Mummy, the Will, and the Crypt Page 3

  There was one more reason why Johnny was going after the will: Like a lot of people, he was always hoping that someday he would get to do something terribly distinguished and exciting, like finding a lost city buried under the sands of Egypt. The Glomus will was like a lost city to Johnny. If he found it, he would get a reward, he would become famous, and he would be able to do something wonderfully generous and kind for his grandparents. What more could anyone ask?

  Johnny gazed dreamily out the window of the bus. The mountains were getting closer. In the distance, on the horizon, he could see long rumpled gray and blue lines. Lazily Johnny leaned back in his seat and wondered what the week at Camp Chocorua would be like.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lake Chocorua looks as if it had been intended by God to be a mirror for noble Mount Chocorua. And Mount Chocorua deserves a mirror, because it is a mountain that has presence. It stands out. Most of the White Mountains of New Hampshire have been worn down by millions of years of wind and weather into gently rounded, tree-covered humps. But at the top of Mount Chocorua a sharp horn of rock thrusts up into the sky. When Johnny first saw it, the mountain was at its most beautiful. It was the height of the fall foliage season, and the maple trees that grow on the mountain's sides were lit up with brilliant reds and oranges. Johnny looked up and hoped for a day when the wind wouldn't blow, so that he would see Mount Chocorua perfectly reflected in the still waters of its own special lake.

  The bus followed New Hampshire State Route 16 past the mountain and the lake onto a dirt road that branched off from the highway. It crossed a rickety wooden bridge until it came to a wooded area where rich people had their summer homes.

  In a clearing in the middle of a big patch of wooded land stood Camp Chocorua, which consisted of four two-story log buildings and a flagpole. Johnny and the other boys were assigned their bunks in these buildings. That night a fire was made in the big brick fireplace in one of the dormitory buildings, and the boys and the counselors gathered around to sing songs and tell ghost stories and eat popcorn and drink cider. The next day the camp routine would begin.

  On Tuesday morning, after breakfast, Johnny was hiking up a dusty road with a group of other boys. Everybody was in uniform, and Mr. Brentlinger, the head counselor, led the way. Mr. Brentlinger was a big, hulking, rather kindly man who loved to sing songs. As they tramped along, raising clouds of yellow dust, they sang "We're on the Upward Trail," "The Happy Wanderer," and the ever-popular Army hiking song, "Sound Off!" It was a warm day, and Johnny was happy. Here he was, with kids who talked and joked and played games with him. It felt good, and he didn't want it to end.

  Around noon the hikers stopped for lunch. The place where they stopped was interesting because of the strange collection of buildings that stood nearby. The boys were standing on the rim of a gently sloping ridge. On their left the ground fell away fairly steeply. In the valley below them they could see a small stone church by a quiet lake, a grove of willow trees, and a grim gray stone mansion with clusters of spires, minarets, turrets, and funny bulbous domes. And in the distance Johnny could see the high rusty iron fence that surrounded the grounds of the estate. There were iron gates, chained shut, and a rutted disused road that wound away from the fence right up to the road the boys were standing on. The place where it met the road was marked by a big stone arch. Monster heads and leering human faces were carved on the arch, and there was also a name: STAUNTON HAROLD.

  Johnny stood with his sandwich in his hand as he gazed up at the arch. Staunton Harold. The name was familiar, somehow, but he couldn't for the life of him say why. Hmm. Staunton Harold. Had he ever known anybody named Harold Staunton? Nope. Not that he could remember. He shrugged, sat down on the low stone wall that bordered the road, and started eating.

  "Looks like Dracula's castle, doesn't it?" said a boy who was sitting on the wall near Johnny. Johnny had noticed him before, because he was so odd-looking. He looked like somebody who had been pulled at from both ends. His face was long and droopy, and his ears stuck out. He had a long, blunt-ended nose and greasy, curly black hair. His gangly arms hung down, and his legs were long too. His feet were enormous. The shoes he was wearing were the kind that kids call gunboats. The boy was eating a huge ham-and-cheese sandwich, and when he stopped chewing, his mouth curled up into a friendly, sarcastic grin.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  Johnny smiled shyly. "John Dixon. What's yours?"

  The boy grimaced. "Byron Ferguson, believe it or not. But I wish you'd call me Fergie, on account of nobody in their right mind wants to be called Byron." Fergie took another bite of his sandwich. He chewed meditatively and jerked his thumb at the cluster of buildings. "You own this place?"

  Johnny stared for a second, but then he realized that the kid was joking. "Oh, sure," he said, grinning. "It's all mine, and I'm Count Dracula. I eat and chew with the lower intestinal tract! I bite the head from the body and suck the blood! Born in Madagascar in 1892! Shot dead and come to life again!" This last part was a sideshow barker's routine that Johnny's dad had memorized and recited so many times that it had worn a groove in Johnny's memory.

  Fergie laughed and spat bits of sandwich across the grass. "Where the heck'd you learn that?"

  Johnny shrugged. "Oh, I know lots of things like that. I know poems and weird facts and all kinds of stuff."

  Fergie turned to him suddenly. There was a gleam in his eye. "What happened to the Colossus of Rhodes?" he asked.

  Johnny was startled. All he knew was that the Colossus of Rhodes was a huge bronze statue that had been one of the Seven Wonders of the World at one time and that it wasn't around anymore.

  "Time's up," snapped Fergie. He grinned triumphantly. "Don't know? Well, it fell down during an earthquake and got sold to a Saracen junk dealer."

  Johnny's eyes narrowed. He was not going to take this lying down. "Name the eight guys who killed Julius Caesar," he said.

  This one stumped Fergie. He said he didn't know, and Johnny proudly rattled off the eight Roman names. Fergie looked at him with admiration, and Johnny realized that they were going to become friends.

  Fergie and Johnny talked a blue streak to each other all during the rest of the hike. Johnny told Fergie about the professor, and about his dad, and Gramma's upcoming operation. At dinnertime that night the two boys met outside the door of the dining hall so they could get a seat together and talk some more. Tonight dinner consisted of hot dogs on buns, potato chips, baked beans, and "bug juice"—otherwise known as Kool-Aid. Soon Fergie and Johnny were seated across from each other at one of the long tables. They talked about baseball. Since Johnny wore glasses, he was naturally an expert on bespectacled players. Dom DiMaggio was a special favorite of his, and he had been to Red Sox games at Fenway Park, where the kids chanted:

  He's better than his brother Joe,

  Do-mi-nic Di-Mag-gi-o!

  Next the boys went on to players who had other disabilities. Like Monty Stratton, who pitched with a wooden leg, and Mordecai Brown of the Cubs, who had only three fingers on his pitching hand. But in the midst of all this odd-fact fun, Johnny suddenly grew thoughtful and silent.

  Fergie stared. " 'Smatter? Somethin' on your mind?"

  "Yeah. I keep thinkin' about that name on that stone arch. It . . . well, it kinda reminds me of somethin'. I dunno what, though."

  Fergie shrugged. "Well, it'll come to you in the middle of the night. That's what my mom always says."

  Johnny mumbled "Yeah" and went on thinking about Staunton Harold. Later, after dinner, he went to the rec room with Fergie and played a couple of games of chess. Then, around ten, he dragged his weary, aching body up to his room. Johnny had a double room that he shared with a fat, obnoxious kid named Duane Eckelbecker, or "Double-decker" Eckelbecker, as he was known. When Johnny walked in, he found Eckelbecker sprawled on his cot, reading a comic book.

  "H'lo, Duane," he said.

  Eckelbecker grunted. He flipped a page and went on reading.

  Jo
hnny sat down on his cot and picked up the blue binder that had his Glomus puzzle stuff inside. He reached over to the bureau drawer and dug out a sheaf of letter paper and some envelopes. Then, using the blue binder as a desk, Johnny started writing. He wrote a letter to his grandmother in the hospital and another to his grandfather and one to the professor. In his letter to Grampa, he asked if Gramma was okay and when the operation was going to be. Then he folded the letters neatly, put them into the envelopes, and got out the address list that was tucked into a pocket inside the front cover of the binder. But just as he was beginning to address the first letter, he stopped. His pen halted in midstroke.

  He had thought of something.

  Quickly Johnny flipped open the binder. His eyes traveled down the page. Chess Set. .. Design: Staunton. Then, farther down the page, Johnny found the word in the Greek newspaper that was circled in red. The word KHPYΞ, which meant "herald."

  Staunton. Herald. Staunton Harold.

  What did it mean? Was it all a crazy coincidence? Johnny's mind began to race madly. Then suddenly he jumped up. There was something he had to know. Eckelbecker looked at Johnny with sluggish curiosity as he raced for the door, opened it, and slammed it behind him.

  With the binder still in his hands, Johnny ran downstairs to the dining room. The huge room was mostly dark, but a fire was crackling in the big brick fireplace, and shadows danced over the trophies and drinking mugs that littered the stone mantelpiece. In a big leather armchair before the fire sat Mr. Brentlinger. His legs were stretched out comfortably in front of him, and he was puffing on a big briar pipe. When Johnny saw Mr. Brentlinger, he paused. He was scared of counselors and teachers and policemen and other grown-ups who had authority over him. On the other hand, he knew that Mr. Brentlinger was a very nice, easygoing guy. And Johnny also knew that he would go out of his mind if he didn't find out the things that he wanted to know.

  Cautiously Johnny walked forward until he was standing near the armchair. He coughed, and suddenly Mr. Brentlinger became aware of his presence. He turned his head and spewed out a long, thin stream of pipe smoke.

  "Hi, John. It is John, isn't it?"

  Johnny nodded tightly. "Yes, sir. That's my name."

  "I thought it was. Well, John, what can I do for you?"

  He's gonna think this is crazy, thought Johnny. But he plunged ahead. "Uh . . . well . . . Mr. Brentlinger, could . . . could you . . . I mean, would you happen to know the name of the people who own that old mansion that's near the place where we ate our lunch? You know, with the towers on it and the little church next door to it? I was just kinda . . . well, interested in knowing."

  Mr. Brentlinger turned and looked at Johnny. He laughed and shook his head. "Well, now! That is a strange thing to be asking. Were you hoping that the place was haunted or something?"

  Johnny squirmed and clutched the binder tightly against his chest. He began to think that it had been a mistake to bring it with him. What if Mr. Brentlinger wanted to see what was inside? Would he laugh and decide that Johnny was a Grade-A lunatic? "I just wondered if you knew," he mumbled. Johnny could feel his face turning red.

  Mr. Brentlinger looked at Johnny sympathetically. "I wasn't trying to make fun of you, John," he said gently. "I just couldn't resist having my little joke. Actually I think I do remember who owns that place. It's the family that owns the cereal company. You know, the people that make Oaty Crisps and all that other gunk. They have a really weird name. It's Glomfield or Glimp or something like that. Anyway, it was the old man, the founder of the business, that built the place. It's falling down now—the mansion, I mean, and I keep wondering what they're gonna do with the place. I wish I could remember that name for you. Hmm . . . hmm . . . let me think a bit. . . ."

  Mr. Brentlinger went on hmming and puffing at his pipe. Johnny stood there in the darkness, trembling. He felt cold all over, but he also felt wildly triumphant. He had doped out the puzzle—part of it, anyway. Could he be wrong? Johnny didn't think so. The lost Glomus will was out here, out in that old mansion—or somewhere near it maybe. Johnny wanted to do eighteen things at once. He wanted to rush out and find a phone and tell the professor what he had discovered. He wanted to tell his new friend, Fergie, and he wanted to be out at the mansion, prowling around.

  Mr. Brentlinger's voice broke in on Johnny's thoughts. "Nope, I just can not come up with that name! Anything else I can do for you, John? John? Are you there?"

  Mr. Brentlinger turned his head and peered into the darkness behind his chair. Johnny was there, all right. At least his body was there. His mind was out among the crumbling stones of the Staunton Harold estate.

  "Huh?" said Johnny, startled. "Uh . . . yes, sir . . . er, I mean, what did you say, Mr. Brentlinger?"

  Mr. Brentlinger chuckled. "Never mind. So is there anything else I can do for you?"

  "Uh . . . no. No, sir," Johnny said. He felt flustered, and he was looking for an exit line. "You told me what I wanted to know, so . . . so I guess I'll go up to bed now. Thanks a lot."

  "Don't mention it. Sleep tight."

  Johnny went up to his bedroom, but he did not go to sleep. He felt like a wound-up spring. Mechanically he put on his pajamas and went down the hall to brush his teeth and wash his face. Then he came back and crawled into bed, where he lay tossing and turning all night while Eckelbecker snored like a chain saw. If the human brain were a machine with an on-off button, Johnny would have shut his mind off, and he would have gotten some sleep. But he kept thinking about the objects on the table in Mr. Glomus's office. That signboard—what did it mean? Was the will hidden in a teapot? Johnny tossed and turned and moaned.

  Finally the room got lighter, and Johnny heard the bugler blasting away, playing reveille outside his window. It was time to get up.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Somehow Johnny stumbled through the early morning routine at Camp Chocorua. He washed up, pulled on his clothes, combed his hair, and staggered out to the flag-raising ceremony that always began the day. The skin of his face felt prickly, and he was nervous. But one thing was perfectly clear to him. Before the morning was over, he had to get to a phone so he could talk to the professor. He was dying to tell him about the discovery he had made, and he also wanted very much to know how Gramma was doing.

  After the flag had been raised, the boys were dismissed. The orderly khaki-and-red lines broke up into a mob of boys running madly. Johnny tried to fight his way up to the flagpole so he could catch Mr. Brentlinger before he got away, but it was like trying to go up a staircase when everybody else is going down. Stubbornly battling his way forward, he finally reached it, just as Mr. Brentlinger was leaving.

  "Mr. Brentlinger? Sir? Can I talk to you for just a minute?"

  The head counselor turned and eyed Johnny curiously. He chuckled and shook his head. "Okay, Dixon, what is it now? I think I oughta charge you a fee for services above and beyond the call of duty."

  Johnny was flustered. He paused and pulled himself together so he could ask his question. "Sir . . . I'd . . . I'd like to use a phone, if I may. I need to make a long-distance call, but it'd be a collect call. It wouldn't cost the camp any money."

  Mr. Brentlinger looked pained. "Oh, God. You would ask for that! Dixon, look. There's kind of a problem about phones. This whole deal of having the camp open for this week, it was, well, kind of a spur-of-the-moment idea. The place was all shut down, and we had to turn the lights and the gas and everything back on. And you know how there's always something that doesn't get done? Well, the phone didn't get reconnected. Sooo . . . we're out here without a phone. How about that?"

  Johnny's heart sank. He felt helpless and horribly frustrated. What was he going to do now?

  "However" Mr. Brentlinger added, "there is a solution to this dilemma. In about five minutes I have to make a trip into town to mail some letters and make a few phone calls of my own. I use the public phone at the Squam House, which is the hotel in town. Mrs. Woodley knows me, and she'd be glad to let you make a
call. So would you like to ride in with me?"

  Johnny nodded happily. His problem was solved.

  "Town" turned out to be Kancamagus Center, a small village about two miles down Route 16. It had a few side streets with comfortable-looking white clapboard houses, and a main street with a post office, a couple of stores, a gas station, a movie theater called the Scenic, an Odd Fellows Hall, and a white wooden church with a stubby square steeple. These buildings stood along one side of a grassy village common. On the other side of the common was the Squam House. It was a long, two-story structure with green shutters and a porch that ran across its entire front. There were rocking chairs on the porch, and there was a white sign by the steps. The sign said TOURIST ACCOMMODATIONS. Reasonable Rates. B. Woodley, proprietor.

  Mr. Brentlinger and Johnny went to the post office first. Then they walked across the common to the Squam House. The lobby was deserted except for a young man who was sitting in an easy chair, reading a newspaper. As Johnny passed the man he stopped short. He had seen the man before. But where? He couldn't for the life of him remember. Even though Johnny had always been taught that staring was impolite, he couldn't stop himself. At first the young man tried to ignore him, but finally he put his paper down and gave Johnny a dirty look. He had pale blond eyebrows and frazzled reddish hair, hooded eyes, and a receding chin. He looked secretive, and he looked mean.