Angey turned to Tony and whispered, “I was just sitting down at Dad’s computer to find out what VOC meant when Mom called me down to the kitchen to bring a bunch of boxes to the car, which took forever. I only made it back up here a few minutes ago. But then I heard this weird groaning noise behind me. When I looked around, half the wall was teetering over. If this desk were another foot to the left, I’d be a goner.”
“What’s that?” Tony said, pointing to where the bookcase used to be. Stuffed into a niche in the bricks was a sheaf of yellowed parchment.
Michael stepped over to have a look. “I think it’s a letter,” he said, leafing through the brittle pages. Julia suggested Michael set it aside. Right now he should salvage books. After that, the car would still need to be packed before Health & Safety turned up. As Julia and Mikey began to sift through the pile of splintered shelves, Angey handed Tony a Post-it note: Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie. “That’s what VOC stands for,” Angey said. “According to Wikipedia, it’s the name of the Dutch trading company that smuggled tea to the Colonies during the Revolution. That brown gunk in the barrels must be tea. Not much of a treasure.”
“About that treasure,” Tony said. “I think we should just forget about—”
“Oh my God!” Michael gasped. He was still over by the bookcase, reading that old letter.
“Now what?” Julia said.
“It’s from Paul Revere!” Michael said. “To a thirteen-year-old named Tobias Tucker who lived in this house. The dateline at the top says it was sent from Maine in 1779.”
“So?” Mikey said.
“So it’s about what happened to Revere after the Penobscot Expedition!” Michael said. “Revere is writing to thank Tobias for sending a testimonial to Army Command, swearing it was an apprentice in Revere’s shop—a Tory spy—who tipped off the British about the expedition, not Revere himself. Tobias claims Revere was actually feeding the spy false information so that the British would arrive in Maine three days too late. Revere is certain that it was Tobias’s testimonial—along with Tobias’s detailed account of Revere’s patriotism during his Midnight Ride—that convinced the military tribunal in Maine to clear him of any wrongdoing. Basically this Tobias, whoever he is, saved Paul Revere’s career!”
Which means he’s not a Jonah after all. He’s totally good luck.
“So?” Mikey said again.
“So it plugs the hole in Dad’s dissertation,” Tony said.
“Far more than that,” Michael said. He quoted a passage near the end of the letter. In it, Revere thanked Tobias for offering to bring the chest hidden at 13 Hangmen Court to Penobscot Bay. But Revere would no longer need to sell the treasure inside to pay for his legal defense, since there wouldn’t be a court-martial after all. In any case, Revere would not be able to open the chest without the key. Tobias should instead leave it hidden at 13 Hangmen Court. Revere strongly suspected the key would turn up in Boston again one day soon. And there might come a day when Tobias would need the treasure himself. It would be Revere’s gift to Tobias for saving his life. Meantime, the mere memory of what they had forged together—and the freedom from tyranny it represented—was sufficient to sustain Revere until he returned home to Boston.
“There’s a treasure hidden in this dump?” Mikey said. “Like what?”
Michael had no idea. It might be long gone by now. But the possibility that Revere had hidden something valuable in these walls—especially if he had forged it himself—was more than enough to convince Health & Safety to call off the wrecking ball. The City of Boston would no doubt insist the house be X-rayed and sonogrammed, room by room. And if they should be lucky enough to find that chest, No. 13 would definitely be a shoo-in as the next site along the Freedom Trail. Michael suggested Julia get on the phone to Health & Safety with the news, then contact the Historical Preservation Society and whoever was in charge of the Freedom Trail. While she was doing that, Michael would head straight over to the Revere House with the letter, to verify its authenticity. In the meantime, the boys could tidy up the mess, since it looked like they would now be staying. Julia gave Michael a massive my hero! hug. Michael dashed out of the room with the letter. Julia picked up the phone and dialed 411.
Mikey turned to Angey and shrugged. “I guess we should head down to the back patio to fetch the push broom from the last disaster.”
“Get it yourself,” Angey said. “It doesn’t take two of us. And I’ve got something I need to discuss with Tony in private.”
“What is up with you lately?” Mikey scowled. He stalked out of the room.
“You dog!” Angey said to Tony once they were alone. “You know where it is, don’t you? I can tell by the look in your eye. Did Zio Angelo tell you on the Ouija board?” Tony nodded. “Well don’t just stand there—let’s go get it!”
Why not? There was nothing stopping Tony. By stuffing this letter behind the bookcase—knowing it was about to collapse in 2009—Tobias had kept his promise of returning the favor: He was basically giving Tony permission to “find” Revere’s liberty bell, more than two hundred years later, in his time of need.
An unexpected twist in the way history had finally played out.
“OK,” Tony said to Angey. “But we have to do it my way.” He dug his cell phone out of his pocket. He dashed off a quick text message and handed the phone to Angey. “What I’m about to ask you to do next may seem a little weird,” he said.
Angey shrugged. “Absolutely everything you’ve said and done since your thirteenth birthday has been totally off-the-charts weird,” he said.
At exactly six o’clock, Tony rapped on the door of No. 15. As soon as Old Man Hagmann answered, Tony dangled the key in front of his nose. “Follow me,” he said. “I’m pretty sure I’ve found what you’re looking for.”
Hagmann hurried after him.
Tony led him up to the attic of No. 13. But he didn’t take the old man into the secret room. Instead, he pulled the locked chest out of the hearth. He told Hagmann that that was where he had found it, while tearing out the ugly paneling behind the bookcase. He placed the key in the lock. Should they have a look inside? Hagmann lunged for the lid, barely able to contain his excitement. Tony sat on the lid. “First we need to make a deal,” he said.
“Get off it!” Hagmann said.
“Nope.”
“Get off it, you fat little toad, or I’ll drag you off it,” Hagmann said.
“Not unless you do what I say,” Tony said.
Hagmann raised his hand to strike Tony but then thought better of it. He took a deep breath instead. “My modest offer for the house still stands,” he said. “I’ll discuss the price with your father, but I promise it’ll be enough to get your family settled elsewhere.”
“That’s not enough,” Tony said, crossing his legs. “We want to live here.”
Hagmann clenched his fists with rage. Actually, it took him a couple of moments to control himself. “I can’t imagine why, but fine,” he said. “I’ll call off Health & Safety and write you a check to get you started on the renovations.”
“That’s still not enough,” Tony said.
“What else could you possibly want?” Hagmann shouted.
“A confession,” Tony said. “That you murdered Angelo DiMarco and tried to frame my dad for it.”
Hagmann looked startled but quickly recovered. “You can’t be serious!”
“Dead serious,” Tony said.
“But Angelo was my best friend!” Hagmann scoffed.
“He hated your guts.”
Hagmann frowned. His eyes narrowed. He sized Tony up. “That’s hardly a reason for me to kill him,” he said.
“Maybe, but it sure raises a lot of questions,” Tony said. “Like why Zio Angelo would suddenly decide to leave this place to you—his worst enemy—right after he fell ill. Especially since his last act alive was to make sure Number Thirteen didn’t go to you. The very house your family has been trying to get its hands on for generations.”
“Then there’s the question of why you suddenly took it upon yourself to fire Zio Angelo’s visiting nurse,” Tony said. “According to Maria Gomez, that was so you could start giving Zio Angelo his daily meds. Except that the coroner’s report clearly shows he died of coronary arrest because there wasn’t a trace of heart medicine in his veins.”
“You have no real proof of that,” Hagmann said. “Any of it!”
“You’re right,” Tony said, switching tactics. “Anyway, it’s all water under the bridge now. Truth is, I barely knew the guy, and I never understood why he left me this dump to begin with. I like solving mysteries—it’s my hobby and I’m planning on becoming a detective when I grow up—and I just want to know if I’m right.”
“Never,” Hagmann hissed.
“Then get your bony old butt out of my house,” Tony said.
“Horrid, spoiled little monster,” Hagmann said, beginning to pace the room. “Just like Hootie Saporiti when he was the same age. No respect for his elders. No regard for the class system. No sense of his rightful place in society. What we Hagmanns have had to endure! Rubbing elbows with the likes of the DiMarcos and Saporitis. Not to mention kowtowing to Jews and Irishmen and blacks. What I’ve sacrificed! Never marrying, never having a family, never producing an heir to carry on the quest. You can’t imagine the burden! And now this. It’s too much to endure.”
Was it Tony’s imagination, or was Hagmann sort of coming unhinged?
“So are you going to fess up or not?” he said.
“And then you’ll give me the chest?” Hagmann said.
“As long as you call off the wrecking ball and write me a big fat check.”
Hagmann returned to his pacing. “What have I got to lose?” he muttered to himself. “What’s the worst the kid can do to me—call the police? I’ll just deny everything. It’ll be his word against mine.”
Yup, Hagmann was definitely losing it.
“Hurry up,” Tony said. “Or I’ll just haul this piece of junk over to Ye Olde Curiosity Shoppe and sell it to Mildred Pickles.”
“No!” Hagmann cried. “Don’t do that!”
“Well?” Tony said.
Hagmann took a seat on the bed. He began to laugh—that weird hyena giggle—then stopped suddenly. “I knew I was running out of time,” he said. “Angelo and I were getting old. If we both died, the secret of the treasure would be lost forever. I couldn’t bear the idea of it. But what could I do? He wouldn’t even let me in the house!
“Then one day, while I was out pruning my roses, his visiting nurse stopped by for a chat. She said Angelo had suffered a stroke after Thanksgiving. She told me he’d lost his ability to speak and was too frail to get up and down the stairs. Suddenly I knew: It was now or never.”
And so Benedict Hagmann revealed his whole diabolical scheme:
After Angelo’s nurse had come and gone the next afternoon, he broke into the bulkhead door behind No. 13. He tiptoed up the basement steps, through the kitchen to the staircase and up to the parlor, where he found Angelo dozing in his bed. It was easy enough to knock Angelo unconscious and strap him to the brass rails, given his weakened state and inability to cry for help. This left Hagmann free to ransack the attic for the chest. But all he found, even after a full night of searching, was a dusty old bookcase, dresser, and chair. So when Angelo finally came to the next morning, Hagmann threatened to smother him with a pillow unless he revealed the whereabouts of the treasure. Angelo’s shakily written reply on his notepad: No idea what you’re talking about. Before Hagmann could menace him further, though, he heard the rattle of a key in the front door. It must be the visiting nurse on her rounds!
Hagmann intercepted Maria Gomez in the front hallway. He explained how their chat the day before had prompted him to pay an overdue call on his oldest and dearest friend. He and Angelo had conducted a wonderful heart-to-heart chat via Angelo’s notepad. Unfortunately, Hagmann now had a delicate matter to discuss with her on Angelo’s behalf. Could they take a cup of tea in the kitchen? That was when he promptly fired her. What could she do? She reminded him to give Angelo his daily dose of heart medicine, then handed over her set of house keys.
Which was when Hagmann realized what he must do.
He gave Angelo an ultimatum, while he was still strapped to the bed: Angelo would never see another drop of heart medicine unless he revealed the whereabouts of that chest. Angelo merely scratched out a feeble question mark on his pad. Finally, Hagmann had to consider the very real possibility that Angelo didn’t know anything about the treasure.
So he switched gears. He went through all of Angelo’s paperwork in the rolltop desk of the parlor until he found what he was looking for: the original deed to 13 Hangmen Court and Angelo’s last will and testament. As for the deed, he just burned it. It barred every Hagmann for all time from inheriting the place. And as for the will, he quickly typed out an addendum on Angelo’s old-fashioned typewriter that revoked Michelangelo DiMarco as inheritor and named himself instead. He then presented three copies of the addendum for Angelo to sign, pointing out that he was basically a goner without his medicine. If Angelo refused to sign the addendum, Hagmann would merely forge his signature and get the house anyway. But if he did sign, Hagmann swore he would regift No. 13 back to the DiMarcos as soon as he found what he was looking for. Surprisingly, Angelo agreed to sign. On one condition: Hagmann box up an old Red Sox ball cap before his very eyes and hand it to the postman—also before his very eyes—to be sent, along with a card he’d scrawled, special delivery to his great-nephew Anthony DiMarco for his thirteenth birthday. An odd request, to be sure, but Hagmann quickly carried it out. Once the postman left, Angelo signed the addendum in triplicate—one copy for Hagmann, one for Angelo’s lawyer Birnbaum, and one for Angelo’s desk.
Of course Hagmann had no intention whatsoever of regifting the house to the DiMarcos. As soon as Angelo was dead, he intended to tear the place apart, brick by brick if necessary, until he found the chest. And his plan would have worked, too, if it hadn’t been for Michael’s unexpected visit.
Luckily for Hagmann, Angelo still used an old-fashioned answering machine. So they both heard Michael’s voice echoing through the parlor as he left a message for his uncle: He was just getting into Boston for his history conference; he would stop by for a visit first thing in the morning; he would let himself in with his own key. The thought of rescue must have been too much for Angelo. He gasped, clutched at his chest, then slipped into a coma. Which was why Hagmann decided to untie him and leave him alone in the parlor while he himself waited out the night in the kitchen. With any luck, Michael would arrive the next morning to discover Angelo stone-cold dead in his bed while Hagmann innocently pretended to prepare Angelo’s breakfast downstairs.
Except that Angelo must have faked the coma. Because he somehow managed to stumble over to his desk during the night, hand-revise his copy of the will, and stuff it into an envelope addressed to his lawyer. In fact, Angelo was far from dead when Hagmann confronted Michael for “breaking in” the next morning. More alert than he had been in weeks, Angelo was scribbling an alarming note to his nephew: Trying to kill me. Lucky for Hagmann, it was Michael who offered him a plausible explanation: that Angelo’s medicine made him paranoid. Frowning, Angelo scribbled another note for Hagmann: Make tea. Hagmann invited Michael to join him down in the kitchen. But Angelo emphatically wrote: He stays. Hagmann saw little choice but to leave Michael alone with Angelo while he put the kettle on. Which was when Angelo must have handed Michael the will to mail off.
Hagmann had already told Tony the rest. Michael stuffed the envelope into his pocket and left for his history conference. Alarmed, Hagmann raced back to the parlor to find out what Angelo had given him—only to discover Angelo dead. Dead with a big grin on his face. At that point, all Hagmann could do was call 911. He ransacked the parlor before the ambulance got there. That’s of c
ourse when he discovered the will was now missing from the desk. To make matters worse, the key to the chest must have broken loose from the chain around his neck in the mad search—a fact he hadn’t noticed in all the mayhem until yesterday at the hardware store.
“But now you’ve found it,” Hagmann concluded with a yellow grimace. “And what it opens. That’s made all of our lives easier.”
“Except Angelo’s,” Tony said.
“He was old and dying,” Hagmann said. “You just admitted yourself that you barely knew him.”
“You still killed him,” Tony said.
“Who says?” Hagmann sneered. “There isn’t a single witness to confirm this conversation ever took place.”
“Except me,” a voice said from behind him.
Hagmann whirled around to find Angey emerging from the hearth.
“I heard the whole thing, loud and clear,” Angey said.
Hagmann blinked rapidly a half dozen times. He stood. He began to cackle again. “It’ll never stick,” he said. “You’re just a couple of snot-nosed kids from the melting pot with overactive imaginations. I come from one of the oldest and most distinguished families of Boston.”
“You do not,” Tony said. “You come from a long line of murderers, traitors, double-crossers, and thieves. Thirteen generations of racist, sexist jerks who think they have more rights than blacks, or the Irish or Jews or Italians, just because you happened to sail over on an earlier boat.”
Hagmann stopped cackling.
“I’ve got news for you, dude,” Tony said. “It’s diversity that makes this country great. And a hangman is still a hangman, even if you move the n from the middle of your name to the end.”
“Besides,” Angey said, holding up Tony’s cell phone, “I took the added precaution of recording every single word of your confession on the voice mail of Tony’s friend Sarah.”
“And anyway I’m here in person as backup,” said Sarah, ducking through the chimney. “Not to mention to settle an old score between my great-great-greats and yours.”
13 Hangmen Page 22
