The Purple Bird Mystery
Read The Purple Bird Mystery Online
Authors: Ellery Queen Jr.
FRESH EBOOK DEALS, DELIVERED DAILY
BE THE FIRST TO KNOW ABOUT
FREE AND DISCOUNTED EBOOKS
NEW DEALS HATCH EVERY DAY
Ellery Queen Jr.
Preview:
The Mystery of the Merry Magician
A New Boy in Town
“G
OODNESS
, Djuna,” said Miss Annie Ellery as she took a pan of hot muffins out of the oven, “you’re up awfully early for the first day of summer vacation, seems to me”
Djuna sat down to breakfast, his face shining from the recent brisk washing he had given it. “I’m going to ride into Brookville, Miss Annie, and see if I can get some kind of summer job,” he said. “I want to earn some money this vacation, so I can save up enough to buy Champ a new leash and feeding bowl, and get an electric headlight for my bike, and to buy a birthday present …” Djuna clapped a hand over his mouth in dismay.
“A birthday present for me?” Miss Annie asked, her eyes twinkling.
Djuna swallowed. “Well, it was going to be a surprise.”
“That’s very sweet of you, Djuna,” Miss Annie said, “but you don’t need to waste your money buying gifts for an old lady like me.”
“You’re not old,” Djuna said stoutly.
“All right, all right,” Miss Annie said. She patted her gray hair with a small wrinkled hand; and, indeed, for the moment she did look young. “What kind of job were you thinking of?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe working behind the soda fountain at Mr. Evans’s Drug Store.”
Miss Annie laughed. “Where you can take out part of your wages in sodas, sundaes and bonbons?”
“Gee,” said Djuna dreamily, “wouldn’t that be great? I think I’ll try Mr. Evans’s first. He knows I’m an expert on sundaes and sodas—”
“He’s served you enough of them, heaven knows! But wouldn’t it be better if you could get some sort of work out-of-doors, Djuna? It doesn’t seem right for a boy your age to be spending all summer cooped up.”
“I’m too young for most outdoor jobs, that’s the big trouble, Miss Annie. Unless I can get a delivery-boy job from Mr. Evans, maybe.”
“Well, good luck,” Miss Annie said. “Get along with you, now, and find that job.” Just then, four sharp barks sounded from the yard outside. “There’s Champ, wondering what’s happened to you, Djuna. I haven’t fed him yet, so you’d better do it before you go.”
Djuna bounced out the back door from Miss Annie’s kitchen, leaped down the steps to the back yard, and gathered Champ, his little black Scottie dog, into his arms. Champ grunted in ecstasy, wriggled frantically all over, waved his stumpy tail, and licked at Djuna’s freshly washed face with a rough tongue. During the summer months, Champ was banished to the shed behind Miss Annie Ellery’s small house, where he slept in a kennel specially made for him by Djuna’s friend, old Mr. George Boots.
Djuna fed him, then said briskly, “Well, Champ, I’m going into Brookville to look for a job. Will you be good while I’m gone and not bother Miss Annie?”
Champ cocked his head on one side and looked at Djuna with such a woebegone expression in his shoe-button eyes that Djuna couldn’t resist him. “Oh, all right,” he said, “I’ll take you with me in my handlebar basket if you’ll promise to wait outside.”
Champ gave an eager yelp that could mean only one thing: “I promise!”
Djuna stuck his head through the kitchen door and called, “Goodbye, Miss Annie. I’m taking Champ along for company.”
“Then take his leash,” Miss Annie replied. She came to the back door, wiping her hands on her apron. “And remember now, Djuna, don’t you get mixed up in any more of those mysteries you always seem to stumble on, you hear?”
“Yes, Miss Annie. I mean, no, Miss Annie, I’ll try not to.” Djuna wheeled his bicycle out of the shed and took Champ’s leash from a nail behind the shed door. He lifted Champ into the basket that was fastened to his bicycle handlebars. “Here we go, now. Sit still, Champ.” He snapped the leash on Champ’s collar, never dreaming how it was soon to lead him into mystery and danger. Then, with a little run to get a start, Djuna leaped on his bike.
He began to pedal down the country road toward the secondary highway that led from the small village of Edenboro through Brookville, the county seat five miles away. From there it went to Beakman’s Landing on the North River, where the federal highway and the railroad crossed it at right angles. Champ sat up straight in his basket and sniffed the early morning smell of dew, cut grass, and roses with relish. Soon Djuna turned his bike into the road to Brookville.
He pedaled along steadily, thinking what fun it would be to earn a little money of his own.
There was very little traffic on the road yet. In about a mile, the highway crossed Miller’s Creek. That was where Djuna raised his eyes and saw a truck lumbering swiftly toward him from the direction of Brookville.
It was an enormous moving van; behind the windshield he could see the faces of three men. The driver of the truck, spotting Djuna, slowed down. He waved to Djuna, then braked his big vehicle to a stop.
“Hey, kid, we’re lost! Can you help us?”
Djuna said, “Where do you want to go?” The moving van had the name of a Philadelphia company painted in big red letters on its side. “Are you moving somebody here from Philadelphia?”
“We’re trying to,” the driver answered in disgust. “But we can’t find the place. We’re looking for a country club, the Fieldcrest Golf Club. They told me it was between Brookville and Edenboro.”
“You must have missed it. It’s back the way you came, about two miles toward Brookville. It’s kind of hard to tell from the road. All you see are two brick gateposts without a name on them. The clubhouse and golf course are out of sight behind the trees.”
“I’ll say they’re out of sight!” the driver muttered. “Back the way we came, eh?”
“Yes,” Djuna said. “But who would be moving to a country club, I wonder?”
“People by the name of Douglas, that’s all I know. I’ll have to go ahead till I find a place to turn this rig around. Two miles back, you say?”
“Yes.” Djuna suddenly had an idea. “I’ll wait here till you come back, and then I’ll ride along with you and show you the gate of the Fieldcrest Club.”
“Thanks,” said the driver. “Even better, why don’t you ride ahead to the gate and wait there for us? Then we’ll save time and so will you.” He started the truck rolling again with a whining of gears.
Djuna got back on his bike. As he set out once more for Brookville, he said to Champ, “I wonder who the Douglases are? I never heard of anybody
living
at a country club before. Did you?”
Champ, having no ideas on the subject, remained silent.
When the gateposts of the country club came in sight on the left side of the road, Djuna saw—just inside the gates—a boy. He was standing in the middle of the driveway, listlessly swinging a golf club. He had dark hair and snapping black eyes and seemed to be about Djuna’s own age. He looked at Djuna and Champ with interest when they pulled up beside him.
“Hi,” Djuna said. “Is it all right if we wait here for a while? We promised a truck driver to show him where this golf club is. He had to turn his truck around. He was lost.”
“Was it a moving van?” The boy seemed worried. “My father sent me out here to flag down the van.”
“It’s funny you missed it, then,” said Djuna. “It went right by here about ten minutes ago.”
“That’s probably when I was over there practicing my putting,” the boy said, and pointed up the club driveway to where a putting green showed through the trees near the large fieldstone clubhouse. “I’m trying to learn to be a golfer, like my father.”
“Gosh,” said Djuna, “it must be fun to play golf. I’ve never even tried it. I saw a match one time on television, but …”
“Never tried it?” The boy was incredulous. “Why, it’s practically the best game there is! I’ve been playing golf ever since I was six years old! My father says that by the time I get through college, I ought to be a pro like him!”
Djuna’s eyes widened. “You mean your father is a golf
professional?”
“Sure,” the boy replied, with pride in his voice. “He used to be the pro at the Three Willows Club outside Philadelphia. But then my mother was killed in an auto accident last year, and my father thought he’d like to go some place else. So now he’s the new pro here at Fieldcrest.”
Djuna looked down the road, but the moving van was not yet in sight. “Then your name must be Douglas, and
you’re
the ones who are moving into the golf club.”
“My name’s Jimmy Douglas. What’s yours?”
“Djuna.”
“Djuna? That’s a funny name. Djuna what?”
“Just Djuna.” Champ squirmed suddenly in the handlebar basket, fearing himself forgotten, and Djuna patted him. “I live with Miss Annie Ellery in Edenboro. And this is Champ.”
“Hi, Champ,” Jimmy said. “Will he let me pat him?”
“Sure. He likes ’most everybody. Go ahead.”
Jimmy did so; Champ wagged. “I wish I could have a dog. No dogs are allowed when you live on a golf course.”
“Why not?”
Jimmy laughed. “They chase the balls and dig up the greens.”
Just then the moving van appeared. “Here comes your furniture,” Djuna said. “It must be great to live in a country club like Fieldcrest.”
“We won’t live in the clubhouse.” Jimmy said. “We’re going to live in the little house in the woods that the club gives the pro, out near the seventh fairway. Have you ever seen it?”