Back Aa

Mystery of the Iron Box

<h1 class='c011'>THE MYSTERY OF THE IRON BOX</h1> By Bruce Campbell <h2 id='chap01' class='c011'>CHAPTER I</h2> <div class='nf-center-c0'> <div class='nf-center c013'> <div>A COLD DRAFT</div> </div></div> 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 cardboard container and scrawled on the cover “Mom—Don’t peek!” “And we’ll leave it right here,” Bert said, placing it in full sight on the sideboard. “What’s the idea?” Richard Holt wanted to know. Pop grinned. “Just teasing her.” “She’ll try to wheedle a hint out of us—without ever asking a direct question,” Bert said. “But she won’t look inside,” Sandy added. “Sounds like some form of torture to me,” Ken’s father said. “It is,” Sandy admitted, grinning. “But it’s an old Allen custom—only usually we’re on the receiving end.” But Mom, when she returned a little later, refused to give them the satisfaction of a single question. She did walk past the sideboard several times, but they could never catch her looking directly at the box. And once, when she had to move it aside to make room for her morning’s setting of rolls, she seemed not even to notice that the shoe box was a stranger in her kitchen. Richard Holt grinned at the Allens, and they grinned sheepishly back at him. “If there’s any teasing going on around here,” he said quietly, “I don’t think we’re doing it.” “Did I hear you say you wanted a cheese sandwich?” Mom said. Her eyes were twinkling. “Eh—why, yes, I believe I could manage one—even after all that dinner,” Richard Holt admitted. Some time later, as Sandy crawled into bed and snapped of the light at his elbow, he murmured his usual last request to Ken. “Don’t forget to open the window.” Ken slid the frame up several inches and shivered as the cold air struck him. “It’s snowing,” he said. There was no answer. Sandy was already asleep. But Ken was still wide awake ten minutes later. He turned over and tried counting sheep, but the ruse didn’t work. “Serves me right,” he muttered, “for eating that cheese sandwich.” He turned over once more. When another ten minutes had gone by he slid out from under the covers. “A good dull book—that’s what I need,” Ken decided. “And Pop’s got plenty of them in his library downstairs.” In his robe and slippers he cautiously opened the bedroom door and stepped out into the silent hallway. As he moved toward the stairway he slid one hand along the wall to feel for the hall-light switch. Suddenly he stopped. A cold draft was swirling around his feet. He was just deciding that he hadn’t pulled the bedroom door tight shut when something else caught his attention. Below him, in the darkness, a faint click sounded. And almost immediately the draft around his feet died away. Ken’s hand moved swiftly then. His fingers found the switch and the hall light snapped on. Ken took the two descending steps to the turn in a single quiet leap. But before he could start down the rest of the flight he heard another click from downstairs, and felt another surge of cold air around his feet. A third mysterious click sounded just as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Ken snapped on all three switches on the wall of the lower hallway. The hallway itself, the living room, and the sun porch all became brightly illuminated. But the light revealed nothing to his searching eyes. The rooms looked just as they had looked some time before, when the Allens and Holts had gone upstairs to bed. He went through the dining room, into the kitchen, and into the pantry, turning on all the lights as he went. But nowhere was there any sign of disturbance, or of an intruder who might have been responsible for those clicking sounds. Ken shook his head. “Was I dreaming? I certainly thought I heard something down here. And it sounded like the front door opening and closing.” Finally he turned off all the lights, picked up his book, and started back toward the stairs. But at the foot of them he stopped. That cold draft around his feet couldn’t have been a dream. Ken moved swiftly to the front door. It was securely locked. He started for the kitchen door and then turned back. He snapped on the front entrance light and pulled the curtain away from the glass panel in the door in order to peer out. His breath caught sharply. Footprints stood out clearly on the snow-covered porch. And through the veil of falling snow, for as far as the light penetrated, he could see further footprints—on the porch steps and on the flagstone walk that crossed the lawn to the sidewalk. <div class='pbb'></div> <hr class='pb c000' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2

Update Required To play the media you will need to either update your browser to a recent version or update your Flash plugin.