Chessmen of Doom (14 page)

"Hey, Prof," he said slyly, "what are you gonna do with those chessmen? They must be worth a lot of dough and you know what they say—finders keepers!"

The professor coughed grumpily. "Byron," he said acidly, "you are suggesting a dishonest course of action. Those chessmen belong in the British Museum, and they are going back there as soon as I can figure out how to return them. Unfortunately I can't just go to the local police and say "Here they are," because then everyone would think that I stole them. I will probably put them in a box, wrap the box in brown paper and twine, and airmail it to Scotland Yard in London. The chief in spector can have the pleasure of returning the little fellows to the museum. And when we go back to the mansion tomorrow, I will destroy that priceless twelfth-century magic book and chop the chessboard into kindling wood. Without them no one will ever be able to reconstruct that vile, detestable ritual."

"Speaking of the estate," put in Dr. Coote, "what are you going to do about it? You violated the terms of Perry's will when you went home last August. Will you try to break the will?"

The professor looked thoughtful. "I suppose I could break the will if I tried," he said slowly, "but it would take a lot of time and lawyers' fees and I just don't think it would be worth it. I have enough money to last me for the rest of my lifetime. All my brothers are dead now, so I suppose the money and the mansion will go to one of their worthless children. I don't care—I wash my hands of the whole filthy business!" He turned to Dr. Coote and pointed a knobbly finger at him. "As for you, Charley," he said solemnly, "if you ever hear me talking about a get-rich-quick scheme again, I hope you kick me good and hard."

Dr. Coote smiled blandly. "It will be a pleasure, Roderick," he said. "Mrs. Thripp here will immobilize you with a magic spell while I apply the boot."

"Wait a minute!" exclaimed the professor nervously. "You shouldn't take everything I say so seriously! I mean, suppose I figure out a foolproof way of winning at poker? Then will you—"

"We'll kick you around the block," laughed Dr. Coote. "It'll be for your own good."

"Oh, thanks!" said the professor sourly. "Everyone is always thinking of me!"

 

 

 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

 

 

The adventure was supposed to be over, but it wasn't. The boys went back to their normal lives in Duston Heights, and as the months passed they heard bits and pieces of news. The estate of Stone Arabia had been sold to a real estate developer, who wanted to build houses on the land. The professor had lost his chance at the ten million, but he had gotten twenty thousand dollars as a consolation prize. The body of Mr. Stallybrass had been found, horribly mutilated, in the Kennebec River. The body of Perry Childermass had not been found, and the police had given up the search. Then, one day in April, the professor announced to the boys that he was going to England to return the chessmen, and he was inviting them to go along. They would leave in June, as soon as school was out. The boys were delighted.

"I thought you were gonna send the chessmen back in a little box and not say who they were from," said Johnny.

Patiently the professor explained. He had consulted legal authorities, and they had assured him that he wouldn't be prosecuted if he brought them back. In fact, the British Museum was offering a reward of three thousand pounds for their safe return, and that would be more than enough to pay for a trip to London for the professor and the two boys.

So, one sunny day in June, the old man and his friends were standing before the pompous doorway of the British Museum. After snapping a picture of Fergie and Johnny in front of the fluted Greek columns of the entrance, the professor led the way in. They spent a couple of hours gawking at the treasures—Egyptian statues and Assyrian winged bulls, rows of Egyptian mummies and clocks and curios of all sorts. Finally they came to the room where the chessmen were kept under glass. Hesitantly Johnny and Fergie approached the display case. They were fearful without really knowing why. Johnny kept telling himself that the chessmen were perfectly harmless now, but a lot of nagging doubts remained in his mind. These odd little objects had been used in a ritual that nearly destroyed the world. Mr. Stallybrass was dead, but maybe another sorcerer would know how to use the chessmen.

The professor glanced sharply at Johnny, and he read his thoughts. "Worried, John?" he asked in a taunting voice. "Are you afraid that the little beggars will come crawling out of their glass case and do a tango in the middle of the floor?"

Johnny stared sullenly at the floor. "Aw, come on, Professor!" he grumbled. "Stop making fun of me! If you really want to know, yeah, I am worried, because maybe there might be another copy, somewhere, of that magic ritual that Mr. Stallybrass tried to use."

The professor shook his head firmly. "No, John," he said. "I do
not
think it is possible! That magic book that we burned was done by hand, before printing was invented. The chances of there being another one like it are . . . well, I would say a million to one against."

Johnny seemed a bit reassured, but Fergie still was skeptical. Besides, he liked taking the unpopular side in any argument.

"How can you say a million to one, Prof?" he asked. "Is that just some set of odds that you made up in your sleep, or did you really work the problem out?"

The professor stiffened, and it was clear that he was struggling to keep from losing his temper. But just as he was about to say a few sarcastic words to Fergie, something happened. A short, odd-looking man in a derby hat had entered the room, and he approached the display case where the chessmen were. He wore an incredibly dirty and threadbare tweed overcoat, and his long unwashed hair hung down over his collar. His nose was red and bulbous, and half-moon reading glasses were stuck askew on his face. He held a pad and pencil, and as the professor and the boys watched, he began jotting down notes.

Aghast, the professor stared. He made a few strangled sounds in his throat, but nothing came out. Finally he motioned for the boys to come away. Before long they were studying Roman artifacts in another room.

"Who do you think that guy was, Prof?" asked Fergie after they had paused to sit down on a padded bench.

"Some lunatic," snapped the professor. "England is famous for its eccentrics, and he may well be one of the weirder ones!"

"But why was he takin' notes about the chessmen?" asked Johnny in a worried tone. "What's he up to?"

The professor shrugged and looked crabby. "How the dickens would
I
know, John? Sometimes I think that you boys want me to be the world's greatest genius, who can explain the meaning of the universe to you. Look! When I returned the chessmen last week, a lot of reporters were there at the ceremony. The
Times
of London and a lot of other papers covered the event. Probably this guy has been assigned to write some sort of follow-up article. Now, do you suppose we can change the subject? Let's talk about Roman villas in Britain or Boudicca's revolt or
something!"

Johnny and Fergie shrugged, and they followed the professor to yet another room full of treasures. About half an hour later the three of them stepped out into the columned porch in front of the museum. It was late afternoon, and crowds of people were milling around, snapping photos or just chatting. With a sigh of contentment the professor reached into an inside pocket of his suit coat and took out a black cardboard case that was emblazoned with the Russian eagle. He plucked a black-and-gold Balkan Sobranie cigarette from the box, lit it, and blew a stream of smoke into the air. Now he launched into a boring speech about how polite the British people were and that they should act polite so the British would respect them. Suddenly the professor noticed that the little derby-hatted man had set up shop in the courtyard in front of the museum. He had a wooden folding table with stacks of leaflets on it. As the professor watched, tourists paused in front of the table, examined the leaflets, and bought them. A wooden bowl on the table was full of shillings, sixpences, and even pound notes. The little man seemed very pleased—his leaflets were selling like hotcakes.

With a sudden snort of indignation the professor ground his cigarette under his heel and stalked off toward the table. After giving the man a nasty look he snatched a leaflet from one pile and read the front page.

 

SECRETS OF THE ANCIENT CHESSMEN

A study of the mysterious ivory chessmen found over a century ago on the Isle of Lewis. Why were they stolen and then returned? Were they originally in the Great Pyramid? Can they be used to unlock the mysteries of Stonehenge? Why have the authorities tried to hide the importance of these occult objects, which may at one time have been buried on Mars—placed there by beings from outer space! Learn the truth as it has been found out by
Murgatroyd Freel, Ph.D.
Can you afford to neglect this earth-shaking book?

 

For a full minute the professor glared at the table full of leaflets. His face got redder and redder, and he scrunched the paper in his fist. Then he exploded. With a bloodcurdling yell he kicked over the table and wildly threw handfuls of the leaflets in all directions.
"You hornswoggling charlatan!"
he screeched, as the little frightened man backed farther and farther away.
"Get out of here! I'll have the law on you, so help me, I will!"

As the boys watched, the professor chased the little man toward the gate in the tall iron fence that surrounds the museum's grounds. Near the gate a couple of blue-uniformed guards grabbed the professor and led him, struggling, back into the courtyard. The crowd of tourists, who had enjoyed the spectacle, let out a mighty cheer, and the professor would have tipped his hat if his arms had been free. Instead he smiled weakly and nodded as the guards gave him a severe talking-to. Finally he was released. The officers told him he was not going to be charged with anything as long as he left the museum grounds immediately and did not come back. With a sheepish grin the professor led the boys out into Great Russell Street. They turned left and headed toward their hotel. As they walked along, Fergie could not resist making a comment.

"What was it you said before, Prof?" he asked with an innocent smile. "I mean, that stuff about being polite with the British? I'd like to hear some more about that."

The professor dug his hands into his pockets. "Just zip your lip, Byron!" he grumped. "You should learn to keep quiet until spoken to."

Johnny said nothing, but he silently told himself that this was going to be a very interesting vacation, if they managed to survive it.