The Mysterious Code (8 page)

“It wasn’t a second. It was more than five minutes, and, anyway, Martin Belden, I know what I saw.”

Brian had gone ahead to see if he could discover anything. He ran his flashlight around the door, then under the window.

“Someone was here,” he said. “There are footprints, two sets of them. What on earth would anyone want to be snooping around here for? They must have kept watch on us and waited for us to go. Let’s get Regan and come back. Mart, you take Trixie home.”

“Nobody is going to take me home, Brian Belden,” Trixie said. “I’m going right along with you. Why do we have to get Regan? We’re not sissies. Let’s go on through the woods down to Glen Road. Where are Diana and Honey?”

“They were so far ahead they didn’t hear you whistle,” Brian said. “They’re probably at home by now. All right, Trixie, if you say you’re going with us, you will. Some girls just never seem to know their place.”

“And some boys think they know everything,” Trixie said and strode off through the woods, the boys close after her.

There was definite evidence that someone had gone over the path recently. Their steps were fresh in the banked snow. The boys followed the path till it opened onto Glen Road. Then, dejected, they turned back home.

“That’s a warning for us,” Trixie said. “Someone has read in the
Sun
about the jewel box and the antiques we have in the clubhouse. We’ll have to guard them night and day.”

“You know we can’t do that,” Jim said.

“We
can
, with a burglar alarm,” Trixie said. “One that would sound in Regan’s quarters, maybe.”

“Say, I’ll ask him about it—right away!” Jim said. “See you tomorrow.”

“Wait a minute, Jim,” Trixie said. “We’d better not say anything about what happened tonight except maybe to Regan. Moms might not want us to work at the club at night if she thought anyone might try to break in. We can keep a sharp lookout ourselves.”

When they got back to Crabapple Farm the house was nearly dark. The family had gone to bed. “We don’t have to answer any questions tonight,” Trixie said, relieved.

The next morning after breakfast Mrs. Belden said, “Trixie, I have a book Mrs. Vanderpoel wants. It’s about herbs, and she’s going to try to grow some indoors this winter. Will you please take the book over to her? Take Bobby with you on his sled, please.”

“Yes, Trixie, take me, I want a ride!” Bobby cried and went to get his coat and cap.

“All right, Moms,” Trixie said, “but I thought it would be a good chance today to go out and try to locate some more furniture for the boys to repair, and maybe list some of the antiques we want to borrow to exhibit at our show.”

“It is possible that Mrs. Vanderpoel may let you exhibit some of her antiques,” Mrs. Belden said. “Don’t you remember? Her house is full of them. She’s lived in that one place for ages. Her parents, and their parents, too, lived there before her.”

“I don’t know why I didn’t think of her,” Trixie said. “Hurry, Bobby, let’s go.”

Mrs. Vanderpoel’s home was of yellow brick. The bricks were small handmade ones, brought over from Holland by early Dutch settlers. The house was surrounded by trees, on a wandering road that led from Glen Road back about a mile through the woods, to the fringe of the game preserve Mr. Wheeler had recently bought.

“Giddyap, Trixie!” Bobby called. He imagined she was his trusty black horse carrying his sled over the snow. Trixie galloped on at his bidding, and, when rosy-cheeked old Mrs. Vanderpoel opened her back door to her knock, Trixie was too breathless to speak for a moment.

“Come in, children,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said. “There are some oatmeal cookies—I’ve just finished baking. Sit down here beside Brom, Bobby, and I’ll give you a glass of milk. There, there, Brom, these are the Belden children from Crabapple Farm.”

An old man sat at the table, his face almost hidden in a bush of whiskers.

“Are you Rip van Winkle?” Bobby asked, as he scrambled into a chair and filled his mouth with a big cooky.

The old man laughed till he shook. “No, sir, Bobby, I’m not,” he said. “I’m not Ichabod Crane either,” he added, in a firmer voice. Trixie and Mrs. Vanderpoel had gone into another room. Brom was shy, but not with little boys.

“I know you’re not Ichabod Crane,” Bobby said. “He was as thin as a skeleton and you’re—”

“I’m certainly not skinny,” the old man said. “My name is Brom—just Brom. There’s another name, too, but it’s a long Dutch name and you wouldn’t remember it.”

“It’s Vanderheidenbeck,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said to Trixie in a whisper. “He’d close up like a clam if he knew we were listening. Stay right here with me behind the door, Trixie. When Brom talks it is worth listening.”

“I couldn’t get skinny,” Brom went on, “the way Mrs. Vanderpoel feeds me. When I get hungry I just rap at her door. How’d you find out about Rip van Winkle, Bobby?”

“ ’Cause Sleepyside isn’t very far from Sleepy Hollow,” Bobby said. “The story’s in all the books.”

“Is that so?” old Brom wondered. “Is that so? I can tell you stories you’ll never find in any books, Bobby, and they’re all true. The Hudson River Valley and the Catskill Mountains are full of witches and ghosts and goblins—it just takes a certain kind of eyes to be able to see them.”

“Do you have that kind of eyes?” Bobby asked.

“I do,” old Brom answered. “Listen—you’ve never heard of No-mah-ka-ta, the witch who lives on top of the highest mountains in the Catskills, have you?”

“No, sir,” said Bobby. “Is she a
real
witch?”

“Yes, indeed,” Brom said. “In the morning she lets the day out of the dark cave where it’s been all night. At night No-mah-ka-ta puts the day back in the cave and everything is black as night.”

“An’ the owls come out,” Bobby said.

“That they do, Bobby,” old Brom said. “But when No-mah-ka-ta wants light in the sky at night she hangs out a new moon.”

“What does she do with the old ones?” Bobby asked, his eyes as big as saucers.

“She cuts them up into stars,” Brom said.

“She must be a good witch,” Bobby said.

“No,” Brom said thoughtfully, “I’ve seen her when she was good and mad.”

“You really
saw
the witch?” Bobby asked.

“That’s right,” Brom said. “I’ve seen her right there on top of her mountain spinning clouds and flinging them to the four winds. Of course, some people would say it was just the mist I saw, blown by the wind.”

“I like the wind,” Bobby said.

“Yes,” Brom said, “the soft west wind. But No-mah-ka-ta spins wild winds, too, when she is cross—black winds that bring rain, rain that floods the earth and sweeps away houses.”

“Brom will go on like that for an hour,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said, “as long as there is a little child to tell his stories to. What are you looking at, child?”

“Your wonderful, wonderful old furniture,” Trixie said as Mrs. Vanderpoel led her into the big family room. “That little melodeon—may I touch it?”

“You sit right down and play on it, Trixie,” said Mrs. Vanderpoel, turning the stool to the right height. “It has a pretty tone, hasn’t it? Land, you’ve seen it a
dozen times, and the rest of the furniture, too.”

“It’s different now, though,” Trixie said. “I’ve always thought it was beautiful, but now …”

She told Mrs. Vanderpoel about the antique show they were planning. She told of the reason for the show, of the need for money for little children far across the oceans.

She didn’t have enough courage to ask Mrs. Vanderpoel if they could exhibit some of her heirlooms. She did not need to ask. Mrs. Vanderpoel offered them to the Bob-Whites.

“You say you only want to borrow them overnight and for one day?” she asked.

“That’s all,” Trixie told her. “I’ll come after them with Tom and Regan myself and watch to see that there isn’t a scratch on them.”

“Mercy, I don’t worry about that,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said. “Children have played around my furniture for several generations. They’ve never done any harm that a little rubbing with cabinet-maker’s wax won’t cure. Just tell me what you want for the show and I’ll have it ready and shined. I’m going to give you this small carved oak lap desk,” she said. “It belonged to my father. I’d like to think the money for it would be used to help children.”

“That’s wonderful!” Trixie exclaimed. “Why, our
tickets won’t go begging when people hear about these beautiful things!”

“There are some pieces in the lean-to kitchen, too,” Mrs. Vanderpoel went on. “I’ve been wondering what to do with them. They need a touch here and there to repair them, and from what you tell me Brian and Mart and Jim can do that. Brom would do it if he could, but he’s forgetful.”

“I’ve never seen him before,” Trixie said. “I’ve heard of him, though, but I didn’t think he was real. People say he’s another Rip van Winkle.”

“He lives in a small cottage on the property that used to belong to his family, a very old Dutch family, older than my own. The wooded land is part of Mr. Wheeler’s game preserve now. He is so proud he never asks for anything. Sometimes, though, when he gets hungry, he comes to my door. I am proud to be able to offer him my hospitality.”

As she finished talking they walked back into the kitchen. Bobby was sitting on Brom’s knee. The old man’s arm was tight around him. Bobby seemed to be his dear new-found friend.

“Mr. Brom knows the wonderfulest stories,” Bobby explained, “about witches an’—well, one witch anyway. Mr. Brom is goin’ to come and see me some day.”

“Then you really
are
his friend, Bobby,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said.

“Please do come to see us,” Trixie said. “We’d all love to have you come, Mr. Brom.” Through the window Trixie could see the snow. “It’s snowing hard, Mrs. Vanderpoel,” she said. “I think Bobby and I had better start home. Do you think we could take the lap desk on the sled? I want Mart to see it, and the rest of the Bob-Whites. Maybe I should wait till later.”

“No, go right ahead and take it, Trixie. Brom, do you think you could carry it out to the sled for Trixie?”

The old man jumped up quickly. “I’ll call that young man who’s shoveling the walk to help you settle it on the sled,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said to Brom. “Young man, come here, please!” she said as she opened the door.

“Now, Trixie, come and I’ll show you the things in the lean-to shed—just a once-over look so you’ll know what to tell the boys,” Mrs. Vanderpoel said.

“You be careful of that desk now,” Bobby warned the big boy as he lowered Mrs. Vanderpoel’s gift onto Bobby’s lap. “It’s a anteek for the Bob-Whites to sell at their show.”

“For how much?” the big boy asked.

“About a hunnerd dollars I guess,” Bobby boasted.
“An’ that’s not all. There’s lots of other things Mrs. Vanderpoel’s goin’ to let the Bob-Whites take for their show next month. They’re worth zillions of dollars.”

Old Brom bent down and rubbed his hand over the oak desk. “It’s pretty,” he said.

“Yeah,” the big boy said, thoughtfully. “Yeah, it is, now, ain’t it?” He propped the snow shovel against a tree and ran off across the yard and into the woods.

It was snowing heavily, but Trixie started off briskly on the mile journey home. It was drifting on the wood path, but she knew the going would be better when she reached Glen Road.

“Sing me a song, Trixie,” Bobby said. “This desk is sorta heavy.”

“Pull it up farther on your lap, Bobby,” Trixie said, “over your knees.”

Then she sang at the top of her voice, “Over the river and through the woods …” Bobby joined in the chorus. It was silent and near dark in the big woods, and their voices echoed back.

“That’s enough of that singing!” a voice called out to them, and Trixie stopped, frozen in fright. Three men came through the undergrowth and stopped in her path. Their faces were covered with stocking tops drawn tight to conceal their features.

Bobby thought it was great fun. “Robbers!” he cried. “I’ll get you!” He made a snowball to throw at them.

“Cut it out, kid!” one of the men said. “We ain’t playin’. We mean business.”

As he spoke the other two seized the sled, upset desk and Bobby, then dragged the sled and desk off through the woods.

“I couldn’t hold on to it, Trixie,” Bobby cried, tears mixing with the snow that covered his face. “They stealed your desk! Honest, I couldn’t hold on to it.”