The Secret Cellar (7 page)

“Well, they already have their first traitor. Raf went there today. I hung up on him when he told me.”

“Don’t you think you’re being just a tiny bit unreasonable? Sophie, it’s a coffee shop. It’s not the end of the world.”

“Maybe not. But in the words of Nathan Hale, ‘I have not yet begun to fight!’ ”

“Um, that was John Paul Jones. Nathan Hale was the ‘My only regret is that I have but one life to give for my country’ guy.”

Grrrrr. “Yeah, well, you know what I mean. It ain’t over till it’s over.”

And frankly, my dear, I don’t care who said that.

We have an unexpected early dismissal on Thursday because of a heating (or lack of heating) problem in the school. The temperature outside is in the teens, and snow swirls around our feet as we fight the bitter wind that’s raging down Lexington Avenue.

When we get to the subway stop at Sixty-Eighth Street for the trip uptown, I unwrap the scarf from my head and
curse myself for stubbornly refusing to wear a hat on the way to school because of a morbid fear of “hat head.”

At Seventy-Seventh Street, I rewrap my scarf and follow my much-better-prepared-for-the-weather friends up the stairs and then four blocks into the wind to Eighty-First. It’s so cold that the usually hearty Christmas tree sellers are huddled around electric heaters inside their huts, probably wondering why they ever left Quebec. And even though it’s barely past noon, the sky is so dark that I’m wondering if there’s a solar eclipse I didn’t hear about.

We’re on our way to see that horrible Marcus Klinger at Sturm & Drang Books, and we’re less than thrilled about that destination. In fact, some of us are downright grumpy—definitely the first time I’ve felt that way about a trip to a bookstore. I can’t decide whether to blame Klinger or the fact that I have no feeling in my ears.

“It has to be done,” Margaret says. “We know he has a copy of the book, and we know how much he paid for it. We just have to make him a reasonable offer. I looked online at some used-book sites, and nobody has it. The guy I talked to at the New York Public Library told me that because it was an expensive three-volume set that was published during the Depression, there were probably only a few hundred printed. People just weren’t buying books. So, Herr Klinger may be our only chance.”

“But we don’t even know what we’re hoping to find,” says Becca. “What if, after all this, it’s just some stupid saying about saving money?”

“That’s a chance I’m willing to take,” says Margaret. “Come on, you guys—aren’t you just a little curious? A secret decoder hidden away in an old fountain pen?”

“Eh,” says Becca, trying (and failing most miserably) to hide her smile.

Margaret smiles back at her. “That’s what I thought.”

“Before we go into Slurp and Drool, can we stop in the antiques shop?” I ask. “I want to thank that lady for helping me out. I’ll just be a second.”

Okay, so “a second” turns into an hour. But that’s the way things go sometimes.

Lindsay is helping another customer in GW Antiques and Curiosities when we go inside, but she smiles at us and tells us to feel free to look around.

“Now,” she says as the door closes behind the customer, “how can I help you girls today?”

“I, um, just wanted to thank you for telling me about the auction. I got that fountain pen for my dad; he’s going to love it.”

“Excellent!” Lindsay says. “I’m so happy for you. It really is a lovely pen. I hope you didn’t have to spend too much.”

“No, I got it for thirty-five, plus all those extras. With the buyer’s premium and taxes, it ended up being closer to forty-five, but that’s okay, because my mom decided to pitch in half the money. You know, I thought I saw you there—I guess it was somebody else.”

“Me? No, I was there earlier in the day, but I had
another appointment and missed the actual auction. Must have been my doppelgänger.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Margaret’s right eyebrow arch upward. She, too, was certain that it had been Lindsay in the auction room at Bartleman’s.

From the back room, a man’s voice—raspy and oddly familiar—shouts, “MISS JONES! Come here!”

She excuses herself, and a quick huddle of the Red Blazer Girls follows.

“I’ve heard that voice before,” I say. It gave me goose bumps all over. And then I put the pieces of the puzzle together. “Holy crud. GW Antiques and Curiosities. ‘GW’ is Gordon Winterbottom! That was his voice—I’m positive. We have to get out of here. That guy hates us. Especially me.”

I start for the door, but Margaret blocks my way. “Relax. He’s not going to kill us. He doesn’t even know we’re here. If he comes out, we say hi and go on our merry way.”

“He probably doesn’t even remember us,” Becca reasons.

“So Gordon Winterbottom has an antiques shop,” marvels Leigh Ann. “I guess it fits. I wonder if he buys anything, or just goes around stealing stuff. Hey, Soph, maybe that fountain pen was stolen. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

“No! That would not be funny,” I say. “That would be horrible. I do not want to give my dad stolen property
for Christmas. Besides, we know where it came from—the estate of some dead guy.”

“Ol’ Gordo still coulda tooken it,” says Becca, earning the dreaded stink eye and a whomp on the back of the head from Chief Inspector Wrobel of the NYGP (New York Grammar Police).

Lindsay returns to find us all still in a circle. “So sorry, girls. When the boss calls, I must answer.”

“Is your boss … by any chance … Gordon Winterbottom?” Margaret asks.

The question catches Lindsay by surprise. “Y-yes, he is. Do you know Mr. Winterbottom?”

“Sort of,” I admit. “We, um, go to St. Veronica’s, down on Sixty-Fifth. He used to be a deacon in the church there. Until a few months ago.”

“There was a, um … an incident,” Margaret says. “You may remember reading in the paper, the story about the Ring of Rocamadour.”

“You’re those girls!” Lindsay says. “Amazing! What a small world. Gordon only opened the shop here about six weeks ago. Ever since his wife left him—”

Four girls, in perfect harmony: “His wife WHAT?”

“Winnie actually left him?” I ask, lowering my voice back to a whisper.

Lindsay nods. “Poor guy. He’s heartbroken. He misses her something terrible. I’ve never met her, but I hear that she’s working at that German restaurant over on Second Avenue—the Heidelberg.”

“My dad loves that place,” Margaret says. “He says they have the best sausage in town, and he considers himself a true connoisseur of sausage.”

“Back up a second,” I say. “Gordon Winterbottom is heartbroken? I can’t believe the guy even has a heart.”

Lindsay can’t help smiling—just a little. “He might surprise you. He even quit smoking a couple of weeks ago. Of course, that hasn’t exactly helped his temperament, but I think he’s trying to win her back by showing how he’s changed. And he’s determined to make a go of this shop. I teased him the other day that he’s working so much that he’s turning into Mr. Scrooge … which, I’m afraid, makes me Bob Cratchit.”

“What did he say?” I ask. “No, wait, let me guess: ‘Bah! Humbug!’ ”

“No, he said that he might as well be Scrooge. He has no one to celebrate Christmas with, anyway.”

Well, that shuts me up. In an instant, I feel bad for all the mean things I’d been thinking and saying about ol’ Winterbutt. I mean, I know the guy’s no saint, but nobody should be alone for the holidays.

“We should get going,” Margaret announces. “The snow’s really starting to come down.”

“Are we still going to Slime and Drool?” I ask.

Lindsay raises an eyebrow. “Slime and Drool?”

Margaret punches me on the arm. “Sturm & Drang.” She points at the bookstore across the street.

“Ah,” says Lindsay, grinning at me. “It is rather aptly named, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. What is that guy’s problem?”

“Marcus Klinger?” she says, laughing. “How much time do you have?”

“So it’s not just us,” says Margaret. “Or him having a bad day?”

“No, and no,” Lindsay answers. “He’s rude to everyone. It’s his nature. I’ve known him for a few years; he even helped me find this job. We’re both members of a little music appreciation club that meets in Mr. Dedmann’s townhouse every Wednesday night. There are nine of us: we call ourselves Beethoven’s Nine.”

“Ah, because Beethoven wrote nine symphonies, right?” Margaret asks.

“Something like that,” Lindsay says. “But here’s an interesting tidbit about Marcus Klinger: he is a direct descendant of Friedrich Klinger, a German who wrote a play, strangely enough, about the American Revolution called
Sturm und Drang
. Marcus is very proud of that connection. Are you looking for a particular book?”

“Sort of,” Becca says. “We started out looking for one thing—a book for our English teacher—but now we’re trying to find something called
Nine Worthy Men
. Sophie found—”

Margaret cuts her off. “What do you know about Curtis Dedmann? Who was he?”

My Sherlock-sense detects a momentary narrowing of Lindsay’s eyes, as if she’s suspicious of our unexpected interest in Dedmann. And suddenly, Madame Zurandot’s advice to “trust no one” rings in my ears.

“Curtis was always a bit of a mystery, to tell the truth,” says Lindsay. “I knew him for years, but I couldn’t tell you much about him. Do you girls live nearby?”

“Sophie and I do,” Margaret answers.

“Then you’ve probably seen him out walking his dog. He had an English setter named Bertie. Beautiful. And you never saw him without his walking stick.”

“The one that Marcus Klinger seemed so determined to get his hands on last night, I’ll bet,” Margaret says softly.

“Hey, I remember that guy!” I say. “When I was taking care of Tillie, we ran into him and his dog a few times. He was nice; he always had a treat for Tillie. She remembered him, too—she used to pull me down the street to see him and get her cookie.”

“That was Curtis,” says Lindsay. “And now you know almost as much about him as I do.”

Hmmm. Somehow, I doubt that.

The bell jangles loudly, announcing our return to Marcus Klinger’s bookstore. Margaret insists that we all put on our best chipper and cheerful faces for this necessary-but-unwanted reunion, but Klinger, hidden behind a stack of books, scares the gee willikers out of us when—poof!—he suddenly materializes.

“May I help you?” he asks, almost smiling … until he recognizes us. “Oh. You. Again.”

Great to see you, too, Klingon.

“I suppose you’ve come back for the Dickens. Shall I get it down?”

“No, we’re looking for something different this time,” says Margaret, maintaining her smile. “It’s a three-volume set called
Nine Worthy Men
. Do you know it?”

We’re all watching his reaction, and we all notice the same thing. His eyes widen momentarily, revealing something. We don’t know what that something is yet,
but you can bet your faux-fur-lined boots we’re going to find out.

“Of course I know it. I wouldn’t be much of a book dealer if I didn’t.” He aims those beady eyes of his directly at Margaret. “Why, in heaven’s name, are you looking for that particular book? I thought kids today were only interested in books about vampires. Besides, a complete set is quite valuable—I’d say something on the order of two hundred dollars. Maybe two-fifty in the original slipcase. If I had one, that is. Which I don’t.”

Bbbrrrinnnggggg!
Hello?… What’s that? You’re calling from the New York Chapter of Liars Anonymous? And you want to talk to Marcus Klinger? Uh, yeah. I’m not at all surprised, because, let me tell ya, he just told us a whopper.

Seriously. I’m looking right at the full set of
Nine Worthy Men
(in a slipcase!) locked away in a glass cabinet behind the counter.

I clear my throat, loudly, and point at the cabinet. “Excuse me, Mr. Klingon, er, Klinger, but isn’t that exactly what we’re looking for?”

He turns his squinty gaze on me. “That’s my private copy. It’s not for sale. But you didn’t answer my question. Why
Nine Worthy Men
? Perhaps I can help you locate another copy.”

“We’re doing some … research,” Margaret says. “We’re especially interested in the first volume, the one
about Julius Caesar, Hector, and Alexander the Great. We don’t necessarily want to buy it. If we could just, um, borrow it for a few minutes, I’m sure we could get what we need.”

Klinger turns toward the cabinet, and for a second I think he’s going to hand it over to us. “I’m afraid not.”

“You won’t even let us look at it?” Becca asks, indignant. “Why not?”

Klinger half smiles, half sneers (smeers?) at Becca. “It’s quite simple, actually. I’m not a fool, girls. Obviously, you discovered something in that old fountain pen, something that, tragically, I overlooked. Whatever it is, it does not concern you, but it is of considerable interest to me. My old friend Curtis Dedmann had a strange sense of humor, you see, and this little treasure hunt was his parting gift to me. You paid what—thirty-five dollars for the pen, plus premiums, no? I will give you one hundred dollars right now for the pen—and whatever you found inside.”