The Mystery of the Stolen Books

©2006 Keith Robinson

The Five Find-Outers and Dog are home for the holidays again. When Peterswood library is broken into, the gang are soon on the trail... much to Mr Goon's annoyance. Fatty and his friends find only one clue: a footprint on the windowsill where the burglar smashed a window and climbed in. Why anyone should risk breaking into a library to steal a few books is a mystery—so it's even more puzzling when the stolen books are found dumped in an old school field. Meanwhile, Mr Goon is investigating another break-in, this one at an office building in town. Valuable coins have been stolen out of a safe. Two burglaries in one night! Can they be connected somehow?

This is a completed novel which I sent to Egmont (the current publishers of the Find-Outer series) for consideration. They returned my synopsis with a hand-written note in the bottom corner saying simply, "I am sorry, I must pass." So I thought I'd make the story available here. I hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 12: Fatty in disguise

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At nine o'clock the next morning, all the Find-Outers met once more in Fatty's shed, eager to get stuck into the mystery of the stolen coins. Bets watched Fatty with awe as he set about disguising himself.

He was already dressed in an aged yellow shirt that smelled of cigarette smoke, and black trousers that were a little short for him. He found a moth-eaten tweed jacket in his collection of old clothes, and a matching hat that seemed to fit the image he was trying to create.

"I want to be an old man who's been putting things in order, selling old junk around the house," said Fatty, gazing into the mirror as he painted wrinkles on his face. Everyone crowded around with interest, and Fatty frowned. "You're blocking my light. Back off a little, would you?"

Pip was studying the coins they had all collected together. It was amazing what you could find lying about in drawers. "You know, none of these look valuable," he said. "Some are foreign, and others are just, well, a little old—but not really old."

"That's why I think an old man disguise will work better than just turning up as myself," said Fatty, rummaging around in a cupboard. "Mr Johnson will probably try to humour an old person instead of just shoving the coins back and saying they're worthless. Now where did I put my yellowed teeth—ah, here they are!"

He inserted them into his mouth and turned to grin at the others. Everyone grimaced. "Ugh, Fatty—that's revolting!" said Daisy. "You look like you've been smoking all your life."

"'Ere, got a ciggie?" said Fatty in a gravelly voice.

Bets suddenly had an idea. "Can I come?" she asked. "We don't often get the chance to come with you when you're in disguise, but...but I could be your granddaughter, couldn't I?"

Fatty stared at her, and then a smile spread across his face. "Bets, that's a fine idea. Yes, come along with me. You can roll your eyes and tut-tut a lot, and apologise for my poor memory, terrible hearing, and failing eye-sight."

Everyone laughed, and Bets slipped a hand into Fatty's. "It's all right, Grandpa—I'll look after you, don't you worry."

Fatty donned a wig that had a latex section of bald head. The hair was scraggly and grey, and the moment he put it on and screwed up his face, he became someone else. But the colour of the latex skin didn't quite match that on Fatty's forehead, so he dabbed some colouring across the join to mask it—then donned the hat, which came down to his eyebrows anyway. Finally he found some thick-rimmed glasses and put them on the end of his nose, then screwed up his eyes into a squint.

The effect was stunning, but when Fatty grabbed a walking stick and hobbled slowly into the garden, Larry had a sudden idea and hurried after Fatty with a slim cushion. "Stick this up the back of your jacket, right up past the shoulder-blades," he said. "Old people often have hunches, and this will work nicely."

He was right—but the cushion needed to be pinned in place to stop it sliding back down. It was worth it, though. Now, when Fatty hunched forwards over his walking stick, he truly looked like a wizened old man hobbling along.

They all walked along the street together, with Buster on a leash, sniffing at his master's ankles suspiciously. Those weren't his usual boots! They were old and smelly, and not at all like his master's normal scent. Bets happily held onto the leash so that Fatty could concentrate on his slow-moving hobble.

As they walked, Fatty mumbled in a low voice to the others. "Now, only Bets and I will go in to see Mr Johnson, but the rest of you can make yourselves useful by scouting around underneath the window outside, where the burglar got in. Superintendent Jenks mentioned something in Old Clear-Orf's report about a drainpipe."

"Yes," Larry said, "Mr Johnson thought the burglar must have climbed the drainpipe, but Mr Goon scoffed at the idea."

"Right," Pip agreed, "which means we just need to look for a window on the second floor next to a drainpipe. There can't be many drainpipes around the building."

"Plus, the window might still be smashed," Fatty said quietly. "And even if it's been fixed by now, the glass may not have been cleared up off the pavement below. You shouldn't have any trouble finding the right window—and when you do, search very carefully around the area and see if you can find any clues dropped on the ground."

"Right, chief!" said Larry.

It was a long, slow walk to Green Meadows, an an oddly-named office block considering there were no meadows in sight, green or otherwise. They were right in the middle of the village by now, and cars roared by noisily as they gathered around the front door.

Fatty looked about. "We're in full view of everything here. See those houses across the road? Anyone looking out their bedroom windows would clearly see a man climbing a drainpipe—and they certainly would look out if they heard glass smashing. I would think Mr Johnson's office is round the back, otherwise the burglar might not have had the nerve to go through with such a bold break-in."

Larry nodded and set off with the others, giving Fatty and Bets a wave. "See you soon, Gramps!"

Fatty took Bets' hand and, together, they walked into the lobby. Bets was startled when a strange voice spoke to her—and then realised in a flash it was just Fatty, putting on his old man act. "Can you see the board, my dear? I can't read a blessed thing. Me eyes aren't what they used to be."

Bets stifled a giggle as a man in overalls looked up from sweeping the floor. She stared at the board on the wall and found Mr Johnson's name. "Clive Johnson, pro...pro..."

"Proprietor," Fatty mumbled.

"Proprietor of CJ Coins & Collectibles, Room 22 on the second floor," Bets finished. "This way, Grandpa. Careful now. We'll take the lift."

They rode up in the lift to the second floor, and stepped out into a hall. Bets followed the signs and led Fatty slowly along to Room 22. She knocked timidly.

A thin man opened the door. He had round glasses and a kindly face. "Yes?"

"Are you the chap what evaluates old coins?" croaked Fatty, leaning close and peering at Mr Johnson as if inspecting a tear in the wallpaper. "I got some good 'uns, might be werf summat."

"Ah," said Mr Johnson, sounding uncertain. "I normally prefer my customers to make an appointment. It takes time to inspect old coins, you know. I have to find the right books, study them carefully, make enquiries..."

"Wassat?" said Fatty loudly, cupping a hand around his ear.

"I said you need to make an appointment," repeated Mr Johnson, raising his voice and glancing up and down the hall.

Fatty lowered his head and made a grumbling sound, then turned away—but he gave Bets a wink as he started off down the hall at a snail's pace. "Well, I'm sorry to 'ave bovvered yer, Mister. I'll just walk all the way home, then make an appointment, and come back another day." He stopped to cough—a horrible, dry cough that made his whole body shudder. "That's if me lungs don't clog up again, what wiv the fumes from the traffic an' all."

Bets watched closely as an uncomfortable look come over Mr Johnson's face. "It's all right, Mr Johnson," she said, "it only takes about an hour for Grandpa to walk home. Well, perhaps two hours, because he needs to rest along the way—that is, if we can find some nice benches to sit on. But we'll be happy to make an appointment. May we come and see you sometime in the week, when it's more convenient?"

Mr Johnson wrung his hands. "Ah, well, I don't mean to—Look, why don't you just pop into my office now, and we'll take a quick look at those coins. Come on in."

Fatty immediately turned and shuffled into the office, collapsing into a visitor's chair with a groan. "Ooh, me back. It'll be the death of me. That's if me coughing don't get me first." And with that he burst into a fit of hacking and spluttering.

Bets turned away to contain her giggles, and ran her eyes over the office. It was very tidy, and she noticed the window had been replaced; the pane still had a large sticker on it, with the name Tippington's Glazing. The polished wood floor was clear of any glass, so it looked like Mr Johnson had been busy.

On the wall were several picture frames, and Bets knew that one of them had a safe hidden behind it. But which one? After a careful scrutiny she thought she knew; most pictures were hung with wire and hooks, so the top fell away from the wall perhaps half an inch. But one picture hung differently to the others, perfectly flush with the wall—because it used hinges like a cupboard door.

Bets patted herself on the back for her detective work and wandered over to the window as Fatty dug in his pocket and deposited a collection of coins on Mr Johnson's desk. "Don't know if they're werf anyfing," he grumbled, "but it's werf checking, innit?"

"Yes, yes," Mr Johnson said, picking up a coin and squinting at it. He put it down and picked up another, then another. A frown spread across his face. "Hmm, well, unfortunately these are, er, completely worthless. Do you have anything else?"

"Wassat?" said Fatty loudly.

"I said these coins are worthless, Mr...er, what did you say your name was?"

Fatty slapped the table with the palm of his hand. "I thought you were s'posed to be able to tell if coins are werf anyfing. I thought you were an expert or summat."

Mr Johnson nodded rapidly. "Oh yes, I'm very experienced. I can certainly tell the difference between coins that are valuable, and coins that were just...well, found at the back of an old drawer, as these appear to be."

Bets suddenly saw Larry, Pip, Daisy, and Buster appear around the corner in the car park below. They'd found the right window! She watched them for a moment as they spread out to look for clues.

"Did you have this window replaced?" she asked, suddenly thinking it might be a good way to turn the conversation towards the burglary. "I notice you have a sticker on the glass."

Mr Johnson sighed. "Yes, I can't get the thing off. Why these companies have to advertise themselves in such an annoying, blatant way is beyond me. They think I want to spend time scraping stickers off the glass!"

Fatty nodded as if he understood. "Accident, was it? Tripped and fell against the window, did yer?" He turned to Bets. "Remember when I did that, my dear? Ooh, it made a right old mess, that did—and I near killed meself." He cackled, and then broke into another coughing fit.

Mr Johnson looked alarmed and handed Fatty a tissue. "Er, this was no accident," he said. He got up and started to pace the room, his face reddening. "I was robbed last night. Oh yes. Someone climbed that drainpipe out there and smashed my window to get in. Stole coins right out of my safe."

"Oh, that's terrible!" exclaimed Bets.

"Yes, yes," said Mr Johnson, sounding agitated now. "And to think that horrible policeman came here and accused me of breaking my own window!—and stealing a set of valuable coins that had been left in my care! Of all the nerve! I complained to the police headquarters about him, so I did, and that pompous bobby came scuttling back here to apologise late yesterday afternoon."

"Did you have an alibi?" asked Bets. Fatty glanced at her and frowned, and Bets realised the question might have sounded a little odd for a young girl.

Indeed, Mr Johnson looked surprised. "Er, well, not really. Apparently the burglary was around two o'clock in the morning, so that policeman says, and I was sound asleep in bed at the time. Of course my wife will vouch for me, but I don't think she counts as an alibi as far as the police are concerned."

He nodded his head to the wall, and after a moment Bets realised he was gesturing to the neighbouring office. "My colleague, Ted, used to stay late, sometimes till after midnight. Shame he's been going early for the last couple of weeks, otherwise he might have seen something, or warned the burglar off. But Ted goes off around half past four these days, and I leave at five on the dot."

Mr Johnson shook his head and sighed. "That policeman. Confounded idiot of a man."

"That wouldn't be Mr Goon, would it?" said Bets, suppressing a grin.

"Yes, that's the fellow!" said Mr Johnson, nodding rapidly. "Quite ghastly, he is. But that nice superintendent at the police headquarters soon put him right—sent Goon back here to start again. The idiot apologised until he was blue in the face, and then sniffed around for ages, searching for clues. I'd already started cleaning up by then."

"Well," said Fatty, clearing his throat noisily, "burglars are far too clever to leave clues lying about anyway. Bet that bobby didn't find nuffin."

"No, he didn't," said Mr Johnson, frowning, "but I did find some grey powder on the floor while I was sweeping up the glass. I told that constable about it, and he just shrugged and said it was probably nothing. Strange, though. It was on my rug, just a small scattering of powder or dust."

Bets listened, rapt. A clue! But a strange one. "Could it have been from when the burglar broke the glass?" she asked, gesturing towards the window.

Mr Johnson shrugged. "Well, I did think it was dust or dirt flying off the window, or perhaps off the window frame—but it's the wrong colour for dust or dirt, a sort of pale grey or dirty white. Very peculiar." Mr Johnson scratched his head and perched on the edge of his desk. "Besides, it was only in one small area on the rug, well away from the window. What do you make of that?"

"It's a mystery!" said Bets, unable to help herself. "Was that it? Just dust? No fingerprints, footprints, scraps of clothing caught on a nail...?"

Mr Johnson laughed. "I'm afraid not." Then he shook his head and looked glum. "I don't know why I'm laughing. The owner of the coins came to see me yesterday afternoon, to collect them—and he found Mr Goon poking about and the safe standing wide open. That did not go down well, I can tell you. I'm afraid word will get out that I'm sloppy with my security..."

"Wassat?" said Fatty loudly, cupping his ear behind his ear again. "Soppy with mice something-or-other? You're not making sense, man!"

Mr Johnson smiled suddenly, and gave Bets a wink. "Never mind, sir. Look, I really must get on. I'm sorry I couldn't help you with—"

"Know any good accountant types?" asked Fatty suddenly. "These coins may not be werf nuffin, but I still got a load of cash sittin' about the place. Be nice to put it somewhere safe, maybe invest it."

Mr Johnson thought for a moment. "Er, well, I think you really need a financial advisor rather than an accountant, but perhaps my colleague next door can help you out, perhaps suggest someone. I'll introduce you to him, if you like."

"That'll be very kind, fanks very much," said Fatty, climbing to his feet with a terrible groan. "Ooh, me back. Ooh, me arthritis. Ooh, me everything."

Bets giggled, and clamped a hand over her mouth as Mr Johnson glanced at her. Fatty hobbled from the office and the coin appraiser whispered to her, "You shouldn't laugh at your grandfather, you know. One day you'll be old too."

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