THE COPPER COLLAR
I guess you will agree with me that it was a queer situation. A yellow
cat had been sent to our cat farm accompanied by a letter over Mrs.
Peter Kepple’s signature representing the “rose-colored” cat to be
worth five hundred dollars. Now an elderly woman registered at the
Walkers Lake Sanitarium as Mrs. Peter Kepple denied all knowledge of
the cat. And in the same hour a young “Mrs. Peter Kepple” from the
sanitarium had called at the mill asking for her “rose-colored” cat.
Of course what Peg’s visitor wanted more than the cat itself was the
copper collar, though she plainly had intended to keep this fact from
us. What had put us wise was her unguarded hysterics at the cat’s
grave, wherein her concern had been centered entirely on the vanished
collar.
We had particularly noticed the copper collar the day the cat arrived
in Tutter. Not because we considered the collar in any way remarkable,
but because it was unusual to see a cat wearing a collar. In our
discussion of the matter Scoop had given as his opinion that the collar
was worth possibly seventy-five cents.
Now we asked ourselves would the woman have been so nervously excited
over the loss of a seventy-five-cent cat collar? And would the
mysterious prowler repeatedly try to steal a collar of such small
value? The answer being “no” in both cases, we promptly concluded that
the collar held a value far and beyond what we had suspected.
As for the yellow cat, we were united in the opinion that it had been
picked up in some Chicago alley. Calling it rose-colored was a clever
scheme to excite our curiosity in the cat itself and _not_ in its
copper collar. Whoever had sent us the cat wanted the collar to escape
close observation.
This being true, why then had the collar been sent to us? What was its
secret? Were the woman and man linked together? Was the woman Mrs.
Kepple or an impostor? And if the prowler were indeed the pearl thief,
was the mysterious affair a peculiar attempt on Mrs. Kepple’s part to
recover her stolen gems?
These were some of the confusing questions that went unanswered in our
reflective review of the situation. Nor could we in conclusion explain
the collar’s disappearance.
Our thoughts were momentarily lifted from the mystery by the sudden
appearance of Red, who tumbled into the mill licking an all-day sucker.
We wondered at his hilarity till we learned from him that he had earned
a quarter taking care of twin papooses while their mother went around
town selling beaded bracelets.
“Help yourself,” he invited, passing us his sack of candy.
While we enjoyed Red’s treat I told him about the two Mrs. Kepples and
the copper collar. The fact that one of us had dug into the grave to
recover the collar for its owner struck him as being funny.
“I could have saved you all that digging,” he grinned at Peg, “if you
had asked me about the collar.”
Here Scoop gave a jump and almost swallowed his sucker.
“Do you know where the collar is?” he gurgled excitedly.
Red nodded.
“I took the collar off of the cat just before we put it away in the
cheese box,” he informed.
This brought a yip from Scoop.
“Bully boy, Red ol’ kid!” he cried, spiritedly thumping the other on
the back. “You get the hand-crocheted doorknob, all right, all right.”
Red promptly swelled up. That’s his way. Praise makes him top-heavy.
Every time. I’m glad I’m not like that. A real hero doesn’t go around
encouraging people to brag on him. I guess not. You never see me doing
that.
“Yes,” Red reviewed importantly, his chest punched up, “I gave the
cat the final once-over while Peg was straightening the cover nails.
‘That’s a good collar,’ I says to myself. ‘Worth savin’,’ says I
wisely. And then----”
Scoop gave a gesture of impatience over the way the talker was throwing
bouquets at himself.
“Where is it?” he cut in shortly.
“I took it home,” informed Red.
Scoop started briskly for the door.
“Come along, gang,” he called over his shoulder.
I knew, of course, that he was heading for Red’s house to inspect the
copper collar. And as I closed the mill door behind me and ran after
him I thrilled with excitement in the thought that only a few minutes
now separated us from a probable solution of the mystery.
Turning into Main Street, we passed our house and a moment later cut
across Red’s lawn. Mrs. Meyers was on the front porch sprinkling insect
powder into her cage of canaries. She gave us an inquiring glance as we
tumbled up the steps; then centered her whole attention in Red, who was
headed on a beeline for the door.
“Wipe your feet,” she cautioned sharply, “and don’t slam the screen.
I’ve got a cake in the oven.”
Presently Red yelled down the stairs:
“Ma! _Hey_, ma!”
“Well?”
“What have you gone and done with my cat collar?”
“Cat collar?”
“I had it hung on the left arm of my Chinese idol. It’s gone.”
Mrs. Meyers’ face cleared.
“Oh, yes. I know what collar you mean.”
“Gosh!” growled Red. “If you ain’t the limit--always hiding my truck. I
never know where to look for anything ten minutes after I lay it down.”
“I put the collar on Tarvia,” informed Mrs. Meyers.
“Who’s Tarvia?” Red wanted to know.
“That’s the name your pa gave the black cat I brought home from the
mill last week.”
Red’s feet clattered on the stairs.
“Is the cat in the barn?” he inquired from the doorway.
“Tarvia,” Mrs. Meyers stated quietly, “has disappeared.”
Red’s jaw dropped.
“The cat came up missing the very day I brought it home,” his mother
continued. “That was last Friday, I believe. I fed it and put it on the
back porch. That’s the last I’ve seen of it.”
Here Red showed his temper. But he came off of his high horse in a
jiffy when his mother threatened to warm him up with a shingle.
“Just the same,” he growled, “you had no business taking my cat collar
and losing it. Now we can’t solve the mystery.”
“I have the feeling,” Mrs. Meyers said helpfully, “that the cat is
somewhere in the neighborhood. If you inquire for it up and down the
street I imagine you’ll locate it.”
Scoop agreed that this was the proper thing to do.
“You can take this side of the street,” he instructed Red, “and I’ll
take the other side. Peg, you and Jerry can inquire in the side
streets.”
An hour later we formed a somewhat discouraged group on Red’s back
porch. Our systematic search throughout the neighborhood had failed to
uncover any trace of the missing cat. Nor had a single person we talked
with admitted seeing a cat of any color or description wearing a copper
collar. No doubt the black cat was in Tutter as Mrs. Meyers maintained,
but it might take us a week to locate it. And until we knew for certain
that the young Mrs. Kepple was an impostor it was well to play safe and
recover the collar within the time limits she had specified. How then
were we to proceed?
“They say it pays to advertise,” spoke up Scoop, “and I believe it.
So let us post a notice on the bulletin board at the town hall. If we
work it right we can have one hundred Tutter kids searching for the cat
within an hour. And the more kids we have on the job the sooner the
cat’ll be found.”
Mrs. Meyers got for us a square of white paper and a bottle of black
ink.
“Is it your scheme to offer a reward for the recovery of the cat?” she
inquired.
Scoop ran his fingers through his hair.
“Gee-miny, Mrs. Meyers, we can’t offer a reward when we haven’t any
money.”
“Um---- You ought to have a reward,” she followed up. “Boys like to be
paid for their work. Suppose you make it one dollar and send the bill
to me.”
It was pretty fine of Mrs. Meyers to offer to put up the money for the
reward. We told her so. Then we got busy and printed our notice. Here
it is:
BOYS!!!
FIND TARVIA AND WIN THIS BIG REWARD!
I will pay any Tutter boy one dollar who finds the black cat that
strayed from 1014 Main Street last Friday. Cat’s name is Tarvia. Was
last seen wearing a copper collar. Collar must be returned with the
cat.
DONALD MEYERS.
Hurrying to the town hall we recited our scheme to Bill Hadley and
asked his permission to post the notice on the bulletin board just
without the door.
“Sure thing you can put up your notice,” consented Bill, grinning at
us in his usual friendly way. He’s awful homely but I try not to notice
it when I talk with him. Anyway, he’s a good policeman. Dad says so.
Here Scoop screwed up his forehead under a new train of thought.
“Now I wonder,” he said reflectively, “if it wouldn’t seem more
_official_ if we had a man’s name signed to the notice instead of a
boy’s name. Um---- How would it be if we used your name, Mr. Hadley?”
Bill promptly craned his neck.
“What’s that?” he inquired quickly.
In repeating his words Scoop explained that Red’s signature might
suggest to some boys that the notice was a joke.
“They’ll know it’s sincere if you sign it,” he concluded convincingly.
“All right,” Bill laughed, patting Scoop on the back.
So we promptly erased Red’s name and substituted Bill’s. Scoop was
right. The new signature gave the notice a desired touch of importance.
Here Peg and Red returned to the mill while Scoop and I put up the
notice. A gang of boys came noisily down the street. Upon Scoop’s
suggestion I ran to the corner. Then in keeping with our plan he
yipped at me:
“Hey, Jerry Todd! Here’s a chance for you to earn some money.”
The passing boys stopped and pricked up their ears.
“What’s that?” I yipped back.
“Come here and read this notice about a lost cat. If you find the cat
you get a big reward.”
This brought the newcomers around the bulletin board. They said it
would be fun searching for the cat, and off they started. Shortly
another group of boys came into sight and we repeated our yipping
stunt, thereby attracting them to the bulletin board. It was fun to see
them leave on the run.
“Before noon,” laughed Scoop, “we’ll have every kid in town on Tarvia’s
trail.”
“Let’s hope they don’t step on Tarvia’s tail,” I joked contentedly.
“Even the Stricker gang,” he added quickly, pointing down the street to
where Bid Stricker was fast approaching, his chums hurrying along at
his heels.
“Let’s move on to the corner,” I suggested as a matter of precaution.
Evidently some one had told Bid about the cat notice. Going directly
to the bulletin board he cried to the others:
“Here it is.”
“Reads like a joke,” came presently from another boy.
“Joke nothin’,” Bid argued sharply. “Lookit! It’s got Bill Hadley’s
name signed to it.”
Here they put their heads together in guarded conversation.
“Yes,” Bid concluded aloud, “we’ll make it snappy,” and off they
hurried, laughing and talking.
Scoop’s eyes were heavy with distrust.
“I wonder what they’re up to,” he muttered.
“They act to me as though they know something about that cat,” I
returned.
“Um---- I believe you’re right, Jerry. Suppose we follow them.”
We did this, keeping well behind so as to escape detection. Presently
the others turned to the right into the Treebury pike. This brought a
cry from Scoop.
“Jerry!” he gasped, clutching my arm. “Don’t you tumble?”
“You think they’re heading for the brick house where they sold the
cats?”
“Absolutely.” A queer sound came from his throat. “When was it the
black cat disappeared from Mrs. Meyers’ back porch?”
“Last Friday morning,” I supplied, recalling what Red’s mother had told
us.
“And wasn’t it last Friday morning that the Strickers ransacked the
town for stray cats?”
I nodded; and then my eyes sought my companion’s in a dumb stare as
I grasped the truth of the situation. Mrs. Meyers’ black cat had not
strayed from its new home as she imagined. It had been picked up by the
Strickers and then sold by them to the cat buyer. Now they were deep in
some kind of a scheme to recover the cat and obtain the reward.
Scoop’s forehead was clouded with reflection.
“Evidently,” he spoke up, “Bid knows about the barnful of cats left
behind by the buyer. And he intends either to beg the black cat from
the farmer’s wife or snitch it. Blame it! I wish we could get to the
farmhouse ahead of him.”
We were now in the outskirts. Here the turnpike follows a winding
course. My thoughts put into action by Scoop’s concluding remark, I
told myself it would be no trick at all for us to get to the farmhouse
ahead of Bid and his gang if we could only leave the turnpike and
travel in a straight line. But to cut across the cultivated fields
would be hard walking. Any gain we might make by following that course
would be slight.
Then I happily thought of the canal that lay just beyond the knoll to
our left. We could travel the towpath as far as the old Morgan house,
then cut through the fields to the crossroads. That would easily bring
us in ahead of Bid and his chums.
There wasn’t a moment to spare, so with a hurried explanation I cried
to Scoop to follow me into the roadside thicket. Running up the slope
we soon came within sight of the towering oaks and elms that grow in
the moist soil of the paralleling canal banks.
Soon we were headed north on the towpath. Here it was cool and quiet.
The tang of the water got into our nostrils, building up thoughts of
swimming and fishing. The old deserted Morgan house appeared in the
distance. As we came closer its glassless window frames and broken-down
doors recalled to my mind the Sunday morning we found Mr. Arnoldsmith
bent over the crumbling fireplace cooking his breakfast of bacon and
eggs. That was the day he told us about the strange mummy itchers
and made us swear, as loyal Juvenile Jupiter Detectives, to keep his
secret. If you have read my book about the whispering mummy you will
recall that Mr. Arnoldsmith was the president of our detective agency.
A grip on my arm brought me out of my thoughts.
“There’s the crossroads and the brick house,” Scoop pointed.
Turning from the towpath we dipped into a cornfield, then followed a
lane leading to the barnyard. Here we cautiously squinted down the
turnpike. As yet the Strickers were nowhere in sight.
Darting across the barnyard we ran up the steps of the kitchen porch.
The clatter of our shoes attracted the farmer’s wife to the door.
“Dear me!” was her alarmed cry, as she caught sight of our flushed
faces. “What has happened?”
Scoop quickly told her about the black cat and the copper collar.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you,” she said slowly, “but I gave away the
black cat the same day you were here.”
She then explained that her “cat premium” sign had attracted the
attention of a number of passing motorists.
“My first egg customer,” she concluded, “was a lady who drove into the
yard, accompanied by a little girl. I gave them their pick of the cats.”
Scoop moistened his lips.
“And they took the black one?”
“Yes. The girl preferred it to the others because of its resemblance to
a cat she had recently lost.”
“And you threw in the copper collar?”
The other nodded.
“Was it a Tutter lady?”
“No; her home is in the country.”
Scoop brightened.
“Then you know her?” he followed up eagerly.
“I never set eyes on her before. During our conversation she spoke of
living in the country. That’s how I came to know about it.”
Excusing herself, the woman gave brief attention to the dinner cooking
on the stove, then hastened to inquire if we had seen anything of her
vanished boarder. We wearily told her we hadn’t. Here a boy’s whistle
fell on our ears. Thanking her for telling us about the cat we hurried
out of sight. The Strickers, of course, would fare no better than we
had, but it was just as well not to let them see us.
The noon whistles lifted their voices in a jazzy chorus as we came
into town, hot, tired and discouraged. Getting on the outside of a big
dinner I hurried to the old mill. The others were already there. I
could tell from the general air of depression that Scoop had told the
story of our unsuccessful trip into the country.
Evening came. So far no black cat had been delivered into Bill Hadley’s
hands at the town hall. Dispirited and out of sorts, I told myself that
never again would we see anything of either the black cat or the copper
collar.
The others talked of the prowler’s possible return.
“If he does come,” gritted Peg, “I hope I get first crack at him with
my club.”
Scoop gave a nervous laugh.
“What if Mrs. Kepple decides to pay us a midnight visit? We don’t want
to club her on the head.”
Peg turned quickly.
“You mean my Mrs. Kepple?”
The other nodded.
“No danger of her coming here in the middle of the night,” Peg returned
confidently. “Nor the other Mrs. Kepple, either.”
“There’s only the one.”
“That’s what you think.”
“This afternoon,” Scoop informed slowly, “I telephoned to the
sanitarium to inquire if the two Mrs. Kepples arrived together. The
desk clerk told me there was only one Mrs. Kepple registered; and she
came last Thursday evening.”
Peg stared.
“But I thought she arrived this morning.”
“No; she came Thursday evening--four days ahead of time.”
There was a tense silence.
“Thursday evening,” Peg reflected. “Why, that’s the night we played
ghost.”
Scoop nodded.
“I don’t understand it,” Peg cried in a daze. “The prowler can’t
possibly be Mrs. Kepple. We know it’s a man.”
“I’m convinced,” returned Scoop, “that Mrs. Kepple brought the prowler
to town with her. That’s why I say it wouldn’t be such a strange thing
if she decided to do a little prowling to-night on her own hook.”
It came eleven o’clock before we realized how quickly the evening had
slipped away. So we put aside our discussion of the mystery and turned
in.
I was tired and went promptly to sleep. It seemed to me that not more
than ten minutes had passed when a whispering voice told me to get up.
“There’s some one at the door,” Peg informed in the same low breath.
Red and Scoop were standing in the puddle of moonlight that came
through the window. Half asleep and half awake I got my club and joined
them. Red’s teeth were chattering.
“First I heard footsteps,” Peg told us. “Then the door rattled. After
that came a knock. Listen! There it is again.” He caught his breath.
“It can’t be the prowler,” spoke up Scoop, as the knocking grew louder.
Crossing to the window, Peg grasped the rope that still hung there.
“I’m going to find out who it is,” he declared grimly. “Keep quiet till
I come back. And you better take hold of the rope. If I yell ‘thirteen’
drag me in quick.”
Then he went out through the window. I leaned over the sill and watched
him creep to a corner of the building. The big door was now entirely
within his vision. Suddenly he gave a cry and vanished. A moment later
he called out: “Open up, fellows; it’s all right.”
I wondered at the queer note in his voice till the door swung back on
its hinges. Then I understood.
The man standing in the moonlit opening was Professor Stoner!
“Yes,” he murmured, taking note of our stupefaction, “it is indeed
the wanderer returned to the fold,” and cackling over this silly joke
he teetered into the mill, his willowy legs seemingly longer and more
spider-like than ever.
The yowling cats drew his attention to the tenanted cat boxes and we
stood speechless as he passed beamingly from one cat box to another,
favoring each cat with exclamations of delight. His left arm supported
the same basket he had carried the day we met him at the depot. Coming
to an empty box he paused, threw back the basket’s cover, and brought
from therein a coal-black cat. Very gently he shut the cat in the box,
then turned to us with a contented sigh.
Here Scoop’s brain got to working again. Darting forward he took the
black cat from its box. Red and I pressed forward.
“It’s Tarvia,” Scoop mumbled; then stared at us in bewilderment.
Yes, it was Mrs. Meyers’ cat. But there was no collar on its neck.