The Hotel Under the Sand (11 page)

“I’ll never wear that uniform again,” he announced. “It may be that this is a little big for me, but I’m sure Mrs. Beet can fix it.”

Mrs. Beet stopped in the act of serving kippers to Captain Doubloon. Her eye blinked in a nervous kind of way. “Fix your clothes? Oh, dear, Master Masterman, I’m only a Cook! I was never very good at sewing!”

“I can’t sew either,” said Emma calmly, sprinkling sugar on her oatmeal.

“But who’s going to tailor for me?” said Masterman, pouting.

“I’m sorry to say I only know how to sew on buttons, Master Masterman,” said Winston. He looked hopefully at Captain Doubloon. “But I do believe all sailors know how to sew. Am I correct, Captain?”

“Aye, matey, you are,” said Captain Doubloon, grinning in a way that was not really very nice. “And if his little lordship is a good boy, why, I’ll take a hitch in his waistcoat for certain.”

“Awk! String him up from the yardarm!” said the parrot.

Masterman ignored them, looking disdainfully at the breakfast table. “Hm! Kippers and oatmeal. How very nice. But I think, dear Mrs. Beet, that I need waffles with real butter, not margarine. And real maple syrup, not that maple-flavored stuff. And a tall glass of cold milk.”

“Margarine!” said Mrs. Beet, her eye flashing in indignation. “What sort of cook do you think I am, young man?”

“The very best cook in the whole world,” said Masterman, with a smile of sugary sweetness that made him look about four years old, and a limpid gaze. Mrs. Beet’s wrath faded. She chuckled, and tousled his hair.

“You do know how to talk to ladies, don’t you? Little scamp. I suppose it won’t be much trouble to mix up a waffle for you.”

“Thank you,” said Masterman smugly, as she went back to the Kitchens. Captain Doubloon glared at him.

After breakfast they went to the Ballroom to continue the treasure hunt. Winston climbed back up into the orchestra gallery, and leaned over its edge to look at the Queen of the Moon.

“She’s holding a little jar with a lid,” said Winston. “It looks like the lid might come off.”

“Can you reach it?” said Captain Doubloon.

“No. I expect I’d better go fetch a ladder,” said Winston.

But Captain Doubloon leaned down and grabbed Masterman by the scruff of his neck. “No need!” he said. “The lad here will just go aloft.”

He hoisted the little boy into the air, as high as his arm would reach. For a moment Masterman just hung there, too surprised to be angry. Then he made a jump and caught hold of the Queen of the Moon, clinging there with his arms around her neck. Holding tight with one hand, he reached for the silver jar with the other. His expression was grimly determined.

As she watched, Emma thought to herself:
He’s braver than he looks
. She began to like him, just a little.

Masterman lifted the lid on the jar and reached in. “There’s a key!” he exclaimed. “And a piece of paper.” He pulled them out triumphantly. “Here I come!”

He let go of the Queen and fell. Captain Doubloon caught him and set him on the floor.

“Bravo, sir!” said Winston, hurrying down from the gallery. “Well done!”

“What’s the clue say?” asked Emma.

Masterman unrolled the paper and stared at it a moment. “Oh, I can’t read this handwriting,” he said, handing the clue to Emma. “It’s too messy.
You
try.”

I’ll bet he can’t read very well
, thought Emma, but she took the clue and read aloud:

“‘The Red King will tell you himself,

But only the brave and swift

Can get under his guard.’“

“Red King?” said Captain Doubloon. “Sounds like a card game.”

Masterman stuck his nose in the air. “That just shows how much you know,” he said. “The Red King is the greatest treasure anybody can have. So my great-grandpapa meant that…um… the treasure itself will tell us where it is?”

“Actually, sir,” said Winston, trying not to hurt his feelings, “I believe there’s a figure of a red king in the Theater.”

W
INSTON LED THEM
from the Grand Ballroom down a flight of stairs, to a pair of doors all painted in red and gold. A smiling mask decorated the right-hand door, and a sad mask decorated the left-hand door.

“Here we go,” said Winston, opening the doors wide. “The latest thing in theaters! Suitable for Shakespeare or vaudeville, and not only that—we have one of these newfangled cinematograph screens and projectors!”

“What’s a
cinematograph?”
asked Emma and Masterman at the same time.

“Er—you know.” Mrs. Beet gestured as though she were turning a crank. “Moving pictures?”

“Ah! Old-time movies, to be sure,” said Captain Doubloon. “Where’s this Red King, then?”

They looked around. There were a hundred red velvet seats, and red velvet curtains across the front of the stage, all embroidered with golden laurel leaves. The lighting came from eight carved figures, a little bigger than life-size, along the two walls. Each one held up a candelabrum with little electric bulbs in it. They wore white drapes as though they were supposed to be gods and goddesses from mythology, all except for the third figure on the left-hand side.

“That’s the Red King,” announced Masterman, and raced down the aisle toward it. Emma followed him closely, and the two children stood staring up at the Red King.

He was dressed in very old-fashioned robes, all in shades of bright red. One hand held up the candelabra, but the other hand held a sword. He had an emblem on his chest, showing a round sun with pointed rays.

“Well?” said Captain Doubloon, puffing for breath as he caught up with the children. “The Red King will tell us hisself? I don’t hear him doing no talking.”

“Maybe he’s got a speaker hidden in him,” said Emma.

“The middle of that sun emblem looks an awful lot like a button,” observed Mrs. Beet. “What happens if you push it?”

Captain Doubloon reached up, meaning to press the sun on the Red King’s chest, but suddenly the arm with the sword swung down. The captain staggered back, narrowly avoiding having his other eye put out by the point of the sword. “Awk! Abandon ship!” screamed the parrot, fluttering away to the safety of one of the theater seats.

“HALT!” roared a scratchy-sounding voice that seemed to come from behind the door. “AWAY, THOU BASEBORN CHURL!”

“Dear heaven!” said Mrs. Beet. “You don’t suppose he’s got some kind of guard walled up in there, looking after the treasure?”

“No,” said Emma. “It sounded more like an old record to me. A recording,” she added, for Mrs. Beet looked confused.

“Oh! Like one of Mr. Edison’s phonograph cylinders?”

“That’s what it must be, all right,” said Winston. “Because that was Mr. Wenlocke’s voice!” He stepped forward and reached for the emblem on the Red King’s chest, but once again the arm with the sword swung out. Winston ducked, but his hat was knocked off. “Gee whiz!”

“WHO DARES TRESPASS ON MY ROYAL DOMAIN?” bellowed the scratchy voice.

“You don’t understand,” said Masterman. “Notice what he said? ‘Baseborn churl’? ‘Royal domain’? He means the treasure isn’t for just anybody. Only a
special
person, like one of us Wenlockes, can get to it.”

“I’ll bet you’re wrong,” said Emma. She stepped close to the Red King, as quickly as she could, so that by the time his sword came swinging down she was behind his arm and out of danger. She pressed the sun emblem on his chest. The whole round emblem popped out at one side, like a little door opening. Behind it was a keyhole. “Haar!” cried Captain Doubloon. “Where be that key?”

Masterman pulled it from his pocket, sighing sadly, and handed it over to Captain Doubloon. The key went into the lock and turned—and, without a sound, the wall panel beside them slid open.

B
EHIND THE PANEL
was a room, not much bigger than a broom closet. You could never have fit a broom or a mop in there, though, or even a feather duster. Every inch of space inside was filled with neatly stacked wooden boxes, except for one small shelf containing a little cylinder gramophone.

“That’s
the source of the voice, and those are Mr. Wenlocke’s strongboxes!” said Winston. “I recognize them.”

“HAAR!” said Captain Doubloon. “Oh, Grandad Doubloon, see what you missed by not learning how to read?”

He grabbed the topmost box and hauled it out. Producing a crowbar from inside his coat (Emma wondered what else he had hidden in there), he wrenched the lid off the box.

Emma was a little disappointed by what was inside. There were no jewels, no pieces of eight or golden bracelets. She saw only smooth squares of gold, lined up like so many bars of yellow soap. Each one was stamped with the letter W.

“That’s not very exciting,” said Masterman, frowning. “I always imagined a big chest full of rubies and emeralds. This is just… metal.”

“Aye, laddie, but it’s negotiable anywhere,” gloated Captain Doubloon, pulling out the other boxes one by one. “Better’n credit cards!”

Masterman began to cry quietly in disappointment, but Mrs. Beet took out a handkerchief and blotted his tears. “There, there, dearie, you mustn’t mind about the captain getting the nasty old gold. Here, have a ginger biscuit,” she said, pulling a cookie from her apron pocket. “Give him a nice kiss, Shorty,” she added, and put the little dog in his arms. Shorty wriggled around and licked his face.

“Besides,” said Emma, “now Captain Doubloon’s going to keep his promise and tow us all away to a nice safe tropical island. Aren’t you, Captain?”

“What? Oh—eh—aye, so I will,” said Captain Doubloon, who had been scooping up handfuls of gold bars and rubbing them against his face.

“Awk!
Hoist anchor and sail away!” said the parrot.

“Shut up, bird! To be sure, I’ll get right on that, just like I promised. Just as soon as I’ve loaded all these boxes on board me boat, see?” said Captain Doubloon.

“I think the treasure had better stay where it is,” said Winston firmly. “Until the hotel is safely on that island.”

“Aye, aye,” sighed Captain Doubloon. He put back the gold, though Emma noticed that a couple of bars just sort of accidentally fell into his pocket.

“Oh, Great-Grandfather Wenlocke, if only you could see your poor little impoverished grandchild watching his treasure being taken away by a stranger,” said Masterman in a theatrical sort of way, but Captain Doubloon didn’t seem to hear him.

Mrs. Beet looked around at them all. Masterman still looked as though he might start crying again, in spite of Shorty’s earnest efforts to cheer him up. Emma and Winston were both looking with suspicion at Captain Doubloon, who was doing his best to seem innocent but not succeeding very well.

“Treasure’s never as nice as you think it’s going to be,” Mrs. Beet said sadly. “I know what you all need! A nice plate of sandwiches. Let’s go downstairs, shall we, and I’ll fix everyone a little lunch.”

So they all headed downstairs. They had reached the bottom of the Grand Staircase when Winston shouted, “Oh, my gosh! Look!”