The Charlie Moon Collection

by Shirley Hughes

  “Well, if you look at it that way, Mr Bowen, I suppose it is a bit of luck,” said Norman doubtfully.

  Ariadne was silent. But while the others were chatting she stood for a long time in front of The Stunner, peering at her intently.

  “I’m glad you’ve got her back,” she said at last.

  “The strangest thing of all,” Uncle Owen told her, lowering his voice, “is that I’ve been hearing those noises overhead again. Muffled footsteps. Bangs and thumps. In the evening when there’s nobody here, only Beauty and me. It’s as though Lily’s been trying to tell me something. That she didn’t want to be sold at all. That she wanted to come back here with me. Now perhaps she’ll stop,” he added.

  “I hope so,” said Ariadne.

  Norman said he thought he would go round to the hall and see if he could help Linda with the Book Bonanza, and the children said they’d all come along too. Leaving Uncle Owen happily washing his brushes and rubbing linseed oil lovingly into his palette, they went downstairs. The smells were getting worse. Although the old stove was gone it had left blackened marks on the walls and ceiling, from which bits of old paper hung down in sad festoons. What was left of the carpet was full of holes. A door leading off the hall, down to dark basement regions, lurched drunkenly off its hinges.

  “This place is a slum,” said Norman, indignantly. “I think Mr Dix is letting it go like this so Mr Bowen will have to move. I keep telling Linda to try and get him to complain to the authorities, but he won’t. He’s afraid of Mr Dix.”

  “I wouldn’t live here for a million pounds,” said Dodger. “My Mum’s always going on about the state of the lift in our flats. But she’d have a fit if she saw this. I wonder what’s down there?” He peered fearfully down the basement stairs.

  “Dare you to go down and see,” said Charlie.

  “Not likely.”

  “Go on. I dare you.”

  “Why don’t you go, if you’re so brave?” retorted Dodger. At this moment two green eyes appeared in the gloom. They both jumped back hastily. But it was only Beauty, Uncle Owen’s old cat. She ran through Charlie’s legs, crouched down and regarded them balefully for a moment, and then disappeared upstairs.

  Norman went on ahead to the hall on his motorbike, leaving the children to follow on foot.

  “You know, there’s something very funny going on in that house,” said Ariadne as they walked along.

  “Mr Dix is acting fishy. Norman said so,” said Charlie. And he told her what he had already told Norman, about all he had seen through the port-hole of the lighted cabin the night before.

  “He was drawing a picture?” said Ariadne. “I thought he was meant to be an art dealer, not an artist.”

  “Perhaps it’s his hobby,” said Dodger. “There’s going to be a Hobbies competition at the Bonanza tomorrow. A quiz, too, with prizes. I’m going in for everything. The only trouble is,” he added, “that I haven’t actually got a hobby. But roller-skating’s going to be, when I get my new skates. My Dad’s going to get me some really good ones. The expensive kind with precision bearings. Much better than your old ones, Charlie.”

  Dodger’s Mum and Dad both had good jobs and earned a lot of money, so Dodger nearly always got the things he wanted. Their flat was stuffed with colour tellys, video cassettes and stereo systems. Even Dodger’s little baby sister had her own transistor. But they didn’t have time to talk to him much and they never told stories, as Charlie’s Mum did sometimes when she was in a good mood. Charlie liked the true ones best, about all the awful things she did when she was a girl.

  Ariadne wasn’t listening to Dodger. She was thinking hard. She walked more and more slowly, until in the end she stopped altogether.

  “I’m going back to Mr Bowen’s house,” she told them.

  “What for?” asked Charlie, surprised.

  “Won’t be long. See you later,” was all Ariadne said, and, before they could stop her, she was hurrying back the way she had come.

  They had closed Uncle Owen’s front door firmly behind them, as usual, when they left. But when Ariadne arrived back at the house she was surprised to find it slightly open. She walked quietly inside. The hall was empty. Some instinct stopped her from calling out. Instead, she tiptoed over to the foot of the stairs. On the half-landing above her she saw a kneeling figure, his shadow cast up strongly on to the peeling wall. It wasn’t Uncle Bowen. It was Mr Dix.

  There didn’t seem anything else for Ariadne to do but to stand there, watching, unable to go forward or back. Mr Dix was far too intent on what he was doing to notice her. He appeared to be burying something under a floorboard. After a while he stood up and carefully replaced the board, stamping it into place with his feet. Ariadne felt as if she was frozen, like the lady in the Bible who was turned into a pillar of salt, quite unable to move. Mr Dix was about to turn round. Then their eyes would meet. Then . . . But when Mr Dix had finished, he turned the other way without once glancing in her direction. His footsteps went echoing up the three flights of stairs to Uncle Owen Bowen’s room at the top of the house. Ariadne could hear their voices, and she could tell by Mr Dix’s tone that he was complaining again.

  She crept up on to the half-landing. It was easy to see which was the loose floorboard. She scrabbled at it hurriedly, breaking her fingernails on its rough edges. Now she felt like somebody in a detective story, galvanized into swift action. What had Mr Dix been hiding? Something he didn’t want anyone to know he possessed. Jewellery, wads of pound notes, a priceless painting? The floorboard came up. She peered down into the hole, then reeled back on her heels.

  What Mr Dix had hidden there was a mouldy kipper!

  10 Haunted

  Ariadne ran straight round to the hall to tell the others all about her discovery.

  “Fishy,” remarked Norman.

  “It certainly was fishy. It smelt absolutely nauseating,” Ariadne told him.

  “Why should Mr Dix want to put a mouldy kipper under the floorboards of his own house?” Charlie asked. “It smells bad enough in there as it is.”

  “That’s it!” shouted Norman suddenly. “Perhaps he’s trying to make the smells worse, on purpose, so he’ll have a better excuse for getting Mr Bowen out.”

  “That would be typical,” said Ariadne. “I’ll bet you’re right.”

  “There was that old stove,” Norman went on more thoughtfully, “the one that caught fire. Perhaps Mr Dix put it there specially so it would smoke and give him another excuse to complain. And to think it nearly set the place on fire!”

  They all looked at each other, struck silent by such villainy.

  “There’s something even more fishy I’ve been wanting to tell you about,” said Ariadne at last. “I’ve been thinking. You know Mr Dix borrowed The Stunner, and now he’s given it back to Mr Bowen saying it’s a fake, that it isn’t worth anything. Not by a famous artist at all, or so his expert friend said. But I had a really good look at it when we were there this morning, and there’s something funny about it. It looks different.”

  “How do you mean, different?” Charlie asked.

  “Well, it’s really hard to say. But I’ve looked and looked at The Stunner before—the day when Mr Bowen was telling us all about Lily being a mudlark, you know—and this morning I thought the drawing didn’t look the same as it did before. One or two pencil strokes round the edges are different and it’s sort of flatter, somehow. You have to look awfully hard to see. Mr Bowen would have noticed himself, of course, but he’s a bit absent-minded at the moment.”

  “He’s always forgetting where he’s put his glasses,” said Dodger.

  “I wasn’t quite sure. But when you told me, Charlie, about seeing Mr Dix through the port-hole last night, and how odd it was that he had The Stunner propped up beside him when he was drawing, I suddenly thought I wanted to go back and have another look. But I couldn’t, because that’s when I saw Mr Dix on the stairs.”

  Charlie and Dodger listened to all this open-mouthed. It w
as just a bit too difficult to get the hang of all at once.

  “Do you mean,” said Norman slowly. “that Mr Dix might have been copying The Stunner? That he might have given Mr Bowen a fake and kept the real one?”

  “Well, he’s clever enough to do it,” said Ariadne. “He knows Mr Bowen’s sight is bad. Perhaps he thought he’d never notice the difference.”

  “This is serious,” said Norman. “If you’re right it’s a matter for the police. We must tell Linda about all this. But she’s so busy with the Book Bonanza at the moment, I don’t want to worry her till it’s over. And we can’t mention anything to Mr Bowen yet because he gets so anxious and upset, especially about anything to do with Mr Dix. We’ve got to make sure. We can’t go accusing anybody of anything until we’ve got absolute proof. Now remember, you lot, not a word to anyone for the moment until I can think what to do.”

  They all promised.

  “Fancy all this fuss about a little chalk drawing,” Dodger said to Charlie later, as they were humping books about. “My Mum puts all my drawings in the bin.”

  “You’ve got to get famous or dead before they’re valuable,” Charlie told him.

  “Well, even if I was both, it won’t do me any good if the binman’s got them,” said Dodger bitterly. “My baby sister usually nibbles them round the edges, too. I don’t suppose even that famous artist our teacher was telling us about—you know, the very thin chap, Lean Ardo what’s-his-name . . .”

  “Da Vinci, I think. The one who tried to invent wings.”

  “Yes, him. Well, I don’t suppose even he could have got to be such a famous artist with my Mum and sister around.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t have a Mum, or a sister. Perhaps he could just stay at home all day and paint pictures and invent things.”

  “Must have been great. Even if he did get thin with nobody to cook his dinners.”

  That evening, after supper, Norman couldn’t settle down to anything. He paced restlessly up and down the sitting-room, frowning deeply and nibbling potato crisps. They helped him to think.

  “I’m going for a walk down to the river. Maybe have a chat with Mr Bowen,” he said at last.

  “Can I come?” asked Charlie promptly.

  “It’s too late for you to be going out,” said Mum, looking sternly round her newspaper. “You’ve got a big day tomorrow at the Book Bonanza. I’m not having you up till all hours, getting tired out, even if it is half-term.”

  “But I’m not getting tired out. I’m not in the least bit tired,” Charlie protested. “Please, Mum. I’ll be with Norman.”

  “We won’t be long,” Norman said.

  Mum wavered for a second and Charlie, taking up the advantage with a skill born of long experience, was already putting on his anorak.

  “You’ve got to be in bed by nine,” Mum called out after him as he and Norman ran downstairs.

  It was dark now. Down on the River Walk the old-fashioned street-lamps were already lit. There were very few people about, only a few strollers on their way to the pub on the corner. Uncle Owen Bowen’s house was shrouded in darkness. Norman and Charlie stood in the street, looking up at his window, but the light was out.

  “Must have gone to bed already,” said Norman. “We’d better not disturb him. I wanted to get another look at The Stunner but it’ll have to wait till tomorrow, I suppose.”

  They retreated to the other side of the street and leant against the garden railings in the shadow of a straggling elder bush, smelling the night river smells and wondering what to do next. Just then a familiar figure turned the corner and walked briskly up the street towards them—peaked cap, dark glasses, jutting jaw. Mr Dix himself!

  Norman and Charlie instinctively drew back into the shadow. Mr Dix hadn’t seen them. He stopped under a street-lamp, glancing up at the house. After a moment he felt in his pocket, produced a key, and let himself in.

  Norman and Charlie waited and watched. No lights appeared in the windows. The house remained as black and silent as before. After a while they could see a pale light, a torch or a candle perhaps, appearing fitfully on the first floor landing. It disappeared, then reappeared, moving from room to room.

  “Is he burying another kipper, do you think?” whispered Charlie. “Why doesn’t he put the lights on?”

  “Perhaps he doesn’t want Mr Bowen to know he’s there,” answered Norman.

  The house went quite dark again. Then, eerily, the light appeared once more, this time in one of the three tiny attic windows above Uncle Owen’s room, the attic that was supposed always to be empty. It started to move across the breadth of the house and back again, showing in one window then another. Up and down, up and down, like a ghost walking. Suddenly Mr Dix’s profile was thrown up quite sharply against the pane, slightly distorted, like an evil caricature of the man inside. Then the light went out.

  Charlie moved closer to Norman. He was very glad that he hadn’t come there alone.

  “It’s scary. Do you think Mr Bowen’s awake?”

  “No wonder he feels haunted,” muttered Norman. “But it’s not the ghost of Lily Bowen who’s doing the haunting. It’s Mr Dix.”

  “I’d put my head under the blankets if I was in there,” said Charlie. But Norman was furiously angry.

  “He ought to be had up, frightening an old man like that. It’s downright cruel.”

  “Perhaps he’s coming down again,” said Charlie. “He’d better not catch us here watching the house.”

  “Things are fitting together like a jigsaw puzzle,” said Norman. “Come on, Charlie, we’d better be going home. I’ve got to think.”

  But another piece of the jigsaw, unknown to Norman, was close at hand. They were not the only watchers on the River Walk that night. Two pairs of eyes followed them as they hurried away under the lamplight. Trevor and Ray, crouched in the rank grass of the overgrown garden, stirred stiffly in their hiding place as they watched them out of sight.

  11 Dark Doings

  “I thought they’d never go,” said Ray. “Thought we were stuck here in this blooming grass like a couple of broody swans. Ooo, my leg’s gone to sleep.”

  “Get up, quick. We’ve got to get going. Wasted enough time as it is,” snapped Trevor.

  “It’s too late, man. Dix is over at the house. He might be back any minute.”

  “It’s our last chance, isn’t it? You want to be in on this deal, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Trevor.”

  “Well, come on, then.”

  They started to move like two bobbing shadows along the river wall towards the gang-plank of the barge.

  “I can’t feel my leg at all,” whispered Ray, bent double.

  “You and your leg. It’s always something with you. We wasted all yesterday messing about on those roller-skates with you complaining about your bruises. Then you had to go and sit on that old palette when we were hiding behind the shed and get colours all over the seat of your trousers.”

  “Wish I hadn’t thrown that thing into the bushes now. Might have been worth a bob or two. Brushes too.”

  “A few bob!” spat Trevor scornfully.

  They reached the gang-plank and paused there, eyeing the cabin door. The port-holes were dark. The tide was coming in, and the barge was already lifting on the lapping water. There was no other sound or movement.

  “You’re sure he’s still got the drawing in there?”

  “Yeah, sure. We saw him doing the copy, didn’t we? And we’ve been watching him ever since. He hasn’t left the barge except to go over to the house. But he’s one of the quickest workers in the business. He’ll be getting rid of it like a hot potato, tomorrow probably. He’s been putting out feelers already, trying to see what kind of price he can get for it from a crooked dealer.”

  Ray giggled. “You ought to know all about that,” he said.

  “Quick, before he gets here. That cabin door’s probably locked but I can get it open in no time. You stay on deck and keep watch.”

&nbs
p; Trevor hopped silently on to the gang-plank and padded along it like a lean cat. Ray followed, making the boards bend and creak. Together, they were outlined sharply against the sky. Trevor landed lightly on the deck. Ray paused, balancing uneasily.

  “You two want something?” said a clear voice suddenly from the bank behind him.

  Ray leapt into the air, spun round, and crashed down again with knees bent. The gang-plank groaned. Mr Dix stood there blocking the way. His sun-glasses gleamed menacingly in the darkness like the eyes of a large insect. He seemed to have appeared out of nowhere.

  “Gas Board!” cried Ray. “We’re from the Gas Board—”

  “At this time of night?” Mr Dix took a step forward.

  “Just checking. Looking for a leak. Trevor—we’ve done it wrong again, Trevor—Trevaaaaah . . .”

  Trevor reacted more directly. At the sound of Mr Dix’s voice he leapt back on to the gang-plank and sprinted along it, cannoning into Ray and throwing him completely off-balance. Locked together, they waltzed wildly. Then Trevor jerked himself free. Reaching the bank, he met Mr Dix head on. For a few dangerous moments they grappled silently.

  Ray struggled to keep his footing on the gang-plank, arms out, beating the air like wings. Then he toppled slowly sideways and disappeared from view. A huge splash followed as he hit four feet of water between the barge and the river wall.

  Meanwhile Trevor had managed to heave Mr Dix into an elder bush where he collapsed heavily backwards into the headily-scented flowers. Seizing his chance, Trevor tore across the garden and, taking the railings like a hurdler, was away up the deserted street.

  “Get him! Stop him, can’t you?” roared Mr Dix, but nobody heard. He fought his way out of the bush and began to give chase, shedding white blossoms behind him. Unable to jump the railings, he used some regrettably ugly language as he fumbled with the gate.

  By this time Ray had surfaced in the river and was staggering about, spewing dirty water and shouting to Trevor to get him out. But Trevor was already well out of earshot.