Lester sighed. “I was going to have a party. You know, ‘to have a friend, you have to be a friend.’ I thought I’d invite some of the kids from school to come and share it with me next Friday. Afterward, I thought we’d all go on to the spring dance.”
Trixie had already guessed the answer, but she asked another question anyway. “About that carton you found—did it have anything written on it?”
Lester nodded. “It said ‘Wimpy’s.’ ”
The Bob-Whites were silent, thinking about what Lester had told them.
“You’ll have to give the meat back,” Brian said at last, the stern note back in his voice.
Lester nodded and hung his head. “I know that now,” he answered. “I guess I wasn’t thinking straight last night. I didn’t know that all that hamburger had been stolen in the first place. I thought it was someone from Wimpy’s driving the truck that almost knocked me down, you see. I didn’t find out till I got to school this morning—I mean, yesterday morning—that there was any such person as the Midnight Marauder.”
“You still haven’t explained what you were doing hanging around here tonight,” Mart reminded him.
Lester explained. He said he’d returned to Glen Road on his bicycle, soon after the storm had ceased. He said he felt his legs needed the exercise. But Trixie had the sudden hunch that he had had something else in mind.
“Why, Lester,” she said, staring at him, “I believe you came here to do some investigating of your own. Did you feel that Mart wasn’t guilty of anything? Did you want to help him?”
Lester nodded, looking embarrassed.
“Well, I think that’s nice!” Honey exclaimed.
Lester then told them that he saw a dark figure running down the Wheelers’ driveway. The person, whoever it was, had stopped at the unexpected sight of Lester on his bicycle. Then, in the next instant, the mysterious figure had run into the woods on the other side of the road.
“If that’s true,” Trixie said, thinking hard, “then you must have got a good look at whoever it was.”
Lester shrugged. “I did, but I still don’t know who it was. The person was wearing jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a ski mask. After he’d gone, I got curious. I left my bike by the side of the road here, and I went to find out what he’d been up to.” He was quiet for a moment. “You know what I found. Then I heard you all coming, so I hid, in case you’d think I’d done that damage to the trailer. But I didn’t! Now will you call off your dog?”
“But we don’t have to,” Honey told him gently. “Reddy got bored long ago. He’s gone to sleep, see?” She pointed.
Reddy, who had collapsed on the wet ground, had returned to his favorite position. His chin was resting snugly on his forepaws, and he was snoring.
Lester’s jaw dropped. “Then I could have run away from you, after all?”
Trixie nodded absently. She was busy thinking of something else. “Why were you buying black paint this morning?” she asked suddenly.
Lester looked embarrassed. “I thought I’d help out with some of the signs at school that need painting—the posters for the spring dance, I mean. I—I guess you could say I’m about to turn over a new leaf. No more jokes.” He sounded almost shy about it. “I’m going to try to make more friends from now on. Ruthie Kettner is, too. She’s going to help.”
Honey gasped. “So that was why she was buying a paintbrush at Crimper’s!”
Lester nodded. “We’ve got some of the other kids to help, too. This afternoon we sort of formed a club. We’re calling ourselves the Third Hand Gang. We thought if anyone was in need of an extra hand for anything, we’d provide it.”
Trixie stared at Lester as he climbed onto his bike. She still had the feeling he wasn’t telling everything he knew.
“Who else is in your club?” she asked slowly. Lester grinned. “There’s me, there’s Ruthie, there’s Marvin Easton and Shrimpy Davis—I suppose we could have called our club the Desperadoes. We’ve all been desperate, you see. No friends, no nothing!”
“But all that’s changed now?” Honey asked.
“I hope so,” Lester answered, and with a wave of his hand, he was gone.
“I don’t believe it!” Mart said, staring after him. “He made it sound as if that Lonelyheart column really helped a lot of lonely people.”
“Maybe it did,” Brian replied. “Doesn’t that make you feel better?”
“It might, if it weren’t for one thing,” Mart answered slowly.
“What’s that?” Jim asked.
“I don’t know if you realize it,” Mart said, “but we seem to have lost all our suspects.”
Trixie shivered as they walked back up the hill. The air was cold, and suddenly she felt very tired and sleepy. Worst of all, she realized that Mart was right. Where would they look now that they had lost all of their suspects?
So who was the Midnight Marauder?
A New Clue? ● 13
BY THE TIME the long night was over, Trixie was so tired that she felt as if she were walking in her sleep. Afterward, she discovered that she couldn’t remember much.
She did remember hurrying with the rest of the Bob-Whites to the Manor House to awaken Celia. She remembered Jim gently breaking the news about the trailer, and she remembered Celia’s tears as she stood inside the Robin and saw the damage.
Chairs had been overturned. Two lamps had been deliberately smashed, and cupboard doors stood wide open. In the little bedroom, drawers had been ransacked and their contents dumped on the floor.
“It doesn’t make sense,” Trixie remembered Celia saying over and over again. “Why would anyone do such a thing?”
Eventually it was found that the only things missing were three pieces of inexpensive costume jewelry, and ten dollars in cash that the Delanoys kept in a cookie jar.
Trixie also remembered that Celia had insisted on wiping away the Midnight Marauder’s impudent message painted on the Robin’s side.
Both Brian and Jim told the Wheelers’ maid that it was evidence. They said she shouldn’t touch anything until the police arrived in the morning.
But Celia wouldn’t listen. She didn’t mind leaving the interior of the trailer for Sergeant Molinson to see, but the outside? Never!
“If I leave it,” she said indignantly, “the black paint will dry, and then we’ll never get it off!”
In the end, the Bob-Whites had run to fetch rags and turpentine. By the time they had finished, not a trace of black paint remained.
When Brian had covered the broken window with a stout piece of board, the Robin’s exterior looked almost as good as new.
Later, Trixie had a vague memory of wishing her brothers good-night and plodding back across the wet grass to Manor House. She vaguely remembered undressing and falling into bed in Honey’s room. She remembered nothing more for hours.
When next she opened her eyes, a thin stream of sunshine was shining through the ruffled organdy curtains and a bird was singing outside the window.
“My!” a brisk voice exclaimed. “So you’re awake at last! We were beginning to think you were going to sleep the whole day away.”
Trixie turned her head and saw Miss Trask smiling down at her.
Trixie sat bolt upright in bed. “Jeepers! Is it late? What time is it, anyway?” She turned her head and saw that the pillow beside her was empty. “Where’s Honey?”
Miss Trask chuckled softly. “So many questions as soon as you’ve opened your eyes, Trixie? Yes, it’s late. It’s eleven o’clock. And Honey is downstairs waiting for you. Here.” She held out a tall, frosty glass of orange juice. “We thought you might like something to wake up by.”
While Trixie sipped, Miss Trask explained that she and Regan had arrived home two hours ago. “The work crews have managed to fix the telephones,” she said, “and the roads leading into Sleepyside are now open.” In answer to Trixie’s questioning look, she added, “A couple of big trees were toppled in last night’s storm. They blocked the way, which is why
Regan and I couldn’t get home last night. And when we tried to call—”
Trixie nodded. “We guessed what had happened.” Miss Trask sighed. “We didn’t buy the horses we went to look at, either. It was a wasted trip. And we would have been even more worried than we were if we’d known about the damage to the Delanoys’ trailer. Honey and Jim have told us all * about this dreadful person calling himself the Midnight Marauder.”
Trixie almost didn’t want to ask the next question, but she had to know the answer. “Have you called the police?”
“Yes.” Miss Trask moved briskly to the door, where she paused with her hand on the knob. “Sergeant Molinson has already been here. He asked us all quite a few questions.”
“And Mart?” Trixie asked. “Did he question Mart, too?”
Miss Trask nodded. “He questioned everyone, Trixie. I expect he’ll want to see you later, too.“
“Has he gone?” Trixie asked.
“I believe so,” Miss Trask answered. “I believe also that the boys have taken him to a certain shed in the woods.” She frowned. “I’m not sure what they expect to find inside it.”
“Meat,” Trixie said and explained about the hidden hamburger.
“I see,” Miss Trask said thoughtfully.
After she’d gone, Trixie sat thinking about all that had happened the previous day. So much of it simply didn’t make sense. Who had vandalized the school and Wimpy’s—and why? Who had stolen hamburger patties only to discard them in an old shack? Why did the Midnight Marauder warn everyone where he was about to strike next?
Trixie couldn’t guess the answers to any of these questions, and she shook herself impatiently as she prepared to shower and dress.
Later, when she hurried downstairs, she found Honey in the mansion’s library.
“Oh, Trix,” Honey said, hurrying toward her friend, “I wasn’t sure if we should wake you up or not—you were sleeping so soundly. But so much has happened.”
Trixie nodded. “I know. Miss Trask was telling me. I did forget to ask, though, if my parents are home.”
“No, but they’ve phoned,” Honey said. “They’ll be home later this morning. Brian and Mart decided it would be best not to tell them about all the things that have been going on while they’ve been away. They’ll find out soon enough.”
Something in Honey’s voice made Trixie look at
her sharply. “Has something else happened?” Honey had been holding something behind her back. Now she withdrew her hand, and Trixie could see she was holding the Sunday edition of the Sleepyside Sun.
“You’d better read what it says,” Honey told her friend in a low voice. “Not that you can miss it. The article’s on the front page.”
Trixie took the newspaper from Honey’s hand and flung herself into the depths of a soft and luxurious armchair. Honey stood behind her as she spread the paper on her knee.
Trixie drew her breath in sharply when she saw the banner headline, and her cheeks flamed with indignation as she read the words that followed it:
TEEN-AGE VANDAL SOUGHT BY POLICE
“What is wrong with today’s teen-agers?”
This is the question that is being asked by all Sleepy-side residents today.
A teen-ager, calling himself the Midnight Marauder, is terrorizing our town. Already he has senselessly vandalized our junior-senior high school and the popular hamburger place known to us all as “Wimpy’s.”
Windows have been shattered, certain items have been stolen, and black paint, announcing the culprit’s identity, has been sprayed on both buildings.
Dr. Anton Sibolsky, noted child psychologist, stated, when telephoned this morning, “There is no question but that this is the work of a seriously disturbed teenager. He feels himself unloved by his parents. Therefore, he is attempting to take his revenge on society.” Later, a spokesman for the police, Sergeant Wendell Molinson, announced that several suspects are under investigation. He also said that he expected to make an arrest shortly.
The citizens of our town have a right to demand that action against these suspects be taken immediately.
What is wrong with today’s teen-agers?
Many people believe that to spare the rod is to spoil the child. This reporter endorses these sentiments wholeheartedly.
Trixie gasped when she had finished the article. “Did you see who wrote this?” she asked.
Honey nodded. “It was that same reporter we saw in Crimper’s yesterday—Vera Parker.”
Trixie frowned, her blue eyes stormy with anger. “Did you read that bit about sparing the rod and spoiling the child?”
Honey nodded wordlessly.
“That didn’t come from any expert,” Trixie continued, “at least, not an expert on children. All Margo Birch knows about is antiques. It makes me so mad! And what does this mean?” She tapped a line of print with her forefinger: “Sergeant Molinson is ‘expected to make an arrest shortly’?” Honey walked across the room and gazed out the wide windows. “I’m afraid he made it pretty clear this morning, Trix,” she answered in a low voice. “He still suspects Mart.”
“But why?” Trixie asked, staring at Honey’s back.
Honey turned slowly to face her friend. “Because Mart refuses to say what he was doing at school on Friday night. You know and I know that he went there to pick up Miss Lonelyheart’s letters. But he doesn’t want anyone but us to know that.”
Trixie stared down at the newspaper on her lap. “Then it all comes back to what we said before, Honey. We’re going to have to find the Midnight Marauder ourselves.”
“But how?” Honey asked. “And where do we start?”
Trixie was silent for such a long time that it seemed as if she hadn’t heard her friend at all.
Then suddenly, she jumped to her feet. “I’ve had a feeling all along that I’d forgotten something—something important. At last I’ve remembered what it is! Yesterday morning, when I was with Brian, we were looking for Reddy.”
Honey frowned. “Yes, you told me.”
“And I found a piece of material caught on a bush,” Trixie continued excitedly.
“You told me that, too.”
“But what I didn’t tell you,” Trixie said, “is that it looked like a piece of old shirt—a red shirt. Lester told us the Midnight Marauder was wearing a red shirt when he robbed the trailer.”
Honey gasped. “Do you think the vandal tore his shirt when he was on his way to hide the meat he stole from Wimpy’s?”
Trixie nodded. “I think we could go and take another look at it. I just left it where it was, you know. Maybe it’ll give us a clue to the Marauder’s identity—and maybe we’ll find something else,“
“Like footprints?” Honey said.
Trixie was already on her way to the door. “Like anything,” she declared, “anything at all! After all, let’s face it, Honey. This situation is getting desperate!”
A Fresh Suspect ● 14
TRIXIE WAS SO EXCITED at the thought of finding a fresh clue that she didn’t want to stop for anything, not even to eat a late breakfast.
“I’m just not hungry,” she told Honey as they raced to pull on their Bob-White jackets.
Honey frowned. “I do think you should stop to eat something, Trix,” she said.
“We haven’t got time,” Trixie announced over her shoulder, hurrying across the verandah and down the front steps. “Maybe the police have already found out what the Marauder was wearing on the night of the burglaries. Maybe they’ve even found that scrap of material. Oh, please hurry, Honey. We may be too late!”
“Are we going to take the horses again?” Honey asked, panting with the effort of keeping up with her friend.
Trixie stopped so suddenly that Honey almost bumped into her. “Gleeps!” Trixie said, running a thoughtful hand through her curls. “I hadn’t thought how we were going to get there. If we take the horses, we’ll have to listen to a lecture from Regan. He’ll say the ground is muddy. The horses may slip and fall
. We’ll have to promise to clean everything when we get back—”
The same thought occurred to both girls at the same time. “Let’s take our bikes,” they said together and then laughed.
While Honey retraced her steps up the hill, Trixie rushed to drag her bicycle from the Beldens’ garage.
One glance assured her that Crabapple Farm had suffered no damage from the night’s storm. It also told her that her parents and youngest brother had still not returned, and neither had Brian and Mart. The old farmhouse had an empty, deserted look to it. It made Trixie long to dash inside, yelling at the top of her lungs, “Don’t worry, house. We’ll all be back soon.”
But of course, she didn’t. In the next moment, she had forgotten the impulse completely as she pedaled furiously along the Beldens’ graveled driveway to meet Honey.
Soon the two girls were speeding along Glen Road, passing Mr. Lytell’s store almost before they knew it. They caught a quick glimpse of the storekeeper standing in the doorway and waved to him briefly. But they didn’t stop, though they could feel him staring after them as if wondering where they were going in such a hurry.
Trixie’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead.
“Will you remember the exact place where you saw that piece of red shirt?” Honey asked, breathing hard.
“I’ll never forget it,” Trixie replied. “Everyone thought it was Reddy, you see. I wanted to believe he really might be somewhere close by. So Brian and I made a thorough search all around the area.”
“Are we nearly there?” Honey asked.
Trixie nodded. “Yes, but I’ve just thought of something else.” She frowned. “Suppose that piece of shirt isn’t there anymore. Suppose it was blown away in the storm. It could even have got buried under leaves and dirt. I don’t remember what I did with it. I could have simply dropped it on the ground— Oh, why didn’t I put it in my pocket when I had the chance?”
“But you didn’t know what was going to happen, Trixie,” Honey declared loyally. “You didn’t even realize yesterday morning that there was any such person as the Midnight Mar—” She stopped speaking abruptly.
The Mystery of the Midnight Marauder Page 9
