041 The Clue of the Screeching Owl by Franklin W. Dixon

Author:Franklin W. Dixon [Dixon, Franklin W.]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

WYCKOFF WEBBER

Attorney-at-Law

The brothers crossed the street to the courthouse. No one was at work yet.

“Well, let’s try the stores,” suggested Joe. “Somebody here must know the Donners.”

During the next hour the two young detectives went from shop to shop asking questions about the Donner family. Although one or two clerks or storekeepers admitted the name “sounded familiar,” nobody could give any definite information.

“I’ll tell you what we’re up against,” said the exasperated Joe. “Some of these people are new in town, and they just don’t know the Donners. The others know them, but won’t talk to us. We’re outsiders, and they think we’re prying into local affairs that aren’t any of our business!”

“Maybe so,” agreed Frank. “But there’s one shop I have to visit fast!” He indicated a tailor’s establishment at the end of the block.

“What for?” demanded his brother, puzzled.

“Just discovered,” muttered Frank, “I have a hole in my slacks—must have caught them on the rocks last night!”

A little man with shining bald head and thin black hair at the temples greeted them across the counter of the shop. “Yes?”

“Can you mend a pair of pants while I wait?” Frank asked him.

The little man smiled, showing two gold teeth. “Of course. Will you come in back, please?”

A moment later Frank and Joe were seated in the back room. Articles to be mended lay in a heap on the floor. Snippets of cloth were everywhere. Taking Frank’s trousers, the man sat down at his worktable and examined the rip.

A bolt of handsome, untouched flannel drew Frank’s attention. “Do you have many orders for custom-made suits?” he asked the tailor curiously.

The little man sighed. “In this country, no,” he answered. “Now it is all factory-made suits. There is no real work for a tailor any more, only patching holes, altering pants.

“Forty years I’ve had this shop,” the man went on reminiscently as he mended. “Now my main business is dry cleaning. But twenty, thirty years ago, we had people that liked fine clothes, custom clothes! The Blackwells, Altgelts, Donners. Many fine suits I have made for them!”

“Donner?” repeated Frank.

“Yes, the Donners. A fine old family when I first came here. A family with style, distinction—they knew good clothes. There was old Mr. Donner, a tall, handsome man. And his wife, oh, she was stylish. And a beautiful daughter there was, and twin boys—tall, good-looking fellows like the father. Looked so much alike you couldn’t tell them apart.”

“Twins!” Joe exclaimed. But instantly he suppressed his excitement, and asked casually, “Must have been quite a family. What became of them?”

The tailor shook his head. “Scattered. Old folks gone, of course....The young lady? I don’t know. Mr. William, one of the twins—he’s left town too. Only Mr. Walter I see once in a while.” The man sighed. “He doesn’t dress up like he used to. Just wears sport clothes and doesn’t come in here any more.”

In high excitement, Frank put on his mended slacks. “By the way,” he asked the tailor, “do you know

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