The Mystery of the Iron Box 3

The Mystery of the Iron Box 3

“This is the box, Sam,” Sandy explained, lifting it out of its carton.

“The catch broke when it fell. See?”

 

Sam studied the injury, murmuring, “Nice workmanship. Nice. Yes—ought

to be able to fix that all right.”

 

A hand holding a wrist watch thrust itself between the two boys, and a

voice behind them said politely, “Excuse me. Could you put a new

crystal in this watch while I wait?”

 

Down the counter the woman studying the mahogany clock called out, “Mr.

Morris, I think I like the one you showed me first. May I see that

again?”

 

“I’ll be right back,” Sam muttered, and hurried away.

 

“I certainly picked a fine day to break the crystal of my watch,” the

man behind the boys said, and they turned to smile sympathetically into

his pleasant middle-aged face. “If it weren’t such a good timepiece,

I’d let it go for a while, but I hate to have it get dirty.”

 

When Sam hurried back, looking more harried than ever, he shook his

head at the customer behind the boys. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I’m

mighty busy today, and it takes quite awhile to cement a crystal into

place.” He took the small iron box from Sandy’s hands.

 

The owner of the watch spoke up quickly. “Don’t bother with cement,” he

said. “If you could just snap a crystal into place, I could get it

cemented after Christmas, in New York. I’m just passing through

Brentwood and—”

 

Sam shrugged. “All right. I could do that. Come back in about half an

hour.” He took the watch. “You too,” he added to the boys. “I’ll try to

have this ready by then. Won’t take me long—if I just have a chance to

get at it.” He moved rapidly toward the partition at the rear.

 

“He’s certainly an accommodating gentleman,” the owner of the watch

said, as all three of them began to edge their way through the crowd

together.

 

“He certainly is,” Ken agreed. “If I owned a store I wouldn’t open the

doors on Christmas Eve.”

 

“See you in half an hour,” the man said with a friendly wave as they

separated on the sidewalk to go in opposite directions.

 

Back at the office they found Richard Holt in the middle of one of the

lively tales he always brought back from his trips. “And they found

that the phones in the police chief’s own office were being tapped,” he

was saying. “So—” He broke off as the boys entered. “What luck?” he

asked.

 

“It’ll be O.K.,” Ken told him. “Sam said we could pick it up in half an

hour.”

 

“Good,” his father said.

 

“Good,” Pop echoed, almost absent-mindedly. “Go on, Dick. Did they ever

find out who was doing the wire tapping?”

 

Richard Holt grinned. “It was the old woman who cleaned the office.

They certainly never would have suspected her—she looked too old and

harmless. But she got jittery finally, and disappeared. And they were

curious enough to investigate. Now, I understand, you can’t get a job

cleaning the municipal offices there unless you’re recommended by the

prime minister himself.”

 

“Wow!” Bert said. “What a yarn! Did they track down the rest of the

gang then too?”

 

“What’s this all about?” Ken wanted to know. “Start from the beginning.”

 

“It’s not a very lively story, except for the old lady,” Mr. Holt

assured the boys. “Just an ordinary tale of slick counterfeiters,

though they did have an expert engraver capable of turning out

beautifully engraved ten-dollar bills. United States bills, that is,

which are always popular in Europe, and therefore easy to pass. Of

course the banks could spot them, and they did eventually—a few at a

time. But as long as the gang had its wire-tapping service in

operation, it could keep informed as to police suspicions—and shift its

plates and its printing apparatus to a new location if the police began

to make inquiries in the neighborhood where they were.”

 

“Did they track down the gang?” Bert persisted.

 

“Unfortunately not,” Richard Holt admitted. “And you can imagine how

the police chief felt, under the circumstances. He’s pretty sure

they’ve cleared out of his territory, but of course that’s not enough

to satisfy him. And of course the U.S. Treasury isn’t very happy about

it either. Last I heard, it was sending some T-men over to lend a hand,

because the counterfeits were American bills.”

 

Bert nodded. “Those T-men work fast. We received a circular here about

six months ago, about some bad twenties that were turning up in this

vicinity. But before we could print the story, the counterfeiters were

nabbed. Of course,” he added, “most counterfeit bills here are made by

the photoengraving process, and that’s pretty crude compared to a good

engraving.”

 

Pop grinned. “People complain these days about the low standards of

craftsmanship, but in some ways it’s a help. There aren’t many

engravers in this country who can turn out a good set of plates, and

what few there are, are working for the Bureau of Engraving in

Washington or for some legitimate private business.”

 

“Of course there was one case, years ago,” Holt said. “I was just a cub

reporter at the time, but I happened to be involved. I remember....”

 

He was off on another yarn. Almost an hour went by before Sandy

happened to glance at the clock.

 

“Hey!” He jumped up. “Sam Morris said half an hour.”

 

The wail of a siren and the sudden clanging of the fire-engine’s bell

seemed to put an exclamation mark at the end of his sentence.

 

“Vacation or no vacation, a fire is news,” Pop said. He reached for the

phone, dialed rapidly, and spoke a few brisk questions into the

mouthpiece. Then he slammed the receiver down.

 

“Get going, Ken,” he said. “You too, Sandy. This might be good for a

picture. The fire’s at Sam Morris’s jewelry shop!”

 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER III

 

A SCRAP OF FILM

 

 

The area in front of Morris’s store was one of vast confusion. A

hook-and-ladder truck blocked it off from the east and a chemical truck

from the west. Traffic had piled up behind both of them, in a solid

mass. And the sidewalks were jammed with people. It looked as if

everyone in Brentwood had converged on the spot.

 

The voice of Andy Kane, chief of Brentwood’s five-man police force,

rose over the hubbub. “All right, keep moving there!” he shouted.

“There’s nothing to see here, folks. Keep moving!”

 

Ken and Sandy squeezed through to him. Chief Kane glared when he saw

them. “There’s nothing for you here either,” he said. “That’s the

fire—the whole thing!” He pointed a scornful finger at a metal

wastebasket standing in the middle of the street, still smoking faintly

but now safely covered with the white foam from chemical extinguishers.

 

“So that’s all it is!” Sandy’s glance took in the busy policemen,

urging the crowd along, the two great fire engines with their coils of

hose, the firemen in heavy black waterproofs, and the jammed traffic.

 

“This is something the fire chief will want to remember,” he said with

a grin. “See you later,” he added to Ken, and disappeared into the

crowd with his camera.

 

A few minutes later Ken spotted him on the roof of Morris’s two-story

building, aiming his lens at the crowd below and at the small

foam-shrouded wastebasket at its center. When Sandy rejoined Ken again

he was still grinning.

 

“I’ll print this up for the chief’s New Year’s card,” Sandy said. Then

he straightened his face quickly as Chief Dick James emerged from the

jewelry store.

 

“Everything under control, Chief?” Ken asked.

 

James nodded shortly. “Total damage one wastebasket and a black smudge

on about five square feet of wall. Quick thinking on Sam Morris’s part,

of course,” he added, “or it might have been a real fire. The minute he

saw flames coming out of the basket he picked it up and carried it into

the street.”

 

“How’d it start?” Ken asked. “Cigarette?”

 

James shrugged. “Probably. Or a still-burning match. People are so

danged careless. Wonder it doesn’t happen oftener, the way they toss

stuff around.”

 

Sandy, bending over the wastebasket, sniffed curiously. “Smell this

thing, Chief,” he said. “Maybe it’s my imagination.”

 

“What are you imagining?” But James bent over the basket and took a

deep breath. Then he looked up with the same puzzlement that Sandy

showed.

 

“All right, masterminds,” Ken said. “What gives?”

 

“Film,” Sandy said. “Or at least that’s what it smells like. But why

would there be film in Sam’s basket?”

 

“That’s a good question,” James said. “Let’s go ask Sam if he’s got the

answer.” But before they went inside the shop he called one of his men

over and instructed him to take the wastebasket to the firehouse and

examine it carefully.

 

There were fewer customers inside the store than there had been

earlier, but otherwise it looked very much as it had earlier that

morning. Sam Morris, wearing a smoky streak down one cheek, came

forward to speak to them.

 

“Sorry about all the excitement, Chief,” he said. “Your box is

repaired,” he added to the boys.

 

“Gosh!” Ken said. “I’d forgotten all about it.”

 

“Would there have been any film in that wastebasket, Sam?” James asked.

 

“Film?” The jeweler looked blank. “What kind of film?”

 

“We don’t know,” James said. “We’re not even sure if that’s what it

was, but that’s what it smells like.”

 

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know what was in the basket. It stands

over there, beneath that desk.” He pointed to a writing shelf built

against one wall, for the use of customers who wanted to fill out cards

to enclose with gifts. “It’s usually almost empty, except for a couple

of cards that have been blotted or spoiled, or maybe an empty cigarette

package. I don’t know why anybody would have thrown film in it.”

 

“Film is inflammable stuff,” James pointed out. “Maybe somebody wanted

to start a fire in here.”

 

“A pyromaniac?” Sam looked unbelieving.

 

James shook his head. “I was thinking of a crook—a man smart enough to

start a fire, so that he could make off with a handful of rings, or

watches, during the excitement. Have you checked your stock, Sam?”

 

Morris shook his head. “It didn’t occur to me. I had the basket out in

the street in a couple of seconds, and then I came right back in. My

clerks were here all the time.” He smiled wearily. “There wasn’t half

as much excitement in the store as there was out in the street after

the trucks arrived.”

 

“Where were you when the blaze started up?” James asked.

 

“Behind the partition—in the workroom.” Morris gestured toward the rear

wall broken by a single door and a windowlike gap above a ledge. “I’d

just finished putting in a watch crystal for the man who was here when

you boys were in earlier,” he added to Sandy and Ken. “He’d been

waiting for a few minutes and I was just handing him his watch through

the window there when one of the customers yelled ‘Fire!’ I saw the

smoke right away, and I ran out of the workroom through that door and

carried the basket to the street.”

 

“You don’t know what merchandise was out on top of the counter at the

time?”

 

“No, I don’t, Chief. But I can find out.” Morris hurried off and held

brief consultations with both his clerks. When he came back he looked

relieved.

 

“There were no small items being displayed just then,” he said. “One

clerk was showing electric percolators, and the other was displaying

cut glass to one customer and selling a smoking set to another one at

the same time.”

 

James still didn’t look entirely satisfied. “Check your rings and

watches and other small stuff as soon as you get a chance, Sam, and let

me know if anything’s missing.”

 

“All right,” Morris agreed. “But I still don’t think there was anything

deliberate about that fire. It must have been just a careless smoker

who threw a match in the basket.”

 

“You didn’t see that happen, did you?” Sandy asked.

 

“No—and my clerks didn’t either. I asked them. We were just too busy to

be looking around.”

 

“Sure.” James nodded. “Well, maybe we’re guessing wrong about this film

business. But if we run down anything we’ll let you know.”

 

“Don’t forget your box, boys.” Morris hurried back to the window in the

rear partition, reached a hand through, and lifted it from a shelf just

inside the opening.

 

“How much do we owe you, Sam?” Ken asked.

 

Sam smiled. “Since when do I charge a good friend for a few minutes’

work?” He shook his head. “Go on—beat it. Just see if you can get it

home without dropping it again.”

 

The boys thanked him and left the store with James.

 

“Give us a ring if you really do turn up some film in that basket, will

you, Chief?” Sandy asked.

 

“Sure.”

 

Back in the _Advance_ office Ken handed the box to his father. “We’ve

got Mom’s present all right, but we haven’t got much of a story.”

 

“We haven’t got much of a story yet,” Sandy corrected him.

 

“What does the ‘yet’ mean?” Pop demanded, while Richard Holt lifted the

cardboard lid and assured himself that the catch on the little iron box

was now in perfect working order.

 

Sandy explained the possibility of incendiarism. Bert’s automatic hoot

of laughter died when he realized that Chief James shared Sandy’s

suspicion.

 

“But if Sam says nothing was missing, it doesn’t sound like a

grab-and-run deal,” Pop pointed out.

 

“He doesn’t _think_ anything is missing,” Sandy reminded him. “He might

still find—” He broke off as the phone rang.

 

A moment later Sandy was talking to the caller who had asked for him.

 

“No kidding?” he said. “About six inches? And thirty-five millimeter,

huh? Did you find a cartridge or a spool?” He listened for another

moment and then said “Sure. Thanks, Chief,” and hung up.

 

“I guess you all heard that.” There was a note of triumph in Sandy’s

voice. “They found a six-inch scrap of thirty-five-millimeter film in

the wastebasket. My guess is it’s the remains of a roll for a candid

camera like mine.”

 

“That still doesn’t make it an incendiary job,” Bert said firmly.

“Probably some customer of Sam’s had just picked the roll up at a

drugstore, where he was having it developed. He looked at it while he

was waiting in Sam’s, saw that it was no good, and threw it away.”

 

“Could be.” Richard Holt nodded his agreement. “Of course anybody

should know better than to throw film into a public wastebasket where

it might cause just this kind of trouble. But there are always careless

people around.”

 

“Write just a brief paragraph on the fire, Ken,” Pop said decisively.

“Then, if Sam does report anything missing among his stock, we’ll go to

work on it.” He turned to Dick Holt. “Did Sam do a good job on your

box?”

 

“Perfect,” Ken’s father assured him.

 

“Fine. I’m not surprised. Sam’s a good man.”

 

“And he wouldn’t let us pay for it, Dad,” Ken said.

 

Pop smiled. “I’m not surprised at that either. Here, I’ll help you with

that, Dick,” he added, as the correspondent brought out the wrapping

paper and ribbon he had put into his overcoat pocket that morning at

the house.

 

Ken and Sandy were alone in the office that noon. Pop and Bert had

carried Richard Holt off to their weekly lunch club meeting.

 

“Don’t cook up any more mysteries,” Bert had warned as he left.

 

“Mysteries!” Sandy made a face at his brother’s disappearing back.

“Every time we ask a simple question we’re accused of stirring up

trouble.”

 

Ken slipped a sheet of paper into his typewriter and twirled the

roller. “We don’t do badly,” he said, smiling. “Maybe they’ve got some

reason to suspect us.”

 

Sandy stared. “Whose side are you on, anyway? You were the one who

started the whole business this morning.”

 

“Sure—sure. And I’m not satisfied about that business yet. But I guess

maybe it was a little too much when we came tearing in with talk about

an incendiary fire. Especially,” Ken added pointedly, “in view of

something I remember you telling me a while ago.”

 

“What was that?” Sandy asked.

 

“You told me that modern camera film is called safety film because it

does _not_ go up in flames, fast—the way film used to do.”

 

“That’s right,” Sandy agreed. “It doesn’t.”

 

“Then why would anybody deliberately try to start a fire with film?”

Ken asked.

 

Sandy smiled. “A really smart crook wouldn’t, maybe,” he admitted. “If

he was somebody like you, for example, who had had the benefit of my

educational conversation. But film used to be very inflammable, and it

probably still has that reputation with a lot of people.”

 

Ken looked unconvinced. “I still don’t think it was very smart of you

to become suspicious just because you smelled film in that basket.

After all, if a man plans to rob a jewelry store, and his success

depends on a good rousing fire, you’d think he’d look into the subject

a little first. That he’d make sure he had the right materials on hand.”

 

“Well, I thought maybe this wasn’t carefully planned,” Sandy said

argumentatively. “Couldn’t it have been done on impulse—on the spur of

the moment? In that case you might easily duck into a drugstore and buy

a roll of film. It’s easy to carry around. It’s not noticeable. It’s—”

 

“Wait a minute!” Ken broke in suddenly. “Maybe it all fits together!”

 “Maybe all what fits together?”