The Case of the Carrier Pigeon

By Charles E. Morgan, III

While on a bicycle ride, Brains Benton (X), and his partner Jimmy Carson (Operative Three), find a wounded homing pigeon. The message that the bird was carrying is missing! The Benton and Carson International Detective Agency fly into action, and find themselves up to their eyeballs in trouble!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Mar 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781257260850

Book preview

The Case of the Carrier Pigeon

THE CASE OF THE CARRIER PIGEON

A Brains Benton Mystery

By

Charles E. Morgan, III

Illustrated by

Shannon Stirnweis

Based on characters created by

Charles Spain Verral.  (1904-1990)

Based on stories by

George Wyatt

Dedicated to:

Charlie, Brittany, and Jimmy.  You gave my life purpose.  I am proud to be called dad.

Copyright © 2006, 2017 by Charles E. Morgan, III

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

A Conversation with Charles Spain Verral, Jr.

Copyright © 2007

CHAPTER 1 — Carson at the Bat

Whizzz. Pop!

Strike-Oneee!

Creeps!

My knees suddenly started to knock together. I stood there in the batter’s box, shivering like a leaf in a stiff breeze. It didn’t matter that it was a nice warm spring day and I was wearing a heavy wool baseball uniform. I had captured a sudden chill and it was now throttling me to death.

I stepped out of the batter’s box and took a practice swing. Then I took a deep breath and tried to calm my case of the heebie-jeebies.

The relatively small home crowd was starting to make noise like a larger one, as they cheered for their pitcher.

Come on, Jimmy, quick hands! yelled Coach Savage, our school’s baseball coach. He was clapping his hands together, trying to root me on from the third base coach’s box. I gave him a quick nod then turned and stepped back into the batter’s box, digging my spikes down into the brown dirt.

You can do it four-one!

I could pick out that high-pitched voice anywhere, even amongst the roar of the crowd that surrounded the ballpark. It was my best friend in the entire world, Brains Benton. He was standing on the top step of the dugout, his hat cocked back on his head. Sweat glistened on his dirt-smeared face, and he gave me a reassuring smile. I tried to return it. He had called me by my jersey number for a reason. Forty-one was my hero Eddie Mathews’ number. He, along with Hank Aaron, were my all-time favorite baseball players. That season I had even moved from right field to third base because of Mathews. By calling me by my number, Brains was trying to get me to focus and cheer me on.

There were two out and it was our team’s last at bat. Crestwood High was losing 1-0 to our biggest rival, Bleeker City High. It had been a pitching duel between Brains Benton, and some over-sized lummox of a guy named Bull Dog Wagner. The nickname Bull Dog described this guy’s face perfectly. Unfortunately, it also described his presence on the mound. He was a high school senior, but looked more like a full-grown man out there. He was well over six foot tall, and when he strode from the mound toward the plate, it looked like he was halfway home before releasing the ball. As if that wasn’t bad enough, his fast ball was the fastest in the state. Even though it was still fairly early in the season, he had major league scouts following him to every game.

And it had been one whale of a game too! I had gotten into it late after our regular third baseman, a kid who always looked perpetually startled, Bugs Logan, had been hit on the hand by a Bull Dog fastball. The next inning, a Bleeker City batter had laid down a perfect bunt on a curveball from Brains. It had dribbled down the third base line and I charged the ball as hard as I could and barehanded it. I knew that the batter was as fast as greased lightning, so I threw the ball quickly without setting my feet. Big mistake! I wound up chucking the baseball well over our first baseman’s head and down into right field foul territory. The batter was so quick that he wound up on third base.

Two pitches later, he scored on a weak little grounder to second.

So here I was, the goat, trying to make amends for my error that looked like it would cost us the game.

I felt awful. Even though he was an underclassman, Brains was a great pitcher. In fact, he was the greatest pitcher in our school’s history. The previous season his record had been a perfect 7–0. He had even set state records in scoreless innings and had set a couple of other strikeout records to boot. But Bull Dog had tied Brains’ strikeouts for a game record in Bleeker City’s first game of the season. It was a compare and contrast of styles. Brains, a reluctant athlete, who was only on the mound because he liked using physics to figure out how to make a baseball dart and move about. And Bull Dog, a guy who was on the fast track to the major’s with outstanding stuff. Brains’ had a good fastball, but Bull Dog had a supersonic one.

I looked out at Bull Dog, and he started into his big wind-up. His long arms circled in the air like a bird trying to takeoff. A moment later, I saw the ball, a whitish blur, hurtling toward me. It was hissing like an angry snake as it sped by.

Pop!

Strikeee-twooo!

Creeps!

Bull Dog had just worked me inside with a fastball and I had froze. I was embarrassed. I had taken two pitches just standing there like a deer in headlights. Both of the pitches had been strikes. I was determined to swing the bat.

Hey batter, nice impression of a statue, snickered Bleeker City’s catcher, as he threw the ball back to the pitcher.

That just burned me up! It was bad enough that I was facing a fireball pitcher. I didn’t need any lip from the peanut gallery behind the plate.

If the crowd was making noise now, I didn’t hear it. I was in my own little world. It was one on one. James MacDonald Carson vs Bull Dog Wagner.

Okay Jimmy, I told myself. He just pitched you high and tight; he’s going to work you low and away.

This time, I didn’t step out of the batter’s box. I just took half swings as I stared out at the menacing presence of Bull Dog. My heart was pounding a drum solo in my chest, and I could hear every beat in my ears.

Bull Dog looked in and gave a slight nod. He started into his big windup and I held my breath. The baseball shot from his hand, and I started to stride toward it. I was right: the ball was headed for the outside part of the plate. I swung with all of my might. The only problem was, Bull Dog had thrown a change-up, and I’d finished my vicious cut before the baseball had even reached the plate. I had connected with nothing but thin air.

Strikeee-threee!

The place erupted, and the sound of the cheering from the hometown Bleeker City High School crowd washed over me like a wave. The game was over, and we had lost 1-0. I just stood there in the batter’s box, the bat at my side. I couldn’t move. I just felt awful about how I had cost our team—and Brains—the game.

Maybe next time, kid, the catcher smirked as he stood up. But I think I’ve got a better chance of dating Marilyn Monroe than of you ever getting a hit!

He walked off laughing like a hyena at his remark.

I glanced over into the stands and saw my parents. They were sitting there looking worried for me. I tried to smile to let them know that I was okay, but I couldn’t. I stared down at the dirt, seeing a brown haze of nothing. The next thing I knew, Brains was standing next to me.

Come on, Jimmy. You gave it your best shot. There is no shame in that.

But I lost the game for us, I said, in a voice choked with emotion. It was then I realized how close I was to bawling, right there and then.

Baseball is a team game, Jimmy. One person doesn’t win or lose it, Brains said softly. With that, he led me off the field.

I looked over at him. For all the world Brains looked like a stork in a baseball getup. He was tall and lanky, and his neck craned forward as we left the field. Brains wore glasses, but his most outstanding feature was his hair. It was the color of a strawberry blushing. It was short-cropped, and curling underneath his navy blue baseball cap because of the sweat. He had just suffered his first loss pitching in over two years, and he looked like he was just taking a stroll through the park. It made me feel better to see the way he took the defeat. Well, at least a little bit.

I guess I should explain some things right here. My name, as I said, is Jimmy Carson and I live in the town of Crestwood with my mom and dad and my older sister Ann. Brains and I had met a few years ago at school and had discovered that we were both interested in sleuthing. We had even opened up a detective agency. Now, before you go off thinking that I’m some type of nut, let me tell you that Brains and I had already solved a bunch of cases. The latest had been a real humdinger of a mystery, too. It had dealt with a painted dragon and some bizarre happenings at our school. But in the end, the Benton and Carson International Detective Agency had prevailed against a dangerous gang, led by a thug named Frank Borkin, in the search for some valuable pearls.

Brains and I were still trying to tie-up some of the loose ends of that case, too. We had just been called to testify against Borkin and his gang a couple of days earlier in court.

Jimmy.

I heard a voice and looked over to see Mikko coming up beside me. Mikko was from Japan, and Brains and I had found those missing pearls for his family. Early on in the case, Mikko had been in some danger. So Brains and I had gotten him to come out to baseball practice after school. That way, we could keep an eye on him and make sure he was safe. Mikko, though, was a natural athlete and he’d immediately made the school team. He wound up playing shortstop for us, making Brains, Mikko, and me the only underclassmen on the varsity squad.

Jimmy, Mikko repeated. There’s no shame in striking out against ‘Bull Dog.’ He struck out everyone on our team at least once. Most he struck out more than once.

Thank you, Mikko, I said. I appreciate that. And I did, too. Good game.

With that, Mikko face split with a smile and he gave me one of his funny little bows. He then ran off to the team meeting in the dugout.

Our squad piled into the dugout and sat down quietly on the bench, while Coach Savage paced back and forth in front of us. I could tell that the loss had taken its toll on him. His shoulders were slumped, and his head was down. He’d wanted this game badly. Bleeker City would be our toughest competition, and if we had won, we would have been in real good shape. We were now three wins and one loss with six more games to play.

First off, he started, "I want to give