The Purple Bird Mystery (7 page)

“Whether you wish to sell it or not, perhaps you will let me see it? I could at least authenticate it, so that if you should ever change your mind about selling it, you would know what you had.”

“Let him see it, Grandma,” Jimmy spoke up eagerly.
“I’d
like to know what it’s worth. It’s going to be mine some day, and …”

“I know, Jimmy. And you think you may be able to sell it for enough money to buy a set of matched golf clubs.” Grandma laughed at Jimmy’s abashed expression. “Well, Mr. Swift, no reason why you shouldn’t see the chest if you’re so anxious to.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Swift said, and jumped up. Grandma preceded him to Jimmy’s room upstairs. Jimmy and Djuna stood in the doorway while Grandma led Mr. Swift to the chest.

He looked at it for a moment in silence, with a hint of awe. After a moment he stepped to the window and raised the shade to admit more light into the room. Than he stood like a statue in front of the chest once more. Finally, he began to pull open the drawers and examine the interior workmanship.

Jimmy said from the doorway, “The bottom drawer got broken when we were moving in the other day. But it’s fixed now.”

“I see it is,” Mr. Swift said, “and a neat job, too. The repaired drawer won’t affect the value of the chest very much, though, Jimmy. No need to worry about that.” The antique dealer pushed the drawers in and ran gentle hands over the chest’s carved mahogany decorations. Then he turned abruptly to Grandma, as though he had arrived at a weighty decision. “It is, Madam, it
is
!
”

“It is what?”

“A genuine antique. You have a treasure here.” Behind his tinted spectacles, Mr. Swift’s eyes were partially screened, but Djuna thought he saw genuine excitement in them. “This is as fine a piece as any I have ever had the privilege of examining. In fact, I have little hesitation in saying that this chest of yours may have been designed by Robert Adam himself, the famous English designer, and dates from—let me see—yes, 1770 or thereabouts.”

Djuna exclaimed, “That’s old, that is!”

“Indeed, yes. I can’t refrain from urging you once more, Madam, to consider selling it to me. I am prepared to make you a splendid offer.” He looked anxiously at Grandma.

Grandma’s curiosity had been stirred by his enthusiasm. “What do you mean by ‘a splendid offer’?”

“Well,” the dealer said, “I won’t beat about the bush, Madam. I
must
have this piece! I know a lady in Philadelphia who would give her eyeteeth for this chest.” He smiled his crooked smile, but his glance at Grandma was sharp behind his glasses. “What would you think of, say, five hundred dollars?”

“Gracious!” exclaimed Grandma. “That’s very generous, and I’m not saying we couldn’t use the money, Mr. Swift. But I’m afraid the answer is still no. This chest has great sentimental value for me. I’m sure my son wouldn’t sell it even for five hundred dollars.”

Mr. Swift didn’t even pause for reflection. “Seven hundred and fifty dollars, then.”

“Now there’s no earthly use raising the price,” Grandma began; but Mr. Swift cut her off.

“Fifteen hundred!” he snapped. His tone had turned gradually less friendly; there was a tiny thread of something that could have been ugliness in it, Djuna thought.

Grandma took Mr. Swift’s arm in a friendly grip and turned him around, gently shepherding him from Jimmy’s room. “That’s an awful lot of money, but I’m afraid it’s out of the question. It’s been a Douglas chest for a long time and it’s going to
stay
a Douglas chest.”

Mr. Swift mustered a smile that was more lopsided than ever. “If that’s your decision, I shall respect it, of course, Madam. But I hope you’ll please talk it over with your son?”

Grandma and the two boys accompanied him out to the terrace. “I’ll tell him about it,” Grandma promised, “and you can hope, if you want to, but I don’t think it’ll do you a bit of good. I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” said Mr. Swift, admitting defeat. “I’ll be at Mrs. Carstairs’s in Edenboro, if you wish to get in touch with me. Meanwhile, thank you for your courtesy, Madam.”

Grandma turned away. “See Mr. Swift to his car, boys, will you? Then you’d better be getting back to the caddy-house.” She went back into the house.

“What a beauty!” Mr. Swift muttered sadly. “A genuine Robert Adam!” He shook his head.

Djuna, Jimmy and Champ accompanied him to his car. Mr. Swift turned to say something to Djuna. But Djuna never knew what it was he meant to say. Because Champ chose that moment to leap into the front seat of Mr. Swift’s Chevrolet and begin to bark wildly at a brown leather briefcase that was lying on the seat.

Champ’s sudden clamor startled Jimmy and Djuna. But its effect on Mr. Swift was far more than a mere start of alarm. He uttered a harsh curse; a flush of fury rose into his sallow face.

With a growl rumbling deep in his throat, Champ seized the handle of the briefcase in his teeth and worried it savagely.

Before Djuna could call Champ off, Mr. Swift reached like a snake striking, grasped Champ by the scruff of the neck, and yanked him out of the car. The briefcase, clamped in Champ’s jaws, came with him. Holding Champ aloft, Mr. Swift grabbed the briefcase with his other hand and wrenched it from Champ’s mouth. Poor Champ, startled in his turn by this unexpected violence, was dropped unceremoniously to the ground. He crept over to crouch beside Djuna, whimpering.

“Golly, Mr. Swift, I’m sorry!” said Djuna, reaching for Champ’s collar. “Champ didn’t mean any harm, honest—”

Mr. Swift rapidly regained control. When he spoke, the fury had gone out of his deep voice; he was his calm self one more.
“I’m
sorry, Djuna,” he apologized. “That was childish of me. But I never could abide dogs. They always make me nervous.”

With these words he climbed into his car, slammed the door shut, and started the motor, placing his briefcase on the seat beside him. “And Jimmy,” he said, putting the car into gear, “you’ll remember, won’t you, that I’ll be at Mrs. Carstairs’s if your father wants to sell that chest?” Then he drove away with a wave of his hand.

A
T
dinner that evening, Djuna had a lot to tell Miss Annie.

“I don’t suppose it means anything,” concluded Djuna thoughtfully, “but it seems to me, Miss Annie, there’s an awful lot of people interested in Jimmy and his chest all of a sudden.”

“It hadn’t better mean anything,” Miss Annie said grimly. “Don’t you go dreaming up another mystery out of it, Djuna! Just tend to your caddying job. Now you promise me!”

“Gosh,” said Djuna meekly, “I didn’t mean anything like that, Miss Annie. How could Jimmy Douglas be mixed up in anything mysterious?” Djuna laughed. “Jimmy would sell that chest of his to Mr. Swift if his father would allow him, I bet, so he could buy a new set of matched golf clubs. He’d rather have golf clubs than an old chest any time.”

“How about you?” Miss Annie asked, smiling.

“Do you know how much a set of matched golf clubs costs, Miss Annie?”

“Gracious, no. How much?”

“It could be ’way over two hundred dollars. That’s what Jimmy told me.”

“Great land o’ Goshen!” Miss Annie exclaimed. “That’s almost a sin, paying that much money for something you use just to bat a little ball around the grass!”

Djuna laughed. “I don’t care,” he said. “Jimmy likes me, whether I play golf or not.”

“I should hope so,” Miss Annie retorted. “Champ took to Jimmy right away, didn’t he? That’s a pretty good sign.”

“Yeah, Champ likes Jimmy a lot.” Djuna swallowed. “I forgot to tell you Champ got himself in trouble today with that antique dealer. He jumped into Mr. Swift’s car and grabbed his briefcase, barking and carrying on something awful.”

“That dog! It was bad enough when he sneaked out of the yard this morning and followed you to Fieldcrest. And now you say he got into trouble there.”

“The queerest thing about it was how mad it made Mr. Swift. He even cussed. And the way he grabbed poor Champ by the neck!”

“I hope you apologized for Champ.”

“I apologized, all right. I was pretty ashamed of Champ myself, to tell the truth.”

Miss Annie was silent a moment. “An antique dealer, is he, this Mr. Swift? Looking for things to buy around here?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Well, Djuna, do you know what I think?”

“What, Miss Annie?”

“I think the polite thing for you to do would be to try to be extra nice to Mr. Swift some way.”

“But Miss Annie,” Djuna protested, “what could
I
do for him, for Pete’s sake? We haven’t got any antiques to sell him.”

“No. But I know several people in Edenboro who have. Kate Jenkins has an early American highboy with cabriole legs and scrolled pediment,” Miss Annie said. “She says she wouldn’t sell it for the world; but knowing Kate, if your Mr. Swift offered her as big a price as he did Grandma Douglas for her chest, I bet she’d sell in a minute.”

“I’ll get a pencil and write it down,” said Djuna.

“And write down Mr. and Mrs. Anstruther, too. They have a mahogany secretary they claim was designed by John Goddard two hundred years ago. That’s all I can think of right now in Edenboro. Where’d you say Mr. Swift was staying?”

“At Mrs. Carstairs’s.”

“Then nip right over there and tell him about those antiques. And apologize again for Champ’s chewing his briefcase.”

“Oh, he didn’t hurt it, Miss Annie. Just made a few teeth marks on the handle.”

“I was afraid you might have to spend your first caddy fees for a briefcase,” Miss Annie said, relieved, “instead of for Champ’s new leash. On your way home, stop at Mr. Pindler’s store and buy a stronger leash. I can’t have Champ breaking away any more.”

Doubtfully, Djuna said, “Mr. Pindler’s is just a grocery store, Miss Annie.”

“It’s a general store,” snapped Miss Annie. “If he carries dog biscuits, he ought to carry leashes, too.”

A sharp yelp sounded from Champ out in the back yard.

Miss Annie said, “I declare, that dog heard me say dog biscuits! Take him with you, Djuna.”

“Mr. Swift won’t be very glad to see him.”

“Leave him on Widow Carstairs’s front porch.”

So that was how it happened that Djuna and Champ found themselves at sunset on the Widow Carstairs’s front porch, waiting for somebody to answer their ring. Djuna could see the Chevrolet Mr. Swift had been driving that afternoon parked in front of the house.

While he waited for Mrs. Carstairs to answer the door he knelt, took Champ’s lower jaw in one hand, and said very firmly to the Scottie, “Now you stay on this porch, Champ. Understand? Stay! Or you’ll be in deep trouble. Remember, now!” Champ cocked his head and beat his stumpy tail against the porch floor. He couldn t have been saying, “I understand, Djuna,” any more plainly.

The front door opened, framing the ample figure of Widow Carstairs. Djuna said politely, “Good evening, Mrs. Carstairs. Is this where Mr. Swift is staying, please?”

Mrs. Carstairs nodded. “Second floor front. Right upstairs over this hall. You want to see him, Djuna?”

“I’ve got a message for him from Miss Annie. Is he in?”

“He should be, his car’s out there.” She shouted, “Mr. Swift! Visitors!”

After a moment Djuna heard a door open upstairs. The remembered rich voice called down, “Who is it?”

“It’s Djuna, Mr. Swift. Has a message for you, he says.”

“Please send him up.”

Djuna found Mr. Swift waiting for him in the doorway of his room. He was in shirt sleeves and held a pipe in his hand which was sending out a plume of smelly blue smoke. “Oh, it’s the boy from Douglas’s,” Mr. Swift said. “Come in, young man!” His words were uttered expectantly. “You’ve come to tell me Mrs. Douglas has changed her mind about the chest. That she’ll sell it to me. Isn’t that it?”

“Jeepers, Mr. Swift,” Djuna said, “you’ve got me mixed up with Jimmy Douglas, I guess. I’m Djuna.”

Mr. Swift exhaled a long breath of disappointment. “Of course. How stupid of me. What do you want, boy?”

Djuna said uncertainly, “What I came for, Mr. Swift, was to apologize again for the trouble my dog Champ gave you today.”

Mr. Swift waved an airy hand. “Forget it, my boy. I have only one chair in this grand room of mine, as you can see, but you are more than welcome to it. I shall, ah, take my ease on the edge of the bed.”

Djuna sat down. He thought Mr. Swift must have been joking when he referred to this room as “grand.” For it was cramped and small, made to seem even smaller by the oversized furniture it contained. The chair was an ancient rocker that groaned in mortal pain every time Djuna changed position.

Under the room’s only window, which was wide to the summer evening, Djuna saw Mr. Swift’s suitcase lying open. He could make out some shirts and a couple of stringy neckties. And on a low stool beside the door lay Mr. Swift’s leather briefcase, the one that had caused all the trouble at Jimmy’s.

“Was something said about a message for me?” Mr. Swift murmured.

Djuna said, “Miss Annie Ellery—that’s the lady I live with, Mr. Swift—knows a couple of people in Edenboro who have antiques you might be interested in, she says. So when I told her how Champ bothered you today, she said I should come over and tell you about them to make up for Champ’s bad manners.”

Mr. Swift clasped his hands in his lap. “That’s very nice of Miss Ellery,” he said, “very thoughtful, indeed. What are the pieces she refers to?”

Djuna got out the paper that contained his notes. “There’s an early American highboy with cabriole legs and scrolled pediment. It belongs to Miss Kate Jenkins over on Linden Lane. That’s one of the things.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Mr. Swift.

“What’s that mean, Mr. Swift?”

“What?”

“Cabriole legs and scrolled pediment?”

“Why, merely technical terms you needn’t concern yourself with.”

“But what kind of legs
are
‘cabriole legs,’ for Pete’s sake?” Djuna insisted.

“Well,” said Mr. Swift, curiously hesitant, “cabriole legs are just certain-shaped legs that some old pieces of furniture have, that’s all.” Mr. Swift cleared his throat. “Any more antiques you can tell me about?”