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 9: Mr Goon writes his reports

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Mr Goon rode home from his visit to Green Meadows feeling triumphant. Ha! He'd nipped that little affair in the bud. Trying to pull the wool over his eyes indeed! Mr Goon could spot a put-up job blindfolded. Why, that idiotic coin appraiser had actually admitted he was the only one who knew the safe's combination! And only he and the owner of the coins, Mr James Fisher of Peebles Manor, knew they had been stashed in the safe. It was perfectly obvious the whole thing had been staged.

When he returned home and walked in, his housekeeper looked worried. "Superintendent Jenks phoned, Mr Goon. He wants you to phone him right away."

Mr Goon felt a shiver of excitement. What could the superintendent want with him? Maybe he wanted to talk to him about a promotion! Coo, yes—weren't all the recommendations being written up this week? Perhaps the superintendent wanted to make sure Mr Goon was ready for promotion.

He rushed to the telephone and dialled the superintendent's number. In moments he was put through. "Good morning, sir. You wanted to—"

"Ah, Goon," said a sharp, clear voice. "I've had a complaint against you from a man named Clive Johnson. He said you accused him of staging a break-in."

"Quite right, sir," said Mr Goon, indignation rising up. "The cheek of the man! Pretending he was robbed, wasting police time...and now complaining to Headquarters about me! Well, I'll be arresting him for fraud just as soon as I've checked with the owner of the coins, sir, a Mr James Fisher. You never know—"

"Goon, be quiet."

Mr Goon's mouth jaw fell, and he listened, stunned, as the superintendent went on.

"Really, Goon, this time you've gone too far. I listened to what the man had to say and can find no reason whatsoever why you would immediately jump to the conclusion he was making it all up, staging his own break-in. What possessed you to be rude to him and accuse him of such things before properly analysing the scene?"

"Sir—"

"No, save it for now. I'm coming round to see you, Goon, and we're going to have a chat. Make sure you have a full written report ready for me to take away. And, Goon..."

"Sir?" moaned Mr Goon.

"You had better have a very good explanation for this mess, or there'll be serious consequences. Do you understand me?"

The superintendent hung up with a sharp click.

Mr Goon groaned, put down the receiver, and put his head in his hands. Serious consequences? What did that mean? Well, he'd just have to write out his report and be quick about it. Once the superintendent read the report, he'd understand the situation better and reach the same conclusion—that Mr Johnson had staged the whole thing. It was perfectly obvious.

Wasn't it? Mr Goon frowned, suddenly unsure of himself. Why was it obvious, exactly? He groaned again, and looked about desperately for something to sit on.

His housekeeper appeared as if by magic and took his arm, leading him into his drawing room, which he used as an office. He collapsed into a chair and leaned over the table, feeling shaky. "Oh, what have I done? He's coming over to have a chat, and says I must have some detailed reports written up. I'll be for the high jump. Instead of getting a promotion like I deserve, I'll end up at the unemployment office."

"Don't worry—I'll make you a nice cup of tea, Mr Goon," the housekeeper said soothingly. "The kettle's already boiled." She hurried off to the kitchen.

Mr Goon thought hard. Maybe he had been a little short with that Johnson fellow. Maybe he should have at least pretended to take him seriously, and examined the case carefully before jumping all over the man. But the facts spoke for themselves. For instance, only Mr Johnson knew the safe's combination—

Except that professional safe crackers could open safes without damage, he remembered. It was a specialist job, but it could be done. And of course, now that he thought about it, that Mr James Fisher fellow over at Peebles Manor might possibly have mentioned to others he was having his valuable coins examined by a professional. He could have mentioned it down the pub, for instance, where all sorts of people would have overheard and guessed that there's only one man in the village who was qualified enough to—

Mr Goon groaned loudly again, and banged his head on the table over and over. Why did he always put his foot in it? Now he was in serious trouble. This was more than just failing to get to the bottom of a case; this was actually being openly rude and blaming the victim for the crime! Now he'd made himself and the whole police department look bad.

The housekeeper came in with a pot of tea. "Here, Mr Goon. You get that inside you and calm yourself. It'll all work out, whatever it is." She shook her head. "Honestly, the nerve of that Mr Johnson! Fancy phoning the superintendent to complain about you, Mr Goon! Whatever did he say?"

Mr Goon snorted angrily, and then groaned in despair once more.

She patted his arm. "Never you mind about the superintendent," she said. "You just write those reports and put down the facts of the matter, and he'll soon see you were right all along."

"Yes," Mr Goon said, dazed. He looked at her and nodded slowly. "Yes, maybe you're right. Things always look better on paper, don't they? Things look more official-like." Not to mention writing reports gave him a chance to embellish things a little. If he was careful what he wrote, he could make the superintendent see things from Mr Goon's perspective—where it was obvious Mr Johnson had done the dirty deed.

Yes, he would get started right away. He thanked his housekeeper and waved her away, eager to get on. First he'd need to begin with the library case, which he was already well on top of. If he could only solve that mystery before those annoying kids got too involved, the superintendent would surely give him a much-deserved promotion instead of an ear-bashing!

He placed all his clues in front of him on the desk along with his notebook and well-chewed pencil. Then he wrote a heading in big bold letters:

CLUES RELATING TO STOLEN BOOKS

Underneath he listed the items one by one, starting with the partial muddy footprint on the window sill at the back of the library, then the short length of curly black wool, probably from a hat, found snagged on an overhanging branch in the alleyway. Next he added the boiled sweet covered with red wrapping paper. Funny sort of clue, that. Didn't help much, unless he happened to come across someone sucking boiled sweets and wearing a black woolly hat.

He stared at the paper bag from the bakery for a moment, and then started writing. The burglar might have bought something to eat knowing he'd been hanging about the area all night. Not much to go on, but still, it looked good when he added it to his list.

He'd left his favourite clue till last: the scrap of paper evidently written by the person who had arranged the burglary. He laboriously copied the entire message into his notebook:

All about crime and detection. Blue cover, red lettering. Quite thick. Can't remember title.

Mr Goon nodded. Good clue, that. Now his notes looked all proper and efficient.

He chewed the end of his pencil for a moment, and then wrote slowly:

Burglar stole all books from crime section, but dumped them in old school field nearby. All books accounted for. Clearly the burglar didn't find the book he wanted (as noted above) so made off empty-handed. Enquiries indicate that there are eight more books from the crime section, one of which might be the one the burglar was after. These books are currently being borrowed as follows:

Jack Crowder (1 book)
Peter Westlake (3 books)
Miriam Strider (1 book)
Frederick Trotteville (3 books)

He stared grimly at the last name. It would be just Mr Goon's luck that Frederick toad-of-a-boy Trotteville would be borrowing the very book the burglar was after.

Mr Goon wondered suddenly if those kids had overheard him at the library, when he'd described that book to Mrs Sharple? He wouldn't be surprised. They'd been loitering in the shadows behind him, eavesdropping, sticking their noses in and meddling with the law. Gah!

But hopefully Mrs Sharple hadn't given them the names and addresses of those other library members. Mr Goon went to the telephone and phoned the library.

"Mrs Sharple? Yes, it's Mr Goon here. I wanted to warn you not to give out any sensitive information to those kids that were in earlier, do you hear me? Such as the names and addresses of those other library members who are borrowing books from the crime section. I want to make it absolutely clear that—"

"But Mr Goon," said Mrs Sharple timidly, "I already gave the names to Frederick and his friends."

Mr Goon gripped the receiver hard and felt like shaking it. "You did what? You gave—" He fought to control his temper. "All right. It can't be helped. But at least keep the addresses to yourself. This is very important police business and—"

"Er, well, they have the addresses too," Mrs Sharple interrupted.

Mr Goon let out a howl. "But WHY? Why would you do that? Why would you let five annoying, irritating kids have valuable, private information about your library members? Really, Mrs Sharple, this is not good enough. I'm a member myself, and—"

"But they were ever so decent, offering to go and collect the remaining crime books from the other members," the librarian cooed down the telephone. "It's safer this way, you know. Frederick can keep hold of those books until the burglar is caught, and I know he's friends with that lovely man, Superintendent Jenks, so I assumed everything would be all right with you too, Mr Goon."

Mr Goon closed his eyes and, trembling with rage, spoke quietly into the telephone. "Right. Thank you. Good day."

He stomped back to the desk and sat down heavily. So that boy had stuck his big fat nose in again. That silly old woman was probably so frightened at the thought of another burglary that she'd handed Frederick the list of names and addresses straight away. And now that toad of a boy was one step ahead.

On the other hand...

Mr Goon thought for a moment, and slowly began to smile. Maybe this wasn't such a bad thing after all. It was likely that none of the members had any idea why the books they were borrowing might be so important to the burglar. They were probably completely innocent, and therefore not worth interviewing. It was the books themselves Mr Goon wanted to see, rather than the library members.

So he'd let those annoying young detectives go and collect the books together—and then Mr Goon would show up at the Trottevilles' and demand all eight books to be handed over. It would save him a lot of running about, and would be very satisfying.

Rubbing his hands in glee, Mr Goon turned the page of his notebook and started working on the other case.

CLUES RELATING TO STOLEN COINS

Mr Goon stopped there, realising that he had no clues whatsoever. But that was hardly surprising; if Mr Johnson had staged a robbery, then there wouldn't be any clues left by intruders. All the more reason to suspect the man! He clicked his tongue and started on suspects instead.

SUSPECTS RELATING TO STOLEN COINS

Underneath this heading he added the names Clive Johnson, Coin Appraiser, and James Fisher, Owner of Coins.

The list was short, though. He could stick that annoying accountant on there too, but he decided to hold off for a moment in case the superintendent questioned why the accountant was on the list when there was no ready answer.

He started a new page headed MOTIVES and, after a moment's thought, wrote:

Greed. Clive Johnson acted very suspiciously indeed, appearing nervous and sweating profusely. When asked about his financial status, he refused to answer and I immediately put two and two together and thought about the value of those coins, which are said to be worth millions. Mr Johnson was also the only person with the combination to the safe, and one of only two people who knew where the coins were being held—and when they were being held there.

Mr Goon sucked the end of his pencil, nodding. That sounded good. Now, what about the owner, Mr Fisher?

Owner chose a very odd time—well into the afternoon—to deliver the coins to Mr Johnson for evaluation. He must have known Mr Johnson would lock the coins away, and probably knew where—

Mr Goon rubbed out the word 'probably' and continued.

...and knew where the safe was located. I would conjecture, therefore, that the owner placed the coins in the safe keeping of Mr Johnson so that he could rob the place himself and blame someone else. Then he could quietly sell the coins AND claim money from the insurance company, effectively doubling the collection's value.

Pleased with himself, Mr Goon sat back and read his notes through. This was just a preliminary summary of each case, but it was starting to look good. Maybe he could come through this all right after all. He got stuck into the detailed, official reports, making sure to pad them out to make them look more thorough.

It was around two in the afternoon when Jenks pulled up outside. Mr Goon heard a sharp rapping on the door and rushed to answer it before the housekeeper could get there. He bumped into her in the hall and ushered back to the kitchen, then cleared his throat, collected himself, and opened the door wide.

"Good afternoon, sir," he said. "It's good to see you, sir. I have my reports written out, sir, and I think you'll agree with me on this when you read them, sir."

"Let's hope so, Goon," Superintendent Jenks said quietly as he entered. Mr Goon led him into the drawing room and offered him the most comfortable armchair. Then he handed his superior officer a sheaf of papers, his hand shaking a little.

"Have a seat, Goon," the superintendent said, taking the reports. "How about a nice cup of tea? Get yourself one, too. Now, let me read this quietly for a moment."

"Yes, sir," the nervous constable said, and shuffled away to the kitchen. He quietly ordered the housekeeper to put the kettle on and bring in a tray of tea and biscuits. Then he sidled back into the drawing room and eased himself into an armchair opposite the superintendent, who was reading the reports with a deep frown on his face.

Superintendent Jenks spent the next ten minutes very carefully going over Goon's reports. Mr Goon sat quiet as a mouse.

Finally Superintendent Jenks shook his head, looked up from the reports, and sighed. "Goon, you seem to have a handle on the library case, and some interesting clues. But the other report is all guesswork. You've basically made a very strong case against Mr Johnson based purely on guesswork. Where's the evidence? No matter how you word this report, there's nothing here that would make me think this Johnson fellow had anything to do with the break-in...and if there's no evidence of a staged crime, you can't make such accusations."

"No, sir," Goon said weakly, his heart sinking. "But if you were there, sir, you'd have seen—"

"Seen what, Goon?" The superintendent waved the papers about. "A man sweating profusely and looking nervous? Could that have been because he had just been robbed, perhaps?" Jenks sighed and thought for a moment. "You're on very thin ice here, Goon. I drove to Peterswood this afternoon seriously considering relieving you of your job and finding someone better qualified to take your place."

"Sir," Mr Goon moaned, sinking lower into his armchair.

"Fortunately for you," Jenks went on, "I don't have time right now to mess about finding a replacement. So as far as I'm concerned you've bought yourself a little time—but that's all."

Superintendent Jenks leaned forward and stared hard at Mr Goon, who felt like wilting like a flower in a burning hot sun. "This is your one and only chance to make things right, Goon. You will go back to see Johnson. You will apologise. And you will investigate this case properly, do you hear me? You will treat Johnson with the respect he deserves, and if it turns out later that you were right—that he did, in fact, stage his own break-in—well, then I'll eat my hat."

Mr Goon nodded, feeling a ray of hope. He wasn't losing his job, then? If he could just make amends with Mr Johnson and—

"Now, I wish to make a telephone call," the superintendent said, getting up. Mr Goon ushered him quickly to the telephone in the hall. Jenks picked up the receiver and looked squarely at him. "I suggest you get on over to see Johnson right away, before he clears away all the evidence."

Mr Goon nodded rapidly. "Yes, sir. I will, sir. Right away, sir." He stood and waited, expecting to see the superintendent out after he'd made his telephone call.

But Jenks merely stared at him. "Was there something else? If not, leave me alone to make this telephone call. I'll let myself out, if that's all right with you."

"Oh, certainly, sir, that's fine. I'll, er, be on my way then." Goon rushed to collect his helmet and bustled down the hallway to the front door. "Er, goodbye for now, sir. I'll sort everything out, you'll see."

The superintendent dialled a number and waited, and just as Mr Goon closed the door behind him he swore he heard the words, "Ah, Frederick, my boy." But then Mr Goon was standing on the doorstep, frowning deeply. Had he heard correctly? Surely the superintendent wouldn't be phoning those horrible pests for help on these cases!

Worried and angry, Mr Goon rode off to Green Meadows.

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