Stolen Furs
On the morrow, Dan and Brad called early at Mr. Hatfield’s home to
inquire as to the condition of Jacques.
They found the boy up and dressed, eating a late breakfast with Mr. and
Mrs. Hatfield and Fred. Apparently none the worse for his river adventure
of the previous night, the lad seemed in fairly good spirits.
Taking Brad and Dan aside, Fred reported to them that absolutely no
progress had been made in learning the boy’s identity or anything about
his past.
“Just as soon as one asks him a direct question, he pretends not to
understand,” Fred complained. “It’s all a pose.”
“What does your father plan to do with him?” Brad asked.
“He hasn’t decided yet. This afternoon we’re going down to the Cave to
clean up after last night’s meeting. We’ll probably take Jacques with
us.”
“You know he’s a Cub, I suppose,” Dan remarked.
“A Cub!” Fred was astonished. “Why, no! He didn’t give us a hint of it.
What makes you think so?”
Dan and Brad related how Jacques had grasped the former’s hand in the
official Cub handclasp, mute evidence that he once had been a member of
the international organization.
“He’s a queer duck,” Fred declared. “I’m sure he didn’t mention to Dad
that he ever had been a Cub. Fact is, he’s kept mum about everything.
Won’t peep a word as to his folks or where he came from.”
The Cubs discussed Jacques a little longer, and then Brad and Dan left,
but not before promising Fred they would drop around at the Cave later to
help with the cleaning.
Anxious to learn how much damage had been done the previous night to Mr.
Holloway’s sailboat, the boys next stopped at the Webster City Yacht
Club. From Midge, who loitered on the dock, they learned that the sailing
craft already had been hauled to a nearby boat yard to be repaired.
“The job will cost at least forty dollars,” Midge reported. “What’s
worse, the boat will be out of water for at least two or three days. It
makes me sick!”
“Did your father learn if it was Manheim’s boat that struck us last
night?” Dan questioned.
“Not yet. We inquired around the clubhouse, but no one has seen the
Manheim speedboat the last couple of days.”
Brad had noticed a mahogany speedcraft which was plowing up the channel
at half-speed. “Isn’t that Manheim’s boat coming now?” he demanded. “It
looks like it to me.”
“Likewise the same one that struck us last night,” Midge muttered,
shading his eyes as he gazed toward the sun.
As the three Cubs watched, the boat drew closer until they could read the
license numbers—D 351, and see the bright gleam of her brasswork.
“The boat that hit us had no visible license,” Dan said, a little
troubled. “If it weren’t for that, I’d say it was Manheim’s craft that
smashed into us.”
“Who’s at the wheel?” Brad demanded. “Not Manheim.”
The operator of the boat wore a striped red and blue jersey and soiled
brown trousers. His square jaw and grizzled sun-brown face of set
expression marked him as a man of surly temper.
As the boat slid along toward the Manheim berth, he glanced briefly at
the Cubs. Then deliberately he looked away.
“Wonder who he is?” Midge muttered. “He doesn’t resemble anyone in that
boat last night.”
“Not the operator anyway,” Dan agreed. “Actually, we didn’t see the other
two fellows well enough to recognize them again.”
The Cubs kept the boat in view as it maneuvered into a reserved space at
the far end of the dock. Midge asked a club member, who loitered nearby,
if the speedboat belonged to Mr. Manheim.
“Yes, that’s his boat,” the club member identified it.
“But that isn’t Mr. Manheim at the wheel?”
“No, the pilot is a fellow who works for him at Skeleton Island. A new
man he hired a few months ago. I’ve heard him called Wilson Jabowski.”
After the club member had moved on, the three Cubs watched the Manheim
boat fill its gas tank at a private pump.
“Notice her stern,” Dan whispered to his companions. “Can you see any
scratches?”
“We’re too far away,” Midge returned. “But I’ll bet a frosted doughnut it
was Manheim’s boat that rammed us last night! I’ll find out!”
Unable to restrain himself, the boy descended three steps to the lower
level, there to inspect the craft’s hull.
“Hey!” the boat operator shouted as Midge bent to look closely at the
mahogany. “What d’you think you’re doing?”
“Nothing,” Midge mumbled, startled. “Just looking.”
“Well, do your lookin’ somewhere else!” the man snapped. “Mr. Manheim
doesn’t want kids hangin’ around his boat.”
“I’m not doing any harm,” Midge defended himself. “I was just noticing a
few scratches on your boat. Have you been in an accident?”
“No,” the boat operator answered gruffly. “I may have scratched the
mahogany a couple of days ago when I was backing out of the berth. Grazed
a dock post.”
“Oh, I see,” Midge said, pretending to accept the explanation. “I thought
maybe you might have been in a collision last night.”
“Collision! What you drivin’ at, you young whelp? Trying to make out it
was Mr. Manheim’s boat that run into your Dad’s sailboat?”
“I didn’t say so, did I? Anyhow, how did you know of it?”
“Heard about the accident here at the club,” the boat operator retorted.
“Let me tell you something! This boat wasn’t away from Skeleton Island
last night! And another thing, Mr. Manheim doesn’t go around smashing
sailboats.”
“Who said he did?” Midge demanded, now on the defensive. “I never accused
him.”
“No, but you’re thinking it was this boat that hit yours. Oh, I heard you
boys whispering! Well, get this straight! You better not go to Mr.
Manheim with your complaints.”
“I’m sorry if I said anything to offend,” Midge replied, his voice stony.
“To tell you the truth, I did think maybe it was his boat that struck
ours in the dark. If I’ve made a mistake I apologize.”
“You sure made a mistake, kid. Now get going all of you! I want to fill
this gasoline tank and get back to Skeleton Island.”
Embarrassed by the reprimand, the three Cubs took themselves to the club
where they sat on the veranda drinking cokes.
“I sure made the old boy sore,” Midge said between sips of the iced
drink. “I never intended to accuse him or say anything about the
accident. He snapped me up so fast.”
“Almost as if he had a guilty conscience,” Dan agreed. “Maybe he heard
about the accident here at the club the way he said. Then again, maybe he
didn’t.”
“Those scratches on the boat weren’t very deep,” Midge said thoughtfully.
“All in all, I guess I’d better not exercise my gums too much over the
thing. Dad wouldn’t like it.”
Brad, who had been scanning the morning paper while his companions
talked, now uttered a startled snort.
“Say, will you look at this!” he exclaimed, tapping a front page news
story. “Guess what happened last night?”
“Break it to us gently, Brad, my boy,” Midge laughed.
“It says here that a box of furs valued at $8,500 was stolen last night
from Pier 23. So far the police haven’t traced the thieves.”
Dan relieved Brad of the newspaper and read the account for himself. The
story related that during the early hours of the evening, a fast
motorboat had pulled alongside of Pier 23 where a box of furs had been
piled up with other merchandise for shipment. Before the warehouse
watchman had suspected what was happening, the craft with its unknown
occupants had sped away into the darkness.
“Say, do you suppose that could have been the same boat that struck us
last night?” Dan demanded as he finished reading the story.
“What time did the robbery occur?” Midge asked thoughtfully.
“The story doesn’t say. But you remember, the boat was showing no lights,
and coming from the general direction of the docks.”
“That’s true,” Midge admitted, impressed. “All the same, Manheim isn’t
the type of man to get mixed up in a fur theft. In the first place, he
has plenty of money.”
“We may have been mistaken about it being the Manheim boat,” Dan argued.
“In any case, this story about the fur theft is interesting,” Brad said,
rereading it. “It looks to me as if the river pirates are getting pretty
bold when they can pull off a robbery practically under the eyes of the
watchman.”
“I wish we had more information,” Midge remarked. “Pier 23 isn’t far from
here. Why not go there and see if we can pick up any more information.”
The proposal appealed to Brad and Dan. Finishing their drinks, they
caught a bus which dropped them off a few minutes later at the commercial
area of the river.
Midge, who was fairly familiar with this section of the waterfront, led
his companions toward a small warehouse whose corrugated steel door stood
slightly ajar.
Inside, an elderly man was taking an inventory of boxes and crates
stacked against the wall. A spry, wiry little fellow with white hair and
energy that belied his sixty-nine years, he whirled around as he heard
the boys enter.
“You startled me,” he chuckled, obviously relieved. “After last night,
I’m a mite jumpy.”
The Cubs noticed then that the warehouse man carried a revolver in a
holster at his belt.
“I’m Hank Hawkins, at your service,” he announced cheerfully. “What can I
do for you youngsters?”
“We’d like a little information about the robbery last night,” Dan spoke
up. “We’re not just asking questions out of curiosity. We may have some
information for you too.”
“You kids know something about it?”
“We may have seen the boat that pulled away from the pier. We’re not
sure. What time did the robbery take place?”
“Say, who are you kids anyhow?” the watchman demanded, without answering
the question.
Brad gave his name and introduced his companions, explaining that they
were Cub Scouts. “I guess you think we have our nerve barging in like
this,” he added. “We read about the fur robbery in the paper, and we want
to learn the details.”
“I see.” Hank sat down on a packing case to light his pipe. “Well, there
ain’t much to tell. The Hodur and Fameister firm sent through a box of
expensive furs. They were to have been picked up at 10 o’clock last night
by the freighter _Albone_. At eight thirty I set out the box along with
some others that were to go. Then I stepped back into the warehouse for a
minute, and it happened.”
“You say the theft occurred about eight thirty?” Dan asked thoughtfully.
“It was about that time. Ordinarily, it wouldn’t have been dark, but a
heavy fog had rolled in.”
“Did you see the motorboat and the men in it?” Midge asked.
“Caught a glimpse of ’em as they pulled away—that was all. It all
happened so fast. They had that box off the pier and were gone before I
knew what was up.”
“What sort of boat was it?” Brad inquired.
“A 20-ft. high-powered speedboat. Mostly she was a blur in the dark. Not
a light showing.”
“How many in the boat?”
“Three, I’d say.”
The information tended to convince the Cubs that the craft was the same
one that had smashed into Mr. Holloway’s sailboat.
As they were telling Hank about the incident, a tapping sound was heard
on the planking outside the door. A moment later, a blindman led by a
seeing-eye dog, groped his way into the warehouse.
“Good morning, Joe,” the watchman greeted him. “How’s business today?”
“Lousy,” the blindman complained. “I’ve sold only four packages of
pencils all morning. The sun’s so hot it’s wilting me. Mind if I chin for
a few minutes while I cool off?”
“Glad to have you,” Hank said, guiding the man to a seat on a box. “Boys,
meet Joe Matt, a friend of mine.”
The Cubs gave their own names. Feeling sorry for the man, Brad then
bought a package of pencils for a quarter. However, the blindman pocketed
the coin rather indifferently.
“What do you hear from the cops?” he asked Hank. “Any clue as to the fur
thieves?”
“Apparently it was a clean get-away. The box was insured for only half
its value and that makes it tough for Hodur and Fameister. I’m lucky I
didn’t lose my job?”
“Why should anyone blame you?” the blindman demanded. “It wasn’t your
fault.”
“No, but maybe my employer will figure I should have had my eyes open a
little wider. It’s the first time I’ve lost anything in the eighteen
years I’ve been workin’ on the waterfront.”
Hank discussed the theft at length and then began to tell other tales of
the waterfront which kept the Cubs enthralled. Brad, Dan, and Midge
presently found themselves drawn into the conversation. They told of
their Cave on the hillside and the exciting treasure hunt which had led
to the discovery of Jacques lying on the beach.
“Jacques?” the blindman interposed. “Is that his name? Must be one of
those foreigners.”
“French, we think,” Midge revealed, failing to notice the look of intent
interest in the blindman’s otherwise mask-like face. “He’s not much to
talk.”
“Hasn’t told you anything about himself?”
“Not yet.”
“Where is the youngster now?”
“He may be at the Cave.”
The blindman talked a few minutes more and then arose to leave. Dan also
slid down from the packing box on which he had perched himself.
Slight as was the movement, it disturbed the seeing-eye dog. With a
snarl, he sprang at the boy.
Startled, Dan leaped backward. The blindman uttered a sharp command.
“Here, Rudy! Come here! Behave yourself!”
Still growling and eyeing Dan with deep hate, the dog allowed his master
to grasp him by the leash.
“Quite a vicious dog you have there,” Brad said, edging away. “He might
have taken a chunk out of Dan.”
“Rudy isn’t vicious,” the blindman denied. “Now and then he takes a
dislike to someone. Usually he won’t attack unless he’s annoyed.”
“That’s encouraging,” Dan said with a wry grin. “Believe me, in the
future I’ll take pains not to annoy him.”
Without apologizing for the incident, the blindman took the dog and went
off down the wharf. For a long while, the Cubs could hear his cane
tapping on the planks.
“Joe Matt isn’t a bad sort after you know him,” the watchman remarked,
aware that the Cubs had not been favorably impressed by the man’s
manners. “Being blind would make anyone out-of-sorts, I guess.”
“Sure,” Brad agreed. “I suppose he’s attached to that dog—though he’s an
ugly animal. Wouldn’t want to meet him on a dark night.”
“You can bet I’ll give him a wide berth,” Dan added with a laugh. “Rudy
didn’t go for me. And the feeling’s mutual! By the way, Hank, how long
have you known Joe Matt?”
“Oh, I don’t remember,” the watchman replied indifferently, knocking the
ashes from his pipe. “Six months maybe. Well, I’ve been spinning yarns
long enough. Got to do a little work now.”
Accepting the remark as a dismissal, Dan, Brad and Midge said goodbye,
and left the warehouse. At the bus line, they debated, and finally
decided to make an appearance at the Cave.
“Mr. Holloway and Fred will need some help cleaning up the place,” Dan
declared. “Also, if Jacques is there, I’d like to talk to him again.”
“He seemed to go for you more than anyone else,” Brad said, signaling to
a bus driver. “Maybe you can get him to loosen up a bit.”
The sun was high overhead as the three Cubs alighted from the bus ten
minutes later. Crossing the beach, they climbed to the Cave.
Entering, they saw at once that something was amiss. Mr. Holloway and
Fred were there alone, their brooms discarded. Rather dejectedly they sat
at a table, studying an object which was hidden from view.
“Hi!” Dan greeted the pair. “Where’s Jacques? We thought you were
bringing him here.”
“We did,” replied Fred significantly.
The other Cubs looked quickly about the disordered room. Plainly Jacques
was nowhere in the Cave.
“Where is he?” Brad demanded. “Don’t keep us in suspense. He didn’t take
a turn for the worse?”
Mr. Hatfield shook his head.
“No, Jacques appeared fine when last we saw him. This will explain.” He
thrust a note into Brad’s hand. “The lad left it here a few minutes ago.”
In a large, hard-to-read scrawl, the boy had written:
“Thanks for everything. Goodbye.”
Beneath the message appeared a crudely drawn Wolf cub, its sharp ears
pointing to the final word: “Jacques.”