The Mystery of the Iron Box 1
The Mystery of the Iron Box
A Ken Holt Mystery by Bruce Campbell
: Samuel Epstein and Beryl Epstein
=THE MYSTERY OF THE IRON BOX=
KEN HOLT _Mystery Stories_
THE SECRET OF SKELETON ISLAND
THE RIDDLE OF THE STONE ELEPHANT
THE BLACK THUMB MYSTERY
THE CLUE OF THE MARKED CLAW
THE CLUE OF THE COILED COBRA
THE SECRET OF HANGMAN’S INN
THE MYSTERY OF THE IRON BOX
THE CLUE OF THE PHANTOM CAR
THE MYSTERY OF THE GALLOPING HORSE
THE MYSTERY OF THE GREEN FLAME
THE MYSTERY OF THE GRINNING TIGER
THE MYSTERY OF THE VANISHING MAGICIAN
THE MYSTERY OF THE SHATTERED GLASS
THE MYSTERY OF THE INVISIBLE ENEMY
THE MYSTERY OF GALLOWS CLIFF
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A Ken Holt Mystery
THE MYSTERY OF THE IRON BOX
by
BRUCE CAMPBELL
[Illustration]
Grosset & Dunlap Publishers
New York
Copyright, 1952, by
Bruce Campbell
All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
------------------------------------
CHAPTER PAGE
I A COLD DRAFT 1
II A FIRE 15
III A SCRAP OF FILM 27
IV BOOBY TRAP 39
V THE MISSING OUNCES 50
VI UNEXPECTED CALLER 60
VII AN EXPLODED THEORY 75
VIII A PACKAGE CHANGES HANDS 84
IX ONE MORE LINK 94
X NOTHING TO SNEEZE AT 109
XI A SCHEME FOR ATTACK 121
XII CORNERED 132
XIII A DESPERATE PLAN 143
XIV HEADING FOR DEEP WATERS 157
XV CATAPULT 166
XVI WITH THE HELP OF FIRE 174
XVII ROBBED BY THE WAVES 183
XVIII THE IRON BOX AGAIN 193
XIX OUT OF THE SKY 202
XX FRONT-PAGE NEWS 209
------------------------------------------------------------------------
=THE MYSTERY OF THE IRON BOX=
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER I
A COLD DRAFT
The loud-speaker’s bellow died away and there was an answering stir in
the big terminal building of the airport. People began to move toward
the wide windows that overlooked the landing field. Soon there was a
thick wall of humanity packed against the rail that protected the glass.
“Too jammed up here. Let’s go outside.” The young man who spoke was
slender and slightly more than medium height. Over a neat gray flannel
suit he wore a tan trench coat which hung well from broad shoulders.
His black hair looked even blacker than usual in the brilliant glare of
the well-lighted room.
His companion towered over him by almost half a foot. A trench coat,
also tan, dropped from massive shoulders that hinted of tremendous
power. He lifted his left hand to look at his wrist watch. “On time,”
he said. Then, using his shoulders as a wedge, he gently forced a path
to the doors. His flaming red hair stood out above the crowd like a
beacon.
Outside, in the crisp December afternoon, the air was filled with the
heavy throb of plane motors. Overhead, a silver ship was wheeling into
the wind, landing gear down.
The loud-speaker came to life again. “Flight two-oh-six, from Paris,”
it intoned, “now landing.”
Sandy Allen, the huge redhead, touched his friend’s arm. “Feels good to
have him coming home for Christmas, huh?”
Ken Holt grinned briefly, his eyes steadily riveted on the plane now
zooming toward them down the paved strip. “And how!”
“If I had any sense,” Sandy said, “I’d fade out on an occasion like
this. It isn’t often that you and your father—”
“If you had any sense,” Ken interrupted, “you’d remember that if it
weren’t for the oversized Allen clan I might not even—”
The deafening roar of engines cut off the rest of his sentence, but
Sandy’s face had already begun to redden. He could take almost anything
except gratitude, and he hated to be reminded of the circumstances in
which he and Ken had first met. Ken’s father had been in desperate
danger then, and the entire Allen family—Pop, Bert, Sandy, and Mom—had
taken part in the frightening hours of action that followed their
meeting.
Afterward, Ken Holt, motherless for years, had left his boarding school
at the Allens’ insistence to make his home with them. Mom Allen treated
him like another son, and Pop Allen had given Ken a part in the
operation of the Allen-owned newspaper, the Brentwood _Advance_.
Ken and Sandy had shared many adventures since then; had encountered
many exciting and dangerous puzzles which they had solved together.
They worked as a team, both in unraveling mysteries and in reporting
them afterward. Ken’s stories and Sandy’s photographs had been eagerly
accepted not only by the _Advance_, but also by Global News, the
gigantic news-gathering agency for which Ken’s father, Richard Holt,
worked.
Ken glanced up at Sandy’s flushed face. “Relax, chum,” he said. “I
won’t say another word about how much I owe—”
Sandy clamped his huge hand over Ken’s mouth. “I’ll say you won’t.” He
grinned. “In return for your silence—something we rarely get from you,”
he went on, “I’ll let you in on a secret.” He removed his hand and
reached into his pocket.
“What secret?” Ken asked suspiciously.
“You remember that last little mess we got into—the one Pop called _The
Secret of Hangman’s Inn_?”
“I’d just as soon not remember that,” Ken said.
“Have it your own way.” Sandy had pulled a piece of paper out of his
pocket. “In that case you won’t want your half of this check from
Global for the yarn and the pictures we sent them.”
Ken grabbed for the check and looked at it. “What do you know!” he
murmured. “A hundred and fifty dollars! Granger must be getting soft in
the head.”
“Granger,” Sandy said loftily, “is a top-flight news editor. He
appreciates the remarkable quality of my pictures. He’d probably make
it two hundred if he didn’t have to wade through that stuff you call
writing.”
Ken handed the check back to Sandy. “Pictures,” he said, “are something
anybody can take. But writing—real writing—” Suddenly he broke off.
“There’s Dad!”
Richard Holt had just stepped out of the plane, first in the line of
passengers descending the stairway. He was a slender figure in a
rumpled topcoat, with a brief case clamped under one arm. The other arm
raised in a swift salute as he spotted them.
“Hi!” he shouted.
“Dad!” Ken’s answering shout carried far across the field. His father
spent most of his time in distant quarters of the globe, ferreting out
the stories that had made him famous. His visits home, brief and
infrequent, were always exciting. The Allens enjoyed them as much as
Ken himself did, and this year they were all particularly pleased at
the thought of having Richard Holt at hand over the holidays.
“We’ll meet you outside the customs office,” Ken called, as his father
drew nearer.
Richard Holt nodded, smiling.
“Come on!” Ken said to Sandy, and they turned back through the crowd.
“It won’t take him long to clear customs. They know him by now.”
Twenty minutes later Richard Holt came through the barrier to where
they were waiting for him. He dropped two bags and his brief case and
threw an arm around each of the boys. Then he stood back a pace to look
them over.
“Are you two as good as you look?” he demanded, grinning widely.
“We’re even better,” Sandy assured him, scooping up both the bags. “You
look O.K. too.”
“You look great, Dad,” Ken said.
“I am. And glad to be home too.”
“This is our first Christmas together in three years.” Ken groped for
the brief case, but his eyes never left his father’s face.
“We’ll make it a good one, son.”
Sandy began to lead the way to the parking lot. “If food will help,” he
said, “I think you can count on Mom. Wait until you see the turkey
she’s got!”
“With cranberry sauce?” Richard Holt asked.
Sandy nodded. “Also with dressing, sweet potatoes, plum pudding—”
“Stop!” Ken’s father commanded. “Let us waste no more time talking. On
to Brentwood! That is,” he corrected himself, as he came to a halt
beside the boys’ red convertible, “on to Brentwood after a quick stop
at my apartment. I want to get rid of some of this luggage and change
my clothes. I’ll sit in the back seat with the bags, if you don’t
mind,” he went on, “so I can be sorting out the things I want to take
with me. It’ll save time.”
Sandy started the motor and the car slid smoothly into the line of
traffic heading for New York City. Forty-five minutes later he pulled
to a stop before the building in which Ken’s father maintained his
seldom-used apartment.
“Give me five minutes,” Richard Holt said.
“Shall I carry your bags up, Dad?” Ken asked.
“I’ve got them.” The correspondent swung one in each hand. “They’re
considerably lighter than they were.” He nodded toward a heap of
packages on the back seat. “Don’t go snooping in those things while I’m
gone.”
“Word of honor,” Ken said, grinning.
Richard Holt was back at the car again in six minutes flat. “O.K.,
men,” he said, sliding into the front seat beside Ken. “Head for
Brentwood—and don’t spare the horsepower.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Sandy let the car move forward. A moment later he was
heading southward toward the Holland Tunnel and New Jersey across the
Hudson River.
“Now,” Mr. Holt said, settling himself comfortably, “you can begin to
tell me what Mom’s preparing for tonight. After all, the Christmas
turkey is still two days away. She doesn’t expect me to fast until
then, I hope.”
“Not quite,” Sandy assured him. “For tonight she’s got—”
Several hours later Richard Holt shoved his chair back from the Allen
dinner table and sighed luxuriously. “Sandy didn’t exaggerate a bit,”
he assured Mom Allen. “My only worry now is recovering my appetite in
time for the turkey.”
Mom’s eyes twinkled at him. “One good way of working off a meal is to
wash the dishes, Richard.”
“Now, Mom,” Pop protested. “Dick’s a guest.”
“I always think of him as a member of the family,” Mom said.
“Thank you, Mom,” Richard Holt said. “It’s an honor—even if it does
make me eligible for dishwashing.”
Mom stood up. “Then that’s settled. I’ll just leave everything in your
capable masculine hands, while I run down the street to visit with my
sister for a while.”
Bert grinned. “That’s where Mom’s hoarding her presents,” he explained
to Richard Holt. “She doesn’t trust us.”
“I have my reasons,” Mom assured him as she departed.
Sandy washed, Ken dried, and Bert stacked the dishes in their places in
the cupboard. Pop and Ken’s father stood on the side lines to give what
Pop called their “invaluable advice.” Within half an hour the job was
done.
As Ken flipped his dish towel over the rack, he said, “Do you want some
paper and ribbon and stuff for wrapping up those packages you brought,
Dad? We’ve got plenty.”
“Fine,” his father said. “I was just thinking they didn’t look very
festive in the old newspapers I’ve got wadded around them.”
Pop took his pipe out of his mouth. “You know, Dick, we Allens follow
the custom of opening presents on Christmas Eve. Hope this isn’t
opposed to your own tradition.”
“It suits me fine.” Mr. Holt smiled. “Means we can sleep later on
Christmas morning—and work up more strength for the turkey.”
Ken brought out the cardboard box of wrappings he had found in a
closet. “Want me to bring the packages down from your room, Dad?” he
asked, with a great show of innocence.
“Not on your life,” his father told him. “You can just wait until
tomorrow night to see what’s in them.” He started for the stairs
himself.
“I’ll give you a hand,” Bert offered, when Richard Holt had returned
with the packages.
“Don’t let him,” Sandy advised. “It’s a trick. He just wants to poke
around.”
The foreign correspondent grinned. “I need help, all right. I’m no good
at this.” He picked up the largest of the various bundles. “But this
one is yours, Bert, so don’t touch it.”
“I’ll wrap that one,” Pop offered.
“Thanks.” Mr. Holt hefted two parcels of almost equal size, and finally
handed one to Sandy. “That’s Pop’s—and don’t drop it.” He handed the
other to Bert. “That’s Sandy’s—and that had better not be dropped
either.”
Ken eyed the two packages still on the table. “Which is Mom’s? I’ll do
hers.”
“Let that wait for last,” his father said. “I want a conference on it.
In the meantime—” He took up the smaller of the two remaining parcels
and set to work on it himself.
When they were all finished, Richard Holt began to tear the heavy
newspaper wrapping from the final parcel. “Take a look at this, will
you?” he asked. “If you don’t think Mom will like it, I’ll get her
something else tomorrow. I don’t feel very satisfied with it myself.”
The last sheet of paper fell away to disclose a small iron box, about
eight inches long, four inches wide, and four inches deep. The surface
was heavily ornamented with scrollwork, and its considerable weight was
evident from the way Ken’s father held it.
“I thought,” he said half-apologetically, “that she could line it with
velvet or something and use it for a jewel box. But I don’t know much
about such things. Maybe you can suggest something else she’d rather
have.”
“She’ll love it,” Pop said decisively. “She loves old things—antiques.
And this sure looks old.”
“I think it’s old enough,” Richard Holt said. “Several hundred years,
I’d guess. It was probably made originally to be used as a sort of home
safe-deposit box.” His finger pressed one of the curlicues on the front
of the box and the lid sprang open.
“Hey!” Sandy exclaimed admiringly. “A secret catch!”
“May I try it?” Bert asked. “Beautiful workmanship,” he muttered, as
his fingers explored the front. Finally he found the proper curlicue
and again the lid flew open.
Sandy tried it next, and then Pop and then Ken.
“No doubt about it,” Sandy said finally. “Mom’ll be crazy about it. She
likes secrets as much as she likes antiques.”
Ken, about to hand the box back to his father, saw that Richard Holt’s
hands were occupied with lighting a cigarette. So he put the box,
instead, on the platform of Mrs. Allen’s kitchen scale, near at hand on
the shelf. The indicator of the scale swung sharply over.
“Look,” Sandy said. “Four and a half pounds even. It weighs a lot for
such a little thing.”
“They didn’t skimp on materials in those days,” Pop said. “Where’d you
get hold of it, Dick?”
“One of the porters in the Global office in Rome asked me if I wanted
to buy it,” the foreign correspondent answered. “I knew he’d been
selling some of his family heirlooms—he has a hard time getting
along—and I wanted to help him out. I persuaded myself at the time that
it would do for Mom’s present, but later I had some qualms about it. I
thought maybe I should have shopped around, instead of just taking
something that fell into my hands. But if you think it’s all right—”
He cleared a space on the kitchen table, spread out a sheet of wrapping
paper, and reached for the box. As he picked it up, it slipped from his
fingers, struck the edge of the cupboard a glancing blow, and crashed
to the floor. The lid sprang open.
Sandy and Ken both dived for it as Richard Holt muttered, “That was
stupid of me.”
“It can’t be hurt,” Pop said. “It’s made too solidly.”
Mr. Holt pressed the lid into place, but when he took his hand away it
opened again. He tried a second time. Once more the lid refused to stay
closed.
Five heads bent over to study the tiny mechanism.
Bert touched the little spring catch. “That’s what’s wrong,” he said.
“The little lever is bent out of shape.”
“Maybe I can fix it,” Sandy offered.
“Better not try,” Pop cautioned. “An expensive antique like that—”
“It wasn’t expensive, I assure you,” Richard Holt said. “It—”
“Never mind,” Pop said. “It’s an antique and I don’t think anybody but
Sam Morris ought to touch it. He’s the best jeweler in town. He can fix
anything.”
Sandy offered to telephone Morris to see if he could take care of the
job that evening. When he returned from the hall he reported that the
jeweler was just then closing his shop, but that he had promised to
repair the box the next day despite the rush of orders that always
claimed his attention on Christmas Eve.
“So let’s just get it out of sight before Mom comes home,” Pop said.
“Then you boys can take it down to him first thing in the morning.”
“How’s this?” Bert asked, dumping an assortment of Christmas seals out
of a shoe box. “You can put it in here.”
When the little box was inside, he snapped a rubber band around the
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