‘Oh I couldn’t,’ said Fatty. ‘Not with all the others here.’ He didn’t know, of course, what was in the letter at all, beyond that Goon was a meddler and a muddler, but it was amusing to make the policeman think he did.

‘Well, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if you didn’t write that there letter to me!’ said Mr. Goon. ‘It might not be the letter-writer at all - it might just be you!’

‘Oh, you couldn’t think that of me!’ said Fatty, looking pained. Larry and Daisy, rather alarmed, looked at him. They remembered how he had said he would love to write a letter to Mr. Goon. Surely he hadn’t?

Mr. Goon departed, determined to run the red-headed butcher-boy, and the equally red-headed telegraph-boy to earth. Larry turned to Fatty.

‘I say! You didn’t really write to him, did you, Fatty?’

‘Of course not, silly! As if I’d send an anonymous letter to any one, even for fun!’ said Fatty. ‘But my word, fancy somebody delivering a letter right into the lion’s mouth! To Goon himself. I can’t see Miss Tittle doing that - or even Old Nosey the gypsy.’

‘And now Mrs. Moon’s ruled out,’ said Larry. ‘Gracious - it seems more of a muddle than ever, really it does. Got any ideas as to what to do next, Fatty?’

‘One or two,’ said Fatty. ‘I think it would be rather helpful to get specimens of Miss Tittle’s writing and Old Nosey’s. Just to compare them with my tracing. That might tell us something.’

‘But how in the world can you do that?’ said Daisy. ‘I wouldn’t be able to get Old Nosey’s writing if I thought for a month!’

‘Easy!’ said Fatty. ‘You wait and see!’

 

FATTY HAS A BUSY MORNING

 

The next day both Mr. Goon and Fatty were very busy. Fatty was trying to get specimens of Nosey’s writing and Miss Tittle’s, and Mr. Goon was trying to trace the two red-headed boys.

Fatty pondered whether to disguise himself or not, and then decided that he would put on the red wig, red eyebrows, and freckles, and a round messenger-boy’s hat. It was essential that people should think he was a delivery boy of some sort, in order for him to get specimens of their writing - or so Fatty worked it out.

He set off on his bicycle to the Rectory Field, where Old Nosey, the gypsy, lived in a dirty caravan with his wife. In his basket he carried a parcel, in which he had packed two of his father’s old pipes, and a tin of tobacco he had bought. Larry met him as he cycled furiously down the village street, keeping a sharp look-out for Goon.

‘Fatty!’ said Larry, and then clapped his hand over his mouth, hoping that no passer-by had heard.

‘Fathead!’ said Fatty, stopping by Larry. ‘Don’t yell my name out when I’m in disguise! Yell out Bert, or Alf, or Sid - anything you like, but not Fatty.’

‘Sorry! I did it without thinking,’ said Larry. ‘I don’t think any one heard. What are you going to do, Fatty - er, I mean Sid!’

‘I’m going to deliver a parcel to Old Nosey, said Fatty. ‘From an Unknown Friend! And he’s got to sign a receipt for it. See?’

‘Golly, you’re clever,’ said Larry, filled with admiration. ‘Of course - you can easily get him to sign his name - and address too, I suppose - by delivering a parcel to him and asking for a receipt! I’d never have thought of that. Never.’

‘I’ve put a couple of old pipes and some tobacco in,’ said Fatty, with a grin. ‘Nice surprise for Old Nosey! I’m delivering a parcel to Miss Tittle too - and one to Mrs. Moon later. I’ve a feeling that if we’ve got specimens of all three in the way of hand-writing, we shall soon be able to spot the real letter-writer! I’m going to ask them to give me a receipt in capital letters, of course.

‘Good for you,’ said Larry. ‘I’ll tell Pip and Bets to look out for you later - delivering something to Mrs. Moon!’

Fatty rode off, whistling. He soon came to Rectory Field. He saw the caravan standing at the end, its little tin chimney smoking. Mrs. Nosey was outside, cooking something over a fire, and Nosey was sitting beside it, sucking at an empty pipe. Fatty rode over the field-path and jumped off his bicycle when he came to Nosey.

‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘Parcel for you! Special delivery!’

He handed the parcel to the surprised Old Nosey. The gypsy took it and turned it round and round, trying to feel what was inside. ‘Anythink to pay?’ asked Mrs. Nosey.

‘No. But I must have a receipt, please,’ said Fatty, briskly, and whipped out a notebook, in which was printed in capital letters:

RECEIVED, ONE PARCEL,

by ..............

‘Will you sign your name and address there, please, in capital letters?’ he asked, showing Nosey where he meant.

‘I’m not signing nothing,’ said Nosey, not looking at Fatty.

‘Well, if you want the parcel, you’ll have to sign for it,’ said Fatty. ‘Always get a receipt, you know. It’s the only thing I’ve got, to show I’ve delivered the parcel. See?’

‘I’ll sign it,’ said Mrs. Nosey, and held out her hand for the pencil.

‘No,’ said Fatty. ‘The parcel is for your husband. I’m afraid he must sign it, Madam.’

‘You let me,’ said Mrs. Nosey. ‘Go on - you give it to me to sign. It don’t matter which of us does it.’

Fatty was almost in despair. Also he thought it a very suspicious sign that Nosey didn’t seem to want to sign his name and address in capital letters. It rather looked as if he was afraid of doing so.

‘I shall have to take the parcel back if your husband doesn’t give me a proper receipt for it,’ he said, in as stern a voice as he could manage. ‘Got to be business-like over these things, you know. Pity - it smells like tobacco.’

‘Yes, it do,’ said Old Nosey, and sniffed the parcel eagerly. ‘Go on, wife, you sign for it.’

‘I tell you,’ began Fatty. But Nosey’s wife pulled at his elbow. She spoke to him in a hoarse whisper.

‘Don’t you go bothering ’im. ’E can’t write nor read!’

‘Oh,’ Said Fatty blankly, and let Mrs. Nosey sign a receipt without further objection. He could hardly read what she wrote, for she put half the letters backwards, and could not even spell Peterswood.

Fatty cycled off, thinking. So Old Nosey couldn’t write. Well, he was ruled out too, then. That really only left Miss Tittle - because Mrs. Moon had had one of the letters and could be crossed off the List of Suspects.

He went home and fetched a cardboard box into which he had packed a piece of stuff he had bought from the draper’s that morning. He was just in time to catch Miss Tittle setting out to go for the day to Lady Candling’s again.

‘Parcel for you,’ said Fatty briskly. ‘Special delivery. Will you please sign for it - here - in capital letters for clearness - name and address, please.’

Miss Tittle was rather surprised to receive a parcel by special delivery, when she was not expecting one, but she supposed it was something urgent sent to be altered by one of her customers. So she signed for it in extremely neat capital letters, small and beautiful like her stitches.

‘There you are,’ she said. ‘You only just caught me! Good morning.’

‘That was easy!’ thought Fatty, as he rode away. ‘Now - I wonder if it’s really necessary to get Mrs. Moon’s writing? Better, I suppose, as she’s been one of the Suspects. Well, here goes!’

He rode up the drive of Pip’s house. Pip and the others were lying in wait for him, and they called out in low voices as he went past.

‘Ho there, Sid!’

‘Hallo, Bert!’

‘Wotcher, Alf!’

Fatty grinned and went to the back door. He had a small and neat parcel this time, beautifully wrapped up and tied with string and sealed. It really looked a very exciting parcel.

Mrs. Moon came to the kitchen door. ‘Parcel for you,’ said Fatty, presenting it to her. ‘Special delivery. Sign for it here, please, in capital letters for clearness, name and address.’