The Treasure of Alpheus Winterborn (9 page)

Right now, Anthony definitely wanted someplace where he could just sit and think. A lot of things had happened to him in a very short space of time, and his head was in a whirl. The Tweedys were moving. Miss Eells’s house had been broken into, and the mirror had been stolen. Anthony climbed the steps to the top of the tower like somebody lost in a dream. When he got to the top, he opened a low, pointed door and went into the tower room. He sat down cross-legged on the floor and looked around.

There was no furniture in the room. Dust and the tiny bodies of dead insects covered the floor. Over in one corner, near a window, lay a pile of old magazines.

The tower room, when you came to think of it, was pretty useless. There wasn’t even an electric light in it, or an outlet where you could plug one in. In the middle of the ceiling was a trap door. Anthony had never opened it, but he figured it led up to the roof of the tower. When the wind blew hard, he could hear the weather vane rattling overhead. The room had nine oval windows. Today, the gray light of an overcast October day filtered in through the grimy panes. Anthony sat there, motionless, looking out. Away on the western horizon ran a long line of bluffs. Below him he could see the tops of bare trees, the walks and benches of Levee Park, and the leaden gray waters of the river flowing past. Even on a dull day like this, Anthony enjoyed being up here. He felt like some ancient king surveying his kingdom.

He was deep in thought as he sat there. What on earth was he going to do? What if Hugo Philpotts
did
buy the house? Anthony didn’t know how much houses cost, but he had once heard his dad say that he had paid twelve thousand dollars for the house they were living in. And that was a long time ago. Alpheus Winterborn’s message said that the treasure he had hidden was worth many thousands of dollars. “Many” was more than twelve—Anthony was sure of that. So even if Hugo Philpotts had to spend twelve thousand dollars to get a treasure that was worth a hundred thousand, or a million, it would be a good deal for him. And once he bought the house, he wouldn’t have to worry about old Eagle Eye. It would be his house, and if he wanted to poke holes in the walls, that would be his business. Anthony had to get in there before Mr. Philpotts did. But how in heck was he going to do that?

He continued to sit and think, but no ideas came to him. The wind blew, and the weather vane thrummed overhead. After a while, Anthony heaved a deep sigh and got up. He had better go downstairs and see if Mrs. Pratt wanted him to do anything. As he was leaving the room, he glanced at one of the magazines on the dusty stack. Some words on the cover caught his eye: “Burglar-proof Your Home This Summer. See page 106.”

Anthony flipped to page 106 and started reading. The article gave thirteen rules for homeowners, including such things as not letting milk bottles and newspapers pile up on your porch, notifying the police when you went on vacation, and leaving lights on in the house. Rule Ten interested Anthony very much.

Rule Ten:
On doors with old-fashioned locks, there is usually a plate (on the doorpost) with two holes. It looks like this:

The lower hole, the oblong one, is meant to receive the door latch, which moves when the knob is turned. The upper hole, square in shape, is meant to receive the bolt, which turns when the key is turned in the keyhole. It is the upper hole that we are concerned with. A favorite trick of burglars is to insert a chip of wood in this hole so that the bolt, when thrown home by the turning of the key, will not enter the hole. The door, thus tampered with, is not locked and may be opened at the convenience of our friend the burglar. It would be well to check the outside doors of your home nightly to make sure they have not been tampered with. Cellar doors in particular are vulnerable. Note any suspicious persons prowling about in your yard, as they may be burglars looking for a chance to “fix” your door in the manner described above.

Anthony sat on the heap of magazines, reading by the fading light. His heart started beating faster. T
his was the way!
Could he... Of course he could. He would have to, to save his family and to keep old Hugo Philpotts from grabbing the loot. He would bide his time, watch carefully, and then...

For the next several days, Anthony carried around a small chip of wood in his pocket. He had whittled it to fit the bolt-hole in the outside cellar door of his own house. He had tried out the trick, and he had been delighted to discover that it really worked. Now he kept closer watch than ever over the old Winterborn place. The moving truck was gone now. The house looked deserted. The shades were all pulled down. The swing set was gone from the backyard. So was the sandbox, but the doghouse was still there. It looked forlorn and empty. A for sale sign was tacked up on the front of the house. One day when Anthony walked by to see how things were going, he saw a big red panel truck parked outside. The lettering on the side of the truck said LOOMIS AND SON, PAINTERS AND INTERIOR DECORATORS. The
front door of the house was open, and Anthony could see men inside. They were wearing gray paint-stained coveralls and paint caps. They were spreading out a drop cloth on the hall floor. Another man was taking a ladder and some cans of paint out of the back of the truck.

Anthony was panic-stricken. What if these guys started taking the wallpaper off the walls and then discovered... no, no. That simply couldn’t happen.
Doncha see, you dumb clunk, he said to himself excitedly, this is your big chance! They’re gonna be opening up doors all over the house. Maybe they’ll open up the cellar door. Then you can do what you want to do.

Trying hard to act nonchalant, Anthony sauntered around to the side of the house. The cellar door was directly opposite Mrs. Speece’s house. Mrs. Speece, otherwise known as old Eagle Eye. It was a solid-looking black door that stood at the bottom end of a stone ramp. The ramp and its stone-lined sides formed a kind of ditch, and the ditch was full of dead leaves. Anthony checked the door. Nope. It was still shut tight. Darn! But then, as he stood there watching, the doorknob turned. The door rattled and then moved inward. A few leaves fluttered in onto the cellar floor.

Anthony felt extremely nervous. His heart was going like a trip hammer. The door was ajar, but whoever had opened it hadn’t come out. Maybe somebody was painting the basement and wanted the door open for air. Slowly, Anthony began to shuffle forward. His hand was in his pocket now. It closed around the little chip of wood. He edged down the little sloping ramp that led to the door. Dry leaves crackled under his feet. Now he was at the door. He peered inside. Nobody around. Good. Quick as a flash, he pulled out the chip of wood, stuck it into the bolt-hole, and stepped back. And at that moment, somebody behind him said, “Hey, kid! What the hell you think you’re doin’, huh?”

Anthony froze. He jammed both hands into his pockets as if to prove that he hadn’t been doing anything with them. Then he turned around. Out by the street, next to the truck, was a man in coveralls. He was smoking a cigar. It was Mr. Loomis. Anthony had seen him in his father’s saloon a number of times. His dad and Mr. Loomis were old pals—sort of. At least Anthony hoped so.

“I—I wasn’t doin’ nothin’, Mr. Loomis! Honest I wasn’t!”

The man’s face softened when he saw that it was Anthony. “Oh, it’s you, Tony. Look, sorry to holler at you, but there’s been a bunch of kids pokin’ around here today makin’ life difficult for me. Did you want something?”

“Uh, no, I didn’t, Mr. Loomis,” Anthony mumbled. He shuffled awkwardly up the ramp and started walking across the lawn toward Mr. Loomis. “I just, uh, I mean, I sorta wanted to see what the inside of this old house looked like.”

“Casin’ the joint, hey?” said Mr. Loomis. He laughed and patted Anthony on the back. Anthony stiffened. “Say, tell me, are you the burglar that busted into old Missus Eells’s place? Come on, fess up! I got the goods on ya!”

Anthony’s face got very red. He said nothing.

Mr. Loomis puffed at his cigar and laughed hoarsely. “Just kiddin’, Tony, just kiddin’! Look, sometime when I don’t have a lot to do, I’ll show you around this dump. It’s a weird old place. All the rooms are funny-looking inside on account of the house has eight sides. But right now I’m busy as heck. See ya later.” He threw his cigar into the gutter, stepped on it, and turned away toward the house.

“Okay, Mr. Loomis. See you later.” Anthony turned and started walking away fast. As he walked, he wondered if Mr. Loomis had seen him stick the chip of wood into the door. From the way Mr. Loomis had talked, Anthony figured that he probably hadn’t. Now he began to feel very smug and proud of himself. He had pulled a real burglar’s trick, and he had gotten away with it. Of course, the thought of actually breaking into somebody’s house frightened him. He had always been a very law-abiding boy. But here he was, planning to break into somebody’s house! That was a crime, a burglary. Did that mean he was turning into a criminal? No, Anthony told himself firmly. It was only going to be this once.

Days passed. October turned into November. Now that he had set things up for the big break-in, Anthony was developing cold feet. It was one thing to stick a piece of wood in a door, and something else to be a real-life burglar. Night after night, as he walked home from the library, Anthony thought,
I could do it now. I really could.
But then he would say to himself, No,
it’s not late enough. Old Eagle Eye will be awake. She’ll see. Besides, I need to have tools. I need a mallet and a chisel and some other stuff.
(He could have gotten these tools from his dad’s tool chest in the garage, but he hadn’t yet gotten around to taking them.) He would make other excuses to himself, excuses of all kinds. Then he would bite his lip and call himself a coward because he was afraid of old Eagle Eye. He began to think that maybe he would never get up the courage to do what he wanted to do.

Late one cold November night, Anthony lay awake in his bed. Downstairs, his folks were arguing—the old familiar scene. For a while, the arguments had stopped because Mr. Monday had been too sick to stay up late at night. But now his health was returning, and that was one of the things that tonight’s argument was about—Mr. Monday’s health. Mr. Monday was planning to open up the store again whether Doc Luescher gave him the go-ahead or not.

Anthony lay there, wide-eyed, listening to the battle. He began to torture himself with accusations. As far as he was concerned, this fighting and bickering was his fault. If he had only had the guts to go down and get that treasure out, they would be rich, and everything would be fine. After all, the burglary was all set up. All he had to do was push a door open and walk in. But he just couldn’t force himself. He was scared of getting caught.

The argument was over. Anthony could hear chairs scraping around. His folks were coming up to bed. The shelf clock in the front hall struck eleven, then twelve, then one. But Anthony still lay there motionless, wide awake under the covers. Then, with a sudden motion, he flung back the sheet and the blankets. He sat up, swung around, and put his feet on the floor. He padded noiselessly over to the closet, put his shirt and pants on over his pajamas, and laced up his tennis shoes.

How he managed to get down to Front Street, Anthony never remembered. It was as if the whole thing were happening in a dream, as if some force outside himself were moving him around from place to place. All he knew was that sometime after he got dressed and slipped out of the house, he was down on Front Street and crouching behind a bush in the side yard of the old Winterborn place, shivering with the cold. And he was mad at himself because he hadn’t brought any tools with him. His heart was beating fast, and his body felt prickly all over. His blood was pounding in his ears. He felt very strange, but he was
there,
he was at the house. That was all that mattered. As for the tools, men had been working in the house, and they had probably left some lying around. If not, he would dig the treasure out of that wall with his nails if he had to.

Anthony crouched there, staring at the cellar door. He could see it clearly by the light of the street lamp. Behind him was the house of old Eagle Eye. It was completely dark. Anthony felt his body grow tense. He clenched his fists. He stood up and started walking across the frozen grass toward the house. He walked with swift, resolute strides. He was almost there...

And then something happened.

Anthony heard a loud barking sound. A growling dog was rushing at him. It had leaped out of the doghouse that stood near the back porch—the doghouse that was supposed to be empty now! Anthony screamed, “No, no! Help!” Then he turned and ran, hell for leather, across the backyard of the Winterborn house and across Mrs. Speece’s backyard. Suddenly, as he was about to cross the sidewalk that ran from Mrs. Speece’s back door to her garage, his feet flew out from under him. He felt as if someone had grabbed him by the ankles and flipped his legs upward.