The Purple Bird Mystery (6 page)

“Grandma’ll be there. She’s still getting the house settled. Why?”

Djuna saw Joe Morelli frown. “Oh, I heard a lady I was caddying for yesterday wondering whether your father would be at the club today or home. He doesn’t start as pro till tomorrow, and this lady was thinking of trying to find him and ask him about taking some lessons next week.” This explanation came glibly from Joe’s mouth. Almost too glibly, Djuna thought; and Joe seemed uneasy as he produced it.

Jimmy, however, nodded. “I don’t know where my father’ll be, Joe.”

Mr. Jonas stuck his head out of the caddy-house door just then and called, “Morelli! O’Neal! Doubles!”

Jimmy, watching them go, nudged Djuna and said, “They’ll carry two bags a piece and get maybe six dollars just for one round. Wish he’d call us pretty soon.”

Djuna watched Morelli stride up the path toward the first tee with two heavy bags over his shoulders. “Do vou think there’s something funny about Joe?” he said in a low voice.

“Funny? About Joe? What do you mean, Djuna?”

“I don’t exactly know. But he seems pretty old to be a caddy—he must be twice as old as most of the other caddies. And he’s smart, so you’d think he could find a better job than caddying at his age.”

“Maybe Joe just likes to caddy.”

“Maybe. Only I thought he acted kind of funny when he came over to your house day before yesterday with that Mr. Martin. Remember, when the movers dropped the chest drawer?”

“I didn’t notice anything,” said Jimmy.

“What seemed funny to me was, he knew your father was the new pro at Fieldcrest. How’d he know that? You and your father hadn’t even moved in yet—you hadn’t been on the club grounds more than an hour or so. Could Joe have met your father before—when Mr. Douglas came here to sign up for his new job, for instance?”

“Pop came to Fieldcrest for that ’way last April. And yesterday, Joe told us himself that he’d only been caddying here two weeks.”

“And besides,” said Djuna, still speaking very softly so the other caddies couldn’t overhear him, “I thought is was funny how he kept asking you about your chest yesterday, and how old it was, and who it belonged to.”

“Aw, he was probably just being polite.”

“And,” went on Djuna, caught up in his train of thought, “Joe had a lot of nerve asking you just now if anybody would be at your house this afternoon. What business is it of his?”

“He said some lady golfer wanted to find Pop …”

“He didn’t say that until
after
you asked him why he wanted to know. And it sounded phony to me, what he said.”

“Well, for Pete’s sake, why else would he want to know who was going to be home today?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did. I don’t trust that Joe Morelli one bit.”

Jimmy shattered Djuna’s serious mood with a laugh. “You know what I think? I think you’re just trying to dream up a mystery. So you can be a detective again.”

Djuna grinned. “Miss Annie would skin me alive if I got mixed up in another mystery.” With an effort, he forced all thought of Joe Morelli out of his mind and began to chatter about other things.

Five minutes later, Jimmy’s name was called by Mr. Jonas; he and another caddy went off to carry for a twosome of college boys.

“Listen,” Jimmy said before he left, “if we get through our rounds by lunch time, what say we eat our sandwiches at my house? Grandma said she was going to bake one of her chocolate cakes this morning, and maybe she’ll give us some for dessert.”

“That sounds great,” Djuna said. “Where’ll we meet?”

“I’ll get in before you, so I’ll wait here for you. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Djuna heard his own name called twenty minutes later. Mr. Jonas said, “This gentleman is going to play around alone. And he’s made a special request for you to be his caddy. Don’t talk to him unless he wants you to; don’t make a sound when he’s putting; don’t step on his putting line; watch his balls carefully; and let him pick his own clubs till you get the hang of the job. Good luck, now. Off you go!”

And Djuna was launched on his first round of golf as a full-fledged caddy. His excitement was only slightly dampened by the fact that his first customer turned out to be the suave and courteous Mr. Martin, who was linked in Djuna’s mind with Joe Morelli as a suspicious character.

Three hours and eighteen holes later Djuna got back to the caddy-house, turned Mr. Martin’s clubs over to Mr. Jonas, pocketed his first caddy fee, and looked around for Jimmy. He felt weary after his five-mile walk, and very, very hungry.

Jimmy was waiting impatiently in the breezeway. “Hey, Djuna, come on,” Jimmy greeted him. “I’m so hungry I could eat a horse. Let’s ride our bikes to my house. We’ll get there quicker.”

“I bet you can’t be any hungrier than I am,” said Djuna. They pedaled down the club driveway to where it was joined by the unpaved road that led to Jimmy’s house. “Golly, I sure spent a busy morning,” Djuna admitted as they turned into this side road.

“Wasn’t it great? Who’d you get, Djuna?”

“Mr. Martin. The man who came to help when Champ chased the pheasant.”

“How was he, all right?”

“Sure. But Mr. Jonas told me that Mr. Martin
asked
for me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he like the way you caddied?”

“He said I did fine. He asked me an awful lot of questions.”

“What about?”

“Mostly about you.”

“Me?” Jimmy was surprised.

“And a lot of questions about your father, too, and your grandma, and whether your father made a good salary as a pro, and how long I’d known you, and what I thought of your character, and a lot of stuff like that. He was so busy pumping me that he hardly paid any attention to his golf game.”

“I can’t figure why he’d be curious about me and Pop,” Jimmy said. “He’s not even a member of the club.”

“That’s right.” The boys rode into the turnaround in front of Jimmy’s house. They were both perspiring from the sticky heat. “I forgot about that.” Djuna looked very thoughtful while he leaned his bike against the terrace wall and took his sandwich bag out of the handlebar basket. “It seems to me a lot of people around here are interested in you, Jimmy. Joe Morelli, with his nervy questions. And now Mr. Martin, who gets me to caddy for him so he can ask me about you.”

Grandma called to them from the open living room window. “Hello, boys. Just in time! I took my chocolate cake out of the oven not more than fifteen minutes ago. Sit down under the trees and eat your sandwiches, and let me know when you’re ready for dessert. Your father’s staying at the clubhouse for lunch, Jimmy. He telephoned me. Oh, by the way, Djuna, while I was baking my cake a friend of yours came looking for you. I told him you weren’t here but you would be in a little while if he wanted to wait. Was that all right?”

“Sure,” said Djuna. “Who was it?”

“He’s still here,” Grandma said with a chuckle. “I’ll send him out.”

Puzzled, Djuna waited. “Who could it be?” he asked Jimmy.

The screen door of Jimmy’s house opened and something flew across the terrace and down the steps like a projectile, leaping for Djuna’s arm with a whine of joy.

“Champ!” Djuna cried in amazement. “How’d you get here?” He caught up the Scottie, dropping his sandwiches, and hugged the little dog. “You’re supposed to be tied up at home in Edenboro!”

Jimmy patted Champ. “He’s strong, that’s all. He probably broke his leash again this morning to chase
you.”

Djuna laughed. “Or else he felt real brave today, and decided to come back here and find another pheasant to chase.”

“Anyway, Grandma’ll keep him for you if we get to caddy again this afternoon,” Jimmy promised. “So let’s eat our lunch.”

The boys gobbled their sandwiches down as though they’d been without food for a week. Once Djuna reported telegraphically, “Peanut butter, egg salad, ham and jelly,” to which Jimmy replied, “Tuna fish, peanut butter and jelly, American cheese.” Aside from this cryptic exchange, they wasted no words until the last scrap of crust had disappeared.

Then Djuna sighed. “Now I feel better, Jimmy. A piece of chocolate cake will just about cure me.”

As though on signal, Grandma emerged carrying two plates with a huge wedge of chocolate cake on each. “I heard that remark, young man,” she said, “and if you don’t say this cake is as good as any Miss Annie can make, you’ll break my heart.”

“Golly!” breathed Djuna. “That frosting must be an inch thick!”

“Don’t sit around measuring it,” Jimmy advised, taking a large bite out of his wedge,
“taste
it!”

Djuna took his advice. “M-m-mmm,” he mumbled, “m-m-mmmmm!”

“That’ll do me for a compliment,” Grandma said, laughing. “There’s more inside if you want it, boys.” She went back into the house.

When the cake was finished, Djuna rubbed his stomach and leaned back against the tree. “That was about the best lunch I ever ate.”

“What’d I tell you about Grandma’s cake?” Jimmy crowed. He, too, relaxed drowsily against the tree trunk. Champ lay down beside them and put his head on his paws. They were almost asleep when, a few minutes later, the sound of an approaching automobile reached them.

Jimmy sat up. “Who can that be? It’s coming here.”

Djuna reached out and caught Champ’s collar to hold him quiet.

A black Chevrolet, dusty and rain-spotted, pulled into the turnaround and parked. The driver opened the door and stepped out, looking curiously at the house before him. He didn’t immediately see Jimmy and Djuna seated under the tree. He was short, stooped, soberly dressed in a dark suit, and above tinted horn-rimmed glasses his eyebrows appeared arched in a permanent expression of inquiry. He took a white handkerchief from his pocket and ran it around the neckband of his shirt. Then he took off his hat and mopped his forehead.

“You know him?” Djuna asked Jimmy in a whisper.

“Never saw him before.”

“He’s got a Pennsylvania license.”

At that moment the dark glasses turned in their direction. The stranger smiled, one corner of his mouth lifting so that his face took on a lopsided look. “Hello, boys,” he said genially, stepping toward them, “hot, isn’t it? I’m looking for the Douglas house. Is this it?” His voice was deep and powerful; he spoke with a faint British accent.

“Yes, sir,” said Jimmy, getting to his feet. “I’m Jimmy Douglas. Did you want to see my father?”

The man waved a hand airily. “If he’s at home. Is he?”

“No, sir. He’s over at the clubhouse. Grandma is here, though.”

“Fine, fine,” said the stranger. “She’ll do splendidly.” He turned and mounted the terrace steps. Jimmy and Djuna went with him, Champ dogging their footsteps. Jimmy called through the open front door.

“Grandma! There’s someone here to see you.”

“Just a minute,” came Grandma’s voice from the kitchen. “Who is it?”

The stranger drew a business card from his wallet and presented it to Jimmy. “Give her my card, if you please,” he said easily. “My name’s Anthony Swift. I’m an antique dealer from Philadelphia.”

Djuna, looking over Jimmy’s shoulder, saw that the business card bore the legend:

Swift’s Antique Shop 406 Hallmark Street, Philadelphia, Pa
.

Down in the lower left-hand corner of the card was set in smaller type,

Mr. Anthony Swift, Prop
.

And in the right-hand corner, the words,

Antique Furniture Our Specialty

Jimmy held the screen door open. “Won’t you come in, Mr. Swift?”

“Thank you, son.” The antique dealer followed Jimmy inside. Djuna and Champ entered with him.

Mr. Swift refused a chair, saying he would wait for Grandma in the hall. Jimmy went into the kitchen to show the man’s card to Grandma. Mr. Swift smiled his lopsided smile at Djuna and said, “From the look of things, the Douglases have only recently moved in, eh?”

“Day before yesterday,” Djuna said.

“It’s most unmannerly of me to barge in on them so soon,” said Mr. Swift, “but I heard a rumor this morning that titillated me so much I decided to risk their displeasure by this early call.” As Grandma came in from the kitchen, he went on smoothly, “Ah—Mrs. Douglas, it is? I must apologize for this ill-timed intrusion. How do you do? I’m Anthony Swift, Madam, and I’m an antique dealer.”

“How do you do, Mr. Swift? I can’t imagine what an antique dealer wants to see me about, but sit down, won’t you?” Grandma led the way into the living room, where Mr. Swift took a chair while Grandma, Jimmy and Djuna found seats for themselves.

“There’s no mystery about my call,” Mr. Swift explained. “You see, I’m on an exploring trip, trying to locate antiques that I might be fortunate enough to purchase for resale at my shop in Philadelphia. I am staying for a few days in a rented room at Mrs. Carstairs’s in Edenboro. Just this morning I heard someone mention that the new golf professional at Fieldcrest Club owned a rather fine example of eighteenth century English furniture. It was, I believe, a commode—a chest of drawers?” He paused expectantly.

Grandma fiddled with his card. “It’s not for sale, Mr. Swift.”

“It’s my chest, up in my bedroom,” Jimmy stated. “I use it to keep my shirts and underwear and pajamas in.”

“How very nice,” Mr. Swift said, looking at Jimmy with an amiable expression. “That’s exactly what a chest was meant to be used for, Jimmy, isn’t it? But if it’s a genuine eighteenth century piece, Madam,” he went on, turning back to Grandma, “it may be worth a great deal of money, both to you and to me.”

Grandma shook her head. “It’s been in the Douglas family for a long time, Mr. Swift. It’s a family heirloom.”

Mr. Swift clucked. “I know how you feel about it, Madam. Sentimental, of course. But …”

“It’s not how
I
feel about it,” said Grandma briskly. “It’s how my son and grandson feel about it. It’s their chest, now that my husband is dead.”

“I feel sure they could be prevailed upon to consider the advantages of selling it,” said Mr. Swift solemnly. “If, that is, it is a truly authentic example of eighteenth century craftsmanship. Have you ever had an expert appraise it?”

“Good heavens, no!”