They were certainly very surprised to see Daisy sitting down after Goon had so hurriedly departed, apparently murmuring away to herself. They were just about to come over when she left the bench and went to them.
“What’s up with you?” asked Larry. Daisy smiled delightedly. “That was Fatty!” she whispered. “Don’t recognize him, for goodness sake. We’ve got to get some lunch for him somehow, because he thinks Goon is on the track of something and he wants to trail him.”
The four marched solemnly past Fatty on the bench, and each got a wink from the dirty old tramp.
“We’re going off to get lunch,” said Daisy loudly, as if she was speaking to Larry. But the tramp knew quite well that she was speaking to him!
A Very Busy Afternoon
Fatty shuffled his way to the bus-stop bench near Goon’s house. He let himself down slowly as if he indeed had a bad back. He let out a grunt. An old lady on the bench looked at him sympathetically. Poor old man! She leaned across and pressed a sixpence into his hand.
Fatty was so taken-aback that he almost forgot he was a tramp. He remembered immediately though, and put his finger to his forehead in exactly the same way that his father’s old coachman did when he came to see him.
“Thank you kindly,” he wheezed.
There was no sign of Mr. Goon. He had gone hurriedly into the back-door of his house, and was now engaged in stripping off his disguise. He was going out in his official clothes this afternoon—P.C. Goon—and woe betide any cobblers or others who were rude to him!
Soon Daisy came slipping back with a picnic-lunch, done up in a piece of newspaper. Fatty approved of that touch! Just what he would have his lunch in if he really was an old tramp. Good for Daisy! His troop were coming along well, he considered.
Daisy sat down on the bench, bending over to do up her shoe. She spoke to Fatty out of the corner of her mouth. “Here’s your lunch. Best I could get. Larry’s looked up the names of houses in the directory he borrowed. There’s only one beginning with Rod, and that’s one called Rodways, down by Pip’s house.”
“Thanks. You go to the Rodneys about the jumble with Bets, and tell Larry and Pip to go to Rodways and snoop,” said Fatty. “Find out if there’s anyone there with large feet, who might be the thief. Rodways is only a little cottage, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Daisy. “All right. And you’re going to trail Goon, aren’t you, to see if he’s up to something? We’ll meet at your shed later.”
She laced up her shoe, sat up and whispered good-bye. Then off she went—and behind her she left the newspaper of food. “Very clever!” thought Fatty, opening it. “Good old Daisy.”
He had a very nice lunch of egg sandwiches, tomato sandwiches and a large slice of fruit cake. Daisy had even slipped in a bottle of ginger beer with an opener! Fatty ate and drank everything, and then put his clay pipe back into his mouth again. He opened the newspaper, which was that day’s, and began to read very comfortably.
Goon went into his little front room and sat down to go through some papers. He glanced out of the window, and saw the old tramp on the bench.
“Turned up again like a bad penny!” said Goon to himself. “Well, I can certainly keep an eye on him if he sits there. Still, he can’t be the thief—he’s too doddery.”
The tramp read his paper and then apparently fell asleep. Goon had his lunch, did a little telephoning and then decided to go on with his next job. He looked at his notes.
Frinton Lea. He had crossed that out. What with watching it all day and enquiring about it, he had come to the conclusion that he could wash that out. Now for the other people or places—the Rodericks—the Rodneys—and that house down the lane—what was it called—Rodways. One of them must be the Rods on this scrap of paper. “Rods. It’s some sort of clue, that’s certain. Good thing those children don’t know about these bits of paper. Ha, I’m one up on them there.”
Poor Mr. Goon didn’t know that Tonks had shown them to Fatty, or he wouldn’t have been nearly so pleased! He put his papers together, frowned, thought of his plan of campaign, and got up heavily, his great boots clomping loudly as he went out into the hall.
The old tramp was still on the bench. “Lazy old thing!” thought Mr. Goon. He wheeled his bicycle quickly to the front, got on it and sailed away before Fatty could even have time to sit up!
“Blow!” said Fatty. “He’s out of disguise—and on his bike. I’m dished! I never thought of his bike. I can’t trail him on that.”
He wondered what to do. Well, the others were taking care of the Rodneys and the house called Rodways. He’d better go and find Colonel Cross’s house. As he was apparently the only other person in Peterswood who wore size twelve or thirteen shoes, he certainly must be enquired into!
Goon had shot off to the Roderick’s first. There he found out what Fatty already knew—that there was no man in the house at all. Right. He could cross that off.
He went to see the Rodneys—and the very first thing he saw there were two bicycles outside the front fence—girls’ bicycles, with Daisy and Bets just coming out of the gate towards them!
Those kids again! What were they doing here? And whatever were they carrying? Goon glared at them.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Goon,” said Daisy, cheerfully. “Want to come and buy a pair of shoes at the jumble sale?”
Goon eyed the four or five old pairs of boots and shoes wrathfully. “Where did you get those?” he said.
“From Mrs. Rodney,” answered Daisy. “We’re collecting for the jumble sale, Mr. Goon. Have you got anything that would do for it? An old pair of big boots, perhaps?”
“Mrs. Rodney let us look all through her cupboard of boots,” said Bets, “and she gave us these.”
Goon had nothing to say. He simply stood and glared. The Rodneys! So these pests of kids had got on to that clue too—they were rounding up the Rods just as he was—but they were just one move in front of him.
He debated whether to go in or not now. Mrs. Rodney might not welcome somebody else enquiring after shoes. He cast his eye again on the collection of old boots and shoes that Daisy and Bets were stuffing into their bicycle baskets.
Daisy saw his interest in them. “No. None size twelve,” she said with a giggle. “Size ten is the very largest the Rodneys have. That will save you a lot of trouble, won’t it, Mr. Goon?”
“Gah!” said Mr. Goon, and leapt angrily on his bicycle. Interfering lot! And how did they know about the Rods, anyway? Had Tonks shown those scraps of paper? He’d bite Tonks’ head off, if he had!
He rode off to Rodways, the cottage down the lane that led to the river. He was just putting his bicycle against the little wall when he noticed two more there—boys’ bicycles this time. Well, if it was any of those little pests’ bikes, he’d have something to say!
Larry and Pip were there. They had stopped outside the cottage, apparently to have a game of ball—and one of them had thrown the ball into the cottage garden.
“Careless idiot!” Pip shouted loudly to Larry. “Now we’ll have to go and ask permission to get the ball!”
They went in and knocked at the door, which was wide open. An old woman, sitting in a rocking-chair, peered at them from a corner of the room inside.
“What do you want?” she asked, in a cracked old voice.
“We’re so sorry,” said Larry, politely. “Our ball went into your garden. May we get it?”
“Yes,” said the old woman, beginning to rock herself. “And just tell me if the milkman’s been, will you? If he has, the milk-bottle will be outside. And did you see the baker down the lane?”
“No, we didn’t,” said Pip. “There is a bottle out here on the step. Shall I bring it in?”
“Yes, thank you kindly,” said the old woman. “Put it in the larder, there’s a good lad. That baker! He gets later every day! I hope I haven’t missed him. I fall asleep, you know. I might not have heard him.”
Larry looked round the little cottage. He saw a big sou’wester hanging on a nail, and an enormous oilskin below it. Aha! Somebody big lived here, that was certain.
“What a big oilskin!” he said to the old woman. “Giant-size!”
“Ah, that’s my son’s,” said the old woman, rocking away hard. “He’s a big man, he is—but kind and gentle—just like a big dog, I always say.”