Then we'll make our plans — and you shall each have something to do."
"Good," said Larry . "I know you've got to do all the important work, Fatty, because you really are a born detective — but we do want something as well."
"We don't know very much yet," said Fatty, looking at his notes. "We know that Goon is watching the old man because he suspects what we do — that he receives messages to pass on — and we feel certain that for some reason or other the headquarters are here in Peters-wood. We have also seen one of the members of the gang — the fellow with a hooter on his bike — but that's about all we do know."
"It's not very much," said Larry . "Not a scrap more than we knew the other day."
"We also know that the old fellow is likely to keep away from that seat for a while," said Fatty. "Goon doesn't know that. We're ahead of him there. We know that the old man who will be sitting on the bench this afternoon, and tomorrow and probably the next day too, will be me — and not that old fellow."
"Yes, that's one up to us," said Pip.
"Now," said Fatty, shutting his note-book and looking round, "tomorrow afternoon — in fact, each afternoon that I sit out on that bench, one or more of you must be in that sweet-shop, watching carefully to see if any one gives me a message — and it's your job to notice every single detail about him very carefully indeed. See? That's most important."
"Right," said Larry.
"And the other thing for you Find-Outers to do is to try and discover which cyclists have hooters on their bikes, instead of bells," said Fatty. "It would be a help if we could discover who that man was that came and spoke to me on the bench the other morning. We could watch him, and find out who his friends were, for instance."
"I don't see how we can possibly find out who has a hooter on his bicycle," said Pip. "We can't go and look into every one's bicycle sheds!"
"You could go to the shop that sells hooters and get into talk with the shopkeeper, and ask him if he sells many hooters, and maybe even get him to tell you the names of the buyers," said Fatty.
"Oh yes," said Pip. "I hadn't thought of that."
"I thought of it the other day when I went to buy that hooter," said Fatty. "But I hadn't time to talk to the man then — well, actually it's a boy in the shop I went
to. I should think he'd love to have a good old jaw with you."
"I'd like to go and talk to him," said Bets. "With Daisy."
"You and Daisy and Pip can go, if you like," said Larry. "And I’ll watch the seat from the sweet-shop. Then, when you come back with all the information you can get you can take your turn at sitting in the shop and having lemonade, and I'll go and try and find out something else."
"Buster can go with the ones who are going to the hooter-shop," said Fatty. "But he mustn't go to the sweet-shop. He would smell me all across the road, and come bounding out, barking. Goon would soon think there was something funny about Buster making up to a dirty old man!"
The next afternoon Larry went out to the sweet-shop opposite the bench, and ordered a lemonade. Mr. Goon was there again, reading his newspaper. He was once more in plain clothes, and he scowled at Larry when he came in.
"Why, Mr. Goon! Here again!" said Larry, pretending to be most surprised. "You are having a nice holiday ! Do you spend all your time in here?"
Mr. Goon took absolutely no notice. He felt very angry. Here was he, forced to spend his afternoons in a hot, smelly, little shop, watching a bench out there in the sun — and he couldn't even have peace! Those children had got to come and poke fun at him. Mr. Goon eyed Larry's back grimly, and thought of all the things he would like to do to him and the other Find-Outers.
Then Mr. Goon straightened up a little, for the old man was coming shuffling along to his bench. Larry
watched him. He knew it was Fatty, of course, but Mr. Goon didn't. Larry marvelled at the way Fatty lowered himself slowly down on
Rex Stout
Su Halfwerk
Lloyd Tackitt
Evelyn Lyes
Bev Vincent
Elizabeth A. Veatch, Crystal G. Smith
Jennifer Michiels
Viv Daniels
Perri Forrest
Peter Turnbull