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Mystery of the Iron Box

<h2 id='chap04' class='c011'>CHAPTER IV</h2> <div class='nf-center-c0'> <div class='nf-center c013'> <div>BOOBY TRAP</div> </div></div> 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. Ken answered him with a warning hand on his arm. There were footsteps on the porch steps. Both boys listened intently, every nerve alert. Ken could feel Sandy’s big body tense itself for action. Carefully they came to their feet. With Sandy in the lead they drifted silently across the carpet, following the path they had cleared for themselves earlier. There was a fumbling at the outer storm door, which was unlocked as usual. Ken had one finger ready on the light switch. Sandy was crouched low, ready to pounce. Metal scratched faintly against metal. Hands worked cautiously at the lock of the inner door. An almost inaudible rattle told them that the mechanism was clicking open. The knob began to turn. Then the door itself eased slowly open. And suddenly, with an unearthly clatter, the pots and pans rigged above it crashed to the floor, cascading over a figure outlined in the doorway. As Ken snapped on the light, Sandy leaped forward. His arms circled the intruder, and the two heavy bodies thudded to the floor. Ken barely had time to notice that Sandy was safely on top when a shout sounded from upstairs. “Hey! What’s going on?” Ken lunged for the intruder’s feet and hung on. “It’s all right, Pop!” he called. “We got him!” Out of the corner of his eye he could see Pop Allen tearing down the stairs, with Richard Holt right behind him. “You’ve got me all right.” The muffled voice spoke from somewhere beneath Sandy’s considerable weight. “But why?” it grunted. “Just tell me why?” Ken’s hands jerked away from the feet he was holding as if they had burned him. In the same instant Sandy rolled aside, freeing his victim. And then both boys scrambled hastily out of the way as a furious red-faced Bert, pushing aside pots and pans, got slowly to his feet. “Gosh!” Ken said. “Gee, Bert—we thought you were upstairs asleep!” “Sure,” Sandy echoed. “We thought—” Then Sandy looked at Ken and Ken looked at him. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say. <div class='pbb'></div> <hr class='pb c000' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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