They all crowded to the door except Twit who sat nervously picking at his finger-nails. Fatty carried the basket to the door. He set it down in a damp part of the path. Then he lifted it up again.
“Look! It’s left a mark of its round shape—and little criss-cross basket-lines!” cried Daisy. “Oh, Fatty—how clever you are!”
“Golly—I saw that mark outside Rodways Cottage,” suddenly said Pip. “Larry, don’t you remember—when we were in that cottage with the old woman? The baker came, and left his basket outside to go and put the loaves in the pan. And after he had gone I noticed the mark his basket had left, and it reminded me of something—of course, it was the drawing in Fatty’s book!”
“That’s it,” said Fatty. “That mark was always left where a robbery was committed—because Twit had to stand his basket somewhere, and if he stood it on a dusty path or a damp place, the heavy basket always left a mark. That’s why we found those roundish marks at each robbery! If we’d guessed what they were we would soon have been on the track!”
They were now back in the room. Fatty replaced the loaves in the basket, wrapped up in their cloths.
“No wonder Twit was always so particular about putting cloths over his loaves to keep them clean,” he said. “They were very convenient for hiding whatever else he had there—not only the boots and gloves, but also anything he stole!”
“Quite smart,” said the Inspector. “Carried the things he needed for his robbery, as well as his loaves, and also had room for stolen goods too—all under an innocent white cloth. Where did you get all these bright ideas from, Twit?”
Twit said nothing, but gazed sullenly at his smartly-polished little boots, with their highly-polished gaiters.
“Where did you get the big boots from, Twit?” asked Fatty. “Oh, you don’t need to bother to answer. Your cousin, Miss Kay, runs the jumble sale, doesn’t she—and she had the boots given to her for it last year—and you saw them and took them. Goodness knows how many times you’ve carried those boots round in your basket, hoping to find a chance to wear them and play your big-footed trick!”
“I never stole them,” said Twit. “I paid for them.”
“Yes—you paid sixpence!” said Fatty. “Just so that everyone would think you were a kind, generous fellow, paying for jumble-sale boots that had been stolen! I heard all about it, and it made me wonder. It didn’t seem quite in keeping with what I knew of you.”
Mr. Goon cleared his throat. “I take it you are certain this here fellow is the thief, sir?” he said to the Inspector.
“Well, what do you think of the evidence, Goon?” said the Inspector gravely. “You’ve been on the job too, haven’t you? You must have formed opinions of your own. No doubt you too suspected Twit.”
Mr. Goon swallowed once or twice, wondering whether he dared to say yes, he had suspected Twit. But he caught Fatty’s eye on him, and decided he wouldn’t. He was afraid of Fatty and his sharp wits.
“Well, no, sir—I can’t say as I suspected the baker,” he said, “though I was coming to it. Master Trotteville got just one move ahead of me, sir. Bad luck on me! I’ve tried out all the dodges I learnt at the refresher course, sir—the disguises and all that . . . and . . .”
“Mr. Goon! Have you really disguised yourself?” said Fatty, pretending to be amazed. “I say—you weren’t that dirty old tramp, were you? Well, if you were, you took me in properly!”
Goon glared at Fatty. That old tramp! Why, surely it was Fatty himself who had gone shuffling round in tramp’s clothes—yes, and eaten his lunch under Mr. Goon’s very windows. Gah!
“Take Twit away, Goon,” said Inspector Jenks, getting up. “Arrange with him to find someone to take the bread round, or nobody will have tea this afternoon. Twit, I shall be seeing you later.”
Twit was marched out by Mr. Goon, looking very small beside Goon’s burly figure. All his strut and cockiness were gone. He was no longer a little bantam of a man, peacocking about jauntily—he looked more like a small, woebegone sparrow.
Inspector Jenks beamed round, and Buster leapt up at him. “Very nice work, Find-Outers,” he said. “Very nice indeed. In fact, as my niece, Hilary, would say—smashing! Now, what about a spot of ice-cream somewhere? I’m melting.”
“Oooh yes,” said Bets, hanging on to his arm. “I knew you’d say that, Inspector! I felt it coming!”
“My word—you’ll be as good as Fatty some day, guessing what people think and do!” said the Inspector. “Well, Frederick, I’m pleased with you—pleased with all of you. And I want to hear the whole story, if you don’t mind—from beginning to end.”
So, over double-size ice-creams, he heard it with interest and delight.
“It’s a curious story, isn’t it?” said Fatty, when they had finished. “The story of a cocky little man who thought the world of himself—and was much too big for his boots!”
Bets gave a laugh and had the last word. “Yes! So he had to get size twelve and wear those, Fatty—but they gave him away in the end.”
“They did,” said Fatty. “Well, that’s another mystery solved—and here’s to the next one! May it be the most difficult of all!”