MYSTERY SOLVED
The three of them jumped out of the car and approached the Ford.
Walters looked it over, checked the license number and said, “This is
it, all right.”
Ken threw open the door next to the steering wheel. “Hey, Paul,
Walters,” he cried, “come here, quick.”
He was joined by his friend and the detective. “Look,” he muttered and
pointed at the driver’s seat.
They looked. There on the seat lay a white card. Walters grabbed it and
turned it over on both sides. It was a plain, white, blank card. “Can
you beat that!” gasped Walters.
Paul took his own card out of his pocket and gave it to Walters.
“Here,” he said, “compare the two.”
The detective made the comparison and announced, “Identical.”
Ken burst out laughing. The detective asked angrily, “What are you
laughing at, you young pup?”
“Now it’s your mystery,” answered the boy. “You look for him and the
next time you see him don’t close your eyes.”
“Trying to be smart,” countered the detective, grinning. “Well, I’ll
have to start looking for him all right.”
Walters searched the front and the rear of the car but he found nothing
suspicious. His investigation completed, he asked Ken to get into the
Ford and follow him. The detective drove back to police headquarters
where the stolen car was parked and the owner of it was notified.
Ken and Paul walked out of the police headquarters in high spirits.
There was no particular reason for it but they thought it quite
humorous that Walters was now involved in the mystery of the white
card. And Ken didn’t seem to get tired of repeating, “From now on,
perhaps he will get out of the habit of closing his eyes.”
And after he said it, he would laugh, assured that it was a very good
joke. Paul said, “Forget it for a while. Which way are you going?”
“Which way are you going?”
“Well, I was on the way to the library when Walters picked me up. So I
guess I will continue my trip to the library.”
“That suits me,” said Ken, “I’ll go along.”
Whistling, chatting, they walked along Main Street when Ken suddenly
saw something that made him quickly alert.
Paul was eyeing a window display as he walked. He felt his arm pinched
and he uttered a muffled cry. “Hey!”
Ken muttered, “Shsh! Look!”
Across the street was the man who looked so much like Mr. Wilson! The
boys gasped. He was standing in the doorway of a three story apartment
house. The ground floor was occupied by a haberdashery on one side and
a shoe store on the other. The mystery man, with his wild, maniacal
appearance, glanced both ways, then he walked off, heading north. Paul
cried, “Come on. I’ll take care of him, Ken. You run into the hall of
the building and see what he may have been up to.”
Ken rushed into the hall. He searched frantically and at last he found
under the stairs a bundle of rags evidently soaked in gasoline or
kerosene, in flames. The wall and the back of the stairs were already
beginning to smolder. By some luck, there happened to be a pail of
dirty water at the other end of the hall. He grabbed it and dashed
the water on the fire. The flames were out in a moment. With the rags
soaking wet, he wiped it across the smoldering wood.
Holding on to the rags, he ran outside and looked at the number of the
building. At the curb he found a sheet of newspaper which he wrapped
around the wet rags. And to make sure he did not forget the address, he
wrote it down.
In the meanwhile, Paul had approached the man and took him under the
arm. “Do you mind if I walk along with you?” he asked.
“Oh, no, no. No, not at all.”
“My name is Paul. What is yours?”
“Who, me? I have no name.”
“That’s too bad,” said Paul. “I thought everybody had a name.”
“Everybody except I,” was the answer.
Paul was at a loss what to do or say. On the spur of the moment, he
remarked, “There is a man who wants to see you. I will take you to him.”
“That is very nice of you. Where is he?”
“Straight ahead, down Main Street.”
“That’s fine. Let’s hurry, because I don’t want to keep him waiting. I
don’t like to keep people waiting.”
Just then Ken came running up and took the man by the other arm.
Together they led the man to police headquarters and into the
detectives’ room. Walters was there and as soon as he saw the boys and
the man, he jumped to his feet. “Where did you get him?” he cried.
“He was looking for you,” said Ken, “so we thought we would bring him
here.”
“Stop kidding, will you, and tell me what it’s all about?” demanded the
detective.
The man stood there very innocently looking from one to the other. Ken
removed the covering of paper from the rags and showed it to Walters.
Paul said, “We saw him come out of the hall of a building....”
“357 South Main Street is the correct address,” said Ken, interrupting.
“That bunch of rags was in flames and the wall and the stairs were
already beginning to smolder.”
“And so we brought him here,” concluded Paul.
The detective turned to the man. “What’s your name?” he demanded.
The man shrugged his shoulders and opened his arms in a gesture of
complete ignorance. “Did you try to start a fire just before at 357
South Main Street?” the detective again asked.
But the man kept his mouth shut, grinned and would say nothing. The
detective was growing red in the face. Paul said, “You ought to have
him examined by a doctor.”
“Where do you live?” asked Walters.
But questioning him was futile and a waste of breath and effort. The
man either would not, could not, or just did not understand enough to
answer the simple questions. Walters searched him. In his right coat
pocket was found a bunch of white cards. Paul and the detective took
out their cards and compared them to the bunch. “Identical,” muttered
Walters.
“Hooray!” cried Ken. “The white card mystery is solved.”
The man grinned sheepishly. Walters continued searching him. In the
other pockets they found more white cards, various odds and ends such
as pieces of string, a pocket knife, several pencils, shoe strings and
an empty wallet with a name and address. Paul read, “Jerome Walsh, 321
Applebury Street.”
“Let’s run down there,” suggested Ken.
The detective nodded. “Yes, we’ll do that. First I will have him
examined by a doctor.”
Walters took the man by the arm and led him out. The boys waited and
two minutes later he returned. “What did you do with him?” asked Ken.
“I gave him over to one of the men to take care of. Let’s go,” said
Walters.
They went to the back of the building and got into a police car. Ken
plopped into the rear seat and began to laugh uproariously. “What’s the
joke?” asked the detective.
“I don’t think you will appreciate it.”
“Take a chance, let’s hear it.”
“What I was laughing at,” said Ken, “is how much it helps when you keep
your eyes open.”
“Aw, keep your mouth shut,” cried the detective, and the next moment he
was himself enjoying the humor of it.
The car sped through the town and soon pulled up in front of 321
Applebury Street. It was a boarding house. Walters rang the bell and a
middle aged woman answered the door. “Does a man by the name of Jerome
Walsh live here?” asked the detective.
“Why, yes,” answered the woman hesitantly. “He isn’t in just now,
though.”
Walters showed his badge and told her who he was. “That’s all right,”
he said. “Take us up to his room.”
“Did he do anything wrong?” asked the woman.
“We just want to search his room,” said Walters.
“And he is such a harmless man,” mused the woman.
They followed the woman to the second floor and she showed them into
a small, neatly kept room. The detective and the boys entered. On a
little table were several books. Paul examined them. “Look,” he cried,
“Professor Link’s book.”
Ken grabbed the volume and looked at it. Inside was the professor’s
name. “So,” he mumbled, “the mystery at last is solved.”
The detective searched the room and found many small items that had
been no doubt stolen from any number of places. Turning to the woman,
he asked, “What do you know about this man, Jerome Walsh?”
“I don’t know anything about him,” she answered meekly. “He has been
boarding with me for almost a year. Once a month a man comes, I think
it is his brother, and pays for his room and board. Tell me, Mister
detective, did Mr. Walsh do anything wrong?”
“Plenty,” was the answer. “Is there supposed to be something wrong with
him mentally?”
“I don’t know,” the woman replied. “Every once in a while he acts
strangely, but as far as I know, he is harmless.”
“What sort of strange things would he do?” asked Paul.
“Well, he would sometimes talk to himself, sometimes he would go out
walking all night long—little things like that.”
The detective said, “The next time this man, his brother or whoever
he is, comes to pay his room and board, I want you to call me. In the
meanwhile, Mr. Walsh is not coming back here any more.”
“But what did he do?” the woman asked frantically.
“He tried to set a house on fire and he stole an automobile this
morning,” the detective told her.
“Which is not all,” added Paul. “Do you have the address of this man
who visits him?”
“Why, yes, I think I do; I think I must have it somewhere downstairs.”
“Let’s go down, then,” said Walters.
Downstairs, the woman searched for about ten minutes until at last
she found the address and gave it to the detective. “Very good,” he
muttered. “We will send for him.”
They left. Ken turned to Paul and said, “Let’s run over to Jack’s and
tell him. He’ll drop dead when he hears it.”
“Yes,” said Paul, “let’s do that.”
Walters dropped them off in front of the Stormways home. Paul waved and
called, “So long, Walters.”
“So long.”
“Keep your eyes open,” called Ken.
The detective smiled. “And you watch yourself,” he called back and
drove off.
The two boys ran into the house, looking for their friend. Mrs.
Stormways told them that he was at the garage and they ran out of the
house again. Jack waved to them, his hands grimy with grease; he was
working on his dad’s car. “Hey!” cried Ken, “the mystery has been
broken wide open.”
“You mean....”
Jack stared at his friends with his mouth open. He couldn’t believe it.
Paul smiled and said, “That’s right, the mystery is solved.”
“And without me,” moaned Jack, “How could you finish up the whole thing
without me! Tell me all about it.”
The boys related how it had all happened. Jack looked very miserable as
he listened to the story. His great regret was that he had not been in
on the exciting final clearing-up of the mystery.
“It’s all right Jack, next week we’ll start college and we’ll forget
all about the Mr. Grey’s and white cards and counterfeiters. We’ll have
to put our minds on how to learn all of the hard subjects we’re going
to take.” Paul tried to be consoling.
“Yes, Jack, and you can start solving a mystery as soon as we get
there. The mystery I mean is this—how are we going to work hard and
get good grades, and still play football, go to dances and have a good
time? Figuring that out will give you a good tough sleuthing job,” Ken
said.
Jack was quite cheerful by now.
“If we can have as good a time at college together as we have here in
Stanhope,” he said, “We will be lucky. But I’m rather tired of summer
and the town. I get a thrill every time I think of getting on the train
Monday.”
“So do I,” Ken added. “We’ve had plenty of adventures since the troop
has been together, and we will have plenty more.”
“Sure we will,” said Paul, “And I’m going home and help my mother pack
my clothes right now. If I don’t watch her she will only put in my best
clothes and leave out things like football sweaters and old pants.”
And with that all three boys started eagerly for home.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Banner Boy Scouts Mystery, by George A. Warren