Mummy, the Will, and the Crypt Page 4

  Johnny glanced quickly away and walked across the lobby to join Mr. Brentlinger, who was standing at the desk and talking with the proprietor, a fussy-looking old lady with her white hair pulled back in a bun. As she talked the lady pointed off to her left. There was the phone, a scarred black thing in one corner that stood on an antique table with bowed legs. Next to the phone was a skinny blue glass vase that looked like it would tip over if you breathed on it, and there was a funny little stool to sit on. Johnny almost groaned aloud. He had expected a regular phone booth with folding doors. He had wanted to make this a very private conversation, but that was not going to be possible.

  Mr. Brentlinger told Johnny that he could use the phone for a long-distance call, as long as it was collect. Also he had to keep it brief, as Mrs. Woodley did not like to have people tying up the phone for too long. So Johnny went and sat in one of the easy chairs in the middle of the room while Mr. Brentlinger made his calls. He was staring aimlessly around the room, when— quite suddenly—he realized that the unpleasant young man was staring at him over the top of his newspaper. And the stare was not just curious, it was hateful. Johnny was startled. What did this creepy-looking guy have against him? Nervously Johnny snatched up an old copy of Yankee magazine from a little table and hid behind it.

  Time passed. Finally Mr. Brentlinger was through with the phone, and Johnny got to use it. Soon the phone was ringing down in the professor's house in Duston Heights.

  When the professor answered, he was in an exceptionally crabby mood. He had been defrosting his refrigerator, which was something that he absolutely hated to do. For about an hour he had been putting pans of boiling water inside the refrigerator and poking at the ice with his Knights of Columbus sword, while cursing loudly, fervently, and picturesquely. Now waves of crankiness were sweeping over him, and he was trying hard to make himself cheerful again.

  "Hello," he snapped. "Who is it?"

  The voice at the other end was timid and apologetic. "It's me, Johnny. I . . . I need to talk to you."

  "John, why the devil are you whispering? Are you involved in a conspiracy? Is the FBI after you?"

  Johnny explained that he was sitting out in the open in a hotel lobby.

  "So what?" rasped the professor. "Do you have government secrets to pass on? What the blazes do you have to say that's so private?"

  Johnny swallowed hard several times. His face got red, and the palms of his hands were sweaty. When people crabbed at him, he always became very flustered.

  "I . . . I j-just wanted to t-talk to you for a m-minute," he stammered. "Is . . . is that okay?"

  The professor calmed down. He knew about Johnny's problems, and he was sorry he had been such a bear a moment before. "Go ahead," he said, mildly. "I'm listening. Shoot."

  "Well, I . . . first of all I just wanted to know how Gramma is. Have they operated on her yet?"

  "Yes, they have. She had her operation on Monday night, and she is doing reasonably well, considering her age and everything. The doctors think that they got the whole tumor out, and it was malignant, I'm sorry to say. I'd be lying if I said that I thought that everything was going to be rosy from now on: there may be problems."

  "Problems?" Johnny's heart sank.

  "Yes, problems. There's always the possibility that the doctors didn't get the whole tumor out, and if that was the case . . . well, it'd be pretty bad. Also, there's your grampa. He's still fairly depressed, and it may be some time before he's his old bouncy self again. So there! I've given you the news, and it's mostly good. Do you have anything else that you want to discuss with me?"

  Once again Johnny was hesitant. He looked around nervously and then said in a loud whisper, "I found out something about Mr. Glomus's will!"

  The professor groaned. He clenched his fists and struggled against the urge to chew Johnny out. "John," he said through his teeth, "you are supposed to be enjoying yourself! You are supposed to be tramping about on woodland paths among the autumnal splendors of the White Mountains! What on earth are you doing thinking about dear old Mr. Glomus's will?"

  Johnny explained. He told the professor about the arch that said Staunton Harold, and he told him why he thought the puzzle on the table fit in with it.

  ". . . and so I think that will just has to be on that old estate somewhere," Johnny went on breathlessly. "Don't you think I must be right?"

  The professor was silent for so long that Johnny was afraid they had been cut off.

  "Professor? Hello? Hello? Are you there?"

  "Yes, I'm here," said the professor in a strained, testy voice. "But if I were there, I'd be driving you into the ground like a tent stake! John, this puzzle solution of yours is terribly ingenious, but it is absolutely cockeyed! Please put it out of your mind and go back to hiking and . . . and whatever else you're supposed to be doing! Do you hear me?"

  "But the place out here really does belong to the Glomuses!" said Johnny desperately. "It—"

  "I don't care if it belongs to Nebuchadnezzar or Czar Nicholas the Second!" roared the professor, cutting him off. "Let us change the subject! Enjoy yourself! Go out and hike till your feet are sore! Collect autumn leaves and put them into albums! Do anything, but please get your mind off that idiotic will! That is an order!"

  "Yes, sir," said Johnny, meekly. He wanted to argue, but he knew it would be no use. So he promised the professor that he would really try to enjoy himself, and then he said good-bye.

  After Johnny had hung up, he looked around. First he turned toward the chair where the creepy young man had been sitting. He was delighted to see that the man was gone. Then Johnny noticed that Mrs. Woodley was standing, stock-still, behind the hotel desk. She was glowering at him. Johnny wondered if everybody in this hotel was crazy. First there was the young man, and now this old bat was making ugly faces at him, even though he hadn't done anything. Johnny happened to glance at the skinny blue glass vase that stood next to the phone. She thinks I’m gonna smash it, he said to himself. He had half a mind to knock the vase over and then catch it quickly before it broke, just to see what Mrs. Woodley would do. But most of all he wanted to get out of this creepy hotel as quickly as he could.

  Johnny hurried across the lobby, down the front steps, and out into the autumn sunshine. As he crossed the common he thought about the phone conversation he had just had. He felt frustrated, but in an odd way he also felt relieved. He was glad to know that Gramma's operation was over, and that it had been a success. As for the puzzle business, it was true that the professor had not taken him seriously, but at least he had said what he wanted to say. And maybe the professor was right after all. Maybe Johnny should just forget about Staunton Harold and the Glomus will, shove the whole stupid mess out of his mind.

  Mr. Brentlinger's station wagon was parked outside the post office, but Mr. Brentlinger was not there. Probably he was still shopping or chewing the fat with some friend of his. Johnny started to get into the car and wait for him, but as soon as he opened the car door, he noticed something lying on the seat. It was a small square of heavy white paper with ragged edges. Carelessly Johnny picked the paper up and turned it over. What he saw was an old-fashioned black-and-white woodcut. It showed some young men drinking in a tavern. Outside the tavern door stood a skeleton. It held a spear up over its head, and it looked like it was getting ready to throw the spear at the young men. Underneath the picture was a little two-line poem, printed in old-fashioned lettering. It read:

  While Youth do chear

  DEATH may be near

  CHAPTER SIX

  Johnny sat rigid and still. He felt cold creeping over his body, as if he were slowly turning into a block of ice. The square of paper had been left on the car seat by someone who wanted him to find it. The drawing was familiar to him—in a hazy way. He had seen it in a history book somewhere. And its meaning seemed very clear to Johnny: It was a death threat. But who was threatening him? And why?

  Suddenly Johnny looked up. Through the windshield he could see Mr. Br
entlinger walking down the sidewalk toward the car. Johnny made a very quick decision. He scrunched the drawing up into a ball in his hand and stuffed it into his pants pocket. He really did not want to discuss this with Mr. Brentlinger or to be told that the drawing was just an ad for a Halloween dance or a free gift from somebody's funeral parlor. He had had enough of calm, reasonable advice from the professor. All he wanted was time to think and figure out what to do.

  When the station wagon pulled into the parking lot at Camp Chocorua, Johnny thanked Mr. Brentlinger, got out of the car, and ran up to his room to get his baseball glove. Johnny had seen the kids playing softball as he rode back along the road toward the camp. He loved to play, even though he was not very good at it. And he was always hoping that somehow, mysteriously, he would turn into a better fielder and hitter. Now as he raced through the long grass his mind kept coming back to the evil thing that was wadded up in his pocket. He had to tell somebody about it or he would burst. He couldn't call the professor again. So then who . . .

  As he jogged nearer to the mob of yelling, gesturing boys Johnny began to grin broadly. He waved excitedly. There was Fergie.

  Fergie was sitting in the long grass, looking absolutely nonchalant as he chewed on a tufted weed. He was on the team that was up at bat. It was a chilly day, and so he was wearing an old scruffy gray sweat shirt with CYCLOPS ATHLETIC CLUB printed in white block letters across the front.

  "Hi, Fergie," said Johnny, slumping down on the grass. Johnny tried hard to smile, but when he thought of the wadded paper in his pocket, his smile turned to a tense frown.

  Fergie looked at Johnny curiously. "Hey, what's the matter with you? Did you bet on the Germans to win the Second World War?"

  Normally Johnny would have laughed, but he was not in a very jokey mood. He dug his hand into his pants pocket and pulled out the piece of paper. Carefully he uncrumpled it, smoothed it out on his knee, and handed it to Fergie.

  "I found this in the car when I went downtown with Mr. Brentlinger. I think it's a death threat."

  Fergie squinted at the crumpled drawing and laughed. "A death threat? Are you out of your jug? This is one of those things from that book, whatsitsname, that the Pilgrims made so kids would learn their ABC's. I looked at it in the library once. This one's for the letter Y. What made you think it was a death threat?"

  "Somebody left it on the seat where I was sitting in Mr. Brentlinger's car. Doncha see? They're after me on account of I know where the will is, and . . ." Johnny paused and stared at the ground. He bit his lip and felt his cheeks getting red with embarrassment. He had been running on because he was excited and scared, and he had not stopped to think that this would make absolutely no sense to Fergie. And now Fergie would probably decide that Johnny was weird. He would get up and walk away, and that would be the end of their friendship.

  But that was not what happened. Fergie was staring at Johnny, but it was an interested stare. There was a gleam in his eyes and a faint curling smile on his lips. "He-ey," he said slowly, "are you mixed up in something? You can tell me, I won't rat on you. Come on."

  So Johnny started to tell Fergie about Staunton Harold and the lost Glomus will and the table with the weird collection of objects on it. While they talked there was a lot of yelling and screaming going on behind their backs. Fergie's team was knocking the cover off the ball. Pretty soon the bases were loaded.

  "Hey, Fergie!" somebody yelled. "You're up!"

  "Oops. 'Scuse me! I'll be right back," said Fergie, and he scrambled to his feet. He picked up a bat and loped toward the plate. As Johnny watched, Fergie got ready to hit. The pitcher barreled the ball in, and Fergie swung. It was an awkward, lunging swing, and he missed. Johnny felt sympathetic and got ready to cheer Fergie up when he struck out. But then the ball came whizzing toward the plate again, and Fergie swung and connected. Wok! The ball sailed upward in a high, beautiful arc. It flew out over the head of the center fielder and came down in some bushes at the far end of the field. Fergie raced around the bases as all the boys on his team whooped and cheered. After he crossed home plate, Fergie stumbled back to where he'd been sitting before. He sat down, crossed his legs, and smiled modestly.

  "Natural ability," he said, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his sweat shirt. "Okay, now. You wanna tell me some more about this trouble you're in?"

  So Johnny told Fergie the rest of what he knew and what he guessed. He told him that he thought the lost Glomus will must be out at the estate called Staunton Harold. Fergie listened to all this thoughtfully. He nodded sometimes or shook his head, and now and then he would say something like "Hot dog! How about that!" or "Boy, that old guy must really have been out of his jug!" "Out of his jug" was one of Fergie's favorite expressions.

  Finally Johnny was finished. He folded his arms and glanced nervously at Fergie. "Whaddaya think?" he asked.

  Fergie was quiet a second before answering. "I think you're the only kid I know who's ever had a death threat handed to him. Honest! I never heard of it happening before!"

  Johnny felt confused and kind of angry. First Fergie had said that the picture wasn't a death threat, and now he said that it was. Was he trying to be funny? "It's not like the Congressional Medal of Honor," he snapped back. "I mean, I might get killed."

  "Yeah, you might." Fergie said this in an abstracted, dreamy way. It was plain that his mind was elsewhere. As Johnny stared at him anxiously Fergie hummed and gazed off into space. Suddenly a light came into his eyes. He snapped his fingers and turned to Johnny. "Hey!" he said. "You know what we oughta do?"

  "What?"

  "We oughta sneak out of our rooms tonight and go see if we can find a way to get into that Statler Harrison place. Whaddaya say?"

  "It's Staunton Harold," said Johnny severely. He hated to hear people mispronounce names.

  "Statler Hilton, Staunton Harold, what's the difference?" said Fergie with an irritated shrug. "Come on, answer the question. Do you wanta go or don't you?"

  Johnny hemmed and hawed. He had a holy terror of violating rules and regulations, and camp regulations said that you couldn't leave your dormitory between lights-out and reveille. "We can't go," said Johnny fretfully. "If we get caught, they'll throw us out, and my grampa and gramma'll really feel awful if that happens."

  Fergie snorted disgustedly. "Oh, come on, Dixon! Are you gonna spend the rest of your life wrapped up in a blanket in your bedroom? The only way to have any fun is to break the rules sometimes! Come on! I'll meet you at eleven P.M. out by the flagpole. There's a path over there," Fergie said, pointing off toward a mass of bushes near the tennis courts, "and it leads out toward that road. You know, the one we were hikin' on when we saw the old place. We'll just go out an' peek at the old dump an' come right back. Who's to know? You'll be in bed before anybody knows you left. Whaddaya say?"

  Johnny still looked hesitant. "Eckelbecker'll turn me in if he finds out I've gone out."

  Fergie looked grim. "You tell that lard bucket that Byron Q. Ferguson told him to keep his trap shut unless he wants to have his ears tied into a bowknot behind his head."

  Johnny was torn with indecision. The professor was always telling him that he ought to be more adventurous. Maybe he ought to quit worrying and live a little. "Oh, okay!" he said finally. "I'll be there."

  At about five past eleven that night Johnny was standing out by the flagpole, waiting. It was a chilly, raw night with a fine mist in the air, and he was shivering as he peered up at the overcast sky. He was wearing his Notre Dame warm-up jacket over his pajama tops, and he also had on his blue jeans and his heavy socks and tennis shoes. He looked off toward the log buildings. So where was Fergie? Had he chickened out in spite of all his brave talk? But then Johnny saw a shape moving toward him. Fergie was sprinting across the wet grass, carrying something in his hand. Suddenly Johnny realized what it was—a flashlight. And then he felt very stupid: he had a flashlight, but it was in his suitcase. He had been so nervous and flustered about this whole deal that he h
ad forgotten to bring it.

  Fergie arrived, panting. "Hi!" he whispered. "Glad you didn't cop out on me. You bring a flashlight?"

  "I don't have one," said Johnny untruthfully. "Is . . . is that all right?"

  "Naw," said Fergie, grinning. "You get three demerits an' no supper tonight. Sure it's all right! Stop bein' such a fussbudget! This flashlight here is one of those super-duper sealed-beam jobbies. It shines for miles. So don't worry. Let's get started."

  Fergie and Johnny jogged off into the drizzly darkness. After a couple of minutes Fergie switched on the wonderful sealed-beam flashlight. The effect was quite dramatic: A long bar of pale light shot out into the gloom. As Johnny watched, Fergie moved the beam back and forth. It lit up the hump of the pitcher's mound on the baseball diamond, and then it moved slowly across the mass of bushes beyond the field. The beam picked out a cleft in the wall of shrubbery.

  "Aha!" said Fergie. "Aha, and other expressions of delight! Come on! We've got it knocked!"

  The two boys marched on. They reached the edge of the wide grassy field and plunged into the gap in the bushes. It was a narrow path, and they had to go single file. Fergie went first with the light. Wet leaves slapped across Johnny's face, and he put out his arm to fend them off. His head was sopping wet now, and water was running down his neck. He thought about his gramma, and how she believed that if you got wet out in the rain, you might die of pneumonia. Poor Gramma! Johnny hoped that she was really going to get better. Silently he said a Hail Mary and an Our Father for her.

  After what seemed like hours of slopping along through wet underbrush, the boys came out onto a road covered with wet gravel. Johnny had a vague idea that they were walking through a forest, but when he looked up, he couldn't tell where the trees ended and the sky began. Fergie's light slashed out through the mist like a sword. Neither boy spoke.