Vanished!

by James Ponti

  Once I was through, I turned the flashlight app back on, held it up against my forehead like a miner’s lamp, and started crawling. As I got farther away from the piano music, I could make out the faint sounds of a flute and realized that I was next to the room where Becca was practicing. There looked to be another small door leading to it, but I couldn’t check without popping in on her.

  Instead, I continued my slow crawl, careful not to touch something that could electrocute me, and stopped when I reached the slats of light. They were coming through a large vent cover and I listened to make sure no one was on the other side before I pressed my face up to it and looked through. I could easily see the pale green wall of the rear hallway.

  I checked the photos I’d taken of the alcove and saw that the vent was located between the fire alarm and the water fountain. It was tempting to push it open, but the security camera would have videotaped it—not a great way to stay undercover. Since there wasn’t enough space to turn around, I had to crawl backward toward the sound of Margaret’s piano playing, which took some time.

  “Where does it go?” she asked as I squeezed back into the practice room.

  “Exactly where you think it does,” I answered. “Right to the fire alarm.”

  “So does that mean Yin is Loki?”

  I brushed the dust off my pants and shrugged. “It means he knows about the crawl space and that he might be Loki. But I saw a door to at least one other practice room. So any one of them might have done it.”

  “So it could have been Yin, Becca, or Lucy.”

  “That’s right,” I answered. “Except for one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I was able to go without attracting attention because you stayed in here and played the piano,” I explained. “But each of them was alone. We even heard Yin playing ourselves.”

  “Did we?” Margaret flashed a huge smile. “Close your eyes and listen.”

  “Okay,” I said, unsure where this was going.

  I sat there on the floor with my back pressed against the foam of the acoustic tile and listened. The music was beautiful and filled the room . . . but it wasn’t coming from the piano.

  “How’d you do that?” I asked, opening my eyes.

  “Playback,” she said with a huge grin. “It’s really high quality.”

  She showed me how the room was equipped with a recording system so students could listen to themselves.

  “The sound quality’s amazing,” she said. “Sitting right here next to it, it’s obvious the music isn’t coming from the piano. But I don’t think Ms. Allo or anyone else would be able to tell that from out there.”

  “That’s brilliant,” I said. “So you record yourself and then you can play it back and buy yourself plenty of time to crawl around.”

  “What do we do now?” asked Margaret.

  “Play a little bit more while I put everything back the way it was,” I said. “Then we need to go out there and wait for Becca. I want to get to know her better.”

  When we reentered the orchestra room, we were greeted by the screeching of very bad clarinet music as Ms. Allo worked with a beginning student struggling to play a lesson. It was hard to make out the tune, but when he stopped she smiled and tried to sound encouraging. “That’s better. Just keep practicing.”

  Once he’d packed up his instrument and left, Margaret asked her, “Was that ‘Oh! Susanna’?”

  “Somewhere in there,” she answered good-naturedly. “That song is the bane of my existence.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “First of all, here we call it ‘My Dear Chatham.’ It’s the school’s alma mater and we have to play it at every event and function. Every. Single. One.”

  Margaret replied, “But it sounds a lot like . . .”

  “Oh no, it’s exactly like ‘Oh! Susanna,’ ” she said. “This school goes back to when that song was considered fresh and new. John Rees Chatham himself wrote new lyrics to go along with the music.”

  “Isn’t he the guy who founded the school?” I said.

  “He most certainly is,” replied the teacher. “Which is why they’ll never let me change or update it, no matter how many times I plead. And I plead often.”

  We all laughed.

  “Here you go,” she said, handing the music to Margaret. “You’re going to have to play it if you’re still here when we have our next pep rally.”

  Margaret looked at the music for a second and then passed it to me. I studied it while the two of them continued talking. I found it interesting, especially after Margaret had explained a little bit of what she was dealing with trying to write her song. The more I looked, though, the more it was obvious that Margaret’s was much better.

  My alma mater Chatham School

  Ever proud and true, has

  Given me

  All I can be

  Together me and you

  Her wisdom was imparted

  Each and every day

  Remember thee

  It will not be

  Unless we clear the way

  (Chorus)

  My dear Chatham

  Carry me so strong

  Learn with me

  Until we

  Bravely march along

  I reread it a couple times and then I looked up at them and said, “I’m sorry but this is dreadful. The words don’t even make sense.”

  “You noticed that.” The teacher laughed. “Luckily, we rarely ever have to sing it. Usually we just play, which is bad enough. It turns out John Chatham was a much better doctor and educator than he was a songwriter.”

  “Don’t forget paleontologist,” joked Margaret. “He discovered that fossil on display in the Founder’s Room.”

  “Right,” I said, chuckling. “The jawbone of a giant ground sloth.”

  “Another one of our peculiar symbols,” said Ms. Allo. “We’re the cougars, not the sloths. Although I will admit that some of my students are very sloth-like in their behavior. But at a school like this, tradition and history play an important role. The headmaster and the board of trustees take it all very seriously, but they also provide me with enough support to run a great music program, so I’m okay with it.”

  I understood exactly what she meant. The history of the school was everywhere, whether it was the name of a benefactor chiseled above a doorway or a fossil displayed like a championship trophy. There were constant reminders that the school’s history went back to the 1860s. And that’s when it clicked. Or at least began to click. I wasn’t completely sure at first, so I had to do a quick search on my phone. I found an article and by the time I’d read the second paragraph, I turned to Margaret.

  “Come on,” I said urgently. “We’ve got to go.”

  She gave me a confused look. “Are you sure?” She nodded toward the practice room where Becca was still playing the flute.

  “Positive,” I said, checking my watch. “We’re going to run out of time.”

  I grabbed my backpack and rushed for the door.

  “Okay, thanks for everything, Ms. Allo,” Margaret said, hurrying to keep up. “I forgot we had to be somewhere.”

  By the time Margaret caught up to me in the hallway, I was already on the phone with my dad. As a museum security consultant, he’d made friends in high places at the Smithsonian, and I hoped at least one of them owed him a favor. I explained that we were working on the case and asked if he could get someone to help us.

  “We’re going to the Smithsonian?” Margaret asked, when I got off the phone.

  “You bet we are,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “It’ll only make sense when I show you,” I said. “So I’ll do that on the Metro, but we have to hurry because the museum closes in about an hour and we want to check this out today.”

  I think part of me thought that if I could solve the mystery that day, I’d never have to deal with Tanner. I kept an eye out for him as we sprinted from the school to the Van Ness Metro station
. It wasn’t until we were sitting on the train, however, that I was able to show Margaret what I’d seen.

  “Here,” I said, digging into my backpack. “Check this out.” I handed her the sheet music to “My Dear Chatham.”

  She looked at it and hummed along. “Just like ‘Oh! Susanna,’ ” she said. “How is this a clue?”

  “It wasn’t until you mentioned the fossil in the Founder’s Room,” I said.

  “The jawbone of a ground sloth,” she replied. “And once again I ask, how is this a clue?”

  “The scientific name of the sloth is inscribed on the plaque. It’s Megatherium,” I reminded her. “Now look at the first letter of every line of the song. Just go straight down the left edge.”

  My alma mater Chatham School

  Ever proud and true, has

  Given me

  All I can be

  Together me and you

  Her wisdom was imparted

  Each and every day

  Remember thee

  It will not be

  Unless we clear the way

  (Chorus)

  My dear Chatham

  Carry me so strong

  Learn with me

  Until we

  Bravely march along

  “What’s the Megatherium Club?”

  “That’s where it gets really good,” I said as I read from the article I found on my phone. “The Megatherium Club was a society of scientists and naturalists founded in the 1860s at the Smithsonian Institution.”

  “The plaque on the fossil said it was on loan from the Smithsonian,” she pointed out.

  “That’s right,” I answered. “That’s just too many coincidences. There has to be some sort of connection between the school and the club. My dad says he knows someone who might be able to tell us about it. He’s trying to reach her now.”

  With its towers, turrets, and gothic architecture, the red sandstone building known as the Smithsonian Castle looked more like it belonged in old England than modern-day Washington. We arrived fifteen minutes before closing, and the security guards were checking our backpacks when a woman walked up to me.

  “Are you Jim Bates’s son?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Florian. And this is my friend Margaret. Are you Dr. Taylor?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Thank you so much for helping,” I said.

  “Your dad has been a tremendous help to us, so I’m more than happy to return the favor,” she said. “He tells me you’re interested in the Megatherium Club.”

  “Very much so.”

  “Well, why don’t you put these on and we’ll see what we can find,” she said, handing us each a visitor’s badge on a lanyard. “Follow me.”

  She led us across the Great Hall and through a door marked MUSEUM PERSONNEL ONLY.

  “There was a time when the Castle and the Smithsonian were the same thing,” she explained as we walked. “This building held all the artifacts. Joseph Henry, who was the director of the institute, lived upstairs with his family, and many of the scientists who traveled the world looking for specimens to add to the collection lived down the hall in a dormitory.”

  “That’s kind of cool,” said Margaret.

  “You’re not kidding,” replied Dr. Taylor. “It was an amazing concentration of intellectual horsepower, and that’s what led to the creation of the Megatherium Club.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “These scientists lived together, worked together, and had fun together,” she said as we entered a storage room whose walls were lined with climate-controlled metal-and-glass cabinets. “The Megatherium Club was a combination of all three.”

  In the middle of the room were gray file cabinets with wide flat drawers. She handed us each a pair of white cotton gloves, so we wouldn’t get dirt or fingerprints on any artifacts, and we put them on as she opened one of the drawers. It was filled with neatly organized manila folders. She pulled out one marked “Megatherium Club.”

  “Let’s start here,” she said, opening the folder to reveal a stack of papers and photographs. She handed us a browning image of four men posing around a small wooden table. It was printed on thick photo paper, and even with the gloves on, we were careful to touch it only on the edges. The men in the picture wore dark wool suits, one the uniform of a Civil War officer. Each had a mustache and two had beards.

  “The founding foursome,” she said, pointing to each one as she listed them off. “Robert Kennicott, Henry Ulke, Henry Bryant, and their leader, William Stimpson. He was so influential they sometimes called it the Stimpsonian.”

  “And what did they do?” asked Margaret.

  “During the day they helped collect, sort, categorize, identify, build, and study the amazing collection we have today,” she replied. “They also lived here in the Castle and in the evenings would sometimes invite prominent thinkers and scholars to give lectures or lead discussions. And then sometimes they had fun.”

  “And by fun you mean . . . ?”

  “They had sack races across the Great Hall. They drank wine out of ancient Etruscan goblets. They serenaded Joseph Henry’s three daughters.” She chuckled at the thought of it. “He wasn’t very happy about that. But most of all he was unhappy because of the pranks.”

  Margaret and I shared a look at the mention of pranks.

  “Whenever a new member joined the group, he was required to pull off a big prank as part of his initiation. The final one was the most infamous,” she continued. “One day Harriet Henry, Joseph’s wife, opened a closet expecting to find clothes and instead came face-to-face with a mummy.”

  “You mean like . . .”

  “Yes, an ancient Egyptian, taken from a tomb, wrapped in bandages, and wearing Mrs. Henry’s favorite hat,” she continued with a laugh. “They say her screams could be heard for blocks in every direction.”

  “What happened?” asked Margaret.

  “Secretary Henry disbanded the Megatherium Club that night,” she answered.

  “When was that?” I asked.

  “Eighteen sixty-six.”

  “That’s about the same time John Rees Chatham founded the school,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, Colonel Chatham,” she said, flipping through the file until she pulled out another picture. This one was of two men in uniform. “That’s him with Henry Bryant, one of the original founders. They were field surgeons together during the Civil War.”

  “And Chatham was in the club?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “In fact, there were rumors that he secretly kept it going despite Henry’s orders.”

  We looked at some more pictures and then she retrieved a small box from a nearby cabinet. “Here’s a real treasure,” she said as she opened it. “It’s a membership button. It’s the only one known to exist because Henry gathered all the others up and melted them down.”

  It was a metal button about the size of a quarter. The words “How How” were painted on it and its ribbon had three stripes: purple/green/purple.

  “It’s just like the locker,” said Margaret. “The same colors and the same words.”

  “What’s ‘How How’?” I asked

  Dr. Taylor smiled, “It was their secret greeting. Why?”

  Margaret and I shared a look before I answered, “I think the Megatherium Club may still be alive and strong.”

  12.

  Natural History

  THE TIGER WAS SUSPENDED IN midair, teeth snarling, claws extended, frozen in that instant before attacking its unsuspecting prey. From our vantage point, the intended victim appeared to be Marcus, but he was oblivious as he faced the opposite direction, his head bobbing ever so slightly to the music playing on his earbuds. If this were a jungle in Southeast Asia, there’d be no way of saving him, but here in the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Natural History, he was perfectly safe from the big cat and all the other stuffed animals on display in the Hall of Mammals.

  As he typicall
y did when meeting us in the field, Marcus had shed his normal coat and tie, which screamed federal agent, in order to blend in and protect our covert status. He wore a loose-fitting baseball jersey with GRAYS written across the chest and the number twenty on the back. Since both he and Margaret are African-American, I think most of the tourists around us assumed he was her father and we were on a visit to the museum. Certainly no one suspected we were three agents having a clandestine meeting to discuss a case for the FBI.

  “You didn’t have to come all the way down here,” he told us as he took out his headphones and tucked them into the pocket of his jeans. “I would have gladly met you closer to the school.”

  “We were already in the neighborhood,” replied Margaret. “At the Smithsonian Castle.”

  We’d texted him to meet up while we were still with Dr. Taylor and picked the natural history museum because it stayed open later and was just a few blocks from his office at FBI Headquarters.

  “Besides,” I added, “there’s an exhibit we want to check out.”

  “Which one?”

  “Follow me and I’ll show you.”

  We zigzagged through the crowd, past the giant bull elephant in the rotunda, and entered the Fossil Hall. While most people were instantly drawn to the massive T. rex skeleton, we bypassed it and went straight to the Ice Age exhibit.

  “Here it is,” I said. “Megatherium.”

  We gazed up at the fossilized skeleton of a giant ground sloth. It stood nearly thirteen feet tall and its arms were posed so that it almost looked as if it were about to have a fistfight.

  “Megatherium?” asked Marcus. “Where have I heard that word recently?”

  “When we were in the Founder’s Room at Chatham,” answered Margaret. “The jawbone in the fancy display case?”

  “That’s right,” he said, remembering. “So this sloth has something to do with the case?”

  “That’s what we’re thinking,” I replied.

  We told him all about the Megatherium Club and our theory that it might still be operating as a secret society at Chatham Country Day. I even pulled out the music to “My Dear Chatham” and showed him how the club’s name was hidden in the lyrics.