The Secret Cellar (15 page)

Their voices are surprisingly clear through the wall, which is one of those good news / bad news situations. It’s good that we can hear every word, but bad because I don’t know how long I can stay perfectly still and quiet in a shopping cart–size elevator. Remember how I mentioned that I haven’t had the best of luck with elevators lately? It wasn’t that long ago that I spent a few hours stuck in the one at St. Veronica’s, you see. That one was cold and dark, and I was trapped with Livvy Klack, who was not one of my favorite people in the world at the time, but at least we could sit. Heck, we could even stretch out on the floor. That’s not the case in this dumbwaiter: Margaret and I are shoulder to shoulder, and my heart is banging against my ribs so hard that I’m sure Klinger and Lindsay can hear every telltale beat.

“Okay, the coast is clear. You go first,” says Klinger. “You asked for this meeting. You keep telling me that
this is a once-in-a-lifetime story that you’re chasing, but you never give me any details. And why all the secrecy? Couldn’t this have waited until the club meeting?”

“Just listen to me, that’s all I ask,” says Lindsay. “There’s no need to involve the other members in this. They would only complicate matters, and I think we have enough to deal with already. These girls—the Red Blazer Girls, they call themselves—are a bigger problem than you realize. They seem to have a habit of solving mysteries—especially old ones. Curtis Dedmann’s story is right up their alley. I would not put it past these girls to figure out the combination. Are you willing to take that chance? Don’t forget, Dedmann left the contents of the house to Shelley, and if she discovers what’s behind these walls before we can force her out, well, I don’t think you even want to imagine that little scenario.”

“Shhh. Softly, please. We don’t want to give her any ideas. But come now. Surely you’re not seriously concerned. In two weeks, all this is going to belong to Beethoven’s Nine—and that includes everything behind these walls. And I don’t care how clever they think they are, they are never going to unlock Dedmann’s secrets. And once we’re in and Shelley is out, we’ll get behind these walls even if it takes a bulldozer. Which it probably will, if I know Dedmann. This place is a fortress. Let’s be serious. What makes you think these grammar school girls, these delinquents, are capable of outsmarting me? I’m a Harvard graduate, you know.”

When he says “girls” like that, I have to bite my lip not to shout through the wall at him. Margaret and I are so close in the dumbwaiter that I feel her body tense up, too.

“Don’t underestimate them, Marcus. My boss did, and look where he is. Lost his job, lost his wife, scratching out a living selling antiques.”

“Well, they have one other problem,” Klinger says. “Even if they do figure out the combination—a big if, if you ask me—they still need this.” He taps something on the marble floor—and I picture him holding Dedmann’s walking stick. “And I promise you, they’re never going to get their clever little hands on it.”

“We’ll see. From what I hear, they’re quite resourceful.”

“What is your angle?” Klinger asks. “I still don’t understand what you want from me. Because you’re newer to the club than I, it’s true that your share won’t be quite as large as mine, but trust me, you’re still going to be rich. Here, help me set up for the meeting. The Bordeaux glasses are in the cabinet behind you.”

Over the clinking of wineglasses, Lindsay continues. “It’s very simple, Marcus. All I’m asking for is your guarantee that I have exclusive rights to Mr. Dedmann’s story, and to anything related to his past, like diaries, notebooks, photos. I … Well, let’s just say that I have good reason to believe that they exist. If Shelley Gallivan finds them, they become her property. She’ll auction
them off, or they’ll become part of the Curtis Dedmann museum or something similarly ridiculous, where anyone might have access to them. There will be ten books about Dedmann before you know it, and mine will get lost in the shuffle.”

“But why would anyone want to read about him? What makes his story so interesting? Other than being a mechanical genius and having exquisite taste in wine, what is so special about Curtis Dedmann?”

“Because,” says Lindsay, “if I’m right, Curtis Dedmann was the German spy known as the Third Wise Man, and I will be sitting on a story that has bestseller written all over it. Maybe even a Pulitzer Prize. My career, Marcus—that’s what I want. Oh, don’t get me wrong; the money will be nice, too, but I’m tired of being anonymous. I want people to know who I am.”

“And what makes you so sure that Dedmann was this so-called Third Wise Man? Yes, he was the right age, and God knows he liked his little secrets. But a spy? Sorry, but I just don’t see it. I knew him for almost thirty years.”

“Maybe you’ll believe it after you hear my story. About a year ago, I was helping my grandmother clean out her basement in Brooklyn and found these. The name and address are missing, but when I compared them with the official drawings on file in the buildings department, there’s no doubt about it: these are secret blueprints for this house. You see, Marcus, my grand father
built this house for Dedmann in 1943. These show something that I believe no one else has ever seen—the actual dimensions of the cellar, including all the nooks and crannies, and tunnels that extend in all directions from the footprint of the actual house. Come on, Marcus, admit it. You had no idea there was so much hidden below ground level.”

“Perhaps, but so much the better for all of us. More rooms, more wine. Secret blueprints, huh? Do you mind if I take a closer look? These may be helpful. I’ll get them back to you tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, if it will help convince you. But let me finish my story. The whole time my grandfather worked here, he hardly said a word about the house to my grandmother. When she asked why it was taking so long, she remembers him saying something strange about the cellar. He said it was like the guy was building a clock with the gears and springs and hundreds of little parts, all of which were being custom-made by Dedmann. And nobody but Dedmann and my grandfather were allowed down here while it was under construction. The two of them built all this.

“And then, two days after he puts the finishing touches on this house, my grandfather dies. He had never been sick a day in his life; he didn’t smoke, and barely drank. But that day, he drank some wine that Dedmann had given him as a parting gift. He poured himself a glass and sat down in his favorite chair. An
hour later, my grandmother found him—dead. A heart attack, everyone said, and no one even looked at the bottle of wine. Grandma poured the rest of it down the drain, and that was that.”

“What are you saying—that Dedmann murdered your grandfather? Ridiculous.”

“Shhh! Maybe. Maybe not. How would you explain this? You see this phone number, KL5-4500, and the word ‘diary’ with the question mark after it, written here in the margin? I did a little digging, and do you know whose number that was? Vernon Ryerson.”

“Am I supposed to know who that is?” Klinger snipes.

“You would if you knew anything about the case of the Third Wise Man. Vernon Ryerson was the FBI agent who worked on the case for more than thirty years. He died in 1988, but I did get a look at the case file. I told them I was writing a book about German spies in World War II, so they showed me everything that Ryerson had. I checked his notes; there’s no record of a call from my grandfather. I’m willing to bet that Dedmann figured out that my grandfather suspected something, and dealt with him before he had a chance to take action. I can’t prove it, though, without more evidence—the kind of evidence that might be stashed here somewhere.”

“Was there anything in the file about Dedmann?” Klinger asks. “Was the FBI watching him?”

“Not that I could find,” says Lindsay. “But I did a little more snooping, with the help of a private investigator.
He found something very interesting: before 1944, there is only one mention of someone named Curtis Dedmann in the United States, and that Curtis Dedmann died as an infant in northern Maine during the flu epidemic of 1918. Starting in 1944, however, his name starts popping up all over the place. I think that our friend Curtis ‘borrowed’ his name and birth certificate, and whatever else he needed, from the town hall in Naniscot, Maine. And that, for me, was the ‘smoking gun.’ ”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because Naniscot is less than five miles from the spot where a German submarine dropped off three spies in 1942.”

“I see,” says Klinger. “That might explain something … something I’ve been wondering about.” He pauses, and I hear him take a breath and exhale loudly. “What I’m about to tell you stays in this room. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

Klinger continues in a lower voice. “There’s another will. A few days before he died, Curtis told me about it. He was going to leave everything—
everything
—to Shelley Gallivan.”

“What!” cries Lindsay. “Why?”

In the elevator, Margaret and I gasp and then immediately cover our mouths.

“The why isn’t so important. It’s the where that concerns me. No one must ever learn about that will.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Yes, I do. It’s in the bottom of my fireplace, in ashes. Why do you think I bought nearly everything at the auction? I’d been in touch with Curtis’s lawyer, Applewood, and it was obvious he knew nothing about it. Curtis must have done it all on his own, but he never delivered a copy to Applewood. Lucky for us, one of the drawers in that writing desk I bought at the auction had a false bottom, and I found it there.”

“So we’re safe, then?”

“Sadly, no. Curtis Dedmann must have been the last person alive to use a typewriter and carbon paper, because the version I burned was definitely a carbon copy. The original must still be somewhere in this house.”

After Klinger and Lindsay leave the basement, Margaret waits a few minutes before pushing the button to send us back upstairs. I have to shield my eyes from the bright lights of the kitchen as the elevator door opens. Margaret and I take deep breaths, relieved to be able to bend our knees and make a little noise again.

“I was so nervous,” says Shelley. “What if that old thing got stuck? Or what if Mr. Klinger opened the door down there and found you? What would he do?”

“It’s hard to believe we were only in there for twenty minutes,” I say. “It seemed like hours.”

“Boy, was it worth it, though,” says Margaret. “You won’t believe what we heard. We’ll tell you the whole
story later, but here’s the short version: according to Klinger, Mr. Dedmann wrote a new will, and he left everything to you.”

“To me? That’s crazy! All this … this house? Why?”

“I was hoping you could tell us,” says Margaret. “But none of that will matter if we don’t find the will. Klinger found—and burned—one copy in that desk he bought, but he’s positive that there’s another. That’s why he bought everything at the auction: he was looking for it.”

“But … what about Mr. Applewood? Wouldn’t he have a copy?”

“Not if Dedmann never got around to delivering it,” I say. “Remember what he wrote in that notebook? ‘Will to GA,’ and then that list of three things. Well, my dad helped us figure out that those were wines. But now the first part makes sense: he was sending his will to GA—Garrison Applewood. But, apparently, he died before he got around to delivering it. Klinger seems pretty sure that the lawyer doesn’t know anything about it.”

Shelley looks genuinely bewildered by this strange turn of events. “I think I’ve been through everything in the house. I don’t know where else to look.”

“Check it all again,” I say.

“And in the meantime,” says Margaret, “promise that you won’t let anyone you don’t know and trust completely in this house. And don’t remove anything else; we just have to hope that the will is still here … someplace.”

Even though she’s only twelve, Margaret has this way of making people trust her, and Shelley accepts what she says without batting an eye.

“Right. No one in. Nothing out. Got it.”

“Perfect,” says Margaret, handing her a Red Blazer Girls Detective Agency card. “Send me an email if you find anything. If we all play our cards right, your life is going to change in a big way.”