The Figure in the Shadows Read online

  THE FIGURE IN THE SHADOWS

  by John Bellairs

  illustrations by Mercer Mayer

  digital preservation by Guy Montag

  CHAPTER ONE

  Lewis Barnavelt stood at the edge of the playground, watching the big boys fight.

  It was a real battle. Tom Lutz and Dave Shellenberger were two of the big wheels that ran Lewis's school. Usually they beat up on everybody else; now they were slugging it out with each other. In a funny way, it reminded Lewis of the battles of gods and heroes that he had read about in the Classics Comics version of the Iliad.

  "Here, see how you like that, huh?" Tom threw a handful of gravel in Dave's face. Dave charged Tom, and now the two of them were rolling over and over on the ground, kicking and clawing and screaming dirty words. Lewis saw that the fight might be coming his way, so he backed into the shadowy alley that ran between the school and the Episcopal church next door.

  Normally, Lewis wouldn't have been caught within miles of a fight like this one. Lewis was fat and moonfaced. In his brown sweater and baggy corduroy trousers, he looked like a balloon ascension. At least, that's what his mean Aunt Mattie had said about him once, and the phrase "balloon ascension" had gotten stuck in Lewis's mind. His hands were soft and padded, and wouldn't develop calluses, even when he rubbed them with sandpaper. When he flexed his muscles, nothing happened. He was scared of fights, and he was scared of getting beat up.

  Then what was he doing standing there watching two of the toughest kids in school slug it out? Well, the back door of the school opened onto the playground, and Rose Rita had told Lewis to meet her by the back door, and when she said something, she meant it. Rose Rita Pottinger was Lewis's best friend, and she was being kept after school for sassing Miss Haggerty, their sixth-grade teacher—Rose Rita was a year older than Lewis, but she was in the same grade, which was nice.

  Lewis paced up and down in the dark alley. What was taking her so long? He was getting more and more nervous, with the fight going on nearby. What if they got tired of fighting with each other and decided to beat up on him?

  "Hi, Lewis!"

  Lewis jumped. Then he turned around. There was Rose Rita.

  She was a good head taller than he was, and she wore glasses. Her hair was long and dark and stringy. On her head she wore a black plush beanie with an ivory stud. The beanie was covered with cartoon-character buttons, the kind you used to get in Kellogg's cereal boxes. Rose Rita wore the beanie all the time.

  "Hi," said Lewis. "Did you have to do a lot of stuff?"

  Rose Rita shrugged. "Oh, not much. Come on, let's get going. I want to go home first and get out of these dumb clothes."

  This was typical of Rose Rita. She wore a skirt and blouse to school because she had to, but the minute she was out of school, she ran home and put on blue jeans and a sweatshirt. Rose Rita was a tomboy. She liked to do things that usually only boys wanted to do, like fishing and climbing trees and playing baseball. Lewis wasn't very good at any of these things, but he enjoyed being with Rose Rita, and she enjoyed being with him. It was September now, and they had been friends since April.

  They were on their way down the alley when Rose Rita noticed the paper bag that Lewis was carrying in his left hand.

  "What's in there?" she asked.

  "My Sherlock Holmes hat."

  "Oh." Rose Rita knew about Lewis's Sherlock Holmes hat. Lewis's uncle had given it to him as a Fourth of July present. But she still was curious. "How come you've got it in a sack?"

  "I want to wear it on Main Street, but I want to make sure there won't be any kids around when I put it on."

  Rose Rita stared at him. "You mean you're just gonna whip it out and put it on and then stuff it back in your bag again?"

  "Yeah," said Lewis. He felt embarrassed.

  Rose Rita looked more puzzled than ever. "Well, if you're so scared," she said, "why do you want to wear it on Main Street at all? There's likely to be lots of people there to stare at you."

  "I know," said Lewis, stubbornly. "But I don't care if a lot of grownups see my hat. I just don't want some smart-aleck kid to steal it from me."

  Rose Rita smiled sympathetically. She knew that Lewis was always being pestered by bullies. "Okay, okay," she said. "It's your hat. Come on."

  They walked on down the alley and over a block to Main Street. The town that Rose Rita and Lewis lived in was a small town, and the main street was only three blocks long. On it were drug stores and ten cent stores and clothing stores and restaurants and bars. They had gotten as far as Kresge's Ten Cent Store when Lewis stopped and looked hastily around.

  "Do you think it'd be okay now, Rose Rita? I don't see any kids around." He started to fumble with the top of the bag.

  Rose Rita got angry. "Oh, come on, Lewis! This is just idiotic! Look, I have to go in here and buy some pencils and paper and stuff. Then I have to go home and change. I'll meet you at your uncle's house. Okay?"

  She was gone before he could answer. Lewis felt a little mad at her, and he also felt foolish. He looked around once more. No mean kids coming. Good. He took out the hat and put it on.

  It was really a very fine hat. It was green plaid with stiff visors in front and in back, and ear flaps that were tied up over the top of the hat. When Lewis put it on he felt brave and clever, like Sherlock Holmes tracking down an evildoer in the London fog. Lewis looked around again. He decided that he would wear the hat for the full three blocks, right down to the G.A.R. Hall. Nobody could do anything to him in that short a space.

  Lewis walked along with his head down, watching the sidewalk as it went by. A couple of grownups turned and stared at him as he passed. He saw them out of the corner of his eye, but he tried not to notice them. It was funny how he felt two different ways about the hat: on the one hand, he was proud to be wearing it. But he felt embarrassed too. He would be glad when he got to the G.A.R. Hall.

  Lewis had just passed Heemsoth's Drug Store when he heard a nasty sarcastic voice say, "Gee, I wish I had a hat like that!"

  Lewis stopped dead in his tracks. It was Woody Mingo.

  Lewis was scared to death of Woody, and he figured that even Dave Shellenberger and Tom Lutz would think twice before they took him on. It wasn't that he was big and strong. He was just a little wiry guy. But he was tough, and he carried a jacknife in his pocket. There were stories that he had actually threatened kids with it.

  Lewis backed away. A chilly breath blew through his body. "Come on, Woody," he said. "I never did anything to you. Leave me alone."

  Woody snickered. "Lemme see your hat," he said, holding out his hand.

  "Promise to give it back?"

  "Oh sure. I promise."

  Lewis's heart sank. He knew what that tone of voice meant. He would never see his hat again. Lewis looked around to see if there were any grownups nearby who might help him. Nope. Not a one. This end of Main Street was as empty as it was on Sunday morning.

  "Come on. Lemme see the hat." Woody sounded impatient. Lewis's eyes filled with tears. Should he run? If he did, he wouldn't get very far. Like most fat kids, Lewis couldn't run very fast. He ran out of breath in a hurry, and he got pains in his side. Woody would catch him and take the hat and pound on his shoulders till he was sore. Sadly, Lewis lifted the hat off his head. He handed it to Woody.

  With that same nasty smile, Woody turned the hat over in his hands. He put it on and adjusted the brim.

  "Gee, now I look just like Sherlock Holmes in the movies. Well, so long, fatso. Thanks for the hat." Woody turned and sauntered away.

  Lewis stood there and watched him go. He felt sick. Tears were running down his face, and his clenched fists were trembling.

  "You gimme my hat back!" Lewis
yelled. "I'll tell the police on you and they'll throw you in jail for a hundred years!"

  Woody never answered. He just walked slowly away, swaggering. He knew Lewis couldn't do a thing to him.

  Lewis stumbled blindly down the street. He was crying hard. When he wiped his eyes and looked around, he found that he was in East End Park, a tiny park at the eastern end of Main Street. There were a few benches in the park, and a flower garden surrounded by a little iron fence. Lewis sat down on one of the benches and wiped his eyes. Then he cried some more. How come he hadn't been born strong like other kids? Why did everybody have to pick on him? It wasn't fair.

  Lewis sat there on the bench for a fairly long time. Suddenly he sat up straight. He dug into his pocket and pulled out his watch. It was late! He was supposed to meet Rose Rita back at his house, because she had been invited over for dinner. Of course, she had to go home first and change her clothes. But Rose Rita was pretty speedy. She was probably sitting on his front porch right now. Lewis jumped up and started walking quickly toward home.

  By the time he got to 100 High Street, where he lived, Lewis was out of breath. There, sure enough, was Rose Rita, sitting next to his uncle on the green striped glider. They were blowing bubbles.

  Lewis watched as his Uncle Jonathan blew into the carved meerschaum pipe he was holding. A bubble began to form. It grew and grew until it was about the size of a grapefruit. Then it broke away from the pipe and drifted slowly across the yard toward Lewis. The bubble halted about three inches from his face and began to revolve slowly. In its curved surface Lewis saw reflected Rose Rita, the chestnut tree in the front yard, himself, the tall stone mansion where he lived, and the laughing red-bearded face of his Uncle Jonathan.

  Lewis liked his Uncle Jonathan a lot. He had been living with him for a little over a year now. Before that, Lewis had lived in Milwaukee with his parents. But one night, both his father and his mother were killed in a car accident. So in the summer of 1948 Lewis had come to live with his Uncle Jonathan in the town of New Zebedee, Michigan.

  The bubble popped, and Lewis felt something on his face. He put up his hand and wiped some of it away. It was shaving lather. Purple shaving lather.

  Rose Rita and Jonathan laughed. This was one of Jonathan's magic tricks. He was able to do magic tricks because he was a wizard, a real live wizard with mysterious powers. Rose Rita had found out about Jonathan's wizardry at about the same time that she got to be friends with Lewis. But it didn't faze her a bit. She had taken it all in her stride. Once or twice Lewis had heard her tell Jonathan to his face that she would like him even if he wasn't a wizard.

  As Lewis stood there giggling at the shaving-lather trick, he heard a familiar voice say, "Lewis! You look beautiful!"

  Lewis looked up. It was Mrs. Zimmermann. She was standing in the doorway of the house, drying a dish with a lavender-colored towel. Mrs. Zimmermann lived next door, but she was practically a member of the Barnavelt family. She was a strange person. For one thing, she was crazy about the color purple. She liked anything that was purple, from the violets of early spring to maroon-colored Pontiacs. And she was a witch. Not a cruel witch with a black hat and a broom and an evil laugh, but a friendly, likable, next-door-neighbor witch. She didn't show off her magic powers as often as Jonathan did, but Lewis knew that she was a more powerful magician than his uncle was.

  Lewis wiped more shaving lather off his face. "It doesn't look beautiful at all, Mrs. Zimmermann!" he yelled. "You just think it does because you like everything to be purple!"

  Mrs. Zimmermann chuckled. "Well, maybe so. But it's nice all the same. Come on in and wash it off. Dinner's ready."

  Lewis was just sitting down at the table when he remembered that he was supposed to be unhappy.

  "Gee, I forgot all about my hat," he said.

  Rose Rita looked at him. "Yeah, that's right. What happened to your hat? Did you wear it for a whole block, or what?"

  Lewis stared at the tablecloth. "Woody Mingo took it."

  Rose Rita stopped smiling. "I'm sorry, Lewis," she said, and she really meant it.

  Jonathan heaved a deep sigh and laid down his knife and fork. "I told you not to wear it on the street, Lewis. The hat was just for playing with around the house. You know what kids are like."

  "Yeah, I know," said Lewis, sadly. He stuffed some mashed potatoes into his mouth and chewed them moodily.

  "It was a rotten thing to do," said Rose Rita, angrily. "Maybe if I had stayed with you it might not've happened."

  Somehow this made Lewis feel worse. Boys were supposed to protect girls, and not the other way around.

  "I can take care of myself," he mumbled.

  The meal proceeded for several minutes in total silence. Everyone stared at his plate and munched silently. Gloom lay over the table like a mantle of fog.

  Jonathan sat there staring at the tablecloth like everyone else. But, unlike them, he was thinking. He was racking his brains, trying to dream up something that would cheer them all up. Suddenly he brought his fist down on the table. Plates rattled, and the lid jumped off the sugar bowl. Everyone looked up.

  "What on earth is the matter with you?" said Mrs. Zimmermann. "Did you see an ant, or what?"

  "Nothing's the matter," said Jonathan, grinning. Now that he had everyone's attention, he folded his hands and stared off into space. "Lewis?" he said.

  "Yes, Uncle Jonathan?"

  Jonathan continued to stare into space, but his grin got wider. "How would you like to see what's inside Grampa Barnavelt's trunk?"

  CHAPTER TWO

  Lewis's mouth dropped open. Grampa Barnavelt's trunk was a big heavy chest that stood locked at the foot of Jonathan's bed. Jonathan claimed that he hadn't opened it in over twenty years, and Lewis was always pestering him for a chance to peek into it. Now he was going to have that chance. He felt like jumping up and down in his seat, and he could tell that Rose Rita was excited too.

  "Oh boy, Uncle Jonathan!" Lewis cried. "Oh boy, that'd be just great!"

  "I think so too!" said Rose Rita.

  "So do I," added Mrs. Zimmermann. "Seeing as how I'm a nosy old lady who likes surprises."

  "You certainly are, Frizzy Wig," said Jonathan. "Nosy, that is. Now tell me, folks. Would you like your ice cream and cookies now, or after we open the chest? All those in favor of opening the chest now, raise their hands."

  Lewis and Rose Rita started to raise their hands, but then they remembered that the cookies were Mrs. Zimmermann's. Maybe her feelings would be hurt if they voted to postpone dessert. They pulled their hands down.

  Mrs. Zimmermann glared at the two of them and raised her hand. "May I speak, teacher?" she said in a whiny little voice.

  "Sure. Go ahead," said Jonathan, grinning.

  "If you don't go up and help me bring that chest down right now, I'll turn you into a wastebasket full of pencil shavings. Understand?"

  "Aye, aye!" said Jonathan, saluting. He and Mrs. Zimmermann got up and went to get the trunk.

  Lewis and Rose Rita wandered into the study. They stood around leafing through books and drawing pictures in the dust on the library table. Before long they heard doors slamming and a lot of banging and one loud shout (from Jonathan) followed by some muffled swearing. At last the trunk arrived. Jonathan was holding his end of it with one hand and sucking at the knuckles of his other hand, which he had skinned while trying to take the trunk around a narrow corner.

  "Well, here we are!" said Mrs. Zimmermann. She set her end of the trunk down and mopped her face with a purple handkerchief. "What did your grampa store in here, Jonathan? Cannon balls?"

  "Just about," said Jonathan. "Now as soon as I can find the key... hmm, I wonder where it is?" Jonathan scratched his bushy red beard and stared at the ceiling.

  "Oh, don't tell me you've lost it!" said Mrs. Zimmermann in exasperation.

  "No, I haven't lost it. I just don't remember where it is. Half a minute." Jonathan left the room, and they heard him going back upstairs.


  "I hope it isn't lost," said Lewis, who could get gloomy at a moment's notice if things weren't working out just right.

  "Don't worry," said Mrs. Zimmermann. "If worse comes to worst your uncle will shoot the lock off with Grampa Barnavelt's Civil War pistol—unless of course it's locked in the trunk with everything else."

  While Jonathan was upstairs hunting for the key, Lewis and Rose Rita had a chance to examine the outside of the old trunk. It had a humped lid, which made it look like a pirate chest, but it was really a steamer trunk, a kind of suitcase that people used to take with them on ocean voyages a long time ago. The trunk was made of wood, but it was covered with alligator leather. Three big strips of hammered copper had been nailed across the lid for decoration. They had turned bright green with age. The lockplate was made of copper too, and it was shaped like a baby's face. The baby's mouth was the keyhole.

  After what seemed like a very long time, Jonathan returned. In his hand he held a small iron key with a cardboard tag dangling from it.

  "Where was it?" asked Mrs. Zimmermann. She was trying hard to suppress a giggle.

  "Where?" snapped Jonathan. "Where? Exactly where you'd expect it to be. At the bottom of a vase full of Indian head pennies." He knelt down and stuck the key in the lock. Lewis, Rose Rita, and Mrs. Zimmermann gathered behind him. The lock was stiff and rusty, so it took Jonathan several tries, but at last the key turned. Carefully, he lifted the shaky old lid.

  The first thing that Lewis and Rose Rita noticed when the trunk was opened was the inside of the lid. It was covered with faded pink wallpaper, and somebody long ago—maybe a child—had pasted pictures on the paper. The pictures looked as if they had been cut from a very old-fashioned magazine. Lewis and Rose Rita looked inside the trunk. Under a thick gritty layer of dust were a number of parcels done up in newspaper and string. One was long and curved and thin. Another was flat and square. Some were just big and bulky. The newspaper was old and yellow, and some of the parcels were coming undone because the string was rotting.