Chapter 6:
The Kidnappers’ Note

Basil’s lean jaw tightened. "The cunning devils! Here at Baker Street, The Terrible Three would be in the heart of London, within easy reach of all its riches! Protected by bodyguards, they could sit in this very cellar and organise the gangs already in this great city. They could plan their crimes for them and make a mockery of law and order!"

I nodded. "No honest mouse would be safe -- they would rule us all! Do you think the messenger is one of the Terrible Three?"

"No. His guilty manner showed he knew the contents of the note, but he is too new at this game. He is our one lead -- only through him can we hope to reach the criminals."

"Then they are using him as a cat’s-paw," I said, "by threats against his family. That mouse was haunted by fear! Remember how nervously he kept shuffling his feet?"

Basil leaped excitedly from his chair. "By Jove, Dawson, I’ve been a fool! I’ve overlooked a most important clue!"

He snatched a sheet of paper from the desk and dashed outside. I followed close on his heels.

"Mrs. Judson hasn’t swept off the doorstep -- thank heaven for that!"

He got on his knees and scrapped at some dried earth with his penknife. Then he scooped it up on the paper and carried it carefully inside.

Placing the earth on a glass slide, he examined it under a low-power microscope. When he straightened up, there was a smile of triumph on his face.

He motioned me toward the microscope. "Tell me what you see, Dawson."

I bent over and looked through the lens. "Earth."

"Ah, but what kind of earth?"

"I don’t know. There’s some darker substance mixed in with it -- can it be coal dust?"

"Precisely. The traces of coal dust will tell us where our carpenter lives. And you may be sure The Terrible Three will be nearby."

He looked thoughtful. "H’m. There are three coastal towns in the Northwest of England where the coal mines extend beneath the bed of the ocean -- Whitehaven, Workington, and Maryport. These are people’s towns, of course. Kindly hand me the Mouse’s Atlas."

He scanned several maps. "Aha! One mile south of Workington is the town of Mousecliffe-on-Sea. It has a fine harbour. Population -- 958 in winter, double that in summer. Now we know where our carpenter lives."

He snapped the heavy volume shut. "No one, not even the Proudfoots, must know of the note. All of Holmestead would be in a panic! I believe I can capture the villains before the forty-eight hours are up. But no time must be lost!"

He vanished into the next room. Ten minutes later he emerged.

I sat there, utterly dumfounded, unable to believe my eyes! And yet I should have been prepared, for Basil was a past master of the art of disguise. He not only knew makeup thoroughly but paid close attention to every detail of costume.

Often, on other cases, we had worn get-ups that would have fooled our own mothers.

This time I was astonished all over again. Had I not known it was Basil, I would have sworn it was some other mouse.

Gone was the stern, eagle-eyed detective!

In his place stood a weather-beaten old sea captain with a droll, wrinkled face.

"Ahoy there, Matey!" Eyes twinkling, he did a few steps of a sailor’s hornpipe.

Then he flung some sailor clothes at me. "Get into these, and I’ll use greasepaint to turn our dignified doctor into a swaggering sea-mouse!"

He worked on my face. A bit later, I looked into the mirror -- a cocky first mate with a black patch over one eye stared back.

I started to do the hornpipe, but Basil did not join me.

He was hunting impatiently through the mess of papers on his desk. At last he found what he wanted -- a railroad timetable.

He pulled out his pocket watch. "A train leaves for Workington within the hour, from Euston Station. Let us each pack a few necessities. Then we’ll be off, my nautical ne’er-do-well!"

I saluted smartly. "Aye, aye, Cap’n!"

Outside, the fog was as thick as pea soup, and we could barely see in front of our faces. Icy, slippery streets forced us to walk at a snail’s pace.

"We’ll never make the train at this rate," said I.

Basil pointed to a black hansom cab standing in front of a house. "Perhaps we can shorten our journey -- let us wait and see."

We leaned against the iron railing, huddled together. The cold seemed to creep into our very bones.

Presently a gentleman emerged. We heard him tell the cabby to drive to Euston Station.

"Luck is with us!" whispered my companion, as we climbed up on the rear of the cab. "This will mean the saving of much valuable time."

The horse clop-clopped along. It was all we could do to hang on, for we were jounced and jolted about.

Euston Station was crowded with hurrying humans, whose feet we took care to avoid. Our small size served us well. Not a soul noticed us as we made our way to the platform and slipped into an empty first-class compartment.

The whistle blew and the train started, picking up speed until it fairly flew through the countryside.

Warm and snug in a corner of our compartment, we were glad of the chance to rest.

Basil stretched out his long legs and pulled his cap over his eyes, as was his habit when thinking deeply.

My own thoughts were far from happy. Every click of the wheels, speeding over the shining rails, brought us closer to the unknown perils that lay ahead.

Basil was sure he would solve this case before the forty-eight hours were up. His failures had been few, but what if this proved to be one of them?

He seemed to have read my mind, for he said, "’Pon my word, Dawson, you look as though the world were coming to an end! Surely you do not doubt that I shall solve this mystery? Never fear -- I shall! Meanwhile, I’ll teach you some sailors’ lingo I picked up during my waterfront jaunts, for we must not betray our true identities to The Terrible Three or anyone else in Mousecliffe."

The phrases he taught me were fairly simple, and I practised sailor talk for the rest of the trip.

At Workington,we found that the fog had lifted. A yellow moon cast an eerie glow over Basil’s face as he studied his pocket compass to determine our direction.

Our path lay along a narrow road that mounted a steep cliff. The ocean roared angrily, far below. The road descended into a valley, then continued through some thick woods.

Occasionally we heard an owl hooting. I quaked in my boots, having no wish to end my days as a juicy morsel for one of our age-old enemies. Fortunately, we met none of them face to face.

Dawn was breaking when at last we reached the Greymouse Inn. A night clerk dozed in an easy chair. I nudged him gently. Yawning, he went behind the desk and pushed the guest book toward us.

Basil signed first, chuckling as he did so.

When my turn came, I saw that he had registered as Captain Baker, of Blackpool.

Not to be outdone, I signed myself Mr. Street, of Southampton.

Our room was large and airy. The sun was rising to signal the start of a new day, but every bone in my body cried out for a rest.

I lowered the blinds. "Captain Baker, your investigations must wait. We didn’t sleep a wink last night."

"But, Mr. Street, I am fully awake, and plan to nose about down in the lobby. The town gossips might have some interesting information. May I expect the pleasure of my first mate’s company?"

"You may not," I replied drowsily.

Fully clothed, I flung my tired body across one of the beds. My eyelids grew heavy, and I drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"Arise, my slumbering sea-mouse! The hour is noon."

I stirred, and stretched lazily. Bright sunlight shone full in my eyes. Basil stood at my bedside, looking highly pleased with himself. "I had quite a chat with the innkeeper and am in possession of some helpful facts. Would you care to hear about it?"

"By all means," said I, propping myself up against my pillow.

"At first the innkeeper told me very little. Since he is a stay-at-home type, who has probably never been out of Mousecliffe, I deduced that he must depend upon the exploits of others for excitement. I won his good will with my imaginary adventures as captain of the stout ship Pied Piper. It would have warmed your heart to listen, for my first mate, Mr. Street, was always the hero!"

"Indeed!"

"When we fought unfriendly natives on a South Sea isle, your bravery, Mr. Street, saved the day. And in New York City, you rescued me from a tribe of wild Indians at the risk of your life!"

"Hear, hear," I cried, trying not to smile.

"In return for these tall tales, the innkeeper chatted about many Mousecliffe inhabitants. At last he got around to carpenters."

He rubbed his paws together in satisfaction.

"Our messenger’s name is Harry Hawkins. He is well liked, and known as a fine carpenter. However, jobs have been scarce this past year. At times, his wife and their eight young ones almost starved. Then Hawkins’ luck changed. He was hired to do some cabinetwork on the yacht Victoria, anchored here in the harbour, at a high rate of pay."

Basil smiled so broadly that I sat up in bed and said, "If you will pardon my mentioning the unmentionable, you look as smug as the cat that swallowed the canary. Can it be that the yacht has not one owner, but three?"

"Excellent! You are really learning to deduce, Dawson. No one knows them as The Terrible Three, of course, but I hear they are nasty characters, disliked for their overbearing ways."

I swung my feet to the floor. "This is all very interesting, Basil, but I happen to be hungry."

"Good. We lunch at The Flying Squirrel, down at the docks. The Terrible Three eat there quite often, and I’d like a look at the scoundrels. Afterward, we shall pay a few calls."

We freshened up a bit, and Basil applied touches of greasepaint where needed.

Then we sauntered out into the sunshine. It was a crisp, midwinter day, the sky was a beautiful blue, and Mousecliffe-on-Sea was a pretty town.

Our city-bred noses sniffed at the salty air and found it much to our liking. Since there were many sailors about, we attracted no attention.

At The Flying Squirrel, we ordered cheese and chips. Just as our food arrived, we noticed three mice standing in the doorway.

I must say that I shouldn’t have enjoyed encountering any of them alone in a dark alley!

They were more like apes than like mice, with their hulking shoulders and long, loose-hanging arms. They swaggered in, sneering at everyone they passed.

Basil, without seeming to do so, sharply scrutinised their faces.

One of them purposely pushed against our table. The plates almost slid off, and he laughed out loud.

Angry, I rose to my feet, but Basil whispered, "This is not the time," and I sat down meekly.

The Terrible Three were two tables away. Snatches of their talk came to our ears.

One of them said, "Let’s eat here tonight. The food’s a sight better than the slop we get aboard the yacht. The quicker we get hold of another ship’s cook the better it’ll be for our insides!"

He called over to Basil, "Cap’n, d’you know of a good ship’s cook? We’re willin’ to pay well."

Basil shook his head. "Sorry, Matey. Our own cook aboard the Pied Piper is none too good. I’m in the same fix you are."

We paid our bill and left.

Rambling through town, he said, "I recognised them. Each is an expert in his own field of crime and has been behind bars. Now that I know where they will be early this evening, I have decided upon my course of action. They will find that they are not the only ones who can mastermind a plot!"

He halted in front of a grocer’s shop. The sign above read: SAM STILTON, PROPRIETOR.

"Next we pay a call here. These places are usually gold mines of information, although I rather fancy I’ll have to do a lot of listening before I find out what I wish to know. Pray do not be surprised if I sound like a gossip myself -- it’s give and take, you know."

He held the door open with a flourish and bowed low. "You first, my dear first mate!"

I bowed in return and entered the grocer’s shop.

Old Sam Stilton leaned comfortably on the counter, chatting, with a customer. He had trim side whiskers and a round, chubby face.

The customer couldn’t have been a very busy mousewife, for they gossiped about everything from taxes to toothbrushes.

Basil motioned me over to the small post-office nook. "We won’t disturb them, Dawson. Let’s study the WANTED posters, for it’s always a pleasure to see familiar faces!"

There wasn’t a criminal he failed to recognise. "Look, here’s Clarence the Crook. Remember the Anti-Detective League? For months they robbed every detective they caught out alone after dark. Mouseland Yard was baffled, and Inspector Vole called me in on the case.

"Disguising myself, I joined the league and learned that Clarence was the ring-leader. I gathered enough evidence to jail the whole gang. But I see from this poster that Clarence is out again. Ssh!"

Mr. Stilton stood before us, peering over his gold-rimmed spectacles. The mousewife had gone.

"Sorry I couldn’t get to you sooner, Cap’n. But when Mrs. Boswell’s tongue starts waggin’--"

I thought -- and your tongue, too, you old busybody!

But Basil smiled blandly. "We didn’t mind the wait."

"Can I ‘elp you? There’s many as gets their supplies at Sam Stilton’s shop."

Basil wrote out a list. "I’ll be wantin’ these. We sail for Australia within the week."

The grocer climbed a ladder and began taking tins of food from the shelves. While he did this, Basil chattered away.

"This voyage’ll be my last, Mr. Stilton. A house and a garden, that’s the ticket when I settle down, and Mousecliffe seems as good a place as any. I’ll be needin’ a bit of land and someone to build a house. Know of a good spot?"

Stilton climbed down. "There’s some nice ‘igh ground just outside town. Good view o’ the ocean, too. That’s what I’d pick if I was retirin’."

"Aren’t you from a big city?" asked Basil. "You can always tell a city mouse from a country mouse."

"That I am, Cap’n. Come from London, I do, but big city bustle ain’t for me. Been livin’ here a long time. Wouldn’t trade this spot for all the cheese in Switzerland."

And then the talkative shopkeeper was off on his favourite subject -- Sam Stilton!

He gave us his entire life’s history, from babyhood to old age. It seemed as though someone had wound him up, like a mechanical toy, and that the words would never stop coming until the machinery ran down.

I was bored, but Basil nodded in all the proper places, pretending interest in Stilton’s story. At last the detective’s patience was rewarded.

"Say, Cap’n, didn’t you mention needin’ somebody to build you an ‘ouse?"

"That I did. No hurry -- we won’t be back for six months, maybe a year."

"Well, there’s nobody better fit for the job than ‘Arry ‘Awkins. Best carpenter in these parts."

"Hawkins, eh?" repeated Basil. "I’ll take care to remember that name. Thank you."

Stilton lowered his voice. "Confidentially, Skipper, that mouse’as been actin’ queer lately. His Missus usually does their shoppin’. But for two days now he’s been comin’ in ‘imself, buyin’ a lot of extra food. Makes you wonder."

"Wonder about what?" inquired the detective.

"Things like -- where’s the food goin’? Who’s it meant for? Why was a box of sweets stickin’ out of his pocket? Why didn’t ‘e take the groceries home, instead of walkin’ the other way with ‘em? And he looks as scared as someone who smells cheese but fears a trap. My guess is -- ’Arry ‘Awkins is in trouble! But it would never do for ‘is wife to find out -- don’t tell a soul!"

"Our lips are sealed," promised Basil, as he paid for his purchases. "It’s been a pleasure to meet you. One of my sailors will pick up the supplies before we ship out."

"Much obliged for your trade, Cap’n Baker. And I ‘opes you’ll settle in Mousecliffe-on-Sea."

They shook paws, and we left Sam Stilton’s shop. As we walked along, I could tell that Basil was pleased.

"That chatterbox of a grocer has told me all I needed to know. Angela and Agatha not only love sweets, but have hearty appetites as well. Hawkins is trying to keep them happy."

"Are they aboard the yacht?" I asked.

"No, that would be too risky -- the crew might talk. Obviously The Terrible Three have ordered him to hide the twins somewhere and to see that they do not escape. And speaking of Hawkins -- here he comes!"

Our disguises were so perfect that he did not recognise us. Basil even bumped into him purposely, looking straight at him, and apologised.

"It’s all right, Cap’n," mumbled the carpenter, continuing down the street.

Sam Stilton had been right. Hawkins was a dreadfully worried mouse. His eyes darted from side to side as though he were in deadly fear.

Watching him enter the grocer’s shop, Basil said, "You may be sure the food and sweets are his own idea. The Terrible Three are not good-hearted."

He halted at the police station. "We’ll look for our friend Hawkins later. Now for our final errand of the afternoon."

We entered and disclosed our identities. Police Constable Clewes was quite impressed by Basil.

"Sir, it’s an honour to meet so famous a sleuth. I’ve read about every one of your cases." They stepped to one side and talked in low tones for several minutes. I was not invited to join them. Then Clewes escorted us to the door.

"You will await my signal," said Basil. "Is everything perfectly clear to you? A mistake in timing could mean failure!"

The constable nodded. "I’m sure your plan will succeed, sir. It’s the biggest thing I’ve ever handled. But before you go, will you give me your autograph? My children would be thrilled. Myself, too, for that matter."

Basil took pen in paw and obliged. The other police crowded around, and he was kept busy scrawling his signature for some time.

As soon as we got outside, he began to massage his paw, complaining, "My writing muscles are cramped."

"Tut, tut, my dear genius," I teased. "Such is the price of fame!"

When we arrived at the inn, I asked, "What was the secret plan you and the constable discussed?"

Basil smiled. "Curiosity killed a cat, you know. Tonight will tell the tale!"

For the rest of the afternoon we lounged in our rooms. Basil put on his Angora robe and curled up in a chair for a much-needed catnap.

At five, he awoke and dressed. We descended to the dining room. "Eat hearty," advised my friend. "I don’t know when or where we’ll be having our next meal."

Promptly at six, he said, none too softly, "The time is ripe! While The Terrible Three dine at The Flying Squirrel, you and I will board their yacht!"

"Basil, you should have lowered your voice."

He winked. "Do you really think so? Come along!"

We walked to the very end of town and continued on until we came to a lonely, windswept beach.

Behind some rocks was a small dinghy.

"Clewes left it for us," said Basil. "Are you armed?"

"Dawson, we are dealing with dangerous ruffians. You can still return to the safety of the inn."

I squared my shoulder. "Stuff and nonsense! We started this together and we’ll finish it together."

His eyes twinkled. "If it doesn’t finish us first!"

Far across the water gleamed the lights of the yacht. We got the dinghy afloat and rowed swiftly and silently toward the Victoria.

An enormous moon hung low in the sky.

I bent to the oars, wondering idly about the truth of the old saying that the moon is made of green cheese.

We could hear the crew singing a rollicking sea chantey. The voices grew louder, and quite suddenly the yacht loomed before us.

A rope ladder hung over the side of the vessel. Unobserved, we climbed up stealthily.

We went belowdecks. After opening the doors of several cabins and peering within, Basil cried, "At last -- a typewriter! Let us hope it is the one I am seeking."

He took the kidnappers’ letter from his pocket and put a blank sheet of paper in the machine. I watched as he copied the note word for word.

Then he whipped out a pocket lens and compared the two notes. "There is no doubt of it, Dawson -- the original was typed on this machine!"

"But isn’t all typewriting more or less alike?"

"My dear fellow, that’s not so. Typewriting can definitely be identified as the work of a certain machine. We judge it as we judge handwriting. Each typewriter has its own habits, even when it is in perfect condition, and this one is not. Let us take these two notes, for example."

Interested, I looked over his shoulder.

"Notice, the peculiar slant to the letter L," he pointed out. "Also observe that each capital B is minus part of its stem and that every period has punched a hole through the paper. No two typewriters type exactly alike, yet the typing on these two notes is almost identical. Therefore, they are both the work of the same machine."

"Remarkable!" I exclaimed. "Yet it seems so simple when properly explained. You must have put in a great deal of study on the subject."

"True. A detective must be expert in many fields."

Suddenly he pricked up his ears. "Hark!"

I heard swiftly running footfalls from above, coming closer and closer.

Basil crammed both notes into his pocket.

"Remember, Dawson -- we have the evidence, but the criminals have not been caught. Now we shall meet them in person, precisely as I planned. Two of their spies were in the dining room of the inn, and I made certain that they overheard where we were going. Here they come -- put up a good fight!"

The door swung open, and The Terrible Three came charging in, followed by several husky sailors!

CONTINUE ON TO CHAPTER 11 THROUGH 15