The Clue of the Coiled Cobra, page 11
part #5 of Ken Holt Series
“When the state took over this land it was all crisscrossed by old trails,” he murmured, “and I seem to remember— No, it doesn’t show on this one. Wait a minute.”
He left the room and they could hear his footsteps climbing the stairs. He returned a few minutes later with an armful of dusty rolled-up blueprints. “Just thought of these old things up in the attic. They might help.”
The boys cleared a big desk at his direction, and then watched him unroll, glance at, and discard one blueprint after another.
“Here!” he said finally. “Help me get this thing flat.”
When the big blueprint’s corners had been weighted down with an inkwell, an ash tray, a ruler, and a book, the boys bent over it eagerly.
“This is a map?” Sandy asked dubiously.
The thin white lines all over the paper formed curves and symbols and patterns quite unlike the road and river markings they were accustomed to.
“It’s a large-scale surveyor’s chart,” Green explained. “An enlargement of one section of the regular park map —of this section here,” he added, walking to the wall and sketching a rectangle at one edge of the park map there. “The territory on that chart is only about six hundred acres, lying along State Route 17, the east boundary of the park—at about the midway point, here —for three-quarters of a mile, and extending west about a mile and a half to the far side of the Cave Hill picnic area.”
He returned to stand between the boys looking down at the chart. “All those curved lines indicate elevation, of course. This kind of a line here”—he pointed with his pipe—“marks a trail.”
Ken bent over to look closely at the spot Green indicated. “You mean that’s a trail entering the park from the east? But I thought the entrances were on the north and south sides of the park?”
“The main entrances are,” Green agreed. “This isn’t exactly a public entrance. It was never marked on the maps—it’s hardly worth marking, for that matter. It’s not much more than a trail, and it’s never been maintained beyond keeping it clear enough for fire fighters to get through if necessary.
“See, it follows the creek pretty much,” he went on, moving his pipe along the faint white line. “Enters the park right alongside the creek, climbs pretty rapidly through here, and comes out—still alongside the creek —into the picnic clearing at the base of Cave Hill.” He paused a moment. “I just thought the turns and twists in it might be what you boys are looking for.”
Ken and Sandy had been eagerly studying the trail as he spoke, comparing it in their mind with the curves of the cobra. They hadn’t needed Green’s final suggestion.
But when Ken finally looked up he shook his head. “It’s hard to tell,” he muttered. “That section there looks right, but—”
“I know,” Sandy agreed. “With all those other lines wandering around, crisscrossing the trail, it’s hard to tell.” He looked at the negative again, and then back at the chart.
“Why don’t you take the blueprint along and check it properly?” Green suggested.
“Could we?” Ken asked eagerly.
“Why not?” Green smiled. “It’s not so valuable I can’t lend it to you for a while—but on one condition, of course.”
“Anything you—”
“That when you bring it back you’ll give me a complete story of what you’re up to. I built roads for twenty-five years, but I never did see anybody trying to match one up to a snake before.”
“It probably doesn’t make any more sense than it sounds,” Ken said. “But if it does work out— Anyway, we promise you the story.”
Ken held the tightly rolled cylinder of the blueprint in his hand a few minutes later when Sandy snapped the convertible into life.
“Don’t spare the horses,” Ken said. “I have a feeling we’re getting somewhere.”
Sandy edged away from the curb, looked behind, and pulled the car in a sharp U-turn. At the corner he slowed down, looked both ways, gunned the car across and almost immediately applied the brakes.
“I said don’t spare the horses,” Ken said. “I didn’t say to make ‘em do tricks.”
“I know.” But Sandy crept forward for part of the block, then abruptly made another U-turn and headed back for the corner. “Look down the side street,” he said. “On the left as we cross.”
Ken shot him a quick glance before he leaned forward to obey. “Blue sedan?”
Sandy shook his head. “Just watch.” When they had crossed the intersection, he added, “See it?”
“I didn’t see anything—except a small delivery truck,” Ken said.
“That’s right. A delivery truck. Hiram’s Hennery, I think.”
“So? Did you think I wanted to press charges against them for having wet—?” Ken stopped. “Oh, I see,” he said, in another tone. “Your sixth sense is at work. You have seen a truck twice in one day, and therefore it has become highly suspicious.” He grinned. “Sorry, my friend, but I don’t think the one I just saw had any words painted on it at all—wet or dry.”
Sandy had passed Green’s house, turned right at the corner, and now turned right again. “O.K.” he said. “So I’m unduly suspicious. But I’m going around the block again, anyway.”
But that time the little truck was nowhere in sight.
Ken leaned back with an elaborate sigh. “And now, if it isn’t asking too much, do you suppose we could get back to the office and begin to study this chart?”
“All right—all right. A one-track mind, that’s what you’ve got.” Sandy let the car pick up speed.
But a few minutes later, when they entered the rear door of the Advance building, Sandy walked past the basement stairs and straight through the office to the front window. He looked out into the street for a moment, and then waved to Ken, who was waiting impatiently at the head of the stairs, to join him.
“Now what?” Ken asked, looking out at the nearly solid lines of parked cars along each sidewalk.
Sandy pointed. A small black delivery truck was backing into a snug parking space between two larger trucks, halfway down the block.
“Too bad,” Ken said, with mock regret, after studying it for a moment. “It’s the same kind of truck all right, but there’s no lettering on the side. I’m afraid you’ve got to face it. Hiram’s Hennery is innocent.”
Sandy touched the leather jacket over Ken’s arm. “Paint that comes off leather easily, also comes off anything else “
“But—”
“I told you the Rands would give up that blue sedan,” Sandy went on. “And furthermore, Hiram—if it was Hiram—was in and out of Andy’s in a great hurry. He didn’t stay in the lunchroom long enough to eat anything.”
“True, absolutely true,” Ken agreed. “But if you’ll remember, he came out with a big bag of sandwiches. He hadn’t gone in to eat.”
“True, absolutely true,” Sandy mocked. “He came out with—to use your own words—a big bag of sandwiches. Much too big for one man. Maybe not too big for two, though. And—”
“Hi, Sandy! Hi, Ken!” One of the Advance news—boys slammed through the door and came toward them. “I’ve been looking for you to—”
“Willie, do us a favor, will you?” Sandy said quickly.
“Huh? Sure. Especially if you—”
“Walk down the street past that little black truck down there. See if you can find out if there’s anybody in the back of it.”
Willie was puzzled but obliging. “Sure,” he said. “And if there is, I’ll ask “em to buy a chance on our raffle.” He grinned. “That’s what I was going to ask you. This raffle here—” He reached into his pocket.
“Later,” Sandy said firmly. “Go look in the truck first. If there’s nobody but a driver, O.K. But if there is somebody else, walk on around the block and come in the back way.”
“O.K.”
Willie slammed out through the door again. They watched his progress down the block, saw him stop and sell one of his tickets to a woman shopper, and then continue to the black truck. He stuck his head through its open window.
They could see him pull his raffle book out of his pocket and hand it through the opening. A moment later he stepped away from the truck, turned his back on the Advance, and disappeared out of sight around the next corner.
Ken and Sandy were waiting at the back door when he ran across the parking area.
“I sold ‘em three chances!” Willie’s round face was beaming. “One to the little man in overalls—the one in the driver’s seat. And one each to the two men in back. They sounded sore at me at first, but when I told ‘em all about the raffle—how it’s for the hospital wing and all—they changed their minds. Boy! Three chances!” He was so pleased he had forgotten his original puzzlement over the reason for his errand. “Now what about you two?” he went on. “You’re going to buy some too, aren’t you?”
“Sure.” Sandy’s hand reached toward his pocket.
“Sure,” Ken agreed.
“Gee, thanks!” Willie began to fill out the stubs. “I knew I could depend on you two. You’re always taking chances.”
Ken’s eyes met Sandy’s over Willie’s head. “Ain’t it the truth?” he murmured.
CHAPTER XII
THE STATION WAGON AGAIN
Willie ran off across the parking area with his now half-empty book of raffle tickets. Sandy looked down at the stubs of his and Ken’s tickets, and folded them carefully as if they were the most valuable things in the world. Ken whistled tunelessly, his eyes focused on space.
“Cozy,” Sandy said, watching his fingers crease the paper, “having the Rands still around.” He tucked the folded tickets into his shirt pocket.
Ken stopped whistling. “Very cozy.” He glanced over his shoulder toward the pressroom, from which issued the familiar odor of hot lead and the dull mechanical rumble of machinery in motion. “I’m glad Pop hires linotype operators and pressmen in large sizes,” he said. “If the Rands should decide to visit us here, they’d find we had reserves on hand. But somehow I don’t believe they’ll pay us a public call,” he added.
“I don’t either.”
“So let’s forget about them for a while and adjourn to the darkroom,” Ken said firmly. “I’d still like to know if the curves of Fenton’s snake and the curves of Mr. Green’s trail have more than a passing resemblance to each other.” At the head of the stairs he added over his shoulder, “Who knows? Soon we may actually have the kind of valuable information the Rands seem to think we’ve had all along.”
Half an hour later they turned off the enlarger and turned on the ceiling light. On the blueprint, which had been tacked flat on the enlarger easel, Ken had traced the entire snake. Now he looked down at his handiwork with satisfaction. The cobra’s head lay near Route 17, at the edge of the park, and its body looped and curved back into the area of the park itself.
“I knew it,” Ken said. “I knew this would work!”
“You call that working?” There was both scorn and regret in Sandy’s voice. “Exactly three curves of the snake coincide with three curves in the trail—and that small section of the trail can’t be more than five hundred feet long—out of a couple of miles,” he added.
“But those three curves are half the snake’s body,” Ken pointed out. “Look—all the way from those two big loops not far from the head to the tiny loop just above the tip of the tail. The only thing that worries me now,” he went on, “is that Fenton’s gone up this trail, found his money, and departed hours ago for parts unknown, while poor Richards watches the two main entrances.”
“I see. All your figuring is perfect, but—”
“Of course,” Ken interrupted thoughtfully, “if we found the place where the money had been hidden—after it was gone, I mean—at least we’d get a story. I suppose Fenton would be careful about leaving evidence around, but I think it’s worth going up there to investigate. Besides, maybe he hasn’t picked it up yet, for some reason.”
“For Pete’s sake!” Sandy slumped into a chair and stared at him. “When you once take hold of an idea, you certainly hang on, don’t you? Look!” He pointed dramatically to the blueprint. “That trail twists and winds back and forth about two hundred times. It’s only reasonable that the curves of the snake might happen to coincide with a couple of those twists. But that’s all it amounts to—it’s a coincidence!”
“But they match perfectly!”
“Oh, sure! I won’t argue with you on that. But just suppose for a minute you’re right—and that Fenton went to all the trouble of having this ring designed to follow those three little curves. Then what? You talk about investigating, but what are you going to investigate? Do you plan to dig up all the ground along both sides of those five hundred feet of trail?”
“Certainly not.” Ken sat down opposite him. “It’s clear to me that the three coinciding curves mark the general location and that the specific location is something Fenton could trust to his memory. Maybe he planted the money at the beginning of the spot where the snake and the trail coincide. Or maybe it’s at the end. Or maybe it’s right here”—he pointed—“where the tail of the snake turns right back on itself, and bisects that last curve. That gives us three possible locations.” He waited for Sandy to comment, and when the redhead remained silent he added, after a moment, “Well, it’s certainly better than having to search the whole park. Unless, of course, you have a better idea.”
Sandy ignored the sarcasm of the last words. “As a matter of fact, I have a swell idea. I just don’t have any evidence to support it. And I like evidence,” he added pointedly.
“If your idea’s so good, let’s hear it.”
“Well,” Sandy said slowly, “I’ve been waiting all along for somebody—Richards, say—to suggest that Fenton hid his money in one of the caves of Cave Hill. It seems to me—”
Ken didn’t let him get any further. He was on his feet. “Of course! Caves! They’re a natural hiding place.” He was bending over the blueprint again, seeking out the spot he had looked at only casually before—the spot marked Cave Hill Picnic Area.
“The snake’s got nothing to do with the caves,” Sandy warned him, still in his chair. “It was the first thing I checked for, but it’s no good. The snake ends way below Cave Hill, the way we’ve got it placed to match the curves in the trail.”
“O.K.” Ken said. “So I’ve been wrong all along. The curves are pure coincidence. The caves sound like a much better possibility.” He straightened up. “Let’s go investigate ‘em right now.”
Sandy shook his head. “You speak with the blissfulness of ignorance. There are approximately one hundred and fifty caves in that area—from a size about big enough for a rabbit to a size that would hold the state capitol and then some. They’re scattered around all over a heavily wooded hill. It would take days to find them all—weeks, probably. Some of the big ones have been fitted up with lights. Some are so dangerous—from falling rock and stuff—that they’ve been blocked up for years.” He shook his head again. “Fenton may have been stalling around for days before picking up his money, but I don’t think he’s going to wait long enough for us to go through all those caves and find the particular one he used—if any.”
Ken took three long strides, found himself at the wall of the small darkroom, and turned to stride three steps in the other direction.
“You’re just manufacturing difficulties,” he said. “First of all, we can eliminate the caves that have been equipped with lights. Presumably they’re open to the public and visited regularly. Fenton wouldn’t try to hide so much as a penny in a place like that.”
“Fine.” Sandy eyed him sidewise. “I think there are about a dozen of those. That leaves us only about one hundred and forty to locate and explore.”
Ken paced to the end of the darkroom and back once more. “All right,” he said finally. “A hundred and forty —so what? If we eliminate the barricaded ones—” He stopped. “When did the barricades go up, do you know? Recently?”
“Not very recently, but I’m not sure just when. I suppose a few at a time were blocked off when they became dangerous.”
Ken studied the floor. “I suppose we wouldn’t dare eliminate any of them, in that case. A barricade probably wouldn’t stop Fenton, anyway. He might even prefer it.” He sighed and lowered himself into his chair. “If only the snake fitted some trail in the cave section… .”
“Sure. If only.” Sandy grinned briefly. “Or if only we could trust Fenton to have marked his cave with a nice big X.”
There was silence in the little darkroom for the space of two long minutes.
“You don’t suppose,” Ken said finally, “that somewhere along the trail—along the snake section of the trail, that is—there’s a secret trail going off that heads directly to some cave? It might be marked in a special way that wouldn’t ordinarily be noticed—notches on trees, or stones at regular intervals, or something. But Fenton could follow it because he’d know where it started. How does that sound?”
“Frankly, a little too much like Edgar Allan Poe to be good. Of course,” Sandy added slowly, “it makes sense that Fenton should have marked the location of his cave somehow—always provided he used a cave, that is. If he didn’t know just how to get to it, when he was ready to go back for his loot, he’d be in almost the same spot we are. The way those entrances are scattered around—and all overgrown and hidden behind bushes and trees—he’d have trouble finding a place five minutes after he’d left it. Let alone five years later.”
