IN THE PARROT STORE
As I say, old Cap’n Tinkertop had brought home a wad of money from
his brother’s funeral. The dead sailor had been buried in Cedarburg.
The week of the funeral a valuable black parrot had been stolen from
a wealthy Cedarburg woman for whom the dead sailor had worked. We had
just gotten that story from the Ott kid. And in consequence I now had
the troubled suspicion that there might be some unworthy connection
between our old friend’s sudden wealth and the vanished bird. I
couldn’t figure it out. But I felt that Scoop Ellery could. For he’s
smart in solving mysteries. So Red and I turned back into town to
find the leader and tell him the story exactly as the Ott kid had
told it to us.
“I bet you,” says Red, as we jogged along, “that the old man came
here on a clew.”
“You mean Mr. Ott?” says I.
The other nodded.
“He’s shadowing the Cap’n. See?”
I was puzzled.
“But why should the Cap’n steal a parrot at his brother’s funeral?”
“That’s the mystery.”
“And if he did steal it,” says I, “where is it?”
“More mystery,” says Red.
“Do you think Poppy’s father suspects that the Cap’n has the parrot
here?”
“Sure thing. He’s got a clew, I tell you. That’s what brought him
here.”
The Cap’n’s bird store is in a little old building on School Street,
which is one of our main business streets. This is the same building
where Spider Phelps ran his shooting gallery the winter poor Mrs.
Higgins sneezed her false teeth halfway across the Methodist church
when they were giving out the Christmas presents. We had helped our
old one-legged friend move his shabby furniture and other truck into
the rooms in the back part of the store. And we had helped him put up
his sign. Here it is:
_Cap’n Boaz Tinkertop’s_
_BIRD STORE_
_Our Parrots are the “Talk” of the Town_
Turning into School Street on a dog-trot, our ears were suddenly
punctured by one of the screechiest screeches you could imagine. It
came from the parrot store. And when we got there, there was Red’s
aunt, Mrs. Pansy Biggle, standing on a store chair sort of flopping
her feet up and down like a dancing duck and jiggling her skirts.
Boy, she looked funny. I had to laugh. She’s kind of fat. I guess she
weighs three hundred pounds. One time she had a husband, but he fell
in the river, or something, and they never found him again. She lives
at Red’s house and runs a down-town store for women. Sells hats and
dresses. Her store is just across the street from the Cap’n’s store.
Last winter she had Micky Gallagher, the one-eyed Tutter carpenter,
saw a hunk out of her front door so that she could go in and out in
her new fur coat without wedging.
I couldn’t imagine what in time was the matter with her. Then I got
my eyes on a small white thing skittering around on the floor. And,
boy, did I ever laugh! All this fuss over a little white mouse! And a
tame mouse at that.
The parrots in the store were screeching like a train of runaway
cars on a rusty track. I could hear a shrill chattering sound, too.
And when I looked closer I saw a small monkey hopping around on the
floor.
I knew then what had happened. The butcher’s pet monkey from next
door had gotten into the bird store and had let the white mice out
of their cage. And now the monkey was twitching feathers out of the
parrots’ tails. No wonder the helpless birds were screeching bloody
murder!
Well, a lot of people came on the gallop to see who was being
murdered. Old Mr. Blighty was one of the first ones there. He thought
the store was on fire. And what do you know if he didn’t skedaddle
to the corner on his rheumatic legs and turn in a fire alarm. Some
one else turned in the police call. And pretty soon Bill Hadley, the
town marshal, came scooting into sight in his police flivver. The
fire truck came, too, rippety-tear, and the firemen ran the hose out
and started squirting water into the bird store. That was an awful
unlucky thing for Red’s aunt. For she got a squirt of water plum in
the face. She quit screeching then. She couldn’t screech, I guess.
Her screecher was clogged with water.
Cap’n Tinkertop was in the back part of his store playing checkers
with old Caleb Obed. That’s the lazy Cap’n for you! He doesn’t take
care of his business at all. We’ve had to run his store for him
ever since he started it. All he does is play checkers and fool away
his time. He thinks he is the best checker player in Tutter. And old
Caleb has the same conceited opinion of himself. So every day they
fight it out in the back part of the store. They were so deep in
their game now that they never knew that anything unusual was going
on up in front.
The firemen were mad as hops when they learned that there wasn’t any
fire. Bill Hadley was roaring mad, too. My, but didn’t he prance
around! I kind of kept out of reach of his club. I didn’t want him
to get the frisky idea that I had anything to do with the two false
alarms.
Scoop and Peg were there. And when the crowd melted away the four
of us went into the store to see how much damage had been done. The
place was a wreck, all right. The caged parrots looked more like
half-drowned cats than birds. Red’s aunt looked half-drowned, too.
And, boy, was she up on her ear! She’s forever laying the law down to
Red. He gets blamed for everything. And now she lit into him right.
Scoop sort of took charge of the store, being the leader.
“Is there anything I can do for you to-day, Mrs. Biggle?” says he,
wading behind the counter, his shoes going slosh! slosh! slosh! in
the water on the floor.
“I think you’ve done enough,” says the angry milliner, sort of
snapping it out like a dog fighting another dog for a bone. She got
down from her perch, still glaring at poor Red. “Just look at my
dress! It’s rooned.”
Scoop didn’t say anything to that. He just let her talk. So did Red.
And pretty soon she calmed down. Her parrot had escaped, she said.
That is what had brought her into the store. She had come on the run
to ask the Cap’n how to coax the bird back into its cage.
Our leader told her that we would do the parrot-catching act for her.
We were the best parrot catchers in the county, he bragged, grinning.
And when she had gone he started giving us our orders. We were to get
out and scout around, he said. And if we got sight of the parrot we
were to report to him.
Before I had a chance to tell the leader about the mystery that Red
and I had stumbled into, the old detective himself meandered into the
store.
At sight of the newcomer Scoop clutched my arm, excited-like.
“That’s him, Jerry,” says he in a low voice.
“Do you know him?” says I, surprised.
“This morning I caught him snooping in the store. When I asked him
what he wanted he said he was looking around to see if we had any
black parrots. I told him that our parrots were all green and yellow.
But he hung on. He wanted to get a black parrot, he said. He seemed
to think we ought to have one in stock.”
“He’s a detective,” says I.
“What?”
“He’s looking for a black parrot that was stolen from a rich woman in
Cedarburg,” says I.
The leader stared at me for a moment or two. And in watching his face
I could see that he was putting something together in his mind.
“Cedarburg,” says he. “Why, that’s the town where the Cap’n’s brother
used to live.”
“Sure thing,” says I, nodding. “And this black parrot that I’m
telling you about was stolen the week the Cap’n was there to his
brother’s funeral.”
Speaking quickly and in a low voice, I told the leader about the Ott
kid and about the stolen mino bird. While we were talking the old
detective pottered out of the store and disappeared in the street.
“Say, who was that old prune, anyway?” says Peg, heaving across the
room to where we were.
“He’s a detective,” says I.
“What do you suppose he asked me for?”
Scoop grinned.
“A black parrot?”
“How did you know?” says Peg.
“Oh, I waited on him this morning.”
“We better ring up Bill Hadley,” says Peg, naming the marshal, “and
have him unlock one of his padded cells and shove this old geezer in.
For that’s where he belongs. A black parrot! Haw! haw! haw! He’ll be
asking for a ringtailed caterpillar next.”
Scoop shook his head thoughtful-like.
“The old man isn’t cuckoo, Peg. As Jerry says, he’s a detective. He’s
working on a parrot case.”
Then we told the big one about the stolen black parrot.
“But there’s no black parrot here,” says he, looking around the store.
“I’m not so sure of that,” says Scoop. There was a queer tone to
his voice now, and I watched him curiously as he fished a piece of
crumpled paper out of his pocket. “The old man dropped this clipping
on the floor when he was here this morning. It came out of his
pocket with his handkerchief. It’s an ad out of a newspaper. Read it.”
Peg and I hooked the clipping, eager to see it. Here it is:
FOR SALE: Genuine black parrot. Talker. Address Lock Box 23, Tutter,
Illinois.
“Why,” says Peg, “that’s the Cap’n’s post-office box number.”
“Exactly,” says Scoop.
“Evidently,” says I, using my head, “the old detective saw this ad in
the newspaper. That is what brought him here.”
“It’s the clew I told you about,” says Red promptly.
“But if the Cap’n has the stolen parrot,” says Peg, puzzled, “where
is it? And why in Sam Hill did he steal it?”
“The old man’s queer,” says Scoop, trying to account for the act.
“Queer and tricky both,” says I, remembering some things that had
happened in the store that were of no particular credit to our old
friend, like the time he sold the swearing parrot to the Presbyterian
minister and lied about it.
“You’re right,” says Scoop, nodding. “And if he’s up to some kind of
trickery in this ‘black parrot’ deal, we ought to cut in on him and
stop him. For we’re taking care of him, sort of. And we’ve got to see
that he doesn’t do anything crooked.”
“If he stole the parrot,” says Peg, “_that’s_ crooked.”
“Of course. But _did_ he steal it? We don’t know that he did. I hope
he didn’t.”
Red had gone to answer the telephone.
“Hey!” says he. “My aunt wants to know if we’ve seen anything of her
parrot yet.”
Scoop started for the door.
“Come on, Jerry. You, too, Red. Peg, you stay here and run the store.
If old Sherlock Holmes comes in again, pump him. Pump the Cap’n, too,
if you can. We’ll be back in an hour or so.”