Left Tackle Thayer

CHAPTER IX

UN­DER SUS­PI­CION

“Bur­glary? No. Where was it?” asked sev­er­al voic­es.

“Black and Wig­gin's jew­el­ry store.”

“_What?_ Who says so?”

“I says so! I seen it just now.”

“Saw the bur­glary?”

“Naw! Saw where they'd cut a chunk out of the win­dow and gone in. Where you fel­lows been all morn­ing?”

“Maybe you did it, Mike,” sug­gest­ed a small man across the room, wink­ing to his neigh­bour.

“Maybe I wished I had!” was the re­ply. “They say they got away with near­ly a thou­sand dol­lars' worth of stuff. Blew the safe, they did, and cleaned it out pret­ty.”

“That right? When was this, Mike?”

“Some time last night. A watch­man at the col­lar fac­to­ry says he seen an au­to­mo­bile stop around the cor­ner near the Bap­tist Church about three o'clock. Says it didn't have no lights on it. He didn't think much about it, though, he says, and the next time he came round front he looked again and it was gone. The pa­pers had it last week where there was a job just like that done over to May­nard. Two ginks in an au­to­mo­bile came along one night and lift­ed six or eight hun­dred dol­lars' worth of stuff out of a gent's fur­nish­ing shop. If they don't raise my pay at the Yards pret­ty quick I'm go­ing to hire me an au­to­mo­bile, fel­lows.”

This aroused laugh­ter, and an ex­cit­ed dis­cus­sion of the bur­glary fol­lowed, dur­ing which Mr. Can­nis­ter quite for­got his or­ders on the stove and was on­ly re­called to them by an odour of scorch­ing eggs. Two of the cus­tomers, hav­ing fin­ished break­fast, made known their in­ten­tion of vis­it­ing the scene of the crime, and went out. At the first ta­ble in­side the door two boys were re­gard­ing each oth­er with round and in­quir­ing eyes.

“Do you sup­pose--” be­gan Clint. But Amy hissed him to si­lence.

“Wait till we hear more,” he cau­tioned.

But, al­though they lis­tened with all ears, lit­tle more in­for­ma­tion was forth­com­ing, save that one Carey, Chief of the lo­cal po­lice, was al­ready busy. “He's tele­phoned all around,” said Mike, “and told them to look out for the au­to­mo­bile. But, say, what chance has he got, eh? You can't stop ev­ery au­to­mo­bile that goes through and search it for jew­el­ry!”

“What sort of jew­el­ry did they get, Mike?” asked the pro­pri­etor.

“Rings and pins and things like that.” He chuck­led. “It seems that who­ev­er closed up last night left the box they keep their di­amonds and stones that ain't set in out of the safe. They found it back of the counter this morn­ing. The rob­bers hadn't ev­er seen it. I guess they'd be good and mad if they knew!”

“Come on,” whis­pered Amy. They set­tled their checks and left the restau­rant, try­ing to dis­guise their ea­ger­ness. Af­ter the door had closed be­hind them the man whom they had asked about the Brim­field trains in­quired: “Who are those boys, Can?”

“Don't know. They walked in here about six-​thir­ty and want­ed some break­fast. Said they was nigh starved. Looked it, too. And mighty tired. Nice-​ap­pear­ing young fel­lows. Off on a lark, maybe, trampin' around coun­try.”

“Thought they were strangers here. Got any more cof­fee, Can?”

* * * * *

“What do you think?” asked Amy ea­ger­ly as they walked up the street.

“I don't know,” replied Clint doubt­ful­ly. “What would they be do­ing there?”

“Bury­ing the stuff they stole, of course! That's what they did, all right. You see if it isn't. Maybe they'll of­fer a re­ward and all we'll have to do is go there and dig the things up and--”

“I guess we'd bet­ter find the po­lice sta­tion and tell what we know, re­ward or no re­ward,” an­swered Clint. “And an­oth­er thing we'd bet­ter do is tele­phone to school and tell them we aren't dead. We're go­ing to catch the mis­chief, any­way, I reck­on, but we might as well save our­selves all we can. Won­der where there's a tele­phone.”

“There's a blue sign over there in the next block,” said Amy. “Who--who's go­ing to do the talk­ing?”

“Well, you're pret­ty fond of it,” sug­gest­ed Clint.

“Not to­day! Not on Sun­days, Clint! I nev­er could talk on Sun­days! You'd bet­ter do it. And get Josh him­self, if you can. He'll like it bet­ter than if he hears it from an H.M. Tell him we got lost and--”

But Amy's fur­ther in­struc­tions were in­ter­rupt­ed. A blue-​coat­ed po­lice­man who had been ob­serv­ing their ap­proach with keen in­ter­est hailed them from the curb at the cor­ner.

“Hel­lo, boys!” he said. “Where'd you come from?”

“We came from Thacher,” replied Clint. “That is, we came from there this morn­ing, or, rather, last night. We're from Brim­field, re­al­ly.”

"Are, eh? Thought you said Thacher. What you do­ing here?''

“Wait­ing for a train. We lost our way last night and on­ly got here this morn­ing.”

“Why didn't you take the sev­en-​o'clock then?”

“We didn't know about it un­til it was too late. We were get­ting some break­fast at a restau­rant down the street there. We're go­ing to take the nine-​forty-​six.”

“The nine-​forty-​six is an ex­press to New York, son. What's your name? And what's his?”

“My name's Thay­er and his is Byrd. We go to Brim­field Acade­my.”

“Do, eh? Aren't you a long way from home?”

“Yes. You see, we went over to Thacher to the foot­ball game and lost the trol­ley. And then a fel­low of­fered to give us a ride in an au­to­mo­bile as far as this place and we got in and a wheel came off and we had to walk the rest of the way. But we got lost in the woods some­where and--”

“What sort of a look­ing fel­low was this? The one with the au­to, I mean?”

“Oh, he was about twen­ty years old, with kind of long hair, light-​brown, and sort of grey­ish eyes.”

“Tell you his name?”

“No, sir, we didn't ask him. He drives the au­to for some liv­ery­man in Thacher, he said.”

“Hm. Well, that may be all right, kids, but I've been in­struct­ed to look out for sus­pi­cious char­ac­ters this morn­ing, and I guess you'd both bet­ter step around to the sta­tion with me.” He smiled. “I don't sup­pose the Chief'll keep you very long, but he might like to ask you some ques­tions. See?”

The boys nod­ded not over-​en­thu­si­as­ti­cal­ly and ac­com­pa­nied the of­fi­cer. The po­lice sta­tion was but a half-​block dis­tant on a side street and their cap­tor ush­ered them up the steps and in­to a room where a tall, bushy-​whiskered man with much gold on his shoul­ders sat writ­ing at a flat-​topped desk.

“Chief, here's a cou­ple of young­sters I met on Main Street just now. I guess they're all right, but I thought maybe you'd like to look 'em over.”

The Chief nod­ded and pro­ceed­ed to do so. He had a most dis­con­cert­ing stare, had the Chief, and the boys be­gan to won­der if they had not, per­haps, af­ter all per­formed that bur­glary!

“Well, boys,” he said fi­nal­ly, “where do you be­long?”

“Brim­field Acade­my,” replied Amy.

“Run­ning away, are you?”

“No, sir, we're try­ing to get back. We went to Thacher yes­ter­day with the foot­ball team and start­ed over here in a fel­low's au­to and it broke down about--about four miles back and we got lost and slept in a sort of hut and got here this morn­ing.”

“Where was the hut?” asked the of­fi­cial.

“Just off the road be­tween here and Thacher. About four miles, or maybe five.”

“Near­er six,” cor­rect­ed Clint. “We walked four miles, I guess, be­fore we found that sign-​post.”

The Chief ques­tioned par­tic­ular­ly re­gard­ing the au­to­mo­bile and its driv­er, fi­nal­ly tak­ing up the tele­phone and in­quir­ing of the two lo­cal garages if such a car had been brought in for re­pairs. Both garages replied that they hadn't seen the car and the Chief looked back at Amy spec­ula­tive­ly.

“He must have gone back and found that nut,” said Amy, “and re­paired it him­self.”

“Maybe,” said the Chief. “Who did you say the fel­low drove the au­to for?”

“I didn't say. I've for­got­ten the name. Some liv­ery­man in Thacher.”

“And he was com­ing here to get the ho­tel pro­pri­etor, eh?”

“That's what he said.”

“And you didn't see him again?”

“No, sir, not un­less--”

“Un­less what?”

Amy glanced in­quir­ing­ly at Clint and Clint nod­ded.

“Un­less he was in the car that stopped at the hut in the night,” con­clud­ed Amy, “and I don't be­lieve he was.”

The Chief ex­changed a quick look with the po­lice­man and asked in­dif­fer­ent­ly: “Oh, there was a car stopped in the night, eh? What for? Who was in it?”

“We couldn't see who was in it. We were asleep in the hut and woke up with the light in our eyes. Then we heard the car chug­ging on the road and two men got out and came to­ward the hut and sort of--sort of walked around for about ten min­utes and then went off again.”

“Walked around? What were they walk­ing around for?”

“I don't know, sir, but--”

“We think,” in­ter­rupt­ed Clint, “that they were the men who robbed the jew­el­ry store and that they were bury­ing the things they had stolen.”

“You do, eh? Who told you any jew­el­ry store had been robbed?”

“We heard some men talk­ing about it at the restau­rant where we had break­fast.”

“Where was that?”

“About five blocks that way,” said Clint.

“Can­nis­ter was the name on the door,” ex­plained Amy.

“If you thought the men in the au­to­mo­bile were bury­ing some­thing why didn't you find out what it was af­ter they had gone?”

“We didn't think that un­til we got here and heard about the bur­glary. We didn't know what they were do­ing. It was dark and we had no match­es. Af­ter they had gone we did sort of feel around there to see if we could find any­thing, but we couldn't.”

“What time was it?”

“I sup­pose it was about four o'clock. We couldn't see our watch­es.”

The Chief held a hand across the desk. “Let me see yours,” he said.

“See what, sir?” asked Clint.

“Your watch.” Clint took it off and laid it in the Chief's hand. It was a plain and in­ex­pen­sive gold watch and was quite ev­ident­ly far from new. The Chief ex­am­ined it, opened the back and read the num­ber, and re­ferred to a slip of pa­per be­side him. Then he asked for Amy's and smiled as Amy passed him his nick­el time­piece.

“All right,” he said, re­turn­ing them. “What did those two men look like?”

“We couldn't see, sir,” replied Amy. “They just had an elec­tric torch and they light­ed it on­ly twice. We could just see two pairs of legs and that was all. And a stick.”

“A stick?”

“I think it was a shov­el,” said Clint.

“Were the lights on the car light­ed all this time?”

“No, sir, they put them out.”

“Could you see the car enough to say whether it was a big one or a lit­tle one?”

“No, sir,” said Clint, “but I have an idea it was sort of small. The en­gine sound­ed like it.”

“Sup­pose you give me your names.” They did so and the Chief took off the tele­phone re­ceiv­er again. “Hel­lo! Get me Brim­field Acade­my at Brim­field. This is Chief Carey. I want to talk with the pres­ident--”

“Prin­ci­pal, sir,” whis­pered Amy.

“With the prin­ci­pal.” A minute or two passed in si­lence. Then: “Hel­lo,” said the Chief. “Is this Brim­field Acade­my? Well, who am I talk­ing to, please? Mr. Fern­er? Fer­nald?” He looked ques­tion­ing­ly at Clint and Clint nod­ded his head. “Well, this is the Chief of Po­lice at Whar­ton. Have you got two boys at your school named Clin­ton Thay­er and Amory Byrd, Mr. Fer­nald? Have, eh? Are they there now?... I see. Well, I guess I've got them here.... No, no, noth­ing like that. There's been a rob­bery here and the boys seem to think they have a clue to it. I want­ed to find out if they were all right. Yes, they're right here. Cer­tain­ly, sir.”

The Chief held out the tele­phone and Clint took it.

“Mr. Fer­nald? This is Thay­er, sir. We're aw­ful­ly sor­ry, sir, but we got lost last night and had to sleep in a hut near here and we've on­ly just got here a lit­tle while ago. We are com­ing right back, sir.”

“How did you hap­pen to get lost?” asked the prin­ci­pal's voice.

Clint ex­plained as best he could.

“Byrd is there with you?”

“Yes, sir. Do you want to speak to him?”

“No. Get back here as soon as you can and come and see me at once. I want this ex­plained a lit­tle bet­ter, Thay­er. That's all. You're not--um--you're not in trou­ble with the po­lice?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. Get back on the first train.”

Clint sighed with re­lief as he re­turned the tele­phone to the desk.

“Was he very waxy?” asked Amy anx­ious­ly.

“Not very, I reck­on,” Clint replied. “He wants us to beat it back and see him at once.”

“I can scarce­ly re­strain my ea­ger­ness,” mur­mured Amy.

“What train were you think­ing of tak­ing?” asked the Chief, draw­ing the tele­phone to­ward him again.

“They said there was one at nine-​forty-​six,” replied Clint, “but this--this of­fi­cer says it doesn't stop at Brim­field.”

“We'll soon find out, boys.” The Chief con­sult­ed a time-​ta­ble and nod­ded. “Brim­field at ten-​fif­teen.” He looked at the big clock on the wall. “Sev­en-​forty-​five,” he mut­tered. “I guess we can make it.” He put the re­ceiv­er to his ear once more. “Op­er­ator? Whar­ton, 137-M, please. Hel­lo! That you, Gus? This is Dave Carey. Say, Gus, I want an au­to to hold five of us be­sides your driv­er. What say? Yes, right away. Well, hunt him up. Get here by eight sure. At the sta­tion, yes. All right.” The Chief re­turned the re­ceiv­er and leaned back. “I guess,” he said, “you boys had bet­ter show us where that place is and we'll have a look at it. It doesn't seem prob­able to me that the crooks would hide that stuff in a hole, but they might have. If it was get­ting late they might have been afraid they'd get held up and searched be­fore they got clear. Any­way, we'll have a look.”

“Is there any re­ward for it?” asked Amy.

“Not that I know of,” laughed the Chief. “I guess there's a re­ward for the cap­ture of the fel­lows who did it. If you can show us where they are you might make a cou­ple of hun­dred dol­lars, son. The Jew­ellers' Pro­tec­tive As­so­ci­ation would be glad to square you.”

“I'm afraid I don't get that,” mourned Amy. “How much is the stuff worth that they swiped?”

“Oh, sev­en or eight hun­dred, I guess. Wig­gin didn't seem to know just what had been tak­en. Here's a list of some of it, though. Sev­en watch­es, eleven seals and a lot of pins and brooches and studs. They missed the un­set stones, the thieves did. Bill, you dig up a cou­ple of spades some­where and bring around here by eight.”

The po­lice­man dis­ap­peared and the boys seat­ed them­selves to wait.