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 14: Mr Goon gets a shock

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The first thing Mr Goon did that morning was to go straight round to see that toad of a boy, Frederick Trotteville. He'd spent the previous afternoon eating humble pie at Mr Johnson's office, and searching for clues that weren't there, and he felt the whole business was a waste of valuable time.

Except for the footprint.

As Mr Goon rode slowly along the street towards the Trottevilles', he thought about the print he'd found on top of the little brick hut that was stuck on the backside of the office building. It stood right under Mr Johnson's window, and a sturdy drainpipe ran up the wall just inches away. Mr Goon was forced to admit that it might be possible for someone to climb on top of that hut and shinny the rest of the way up the wall using the drainpipe...but it would take a very fit and strong man to cling to that drainpipe three floors up while smashing the window of the office!

Still, Mr Goon had to concede that Mr Johnson may not have staged the break-in after all. Besides, there was only a small amount of glass scattered on the concrete, which must mean the window was broken inwards, not out.

When he fetched a stepladder from the building caretaker and climbed unsteadily on top of the hut, he stood upon the corrugated tin roof and noticed dirty footprints everywhere. The pattern of the print matched that found at the library, on the window sill, and Mr Goon suddenly wondered if the same burglar had broken into two places in one night—first the library at one o'clock, and then Mr Johnson's office at two.

Deep in thought, Mr Goon had spent the evening mulling things over. He slept restlessly, worrying about losing his job, and awoke the next morning determined to crack both cases as soon as possible.

And the first thing he needed to do was fetch those library books from Frederick. One of them was most likely the one he wanted—the one with the blue cover and red lettering—and it irked him that those annoying kids had already got their grubby little hands on it.

He pounded on the Trottevilles' door and waited grimly. He was going to take no more nonsense from that horrible boy. This was a matter for the police, and—

Mrs Trotteville answered the door, and Mr Goon nodded curtly. "Good day, ma'am. I'd like a word with Frederick, please."

"He's out," Mrs Trotteville said smoothly. "They all met in Frederick's shed this morning at nine, and the next thing I knew they'd gone off somewhere. Why?"

"Police matter," said Mr Goon, annoyed. "I'd like you to let me into Frederick's shed, if you don't mind. He has something that doesn't rightfully belong to him."

Mrs Trotteville narrowed her eyes. "Such as?"

"Books, ma'am. Library books, which he obtained from other library members, and which are part of an ongoing investigation. He has no right to have them, Mrs Trotteville."

"Are you saying he stole them?" the lady said sternly.

"Well, not exactly stole them, ma'am..."

"So he has permission to have those books, then?" asked Mrs Trotteville, placing her hands on her hips.

"Well, Mrs Sharple did give him permission, yes, but—"

Mrs Trotteville sighed. "So what you're saying, Mr Goon, is that my son has a collection of books in his shed that he has every right to have?"

Mr Goon thought for a moment, then frowned. "Well, yes, ma'am, technically-speaking that's correct, but—"

Mrs Trotteville closed the door gently but firmly in his face.

Mr Goon felt his neck heat up. He stared at the door as if he'd like to kick it down. But of course he didn't. He'd just have to come back later when that toad of a boy was home.

He climbed on his bike and rode off to see Mr Fisher instead. He lived at Peebles Manor, a giant sprawling place with acres of land surrounded by woods. Mr Goon felt very important as he banged on the door, and when a butler answered he was led into a grand drawing room and told to wait.

Mr Fisher arrived in due course, a scowl on his face. He was sucking on some sort of boiled sweet, and his cheek bulged. "Come about my precious coins?" he grumbled. "Found them, I hope?"

He crunched noisily and swallowed.

"Er, not yet, sir," said Mr Goon, turning his helmet around and around in his hands. "But I'm on the trail, sir. Er, I need to check your whereabouts on the night of the burglary—just routine, you understand."

Mr Fisher dug a hand into his pocket and rustled what sounded like a small paper bag. "I was here all day and all evening. I slept in my bed until eight the next morning. I got up, popped over to Marlow, had a meeting, then returned late afternoon and stopped by Johnson's office, where I found out my coins had been stolen."

"Yes, sir," said Mr Goon, staring with fascination as Mr Fisher produced from his pocket a small boiled sweet wrapped in gold paper. "Well, sir, can anyone vouch for your exact whereabouts between one and two that morning?"

"Well, good heavens, how should I know?" barked Mr Fisher, his face reddening. "My wife left me ten years ago, you know—can't think why. So no, nobody can vouch for me between those hours. Perhaps if I told you about the dream I had you could go and check that out and see if it's true."

He popped the sweet into his mouth.

Mr Goon frowned. "I don't see how I can, sir," he murmured. "Er...I notice you're eating boiled sweets, sir. May I ask if you have any with red wrapping paper?"

Mr Fisher stopped sucking his sweet and stared in amazement. Silently he pulled out the bag of sweets and held it out to Mr Goon, who took it carefully as if it contained eggs that might break and spill everywhere. "You, sir," said Mr Fisher stiffly, "have very bad manners."

"Oh, I don't want one, Mr Fisher," said Mr Goon quickly, glancing into the bag. Yes—red wrappers, blue wrappers, green wrappers... "I'm just, er, following leads. Do you ever eat at the bakery on the High Street, sir?"

There was a long silence, and Mr Fisher's face reddened further. "No, I don't. Why on earth are you asking me that?"

"Er, just asking, sir. May I also take a look at your shoes and boots, sir?"

Mr Fisher looked at him as if he were mad, then threw up his hands and turned away. "I don't care. Do as you please. Ask my butler—he'll help you. Samson! Come and help this constable, would you?"

Samson, the butler, duly showed Mr Goon an enormous collection of shoes and boots, none of which had soles with a familiar pattern. Sighing, Mr Goon left the manor thoughtfully, wondering about the possibility of a rich man like Mr Fisher climbing a drainpipe and smashing through a window...Somehow it didn't seem likely.

He arrived home and was surprised to see an old man waiting for him in his drawing room. The housekeeper shrugged and said she felt awful letting the poor fellow wait outside, so she'd invited him in for a cup of tea.

"Can I help you?" said Mr Goon.

The old man climbed slowly to his feet. "Ooh, me back. Ooh, me joints. Ooh, me collywobbles."

"Er, you can remain seated if you like, sir," said Mr Goon, alarmed.

"Ooh, ta muchly, sir. Don't mind if I do. Care for a sausage roll?"

Mr Goon's mouth dropped open as the old man pulled a familiar baker's bag from his dirty coat pocket. He held it open, and inside was a half-eaten pastry.

"Couldn't manage it all, so you can 'ave it," the old man croaked. "Don't worry—I wiped the spit off."

Mr Goon recoiled, hastily shoving the bag back into the old man's hands. "Er, not for me, thank you. Can I help you?"

The old man slowly stuffed the bag back into his pocket, then reached into another. This time he withdrew a handful of sweets wrapped in bright red paper. "Care for one?" he said. "They's been in my pocket about a month, but they should be all right."

Amazed, Mr Goon stared at the handful of sweets. Could there somehow be a connection...? But how could there be?

And then something dawned on him. Perhaps the old man had been the one to arrange the burglary at the library—and he'd been there in the school field waiting for the burglar to bring him the books!

"Right," Mr Goon announced loudly. "Take off your shoes, old man, and let me see the soles."

The old man suddenly burst into a horrendous coughing fit and staggered. But then he seemed to get himself under control and slowly straighten up. Mr Goon opened his mouth to say something, but the old man continued to straighten until he was no longer hunched over. He squared his shoulders and placed his walking stick against the chair, then stood relaxed and composed.

Mr Goon realised in a flash the man wasn't as old and feeble as he'd first made out. Maybe this explained a few things. Maybe it was him, after all, who smashed his way into the library. Maybe he had even climbed the drainpipe and—

"Good morning, Mr Goon," came a voice that seemed totally out of place from the mouth of this strange old man. The voice shocked Mr Goon—it was familiar somehow.

And, all of a sudden, he felt like he was in a bad dream. His knees started to wobble. "F-F-Frederick?" he stammered, taking a step back.

"Yes, it's me," said the old man, and removed the thick-rimmed glasses. And Mr Goon suddenly saw that it was indeed Frederick Trotteville: the bright shining eyes, the confident posture, the air of meddling menace...yes, it was him all right.

Mr Goon staggered and reached for a chair. He leaned on it for a moment, and the back of his neck started heating up. "You—you toad!" he wheezed. "What do you mean by this, coming here and—and tricking your way in here, making a fool of me!"

Fatty pulled off his hat, dug his fingers into his forehead, and peeled back what seemed like his scalp and hair. It was really quite shocking, Mr Goon thought, even though he knew it was just a wig. "I came to talk to you," the boy said in a calm voice, "and to set things straight."

"Get out!" roared Mr Goon, hardly able to believe the boy's cheek. "I've a good mind to report you!"

"There's no need," said Fatty, removing his revolting yellow teeth. "Superintendent Jenks has already given me a stern ticking off for messing about and leaving you false clues. I'm here on his orders, to set things right and perhaps compare notes."

Stunned, Mr Goon was speechless.

"The boiled sweet in the red wrapper," Fatty said, counting off his fingers, "the paper bag from the bakers, and the scrap of paper with the message on it. Those are not real clues. We left them for you to find, and we're most dreadfully sorry. It won't happen again."

Mr Goon's jaw worked but no sound came out except a sputtering sound.

Fatty went on calmly. "I don't expect you to like me, or even be civil to me, and I certainly don't expect you to let me in on anything you've found out. But the superintendent asked me to come and see you, and tell you everything I know. So I will."

He took a breath, and began. "We know that the library was broken into at around one in the morning a couple of nights ago. We know that the coin appraiser's office was broken into an hour later, at around two. We also know that, in both cases, a footprint with a distinct pattern was found—one on the window sill at the library and the other on the tin roof of the brick shed behind Green Meadows."

"You—how do you know all this?" demanded Mr Goon, finally finding his voice. He clenched and unclenched his fists, badly wanting to box that toad of a boy's ears.

"Just simple detective work, Mr Goon," said Fatty smoothly. "Now, because of the matching footprint, and the fact that one burglary happened just an hour after the other, we believe the burglars are one and the same man. Furthermore, we believe that man to be Carl Westlake."

Mr Goon blinked. "What? Carl Westlake? Why would you—What evidence do you have that he's involved?"

"When all the books on crime were stolen from the library," Fatty went on, "and then dumped in the old school field, we assumed one would be missing. But they were all accounted for, so we then assumed the burglar was after one of the remaining crime books—one of those still being borrowed by library members. Well, it turns out that, in fact, we were all right the first time. The burglar was after one of those he stole from the library that night."

Mr Goon shook his head in disbelief. "But he didn't steal one! He dumped the lot in the field."

"He didn't take the book away with him—but he took the dust jacket," said Fatty mysteriously. "He wasn't after the book itself, just something he'd scribbled on the back of it. His son Peter had borrowed three books, and his father received a telephone call and scribbled something on the back of one of them. Then, when Peter returned the books to the library later that same day, his father must have panicked and rushed out to get it back. I actually bumped into him at five minutes to five as I was leaving that afternoon. He came in too late—Mrs Sharple was about to close up."

Mr Goon's knees wobbled and he sat heavily in a chair. Fatty sat down also, and continued speaking in a low, calm voice.

"Mr Goon, part of the puzzle is complete. Carl Westlake robbed both places, and while we know why he stole the coins, we don't know why he broke into the library. Maybe it doesn't matter—if you can arrest the man based on what we know, we may find out the rest of the answers. Most importantly, we must find out what happened to the coins."

Mr Goon thought long and hard. He seemed to be past his anger, and now felt worn out, unable to muster the energy to shout and rant at that toad of a boy as he quite clearly should. And something told him that complaining to Superintendent Jenks about the boy would not achieve anything, perhaps even make things worse. Headquarters' was not interested in petty feuds between constables and village folk; they were interested only in results.

Should he work with the boy? He'd already had to swallow his pride once during this case; would it hurt to do it again? He was skating on thin ice, after all, and his job meant more to him than getting one over on those meddling kids.

Not that he ever did. If he told Trotteville to keep his nose out and tried to solve the mystery—or mysteries—on his own, then he might end up coming in second once more. That toad was too clever by half, and he, Mr Goon, could not afford to lose his way this time. Perhaps it would be better to work with Frederick...at least until the near the end, when everything was solved and he could step in and take all the credit.

Work with Frederick Trotteville? Mr Goon felt rage bubbling up deep inside, and he knew he could never work with him! But he could pretend to, just to get information out of him until the time was right.

He took a deep breath. "All right, Frederick. We'll work together on this from now on."

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