “So that
proves
something’s wrong.”

“I’ll say so!” Djuna led the way out of the drug store to their bikes. He carefully folded and stowed away in his shirt pocket a small piece of white scratch paper he had been fingering during his telephone conversation with Socker Furlong.

Jimmy said curiously, “What’s on that paper, Djuna?”

“It’s a list I wrote down at the library. Some questions I want to ask your father.”

“About golf?”

“Some. But mostly about your great-grandfather and so on.”

“Good gosh, what for?”

Without replying, Djuna got on his bike and headed into the Edenboro road with such energy that Jimmy didn’t catch up with him for a quarter of a mile. Then he had no breath left for anything except a gasped, “What’s the rush, for Pete’s sake?”

“Mr. Boots!” Djuna pedaled faster than ever.

Mr. Boots’s truck, parked outside his shop in Edenboro, told them that the old carpenter was at home. They burst in on him.