The Mystery on Cobbett's Island

Abe?”
    “I'll just put these bracelets on him and take him over to the lockup in the town hall while I talk with the chief in Greenpoint and with the Coast Guard,” he said as he took the handcuffs from his belt. “Will one of you see if you can find the gun? We’ll need it for evidence, and later in the day, I’d like to get a deposition from you about Slim’s confession.”
    As Brian dashed around back of the barn, Slim said, “I didn’t confess nothin’. That dame there double-crossed me.” He tossed his head in Trixie’s direction and gave her a menacing look.
    “Okay, okay, Slim. You’ll have a chance to tell the judge all about it. How old are you, by the way?” Abe asked sharply.
    “Seventeen, next fall,” the boy mumbled. “What’s it to you?”
    “It’s nothing to me,” Abe replied in a more kindly voice, “but it may mean something to you. You’re classed as a juvenile until you’re eighteen, so your case will be heard in private in the Children’s Court. If they find you guilty, there’s a good chance you’ll be sent to school instead of to prison.”
    “Who says school ain’t prison?” Slim barked, and then, shaking his head as though confused by his own thoughts, he asked, “You mean one of them schools where you go to live and they learn you a trade or how to farm or somethin’?” He sounded faintly interested.
    “That’s what I mean,” Abe answered and then waited for Slim’s reaction.
    “Gee, maybe that ain’t such a bum idea. I wouldn’t have to scrounge around for food no more. I’d have a place to flop at night, and....” His voice trailed off into silence.
    “Does your family live in Greenpoint?” Mr. Kimball asked him.
    “Naw. My father died when I was a kid. Then me and my mother moved to Jersey. After that, she got jobs around waitin’ on table, but she took sick last year, and they sent her to a hospital. I scrammed out, figurin’ if I stuck around, I’d only be a worry to her.” Unexpected tears welled up in the boy’s eyes, and, turning to Abe, he said in a quiet voice, “Okay, let’s get going.”
    By this time Brian had returned with the gun. He handed it over to Abe, who, after examining it closely, turned to Mr. Kimball and said, “Fm glad to say this thing isn’t loaded, but I believe it takes the same kind of shells the Coast Guard picked up on top of one of the buoys. So I guess our hunt is over.”
    Mr. Kimball thanked Abe for his help and suggested that the whole affair be kept quiet for a day or so, until they determined who was the rightful owner of the money. Then he said, “Now, let’s get back to the house, son, and talk this thing over a little further.”
    He motioned for the Bob-Whites to join them, and together they walked slowly across the fields and through the gardens.
    “I wish you’d take charge of the money,” Trixie said to Mr. Kimball. “I’d feel safer if you would.”
    “Why can’t we hide it in the little secret closet behind the paneling?” Honey suggested.
    “That’s as good a place as any,” Peter’s father agreed, “until you can give it to—what was her name?”
    “Ethel, Ethel Hall,” Trixie replied. “You see, when we went to see El, he told us about how Ed had been lost at sea and how his wife started a bakery. So we looked in the telephone book and found one in Easthampton called ‘Ethel’s Bakery,’ and yesterday we went to see her and—” Trixie ran out of breath and laughingly threw up her hands.
    Mr. Kimball shook his head as he said, “Well, I can see what my wife meant when she wrote me the Bob-Whites and Peter were keeping busy, but I guess she didn’t know you were doing some sleuthing along with everything else. Now, to get back to Ethel,” he continued. “Are you absolutely sure she’s Ed’s wife?”
    “Oh, we know she is,” they all cried at once.
    “You must realize that when this story comes out, someone else may show up to claim the money,” he explained, “so you have to have proof that will stand up in court.”
    “El could testify about Ed and Ethel couldn’t he?”
    Peter asked. “He’s known them both for years.”
    “Yes, that would help, but you still haven’t proof that it was Ethel’s husband who wrote the letter about the money.”
    “I have it!” Trixie exclaimed. “If we could show that the handwriting in the letter was really Ed’s, wouldn’t that be proof enough?”
    “I should think so, but how do you propose to do it?”