The Counterfeit Mystery

by Norvin Pallas

  As you approach Fremont over Route 17 you will pass over a small culvert just before reaching the city limits. The package is concealed beneath the northern end of the culvert, on the eastern side, on a slight stone ledge.

  I regret this rather circuitous method of procedure, but it seems best to allow this package to remain in its present place of concealment until you reach there, meanwhile giving our associate a few days to leave the state.

  Faithfully,

  Professor λ

  The letter was executed with the most graceful penmanship, and lacking a return address, it was difficult to believe it had originated in Hoboville. Ted was unable to decipher the letter following the last word, and decided it must be a Greek letter.

  Of course he called Nelson at once, and Nelson came over in spite of the downpour. Nelson read the letter through.

  “What does he mean by ‘inadvertently’?” he asked.

  “I guess what he means is that the tramp stole it and found he couldn’t use it, so now he’s willing to return it.”

  “There’s something I don’t get, Ted. The professor talks like he wants you to return this package to the person it belongs to, but how are you going to know that? You think there’s a signature or something on the package?”

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t sound like it, or the professor could have had it returned directly. I think it has to do with what’s in the package. After we know what it is, we’ll know to whom we’re supposed to give it.”

  “Well, when do we start?” Nelson demanded.

  Ted grinned. “I was just wondering if you’d want to go in all this rain.”

  “Sure, why not? We’ll be dry enough in the car. Anyway, my curiosity’s up, and I want to get to that package before anyone else has a chance to.”

  Deciding they might be gone overnight, or even possibly for an extra day or two, depending on how difficult it was to find the package and what they were expected to do with the contents, Ted packed up a few things and left a note for his mother. They also stopped at Nelson’s home while he picked up a few articles. Shortly afterward they were out on the highway, headed northeast toward Fremont.

  Nelson drove with special care, but with the traffic so light they made almost as good time as they would have made in dry weather. The rain, however, showed no signs of letting up. This was no mere drizzle. It was beating down in a heavy tattoo, rattling on the car roof.

  “Maybe we can outrun it,” Nelson observed. “After all, it can’t be raining like this everywhere—”

  “Look at that dark sky up ahead,” Ted replied. “If anything, it looks worse there. We’re just beginning to get into the thick of things. See the water tearing along in those ditches?”

  On each side of the road dark, muddy water was swirling along at terrific speed, taking along with it branches and other debris. For the first time Nelson began to look worried.

  “You know something, Ted? This isn’t just an ordinary summer storm. It’s been going on for hours. We must have had at least an inch or two of rain since we started out. I’ll bet there’re flood conditions along the banks of some of the streams and rivers. There must be a terrific runoff.”

  They continued on their way just the same, but with an ever stronger feeling they might be approaching catastrophe. The streams they passed were swollen and lapping at their banks, and wouldn’t be capable of containing very much more of this flow. Persons who lived on low ground near them were likely to find themselves in trouble.

  Nelson switched on his car radio to get the latest news. The music was soon interrupted with a weather report, which said that flood conditions were expected to prevail in that section of the state. Motorists were advised to stay out of the area unless they had urgent business there.

  “I wonder if that means us,” said Ted who, much as he would have liked the adventure, had a natural prudence which sought to avoid unnecessary trouble, especially trouble that he might be causing other people.

  “I suppose it does,” Nelson agreed, “but we’re not very far from Fremont now, and I hate to turn back. Besides, you might say that we do have urgent business there. That package sounds like it might be awfully important, and we can’t take a chance on anything happening to it.”

  Somewhat reluctantly Ted gave his consent, and they continued onward. But the rain was still heavy, and the windshield wipers were barely able to keep ahead of the streams of water flowing down the glass, offering them a clouded picture of the road ahead. Nelson had reduced speed to half his usual pace. Water had collected at some of the low dips in the road, and as they rushed through a fine spray shot up all about them.

  “Any chance of stalling the engine?” asked Ted.

  “Sure there’s a chance.”

  “What depth of water can you go through without stalling?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t know how deep the water is, either, so what difference does it make?” Nelson was beginning to feel gay. “We’re in this now, and there’s no way out.”

  Quite unexpectedly they came to a road sign announcing the limits of Fremont. Fremont, like many another community, must have posted its limits far beyond the inhabited area, for except for a few scattered buildings they were still in open country. There was no sign of the town up ahead, although their vision was severely restricted in any case.

  “The outskirts of Fremont, and this is Route 17. We must have passed that culvert. What do you say we turn around and see if we can find it?”

  Nelson obliged, and they retraced the road for a hundred yards or so.

  “That must be it,” Nelson shouted. “No wonder we didn’t see it. The water’s right up to the edge of the road. You couldn’t even tell a culvert’s there. Say, what do we do now, Ted? How are we going to get under the culvert with that water running so high?”

  “Just at a guess, I’d say we aren’t going to get to it—at least not right now. The only way to reach it would be with a skin-diving outfit, and I left mine home.”

  “Well, then, what do we do?” asked Nelson.

  “Let’s go on to Fremont. What else can we do? Maybe if we stay over for a day or two, the water’ll let up, and we can get under that culvert.”

  “Well, O.K.” Nelson turned the car around once more, and they headed toward Fremont. “I’ll tell you what, though, Ted. I’m getting awfully worried about that package. The way that water’s rushing, it might easily get carried away so we’ll never find it. And even if it doesn’t, we don’t know what’s in it. Maybe it’s something perishable, and the water will destroy it before we have a chance to find it.”

  “Could be,” said Ted philosophically, “but there’s nothing we can do about it now. Maybe there’ll be enough left of the package so we’ll know what was in it, anyway. There’d better be,” he added with a laugh, “for you’ll never go to college with a mystery like that eating away at the back of your mind.”

  But it soon developed they could not reach the town of Fremont in their car. A larger, swollen stream cut off their approach to the town proper, though they could now make it out, lying on higher ground in the hills up ahead. There was no chance of dashing through this stream and hoping the engine wouldn’t stall. Even Nelson had too much sense for that. The water was at least two feet deep, and possibly twice that. The stream ran alongside the road, so there was no bridge ordinarily needed, but the water was far above its usual level.

  Nelson drew the car to a halt. “Well, what do we do now, Ted, wait? I wonder if it’s possible to go forty days without starving.”

  “You can do what you like, but I’m not planning to sit here for forty days.”

  “Then what—wade?”

  Ted looked dubiously at the water ahead. “It looks too deep for that. Maybe we can hire a rowboat somewhere around here. These farmers probably have boats to go out fishing on the river.”

  Th
ey were forced to take off their shoes and socks and roll up their trousers in order to leave the car and reach somewhat higher ground. Then they put on their shoes, and headed determinedly for the nearest house. The rain was still heavy, but they turned up their jacket collars and made the best of it. It wasn’t such a bad deal, after all, and by the time they got home and told about it, it might almost seem like fun.

  It was fortunate the farmer did have a rowboat, and was willing to rent it. He invited them inside to get dry, but they declined with thanks, saying they would soon get just as wet again. He brought out the boat and oars, and watched as they carried it down to the banks of the stream.

  They had brought their luggage with them, so there was no need to return to the car. Nelson took his seat at the oars, while Ted shouted directions, and they headed across the stream in a long slant. Somewhere near the middle Ted suddenly cried:

  “Look out! There’s something floating there—looks like a kitten on a piece of wood. Let’s see if we can’t rescue it.”

  Following Ted’s directions, Nelson maneuvered the boat close to the floating kitten. Ted reached down and scooped up the bedraggled cat and snuggled it close to his chest. Then he noticed the wood the kitten had been using as a raft, apparently a dislodged signpost. On it, painted in black characters, was the legend:

  Freeport

  “Freeport!” exclaimed Ted. “What do you know about that?”

  “A town that didn’t exist, and here the sign comes floating down to us on the river. You win, Ted. You must have been living right.”

  Only a small part of the mystery was explained, but Ted felt that the remainder would not long elude them. He managed to grab hold of the sign and tow it along with them. After all, this was the only tangible proof they had that Freeport had ever existed.

  They drew up on the opposite bank. The suddenly-aroused kitten scrambled out of Ted’s grasp and scooted off. Since it appeared to know exactly where it was going, they made no effort to pursue it. Ted looked at the sign once more, still unbelieving. No question about it, it really said Freeport.

  As the farmer had instructed them, they drew the rowboat a safe distance up the embankment and overturned it, placing the oars beneath. This was the custom in the town, they had been told, and the farmers had never had any trouble with thieves or vandals. It would be safe enough there, until the farmer retrieved it. They started up toward Fremont, Ted still lugging the sign. They hailed a man they saw, busy salvaging lumber from the rising water.

  Ted showed him the sign. “Ever hear of Freeport?” he asked.

  “Of course I’ve heard of it,” he returned with a grin.

  “Well, where is it? It sounds like a town that dropped off the face of the earth.”

  “Where is it? Why, there it is.” He motioned to the sign. “You’re holding the whole town right in your hand.”

  “You mean this is Freeport?” asked Ted incredulously.

  “Every bit of it. I’ve seen that sign many times before. Just a sign stuck out in the empty sand.”

  “But wasn’t there a town of Freeport at one time?” Nelson interjected.

  “As to that I couldn’t very well say.” The man looked rather vague. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know very much about it. I’m kind of new around here. Tell you what, though, if you really want to know. Stop up to talk to Mr. Hubert Wiley. He’s one of the oldest residents around here, and something of a historian as well. You’ll find him about halfway up Park Street.”

  Thanking their informant, and reluctantly dropping the signpost which was really too heavy to carry, they headed uphill toward the town. They stopped a passer-by to ask further directions, and shortly arrived at the home of Mr. Wiley. He proved to be an elderly, cordial man, and invited them in even before they had a chance to state their business. Noticing how wet they were, he drew up chairs for them close to the blazing fire, and offered them a warm drink. Then he was ready to talk business.

  “Is there really a town of Freeport?” Ted questioned. “We found a signpost, but we’ve never been able to find it on any map.”

  “Oh, yes, there is a Freeport—or at least there was. It was located down by the river. The only trouble with the location was the bad floods every few years. After one of the worst ones, the mayor of the town, a Mrs. Marybelle Lindell, led a movement to move the town to higher ground. There was a good deal of opposition. Some people thought that commerce would be ruined if they lost close contact with the river, and they favored petitioning the state legislature to build a dam. Mrs. Lindell said they ought to stop whining to the legislature and try to help themselves. She negotiated with a railroad to build a line up here, and with the railroad to depend on instead of the river, her move won favor. They moved the town lock, stock, and barrel. What they couldn’t take with them, I guess the floods took care of. For many years there’s been nothing left of Freeport except that sign. Of course Freeport wouldn’t do for the name of the new town, so they called it Free-mountain, or Fremont.”

  “Did you know Mrs. Lindell?” Ted questioned. “We’re acquainted with her granddaughter, and she’s very anxious to learn something about her relative.”

  “Oh, yes, I knew Mrs. Lindell very well. I was a friend of hers—a much younger friend.”

  He rose and walked over to the bookcase, and returned with several volumes in his hand.

  “Here are some of the diaries Mrs. Lindell kept. I’m sure her granddaughter would be interested in these, and if she’s really a relative, she’s more entitled to them than I. But I have a kind of historical library here which I am going to donate to the town. Perhaps, when she is finished with these, she might like to return them to me.”

  “I’m sure she will, Mr. Wiley,” said Ted warmly. “You’ve been most helpful. Perhaps she would like to write to you, and you could tell her something more about her grandmother.”

  “I’d like that very much, son. I don’t get much chance nowadays to reminisce about the old times.”

  “Is there a waterfall near here?” asked Ted. “There seems to be some question about that.”

  “Oh, yes, we have a very fine waterfall. Not as big as Niagara, or anything like that, but we local people are very proud of it.”

  “Is it a double waterfall, by any chance?”

  “Yes, it’s quite a unique twin waterfall. I’m sure you’ll enjoy a chance to see it before you go home.”

  “But somebody who ought to know assured us that there was no such twin waterfall,” Nelson objected.

  “How long ago was that?”

  “About three days.”

  Mr. Wiley chuckled. “Three days ago it didn’t exist.” He went on to explain, “We do have a waterfall, pretty, but just a regular, single waterfall. It is only on rare occasions, like a heavy thaw in spring or an exceptionally heavy downpour like this one, that the flow gets too heavy up above the waterfall, and part of the stream is diverted to make a second waterfall. That is when we’re most proud of our waterfall. Unfortunately, we seldom get the chance to show it off to visitors, but photographs of it have been widely distributed.”

  So the mystery of the disappearing twin waterfall was as easily explained as the mystery of the disappearing town. They rose and thanked their host most sincerely for his help.

  “This granddaughter,” said Mr. Wiley, with his hand on the door, “what is she like?”

  “Well—”

  Ted was at a loss how to describe Nancy. “She’s very attractive, and a nice personality.”

  “I’m sure she must be,” the old man mused. “If you would care to take a message to her, tell her to try to be like her grandmother.” He shook his head. “A remarkable woman. A most remarkable woman.”

  CHAPTER 19

  WHOSE PRISONER?

  The boys took a room at the hotel, and changed into dry clothes at last. There wasn’t very much for them
to do, except to sit out the storm. They talked awhile, went downstairs to eat, and came back to wait for some of their favorite television programs to come on. Outside, the rain was less torrential than before, but was still falling steadily.

  “What’ll we do till the water goes down and we can get under that culvert?” asked Nelson.

  “Don’t you remember?” said Ted grimly. “I’ve still got a hunch that we’re going to find Mr. Woodring somewhere up in a cabin, between those two waterfalls.”

  “O.K., so we find him—then what will we do?”

  “Talk things over. Maybe we can persuade him to go back to Forestdale.”

  “Go back to Forestdale!” Nelson wrinkled up his nose. “In the name of all common sense, why?”

  “It might help to get a few loose ends straightened out. And he might be willing to help us out by filling in the details of this scheme of his.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Nelson cynically, “and talk his way right into a jail cell.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’ll come to that. Blue Harvest doesn’t seem at all anxious to prosecute.”

  When morning came, the worst of the storm seemed to be over, though there was still a light drizzle falling. The boys decided not to let that deter them. The thought of sitting around a hotel room all day doing nothing wasn’t very attractive to them. It would be much more fun to get outside and see what they could do about locating Mr. Woodring.

  They had no trouble at all finding the first waterfall. Situated just beyond and above the town, it was a well-known landmark. The second waterfall could not be seen from where they stood, and they reasoned that it must be out of sight, around the other side of the hill.

  Their first problem was to find a way of crossing the stream. A pool of water had collected below the waterfall, and they figured it was altogether too deep for them. Instead, they climbed above the falls, until they found a place where the clear water looked shallow enough for them to take a chance. Taking off their shoes and socks, they crossed in safely. Shod once more, they turned to a survey of the hillside.