The Last Straw
Discouragement weighed heavily upon Dan and Brad as they left Mr.
Merrimac’s home.
The bakery owner had been their No. 1 prospect and without a donation
from him they knew the Den never could make a good showing in the
solicitation.
“Mr. Hatfield gave us Mr. Merrimac’s name because he thought we were the
best collectors,” Brad said in disgust. “Well, we muffed it.”
“We caught him in a bad mood,” Dan replied, equally sunk in gloom. “Do
you think the old cod really lost money as he claimed? Or was it just
another trick?”
“Search me, Dan. It’s a cinch three persons couldn’t have lost that cash.
The whole thing is fantastic.”
“I almost wish we hadn’t found that box, Brad.”
“So do I. It’s going to make a peck of trouble. Well, what do we do now?
Report to Mr. Hatfield?”
“May as well. He ought to know about Mr. Merrimac’s claim, even if it
should prove phoney.”
The boys found the Cub leader in his front yard, raking leaves. Leaning
on his rake, he listened attentively to their account of what had
happened at Mr. Merrimac’s place.
“It’s a bad break not getting the donation,” he said. “But don’t take it
too hard. Mr. Merrimac may come through later on. As for his claim that
the money box belongs to him—well, I don’t know what to think about
that.”
“It’s probably just another fake claim,” Brad declared.
“Was he able to tell the amount of money in the box?”
“He said it was several thousand,” Brad answered.
“You didn’t ask him to be more definite or to furnish a description of
the money box?”
“No, Dan and I were too disgusted. We left as quickly as we could.”
“Mr. Merrimac probably will come to see me,” the Cub leader responded.
Picking up a basket of leaves, he started with it toward the street.
Just then a black police car pulled up at the curb. Mr. Hatfield put down
the basket and went to meet the officers.
“We have a report that you’re holding a box of money found by some of the
Cub Scouts at a church,” Sergeant Billings addressed Mr. Hatfield.
“That’s right. Come into the house and I’ll turn it over to you. First
though, meet Dan Carter and Brad Wilber. They’re the ones who found the
box.”
“Dan did,” Brad corrected. “I just happened to be around.”
“How are you, boys?” Sergeant Billings said heartily.
He began to pose friendly but pointed questions which Brad and Dan
answered to the best of their abilities.
“Don’t worry about finding the rightful owner of the box,” he reassured
them. “We’ll get to the bottom of it in short order. By the way, you
didn’t happen to find a blackjack or a pair of brass knuckles along side
of the box did you?”
“Oh, no, sir!” Dan returned, surprised by the question.
“It might be smart to let that impression get around,” the sergeant
chuckled. “Catch on?”
“You mean if folks thought that by claiming the box they would tangle
with the law, they might not be so quick to say it was theirs?” Brad
demanded.
“That’s the idea, kid.”
“I don’t want the Cubs to become involved any further in this matter,”
Mr. Hatfield said, speaking decisively. “That’s why I called police. I
want to be rid of the box and all responsibility.”
“Fair enough,” rejoined Sergeant Billings. “Just lead me to the box. I
can’t guarantee though, that you won’t have the newspaper reporters on
your neck when this story gets out. I’ll have to make a report, you
know.”
“I suppose so,” Mr. Hatfield admitted, leading the way to the house.
“Well, keep the Cubs out of it as much as possible.”
In the living room the Cub leader offered the sergeant a chair and then
excused himself.
“I have the money box hidden upstairs,” he said. “Wait and I’ll fetch
it.”
Mr. Hatfield was gone a long while. During his absence, Dan and Brad told
Sergeant Billings everything they knew about the money box. They even
mentioned the mysterious face at the window, and gave the officer the
license number of the car which they thought had followed Mr. Hatfield’s
auto on the night of the storm.
“Your imagination probably tricked you on that one,” the sergeant said,
noting down the number. “But I’ll check anyhow.”
“By the way, have you heard whether or not that ward of the court, Jack
Phillips ever was caught?” Brad inquired.
“We’ve been looking for him,” the sergeant replied. “So far he’s eluded
us. Jack is slippery, but we’ll get him back in time.”
“How old is he?” Dan asked curiously.
“About twelve—maybe a bit younger. He’s wise, though, in the ways of the
world. We think he’s still around here unless he hitch-hiked to another
town. He may be hiding out in the marsh or along the waterfront.”
“How does he manage to live?” Brad questioned.
“Oh, Jack’s an old hand at getting along. The boy has good stuff in him,
but he’s made us a lot of trouble. He can’t stand confinement.”
While the Cubs talked, Fred Hatfield came into the house. He too had been
calling on building fund prospects and reported that he had obtained
pledges totaling nearly one hundred and twenty dollars.
“You did better than we did,” Brad congratulated him.
“Just luck,” Fred returned modestly. “Tomorrow I’ll probably get a lot of
turn-downs. Say, where’s Dad?”
“That’s what were wondering,” Dan replied, glancing at the wall clock.
Already Mr. Hatfield had been upstairs more than ten minutes.
“He went after the money box,” Brad explained. “I don’t know what’s
keeping him.”
At that moment, Mr. Hatfield came hurriedly down the stairway.
The Cubs saw at once that he did not have the money box.
“Fred,” his father said, pausing on the bottom step, “you didn’t by any
chance dig into the lower drawer of my desk?”
“Why, no, father,” his son answered in surprise.
“Then the worst has happened. The money box is gone!”
“Gone?” Fred demanded. “How could it be?”
“That’s what I can’t understand. Unless perhaps your mother put it away
somewhere.”
Mr. Hatfield went quickly to the kitchen to talk to his wife. However, as
he had feared, she had not removed the box from the desk drawer.
During the conversation, Sergeant Billings had listened without comment.
He now asked to inspect the desk in the upstairs study.
“You didn’t have the box in a very safe place,” he commented.
“Apparently, the drawer wasn’t even locked.”
“It has no key,” Mr. Hatfield admitted. “I thought the box would be safe
enough until I could turn it over to police.”
“How many persons have been in the house since you brought the box here?”
the sergeant questioned.
“Well, quite a few. All of the Cubs except Midge. Then Mr. Wilson came.”
“And Mr. Brakschmidt,” added Brad. “He didn’t go upstairs though and
neither did Mr. Wilson.”
“No one did except the members of my own family,” Mr. Hatfield said
earnestly. “I know that neither Fred nor my wife touched the box. But
what became of it?”
“How much did it contain?”
“Two thousand, one hundred and seventy-five dollars.”
Sergeant Billings whistled softly. “That’s a pretty stiff loss. You’re
sure the box really is lost?”
Mr. Hatfield regarded him in amazement.
“I can’t find it, if that’s what you mean,” he said stiffly. “Or are you
implying—?”
“Well, it looks sort of funny,” the sergeant replied. “You say the box
has been taken, yet there’s no evidence anyone broke into the house. Who
knew where you hid the box?”
“Only myself.”
“I guessed where you put it,” interposed Fred.
“But you didn’t touch the box?” his father asked.
“No, of course not.”
“I assume full responsibility,” Mr. Hatfield said in a harassed tone. “I
swear I thought the box would be safe here—”
“I’ll make a report,” Sergeant Billings broke in. “Likely you’ll be
called to headquarters for further questioning.”
“I’ve already told you everything I know about the matter.”
“Yeah,” grunted the sergeant. He arose to leave.
Mr. Hatfield was thoroughly annoyed by the other’s tone.
“See here,” he said, “I hope you understand I’m not trying to conceal
anything. Why should I?”
“Two thousand a hundred and seventy-five dollars,” the sergeant repeated
thoughtfully. “A tidy little sum.”
“You’re not implying that I’m trying to keep it?”
“It’s not up to me to figure out motives,” Sergeant Billings shrugged. “I
only ask questions and turn in the reports. If I were in your shoes
though, I’d try to produce that box. Otherwise, we’ll have to do a little
investigating.”