Chapter 30 Doctor Dolittle's Zoo by Hugh Lofting
THE MYSTERY OF MOORSDEN MANOR
Of course it was not long after I had taken the scrap of torn parchment to John Dolittle that the white mouse came to me demanding to know what the Doctor had said about it. I had to disappoint him terribly by telling him that he had refused to show any interest in it whatever.
Jip was in my room at the time that the white mouse called. He had never quite forgiven me for having him sent back home the night of the fire—especially after he had learned later that there had been a fight and that his beloved Doctor had been treated discourteously by Throgmorton.
It was after supper, about half past eight. And while the white mouse and I were talking the Cats'-meat-Man also dropped in. I had not seen him in several days.
“Well, Matthew,” I said, “how are you getting on with your mystery?”
“Humph!” he muttered, sinking into an armchair. “It's still a mystery all right.”
Jip cocked up his ears at that and wanted to know what we were talking about. I explained to him, in dog language, that Matthew Mugg was sure from certain things he had observed that night at the Manor that there was some mystery connected with the house and its owner.
“Tommy,” said Matthew, “I can't get much forrarder until we find the rest of that will.”
“I'm afraid that may be hard,” said I, “from what enquiries I've made.”
“Listen,” the white mouse whispered to me: “I can get that mouse from the Manor for you any time you want.”
“All right,” I said. “Send for him, will you, please? There's always a chance that he may have found out something since.”
Thereupon the white mouse disappeared and Matthew and I went on with our conversation.
But it could not have been more than a quarter of an hour before the white mouse was back at my elbow again. And with him he had the mouse who had brought us the scrap of parchment.
“Tell me,” I said to the Manor mouse, “did you ever find out anything more about the rest of that paper?”
“As it happens,” said he, “I did—to-night. The scrap, as I told you, had been in a mouse nest—an old one which I had discovered by accident and taken to pieces. You see, I was going to rebuild it into a new one for myself. Well, this evening I met the owner of that old nest.”
“Ah!” I said. “That sounds like news. And what did he tell you?”
“Well,” said the Manor mouse, “the reason I hadn't met him before—as you know, I had made enquiries of all the rats and mice in the mansion—was that he had moved out of the house to a sort of potting-shed place in the garden. I happened to go out there looking for last year's chestnuts; and that's how I ran into him. He's very, very old—quite feeble in fact. But he had lived longer in the Manor than any of us.”
“Yes,” I said, “but get on to the business of the parchment. What did he tell you about that?”
“It seems that it was in the days of this Mr. Throgmorton's father when, he told me, he had lived in the old man's study on the first floor. He was building a nest for himself and his wife, and he made it behind the paneling—between the paneling and the wall. Nesting materials were hard to find. And he got into old Mr. Throgmorton's desk—by drilling a hole through the back—and went through all the drawers looking for stuff he could use to make a nest of. Papers and red tape were about all he could find. And among the papers he chewed corners off, there was this large sheet which the old man kept locked up in the top drawer. My friend used it for a foundation for his nest because he saw it was nice and thick and would keep the drafts out. It seems the old man considered the paper important; because when, a few days later, he opened the drawer and found the corner chewed off, he swore and carried on something dreadful. This mouse was watching from behind the clock on the mantelpiece and he says he never saw any one get so angry. The old man saw right away that it was the work of mice, from the way in which the paper was nibbled. He hunted high and low for that missing corner—turned all the furniture in the whole room inside out. But of course he didn't find it because it was behind the paneling in my friend's nest. At last he gave it up and took the larger piece of the parchment away and hid it somewhere else.”
“Where?” I asked, rising half out of my chair. “The old mouse said he didn't know. But wherever it was, it wasn't in the study.”
I sank back disappointed.
“Do you think,” I asked, “that if all the mice in the house went to work on it they could find it for us?”
The Manor mouse shook his head.
“As a matter of fact,” said he, “we have tried. As soon as we learned from the gossip at the Club that you were interested in the paper we began a search on our own. But no trace of it could we find.”
I translated for Matthew's benefit what the Manor mouse had said and his disappointment was even greater than mine.
“But tell me, Matthew,” I said, “didn't you succeed in finding anything out yourself? When last I saw you you were going to do some investigating on your own account.”
“It wasn't so easy,” said he, “for this reason: when the old man died and this Mr. Throgmorton came into the property, all the servants were changed. That's suspicious in itself of course. So trying to find out much about the family from gossip and hearsay was kind of hard. I learned some things, but nothing that seemed to help solve the problem.”
At this point Jip came up to my chair and nudged my knee beneath the table.
“Tommy,” said he, “for solving problems the best hands I know are Cheapside and Kling.”
“Humph!” I muttered. “Cheapside I could understand, because he is in touch with the gossip of the street sparrows. But why Kling? Why should he be good at solving problems?”
“Why, my gracious!” said Jip. “He knows an awful lot about crime and the—er—underworld and all that. He belonged to a thief once.”
“To a thief!” I cried.
“Yes. You ought to get him some time to tell you the story of his life. You never heard anything so thrilling. When he was quite a puppy he was stolen by a sort of tramp person who specially trained him in all sorts of queer dodges. This tramp used to walk through the streets with Kling on a string. And to anybody passing who looked well-off, he'd say, 'Do you want to buy a dog?' And they would usually say, 'Yes' in the end, because Kling had been taught all manner of cunning tricks to fascinate them with. Then Kling, after he'd been sold, would run away from the new owner and come back to the tramp. He was trained to do that too, you see. And then the tramp would take him away to a new town and sell him over again. Kling says that man once sold him twelve times in one month. But later the tramp invented another way to make money even faster. He trained Kling to learn the geography of the new houses he went to, and especially where the silver and valuables were kept. And the tramp would come later and rob the house, Kling acting as guide for him and showing him over the place. Then together they would go off again to a new town.”
“Goodness me!” I said. “What an awful record!”
“Yes,” said Jip. “But Kling had no idea he was doing wrong, until one day he got talking about his adventures to a parson's dog who was highly scandalized and persuaded him to give up the life of crime. So Kling, in spite of the fact that the tramp had always treated him kindly, ran away the first chance he got and never went back to him again.
“Oh, my, yes, Kling's awfully well up on crime. You see, in his life with the tramp he fell in with many queer birds, regular gangs of crooks, you know. And in that way he learned a lot about the tricks and dodges of different kinds of criminals. And then later he got a job as a police dog in Belgium and he was used to hunt down lawbreakers. Why, in Brussels, I understand, he was known as 'The Dog Detective.' Had no end of a reputation. But he didn't care for that work and after a year or so he ran away again. Then for a while he was a tramp himself—a dog tramp—said he wanted to see the world. He's had a wonderful career. And you'd never think it—unassuming and quiet, the way he is. On first meeting him one might almost think he was stupid, dragging that chewed-up shoe of his around. But I feel sure that if you and Matthew have a problem you want to solve you couldn't do better than consult Kling.”
“Yes, I believe you're right, Jip,” I said. “Go and ask him if he'll come and talk to us, will you? Don't say anything about it to the other members of the Home for Cross-bred Dogs. You know how enthusiastic they get. But if you happen to see Cheapside in the garden ask him to drop in too, will you?”
While Jip was gone I explained to Matthew roughly what it was we proposed to do. Kling hadn't met Matthew yet, having arrived during the283 few days while the Cats'-meat-Man had been off “investigating” as he called it.
But when, followed by Jip, the Detective Dog strolled into the room carrying one of his new chewing-boots, I thought I saw Matthew start almost uneasily. Kling too behaved in a rather odd manner. He stared hard at Matthew a moment through half-closed lids, as though he were trying to remember something. Then with a shake of his shoulders he settled down on the floor and began turning his boot over between his paws to find a good place to chew. Jip shot a glance at me that spoke volumes.
Knowing that Matthew didn't understand dog talk, I began by asking Kling if he had ever seen him before.
The mongrel thoughtfully pulled a button off his boot before answering.
“Oh, well,” he said, “what does it matter? He's a friend of yours—and the Doctor's. I've met an awful lot of people, you know. After all, a man's past is his own. I believe in letting bygones be bygones.... Jip tells me you have something you wanted to see me about.”
“Yes,” I said. “We have a problem—a sort of a mystery. Ah! Here's Cheapside too. Good! We'll be glad to have his opinion as well.”