Arabel's Raven Read online

  As the red wagon passed Gaskett and Dent, the big garage on the corner, Mortimer looked out through the hole in his trumpet and said, "Kaark!" Sometimes when he spoke inside the trumpet he accidentally blew quite a loud note. It happened this time, and the Citroen car swerved across the road.

  "What does Mortimer want?" said Chris.

  "I think he would like us to put a coin in that machine."

  "All-night kerosene? What would we want kerosene for?"

  "We could use it instead of cooking oil for getting Mortimer out of the trumpet."

  "Oh, very well," said Chris. He put in a tenpenny piece and got a carton of kerosene. Mortimer would have liked him to do it again, but Chris thought one lot of kerosene was enough.

  "There's a bread machine at the baker's," Arabel said.

  "It must be past your bedtime by now."

  "Well, we don't know that," Arabel said, "because we none of us have watches. Mortimer would so like to get a loaf from the bread machine."

  But at the baker's they had a disappointment. The bread machine was out of order. A sign said so.

  "Nevermore," said Mortimer, inside the trumpet.

  "Poor thing, he does sound a bit sorry for himself in there," said Chris. "Tell you what, as we've come so far, we might as well go up to the tube station. There's lots of machines up there."

  "Oh yes!" said Arabel.

  Rumbury Tube Station had recently been modernized inside, after an accident to its lift and escalators. A whole lot of new automatic machines had been installed in the station entrance. One sold hot milk, soup, hot chocolate, or coffee black or regular, with or without sugar. Another had apples, pears, or bananas. Another had sandwiches or meat pies. Another had paperback books. Another would polish your shoes. Another would take a photograph of you looking as if you had seen a ghost. Another would massage the soles of your feet. Another would say a cheering poem and hold your hand while it did so. Another would print your name and address on a little tin disk. Another would tell your weight and horoscope. Another would blow your nose for you on a clean tissue, if you stuck the nose into a slot and, as well as that, give you a vitamin C tablet and two mentholated throat lozenges, all for fivepence.

  There was also a useful machine which would give you change for all the rest.

  Arabel's uncle Arthur was the stationmaster. "Arr," he used to say, "there's that variety of machines at Rumbury Toob now, a man wouldn't need kith nor kin nor wife nor fambly; he could just pass his life in the station and they wondrous machines'd do all he needed. Even his wash he could get done next door at the Washeteria; all they won't do for you is sleep."

  Uncle Arthur never needed anyone to do his sleeping for him. He was asleep now, with his head pillowed on a pile of fifteen-penny tickets, snoring like a municipal garbage truck.

  Mortimer looked around at all the automatic machines with their little glass windows and things all bright behind them; his eyes sparkled through the hole in the trumpet like buttons on patent-leather boots.

  "Where shall we start?" said Arabel.

  Sid and Bill left their Citroen parked illegally outside on a double yellow line and strolled up to the station entrance. They stood leaning against the wall, looking in.

  "Bit public here," said Bill. Sid nodded.

  It was at this moment in the Rumbury Town Assembly Rooms, in the middle of the Furriers' Freewheeling Ball, that Mrs. Jones suddenly left her partner (Mr. Finney the fishmonger), rushed up to Mr. Jones, who was gloomily eating potato chips at the buffet, grabbed his lapel, and said, "Ben! I've just remembered! I left the immersion heater on! Oh my stars, do you suppose the tank will burst and all our sheets and towels be ruined and what about Arabel and Mortimer and that boy Chris, though I daresay he can take care of himself, do you suppose they'll be scalded, oh my goodness gracious, what a fool I am, what shall we do?"

  "It won't burst," said Mr. Jones, "but it'll be costing us a bundle. I'll phone up home and tell Chris to switch it off."

  "I'll come to the phone with you," said Mrs. Jones, "and make sure Arabel's in bed and everything's all right."

  There was a wall telephone in the lobby. Mr. Jones dialed his home number but nobody answered. The bell rang and rang.

  "Funny," he said. "Maybe I got the wrong number. I'll try again."

  He tried again. Still no answer.

  "Oh, Ben!" said Mrs. Jones fearfully. "What could have happened? Could the house have burned down?"

  "Don't be silly, Martha. How could the phone ring if the house had burned down? Maybe it's a crossed line. I'll get the exchange to call them."

  He got the exchange. But all they could say was that nobody was answering on Rumbury oh one one oh.

  "Oh, Ben! What could have happened? Do you think the boiler did burst? Or perhaps there's been a gas escape and they're all lying unconscious or masked gunmen are holding them up and they aren't allowed to phone or there was something deadly in those cheese patties and they're in agony trying to crawl down the stairs or maybe there's a black mamba escaped from the zoo coiled around the banisters and they can't get by. I've always said it was silly to have the phone halfway up the stairs, oh my gracious, we must go home directly!"

  "Don't be silly. We haven't got gas, Martha, so how could it escape?"

  "From the zoo!" cried Mrs. Jones, frantically waving her cloakroom ticket at the lady who was knitting by the counter. "Oh, please, dear, find my coat quick, there's a love, for a deadly masked mamba has escaped from the gasworks and it's got into the cheese patties and if we don't get home directly there won't be one of them alive to tell the tale!"

  "What tale?" said the cloakroom lady, rather puzzled, and she was even more puzzled when she looked at the ticket which said, "Clean and retexture one pink satin dress."

  "This one, this one then," said Mrs. Jones, distractedly fishing out another ticket which said, "Rumbury Borough Library Nonfiction." "That one, that black coat with the sparkling butterfly brooch on the collar, oh please hurry, or I shall pass out with palpitations, I know I shall."

  "Why did Mr. and Mrs. Jones go off so quick?" asked the cloakroom lady's cousin, Mrs. Finney, presently, bringing her some chips and a glass of sparkling cider.

  "Oh, Grace, it's awful! One of those deadly cheese mambas has escaped from the telephone exchange and there's gunmen going after it because its breath is like a poison gas and it's in Mr. Jones's house coiled around the boiler and everybody's dead and someone just rang from the zoo to tell them to come home."

  "My lawks. I'd better tell my hubby, he's a great friend of poor Mr. Jones. Perce, Percy, just listen to this: a deadly mamba has escaped from Mr. Jones's house and it's in the telephone exchange with a gun and they're trying to gas it out with deadly cheese and all Mr. Jones's family are unconscious inside the boiler and his house is burned down."

  "Cripes," said Mr. Finney, who was a member of the auxiliary fire brigade. "I'd best be off, they'll be wanting all the lads at that rate." He went toward the entrance, muttering, "I wonder why they got inside the boiler?"

  "Take your gas mask!" his wife screeched after him.

  Most of the men at the Furriers' Ball were glad of the excuse to stream after Mr. Finney, and their wives followed, all agog to see what was happening at Number Six, Rainwater Crescent. A procession of cars started away from the Assembly Rooms, in pursuit of Mr. Jones's taxi.

  Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Jones had arrived at Number Six.

  "At least the house is still standing," cried Mrs. Jones. "Open the door, Ben, do, I couldn't if I was to be turned to a nutmeg on the spot, my hand's all of a tremble and my saint pancreas is going round and round like a spin dryer."

  Mr. Jones unlocked the door and they hurried in.

  "Arabel," called Mrs. Jones. "Arabel, dearie, where are you? It's Mum and Dad come home to save you!"

  No answer.

  Mrs. Jones rushed to the kitchen, where the light was on.

  "Oh my dear cats alive! Ben! Look! Oh, whatever has been going
on? Broken glass everywhere—blood—milk—towels—what's that guitar doing up on top of the cupboard?—cheese grater on the floor, chips everywhere, pressure cooker in the laundry bas-ket—a whole gang of mambas must have been in!"

  Even Mr. Jones was obliged to admit that it looked as if there had been a struggle.

  "I'd best call the police," he said unhappily, when he had been all over the house, and made sure that neither Arabel, Mortimer, nor Chris were anywhere in it. "There's been something funny going on in the bathroom cupboard, too; one thing, the intruders seem to have had the sense to turn off the immersion heater."

  "Oh, how can you talk about immersion heaters when my child's been gagged and tied up in a lot of sheets and towels," lamented Mrs. Jones. "Kidnapped, that's what they've been, by a gang of those deadly gorillas that live in the river Jordan. Oh, Ben! We'll never set eyes on them again. My little Arabel! And Mortimer! To think I'll never see him digging for diamonds in the coal scuttle anymore!"

  "Oh, come, Martha, things may not be as bad as that," said Mr. Jones doubtfully. "Let's see what the police say." He went to the phone.

  "Send back a lock of hair in a matchbox, they will," wept Mrs. Jones. "Or a claw, maybe! Heart of gold that bird had at bottom; just a rough diamond with feathers on, he was, Many's the time I've seen him look at me as though he'd have liked to say a kind word if his nature would have let him."

  "I want the police," said Mr. Jones into the telephone.

  But at that moment the police came through the front door, which was open.

  It was Sergeant Pike, who had met Mr. Jones the month before when Mortimer helped to catch some bank robbers. With the sergeant there were two constables.

  "Evening, Mr. J.," said the sergeant. "Someone up the town reported you've an escaped snake in the house, is that right?"

  "Snake? Who said anything about a snake?" Mr. Jones was puzzled. "No, it's my daughter, and our raven Mortimer, and the babysitter who seem to have been overpowered and kidnapped, Sergeant. You can see there's been quite a fight here. Look at this blood on the floor."

  "Carried off to Swanee Arabia they've been by a band of gorillas," sobbed Mrs. Jones.

  "That's yuman blood on the floor, that is," said one of the constables, as if no one had noticed it before.

  "You can see there's been a struggle. Someone tore a strip off that towel."

  "For a gag, likely."

  "The guitar got tossed up on top of the cupboard in the roughhouse."

  "The ironing board got kicked over in the ruckus."

  "Someone bashed someone's head with a milk bottle."

  "And then the other bloke took and bashed him back with another bottle."

  "And collared him when he was down and scraped him with the cheese grater."

  "That'll be Grievous Bodily Harm, shouldn't wonder."

  "Cheese grater," said the sergeant thoughtfully. "Wasn't there something about some poisoned cheese patties?"

  Just at that moment the fire engine drew up outside.

  "Can we help?" said Mr. Finney who, with his mates, had got into auxiliary fire uniform.

  "I dunno," said the sergeant. "Why are you all wearing gas masks?"

  "Someone said a tank full of deadly mambas had exploded and there was gas about."

  Now all the ladies from the Furriers' Ball turned up.

  "We've brought hot tea and blankets," cried Mrs. Finney. "Where's the injured persons?"

  "Strewth," said the sergeant. "How am I expected to get on, with all this shower?"

  People swarmed over the house, looking at the mess.

  "Do you find you can get your sink really clean with Dizz, dear?" said Mrs. Finney to Mrs. Jones. "I always find it stains."

  "Fancy you still having those old-fashioned plastic curtains in your kitchen. Give it ever such an old-world look, don't they? My hubby made me change to shades, ever so much more modern and labor-saving, he said."

  "Haven't you ever thought of getting a sink garbage disposal unit, dear?"

  "I have lost my beloved daughter and my greatly esteemed raven," said Mrs. Jones with dignity, "and I should be obliged if you would leave me alone with my trouble."

  "Yes, why don't you ladies go and have a hunt up and down the street, see if you can lay eyes on the little girl," said the sergeant, "or one of these here pistol-packing mambas I hear talk of. Be off, buzz along, that's right, let's have a bit of peace and quiet around here, can we?"

  "Suppose we meet the mambas, what shall we do?"

  "It isn't mambas, it's gorillas," wailed Mrs. Jones.

  "Do not attempt to engage them in combat but inform the police," said Sergeant Pike. "If you patrol the High Street in half dozens I daresay you'll be safe enough."

  He shoved the reluctant ladies out of the house.

  "What about us?" said Mr. Finney, hopefully peering about for something to bash with his fireman's ax. In his gas mask he looked like some creature that had climbed up out of the deep, deep sea.

  "You cruise up and down the High Street in your engine and assist the ladies in their inquiries," instructed Sergeant Pike and shoved him out, too. "Now, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, if you'll just accompany me up to the station and make a statement, perhaps this case can proceed in a proper and orderly manner."

  "Why go up to the tube station? Oh my stars, why can't we make a statement here when all the time my Arabel's lying bound and gagged on some railway line in the desert with all the Arabian knights of the Round Table ready to chop her in half if she moves hand or foot?"

  Police Constables Smith and Brown, who had been searching the house, came to report.

  "Someone's been incarcerated in the bathroom cupboard," P. C. Smith said. "There's an empty can of orange juice there, also a ginger biscuit, a chocolate egg, and three battered pancakes."

  "Ah," said Sergeant Pike, "that proves it was a carefully planned and premeditated job. The intruder must have been hiding in the bathroom cupboard before you left for the ball, Mr. Jones, just waiting till you were out of the house."

  "He must have been ever so small then," wept Mrs. Jones, "for I never saw him when I turned the heater on for Arabel's bath. Oh my goodness, it must have been one of those wicked fiendish little dwarfs capable of superhuman strength like Mr. Quilp in The Old Curiosity Shop or the hunchback of the Aswan Dam."

  "Let's get up to the station, for Pete's sake," said Sergeant Pike, who began to feel he was losing his grip on the case. "Do you want to come in the police car or will you follow in your taxi?"

  "We'll follow," said Mr. Jones. After the police had left he carefully locked the house, and he and Mrs. Jones followed in the taxi. But they got left behind almost at once because whenever Mrs. Jones laid eyes on a group of searching ladies she put her head out of the window and shouted, "It's not gorillas after all, it's those wicked little dwarf Arabian knights with curved swords that go round cutting cushions in half in old curiosity shops."

  Meanwhile, up at Rumbury Station, Arabel, Mortimer, and Chris had been having a wonderful time. Mortimer, jumping up and down in frantic excitement inside his trumpet, had watched while they put coins into every single machine, one by one. In the red wagon, as well as seven cartons of milk and the kerosene, they now had a packet of gumdrops, two bars of chocolate, one of nuts and raisins, some cigarettes, a ham sandwich, four empty cups (one chocolate, one milk, one coffee, one soup), an apple, a pear, a banana, a copy of a paperback book called Death in the Desert, a make-it-yourself record with Chris singing his song about the moon, a meat pie, an identity disk with Mortimer's name and address printed on it, a photograph of Arabel with Mortimer in his trumpet on her shoulder, a card saying that Chris weighed ten stone and would have six children, a vitamin C tablet, and two mentholated throat lozenges. Also, Arabel had had her nose blown and Mortimer his feet massaged, which astonished him very much indeed.

  "That's all," said Arabel regretfully when they had put the mentholated throat lozenges into the empty cup that had held tomato soup. "Coul
d we start again?"

  "No, we ought to go home," said Chris. "It must be your bedtime by now."

  "We could wake Uncle Arthur and ask him the time in case it isn't."

  "No, don't, he looks so peaceful. Come on, we can make some hot chocolate when we get back."

  They pulled Mortimer out of the tube station in his wagon and started down the hill. The two men who had been waiting outside got back into their Citroen car and followed.

  But Mortimer, when he found that the evening's entertainment was finished, became very despondent. He began to grumble inside the trumpet, and to mutter, and flap his wings, or try to, and kick the carton of kerosene, and shout, "Nevermore!" in a loud angry voice.

  "He's upset because he didn't have a chance to put a coin in a machine," said Arabel.

  "He shouldn't have got inside my trumpet."

  "If we could only get it off him," said Arabel, "we could turn down Lykewake Lane and go home that way. There's a draper's shop that has a machine outside that you put fivepence in and it sews a button on while you wait."

  "Who wants a button sewn on?"

  "Mortimer might like one on his face towel."

  "Oh, all right."

  So they turned down Lykewake Lane (just missing one of the posses of ladies and the fire engine cruising along the High Street) and the two men followed them in their Citroen car.

  When they came to the draper's shop, which was called Cotton & Button, Arabel said, "Mortimer. Will you stop shouting 'Nevermore' and listen. We are going to pull the trumpet off you, if we can, and then you can put fivepence in this machine for it to sew on a button."

  Silence from inside the trumpet while Mortimer thought about this.

  "Do you think we really ought to pour kerosene on him?" said Chris. "It might be bad for him. And it will make my trumpet smell terrible."