The Treasure of Alpheus Winterborn (11 page)

At last Anthony went back to the doctor and had the heavy cast taken off. The doctor used a little whirring electric saw to cut through the plaster shell, and when the thing came apart into two neat pieces, Anthony saw his arm again. It was a mess. It was red and puffy and covered with little curls of dead skin. Doc Luescher told him to take a good look at the arm because he wasn’t going to see it again for a while. Then he began putting on the new cast, dipping long strips of elastic bandage in wet plaster and wripping them around and around Anthony’s arm. The doctor X-rayed Anthony’s arm again and told him that he could go back to school and even work at the library—if he was careful. Anthony was glad. He was tired of staying at home. He had learned to write fairly well with his left hand, and he had kept up with his lessons, but he really wanted to get back into the swing of things. He was bored and restless. As for the library job, he didn’t know how much good a one-armed page would be at the Hoosac Public Library, but he told Miss Eells on the phone that he would do what he could.

Needless to say, Miss Eells was overjoyed that Anthony was coming back to work. She told him that he could answer the phone and stamp books with one arm. And he wouldn’t have any heavy lifting to do. She said that she had missed him and that she looked forward to seeing him back on the job soon.

The very next morning, Anthony went back to school. At first he was embarrassed when everybody stared at his cast, but soon he began to be proud of it. He was like a wounded soldier. People did nice things for him, like holding doors open and getting out of the way when he went past. Miss Johansen didn’t insist on neat papers from him because she knew he couldn’t write very well with his left hand. She even declared a sort of holiday during the study period, and kids gathered around and signed Anthony’s cast with their ballpoint pens. Naturally, everybody wanted to know how Anthony had broken his arm. But all he would say was, “Aw, I was runnin’ across this yard, and I tripped.” That was the only explanation that anyone was going to get from him for the time being.

Anthony still clung to the slim hope that he might yet get his hands on the treasure. For all he knew, the wood chip was still in the bolt-hole of the cellar door. At least Hugo Philpotts hadn’t bought the house, as Anthony had feared. Anthony planned that when his arm was healed (the cast was due to come off in two weeks), he would have another try at burglarizing the house. But in the meantime, a Mr. Briggs Sculthorp, a lawyer who was moving to Hoosac from Mankato, had bought it. The last time Anthony passed the Winterborn house, Mr. Loomis’s truck had been parked outside it again. The back of the truck had been open, and Anthony had seen, to his horror, that there were rolls of wallpaper in it!

Several times when Anthony was walking past the house, he had wanted to go around to the side to see if the wood block was still in place, but he had been afraid to look. Now, as he sat watching television with his family in the parlor on this cold, rainy winter night, he was filled with a deep feeling of foreboding. Something bad was going to happen. It was like the feeling he now got in the bone of his arm when it rained—a twinge, a kind of omen of bad luck.

The doorbell rang.

“Gee, I wonder who that is,” said Anthony. The fear that had been lying in his heart all evening grew stronger.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said his mother. Sighing, she got up and went to the door. It was Miss Eells. She had a wet umbrella in her hand, and a green net bag hanging from one arm. Mrs. Monday was both surprised and annoyed. Miss Eells had never come to Anthony’s house before, though she had often picked him up outside in her car. “May I come in?” asked Miss Eells.

Mrs. Monday said nothing, but finally she moved aside so that Miss Eells could get past.

Miss Eells glanced uncertainly around. “Could—could I see Anthony in private for a minute or two? I have something that I want to say to him about—about our work at the library.”

Again Mrs. Monday didn’t answer. Instead, she turned and called into the parlor. “Anthony!”

“Yeah, Mom? What is it?”

“Miss Eells is here. She wants to talk to you.”

Anthony was startled. He jumped up and ran out into the front hall.

“Hi, Anthony,” said Miss Eells, smiling. “Could we talk in private for a couple of seconds? I have something I need to tell you. It won’t take long.”

Anthony was flustered. “Uh, sure. Mom, can we go out in the kitchen and talk?”

“I don’t see why not,” said Mrs. Monday. She eyed Miss Eells coldly, then turned and went back into the parlor. The sliding doors closed behind her with a loud bang.

Miss Eells followed Anthony out into the kitchen and closed the kitchen door. Then she sat down at the big round table and laid her green embroidered net bag on it. Anthony sat down, too.

“Now, then,” said Miss Eells. Her face grew solemn. “Anthony,” she said at last, “this evening, when I finished at the library, I dropped around at the offices of the
Daily Sentinel.
Mrs. Bump, who is a reporter there, is a friend of mine, and sometimes we sit around and have late-evening blab sessions. This evening I found her pecking away at her typewriter writing up a story. I started reading it over her shoulder, and when I found out what it was about, I asked her if I could have the carbon copy she was making. She said yes, and I brought it along with me. I think perhaps you ought to read it.”

Miss Eells reached into her bag and pulled out a sheaf of papers. They were wrinkled and spotted with rain. She pushed the papers across the table to Anthony and watched him in silence while he read.

ODD FIND MADE IN

OLD WINTERBORN HOUSE

Mr. Briggs Sculthorp of 20 Front Street, the new owner of the historic old Winterborn mansion, made a rather intriguing discovery yesterday. Workmen in the employ of Loomis and Son, painters and decorators, were stripping wallpaper in one of the upstairs back bedrooms when they noticed a large white patch in the plaster wall that they had just uncovered. At the same time, one of the workmen noticed a small “x” drawn in pencil on it. Of course, marks on old walls are common, and so are patches on plaster walls. But written across this particular patch, in small square letters, were these words: “Lucky You!” The surprised workmen immediately informed Mr. Loomis of their find, and he in turn notified Mr. Sculthorp, who decided that the matter ought to be looked into.

A chisel and a hammer were procured, and it was short work to hack away the plaster under the spot where the rather tantalizing message had been scrawled. Within the wall, resting on a wooden brace, was a small black metal cash box of a sort that was in use in offices and stores about fifty years ago, Mr. Sculthorp, who was present when this find was made, was understandably quite excited. One can imagine his surprise when the box was opened and within it was discovered only a small envelope, yellowed with age.

The workmen crowded around, and everyone held his breath. The gum on the flap of the envelope still held tight, so Mr. Sculthorp took a penknife from his pocket and slit the envelope open. He then shook the contents out into his hand. Groans of disappointment went up from the workmen and Mr. Loomis. In Mr. Sculthorp’s outstretched hand lay the withered remains of a four-leaf clover....

“I’m sorry, Anthony,” said Miss Eells, “I really, truly am. There’s no one in the world I would rather see get rich than you. But I was afraid it would end this way.”

Anthony was crushed. He sat clenching the paper in his hands. He stared at the typed words that writhed and squirmed before his eyes. This was the end. This was the end of everything.

“As soon as I found out about this, I decided to come over and tell you the news myself,” Miss Eells went on gently, “because I didn’t want you to just stumble upon this piece all of a sudden, by yourself.”

Anthony clenched the paper tighter. He stared hard at the wall. His lower lip quivered, and his eyes filled with tears. “God... damn old Alpheus Winterborn!” he said in a shaking voice.

“Go ahead,” said Miss Eells. “Damn him all you want. He has it coming. And tear up the article if it’ll make you feel any better. I don’t need it any more.”

Anthony tore the papers in his hands to shreds, and he tore the shreds to bits. Then he put his hands to his face and sobbed bitterly. Miss Eells watched him silently. When he was done, he just sat there, staring desolately at the table that was covered with the shreds of torn paper. Miss Eells tried to talk to him, but he wouldn’t answer. Finally she got up, sighed, picked up her bag, and went out to the front hall. The front door opened and closed quietly. Miss Eells was gone.

Later, when Anthony had pulled himself together, he gathered up the torn bits of paper and threw them into a wastebasket. Then he blew his nose a few times and went back to the parlor. In the dark, no one noticed that his eyes were red from crying.

“Well, what was
that
all about?” said his mother from the other side of the room.

“Nothin’, Ma,” muttered Anthony. “Miss Eells just wanted me to do something for her.”

“Seems like kind of a production over nothing,” Mrs. Monday grumbled. “Doesn’t she know that on Sunday evenings people like to be alone with their families?”

Anthony said nothing, but a small shudder passed through his body. He could imagine what his mother would say if she ever found out what a sucker he had been. He could hear the words clearly in his mind, as if his mother were saying them out loud: The trouble with you, Anthony, is that you re gullible, and you’re lazy. You think that things are going to be handed to you on a silver platter. Well, they aren’t. No one’s going to hand you a million dollars. You have to work for what you get in this world.

The trouble was that Anthony felt he
had
worked. He had sweated and slaved over that dumb poem. He had planned and plotted and schemed, and all he had to show for it was a broken arm. When the TV show was over, he went upstairs to his room and sat at his desk for a while, staring out into the rainy darkness. Then he opened up the black binder with Alpheus Winterborn’s message in it and tore out all the sheets. He tore them up and threw them in the wastebasket, and he pitched the empty binder into a corner. Then he cried a little more and went to bed. As he pulled the covers up around himself and settled down to sleep, he said to himself,
Well, anyway, it’s all over with.

About that, however, he was wrong.

CHAPTER 11

It snowed a lot that winter in Minnesota, especially up north. Pictures of the heavy snowfall were printed in the
Hoosac Daily Sentinel.
They were sent down by wire from cities like Hibbing and St. Cloud and Bemidji and Duluth. The pictures showed mountainous drifts piled by the roadsides and houses buried up to the second-story windows in snow. Many people predicted that there would be floods along the Mississippi when all that snow started to melt. But the people of Hoosac felt safe. The town had been flooded in the past, but there hadn’t been a really serious flood since 1915, and no one really expected one now.

Early in January, Mr. Monday had gone back to work. He had a Grand Reopening party and served Christmas punch to all his old patrons. At the party he introduced his new assistant, the man who would do all the lifting and carrying for him—Charley Odegard, the twenty-year-old son of the man who owned the building in which Mr. Monday’s saloon was housed. Charley told the patrons of Monday’s Cigar Store that he’d do his best, and Mr. Monday said he was proud to have Charley on his team, and everybody cheered and gave Charley a round of applause. Mr. Monday had a great time at his own party. He felt cheerful and healthy for the first time since he had had his first heart attack way back in August. He said he felt great, and then everybody cheered and sang “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” and other songs. It was a really fine party.

Needless to say, Mrs. Monday was delighted that her husband was back at work. So were Anthony and Keith. It meant the end of worry and despair. Business was booming. Money was coming in. Now the treasure of Alpheus Winterborn didn’t matter so much. Of course, Anthony still thought about the treasure—he couldn’t help it. But he thought about the treasure the way you think about somebody you used to know who was dead. In a funny way, Anthony was glad the treasure hunt was over. It had taken up an awful lot of his time. Now he felt as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Everything was going along great. Everything would be all right.

One morning in March, Anthony was out in the front hall putting on his jacket and his cap. He was getting ready to go to school. Suddenly the mail slot flapped, and a bundle of letters came sliding in. He bent over to pick them up, and he noticed that the one on top was addressed to him. The return address showed that the letter was from the First National Bank of Hoosac, and the letter was stamped “Personal and Confidential.” Suddenly Anthony felt very frightened. He glanced over his shoulder to see if his mother was around, then stuffed the letter into his pants pocket. Halfway to school, he stopped and pulled out the letter. He ripped open the envelope and pulled out a note. It was dated the day before and it said:

Dear Mr. Monday:

A matter of some importance has come to my attention, and it requires that you and I have a small consultation. It concerns your account at this bank and a minor irregularity that needs straightening out. Will you be so good as to come to my office after school at 3:30 on Tuesday, the twelfth of March? The bank will, of course, be closed at that time, but I have instructed the guard to let you in when you knock. It is important that you keep this appointment and that you come in person. Don’t be late.