The Mystery of the Castaway Children

are we, Honey?”
    “I guess not,” Honey agreed.
    “Thanks, you guys,” said Trixie, already on her way back to the car.
    Jim stopped the car at Wimpy’s so Trixie could check the auctioneer’s address in the phone book. Something made her also jot down the Balsam Street address of the two clerks.
    Elmer Durham lived in a more than comfortable house in a beautiful residential area. Well-clipped lawns and hedges, riots of color in flower beds, and a fountain tossing rainbows gave no hint of mystery or crime.
    A maid in a blue and white uniform asked the three young people to wait on an antique bench in a square hall. Each piece of furniture, from the oriental rugs to the gilt-framed mirror, was gorgeous. Trixie wondered silently if all auctioneers were this rich.
    Except for the gaudy rings on his fingers, the man who came to greet them looked like any businessman from Main Street. His hair was thinning at the temples, he wore glasses, and he had teeth so perfect they had to be dentures. He bit off the tip of a cigar as he walked forward.
    The auctioneer shook their hands as the Bob-Whites introduced themselves. Unsmiling, he asked, “May I get you something to drink?”
    “No, thank you,” Trixie said quickly. She saw at once that the man was not going to make this easy. “We’re, uh, looking for a Shetland pony.”
    “Looking for” seemed to be a magic phrase for the auctioneer. The words meant business, and business meant money. “I have no Shetland listed for immediate auction, but I can scout around for one for you,” he said.
    “No,” Trixie said, “I mean that we’re hunting for a pony you may have sold.”
    The man looked wary. “I don’t deal in stolen goods. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”
    “No, no!” Trixie said, shaking her curls. “We want to know if the Dodges sold their Shetland at their auction.” She gulped and plunged on, watching his face. “A friend of ours, er, Moses White, would very much like to get in touch with the person who might have bought the black pony.”
    Trixie heard both Jim and Honey exhale slowly and carefully.
    “Oh, that pony.” Elmer Durham lit his cigar and puffed smoke that rose like a mushroomshaped cloud around his head. “I have no immediate recollection of what it brought or who bought it, but it must have gone on the block. I recall listing it.”
    “Do—do you have a copy of the inventory and sales record?” Trixie asked, trying not to sound anxious.
    “Jeff Higgins keeps the files,” he replied. Trixie was silent, wondering if she dared let this man know she recognized the name.
    Durham assumed that she didn’t and explained politely, “My clerk.”
    “Would he let us see the Dodge file?” Trixie asked.
    The auctioneer blew another cloud of smoke and shrugged. “Why not?” he asked, more of himself than of his callers.
    Having reached this point in her investigation, Trixie decided she couldn’t take the risk of having the door slammed in her face. “Would you please give us a note to show Mr. Higgins?” she asked.
    Elmer Durham unclipped a pen from his shirt pocket, rummaged through his pants pockets for a piece of paper, and scrawled a note. Then he handed it to Trixie, who, pretending to be casual, folded it and put it into her pocket without glancing at it.
    As they returned to the car, being careful not to walk too fast, Honey said, “I don’t think I care for him.”
    “He certainly didn’t know what to make of us,” declared Jim.
    “He must have decided we were harmless,” Trixie said, patting her pocket. She waited until Jim had pulled away from the curb before snatching the paper from her pocket. “It’s on his official stationery!” she exulted. Then she read aloud, “ Jeff, let these kids see the Dodge file. They’re friends of Moses White. Know him?’ ” The note was signed, “El.”
    Honey looked proud. “Moses White—that was pretty clever, Trixie.”
    “Let’s just hope we didn’t open a can of worms,” Jim said. “Wouldn’t it be cute if there were a real person with that name?”
    By that time, they had reached Balsam, which was the first street east of Hawthorne, in Sleepy-side’s least desirable neighborhood. Trixie looked about uneasily and edged closer to Jim as they went up the Higginses’ walk. Honey was already holding Jim’s arm.
    At the end of the walk was an ordinary square duplex split down the middle, with a door on each side of the railing that cut the narrow