Mystery of Holly Lane by Enid Blyton Page B

Buster?”
    “Not a mystery, is it?” asked Bets, hopefully, as they all went along together. Fatty shook his head.
    “There’s not even the smell of a one,” he said. “Look — isn’t this the place, Larry — that little bungalow there?”
    “Yes,” said Larry, and went into the garden. He came back quite quickly, looking rather scared.
    “I say — there’s somebody shouting like anything in that bungalow. It sounds as if they’re yelling ‘Police! Police! Police!’ “
    “Really? Come on, we’ll see what’s up,” said Fatty, and they all trooped in at the gate. Fatty went to the door. It was shut. From within came a curious croaking shout
    “Police! Police! Fetch the police!”
    “Whatever can be the matter?” said Fatty. “I’d better go in and see!”
     
    The Old Man in the Bungalow.
     
    The five children and Buster went up the path. The front door was shut. Fatty went to look in at one of the windows, and the others followed.
    Green curtains were drawn back to let the light into the room. In the middle of the room sat an old man in a small arm-chair. He was beating on the arms and shouting “Police! Police! Fetch the police!”
    “It’s the old man I saw when I cleaned the windows,” said Larry. “What’s the matter with him? Why does he want the police?”
    They all looked at the old fellow. He had on a dressing-gown over pyjamas, and a night-cap that had slipped to one side of his bald head. He had a small beard on his chin and a scarf tied loosely round his neck.
    By the stove stood a wheel-chair with a rug half-falling off it, and on a shelf nearby was a small portable radio, within reach of the old man’s hand. The children could hear it playing loudly.
    “Something’s upset the old fellow,” said Fatty. “Let’s try the door and see if it’s unlocked.”
    They went back to the door, and Fatty turned the handle. The door opened at once.
    They all went in, Buster too. The old man neither heard nor saw them. He still sat in the chair, beating its arms, and wailing for the police.
    Fatty touched him on the arm, and the old fellow jumped. He stopped shouting and blinked up at Fatty with watery eyes. He put out his hand and felt along Fatty’s coat
    “Who is it? Is it the police? Who are you?”
    “I’m someone who heard you shouting and came to see what was the matter,” said Fatty speaking loudly. “Can we help you? What has happened?”
    It was clear that the old man could hardly see. He peered round at the others and drew his dressing-gown around him. He began to shiver.
    “Look — you get back to the fire,” said Fatty. “I’D take one arm — Larry, you take the other. The old fellow has had a shock of some kind — he’s trembling. Turn off that radio, Bets!”
    The old man made no objection to being helped to his own chair. He sat down in it with a sigh, and let Daisy arrange his cushions and rug. He peered at them again.
    “Who are you all? Fetch the police, I say,” he said, and his voice quavered as he spoke.
    “Do tell us what’s the matter,” said Daisy. But he couldn’t hear her, and she repeated the question loudly.
    “Matter? Matter enough. My money’s gone!” he said, and his voice rose to a howl. “All my money! Now what’s to happen to me?”
    “How do you know it’s gone?” said Fatty, loudly. “Didn’t you keep it in the bank, or the post-office?”
    “Banks! I don’t trust banks!” wailed the old fellow. “I hid it where nobody could find it. Now it’s gone.”
    “Where did you hide it?” asked Larry.
    “What? What’s that?” said the old man, cupping his hand over his ear. “Speak up.”
    “I said, ‘WHERE DID YOU HIDE IT?’ ” repeated Larry. A sly look came over the old fellow’s face. He shook his head.
    “I shan’t tell you. No, that’s my secret. It was hidden where nobody could find it. But now it’s gone.”
    “Tell us where you hid it, and we’ll have a good look for ourselves,” said Daisy loudly. But the