Free The Mystery at Saratoga by Julie Campbell Page A

story you ever heard without turning a hair. But the guy who brought these boots in didn’t tell me a sob story. He just put them down on the counter and looked me in the eye and said, ‘How much?’ That was all he said, but he seemed so determined, somehow, that I—”
    “Who was he?” Trixie interrupted, then faltered as the shopkeeper looked at her suspiciously. “I—I mean, if we could find that man and talk to him, he might be able to tell us the name of his bootmaker,” she concluded, hoping that her voice sounded as disinterested and casual as Honey’s had.
    The old man’s suspicious look was replaced with one of amusement. “If I couldn’t tell by looking that you two girls don’t know much about pawnshops, the questions you ask would sure prove it. Look, for a pawnbroker to succeed', he can’t be too curious. Do you understand?” He looked from one girl to the other and saw only blank looks. He sighed.
    “The people who come in here want money,” he continued patiently. “They want it fast. And they want it badly enough that they’re willing to take a fraction of the value of the things they bring in. Now, if these people were fine, upstanding characters, they’d have other ways of putting their hands on the money. Right?” The girls nodded their agreement, and the pawnbroker continued. “I imagine that a lot of the people who come in here have something to hide. But for me to stay healthy, I have to keep from getting curious, if you know what I mean. I don’t ask questions about the names and addresses they write on their pawn tickets, even if the name is Joe Smith and the address is a rooming house that I know was torn down five years ago. I even do my best not to remember their faces. Most of the time, I give them their money and I never see them again—at least, not till the next August, when racing season starts again.”
    “You mean that if the man who brought in those boots came into the store right now, you wouldn’t recognize him?” Trixie asked innocently.
    “I didn’t say that,” the man replied. “I told you—that guy was different. He wasn’t the usual down-and-outer that we get around here, if you know what I mean. But I don’t think that finding him would do you any good, because I don’t think those boots were made for him in the first place.”
    “Wh-Why not?” Trixie asked, her heart in her throat.
    “He was a real big guy, for one thing. I didn’t see his feet because I was standing behind the counter here the whole time. But unless he had very small feet for his size, he wouldn’t have been able to cram his feet into those boots, let alone walk in them. He struck me as being a nice enough kid, but not too bright, if you know what I mean. Now, a pair of boots like that costs some money. Maybe this guy made that kind of money one time in his life, but I doubt it. He sure isn’t making it now. Oh, he looked clean enough, and well fed, but he was wearing faded work clothes, and he had a homemade haircut, if you know what I mean. No,” the man concluded, shaking his head, “those boots weren’t his. I’d give you good odds on that.”
    “I—I guess he couldn’t help us, then,” Trixie said abruptly. “Thank you for your time. Come on, Honey.” She turned and walked out of the shop as quickly as she had entered it. Honey thanked the old man and followed her back outside.
    Trixie walked hurriedly for a block, shushing Honey when she tried to speak, before she finally slowed down and let out a long sigh. “I didn’t want to start talking things over as soon as we left the shop, for fear the man might realize we had a deeper interest in those boots than we’d let on,” she explained.
    “I understand that,” Honey said, “but it’s about the only thing I’ve heard in the past few minutes that I do understand, Trixie. Those boots are definitely Regan’s, but it just as definitely was not Regan who left them there. What does it mean?” Trixie shook