The Mystery of the Cranky Collector - Carey M. V. - Страница 3

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Pete took a deep breath. He was sure he smelled dust. He imagined it drifting from the walls and the drapes, rising like fog from the faded, stained carpeting. Did anyone ever clean in here, he wondered.

A mirror hanging over a big dresser was spotted and yellow. In places the silver had peeled away from the back of the glass. A pair of small armchairs had been set on either side of the dresser; the upholstery on the chairs was faded. So were the watercolor pictures on the walls — pictures of sailing ships and of stormy seas breaking on rocky coasts.

Everywhere there were bookcases. They lined the walls and nudged close to the dresser and crowded the chairs. They were all filled to overflowing. Pete saw paperbacks and hardcovers, small books and volumes so big they had to be put on the shelves sideways. There were papers, too, some stacked in piles, some rolled into cylinders. Here and there manila folders and big brown envelopes had been slipped in on top of the books.

Pete glanced at the bed. Old Man Pilcher appeared to be asleep. His breathing was hoarse, but it was regular and even. The skinny hands no longer clutched each other; they were open and relaxed on his chest.

Pete got up and went to one of the bookcases. He read the titles on the backs of the books. Bloody Murder was one. Another was Shark Hunter. There was a collection of stories by Edgar Allan Poe and a book titled Polaris. Pete slid it off the shelf and opened it. It was a guide for seafarers, telling how to navigate a ship by the stars.

Pilcher let out a sound that was half a groan and half a snore. Pete jumped as if he had been caught doing something forbidden. He slid the book back onto the shelf and waited, watching the old man and listening to the voices of the guests below. How long would the party go on? How long would he be stuck here watching this cranky old codger sleep?

He looked at his hands. They were smudged and dusty. Probably the bookcase hadn’t been cleaned for months or even years.

Pete went into the bathroom and closed the door. There were books here, too. They were heaped on a low table between the old-fashioned claw-foot tub and the washbasin. One was a collection of cartoons; another was a copy of a book on atomic energy. Evidently Pilcher would read anything and everything. Jupiter Jones was like that. He was a voracious reader who remembered most of what he read. But it was strange to think that Mr. Pilcher, obviously a world-class grouch, shared an interest with Jupe. Jupe might be sort of pompous and preachy at times, but he wasn’t a grouch, ever.

Pete turned on the water and began to wash his hands, using the sliver of soap from Pilcher’s soap dish.

Suddenly, sharp and clear, there came the sound of a key turning in a lock.

“Hey!” Pete grabbed a towel and flew to the door. He turned the knob and pulled. The door didn’t budge. It was locked tight.

Pete called softly, “Mr. Pilcher? Mr. Pilcher, open the door, please.”

No one answered.

Pete rattled the knob. “Mr. Pilcher?” he said more loudly.

Footsteps went away from the door. Pete put his ear to the wooden panels. He could hear the guests talking and laughing downstairs. The musicians were no longer playing. A door opened nearby and the party sounds grew louder.

“Mr. Pilcher?”

Still no one came. No one answered.

Pete felt himself getting warm with embarrassment, with fright. Was Old Man Pilcher mad because Pete was using his bathroom? Perhaps he thought Pete meant to harm him. He might have gotten confused and decided that Pete was a burglar. Had he gone to call the police?

Pete sat down on the edge of the tub and waited. If the police came, it would be okay with him. In fact he would be kind of glad to see the police about now. But then there were footsteps again. They were the same footsteps, and they were coming back to the bathroom door.

Old Man Pilcher must have decided Pete was harmless; he was coming back to unlock the door and let Pete out. But he didn’t touch the door. Instead he gasped, and Pete heard a scuffling sound as if Pilcher had stumbled, or as if he were struggling with someone just outside the door. There was a grunt, then a thud.

Pete leaped toward the door. He rattled the knob. “Mr. Pilcher?” he yelled.

At that second the rock group down in the living room burst into a number called “Baby, Why Ain’t You My Baby No More?” It was very loud, heavy on the drums, with lots of amplification.

“Mr. Pilcher?” Pete shouted, but he could scarcely hear himself. “Mr. Pilcher, are you okay?” The music thundered on.

Sweating now, near panic, Pete pounded on the door.

Pilcher didn’t respond. A heart attack! He must be having a real heart attack, and not just some kind of spasm that wasn’t important. He might be dying now, right outside the door.

“Got to get out!” cried Pete. He stamped and stamped on the floor.

No one heard him. No one came.

“Baby, Why Ain’t You My Baby No More?” crashed to a conclusion, but there was no period of silence. The band roared right into “Rockin’ Rockin’ Rockin’ All the Night.”

Pete pounded the door in frustration. What can I do? he thought. There’s a sick old man out there in need of help. What can I do? What would Jupe do?

“Calm down and use your head!” came the voice of the First Investigator in Pete’s memory.

Right! thought Pete, and he slowly looked around the tiny room. His eye fell on the window.

The window! Pilcher had a nice, old-fashioned bathroom with a window. Outside the window a tree grew quite close to the house. It looked like a good sturdy alder — ideal for climbing up, or down.

Pete shoved up the window, then pulled over the table on which Pilcher’s bathroom books were piled. Hopping up on the table, he poked his head and shoulders outside.

He looked down. He was at the side of the house. A cement walk lay directly beneath him. If he fell, he would break a leg, at the least. Or an arm. Or he might crack his skull.

But Pete, the best athlete of The Three Investigators, was an expert tree climber. He wasn’t likely to fall. And he didn’t dare fall.

If I don’t get downstairs and find some help fast, he told himself, Old Man Pilcher might die!

Pete went down the tree as quickly as he dared, barely pausing to test handholds and footholds. No one had been in the yard beside the house when he climbed out the bathroom window, but by the time he reached the ground a red-haired girl had appeared. “What a fun way to come down,” she said. “Most people just use the stairs.”

“Right,” said Pete. He didn’t bother to explain but simply dodged past the girl and ran to the other side of the house, where the long windows were open to the living room.

The music was still blasting when Pete stepped through a window into the mob scene inside. Guests struggled to talk above the sound of the band. Jupe and Bob were sweating slightly as they valiantly passed trays. Pete darted through the crowd toward Marilyn Pilcher, who stood talking to a woman in a gray silk dress. Pete touched her elbow to get her attention. She turned, and when she saw Pete, she scowled. “You’re supposed to be with my father,” she shouted above the music.

Pete started to explain, then shook his head and beckoned for her to follow him to the kitchen.

As they went through the dining room she spotted Ray Sanchez at the far end of the room. He was hovering over Harry Burnside as the caterer set platters of thinly sliced ham and turkey and bowls of pasta salad on the buffet table. Marilyn crooked a finger at Sanchez, and he followed her into the empty kitchen and closed the door behind him to muffle the noise of the band.

“Your dad locked me in the bathroom,” Pete told Marilyn, “when I went in to wash my hands. And a minute or two later I heard a thud. I think he fell. I yelled, but he didn’t answer, so I climbed down a tree, and I think —”

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