The Mystery of the Iron Box 4

The Mystery of the Iron Box 4

“It’s the iron box—Mom’s present! That’s what’s doing it.” Ken folded

his arms over his typewriter and rested his chin on them, staring at

the gaily wrapped package that now stood on Pop’s desk. “Yes, that’s

it. I’m sure of it.” His voice was tense.

 

“Are you out of your mind?” Sandy demanded. “What are you talking

about? What’s the little iron box—?”

 

“Listen,” Ken said. “It’s all perfectly obvious. That box is important

to somebody. The somebody, whoever he is, knew Dad was bringing it home

with him. He—the somebody, I mean—went to Dad’s apartment last night

looking for it. It wasn’t there. He knows something about Dad—at least

enough to realize that he was coming to Brentwood. So later last night

he tried to break into the house here, but I scared him off. He must

have hung around, saw that we were taking the box to Sam Morris’s this

morning, and made another attempt there.”

 

“And there he is foiled again!” There was laughter behind Sandy’s

mock-dramatic voice.

 

“Right,” Ken said. “Because, as you explained to me yourself, he made a

bad choice of material for his fire. He wants to create a diversion. He

has some vague idea that film is inflammable, and dashes into the

nearest drugstore to get some. He slips into the crowd at Sam’s, drops

it into the wastebasket, along with a lit match, and then—”

 

Sandy, openly grinning now, picked it up. “And then sees his whole

villainous dream go up in a tiny cloud of smoke.”

 

“Right,” Ken said again, more firmly than ever. “Because, for one

thing, the fire only lasts a second. And, for another, that man waiting

for his watch crystal is standing right in front of the window,

unconsciously protecting the box on the shelf inside. Sam told us he

was there when it happened. Remember?”

 

“Oh, I remember all right,” Sandy admitted. “But the whole thing sounds

like a hallucination, my friend. In the first place, why would anybody

particularly want the box? Your father told us it wasn’t valuable—that

he picked it up from the porter in the Rome office.”

 

“It’s an antique,” Ken pointed out.

 

“Sure. So is any old stone you can find in a field.”

 

“Look,” Ken said, “I don’t know _why_ anybody wants the box. But it

looks to me as if somebody does. I was right about somebody breaking

into the house last night. You were right about the film in Sam’s

wastebasket, which is certainly an odd place for film to be.”

 

Sandy stood up abruptly. “O.K.,” he said. “Maybe we can check that part

of your nightmare, anyway. If somebody bought that film with the

deliberate purpose of starting a fire, he probably got it in Schooley’s

photo shop right across the street from Sam’s. Let’s go and find out.”

 

They grabbed their coats and started for the door. Ken picked up the

box from Pop’s desk on the way.

 

“I think I’ll keep my hands on this—just in case,” he said.

 

The photographic supply shop was as crowded as Sam’s store had been.

Several minutes went by before the boys could catch the attention of

one of the clerks.

 

But finally one of them said, “Hi, Sandy. What is it today? Film or

flash bulbs?”

 

“Neither,” Sandy told him. “Just some information. Did you sell a roll

of thirty-five millimeter this morning?”

 

The clerk’s eyebrows rose. “Are you crazy? I must have sold at least

fifty. In case you don’t know it, chum, tomorrow is Christmas and quite

a few people seem to want to take pictures that day.”

 

“I know,” Sandy said, “but—”

 

“Wait,” Ken interrupted. “Let’s put it this way. Did you sell any to a

man who either didn’t seem to know anything about film, or who didn’t

care what kind he bought?”

 

The clerk’s eyebrows rose another fraction of an inch. “Of all the

idiotic—” he began, and then stopped. He looked at the boys sharply for

an instant, and then called over his shoulder to a fellow clerk. “Rick!

Got a second?”

 

Rick left his customer who was examining a small camera and joined

them. “What’s up?”

 

“Didn’t you tell me about some queer duck who came in this morning to

buy film and didn’t know what size he wanted or what speed or anything?”

 

Rick nodded. “Sure. He just asked for film. When I asked what size, he

said it didn’t matter. And then when I kind of stared at him he said it

was for a little camera. I figured he meant a miniature job, so I

suggested a cartridge of thirty-five millimeter and he said that would

be fine. But he didn’t know whether he wanted color film or black and

white, and he didn’t know what I was talking about when I mentioned

high-speed stuff. I finally gave him a spool of the cheapest film we

have, just to get rid of him.”

 

Ken made an effort to keep his voice calm. “Do you remember what he

looked like?”

 

“I probably wouldn’t remember my own mother if she came in here today,”

Rick said with a grin. “But I do recall one more funny thing about that

guy,” he added suddenly. “Right after he left I had to reach into the

front window for a camera some customer wanted to see, and I noticed

him crossing the street. The dumb cluck was opening the cartridge box

and exposing the film to the light! He’s sure going to be in for a

surprise when he tries to take pictures with it.”

 

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Ken said, beginning to pull Sandy away. “I

doubt if he planned to take any pictures at all.”

 

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

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV

 

BOOBY TRAP

 

 

The cuckoo stuck his head out of the old wall clock to announce that

the hour of seven had arrived. But nobody in the Allen house that

evening bothered to listen to him.

 

Tiny Mom Allen, in a rustling new housecoat, appeared unaware of even

the wild litter of crumpled paper wrappings and ribbons that surrounded

her. In her lap lay the iron box, and her fingers were already busy

fitting together the bits of velvet with which she was lining it.

 

Pop was smoke-screening the room with a handsome new meerschaum that

Richard Holt had brought him from Europe, and happily leafing through a

huge new world atlas that had so far provided an answer for every

question he could contrive.

 

Bert, resplendent in a British tweed sports coat, swung his new golf

clubs one by one, in reckless arcs that threatened every window and

every piece of bric-a-brac in the house.

 

Richard Holt was trying out a new portable typewriter, a lightweight

model especially designed for globe-trotters like himself. “It even

spells better than my old one,” he had announced.

 

Ken, after an hour’s experimentation, was still finding new gadgets on

the chronometer his father had bought for him in Switzerland. It was a

stop watch and completely waterproof, and it told the date and the

phases of the moon as well as the hour of the day.

 

“Got it!” Sandy’s exclamation broke a long silence. He gestured with

the tiny camera he held in his hand. “I knew this thing must have a

delayed-action timer on it some place—it’s got everything else. And I

finally found it.”

 

He made a few swift adjustments on the little mechanism, moved a lever,

and then set the camera down on the table, lens toward the room. It

made a faint buzzing sound. Sandy waded through torn papers to his

mother’s side, putting his arm around her shoulders an instant before

the buzzing stopped with a sharp click.

 

“How do you like that, Mom?” he demanded. “I just took our picture.”

 

“Doesn’t seem possible that anything so tiny could really work,” Mom

said.

 

“It does, though,” Sandy assured her, returning to the table to reset

the camera that was only half the size of a cigarette package.

 

“No more of me,” Mom said firmly, getting up and putting her box on an

already well-laden table. “I have to get those dishes cleared away. Any

volunteers?”

 

Pop peered at her through the haze of smoke. “My old army training,

Mom, taught me never to volunteer for anything.”

 

“In that case,” Mom said, “I’ll have to draft you.”

 

Finally they all got up and followed Mom into the big Allen kitchen.

She excused Sandy and Ken from duty, on the grounds that they had done

the dishes the night before, and put Bert to work at the sink. Ken’s

father and Pop dried.

 

“Bring me my box, Ken,” Mom said, when she had everyone organized.

“I’ve got so much help here I can get back to work on my velvet lining.”

 

The brightly lighted room gave Sandy all the opportunity he needed to

make further use of his new camera.

 

“I can’t wait to finish up this first roll,” he explained, taking one

picture after another. “As soon as it’s done I’m going right down to

the office and develop it. Hold it, Bert. Just one more. There, that

does it.”

 

“Guess I’ll go along,” Ken said. “Want to come, Dad?”

 

“I do not,” Holt said. “Holding this dish towel is all the activity I

can manage after so much excitement. Besides, I’m husbanding my

strength for tomorrow’s turkey.”

 

The boys, having decided to walk the few short blocks to the _Advance_

office, put on their heavy lumberjackets. But when they went through

the front door Ken turned back toward the rear of the house.

 

“Hey,” Sandy said, “I thought we were going to leave the car.”

 

“We are. I just want to check something.” Ken followed the walk they

had cleared that morning, until he was standing outside the kitchen

windows. “I just want to see how much of the room is visible from out

here,” he said quietly. “Hmm. Practically all of it, except the corner

where the door leads into the hall.”

 

“So what?” Sandy demanded.

 

“So now we know that if somebody was standing out here last night,” Ken

answered, leading the way back toward the front sidewalk, “he could

have seen us put the iron box in the shoe box, and leave it there on

the sideboard.”

 

Neither of them spoke for the distance of a block. Their feet were

crunching on the snow at a cross street when Sandy said, “Well, so long

as you don’t quote me, I’ll admit that business at Schooley’s this

afternoon has me a little worried. I still don’t see exactly why you’re

fastening on the box as somebody’s special target, but it does all

sound slightly fishy. I don’t think we’d get any sympathy if we talked

about it at the house, though—especially now that your father’s here,

to help Pop and Bert out with their usual ribbing.”

 

“We won’t tell them about it until we have some more proof,” Ken

assured him.

 

“More proof?” Sandy emphasized the first word.

 

“Sure.” Ken ignored the skepticism in his voice. “I think we’ve already

got some. And if somebody makes another attempt to break into the house

tonight—”

 

“Huh? Nice cheerful thoughts you have.” Sandy scooped up a handful of

snow and packed it thoughtfully between his gloved hands. “But maybe

you’re right. At least you may be near enough right so that we ought to

put the chains on both doors tonight.” Sandy hurled his snowball at a

hydrant and hit it squarely.

 

“Why?”

 

“Why?” Sandy repeated blankly. “Because you just told me somebody might

be planning to try to get in.”

 

“Exactly. And if the attempt fails, we’d have no proof that it ever

happened.”

 

“Perhaps,” Sandy said politely, “you could express yourself a little

more clearly. It would require a great effort, of course, but won’t you

just try for my sake?”

 

Ken grinned. “In words of approximately one syllable,” he said, “what

I’m suggesting is that we make it easy for someone to get in, but that

we be on hand to catch him. In other words, that we set a booby trap.”

 

Sandy gave one loud agonized groan and then announced that he refused

to discuss the matter. Down in the basement darkroom, beneath the

_Advance_ office, he went about the business of mixing up his

developing solutions in dignified silence. With a great show of

concentration he figured out a method for suspending the tiny film from

his new camera in a tank designed for much larger film. He turned out

the lights, put the roll into the tank, fastened the lightproof cover

in place and then turned the lights on again.

 

“Let’s see,” he muttered to himself. “I’m using the finest grain

developer I have. I’d better give it fourteen minutes.” Carefully he

set his timer.

 

“While I’m here,” he said then, still talking to himself, “I might as

well develop that print of the fire this afternoon. If I want to print

it up in time to mail to Chief James as a New Year’s card....”

 

Once more his hands were busy, and he turned the lights off and on

again.

 

“There,” he said finally. “If it’s a good negative I’ll make a nice big

print of it, so he can hang it up in his office, labeled ‘Firemen at

Work.’”

 

For the first time since they had come into the darkroom he turned

around to look at Ken. His black-haired friend was conscientiously

rocking the first film tank back and forth, as Sandy had so often asked

him to do in the past.

 

“Thanks,” Sandy said. “That ought to be enough now.”

 

“You’re quite welcome. Any time.” Ken sat down, stretched out his legs,

and stared up at the ceiling.

 

Sandy’s mouth finally split in a wide grin. “All right,” he said. “I

give up. What kind of booby trap?”

 

Ken spoke as if there had been no interruption in their conversation.

 

“The important thing is to set it without the folks knowing anything.”

 

“You can say that again,” Sandy murmured.

 

“So we can’t do much about it until everybody’s in bed.” Ken looked

down at his new watch. “I can’t tell if it’s quarter to nine or

December twenty-fourth.”

 

“It might be both,” Sandy said helpfully.

 

“By gum, I believe you’re right.” They grinned at each other briefly.

“O.K.,” Ken said then, “you have just proved what I always

suspected—that you’re the mechanical genius in this outfit. You figure

it out.”

 

“What’s difficult about it? We leave the chains off both doors. We sit

in utter darkness—in the living room, say, where we couldn’t possibly

be seen by anybody entering either door. And when somebody comes

in—_if_ somebody comes in—” His involved sentence broke off in a vast

yawn.

 

Ken yawned too. “He finds us,” he said, when he could speak, “fast

asleep. He takes the box. He departs.” He sat up and shook himself.

“That is not my idea of a booby trap.”

 

The timer bell rang just then, and for the next several minutes they

were busy. The activity roused them a little, but before the films were

hanging from their drying clips both Ken and Sandy had yawned again.

 

Sandy tried to examine the tiny strip of film with a magnifying glass.

“It looks great,” he muttered. “Wish it were dry already, so I could

try printing them up. Wonder how big an enlargement I’ll be able to

make.”

 

“Look,” Ken said, “don’t start getting any ideas about staying down

here half the night to work on them. If the rest of the family is half

as sleepy as we are, they’ll be turning in early tonight. And we’d

better be there if we really want to watch for a visitor.”

 

“All right,” Sandy agreed. “I’m coming. I offer only one slight

correction to your theory. We’d better be there—with a cup of coffee.”

 

When they turned the corner into the Allen’s block their suspicions

about others being as sleepy as they were themselves seemed confirmed.

The living-room light winked out as they watched, and a moment later

the light went on in the big corner bedroom that belonged to Pop and

Mom Allen. There was also a light in the room Richard Holt was

occupying. Bert’s room was already dark.

 

“Ken—Sandy—is that you?” Mom called down as they let themselves in.

 

Sandy answered with a standing family joke. “No, Mom. There’s nobody

here but us chickens.”

 

“Well, I just wanted to be sure,” Mom replied calmly. “There’s some

cake left—and plenty of milk.”

 

“Thanks, Mom.” Sandy lowered his voice. “Let’s not rattle the

coffeepot. Let her think we’re having our usual quick snack before

going to bed.”

 

It was half past ten when they turned out the kitchen light, leaving

the entire house in darkness. Quietly they tiptoed into the living room

and settled themselves on the couch.

 

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Ken warned, “or you’ll fall asleep.”

 

“Don’t worry. I’m wide awake now.”

 

There was a few minutes of complete silence.

 

“You’re sure you’re awake?” Ken whispered.

 

“Huh? What?” Sandy stirred.

 

Ken poked him. “This is never going to work,” he said. “I was almost

asleep myself. Coffee has certainly been overrated as a stimulant.”

 

“We could take turns,” Sandy murmured. “If I just took a short nap now,

you could—”

 

“No, you don’t,” Ken said. “Get up. Walk around a little.”

 

“In a room littered with Christmas presents? I’d stumble over something

right away and wake up the whole house.”

 

“Well,” Ken said, “I told you to rig up a booby trap.”

 

“Come on.” Sandy stood up, a shadowy figure in the faint light

reflected into the room from the moonlit snow outside.

 

“Where are you going?”

 

“To rig up a booby trap. To fasten a lot of noisy pots and pans up over

the door, so that even if we are asleep we’ll hear anybody trying to

get in.”

 

“Those things never work,” Ken said.

 

“Mine will,” Sandy insisted. He crossed the room to the desk and

cautiously prodded among its cubbyholes. “This is what I want—this

light adhesive tape.”

 

Then he led the way to the kitchen where they opened the cupboard door

as quietly as possible and lifted out a six-quart kettle and several

smaller pans.

 

“Pie tins,” Sandy whispered. “They make a good clatter.”

 

“Got them,” Ken murmured.

 

Using small pieces of tape they fastened several pans over the back

door, so lightly that the opening of the door would be sure to pull

them from their place.

 

“If anybody opens this enough even to put a finger in, these things

will come down,” Sandy whispered.

 

“If they don’t come down by their own weight the minute we turn our

backs,” Ken added.

 

“Don’t criticize. A booby trap was your idea,” Sandy reminded him.

 

By the time the clock struck eleven the front door had been similarly

rigged, and the boys were back in their place on the couch.

 

Stillness settled over the house. A board, creaking by itself in the

dry night air, sounded like the noise of a pistol shot. The ticking of

the clock at the far end of the room was as clear and distinct as if it

were right beside them. When a car passed several blocks away both boys

roused out of a near sleep and came to their feet. But after a few

seconds of tense waiting they settled down again sheepishly.

 

“We going to stay here all night?” Sandy asked, when the cuckoo had struck twelve and then twelve thirty.