The Mystery of the Cranky Collector - Carey M. V. - Страница 7

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Jupe held up the ransom note. “The police should be told about this,” he said. “Have you called them?”

“I have not, and you’d better not tell them either. The guy says not to, and I can’t take the risk. Even if Dad isn’t Father of the Year, I don’t want anything to happen to him. Besides, I’ll be flat broke and out of here if anything does happen. He has a clause in his will that if he dies or disappears and there’s anything suspicious about it, I don’t inherit a penny. Even if I’m never accused of any crime, I’ve had it!”

“Oh,” said Jupe.

“Don’t act so shocked,” said Marilyn. “Dad just likes to stack the odds in his favor. Doesn’t everyone? Now, come on. Let’s get busy.”

She turned away and started up the stairs. The boys followed, astounded by what she had told them.

A vacuum cleaner sat in the upper hall. Marilyn had tried to get rid of the feathers from the torn pillow, but bits of white still clung to every surface. The boys ignored this and soon were working their way methodically through the bookcases in Jeremy Pilcher’s bedroom. They found books on birds and books on philosophy, chemistry texts and science fiction. There were dictionaries and books on gemstones and a set of Dickens in flaking leather bindings.

“Here’s something,” said Jupe. He held up a dusty paperback copy of a book titled The Bishop Murder Case. It was a mystery by S. S. Van Dine.

Marilyn took it and flipped through the yellowing pages. “Somehow I don’t think anybody would commit a crime to get their hands on this,” she said. “We can try it on the kidnapper, but let’s keep looking.”

Bob sneezed and went on taking books from the dusty shelves, glancing at them, then putting them back. “Your dad reads a lot, doesn’t he?” he said.

“Not really,” Marilyn admitted. “He just buys books. He says he’ll read them someday when he has more time. Meanwhile, he buys more and more, and he puts them on the shelves and there they stay. He likes owning them. It makes him feel like he knows what’s in them, and once he buys a book he never gives it away. He never gives anything away.”

She turned to the big bureau. “Now let’s see what’s in here,” she murmured, and she opened one of the drawers. There were socks and a muffler and a jumble of papers. She took the papers out and shuffled through them. “Newspaper clippings,” she said. “A prescription that never got filled. Some travel brochures.”

She threw the papers down on the bureau. “It would help to know what we’re looking for,” she said. “I can’t believe it’s that old murder mystery.”

“How about this one?” Bob held up a book titled The Day Lincoln Was Shot. The author was Jim Bishop.

“Unlikely, but hold it out,” said Jupe.

“Maybe it’s a rare first edition,” said Marilyn. “Or something not even published — a manuscript. Some notes on scientific experiments? Or the logbook of somebody with terrible secrets in his past, like the commandant of a concentration camp? Something like that.”

“We’ll check everything,” said Jupe.

The boys finished searching the room’s bookcases and started to take cartons and folders down from the old collector’s closet shelves. They found canceled checks tied up into packets. They found old telephone bills and postcards from far-off places like Gibraltar and Cairo. None of the postcards had been written on and mailed. Evidently they were just souvenirs.

“Dad went to sea when he was younger,” Marilyn explained. “Before he became… well, I guess a captain of industry is what you’d call him. On Wall Street they call him a pirate. Maybe he is. You can’t start from nothing, the way he did, and wind up owning a shipping line and some department stores and a paper mill and two or three banks without being sharper than the next guy.” Or maybe crookeder, thought Jupe. The telephone rang suddenly. Marilyn jumped. When she answered it, she said nothing for a moment, then cried, “I’m trying! Listen, I have something called The Bishop Murder Case, and a book by a guy named Jim Bishop and —”

She stopped and frowned, then said, “But I’m not trying to string you along. Listen, I don’t know what I’m looking for and… and… wait! Listen!”

She stopped, held the phone out, and glared at it.

“The kidnapper?” said Jupe.

“Yes. He thinks I’m making fun of him. He doesn’t want any old murder story. He wants the bishop’s book, and he hung up without telling me any more about it.”

“Could you tell anything from the voice?” asked Bob.

She shook her head. “Hoarse,” she said. “Either the guy has a cold or he was talking through a handkerchief to disguise his voice. He has an accent of some kind, but that could be a put-on.”

She turned away to continue her search of the bureau. By the time she opened the last drawer and the boys had taken down the last box from the closet shelves, they were all weary. And Marilyn was hungry.

“I didn’t have dinner and there’s not much in the refrigerator,” she said. “Dad picked up the tab for the food for this party, so you can bet he made Burnside figure it really close. Want to share a pizza?”

“Great,” said Bob. “No anchovies though, huh?”

“Extra cheese,” requested Jupiter. “And a diet cola.”

“Okay. One of you guys want to come with me and help carry?”

Bob went with Marilyn, and Jupe stayed behind to continue the search. He started to go to the next bedroom, but on his way he saw the door to the attic. He had been up there that afternoon, when he and his friends were looking for Pilcher. It was not as jumbled as the unused bedrooms on the second floor. Also, it wouldn’t be used as much as the bedrooms. It would be an ideal place to stash a treasure.

Jupe opened the door, flipped the light switch at the foot of the stairs, and started up.

There were trunks shoved back in the corners. There were also boxes and bookcases, but not an overwhelming number of them. Jupe went to the first set of shelves and pulled out a slim volume. It was titled The Secret of Typewriting Speed. It was dated 1917.

He was putting the book back on the shelf when he heard the house door close down below.

“Bob?” he called. “That you?”

There was no answer. Jupe turned from the shelf and listened, suddenly aware that it couldn’t be Bob and Marilyn. Not yet. They hadn’t had time to get the pizza.

But someone had come into the old collector’s house.

Jupe did not call out again. He did not stir. The attic door was open, and he could hear footsteps. Someone was coming up to the second floor.

Clothing rustled. Now the intruder was at the foot of the attic stairs. Jupe heard rasping breathing.

Who was it? And did he know Jupe was there? Had he heard Jupe call out when the front door opened?

A switch clicked. The attic light went out.

The sudden darkness was so intense that it pressed in on Jupe. He felt smothered.

The prowler was coming up the attic stairs!

Jupe stepped away from the bookcase. Hide! He had to hide! He would get back in a corner, out of the way.

The footsteps were at the top of the stairs now. Jupe began to duck behind a bookcase, but he was caught suddenly in a beam of brightness. The intruder had a flashlight!

Jupe tried to dodge away, but the light followed him. The intruder came on across the attic. Jupe could see nothing but the blinding stab of light. He couldn’t escape! He couldn’t hide!

He lunged toward the flashlight and struck out at it. There was a surprised gasp and a grunt of pain as one of Jupe’s elbows landed on the prowler’s arm. The light clattered to the floor and bounced away. Glass shattered and the attic went dark.

Now they were even. And now it began — a perilous groping in the dark as the intruder tried to get his hands on Jupe. Jupe retreated, stumbling backward, feeling his way through total blackness.

There was a touch on Jupe’s shoulder, and Jupe threw himself to the side. But the assailant followed, clutching, trying to seize Jupe’s arm.

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