Spiderweb for Two - A Melendy Maze (7 page)

“Well, we took a spin to the old graveyard back of the Meeker place,” said Oliver.

“Not
again?
” This time Cuffy looked really concerned. “Not
another
cemetery.”

Randy let her bike fall with a crash to the ground; she went up to Cuffy and gave her a good big squeeze around the middle.

“It's the last one, Cuffy darling. No more cemeteries for us. Could I have two fried eggs this morning?”

“Could I have three?” said Oliver.

CHAPTER IV

The Emperor's Abode

Well done! Now leave the sleeping acre to its peace.

    
The sun is risen; let it light the road.

    
Named for an emperor, in my abode,

The fourth imprisoned clue awaits release:

    
Beneath, the hours tell their names and go.

    
Above, a voice was silenced long ago.

“Who do we know that's got an emperor's name?” said Oliver. “I can't remember any emperors.”

“There isn't anyone I know of that's named Nero,” said Randy. “Nero's the only one I can think of at the moment. No, wait, Napoleon was an emperor.”

“Well, who do you know that's named
Napoleon,
for Pete's sake?” inquired Oliver rather sensibly.

They were on their way home from school, riding their bicycles through the golden October haze.

“And there were hundreds of emperors,” said Randy thoughtfully. “Goodness, there were emperors in Rome and China and Austria and France even—why, when you think of it, the emperors in history are a dime a dozen.”

“Aren't there any left?” Oliver seemed a little sad. An emperor sounded like a splendid being: proud, dazzling, more than mortal, with rays of light around him like the petals of a sunflower.

“No, no more. A few kings, only, and some queens. Nowadays most countries are run by a man, or a lot of men, in business suits. In a few countries the most important man does wear a uniform, but still he isn't called a king, though he's treated like one. He's called Marshal or Generalissimo or something like that, and his uniforms are severe and unjoyful looking.”

“Gee, too bad,” said Oliver.

“If only Father was home,” said Randy. “He knows everything about history; he'd give us all the names we needed. Who do we know, think, Oliver, that has an emperorish name?”

“What about Frederick?” asked Oliver tentatively. “Wasn't there an emperor named Frederick, somewhere or other, haven't I heard? How about Mr. Frederick, the butcher?”

“Oliver!” cried Randy, in delight, falling off her bicycle—though not seriously. “Of course there was! I'm sure you've done it again! Let's go right back now, and see.”

“No, wait a minute,” said Oliver, who was less impulsive than Randy and liked to have things, as far as possible, planned in advance. “We'd better be sure where to look for the clue when we get to Mr. Frederick's. What does it mean: ‘Beneath, the hours tell their names and go'?”

“Oh, I have that one figured out. It must be a clock, or a sundial; maybe it could be a watch, even!”

“It could be a radio,” Oliver suggested. “
They're
always telling what the hour is.”

“Maybe. But what about that silent voice above?”

“Well.… It could be a radio on a table with a picture of George Washington over it, or some other dead famous person that talked a lot and made speeches. I mean it
could be,
” said Oliver, his imagination running riot.

“It might be the clock on the Carthage courthouse tower; the bell in the top hasn't been rung since the war ended.”

“Brother, I'd like it to be there!” said Oliver, who saw himself hanging from the tower with Randy leaning out of the belfry and holding him by the heels. He could imagine the little blue paper, wedged in a crack in the wall, and the pale, upturned faces in the street below.

“It would be hard to keep it a secret if they hid it there, though,” said Randy, in whose mind a somewhat similar scene had been enacted. In this case, though, it was she who had hung head down to grasp the prize. “And anyway, name me an emperor who inhabits the Carthage courthouse!”

The next day, after school, they stopped in at Mr. Klaus Frederick's meat store. Randy had prudently asked Cuffy to let her do the marketing for once. As she had never asked to do this in her life before, Cuffy had thought it wise to encourage her.

“Why, I guess so, child. Here, I'll make a list. The family's smaller now, so I'm sure you and Oliver can fit the parcels into your bicycle baskets.”

Mr. Frederick's meat store was a clean, blank place with sawdust on the floor. They had never been in it before, only seen it as they passed by. Cuffy patronized another, Gus Vogeltree's, farther down the street. This was a less jolly place. Beyond the shop there was another room, darker, where they could see big beef carcasses hanging from meathooks, ghostly in the gloom.

Mr. Frederick looked like a piece of meat himself—a cut of beef—red in the face, jowly, with two large hands, like steaks, placed on the counter before him. He wore a tight white apron, rather soiled, a stiff straw hat, and a pencil behind his ear. He did not smile.

“Well, kids, what'll it be?”

Randy read from her list: “Six pork chops, please. And two pounds of round steak, ground. And have you any beef heart for our dogs?”

“I got beef heart, I don't know if it's for your dogs,” said Mr. Frederick ungenially.

While Randy was ordering, Oliver's eyes were darting about the shop; at the big pale carcasses on the meathooks, the picked chickens lined up like little arks under the counter glass, the calendar high on the wall—and then, yes, his heart stopped, or almost did—for just below the calendar was an old-fashioned wall clock in a hexagonal wooden case, with a brass pendulum stepping sedately below it. The picture on the calendar above it was the thing! For, believe it or not, it was a picture of George Washington! Oliver felt that this was definitely an omen, and he was certain that on top of the clockcase a clue was waiting to be found. He kicked Randy, who said “Ow,” and when Mr. Frederick had turned aside to grind the round steak he pointed to the calendar.

“George Washington, like I said,” he whispered.

“I know, I noticed,” Randy murmured, looking at him in awe. “Oliver, I wonder if you've got second sight? Because you could be rich and famous if—”

But Oliver was not interested in such speculations.

“How'll we get it?” he demanded in a whisper. Mr. Frederick, they both knew, would probably not be cooperative about letting them examine the clock. He would want to know why. He might be indignant. Nevertheless, Oliver decided to try to win him to friendliness.

“This certainly is a nice store,” he said enthusiastically. “It certainly is nice and clean and everything.”

Mr. Frederick did not reply. He slapped the ground meat onto a sheet of brown paper and twiddled some string off of a big spool on the counter.

“Is this your abode?” inquired Oliver.

This time Mr. Frederick looked up, possibly startled. “My what?” he said.

“Your ab—your house. Where you live.”

Mr. Frederick counted out six pork chops, slapped them onto another piece of brown paper, twiddled more string off the spool, and tied up the parcel. He took the pencil from behind his ear and holding it between his blunt red fingers—like frankfurters—he looked at Oliver.

“You kidding?” he said.

“Why, no,” said Oliver hastily. “Gee, no, I just—”

“And the beef heart, please,” said Randy firmly, interrupting. “For our dogs.”

Oliver stared at the clock in anguish. His attempt to placate Mr. Frederick had failed conspicuously. How would they ever, now, be able to reach the clue?

Mr. Frederick slapped the beef heart onto still another piece of paper, tied it up, and once again took the pencil from behind his ear.

“That'll be three fifty,” he said. “Hope you kids got it. We don't give no credit here.”

“Here's a five-dollar bill,” said Randy haughtily. “I hope
you
have
change.
”

She felt discouraged; so did Oliver. Nothing had been accomplished, and Cuffy would be cross at the price they'd paid for the meat.

At that moment a telephone rang in the room behind the shop. Mr. Frederick went to answer it. Halfway there he turned and came back, carefully picking up the five-dollar bill from the counter where Randy had laid it and taking it with him. He's afraid we'd run off with it and the meat too, thought Randy, shocked.

“Now!” said Oliver as they heard Mr. Frederick say “hello” into the phone.

The clock was high on the wall; there was no chair or stool behind the counter. As though they had rehearsed it, Randy lifted Oliver as high as she could (he was heavy, rather a fat little boy, and she couldn't help grunting with effort), and Oliver deftly ran his hand along the top of the clockcase. He felt a deposit of dust and grit, touched something hard and small, and clenched it in his fist just as Mr. Frederick came back into the shop.

For a second no one moved. They stood as they were, ridiculously; Oliver still lifted from the floor in Randy's aching arms; Mr. Frederick transfixed in the doorway. His red face grew purple, eggplant color; his little eyes were the palest blue, almost white; it was astonishing how fierce they looked.

“What do you kids think you're doin'?”

His loud voice, wavering with rage, released the spell. Randy dropped Oliver with a thud and automatically flexed her tired arms. “We—why, we were just looking for something,” she said lamely.

“Lookin' for something! In my store? Lookin' for what? You tell me the truth, see, or I'll get the cops after you. Gointa get 'em anyhow!”

“We weren't doing anything wrong, really we weren't!” Randy tried to explain. “People, friends of ours, have been hiding things for us to find; sort of like a treasure hunt, you know. We thought—they led us to believe—they'd hidden one of them here. On your clock we thought, maybe.”

“You have got the same name as an emperor, you know,” said Oliver helpfully.

“What do you think I am? Dumb? Green? Born yesterday?” inquired Mr. Frederick. “N-a-a, you don't. Stay right there where you are a minute.” His left hand, still holding the five-dollar bill, lightly touched the handle of a butcher knife lying on the counter, his other reached out and opened up the cash register; after a hasty appraisal of its contents, he clanged it shut again, reached around the doorjamb behind him, still glaring at the young Melendys, and pulled out a chair.

“Stay where you are, see,” he ordered (unnecessarily, as it happened, for the children stood frozen where they were). They watched, like terrified rabbits, as Mr. Frederick bounded up on the chair and lifted the calendar from its hook above the clock. They saw, now, why it was hung so high, for it was used to conceal the little wall safe which Mr. Frederick was now engaged in opening. They watched him as he peered and counted, satisfying himself that nothing was missing.

“All right,” he said, slamming the heavy little door and replacing the calendar. He stepped down remarkably lightly from his stool, and faced them like a pirate still grasping the long sharp knife and the five-dollar bill. For some reason the things he wore—the long tight apron, like a skirt, the hard black-banded hat, the jaunty pencil tilted beside a face so far from jaunty—made him doubly terrifying.

“All right,” he said, advancing on them slowly. “But now get out, see? Get out and don't come meddling again. And if you ever mention to anyone—to a single person, see?—about how you saw my safe or where it is, I'll find it out, see? And I'll skin you both alive!” With this he brandished the knife, and Randy made for the door. It was Oliver who remembered to snatch up the parcels from the counter; then he, too, was in the street beside her.

“What a horrible—what a
terrible
man!” gasped Randy.

“He never gave us our change, either,” said Oliver.

“Wild horses couldn't drag me back to get it,” cried Randy. “But what will Cuffy say? How could they have sent us to that awful place? And all for nothing, too.”

“Hey, wait,” said Oliver, stopping in the street. “It may not be for nothing; I think I've got the clue.” He reached into his pocket and drew out the little object he had snatched from the top of the clock frame.

He and Randy stared at it, lying on his palm.

“The clock key,” said Randy quietly. In a minute they began to laugh. They laughed so hard that they had to go over and lean against the wall of the Carthage Municipal and Farmer's Loan and Trust Building until they recovered. People went by them on their way home—it was five o'clock—and smiled in sympathy, wishing they knew the joke.