Manly Wade Wellman - Novel 1947 Read online

  THE SLEUTH PATROL

  By

  MANLY WADE WELLMAN

  Illustrated by ROBERT MEYERS

  THOMAS NELSON & SONS

  Edinburgh NEW YORK Toronto

  Copyright, 1947,

  by Manly Wade Wellman

  Printed in the United States of America

  Sherlock ran for the trail that led to the road.

  To

  MANLY WADE WELLMAN, JR.

  CONTENTS

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  SCOUTS IN A CELLAR

  THE CASE OF THE BEAN BURGLAR

  MYSTERY COMES TO CAMP

  THE TRAIL THAT LED TO NOTHING

  LET'S HAUNT A HOUSE!

  WHO SCARED WHO?”

  THREE AGAINST THE GHOST

  HOUNDS VERSUS EAGLES

  BEHIND THE GHOST HOUSE

  HARE AND HOUNDS

  RETURN TO THE MYSTERY

  DOC AND MAX DO ' THEIR PART

  WHAT BECAME OF SHERLOCK

  UNDERGROUND

  THE SHOWDOWN

  WHERE IS COREY JARNES?

  INTO THE SWAMP

  THE TRAIL THAT WENT BACKWARD

  COMPLIMENTS FROM A CRIMINAL

  THE CASE IS CLOSED

  ILLUSTRATIONS

  Sherlock ran for the trail that led to the road

  “Get out of my way!” blazed the stranger

  Sherlock, his sheet flapping, ran after Doc and Max

  Max and Sherlock dropped flat, peering through the bushes

  “Yieeee’heee!” Max whooped, high and clear

  The tracks led to where a log formed a makeshift bridge

  A Boy Scouts’ Patrol Song

  For the innocent nee-high grass,

  For the ditch that never tells,

  Look out! Look out ere you pass—

  And look out for everything else! =

  A sign misread as you run

  May turn retreat to a rout—

  For all things under the sun

  (Chorus) All Patrols look out!

  Rudyard Kipling

  SCOUTS IN A CELLAR

  Holmes (Sherlock) Hamilton ruffled his black curls in a tangle worse than usual under the desk light in his basement den. He jotted down notes furiously. Max Hinkel, gaunt and swarthy, reached a foot across and joggled his friend’s chair, as he polished his spectacles.

  “I know that you’re a First Class Scout, Sherlock,” he said with mock respect, “and a good ball player, with nine merit badges and the snows of sixteen winters on your head. But why not use a new Scout manual instead of that circa 1927 collectors’ item?”

  Sherlock laid down his pencil and thumped the desk. His father, head of the Millwood Police Department— a chief, two sergeants and six motor patrolmen—habitually did the same thing to emphasize what he said.

  “There’s good stuff in it, Max, stuff not in the new manual. Sergeant—Mr. Palmer—lent it to me for this meeting.” Sherlock furrowed his black brows. “Listen to what it says on page 84: ‘A Scout Patrol is a very close brotherhood.’ Into the Patrol, your Patrol, comes a new boy. You look him over and decide that he may not be the first prize among—”

  “Knocking our new Patrol pals before they’re here,” sighed Max, repolishing his lenses on his neckerchief. “Did you ask to be transferred from Troop Five to this new one, or were you exiled to it?”

  “Both. My dad’s the chairman of the new Troop committee. I want to help him. There’s a couple of patrols being organized, with a few transfers from Five, like you and me, to stiffen the new fellows. A good start, Max. I take the thing seriously.”

  “You take the thing hard,” corrected Max. “You’re a ha-a-rd man, Sherlock. But do I hear a knock at the side door? I do.” He raised his voice. “Come in!”

  The door creaked open, and two boys came downstairs out of the spring evening. Pete Criley and Harry McMurray peered at Sherlock’s wall decorations—crossed fencing foils, tacked-up certificates of Scout achievement, and two grim “Man Wanted” posters donated by Chief Hamilton.

  “Ah, two backward boys on the threshold of tender- footedness,” Max greeted them. “Know your knots, chums? Want to do a good turn right away? Then set Scout Hamilton, Sherlock to you, at ease. He’s nervous about presiding at the organization of this patrol.”

  “Chuck Schaefer’s right behind us,” volunteered Pete Criley, and Chuck knocked and entered. He was the youngest of the boys, but big for his age, almost as big as Sherlock. As junior of the group, he looked more timid than Pete or Harry, but he smiled recognition at Max and Sherlock, whom he knew at the local high school.

  “Only five for our new Patrol?” demanded Sherlock.

  “No, a new fellow moved into our block,” said Max. “He was a Scout out West, and Mr. Palmer told me he’d be here.”

  Another knock at the door. Max yelled, “Welcome, stranger!” and a chubby figure in weathered Scout slacks and shirt made its appearance. The newcomer’s buckskin hair was more tousled than Sherlock’s, and he grinned as if his face had grown that way.

  “The new inhabitant?” inquired Max. “Scout grip all ’round. Three fingers, you tenderfeet. I’m Maxwell Israel Hinkel, known as Max to the elite of Hillwood. The somber gent presiding is Holmes Hamilton. Since his father’s a police chief and he himself wants to be likewise some day, he’s naturally called Sherlock. You know your Conan Doyle, of course. These others are Pete Criley, Chuck Schaefer and Harry McMurray. Got a nickname, or do you dream you up one here and now?”

  “I’ll answer to Doc,” grinned the chubby one. “They called me that in my old troop because my father’s a medic.” He looked at his wrist watch. “I seem to be on time to the second for the meeting.”

  “And the meeting opens right now,” added Sherlock. “Max has the only good chair. Drag up the benches, and that box for—Doc, you call yourself? Okay, come to order.”

  He looked around impressively. “This,” he said, “is a meeting to organize one of the two Patrols that will make up a new Scout Troop, Troop Fifteen, of the town of Hillwood. I was asked by Scoutmaster Jack Palmer to preside. Get names and addresses of everybody, Max.” Max started a pencil and paper around. Sherlock cleared his throat.

  “You all know Mr. Palmer. He’s a police sergeant, and a good one. He was a sergeant somewhere else, too, with the Marines in the Pacific. Two or three tiers of campaign ribbons, battle stars, and a Purple Heart. Used to be Assistant Scoutmaster of Troop Five. Maybe, when my dad retires, he’ll be promoted to police chief.”

  “Point of order,” drawled Max, crossing his long legs. “We’re organizing a Patrol of Boy Scouts, not a police department.”

  “Sorry to be cop-conscious,” smiled Sherlock. “I’m pretty well steeped in it. I want to be F. B. I. some day, or a good special investigator. My badges are sort of prepolice, even—civics, safety, athletics, fingerprinting.”

  “Can you take fingerprints?” demanded Pete Criley eagerly.

  “Anybody can, if he studies it. There’s my equipment on the corner table.”

  “Back among the crime busters again,” put in Max. “Maybe we should be detective Scouts.”

  “That,” said the new boy called Doc, “is not a completely corny idea.” He leaned forward, his grin broader than before. “I’m no Sherlock, by name or nature, but I’m interested in detectives. Who isn’t?”

  “I read Ellery Queen,” offered Chuck Schaefer.

  “We all read detective stories,” added Pete.

  “Some day I’ll write them,” said Max. “My badges are journalism and things like that. I’m literary. You tender- feet need any badge training?”

  “I’m going to buck for a badge in photogra
phy,” said Harry McMurray. “Maybe I could start a rogue’s gallery for Sherlock.”

  Sherlock cleared his throat again, for want of a gavel. “What Doc says is not without what the Indians used to call tum-tum he said. “Max ribs me about being a sleuth in the raw, but he’s dying to be likewise. Right now he wishes somebody would shriek at the window or stalk in with a flopping black cloak.”

  “We’re all Hawkshaws at heart,” said Harry. “What say we trail a few fiends?”

  “I’ll be an armchair detective,” Max announced loftily. “Go ahead, knock yourselves out following mysterious trails. I’ll solve the cases sitting down.”

  “What I mean,” resumed Doc, “is that many Patrols and whole Troops have specialty programs. Look how sea study built into Sea Scouts, and hiking and pioneering into Explorers, and so on. What if we made this police sergeant Scoutmaster of ours teach us a little about detection?” he pointed to the chairman. “We’ve got a good start; a Sherlock in our midst.”

  “My first name is Holmes, after my mother’s family,” Sherlock explained. “The nickname was obvious, to anyone who ever read The Hound of the Baservilles, as who hasn’t ? But how about Doc’s suggestion ? Anybody agree with him?”

  “I do,” said Chuck. “Issue me my star and nightstick.”

  “I’m for it,” chimed in Harry, “and so’s Pete, or I don’t know him after living next door to him for five years.”

  “Making it unanimous,” wound up Max. “Let me get it in writing.” He began to scribble.

  Sherlock squared his shoulders in elation at this enthusiasm for his own chief interest.

  “The Patrol ought to have a good name,” Max resumed.

  “Sleuth hounds,” said Chuck at once.

  “There was a Hound Patrol in my Troop back west,” nodded Doc. “They barked for a Patrol call—bowwowl”

  “Sounds like hydrophobia,” commented Max. “Sherlock, I move that this Patrol be named the Hounds. Second my motion, Pete, you don’t talk enough.”

  “All in favor say aye,” commanded Sherlock, and the name of Hounds was unanimously adopted. “Now for Patrol leader,” Sherlock went on. “Mr. Palmer wants us to pick our own, with no help from the committee or himself.”

  “Only one real choice here,” said Max definitely. “All kidding aside, Sherlock’s a First Class Scout, in every sense of the word, and he was an assistant Patrol leader in Five, and has plenty of savvy and merit badges. He’s the oldest of this bunch, too, unless Doc here tops sixteen.”

  “Sixteen last month,” Doc informed him, “but I’m fresh off the train in Hillwood, and I don’t figure. Me for Sherlock. He has a swell basement for Patrol meetings.”

  “Let’s make it a unanimous ballot,” added Chuck, and unanimous it was. They applauded, and Sherlock could not help inflating his chest proudly.

  “As for assistant Patrol leader,” he began again, “Max here—”

  “Max declines modestly,” said his friend. “I’m too lazy and dreamy. No natural leadership. But on Doc’s shirt I spy a First Class badge, and on this short acquaintance he seems to be a right guy. Let’s take a chance on him.”

  “Second to that?” asked Sherlock, and Harry seconded. “Other nominations? No? Then all in favor of Doc say Aye”

  It was the third unanimous vote of the evening.

  “You’re in, Doc,” said Sherlock, “and we’ve been moving too fast to get your full name.”

  Doc grinned more broadly than ever. “This is fate,” he said. “My full name’s John Watson. Marvelous, my dear Holmes.”

  “Elementary,” Sherlock quoted back. “Well, we have a Patrol, a name, leaders, and an idea for a special program. I declare a recess in favor of the cokes in that ice tub.”

  vThe members of the new Patrol sipped, talked and pottered. Max, who had enlisted Chuck himself, harangued his protege about merit badges and advancement toward Second Class rank. Under Sherlock’s direction, Harry and Pete made slovenly fingerprints with the ink and cards at the corner table, then watched respectfully while Sherlock showed them how to make clear ones and pointed out the characteristics of such marks that made them sure identification evidence. Doc examined the fencing foils on the wall and said something about musketeers and pirates. The group set its first meeting as a Patrol for the following week, and finally the boys began to drift out and away. Doc remained to the last.

  “I’m enthusiastic, Sherlock,” he said. “The idea of Scout detectives is brand new to me, but by tomorrow you and I ought to have about fifty-two swell ideas between us.”

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday. How about getting together ?” invited Sherlock. “You know Sig’s Soda Fountain, near the school grounds? It’s open at 9:00 a.m.”

  “I’ll be there,” promised Doc. “Good night.”

  THE CASE OF THE BEAN BURGLAR

  At exactly one minute before nine next morning, Sherlock approached Sig’s Soda Fountain. Doc met him within half a block of the place, and together they paused to gaze at Sig’s window display. A hollow chuckle sounded behind them. '

  “I shadowed you here,” said the voice of Max Hinkel. “Great police training.”

  They turned and met his smile of good-natured mockery. “How did you know we were going to—” began Doc.

  “Oh, I was out of the basement, but I lurked,” explained Max. “More police training. And now I deduce that you’re going to spend some money and rate a guess on how many beans are in that quart jar in the window. How do I get so brilliant? By reading the sign over your shoulders.”

  “I made my guess long ago,” grinned Sherlock. “Sig has been putting one cent out of every purchase into a United States savings bond. He started months ago, Doc. It’ll run a hundred dollars maturity value. Every customer gets a guess. Closest to the number of beans wins the bond. Contest closes next month.”

  Doc squinted at the jarful of beans in the window. “He’s got all kinds in there—soup beans, kidney beans, garbanzos, limas. No way to compute or deduct. Logical winner is this man Sig himself.”

  “No, he’s honest,” said Max. “He had a public jarfilling. I was there. Four high school girls poured in from different bags. Then he fastened the lid on with sealing wax, air tight.” He turned away. “I’m working Saturdays on the Banner, the local weekly, Doc. Next stop, star reporter in the big town. Remember me if you two master minds make any news, I get only space rates.” He walked away.

  Sherlock turned to the door. “Let’s go in, Doc, and—” He paused. “Hey! Sig’s not open.”

  Doc came to his side and peered through the glass pane of the door. “I see Mr. Palmer in there.”

  Sherlock, too, gazed into the shop. Sig Poison, the proprietor, was talking and gesturing to Sergeant Jack Palmer. The sergeant, straight and tall and grave in his blue uniform, seemed to be asking questions and writing Sig’s answers in his notebook.

  “Somebody’s done something to Sig,” pronounced Sherlock at once.

  “Unless Sig did something to somebody,” suggested Doc, but Sherlock wagged his head.

  “No, wait till you get to know Sig Poison. You’ll realize he never made any trouble for any living creature since the day he took out his first citizenship papers. I think he’s been robbed, or something like that. But what did Sig have worth taking? I know for a fact he never keeps a very big sum of money in the shop at any time.”

  “Ice cream or candy?” offered Doc.

  “Only kids would do that, and no boy or girl in Hillwood wants to steal from Sig Poison. Maybe we decided to be sleuths just in time.”

  “Let’s offer our services.”

  “Better not complicate Mr. Palmer’s end of the job,” advised Sherlock. “I absorb enough police procedure from Dad to know that. Come along the alley.”

  Sig’s shop was in the front of a small building, with two rooms behind where Sig ate and slept. In those rear rooms were also the living quarters of Blucher, Sig’s fat and vastly good-humored old bulldog. Sherlock and Doc skirted
the rear of the building without seeing anything to make them pause. On the other side, where a narrow strip of soft earth lay between Sig’s store and the filling station beyond.

  Sherlock suddenly knelt. “Ah,” he said.

  “Brilliant,” said Doc. “You were going to point out those broken bits of glass in front of us, and the broken window just here beside us. I saw it, too. That’s where the thief, or whatever he was, went in and out again.”

  “Elementary, Doc, so far as you’ve gone. Why don’t you beat me to the punch and point out that the glass broke outward and fell into the open, not inward, as it would have to break to l£t somebody in?”

  Sherlock took a handkerchief from his pocket, and into its folds coaxed a big fragment of glass. While Doc watched curiously, Sherlock produced a small vial of black powder, drew the cork with his teeth, and tilted a small portion upon the glass. Lipping the cork back in, Sherlock next fished out a stub-handled water-color brush and carefully dusted the black powder here and there over the surface of the glass.

  “That’s graphite,” he explained. “Ground pencil lead. I carry it around to take prints whenever I’m in the mood. I carry white talcum, too, for dark surfaces.” He blew the surplus graphite dust from the glass and studied the result. “No prints here.”

  “Try the other side,” suggested Doc, and Sherlock did so. No prints developed there, either.

  “Sig washes his windows constantly,” said Sherlock. “Whoever broke this one didn’t leave any prints, unless on another piece.” He selected more fragments, dusted, brushed, and blew. “Not a print,” he complained at last, disappointed.

  Sig thrust his heavy brown face out at the broken window. He wore no trace of his normal look of good humor.

  “Shop open pretty soon, fellas,” he said, and took his face away. Inside they heard Sergeant Palmer ask another question, and Sig’s doleful answer.