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Mystery of the Iron Box

<h2 id='chap08' class='c011'>CHAPTER VIII</h2> <div class='nf-center-c0'> <div class='nf-center c013'> <div>A PACKAGE CHANGES HANDS</div> </div></div> “Must handle this with great care,” Sandy said a little later as the boys let themselves into the Holt apartment. He deposited Mom’s jewel box on a table and patted it gently. “Valuable antique—very valuable. Worth almost a dime a dozen. Unless, of course,” he added, cocking his head on one side and studying the box intently, “it is instead an ingenious copy of a valuable antique, made by some nefarious criminal.” “Go right ahead. Enjoy yourself,” Ken told him, slumping into a chair without bothering to remove his overcoat. Sandy swung around to grin at him. “You can’t blame me, can you? When a mastermind like yourself gets really tangled up in his own theories—when he is knocked out by the weight of his own genius—Now where are you going?” he demanded as Ken got up and started toward the boys’ bedroom in the rear of the apartment. Sandy followed him. “It doesn’t concern you,” Ken told him. “And it’s got nothing to do with the box.” He began to change into a pair of tweed slacks and a flannel shirt. “I was obviously way off the beam about that. You were probably mistaken about the weight of it the first time, and if we accept that, then there’s no reason to think there’s anything fishy about the box at all.” “You haven’t answered my question.” Sandy, entirely serious now, sat down on the edge of the bed. “What’s the idea of changing your clothes? Where are you going?” For a moment Ken didn’t answer. And then he said reluctantly, “Well, this will give you another laugh. But I’m going down to that building where we left Barrack this morning. I’m still curious about him.” “I see,” Sandy said. “Do you?” Ken smiled briefly. “Well, that’s more than I do. But somehow I—” He broke off and pulled a heavy sweater on over his shirt. Sandy took off the jacket of his suit and began to unbutton his shirt. It was Ken’s turn to ask a question. “What’re you changing your clothes for?” Sandy looked surprised. “For the same reason you are. So we’ll look a little different from the way we did this morning—just to be on the safe side.” “Don’t be a dope,” Ken told him. “You don’t have to come along. This is my hunch. And it’s my—” He stopped. “‘And it’s my father.’ That’s what you were going to say. Weren’t you?” Sandy demanded. “You don’t like the idea of Barrack knowing his address, and I don’t either. Especially after that mysterious open door here the other night. I agree with you. It’s probably got nothing to do with the box. But don’t tell me it’s got nothing to do with me—if there’s any chance that somebody’s interested in making trouble for Richard Holt.” For a moment neither of them spoke. Sandy busied himself getting dressed. But Ken knew that Sandy too was remembering the occasion when Richard Holt’s nose for news had brought him into serious danger, when he had learned more than was safe for him to know about certain criminal activities. Ken had no real reason to suspect that Barrack was a criminal, or that Barrack’s knowledge of his father’s address was actually incriminating evidence. But Ken also knew that he himself wouldn’t be satisfied until he learned a little more about the affable Mr. Barrack. And Sandy’s reaction didn’t surprise him. Once Ken had let Sandy see that he was really worried, his red-headed friend would naturally insist upon standing by. Ken made one more effort to keep Sandy out of what he believed to be his own problem. “You’re going to give me a guilt complex,” he said. “If you get frostbite, standing—” “Frostbite?” Sandy sounded amazed. “In these shoes?” He looked down at the heavy brogues he was putting on. “What are you trying to do? Give me a guilt complex? I agreed when we left that place this morning that I’d go back with you this noon, didn’t I? Do you want me to go skulking around in corners for the rest of my life because I broke a promise?” He stood up. “Are you ready?” For a moment their eyes met and they both grinned. “Yes,” Ken said then. “I’m ready.” The boys reached the building on Ninth Avenue a few minutes before twelve o’clock, just as the first trickle of workers began to emerge on their way to lunch. From a lobby across the street they watched the trickle swell to a steady stream. Sandy leaned comfortably against a radiator. “Why didn’t we find this spot this morning?” he asked. “This is my idea of comfortable sleuthing. When—” He came swiftly erect. “There he is! Let’s go.” Barrack was just coming through the doorway, carrying half a dozen small cartons. He paused at a large mailbox designed for packages, standing against the building wall, and began to drop the cartons in, one after the other. The largest proved too big for the opening, and Barrack propped it on top of the mailbox instead. Then, with one package still tucked securely under his arm, he walked the few steps to the corner, and waited for a light. He apparently intended to walk eastward on Thirty-second Street. “You take him,” Ken said. “I’ll be along in a minute.” He dashed across the street, between rumbling trucks, and took a swift look at the package Barrack had left outside the box. Then he turned and crossed Ninth Avenue again, in plenty of time to fall in a few steps behind Sandy. Barrack was walking swiftly eastward. Ken whistled a few bars of “Yankee Doodle,” quietly, to let Sandy know he had caught up. Sandy replied with an answering whistle. Barrack was following the same route he had taken that morning, in reverse. As he neared the cafeteria where he had stopped for breakfast, Ken gave a start. Up ahead, apparently waiting for someone at the cafeteria entrance, stood the man whose broken watch crystal Sam Morris had repaired on Christmas Eve. In almost that same instant Ken saw Sandy sidestep into a shop doorway. He waited there until Ken came up. Ken stopped and pretended to stare through the glass at a display of hardware and tools, while he continued to watch Barrack. “You see what I see?” Sandy said. Ken nodded. “It sure is a small world,” Sandy muttered. “And brother, when you get a hunch, it is a hunch!” “I certainly didn’t expect this,” Ken assured him. Barrack had reached the cafeteria doorway. He entered briskly through the revolving door. “Funnier and funnier,” Sandy muttered. “Did you see that? Barrack walked right past him!” Ken nodded. Barrack had certainly seen the man. He had actually brushed against him as he entered. But neither had given any sign of recognition. “And don’t tell me,” Sandy said, “that they couldn’t recognize each other—not after they drove together for a couple of hundred miles.” “Look,” Ken said. “Now Mr. Watch Crystal is going inside too.” “Come on,” Sandy said. They began to move toward the cafeteria. A hasty glance through the wide plate-glass front of the big self-service restaurant assured them that it was very crowded. “I think it’s safe to go in,” Ken muttered, “as long as we’re careful to keep out of their way.” “This is the first time I ever went into a restaurant with my mind on something besides food,” Sandy said. “Go ahead. I’ll follow you in a minute. We’ll be less conspicuous that way. Meet you at the tray counter if the coast is clear.” Inside the great brightly lighted room, rimmed with service counters, hundreds of men and women were milling around, intent on collecting a trayful of food or, if already laden with trays, on finding a vacant table where they could eat. Ken stalled around at the tray counter, collecting an unnecessary amount of knives, forks, and spoons, until he caught Sandy’s eye on him. Then he moved on to the water fountain. Sandy shortly joined him there with his own tray and an assortment of cutlery. “Barrack’s at the sandwich counter. Watch Crystal is standing in line in front of the hot table,” Ken murmured. They prolonged the task of filling their water glasses until Barrack, with an almost empty tray, made his way through the room to a table for six in a far corner. Two chairs at the table had been tipped forward, to mark the places as reserved. Barrack set his tray down in front of one of them, righted the chair, and sat down. He put the package he was carrying—it was about the size of a small suit box—on the floor near his feet. Then he began to eat his single sandwich, washing down the mouthfuls with swallows of coffee. An irritated voice snarled at Ken’s elbow. “That’s the sixth time you’ve rinsed out that water glass. You going to stay here all day?” Ken looked around into a pair of eyes as irritated as the voice. “Sorry,” he muttered, and moved away. “We’d better get a sandwich ourselves,” Sandy suggested. “We’ll be less noticeable doing that than hanging around here.” They made sure that neither Barrack nor the second man looked their way as they hastily collected a pair of corned beef sandwiches and two glasses of milk. Then they sought out a table from which they could continue their observations. They had just managed to find a satisfactory place when Sam Morris’s former customer moved away from the food counters. His tray was crowded. It was easy to see why he had taken so long to collect his lunch. He made his way straight between the crowded tables to the one where Barrack sat, lowered his tray to the space in front of the second tipped-up chair, and then sat down there. He didn’t look at Barrack as he began to eat. Barrack was almost finished by that time. He took the last bite of his sandwich, swallowed the last of his coffee, and stood up. Without looking back over his shoulder he headed for the door. Sandy moved halfway out of his chair. “Should we follow him? Or—” He glanced back at the table where the second man was still eating. “Hey—look! Barrack forgot his package.” “I know.” Ken’s voice was tense. “Watch.” Just as Ken spoke, the man at the table dropped his napkin on the floor. Instead of reaching for a fresh one from the dispenser in the middle of the table, he bent down to pick it up. If the boys hadn’t been watching him intently they would have missed what he did then. As he picked up the napkin he also picked up the flat package Barrack had left on the floor, put it on his knees under his recovered napkin, and then went on eating. But now he seemed suddenly in a hurry, gulping his food in large mouthfuls. “Never mind Barrack,” Ken said. “Let’s see where he goes.” He picked up the second half of his sandwich. “I’ll finish this outside. You stay here until he leaves.” “Right,” Sandy agreed. He still had the surprised expression he had worn ever since the man first appeared at the cafeteria entrance. Ken waited in the doorway adjoining the cafeteria until, a few minutes later, the man came out and moved purposefully toward the corner. Sandy was close behind him. Their quarry descended into the subway station at the corner, and the boys followed. He boarded an uptown train and they got into the next car, standing where they could see him through the glass-topped door between. When the train pulled into the Times Square station the man got off and headed for the street. But before he passed through the exit turnstile he suddenly reversed his direction, walking straight back toward them. Sandy froze where he was and, finding himself before a chewing-gum slot machine, tried to look as if he had been busy inserting pennies into it for some time. Ken, who had been slightly farther behind, had time to step behind a protective pillar. But the station was fairly well occupied. They didn’t dare let the man get too far away before they followed him. Sandy took up the chase. Ken intercepted him as he came past. “Let me take the lead. He may have seen you. Drop behind.” In their new order, with Ken dogging the man’s footsteps as closely as he thought was safe, they went through the maze of corridors and passageways that brought them to the crosstown shuttle-train terminal. They boarded a train already waiting on the nearest track and were whisked across Manhattan to the east side. There the man made his way down a flight of stairs to the station platform of a downtown subway. From where they stood, at the head of the stairs, the boys could see him. “You’d better stay up here,” Ken said. “I’ll go down on the platform. But try to get down in time to get on the train he takes.” A local train came into the station shortly after Ken descended the stairs. His quarry ignored it, pacing up and down with the package held tightly beneath his arm. Suddenly the man made for the stairs he had just come down. Ken bounded after him, glad that Sandy was on guard on the upper level. He saw the redhead first when he reached the top and then, just beyond him, the man they were both following. Sandy rounded a corner only a few yards behind the men. Ken trailed him. But as he rounded the corner himself he saw Sandy standing still, turning his head frantically from side to side. The man was nowhere in sight. “Where’d he go?” Ken asked quickly, coming up beside Sandy. “I don’t know.” Sandy spoke between clenched teeth. “When I came around the corner—right behind him—he was already gone. He could be anywhere.” His gesture took in an exit to the street level, and three stairways leading down to various train platforms. Ken thought quickly. If the man had disappeared that fast, he must have gone down the nearest stairway. “Let’s try this,” he said, and dove for a flight of steps that led to another section of the downtown subway platform they had just left. There was an express train waiting in the station when they reached the bottom of the stairs, but its doors were already beginning to slide shut. A familiar shape caught Ken’s eye. The man who had broken his watch crystal—the man who had picked up Barrack’s package—was squeezing himself through one rapidly narrowing entrance. The boys dashed for another door in the same car. Ken’s fingers grabbed for the rubber edge of the panel in an effort to prevent it from closing. But he was too late. It slid shut with a small final thud. The train lurched into motion. One by one the cars went past, at a swiftly increasing speed. And then the train disappeared entirely, except for the winking red light on the last car, growing smaller and smaller in the dark tunnel of the subway. Ken let himself sag wearily against a pillar. “We could start a school,” he said. “The Allen-Holt School of How Not to Shadow a Suspect.” <div class='pbb'></div> <hr class='pb c000' /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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