The Mystery of the Stolen Secrets

©2017 Richard Humphreys

It's going to be a white Christmas and Fatty's Uncle Harold comes to stay. However, before long Fatty begins to notice that his uncle is acting suspiciously. Why did he go out secretly in the middle of the night? Did he steal some keys from a local house agents' office? Who is the man with a limp? The Find Outers get on the case and are soon embroiled in a mystery that involves spies, stolen secrets and a dangerous chase along the river in the dead of night...

Chapter 17: Mr Goon and Boris

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At that very moment, Mr Goon was sitting in the dark feeling cold, angry and above all hungry.

'Are you sure you've got no grub on you?' he said to Boris for the umpteenth time.

Boris, who was sitting next to Mr Goon with the hood of his duffle coat up, shook his head. 'There was just them peppermints, but they've all gone.' He then added in a low voice: 'You had most of them.'

'How long are you going to keep us here?' Goon yelled.

But there was no answer. With a very loud huff, Mr Goon pulled his overcoat close around his ample body and pushed his hands deep into its pockets.

'I think there are spiders in this cellar, Mr Goon,' Boris said peering around in the dark.

'Is that a fact?' Goon sneered.

'Yes, I can hear them,' Boris said. 'They're scuttling around in the corners. They're probably hungry too. Are spiders dangerous when they're hungry, Mr Goon?'

'They won't hurt you, but I certainly will if you don't shut up,' Goon snarled. He then suddenly jumped to his feet and walked across the room to a door under which a thin, pale shaft of light was visible. He felt for the handle and pulled it, then cursed and pushed it. He then banged on the door with his fist. 'You can't keep me in here, I'm an officer of the law,' he yelled. 'Look, I'm prepared to do a deal with you. What say, you keep the boy and let me go? I promise I won't say anything.'

Again there was no answer, and after giving the door a hefty kick and yelping because he hurt his corn, he slumped back down onto the bench next to Boris.

They sat in silence for a while and then Boris said: 'If they hadn't blindfolded us, we'd know where we were.'

Goon said nothing.

'I went into the village hall the other day, Mr Goon,' Boris said, 'when it was closed, only the door was open and this man came in with a gun and I had to hide. Do you think he's one of these men?'

Goon muttered something that sounded a little like: 'I wish I had a gun, that'd shut you up.'

'And their foreign, Mr Goon,' Boris said. 'That man said he was Welsh.'

'He said he was Irish you little nincompoop, but they're more like Russians,' Goon said. 'Now shut up.'

Boris was quiet for a short time and then said: 'We can't have gone far, Mr Goon, because we weren't in that car for very long were we?'

Goon made an odd whining noise. 'Will you shut up,' he spat between clenched teeth. 'Anything more out of you and I'll use you as a battering ram to break down that door.'

After a few minutes silence, Boris suddenly sat up. 'Listen, Mr Goon, that's a church bell.'

'I can't hear anything,' Goon said sullenly.

'Yes, it was, Mr Goon, I heard it, honest,' Boris said.

Mr Goon was feeling too sorry for himself to bother replying. He sat in silence hunched into his overcoat.

'I've just remembered, I've got some matches, Mr Goon,' Boris said. 'Shall I strike one?'

'You've got a box of matches?' Goon yelled. 'Why didn't you say so before, you little moron? Give 'em here.'

Boris handed over the box. 'I managed to slip them into the hood of my coat when they searched us,' Boris said proudly. 'That was clever of me wasn't it?'

Goon was not listening, however. He stood up and struck one of the matches. They could now see that they were in a small cellar. In the corner was a pile of firewood next to an old wood burning stove and against the opposite wall were two camp beds and between them, a pile of tins.

'Food,' Goon said springing across the floor and making the match go out. He struck another. 'Oh, they're empty, everyone of them.'

'Is this like your special dungeon?' Boris asked looking around with wide eyes at the cobwebs, dirt and Mr Goon's enormous shadow.

The match went out again and Goon struck another.

'That's a manhole up there,' he said holding up the match.

Boris jumped to his feet. 'Can you climb out?' he asked optimistically.

'No I can't,' Goon snapped. 'If I was eight foot tall I might be able to.' He cursed and dropped the match as it burnt him. He blew on the end of his fingers and struck another. 'It's just too high,' he said more to himself than to Boris, and looked around whilst holding the lighted match out in front of him at arm's length. 'Help me get that bench over into the middle of the room,' he said.

With some difficulty, because it was a very heavy oak bench that had probably been in the cellar for many years, they managed to drag it under the manhole and Goon stepped up onto it, making it wobble slightly on the uneven floor. He struck another match and stretched out his arms but could only just touch the manhole cover with his fingertips.

'Hand me one of them sticks over there,' he said pointing to the pile of firewood in the corner. Boris picked one up and handed to him. 'This is just a twig, you dope,' Goon said and threw it across the room. 'Give me one of the big ones.'

Boris selected the biggest stick and handed it to Goon. Grasping it in his large fist, Goon banged on the manhole a couple of times and then used the stick to try to raise the cover. Pushing hard, he managed to get the cover to rise enough to allow in some daylight before letting it fall back into position with a loud clank.

'Now you listen here,' Goon said to Boris. 'You're going to get on my shoulders and you're going to raise that manhole cover and when you've raised it enough, I'll jam this stick under it.'

Boris looked concerned. The idea of climbing up onto Mr Goon's shoulders and pushing up on that heavy looking manhole cover, did not appeal to him. But he also realised he had no choice. He could hardly carry Mr Goon on his own shoulders.

Goon climbed off the bench and crouched down. 'Climb on the bench and then get on my shoulders,' he ordered. Boris did as he was told. He felt very insecure as Mr Goon then stepped onto the bench, which wobbled again under the weight of them both. Boris squealed as he thought he was falling.

'Shut up,' Goon snapped. 'You're not gonna fall. Now then, push that manhole cover up.'

Boris put his hands against the underside of the cover and pushed. 'It's not moving Mr Goon,' he said. 'I think it's frozen shut.'

'It is not frozen shut, you saw it open a little just now, just push harder you puny little tick,' Goon replied.

Boris pushed as hard as he could and, eventually, the cover lifted on one side letting in some light. Immediately, Goon shoved the stick he was holding into the gap, propping up the edge of the manhole cover by a couple of inches.

'Now then,' Goon said, 'start yelling for help.'

Both Goon and Boris began shouting as loud as they could, but after fifteen exhausting minutes of yelling and screaming, no one had heard them.

'There's only one thing for it,' Goon said, 'you're gonna have to open that there cover and climb out.'

'I'll try, Mr. Goon,' Boris said, 'but it's ever so heavy and it's got snow on it as well.'

'I'll get another stick,' Goon said getting off the bench and putting Boris on the floor. 'Then I can push along with you.' He chose the sturdiest stick he could find, and with Boris once again on his shoulders climbed back up onto the bench. Boris put his hands against the cover and began to push, and Goon did the same with the stick he was holding. Eventually, they had raised it high enough so that, with a major effort from Goon, they managed to flip it over.

'Climb out, go on,' Goon said shoving Boris up through the hole.

Boris squeezed out through the manhole and looked around. 'We're in the church yard, Mr Goon, right next to the church,' he called through the hole. 'I told you I could hear church bells ringing.'

'Well get some help then,' Goon shouted back.

'Where from?' Boris asked looking around at the snow-covered gravestones.

'The nearest house, you little idiot,' Goon yelled in exasperation. 'Go to the nearest house and tell them Mr Goon is trapped down in this accursed cellar.'

Boris looked around and seeing a house across the graveyard, made a beeline for it. He banged loudly on its door and, and at length, it was answered by a maid. 'Yes?' she said looking down at Boris and noticing how very dirty he was.

'Please,' he said. 'Mr Goon is trapped down in an accursed cellar over there,' he pointed across the churchyard. 'I was with him but we got the manhole cover open and I got out. We were put in there by crooks.'

'Really,' the maid said and then to Boris' astonishment, she closed the door on him.

Boris was now confused about what to do, so he banged on the door again and again it was opened by the same maid. 'Will you please stop banging on this door and take your tales and go somewhere else.'

'But it's not a tale,' Boris said, 'it's the truth, honest.'

Someone came into the hall behind the maid. 'What's going on, Mildred?' they asked.

'It's this scruffy boy, Miss, a right nuisance, he is, and no mistake. Keeps telling some cock and bull story about crooks and being trapped in cellars,' Mildred said. 'I've sent him packing once, but he's come back again.'

The other woman pushed in front of the maid. 'Well, what do you want?' she asked sharply.

Boris sighed. 'I've told the lady here, that Mr Goon is locked in an accursed cellar over there.' He pointed again towards the church. 'We were both in there, but I got out and Mr Goon says to get help.'

'Mr Goon, you say? The village policeman?' the lady asked.

'Yes,' Boris said. 'Mr Goon the policeman.'

The lady turned around. 'Get me my stout walking stick, Mildred, I believe I left it in the library,' she said.

'Yes, Miss Twit,' Mildred said and went off to find the stick.

'Now then, you young scallywag, if this is a invention of yours, you'll be very sorry indeed,' Miss Twit said peering down at Boris. He shuffled around nervously under her gaze.

'I ain't invented it,' he said, wondering why nobody ever believed a word he said. 'Mr Goon's there now and we'd best hurry 'cause he'll be getting really angry.'

Just then, Mildred reappeared and handed Miss Twit her sturdy walking stick. 'Ah, thank you,' Miss Twit said feeling the weight of the stick in her hand, and then quite suddenly, she pointed the stick at Boris and poked him in the chest with it. 'What do they call you?' she asked abruptly.

'Mr Goon calls me all sorts of things,' Boris replied truthfully.

'What's your name?' Miss Twit said slightly irritated by this unkempt little mudlark.

'Boris,' Boris replied thinking this woman was even more frightening than Mr Goon.

'Very well, Boris, let's go and rescue Goon,' said Miss Twit.

With Boris tagging along behind, Miss Twit strode out of the vicarage garden, across the little narrow lane and into the churchyard.

'Now,' she said turning to Boris, 'in which hole is the unfortunate Goon ensconced?'

Boris looked blankly at her.

'Where is he?' Miss Twit asked. 'Where is he trapped?'

Boris pointed to the church. 'It's over there, Miss, by that big window.'

'Ah, the old coal cellar,' Miss Twit said with a nod.

'Yes, Miss,' Boris said, 'We pulled a bench into the middle of the floor and I sat on Mr Goon's shoulders and climbed out.'

Miss Twit leaned over Boris. 'At one time that cellar was a charnel house,' she said. 'A place where bones were stored,' she added with relish.

Boris gulped. 'There weren't none down there that I saw, Miss,' he said.

'Well, you wouldn't have seen any, that was a long time ago,' Miss Twit said. 'Now then, let's rescue Goon.' She walked across to the open manhole. 'Are you down there, constable?' she called.

'Yes, I am and hurry up, I'm almost frozen to death,' came the reply.

'Well, if you can hold on to life for another couple of minutes, I'll come round and let you out,' Miss Twit said.

Having gone through a small door in the wall of the church and then down some steep stone steps, Miss Twit and Boris came to a strong wooden door. Miss Twit knocked on it. 'Have you out in a jiffy,' she called, and then, displaying surprising strength, she pulled back two sturdy and rather rusty bolts. The door instantly flew open as Mr Goon pulled on it from inside.

'About time too, oh er...' he said suddenly realising it was Miss Twit who had rescued him. 'I'm er, much obliged.'

'Has anything been stolen from the church?' Miss Twit asked. 'I assume you were locked in here by hoodlums of some sort.'

'Er, well, um, I'm not quite sure at the moment who locked me in here, I need to get on to headquarters,' Goon said trying to salvage some of his dignity. 'You have a look round the church and I'll go and phone my Superintendent.'

'And what about the boy?' Miss Twit said. 'I presume he belongs to you.'

Goon looked at Boris and wrinkled his nose in distaste. 'Yes, well, that's a moot point, as they say,' he said. 'He was actually dumped on me, so to speak. So he don't really belong to me, as you put it, but I suppose he is my responsibility for the next couple of days.'

'Good,' Miss Twit said brusquely, 'then I hope you take your responsibilities seriously. This boy needs a bath and a hot meal.'

Boris nodded his head vigorously, although at the mention of a meal rather than a bath. 'Yes, Miss,' he said. 'I ain't dirty, but I am hungry.'

Goon looked down at him. 'Come on,' he said, 'I've got important things to do.'

They left Miss Twit in the church and made their way back to Mr Goon's house. On the way, Goon questioned Boris about Fatty. Boris was sure it was Fatty he had seen going into the empty cottage. At this, Goon nodded and gave a satisfied grin. 'Well, then, he must be involved in all of this. The armed abduction of a serving police officer, going about in the line of duty,' he said as they reached his front door. 'That toad of a boy is in trouble right up to his fat neck! Ho yes!'

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