A choked sob rose inside Johnny, and despair filled his heart. This was it, this was the end of his life and theirs. They had taken on an enemy who was too strong, and they had paid for it. Out of the corner of his eye Johnny saw Mr. Stallybrass step menacingly forward. He stopped near the two coffins and stood tapping the large key against his chin.
"So, there they are, lads!" he said calmly; "You see the result of rash actions and ill-thought-out plans! In case you were wondering, they're not dead . . . yet. However, they will be, when the temperature in this vault gets down to minus ten, as it should before morning. I've forced them to drink a strong sleeping potion, and that, together with the cold, ought to take care of them. As for you two, I'm going to have my grubby friend here tie you up and leave you with your dear old pals. I could immobilize you by magic, but that takes energy, and I have to save mine for later tonight. Besides, I want you two to squirm and struggle and know that there's no way of getting free. Very soon the planets will be in the right position for what I'm planning to do, and then . . . well, after that, the earth will be living on borrowed time. I'd explain what I mean, but surprises are best, aren't they? It's a pity that you two won't be around for the final act of my exciting little drama, but maybe that's just as well. By morning you charming lads will be as stiff and cold as those two elderly adventurers." Mr. Stallybrass paused, and his face slowly changed to a mask of cold, insane hatred. Flecks of white foam appeared at the corners of his mouth. "This is what must always happen to those who oppose me!" he snarled. "The heavens have decreed it!"
After a wild glance around the room Mr. Stallybrass motioned to the taxi driver, who stepped forward with a coil of rope and a knife in his hands. Johnny and Fergie were not paralyzed any longer, but they were frightened, so they did not resist as the driver tied their hands and feet and forced them to lie down on the ground. When the driver had done his work, Mr. Stallybrass snapped his fingers imperiously and motioned for the man to leave. But instead of leaving, he planted himself stubbornly in the middle of the floor and glared at his employer.
"Now, look here!" the man growled. "I've done everything you wanted, and more besides! You gave me some dough, but I want the rest, and I want out! I ain't doin' nothin' else till I get what's comin' to me!"
Mr. Stallybrass stared in silence at the man for a while, and then a sneer of contempt curled his lips. "Don't you tell me what to do, you miserable cur!" he said haughtily. "You will have more money, all that I promised, once you have helped me back at the mansion."
The man glowered sullenly at Mr. Stallybrass. "I just want what's mine," he grumbled. "That's all."
Mr. Stallybrass sighed. Then he chuckled unpleasantly and unbuttoned his overcoat. He pulled out four twenty-dollar gold pieces from his money belt and, with a flick of his wrist, he threw them to the driver, who thrust them into a pocket of his coat.
"There!" snapped Mr. Stallybrass. "Are you satisfied for now? Good! Then let us leave these not-so-charming people and go to our next task."
The driver nodded glumly and followed Mr. Stallybrass out of the vault. With fear in their hearts the boys heard the door slam and the key turn in the lock. For several minutes they lay still and listened to their hammering hearts. Clouds of cold breath poured from their mouths, and they glanced hopelessly around. Then they began to struggle. Wildly Johnny and Fergie thrashed around on the cold dirt floor. But even after they had exhausted themselves, they still were securely tied. With a mighty effort Fergie wrenched himself into a sitting position and looked around. The oil lamp still burned and the professor and Dr. Coote lay stiff and unmoving.
"This sure looks bad!" gasped Fergie, who was out of breath because he had struggled so much. "I—I hate to be gloomy, but maybe this is the end for all of us!"
Johnny closed his eyes. He could feel the numbing cold seeping into his bones. Soon he would have that awful feeling of sleepiness that comes when you are freezing to death. He had read of such things in Jack London stories, but he never thought that he would face a death like that himself. Johnny racked his brain desperately. Wasn't there anything anyone could do? Fergie began to scuttle sideways. Grabbing a brass handle that hung from one side of a coffin, he lurched upward and came down on top of the coffin's lid. The rotten wood gave way, and Fergie sank down among bones and bits of rotten cloth.
"Oh, great!" he exclaimed. "Now what do I do?"
Johnny started to cry. Big tears trickled out of the corners of his eyes, and the bitter taste of salt filled his mouth. This was really it, this was the end. They would die miserably, all four of them. Weeping steadily, Johnny gave in to utter despair. He had never felt worse in his life, and he was utterly convinced that death was near. But as he sniffled and cried, he heard a slight sound as if some animal—a dog, maybe—was pawing at the door of the vault.
"Hey!" exclaimed Fergie. "It's a doggie! Shows there's life somewhere in this crummy burg!" Frantically Fergie tried to heave himself up out of the wreckage of the coffin, but with a loud, splintering crash he sank back down again. "Great!" he exclaimed angrily. "If I ever get my hands on that beefy-faced crud, I'm gonna—"
Fergie's voice died. The door of the vault shuddered open with a loud crrrunk! and a wavering patch of light fell across the floor. A short, odd-looking old woman with a flickering railroad lantern in her hand stepped through the doorway. Her clothing looked as if it had been rescued from a ragbag—the skirt was a patchwork quilt that fell to the floor, and her blouse was wrinkled and stained with berry juice. Her face was round and doughy, and she wore very thick glasses. A heap of untidy gray hair was held in place by a dirty polka-dotted ribbon.
The woman tottered into the vault. "Mercy!" she exclaimed as she sat down on a carved block of stone. "What are you people doing here? You'll die of the cold if you're not careful!"
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"We didn't have much choice about bein' here, lady!" grumbled Fergie. "Some rotten egg tied us up an' left us here. Hey, have you got a knife on you?"
The woman smiled and fumbled at her broad leather belt. A small flat pouch hung there, and from it she drew a tiny bone-handled jackknife. Opening one of the blades, she stepped forward and began sawing at the ropes that tied Fergie's wrists. In a few seconds he was free. A little more sawing, and Johnny was free too.
"Boy, that feels great!" Fergie exclaimed as he heaved himself to his feet. "You came just in time, lady!" Then he paused. A thought had occurred to him. "What made you come here, anyway?"
The woman looked embarrassed. "Well, if you must know," she said shyly, "I'm a witch. And the recipes and potions I use call for ingredients like scrapings from skulls and ground coffin wood. I come here when I absolutely have to have something that I can't get anywhere else. I do hope you won't report me to the—"
"Please, lady!" exclaimed Johnny, cutting in suddenly. "We don't have time to talk! A couple of our friends are down there on the floor, and we have to help them! The guy that tied us up gave 'em some kind of sleeping potion, and if they aren't dead already, they will be if they stay where they are. Can you do something?"
For the first time the old woman noticed the two men lying side by side in their coffins. She went to Professor Childermass, knelt down, and pressed two fingers of her right hand to his forehead. Then in a singsong voice she said:
Life return, potions fade
Dwell no longer in the shade
Blood of bat, howlet's wing
Come awake, these slumbers fling!
At first nothing happened, but soon the color came flooding back into the professor's cheeks. He coughed and blinked, and then with a jerk he sat up.
"My gosh, she really is a witch!" gasped Fergie.
After giving Fergie a dirty look the old woman moved over to Dr. Coote and began using the spell on him. Meanwhile the professor glanced with astonishment at the boys, adjusted his glasses and began studying the old woman. Suddenly a light came on in his brain. He was guessing wildly, but he was convinced that his gues
s was right.
"Crazy Annie!" he exclaimed. "You're the one we're supposed to be looking for!"
The woman turned and wrinkled up her nose disdainfully. "I'll thank you not to use that nickname," she said coldly. "Mean children and your worthless brother have called me that, but I find the name offensive. My name is Anna Louisa Thripp—Mrs. Thripp to you!" She went back to the job of reviving Dr. Coote.
The professor climbed out of the coffin and stood there brushing dirt off his coat. A look of astonishment was on his face. "How the devil do you know that I'm Perry Childermass's brother?" he asked. "As far as I know, I've never met you in my life!"
"I guessed who you were," snapped Mrs. Thripp without looking up. "All you Childermasses are alike: short and cranky and opinionated, and you don't know how to comb your hair. Perry mentioned to me once or twice that he had some rather disagreeable brothers, but I never expected to meet them. By the way, what is all this nonsense about looking for me? Are you?"
"Yes!" said the professor excitedly. "My brother—or rather, his ghost—said that you could help us fight an evil wizard who is at the old mansion right now, trying to do something indescribably awful!"
Dr. Coote groaned and began to stir. Mrs. Thripp helped him sit up and then got to her feet. "Do you mean that Englishman with the mustache and the surly attitude? I passed him on the street one day, and I felt his power. So what is he trying to do?"
While Dr. Coote rubbed circulation back into his arms and legs, the professor explained about the comets, the chessmen, and the skulls. As he talked, Mrs. Thripp's stare grew hard, and the set of her mouth got grimmer.
"So that's his game!" she said indignantly. "I should have known he was up to no good!" Then her manner changed, and she looked sad. "But I can't imagine why your brother sent you to me," she went on gloomily. "I'm really not very powerful. If you want me to cure the sniffles or make someone fall in love, I can probably help. But it sounds as if this Englishman is a big-league heavy hitter, and I'm afraid I'm not. Sorry!"
The professor was getting exasperated. But he fought down his crabbiness and smiled as politely as possible. "But, madam!" he began, in a pleading tone. "My brother must be right! About your being able to help, I mean. His ghost spoke to John here and said that you had the key. Those were his words!"
Mrs. Thripp laughed heartily. "The key!" she exclaimed. "I'll say I have the key! I have bushels of keys." She added, in a sheepish voice, "If you want to know, I also save string."
"But you do have keys!" exclaimed the professor as he clutched at the woman's arm. "Are any of them magic?"
The woman gazed at him blankly. "Not that I know of."
The professor was getting more anxious. "See here, madam," he began, "we may not have a lot of time, but . . . well, could you take us to your house and show us these keys?"
Mrs. Thripp hesitated and then she smiled. "Well, if you think it will help, I'll—"
"Thanks a million!" snapped the professor, cutting her off. He turned to Dr. Coote and the two boys, who were staring at him with their mouths open. "Come on, everybody!" he said with a wave of his arm. "We're going over to Mrs. Thripp's house."
The professor grabbed Mrs. Thripp's lantern and led the way out of the gloomy, cold crypt into the churchyard. Even though the air was bitingly cold, Johnny and Fergie sucked it into their lungs—they had never been so glad to get out of a place in their lives. It was an odd little procession that wound its way past the snow-covered headstones, with the professor and his bobbing lantern in the lead. As it turned out, Mrs. Thripp's house was just across the road and down a little wooded lane. She lived in a squat, shabby bungalow with a gambrel roof and a screened porch. Nailed to a tree next to the house were red taillight reflectors and old license plates; a small straw doll hung from the handle of the screen door. As the visitors walked into the house, they noticed that it smelled strongly of beef stew and wood smoke. A dusky oil painting of a bird dog hung above the mantel of the fieldstone fireplace, and overstuffed chairs stood on the threadbare rug. The window shades were ragged and patched with old newspaper comic strips, and by the refrigerator a black cat was lapping milk from a cracked willow ware saucer. Without a word Mrs. Thripp led her guests to the tiny kitchen, and there on a table stood a large cardboard carton that had once held boxes of laundry soap. In it were heaps and heaps of keys. Keys of all kinds and sizes and shapes, wired together or tied in bunches with twine, or just thrown loose into the box.
The professor's heart sank. How would he ever manage to figure out which of these keys was the right one? And then, after he found it—if he found it—he would have to go racing over to the mansion and—and do what? He didn't have the slightest idea. Not the faintest ghost of one. As he stared at the unholy mess of rusting keys, the professor felt real despair. How much time did they have? He didn't know that either. After scooping up a handful of keys he flung them down in disgust and gazed about distractedly. He really had to find out how late it was. When Mr. Stallybrass made his first attempt with the chessmen, the climax of the sorcery came at midnight. So they had to get over to the mansion before then. But the professor had left his watch in his car, so he had to consult a clock. Every kitchen had a clock, so where was Mrs. Thripp's?
Suddenly the professor stopped and stared. An iron bracket was bolted to the wall above the table, and from it hung three or four flower-print dresses on hangers. They were nothing special—strictly Salvation Army stuff—but a small piece of costume jewelry was pinned to the one that hung on the outside. It was covered with twinkling rhinestones and was shaped like a key.
The professor let out a bloodcurdling screech and pointed with a trembling finger at the key. "That's it!" he yelled. Whirling around, the professor grabbed Mrs. Thripp by the arm. "Tell me quick!" he barked. "Is that piece of jewelry magic? Is it?"
Mrs. Thripp looked startled, but then she smiled vaguely. "Well, no. Or maybe I should say yes, it is . . . in a way. I mean, it's one of the things I tried to enchant once upon a time, long ago." She paused and then went on slowly. "You see, when I was starting out as a witch I tried a lot of spells, just for practice. I enchanted flatirons and geraniums and all sorts of silly things. I don't recall what sort of spell I put on that pin, but whatever it was, it seems to have failed. I can assure you that the pin is about as magical as your grandma's nightie."
The professor bit his lip impatiently. Then suddenly he snapped his fingers. "We'll have to try it," he said grimly. "It's our only chance! Will you put on that pin and come with us to Perry's old mansion?"
Mrs. Thripp looked confused, but she nodded. "Yes, of course, if you think it will help," she said. "By the way," she went on, "you seemed to be looking around for a clock a few minutes ago. Mine's broken, but my old Benrus says that it's half past eleven."
"So we still have time!" exclaimed the professor. "Great! But how do we get to that dratted estate from here? Do you know the way?"
"Certainly," Mrs. Thripp answered. "I used to go there a lot and talk with Perry . . . usually about magic. I'd say the place is about four miles from here. We can use my car."
The professor, Johnny, Fergie, and Dr. Coote all cheered. This was better than any of them had expected. With a lot of fumbling Mrs. Thripp got the rhinestone pin off the blouse on the hanger and pinned it to the one she was wearing. Then she led her visitors out through a back door and down a narrow walkway to her very untidy garage, which smelled of paint and engine oil. There stood a rusty 1947 Nash, which looked a bit like an upside-down bathtub with windows. Reaching up onto a shelf, Mrs. Thripp brought down a key ring from which a small plastic skull hung. With a little bow she handed the keys to the professor.
"I don't actually drive myself," she said, "because I have poor eyesight. My brother lives near here, and he usually comes over to cart me around when I need to go someplace."
"Thank you, madam," said the professor brusquely. "Byron, will you see if you can open the garage doors, while I get this rust bucket started?
The rest of you climb in and cross your fingers."
Mrs. Thripp looked offended when the professor called her car a rust bucket, but she got into the front seat next to him, while Johnny and Dr. Coote climbed into the back. Meanwhile Fergie struggled with the old-fashioned folding doors of the garage. At first the professor got nothing but a halfhearted whine from the car's ignition system. But he tried again and again, and finally the engine turned over. He nosed the rattly old car onto the snowy road, while Mrs. Thripp gave him directions. The two-lane blacktop was not very well plowed, and a layer of hard-packed snow lay under them. The car steered awkwardly, and it skidded and fishtailed as the professor rounded the curves. But no one complained about the old man's driving—they all knew this was an emergency.
As they drove on, the professor began to recognize the road he had been on many times during the summer. He saw a familiar catalpa tree that leaned out from an overhanging snowbank, and a wooden mailbox holder made in the shape of Uncle Sam. They crawled up the long hill that led to the gates of Perry's estate. As the car ground forward, it slowed down. The tires spun and whined, and the professor pressed down on the accelerator, but it was no good. They went slower and slower, till the car stopped and began to slide backward. The terrified passengers clung to armrests and prayed as the car rolled back to the bottom of the hill and buried its rear end in a snowbank.
Silence fell. The professor turned off the engine and pounded angrily on the steering wheel with his fists. "Blast it all anyway!" he roared. Then a thought occurred to him. Turning to Mrs. Thripp, he smiled in a strained way. "Madam," he said coldly, "is it possible that you don't have snow chains on this car?"
Chessmen of Doom Page 9
