Pip had pricked up his ears too, by this time. “He must be enormous,” he said. “Whatever size shoes does he wear? Sixteens!”
The old lady gave a cackle of laughter. “Go on with you! Sixteens! Look over there, on that shelf—those are my son’s boots—there’s a surprise for you!”
It was a surprise—for the shoes were no more than size sevens, about Larry’s own size! The boys looked at them in astonishment.
“Does he really only wear size seven?” said Larry. “What small feet he has for such a big man.”
“Yes. Small feet and small hands—that’s what my family always have,” said the old woman, showing her own mis-shapen but small feet and hands. Pip looked at Larry. Rodways was definitely ruled out. The thief didn’t live here!
Someone came up the path and called in. “Granma! Baker-boy here!”
“Gosh—it’s that awful little peacock of a baker again!” said Pip, in disgust. “We can’t seem to get rid of him.”
“One loaf as usual, baker!” called the old lady. “Put it in my pan for me.”
The baker put down his basket, took a loaf, and strutted in. He saw the two boys, and smiled amiably. “Here we are again! Come to see old Granma?”
He flung the bread into the pan in the larder and strutted out again. He picked up his basket and went off, whistling, turning out his feet like a duck.
“Now you go and look for your ball,” said the old woman, settling herself comfortably! “I can go to sleep now I know the milk and the bread have come.”
They went out, found their ball, and Larry threw it out into the road. There was an angry shout.
“Now then, you there! What are you doing, throwing your ball at me?”
Mr. Goon’s angry red face appeared over the hedge. The boys gaped in surprise. “Golly—did it hit you, Mr. Goon?” said Pip, with much concern. “We didn’t know you were there.”
“Now look here—what are you here for?” demanded Mr. Goon. “Everywhere I go you’re there before me. What are you playing at?”
“Ball,” said Larry, picking up the ball and aiming it at Pip. It missed him, struck the wall, bounced back, and struck Mr. Goon on the helmet. He turned a beetroot colour, and the boys fled.
“Toads!” muttered Mr. Goon, mopping his hot neck. “Toads! Anyone would think this was their case! Anyone would think they were running the whole show. Under my feet the whole time. Gah!”
He strode up the path to the front door. But the old lady had now gone fast asleep, and did not waken even when Mr. Goon spoke to her loudly. He saw the oilskin on the peg, and the same thought occurred to him, as had occurred to the two boys. Big oilskin—Big man—Big feet—The thief!
He crept in and began to look round. He fell over a shovel and the old woman awoke in a hurry. She saw Mr. Goon and screamed.
“Help! Help! Robbers! Thieves! Help, I say!”
Mr. Goon was scared. He stood up, and spoke pompously. “Now, madam, it’s only the police come to call. What size shoes does your son take?”
This was too much for the old woman. She thought the policeman must be mad. She began to rock herself so violently that Mr. Goon was sure the chair would fall over.
He took one last look round and ran, followed by the old woman’s yells. He leapt on his bicycle and was off up the lane in a twinkling. Poor Mr. Goon—he was no match for an angry old woman!
Mostly About Boots
Fatty had gone off to find Colonel Cross’s house. It was a pleasant little place not far from the river. Sitting out in the garden was a big man with a white moustache and a very red face.
Fatty studied him from the shelter of the hedge. He looked a bit fierce. In fact, very fierce. It was quite a good thing he was asleep, Fatty thought. Not only asleep, but snoring.
Fatty looked at his feet. Enormous! The cobbler was right—the Colonel certainly wore size twelve or thirteen boots. Fatty thought he could see a rubber heel on one of them too. Goodness—suppose he had at last hit on the right person! But Colonel Cross didn’t look in the least like a thief or burglar. Anything but, thought Fatty.
Fatty wished he had a small telescope or longsighted glasses so that he could look more closely at the rubber heel. He didn’t dare to go crawling into the garden and look at the heels. The colonel was certainly very fast asleep, one leg crossed over the other—but he might be one of these light sleepers that woke very suddenly!
The Colonel did wake suddenly. He gave an extra loud snore and woke himself up with a jump. He sat up, and wiped his face with a table-cloth of a handkerchief. He certainly was enormous. He suddenly caught sight of Fatty’s face over the hedge, and exploded.
“Did you wake me up? What are you doing there? Speak up, man!”
“I didn’t wake you, sir,” said Fatty, in a humble voice. “I was just looking at your feet.”
“Bless us all—my feet? What for?” demanded the Colonel.
“I was wishing you had an old pair of your boots to give me,” said Fatty, very humbly. “I’m an old tramp, sir, and tramping’s hard on the feet. Very hard, sir. And I’ve big feet, sir, and it’s hard to get boots to fit me—cast-off boots, I mean.”
“Go round and ask my housekeeper,” said the colonel gruffly. “But see you do something in return if there’s an old pair to give you! Hrrrrrumph!”
This was a wonderful noise—rather like a horse makes. Fatty stored it away for future use. Hrrrrrump! Fine! He would startle the others with it one day.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll chop up wood or do anything if I can have a pair of your boots!” he said.
He left the hedge and went round to the back door. A kindly faced woman opened it.
“Good day, Mam, the colonel says have you got a pair of his old boots for me,” asked Fatty, his hat in his hands, so that his straggly grey hair showed.
“Another old soldier!” sighed the housekeeper. “There’s not a pair of boots—but there may be an old pair of shoes. And even so they’re not really worn-out yet! Dear me—the colonel only came back yesterday and here he is giving his things away as usual!”
Fatty pricked up his ears. “Where has he been?” he asked.
“Oh, India,” said the woman. “And now he’s home for the last time. Arrived by air yesterday.”
“Ah,” thought Fatty, “then that rules out the colonel. Not that I really thought it could be him—he doesn’t look in the least like a burglar! Still, all suspects have to be examined, all clues have to be followed.”
The woman came back with a pair of old shoes. They had rubber heels on. Fatty’s eyes gleamed when he saw them. The pattern of the heels looked extremely like the pattern he had drawn in his notebook! How queer!
“Did you say you often give your master’s shoes away?” he asked.
“Not only shoes—anything,” she said. “He’s fierce, you know, but he’s kind too—always handing out things to his old soldiers. But since he’s been away I’ve sent his things to the Jumble Sales each year.”
“My—I hope you didn’t send any of this size boots or shoes!” said Fatty jokingly. “They would have done fine for me!”
“I sent a pair of boots last year,” said the woman, “they would just have done for you. But who would buy such enormous ones I don’t know. I said to Miss Kay when she asked me for them, ‘Well there now, you can have them, but you won’t sell them, I’ll wager!’ ”
Fatty made a mental note to find out Miss Kay and ask her if she remembered who bought the big boots belonging to the colonel. It might have been the thief!
“The colonel said I was to do a job for you,” said Fatty remembering.
“Well now, you go and weed that bed out in the garden,” said the housekeeper. “I can’t seem to get down to it. He’s asleep again. I can hear him snoring, so you won’t disturb him.”
“I’ll be pleased to do it,” said the old tramp and shuffled off. The housekeeper stared after him. He seemed so feeble that she felt rather guilty at having asked him to weed that bed!
Fatty knelt down and began to weed. He spent a pleasant ten minutes pulling out groundsel and chickweed, and in sorting out the thoughts in his head. He was beginning to think that the clues of 2. Frinton and 1. Rods were not clues at all—simply bits of paper blown by chance into Norton House garden. The real clues were the big foot-prints and glove-prints—and perhaps the queer print with the criss-cross marks on it.