Madhattan Mystery (16 page)

“And now, ladies and gentleman, we're heading outside to observe what is possibly the largest example of Tiffany glass in the world: the magnificent clock gracing the main entrance. Perhaps you'll recognize the gods depicted in the statues surrounding it.”

“Hercules, Mercury, and Minerva,” Kim Ling spouted. “With all due respect, I thought this was supposed to be a
secrets
tour. What about the abandoned train station we were talking about—in the underbelly of Grand Central?”

The group started chattering and bombarding Mr. Early with questions.

“No, no, security has really been tightened in the last twenty-four hours. There's some funny business going on.
I don't want to ruffle any feathers or I could lose my job.” Mr. Early glanced around nervously, scratching his sunburned bald spot. “Then again, I suppose that really doesn't matter since I'm moving to St. Louis in two weeks,” he said half to himself with a sneaky smile. “And I really
would
love to see it one last time.” He checked his watch. Pursed his lips. “I'll tell you what. Let me make a quick call to my very powerful friend at Metro-North—I have a slew of favors to collect on. In the meantime, talk amongst yourselves and decide. We can either go up to the clock tower and observe this Tiffany masterpiece up close—or we can venture down to the abandoned station. It's quite spectacular, I assure you.”

He whipped out his cell phone and turned his back on the group, which erupted in a babbling debate between up or down. Felicia was pro-clock tower and seemed to be convincing the majority, despite Kim Ling talking up the train station. When Mr. Early turned back around with “We're cleared” and asked for a show of hands, the vote was split down the middle.

“Go to St. Patrick's Cathedral if you want stained glass,” Kim Ling scolded. “But, you guys, the secret train station is such a rare opportunity.” She zeroed in on the
Phantom
clones. “Just think—it'd be not unlike exploring the caverns under the Paris Opera House where the Phantom took Christine.”

Two chubby hands shot up. “Well, good gravy, Vern and me change our votes!”

“Then we have our consensus!” Mr. Early announced.

Lexi turned to Kim Ling. “You should go into politics.”

The group could barely keep up with Mr. Early's brisk pace as he led them back into Grand Central, down ramps and through a roundabout maze of marbled hallways, until they reached a stand-alone elevator, where a heavy man in a dark suit was planted. They exchanged a few quick words and the man discreetly handed something to Mr. Early before disappearing. No button was ever pressed but the elevator doors immediately flew open and the whole group somehow was able to squish inside. It didn't budge at first, this stuffy, antique contraption, but then Mr. Early flashed a small plastic device in front of the button panel; there was a long beep, a red light blinked, and the elevator rumbled to life.

With her heart
pa-thumping
, Lexi counted the seconds of their rickety descent to purgatory. She was fingering the rabbit's foot, laminated four-leaf clover, and nine lucky pennies in her pocket with one hand, twisting her opal necklace with the other. At least she and Kim Ling were with other people. Sweaty people smelling of suntan lotion and B.O. maybe—but, still.
Better than going it alone
. Then it occurred to her that she and Kim had spent all their time thinking of how to get down to the abandoned station, but didn't have a plan for what to do once they got there!

Pa-thump, pa-thump, pa-thump!

“Just calm down,” Kim Ling said in an intense whisper. “Follow. My. Lead.”

Had she noticed the look of terror in Lexi's eyes?
Tunnels
, Lexi kept thinking as her stomach meowed like a sick cat.
Creepy, dark tunnels. I must be out of my mind
.

BAH-ROOM!
Touchdown. The elevator doors rattled open and the group cautiously shuffled out of the elevator into the dank and dingy station that looked as if it had survived an explosion or something. Kim Ling grabbed Lexi's sweaty hand.

“Gross. What smells?” Felicia said, crinkling her face.

It was instantly nauseating. Like rusty, dead turtles.

“Good gravy,” the Southern couple said together.

“That's history. It's positively palpable.” Mr. Early actually inhaled it all in as he ventured forward in a dork-like trance. “Picture, if you will, the year is nineteen sixty-five and renowned pop artist Andy Warhol is hosting a private party on the very platform on which we're standing. There's champagne overflowing, the finest Russian caviar, anybody who's anybody is in attendance …”

Kim Ling pulled Lexi aside. “As soon as diarrhea-mouth points out where Track Sixty-one is, we make our move.”

“No.”

“We slip away quickly and quiet—wait, did you just say no?”

“It's off, I'm not doing it. We could get trapped down here and suffocate.”

“The elevator's right there.”

“But Mr. Early had to use his plastic thingy to get it to work.”

“So, then, we just wait for someone to come along.”

“That could be never!”

“Listen,” Kim Ling hissed, tightening her grip on Lexi's hand, “we've come this far. All we have to do is find the spot where the jewels are buried and the rest is a breeze. We show Early our discovery—
bing, bang, boom
—the next thing you know we're telling our story on the six o'clock news.”

“Sorry, but no way.”

“Five o'clock news?”

Lexi pulled her hand away.

“C'mon, a quarter of a million bucks—all yours!”

“You don't understand. I can't breathe. I'm, like, totally freaking out!”

“Is there a problem back there?” Mr. Early asked over the constant hissing noise that sounded as if another steam pipe was about to burst.

“Neil, is it?” Kim Ling called out, and Lexi recoiled. “Question. Where'd you say Track Sixty-one was again?”

“I didn't. There isn't an actual ‘Track Sixty-one,'” he said with accompanying air quotes. “That's simply a code word they used for this secret platform we're standing on—built for FDR so he could have private access to the Waldorf Astoria.” Twitching with excitement, he cleared his throat and raised his bullhorn. “Alrighty, folks, let's
venture over to that blue freight car. See it? Completely bulletproof. It was said to have secretly carried FDR's private limo. Oh, but
do
stick together and watch your step—I once saw a rat down here the size of a beaver.”

“Good gravy!” Lexi blurted. The Southern couple gave her a curious look and she offered an awkward smile in return. Wringing her clammy hands, she kept in step with the rest of the group until something jerked her back. Kim Ling had a hold of her backpack strap. “Stop it. What're you doing?”

“You can cry about this later.” In the span of a heartbeat, Kim Ling swung her to the edge of the platform and, without even a one-two-
three
, leaped onto the tracks, dragging a squealing Lexi with her. They landed in a dusty, twisted heap.

“You all right?”

“No!” Lexi gasped, sucking in a lungful of dirt. “You did not—
kkklugh
—you did not just do that!” A coughing fit came over her and she spit out what she could, staggering to her feet.

“Executive decision.”

“He just said there is no Track Sixty-one!”

“Keep your voice down. And, no, he said it was a
secret code
for the platform.” Kim Ling unzipped her backpack and began wildly rummaging through it. “And that's the platform, which means the jewels have to be buried in this general area.” She whipped out two small flashlights,
switched them on, and handed one to Lexi. “I came prepared. There're trowels, too. Now hustle.”

“But—”

“Like you've never hustled before. You can't wimp out after we've come this far. This is too big!”

Okay, she'd suck it up and do it. Even though her shin was bleeding, her hands were trembling, and she didn't have a trace of saliva left in her mouth.

“If you see anything even the slightest bit suspicious, holler.” Kim Ling shone her light on the tracks, slowly swinging it like a pendulum. “Well, don't actually holler.”

Lexi followed suit, scouring the ground in the opposite direction, holding her breath from the floating dust bits that never seemed to settle. “Wait!” she said, noticing something. “Oh, never mind, false alarm. Just a cruddy old Coke bottle.” She kicked it aside.

“Keep your eyes peeled for a marker—like an
X
-marks-the-spot kind of thing—or a patch of ground that was recently dug up. Oh, and don't forget the new clues.”

“Shoot, needle, oval disk, park,” Lexi recited.

“Right.” Kim Ling crouched down to examine a pile of crumbling wood chips. “We already covered shoot, needle, and park. So, be on the lookout for an
oval disk
.”

Lexi switched into high gear and tried desperately to focus on the task at hand. With a watchful eye out for bugs, rats, and vermin of any kind, she combed the corroded, crumbling train track. Steel rails, wooden ties, and
grunge. That's all she could see until something shiny caught her eye and she dove for it. “Hey, Kim, is this anything?” She held it up. “It's a disk and it's oval.”

Kim Ling rushed over and shone her light on the small metal disk. “Flattened bottle cap. Probably belongs to that Coke bottle. Besides, it's not even oval. Oval means elliptical—egg-shaped. That thing's perfectly round. Keep looking.”

Lexi tossed it aside and continued on. But there wasn't a thing she spied that could remotely be described as an oval disk aside from some rusty nail heads, a few flat pebbles, and a squashed Big Gulp cup. “You know, maybe I didn't hear that clue exactly right,” she said, still searching. “Maybe it was something that
sounded
like oval disk. Shmoval … groval—nothing rhymes with oval. Tisk-frisk-bisque. Over this! Maybe they said, ‘We're over this.'”

Kim Ling jolted upright and stood there thinking. “Or global risk?”

“Ooh, good one.”

“Right? Unfortunately, that doesn't help us a lick. Keep looking.”

But after searching the same stretch of dilapidated track for the umpteenth time and breathing in one too many lungfuls of stale, mildewy stench, Lexi had had it. “I don't see anything,” she cried, slapping dirt off her hands. “The ground is rock solid and there's nothing diskish or oval. No markers, no nothing. This is nuts!”

“Keep searching and stop kvetching.”

“Speak English.”

Withered or not, Lexi sucked it up and carried on with her hunt until a wave of approaching chatter brought both girls to a standstill. Kim Ling immediately took cover behind a thick iron girder and Lexi followed. Standing belly to belly with panic on their faces and cobwebs tickling their necks, they switched off their flashlights and held their collective breath. It was difficult to hear clearly through the never-ending hiss of escaping steam.
TSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS—

“—
ssssso
sorry, y'all, but I'll never forgive myself if we came all this way only to miss David Letterman. Plus, I really have to use the little girl's room.”

The campers were whining that they had seen enough, too, and it wasn't long before the group was back at the elevator with Mr. Early counting heads. “—eleven, twelve. That's right, isn't it? So, why does it seem like someone's missing? That rowdy Asian girl and her friend!” Mr. Early raised his bullhorn and yelled out, “Girls? Come on, we're waiting on you!
Girls!
”

“Rowdy?” Kim Ling muttered. “That little weasel.”

Lexi separated her fists, which were covering her mouth. “Now what?” she asked in barely a whisper, and her fists snapped back into place like a steel trap. “Kim?”

“Ya got me. Invisibility cloak?”

Lexi and Kim Ling really had no choice but to give up the search for the jewels and reveal themselves—especially since they needed Mr. Early's help to hoist them off the tracks. “It was a freak accident,” Kim Ling had told him on the way up in the elevator with the rest of the group. “The edge of that decrepit platform gave way. But don't worry—even though my dad's an attorney, we're not gonna sue. It's technically not your fault.”

So, they were off the hook with the tour guide and wound up on Park Avenue, just outside Grand Central, with Felicia and the rest of the campers. But since they were “too shaken up to continue with the day's camp activities,” and had fake-called their parents to come get them, Kim and Lexi were finally left alone, staring into a fancy window display of meats and cheeses.

“Omigod, I'm hideous!” Lexi said to her reflection. She
glanced over at Kim Ling, wondering why she didn't have a snide remark.

“That was definitely the right call,” she said, lost in her own little world. “We could've been stuck down there for days.”

Lexi cringed at the thought. “Weeks.” She dug a can of Altoids out of her backpack and popped a mint into her mouth, then slipped off her mangy wig. Her gross, flattened hair made her look even worse—not to mention the battered shins and filthy clothes. It was official: less than a week in New York City and she had been beaten down to a bloody stump. “I still can't believe you just yanked me onto the tracks like that. I could've broken something.”

“That ground was untouched,” Kim Ling said, still reviewing the situation. “And the perps would've had to have left a marker or something, otherwise, how could they possibly return to the exact spot—in those ruins? No, the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that Cleopatra's jewels aren't buried down there at all—which means at least part of what you heard in the Whispering Gallery was bogus—which means we have to reassess, regroup, and start again from square one.” She snapped her fingers in Lexi's face. “Hello? Is anyone there?”