‘Yes, I saw him,’ said Pip with a grin.
‘Ho, you did! What did he do?’ asked Mr. Goon.
‘Just rode up the drive,’ said Pip.
‘And rode down again at once, I suppose,’ said Mr. Goon.
‘No. I didn’t see him ride down,’ said Pip. Nobody had apparently. Mr. Goon began to feel that this mysterious red-headed boy must be somewhere about the premises.
‘He a friend of yours?’ he said.
Pip hesitated. Fatty was his friend - and yet to say that the butcher-boy was his friend would lead him into difficulties. Fatty saw him hesitate and came to the rescue.
‘We’ve got no butcher-boy friends,’ he said. ‘And no telegraph-boy friends either. You remember you asked me that one too?’
‘I’m not speaking to you,’ said Mr. Goon, with a scowl. ‘I’m speaking to Master Philip here. I’d like to get hold of them two red headed lads! And I will too, if I have to go to the post-office and speak to the postmaster, and ask at every butcher’s in the town!’
‘There are only two butchers,’ said Pip.
‘Mr. Goon, I’m so sorry to hear you’ve had one of those horrid letters too,’ said Fatty earnestly. ‘I can’t think how any one could have the nerve - er, I mean - the heart to write to you like that.’
‘Like what?’ said Mr. Goon sharply. ‘What do you know about any letters I’ve had? I suppose you’ll tell me next you’ve seen the letter and know what’s in it, hey?’
‘Well, I can more or less guess,’ said Fatty modestly.
‘You tell me what was in that letter then,’ said Mr. Goon, growing angry.
‘Oh I couldn’t,’ said Fatty. ‘Not with all the others here.’ He didn’t know, of course, what was in the letter at all, beyond that Goon was a meddler and a muddler, but it was amusing to make the policeman think he did.
‘Well, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if you didn’t write that there letter to me!’ said Mr. Goon. ‘It might not be the letter-writer at all - it might just be you!’
‘Oh, you couldn’t think that of me!’ said Fatty, looking pained. Larry and Daisy, rather alarmed, looked at him. They remembered how he had said he would love to write a letter to Mr. Goon. Surely he hadn’t?
Mr. Goon departed, determined to run the red-headed butcher-boy, and the equally red-headed telegraph-boy to earth. Larry turned to Fatty.
‘I say! You didn’t really write to him, did you, Fatty?’
‘Of course not, silly! As if I’d send an anonymous letter to any one, even for fun!’ said Fatty. ‘But my word, fancy somebody delivering a letter right into the lion’s mouth! To Goon himself. I can’t see Miss Tittle doing that - or even Old Nosey the gypsy.’
‘And now Mrs. Moon’s ruled out,’ said Larry. ‘Gracious - it seems more of a muddle than ever, really it does. Got any ideas as to what to do next, Fatty?’
‘One or two,’ said Fatty. ‘I think it would be rather helpful to get specimens of Miss Tittle’s writing and Old Nosey’s. Just to compare them with my tracing. That might tell us something.’
‘But how in the world can you do that?’ said Daisy. ‘I wouldn’t be able to get Old Nosey’s writing if I thought for a month!’
‘Easy!’ said Fatty. ‘You wait and see!’
FATTY HAS A BUSY MORNING
The next day both Mr. Goon and Fatty were very busy. Fatty was trying to get specimens of Nosey’s writing and Miss Tittle’s, and Mr. Goon was trying to trace the two red-headed boys.
Fatty pondered whether to disguise himself or not, and then decided that he would put on the red wig, red eyebrows, and freckles, and a round messenger-boy’s hat. It was essential that people should think he was a delivery boy of some sort, in order for him to get specimens of their writing - or so Fatty worked it out.
He set off on his bicycle to the Rectory Field, where Old Nosey, the gypsy, lived in a dirty caravan with his wife. In his basket he carried a parcel, in which he had packed two of his father’s old pipes, and a tin of tobacco he had bought. Larry met him as he cycled furiously down the village street, keeping a sharp look-out for Goon.
‘Fatty!’ said Larry, and then clapped his hand over his mouth, hoping that no passer-by had heard.
‘Fathead!’ said Fatty, stopping by Larry. ‘Don’t yell my name out when I’m in disguise! Yell out Bert, or Alf, or Sid - anything you like, but not Fatty.’
‘Sorry! I did it without thinking,’ said Larry. ‘I don’t think any one heard. What are you going to do, Fatty - er, I mean Sid!’
‘I’m going to deliver a parcel to Old Nosey, said Fatty. ‘From an Unknown Friend! And he’s got to sign a receipt for it. See?’
‘Golly, you’re clever,’ said Larry, filled with admiration. ‘Of course - you can easily get him to sign his name - and address too, I suppose - by delivering a parcel to him and asking for a receipt! I’d never have thought of that. Never.’
‘I’ve put a couple of old pipes and some tobacco in,’ said Fatty, with a grin. ‘Nice surprise for Old Nosey! I’m delivering a parcel to Miss Tittle too - and one to Mrs. Moon later. I’ve a feeling that if we’ve got specimens of all three in the way of hand-writing, we shall soon be able to spot the real letter-writer! I’m going to ask them to give me a receipt in capital letters, of course.
‘Good for you,’ said Larry. ‘I’ll tell Pip and Bets to look out for you later - delivering something to Mrs. Moon!’
Fatty rode off, whistling. He soon came to Rectory Field. He saw the caravan standing at the end, its little tin chimney smoking. Mrs. Nosey was outside, cooking something over a fire, and Nosey was sitting beside it, sucking at an empty pipe. Fatty rode over the field-path and jumped off his bicycle when he came to Nosey.
‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Parcel for you! Special delivery!’
He handed the parcel to the surprised Old Nosey. The gypsy took it and turned it round and round, trying to feel what was inside. ‘Anythink to pay?’ asked Mrs. Nosey.
‘No. But I must have a receipt, please,’ said Fatty, briskly, and whipped out a notebook, in which was printed in capital letters:
RECEIVED, ONE PARCEL,
by ..............
‘Will you sign your name and address there, please, in capital letters?’ he asked, showing Nosey where he meant.
‘I’m not signing nothing,’ said Nosey, not looking at Fatty.
‘Well, if you want the parcel, you’ll have to sign for it,’ said Fatty. ‘Always get a receipt, you know. It’s the only thing I’ve got, to show I’ve delivered the parcel. See?’
‘I’ll sign it,’ said Mrs. Nosey, and held out her hand for the pencil.
‘No,’ said Fatty. ‘The parcel is for your husband. I’m afraid he must sign it, Madam.’
‘You let me,’ said Mrs. Nosey. ‘Go on - you give it to me to sign. It don’t matter which of us does it.’
Fatty was almost in despair. Also he thought it a very suspicious sign that Nosey didn’t seem to want to sign his name and address in capital letters. It rather looked as if he was afraid of doing so.
‘I shall have to take the parcel back if your husband doesn’t give me a proper receipt for it,’ he said, in as stern a voice as he could manage. ‘Got to be business-like over these things, you know. Pity - it smells like tobacco.’
‘Yes, it do,’ said Old Nosey, and sniffed the parcel eagerly. ‘Go on, wife, you sign for it.’
‘I tell you,’ began Fatty. But Nosey’s wife pulled at his elbow. She spoke to him in a hoarse whisper.
‘Don’t you go bothering ’im. ’E can’t write nor read!’
‘Oh,’ Said Fatty blankly, and let Mrs. Nosey sign a receipt without further objection. He could hardly read what she wrote, for she put half the letters backwards, and could not even spell Peterswood.
Fatty cycled off, thinking. So Old Nosey couldn’t write. Well, he was ruled out too, then. That really only left Miss Tittle - because Mrs. Moon had had one of the letters and could be crossed off the List of Suspects.