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 13: Clues and suspects!

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Fatty and Bets waited patiently in the hallway while Mr Johnson knocked on the neighbouring office door, upon which a sign read TED MASTERS, ACCOUNTANT.

"Ah, Clive," said the young man who opened the door. He was dressed smartly in a crisp pin-striped shirt, a light grey waist jacket with sharply-pressed matching grey trousers held up with braces, and shiny shoes. His suit jacket hung on a coat stand just inside the door. He smiled at the group standing in the hall. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Mr Johnson waved towards Fatty. "Ted, this kindly old gentleman is seeking advice about finances, and perhaps you'd be able to help him, or suggest a good financial advisor. Er, I didn't catch the gentleman's name..."

"Wassat?" said Fatty loudly. He was enjoying himself immensely, especially as Bets seemed to be asking a lot of good questions. What a good little Find-Outer she was! He shook his head. "Don't know why you all mumble so much. Can't hear a blessed thing!"

"He has an awful lot of cash hidden around the house," Bets said helpfully, deftly changing the subject. "It needs to be put in a bank or something."

"Quite," said Mr Masters, looking amused. He had twinkling eyes, a deep tanned complexion, and bright white teeth. Fatty guessed he was a real charmer with the ladies. "Unfortunately I don't have time right now. Besides, I don't think I can help you. You really need a good financial advisor. Wait, let me fetch you a card..."

He disappeared into his office, and through the open door Fatty glimpsed what looked like plush, expensive furniture and a number of shiny ornaments lined up along a credenza unit on the opposite wall. A crystal globe on a brass stand, an ornate vase, a couple of ebony figurines, a shiny brass miniature telescope, a pair of enormous bookends that looked to have been carved from a dark-coloured wood...

And on the floor was a tiger rug. Its eyes were glassy and staring, and Fatty could see from the look on Bets' face that she found it most unpleasant.

Mr Masters returned with a couple of business cards in his hand.

"These fellows will see you all right," he said. "You get in touch with one of them, and make an appointment. They'll probably come out to visit you at your home, you know—save you the walk, which I know must be taxing for an elderly gentleman such as yourself."

"Wassat?" Fatty said. "A taxi? For me? That's very kind of yer, sir, but I don't need one yet." He took the business cards and peered at them closely. "Why, this writing's all fuzzy. I'd sue the printer if I were you, me old fella."

Fatty broke into a cackling laughter, which once more turned into a coughing fit.

Mr Masters' smile faded and he looked at Mr Johnson, who stood behind Fatty looking apologetic.

"Well, I have work to do," Mr Masters said quietly. "If you'll excuse me..." He nodded, smiled politely, and gently closed the door.

Mr Johnson nodded and smiled politely too. "He's a nice chap, but very busy—as indeed am I. I really must get on. Good day, sir. Good day, miss."

As soon as Mr Johnson's door closed, Fatty straightened up and patted Bets on the shoulder. "Good job, Bets. We didn't find out much, but it was fun anyway. Let's go."

Downstairs in the lobby they passed the caretaker, who had finished sweeping the floor and was slowly wiping the windows to either side of the entrance doors. Everything he did seemed slow, thought Fatty—he was like a tortoise, moving in slow motion.

The caretaker glanced at them as they headed out the door. "You don't want to believe everything you hear about that coin fella," he said in a low voice. "Nice chap, he is, but there are rumours going about that he stages break-ins and sells the coins down the black market."

Bets whispered to Fatty, "What's a black market? Does that mean it's really grimy?"

But before Fatty could answer, the caretaker threw down his cloth and stepped closer. He was an old but spry man with flowing white hair and a sharp hooked nose. He stood right next to Fatty as if he were his best friend, and looked out on the street through the windows. "Funny goings on, I reckon. Been here ever since they opened this building three years ago, and I know all the tenants. That Johnson fella—nice chap, but the police are saying the burglary the other night was staged."

"It wasn't staged!" said Bets unexpectedly. Fatty glanced at her in surprise. She looked annoyed. "It was that awful policeman, Mr Goon, who said the burglary was staged—but it wasn't, was it, Fatty?"

Too late she clamped a hand to her mouth. "Er...I mean, Grandpa."

The caretaker seemed taken aback. He looked from Bets to Fatty and back again. Fatty thought quickly, then broke into a cackle and slapped his knee. "That young granddaughter of mine," he croaked. "She's a one. Always letting slip what's on her mind. Called me 'hunchback' last week, and 'baldy' the other day...and today it's 'fatty'."

"What a rude little girl," the caretaker said, shaking his head. "Anyway, like I said, you don't want to believe everything you hear. I reckon that police chap has a screw loose, saying stuff like that."

"I'm surprised no one heard the glass breaking the other night," said Fatty.

"Well, the building's empty," said the caretaker with a shrug. "But the neighbours heard it all right. From across the road, I mean, in those houses there. Heard the glass smashing as clear as anything, so Mr Goon said when he came back the second time. He'd changed his tune a bit, you see—told me he'd decided to give Johnson the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, he says he spoke to all the people living opposite and found out the window was smashed around two in the morning. Bold as brass, that burglar. Bold as brass."

Fatty listened carefully. For a moment he forgot he was in disguise and he let his voice revert back to normal. "And what time did Mr Johnson leave his office?"

Bets nudged him, and he frowned at her—then realised what she trying to tell him and quickly stooped again, clearing his throat.

But the caretaker was staring out the window and didn't seem to notice anything odd about Fatty. "Usual time, five on the dot. He's predictable, that one. Unlike that accountant fella next door. He used to stay late, sometimes till midnight. Hard worker, he is. But he leaves early these days."

"Could he have left late two nights ago, when Mr Johnson's office was robbed?" Bets asked. "Maybe that night he stayed until everyone had gone home, and then decided to stay even later just in case people were wandering by outside. And then, at two in the morning, when everything was quiet, he broke into Mr Johnson's office and...and then broke the window to make it look like—"

The caretaker laughed. "Naw, miss. That doesn't make much sense. Johnson's office door was locked when he arrived the next morning—so the burglar had to have got in from the outside, see, not through the office door."

Unless the burglar had a spare set of keys, Fatty thought suddenly. Then he could sneak into Mr Johnson's office, steal the coins, smash the window to make it look like someone broke in from outside, and lock the door again. But that assumed the burglar had a set of keys to get into Mr Johnson's office...

And who would have a spare set of keys? The caretaker, that's who!

"Besides," the caretaker said, "as I said, that Masters fella's been leaving early these days, just after five every night for the last couple of weeks now."

Fatty thought that a little odd, since Mr Johnson had said his neighbour left at around four thirty. But something else was on his mind. "So, er, do you stay late yourself, to lock up after everyone's gone home?

The caretaker frowned. "Until six, but everyone has a front door key so they can lock up as they leave, and come in as early as they like." Suddenly the old man turned and looked suspiciously at Fatty. "Why? What's it to you, anyway?"

Fatty chose that moment to break into a coughing fit, and he staggered, reaching for Bets' shoulder. "Sorry, better go," he sputtered. "Need fresh air..."

They waved goodbye to the white-haired caretaker and stepped outside. Fatty gripped Bets' shoulder tightly and walked her away from the door and around the corner, out of sight. Then he swung her round and stared at her, his mind working fast.

"I wonder if the caretaker had anything to do with the theft. If anyone can gain access to an office without breaking a door down, it's him. He probably has a spare key for every office in the building! He could have snuck in when everyone had gone home, spent as long as he wanted cracking the safe, and then—when he was ready to go—smashed the window and let himself quietly out of the building."

Excited by the possibility, Fatty led Bets around to the back of the building, deep in thought. Bets reminded him that he was supposed to be old man, and Fatty immediately stooped and started hobbling, moaning under his breath about his back.

A small car park lay at the rear of the building, surrounded by the backs of shops and high walls. Around twenty cars were crammed into the tight space, and below the window of Mr Johnson's office stood the other Find-Outers, waiting patiently. Buster barked sharply and trotted over with his tongue lolling.

"Hello, Buster old thing," said Fatty, bending to pet him. "Have you been sniffing out clues?"

Larry waved them over, his eyes shining. "Fatty, look—a footprint!"

Against the wall of the building stood a tiny brick structure with a sloping roof and a locked wooden door. Probably a supplies hut, Fatty thought, or perhaps where the electricity meters are. In any case, next to it a sturdy drainpipe ran up the wall to the roof.

Larry delved in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper, on which he had sketched a familiar pattern. "I climbed up on the roof of this small shed," he said breathlessly. "You can see it's a corrugated tin roof, but I found parts of footprints there—and I sketched one of them."

Fatty stared at the drawing, his mouth dropping open. "Well, look at that! I don't have my own sketch with me, but I'm pretty sure that's the same sole pattern we found at the library, on the window sill. That means Superintendent Jenks was right—these burglaries are connected. It looks like Carl Westlake robbed both places."

"But why?" asked Daisy, looking puzzled. "It seems odd to break into a library, steal books, then dump them, and then break into this place."

"How do we know he broke into the library first?" asked Pip. "It might have been the other way around."

"Don't be silly," Larry said, giving Pip a punch on the arm. "Don't you remember what Superintendent Jenks said? The neighbours heard the glass breaking around one in the morning. This window was broken around two."

"That's right," said Fatty. "So the burglar broke into the library, stole the books, took them to the old school and rifled through them, then headed over here—possibly on foot, as it's not far. I suppose there's a risk of being heard if you drive about on a motor bike in the early hours of the morning."

Pip nodded. "You're right—it's not far between the library and here."

Fatty stared up at the drainpipe. It was fixed to the wall alongside the window to Mr Johnson's office. On the concrete directly below were several large splinters of glass and a scattering of smaller pieces, but nowhere near enough to form an entire window. Fatty pointed at the fragments and nodded thoughtfully. "I think this proves the window was broken inwards, or else there'd be a lot more glass on the ground. And if the caretaker has been out here clearing up...well, he would have cleared all of it up, not just some of it. So I think it's pretty clear that our man, Carl Westlake, robbed both places."

"And the caretaker had nothing to do with it?" said Bets, sounding disappointed. "I didn't like him much."

Pip laughed. "You can't pin a burglary on someone just because you don't like them, silly. Otherwise Mr Goon would be guilty of all sorts of crimes!"

Fatty groaned. "I just remembered we've got to go and see him. Well, I have, anyway. I'll head over there on the way back home."

"What, in disguise?" asked Daisy with a giggle.

Fatty stared at her, and then grinned broadly. "Yes, why not? If I'm going to confess to leaving false clues, then I might as well get some enjoyment out of it. On the way home I'd like to stop at the bakery—and Bets, do you have any of those sweets left?"

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