Beware the Fisj Read online

  He shook his head. “That woman!” he said aloud. He strode back to his office.

  * * *

  “Investigation Fish — Field Report Number Three — Sergeant Harold P. Featherstone, Special Division, reporting,” dictated Sergeant Featherstone into his voice recorder. He was locked in the motel bathroom and had the shower, sink and fan all running.

  “A further development has arisen,” he continued softly. “I am being followed by a tall, thin, dark-haired man with a long nose. He is staying in the room next to mine. Everywhere I go, he goes. I am reporting from my bathroom with the water running to render any bugging devices ineffective. I suspect he is one of the Fish’s operatives, or perhaps the Fish himself. Whichever, it is obvious that the Fish knows of my presence here in Chutney. I will take all necessary precautionary measures.

  “Featherstone out.”

  Chapter 7

  Operation Popcan

  Friday night after lights-out, few students were in bed. The woods behind Macdonald Hall were crawling with boys, all setting out on the great pop-can round-up. Most of the boys had had the same idea — to take to the woods until they were out of sight of the school and then cut over to the highway for the long walk to Chutney.

  Bruno and Boots trudged along behind Larry and Sidney.

  “How come you’re going, Larry?” asked Bruno. “What if The Fish needs a messenger tomorrow and you’re not back yet?”

  “I’m just going as far as the drive-in movie outside Chutney,” Larry replied. “Pete and Wilbur are already there. Sidney’ll go on with them, and I’ll go home with the cans from the drive-in.” He squinted in the dark. “Say, where’s Elmer?”

  “He’s staying home,” explained Boots. “He said something about a remote-control thingamajig he’s working on.”

  “Where are you guys going?” asked Sidney.

  “Oh, we’re going to Toronto,” Bruno said airily.

  Boots was worried. “Bruno, Toronto is awfully far. I thought we’d just sort of hang around Chutney.”

  “If everyone just sort of hangs around Chutney,” pointed out Bruno, “we won’t get enough cans, will we?” Boots fell silent. He had decided quite a while earlier that the entire pop-can project was ridiculous and rather out of reach, but from long experience he knew there was no point in telling this to Bruno Walton, who had his heart and mind set on it. Boots found himself wondering what Mr. Sturgeon would do if he discovered that ninety percent of his students had walked out in the middle of the night.

  His thoughts were shared by many of the boys who trudged north on Highway 48 that night. They walked, for the most part, in silence.

  * * *

  “Hey, look at this!” exclaimed Rob Adams as he and his companion, Marvin Trimble, boarded the 10 PM bus for Richmond Hill. “A pop can right under my seat! This is going to be easier than we thought!” He unfolded a green garbage bag and tossed the can in. “One,” he counted.

  “We’re really on our way,” commented Marvin dryly as the bus pulled out.

  * * *

  Sergeant Harold P. Featherstone, Junior, reclined in the front seat of his old Volkswagen Beetle, sipping the last few drops of a can of ginger ale and watching the late-night movie at the drive-in. His stomach rumbled loudly as he got out of the car and headed for the snack bar.

  From out of the darkness Pete Anderson appeared. He reached up for Featherstone’s pop can, shook it, and finding it empty, tossed it into his bag. It clanked against many others.

  Five minutes later Featherstone returned, carrying a hot dog and another drink. He noticed two things: his pop can had disappeared and the man in the car directly behind him, though disguised in a trench coat, a hat and dark glasses, was unmistakably the mysterious man from room 14. Featherstone was now sure that the long-nosed man was working for the Fish and that Operation Popcan, whatever it was, had already begun.

  * * *

  “Nothing in here,” echoed Perry Elbert’s voice from the depths of a garbage can.

  “Don’t we have enough?” complained his roommate, Mortimer Day. “Between the two of us, we must have fifty of them.”

  “Bruno said he wants us to get at least sixty each,” said Perry. “That’s a hundred and twenty. We’re short, but it’s early yet.”

  “Do you mean to tell me that we’re going into every garbage can in Chutney?” asked Mort indignantly.

  “And maybe Stouffville if we have time.”

  Mort groaned. “I hate it when Bruno runs things!”

  Perry grunted in agreement. “Me too, but this time it’s important. We’re doing this to save the school.”

  “I don’t see how a pyramid of tin cans, even the largest one in the world, will save the school,” objected Mort.

  “Neither do I,” said Perry, “but everybody’s out collecting, so it has to have some point.”

  “Jackpot!” whispered Mort in sudden delight. “A whole case of empties!”

  * * *

  “This alley is paradise to the pop-can hunter!” exclaimed Louis Brown, stuffing cans into his bag with both hands.

  “We must have a million by now!” agreed Mark Davies.

  “Good. Let’s go back before we get into trouble,” urged the third member of the group, Gary Potts. “We don’t need any more cans.”

  “After we clean out this alley,” said Mark, peering behind some old crates, “we’ll talk about it.”

  “I want to go home!” insisted Gary.

  * * *

  Chris Talbot and Rodney Stitt had taken a bus all the way to Gormley because they had discovered that there was a soft drink manufacturer there. To their utter disappointment, the Gormley Soda Works turned out to be a bottler. No cans. Their night was saved, however, when they accidentally stumbled upon the leavings of a very large company picnic at a park across from the bus depot. There they amassed over two hundred empty pop cans between them.

  * * *

  When the movie ended Featherstone aimed his car toward the one exit, and with a screech of his tires, turned out onto the highway. In his rear-view mirror he could see the usual congested traffic leaving the drive-in lot. He had the satisfaction of knowing that he had left the man from room 14 far behind in the jam.

  * * *

  “I don’t like this place!” complained Sidney Rampulsky, on his hands and knees in a pile of rubbish. “It stinks!”

  “What did you expect the Chutney dump to smell like?” demanded Wilbur. “Roses? Anyway, there’s a lot of cans here.”

  “They stink too,” said Sidney. “We’re going to have the smelliest pop-can pyramid in the world.”

  “Two world records,” grunted Wilbur.

  Pete Anderson appeared, shining a flashlight over a mountain of trash. “This whole thing makes me nervous,” he complained. “What if The Fish comes?”

  “The Fish is snug in his bed back at the Hall,” said Sidney, “where I wish I was. Besides, if he did discover we were missing, I figure the dump is the last place he’d look for us.”

  “It makes me nervous too,” said Wilbur, stuffing a whole pile of cans into his bag. “Sometimes I think we’re nuts to do what Bruno tells us.”

  “Keep picking them up,” sighed Sidney. “The sooner we get out of here, the better.”

  * * *

  In search of clues to Operation Popcan, Featherstone cruised along side roads on his way back to the Chutney Motel. Not knowing what one was looking for, he reflected, made an investigation rather difficult. At first he had thought Operation Popcan was only a code name. And yet someone, probably the Fish’s agent from room 14, had deliberately gone to his car and stolen his empty pop can. What on earth for? he asked himself. Was there really some sort of strange terrorist activity developing in this peaceful town?

  He came to a bend in the road and suddenly caught a glimpse of a dim light up ahead in what appeared to be a field. He drove a little farther, stopped the car and got out. The smell of rotting garbage assailed his nostrils. The town dump.
Someone was foraging around the dump. But why? The dump was full of garbage and refuse and — pop cans.

  Gingerly, trying to ignore his racing heart, he stepped over the wire fence and began to creep silently toward the spot where he could still see the light bobbing. Now he could hear several voices. Careful. He was outnumbered.

  “I did! I did see a car! It stopped right over there and then the lights went out!”

  “The Fish!” screeched Pete Anderson, switching off his flashlight. “Let’s get out of here!”

  Sidney Rampulsky grabbed his two giant bags full of pop cans and ran aimlessly. At the top of a mound his foot got snagged on the edge of an old broken bathtub. The tub rolled over and started a landslide of garbage down the mound. Panic-stricken, Sidney looked down and saw, two metres below him, a white face with two hands held up in front of it in a futile attempt to ward off the avalanche.

  Sidney wheeled and tore off after Wilbur Hackenschleimer’s burly, fleeing form. Passing Wilbur and then Pete, he howled, “Let’s move! There’s a guy back there!”

  The three, only slightly impeded by the bags they still clutched, ran off into the night. They did not stop until they were halfway back to Macdonald Hall.

  In the Chutney dump, a pile of garbage stirred and a head broke the surface. With great effort and much spitting and muttering, Sergeant Featherstone arose and shook himself, spraying garbage everywhere. He stood there for an instant squinting about him and then, with a groan, dropped to his knees in the mess and began foraging. After a few minutes he came up with his glasses. He stumbled away from the dump, eased himself back over the fence and crossed the road to his car. Miserably, he realized that the aroma of rotten garbage had come with him.

  He turned the key in the ignition. The engine turned over once, choked and died. He tried again. Same result. And again. He checked the gas gauge. Empty. He tried to picture his police training manual, but could not recall a page dictating what an officer should do when he finds himself covered in garbage, in the middle of nowhere, with an empty gas tank.

  He began to walk towards Chutney, passing the time by making a mental list of the many unpleasant things he had in store for the Fish when he apprehended him.

  * * *

  “Notice,” read Jim Duffy. “Beginning September 20th, there will be no transit service between the hours of 1 AM and 6 AM.”

  “Terrific!” exclaimed Fred Johnston, resting his load against the bus shelter. “We’re stranded in beautiful downtown Stouffville! Call me a taxi. Or better still, a truck. We can’t walk all the way home!”

  “We’ll just have to wait until six,” sighed Jim. “And while we’re at it, we may as well pick up a few more cans.”

  Fred groaned. “Wait till I get my hands on Bruno Walton!”

  * * *

  Just before dawn a group of fifteen boys crept onto the Macdonald Hall campus, each carrying large bags full of cans. They stole across the lawn to the abandoned Dormitory 3 and opened the main door.

  John Oak stepped inside. “Wow!” he whispered admiringly. “Look at this!”

  The dormitory hall was lined with neatly-stacked pop cans, already stretching past two doorways. The stacks were four cans high. Their metallic surfaces glinted in the dim moonlight.

  “We’ll have to stack ours too,” John whispered to the others. “That’s what everyone else is doing.” To set a good example, he began placing his cans one by one in a neat stack with the others.

  “How many do you think we’ve got?” whispered someone.

  “About a billion!”

  “About five hundred.”

  “Probably a few thousand.”

  “A lot more than any normal person would want!”

  “My feet are killing me!”

  “I don’t think we have enough.”

  “Don’t worry. There’s lots more coming.”

  “My feet!”

  “Your feet? My back!”

  “Shhhhh!”

  Their cans all neatly stowed away, the boys headed for their rooms to catch two hours sleep before breakfast.

  * * *

  Dawn found Bruno Walton and Boots O’Neal in Toronto’s High Park because, as Bruno put it, “It’s right in the middle of the city. There are picnics, school field trips, office workers having lunch — there must be millions of pop cans!”

  And there were. The bins were piled high with the previous day’s leavings, since the clean-up crew had not yet come on duty.

  “We should have brought more guys!” exclaimed Bruno enthusiastically. “We could get thirty-two thousand cans just from this park!”

  “Who else would be stupid enough to come all the way to Toronto?” moaned Boots, yawning hugely. “How are we ever going to get all these cans back to the Hall?”

  “Oh, that’s the easy part,” said Bruno, tossing three cans into his second bag. “Via the Art Gallery at four o’clock.”

  “Scrimmage’s?” asked Boots in horror.

  Bruno shrugged. “They’re going to have two or three buses. Surely they’ll have room for little old us.”

  “Bruno, we’ve got two huge bags of junk apiece! How do you figure we can just slip onto one of their buses unnoticed? Miss Scrimmage is bound to catch us!”

  “The girls will all have big bags of junk too,” said Bruno. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after everything.”

  “I’d rather take the bus to Chutney and walk back to the Hall,” said Boots hopefully.

  “Well, let me put it this way,” said Bruno. “We have enough money either for bus fare or for lunch. Take your choice.” He smiled engagingly. “And Miss Scrimmage’s buses go for free.”

  * * *

  Having spent a full two hours in the bathtub, Sergeant Featherstone then turned on the shower for cover noise and began to record his report.

  “Investigation Fish — Field Report Number Four — Sergeant Harold P. Featherstone, Special Division, reporting.

  “Last night I managed to elude the Fish’s agent from room 14 and pursue my investigation in secrecy. I came upon what I believe to be a phase of Operation Popcan at the Chutney town dump. Several people were involved, descriptions impossible due to poor light. They were using the code word Fish. As I closed in on them, one of the terrorists made a vicious attempt on my life by starting an avalanche of garbage. I got a good look at my assailant, and I must say that I have never seen a more evil face in my entire career. I shall certainly know him when we meet again.

  “Featherstone out.”

  * * *

  At mid-morning on Saturday, a group of nine Macdonald Hall students who had met on the way home stole onto the campus from the rear by way of the woods. Taking care to keep out of sight, they eased their way into Dormitory 3 through a side window. In the hallway, a wondrous sight met their eyes: row upon row of neatly stacked pop cans lined the wall. To their weary souls it was awe-inspiring evidence of great achievement.

  “It kind of makes you believe, doesn’t it?” commented Chris Talbot.

  The group began to stack their own cans.

  * * *

  “All right, girls,” said Miss Scrimmage brightly. “Now that your guided tour of the gallery is over, you may spend the next two hours looking over the exhibits that interested you the most. Or perhaps you might enjoy having a small snack in the cafeteria. Your time is your own, but be sure to be back at the buses at quarter to four. Run along, now.”

  Like a general, Cathy Burton marched the entire population of Miss Scrimmage’s school down the hall and into the ladies’ room. There each girl was handed a green garbage bag, hoisted out the window to the street and sent in search of pop cans.

  After the last girl had been sped on her way, Diane turned to Cathy. “What about us? What are we doing?”

  “I’m not fool enough to chase all over town looking for pop cans,” replied Cathy. “There must be a million of them right in the cafeteria of this building.”

  “Gee,” chuckled Diane admiringly, “you sure
know how to plan the right way.”

  “I hope so,” grinned Cathy. “And I hope the guys build their pyramid and get into the record book. Things would be awfully dull around our place if we lost Macdonald Hall.”

  * * *

  “There are the buses,” said Bruno as he and Boots approached the Art Gallery. “All we have to do is sneak aboard and we’re home free.”

  “It’s hard to sneak anywhere,” observed Boots, “when you’re carrying two gigantic bags that clank. Would you mind telling me how we’re going to do it?”

  “Easy,” said Bruno. “We wait for the girls and we all clank on together.”

  On cue, a line of girls began to stream out of the building. Bruno and Boots quickly ran over and merged with the crowd. Spotting them, Cathy and Diane pushed their way over.

  “Hi,” said Cathy. “Want a lift?”

  “Yes, please,” replied Bruno, grinning.

  The line stopped.

  “My goodness,” said Miss Scrimmage at the entrance to the bus. “Why is everyone carrying such huge parcels?”

  “Souvenirs, Miss Scrimmage,” piped Bruno, falsetto.

  “Oh, how nice!” exclaimed the Headmistress with delight. “I am pleased that you all enjoyed the gallery so. Let me have a peek.” She looked into the bag carried by the first girl in line and raised a perplexed face. “Uh — splendid,” she said dubiously. “All right, now, girls. Everybody on the buses.”

  They all filed on, Cathy and Diane keeping Bruno and Boots well hidden.

  “How strange,” commented Miss Scrimmage to the driver. “I counted two more than we brought.”

  The driver shrugged indifferently. “They’re probably from the other bus,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “I guess that’s it.”

  Both buses pulled away from the Art Gallery.

  Bruno thoroughly enjoyed the trip, hanging his head out the window to catch the breeze. Boots, on the other hand, sat in hunched misery, hiding his face in his green garbage bags and peeking out now and then to check the back of Miss Scrimmage’s head.

  When the buses finally pulled into the driveway of Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, Bruno turned to Cathy.