Spiderweb for Two - A Melendy Maze (15 page)

“We better go look,” said Randy wanly. “After we took the waterfall off, there was sort of a flood, and I don't know…”

Father went with them, and when they got down to the brook they saw that the fall was frozen solid again, and they found the mail all right, too, though somewhat scattered and all of it frozen fast under a sheet of ice.

“Look, you can read it just as plain,” said Oliver happily. “Right through the ice you can read it. ‘Mr. Martin Melendy, The Four-Story Mistake, Carthage,' this one says. And up in the corner it tells that it's from the Carthage Dry Goods and Confectionery.”

“And here's one from the telephone company,” called Randy, twenty feet away.

As for Father, he had gone to get an axe. “‘I never supposed,” he said morosely, “that the day would come when I would be chopping my bills out of the ice.”

After this somewhat dampening episode Oliver and Randy continued their search, stopping only to eat a hasty but tremendous Sunday dinner. But to no avail; they did not find the clue.

As they walked back to the house in the cold dusk, Oliver said, “Well, we've failed this time.”

“Maybe not,” said Randy. “We always seem to get it somehow or other.”

“Not this time,” said Oliver.

Father had gone out for the evening, too, just to add to the general gloom, and due to the pressure of the search they had both put off their weekend homework till the last minute, and there was a lot of it. Faced with the prospect they sat down dispiritedly to supper in the kitchen.

“More ice cream?” said Cuffy, at the end of it.

“No thank you, Cuff.”

“Better finish it up now, it won't be here tomorrow, you know, I'm defrosting the icebox in the morning.”

“Oh, well, a little more then,” said Randy. “Why does it have to be defrosted tomorrow?”

“I do it every Monday. Always have!”

Randy's eyes met Oliver's. He also had seen the light, and they rose from the kitchen table as one.

“If only she hasn't thrown it out!” moaned Randy as they opened the refrigerator door.

They pulled out first one tray of ice cubes, then another, and there, yes, frozen into one of the little square cells was a scrap of something blue!

“Break it!” cried Oliver. “Here, I'll get the potato masher.”

“No, no, that would tear it. Put it on a tin plate on the stove and let it melt.”

“Let
what
melt?” demanded Cuffy. “I declare, what
is
all this?”

“Part of the same mystery, Cuffy dear,” said Randy. “Like when we searched your pockets that day and couldn't tell you why, and you told us about Francis Wellgrove, remember? It's not anything wrong, just kind of a treasure hunt, only it's a secret.…”

“It's beginning to melt!” said Oliver. “Cuffy, please don't mind, but would you just go away for a few minutes? Please, would you?”

“Well, I suppose.…” Cuffy cast a dubious eye at the melting cube on the stove and reluctantly left the kitchen.

The two children watched the ice dissolve into a little puddle, and then Randy, reverently, gingerly, lifted out the saturated paper on the pancake turner. She laid it carefully on the drainboard.

“Lucky thing they wrote it in pencil this time,” remarked Oliver.

“Oh, naturally they would have thought of
that.
Listen, here's what it says:

‘Number Eight's concealed in Number Ten,

    
And Number Ten, though old, is always right.

Has traveled half the world and back again;

        Touched Italy, touched England, and touched France;

        Carried a load with strength, been known to dance.

    
Unpolished, down-to-earth, and none too bright,

        Still, Ten has held his tongue and with good grace

        
Done all his share, and earned a resting place.

With other worthy objects he shall stay,

Retired with honor; never thrown away.'”

“What do they mean—Ten?” said Oliver.

“I don't know, but we'll find out,” said Randy, highly elated. “We find them
all
out. I think we're superb!”

“Seems to me we're always finding out by accident,” said Oliver.

“Probably most discoveries are made that way,” said Randy, not to be taken down. “Columbus was looking for India when he stumbled on America. Isaac Newton had to be hit on the head by an apple to discover the principle of gravity. Both accidents. As long as the discovery is made, it doesn't matter if an accident reveals it!”

She lapsed into silence, pleased with the sound of her words. I think I'll write a theme like that for the Yearbook, she thought. It's kind of profound; I bet Miss Kipkin will like it.…

“Now, then,” said Cuffy, striking open the swinging door. “How about all that homework that hasn't been done yet? It's seven twenty-five already!”

CHAPTER IX

Number Ten

Number Eight's concealed in Number Ten,

    
And Number Ten, though old, is always right.

Has traveled half the world and back again;

        
Touched Italy, touched England, and touched France;

        
Carried a load with strength, been known to dance.

    
Unpolished, down-to-earth, and none too bright,

        
Still, Ten has held his tongue and with good grace

        
Done all his share, and earned a resting place.

With other worthy objects he shall stay,

Retired with honor; never thrown away.

“I guess it's a piece of luggage,” Randy said. “One of those old trunks or suitcases that Father and Mother took abroad with them. Goodness, I think that's almost too simple.”

“Why would a trunk be ‘known to dance,' though?”

“Well, it's sort of farfetched, but you know the way they jiggle on a truck or maybe on an ocean liner in rough weather.”

“Why would a trunk be called Number Ten, then?”

“Maybe there's a number on the lock or something. We'll have to see.”

It was Saturday again, and raining. The first week after vacation had been a busy one at school, and Pearl Cotton had had a birthday party, besides. This was really the first chance they had had to start the search.

“Where do they keep the trunks and stuff anyway?” said Oliver vaguely.

“Some are in the cellar room and some are in the storeroom in the stable next to Willy's.”

“Let's start with the cellar,” said Oliver. He had a particular fondness for this place since he had been the first, when they'd moved here, to discover a room down there, full of ancient toys and trophies: belongings of the long-ago children whose father had first owned the house. In fact it was here that the Melendy trunks were kept.

The cellar was a cozy place that cold wet winter day. The big furnace was crackling comfortably, and the grating in its door showed a glimpse of fire like the grin on a jack-o'-lantern. Willy's old stubbed broom and shovel leaned companionably against the wall, the wood was neatly stacked, the coal all tidy in its bin. It was a model of order, and the storeroom beyond it was just as neat. (The Melendy children hardly ever entered these two places.)

The suitcases were stacked as neatly as the cordwood and the trunks grouped together under a tarpaulin like circus elephants. Isaac's old carrier stood in one corner beside three electric fans which were hibernating through the winter.

Oliver breathed deeply, with a sort of proprietary pride. “This is a good-smelling place,” he said.

Randy had removed the tarpaulin and was looking at the trunks. Nothing on any trunk said Ten, but as they were old and widely traveled, they carried other interesting information; labels from all over the world, some of them with pictures on them: the Bay of Naples, for instance, done in bright sunset colors, and the towers of Carcassonne.

“I wish
we'd
ever been taken to those places,” said Randy enviously. “Mona's the only one that was, and she was so young that all she remembers is falling out of a high chair in Venice.”

“Into a canal?” asked Oliver hopefully.

“No, silly, just onto some old floor. Look, here's one from Greece; it's got the Parthenon on it.”

“It's the names of the boats I go for,” said Oliver. “The S.S.
Berengaria.
The S.S.
Carinthia.
The S.S.
Adriatic.
Boy! All I ever was on was the Staten Island ferryboat.”

“Me, too; and a few rowboats, but you can't count those. Well, I don't understand this Number Ten business. The numbers on the locks are all much longer and fancier, but we might as well look into the trunks anyway. You never can tell.”

But there was no clue in any of the trunks. There was nothing much; just miscellaneous tag ends that had been left behind: some wads of tissue paper, some wire coat hangers, one brown sock. Oliver found a crumple of newspaper printed in the year 1937; the sporting section, luckily. He sat down to read the old antique baseball scores.

“That's not buttering any parsnips,” said Randy, using one of Cuffy's pet expressions. “Come on, let's look in the suitcases.”

“You look in them,” said Oliver. “I'm busy. Listen, did you know Mel Ott was playing then? Why,
I've
heard of him.”

But Randy, who was ignorant about baseball, was not listening. She had put the tarpaulin back over the elephants and now began to explore the suitcases. In one she found a penny and a toothbrush. In another, some paper clips and a bead ring that she had made a long time ago. “I
wondered
what had happened to that,” she said, but now the only finger it would fit was the little one. Funny, she thought, you never think about your fingers growing, too.

In the other suitcases there was nothing to speak of: dust, stray pieces of Kleenex, a pin or two. Randy sighed.

“I guess the stable storeroom's next,” she said.

Oliver left the yellowed paper with some regret, and they ran up the stairs and out into the rain, first grabbing their raincoats. It was a beastly day, the snow pitted and melting, all the trees howling, and the sky full of scudding ragged clouds. They were glad to get to the stable and embrace Lorna Doone and give her the sugar lumps they had snatched from the kitchen.

The storeroom above was not so cozy as the cellar because it was not heated. Their breath showed on the air. But since it was higher and dryer than the other one, it was used for many things beside luggage. Melendy coats and garments hung shrouded in large mothproof bags like giant bats at rest. The hat boxes were built up in towers. Father's old mountain-climbing boots and his trout-stream waders stood in pairs beside a stack of letter files and a stirrup pump. There were odds and ends of carpet which Cuffy was sure would someday come in handy again, and many neatly piled cardboard boxes with mysterious identifications written on them in pencil: Sum. bdspds., Ex. wn. shds., Sum. slp. cvrs.

In the midst of all, with a narrow path around it, stood an island of luggage: suitcases on a foundation of trunks.

They went through the suitcases first. No success. And then one of the trunks played a nasty trick on them: it still carried a checkroom tag marked 10; and they were sure that they had found the clue's hiding place. But when they opened the trunk, it revealed nothing but old crib sheets.

“Why on earth did she save those?” said Randy.

All that remained was one little trunk: small, shabby, with rusted clasps. They lifted the lid and saw that it was filled with old family photographs.

“Look, here's one of you in your high chair,” said Randy, taking it out. “Man, were you ever fat! You looked like a woodchuck!”

“And here's one of you with no front teeth. Grinning like anything, and no front teeth! Ugh!” said Oliver.

“Here, let me see.… Oh, I remember when that was taken! I was seven years old, and I lost both teeth in the same week. They gave me a quarter apiece for them, and I felt rich and elderly.…”

“Here's Rush wearing a diaper.”

“Here's Mona—at least it says its Mona—she's bald as a doorknob and Cuffy's holding her up in her arms.… Cuffy looks so different. Younger, sort of, and not so fat.”

Oliver glanced at the photograph. “I like her better the way she is.”

The clue was forgotten. The cold was forgotten. The children sat on the floor, breathing steamily, utterly absorbed in these different distant people who had been themselves. A million raindrops drummed on the roof; music from Willy's radio drummed through the wall.