Chapter 13 #3
Katherine shook her head as she watched him, then stuck her head back outside the closet door to call quietly to Imogene, who was now peering closely at several strips of paper she had just withdrawn from the breast pocket of Mr. Splint’s suit jacket.
“What do you have there, Imogene?”
“Not much. They’re blank except for a funny little watermark,” she said, shoving (most of) the little papers hastily back where she’d gotten them. “Definitely for messenger pigeons, though; the right size and shape for their harnesses.”
“Well, I’ve got something.”
“What’s that?”
“A hidden room. C’mon. It looks dark, though.”
“Aha.” Mrs. Chrysler brandished a little matchbox she’d pulled from the recumbent Splint’s pants pocket and shuffled over to join her friend in the disguised passageway, picking up her yarn bag on the way and slinging it over her shoulder.
Behind the inner wall, she lit a match and cupped it with a hand.
The hidden room was cramped and narrow and low-ceilinged.
A globe lantern hung inside, glinting in the pale light from the open closet door, and Mrs. Chrysler lit it from the match.
A long line of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves presented itself as the light grew stronger.
“Well, will you look at that,” she said, passing her fingers over rows of leather-bound ledgers, which stretched back decades according to the dates on their spines.
“Say what you will about the Splints, they appear to be heckin’ good filers. ”
“Quick,” Katherine directed, “find anything that might have to do with the convent or the rest home.” She began to scan the spines herself as Mrs. Chrysler did the same.
“Here,” her friend said presently. “It looks like it starts here, but—” She strained to reach the target of her desire up on a high shelf.
Katherine’s long arms retrieved the indicated box with ease, its lid thick with dust, and there it was, suddenly in her hands, a yellowed cardboard folio that upon opening, revealed the contract—the contract—bearing Ruben’s forged and notarized signature of one Ernestina Jinglebottom.
“Here it is,” she said reverently; then a bit glumly, “If only we’d gotten it all those years ago instead of today. ”
“If only,” Mrs. Chrysler said. “But we’ve got it now.
” She took the folio gently and placed it carefully in her bag.
“It might have been enough back then, if a sorcerer had been able to examine the stamp like Sister Agatha wanted. But I’m not even sure now whether they could have determined it was a fraud.
That loophole nonsense Ruben talked about. ”
Katherine nodded.
“So today we need more,” Mrs. Chrysler said.
Katherine continued to riffle through the box, and, finding nothing of note, slipped it back on the shelf and withdrew the nearest, oldest-looking ledger, marked “EHAALC.”
“This might help,” she said. The columns in the ledger showed output in weight and income in gold, aggregated daily, weekly, and monthly, balanced against expenses with vague annotations.
“This has got to be the plop record. Look, ‘output’ is organized by ‘seam’ as well as date. Must be how they keep track of the mining.”
“Looks it. So, that’s the first one of the plop books, is it?
Bag it.” Mrs. Chrysler held her yarn bag open for Katherine to slip it in.
“Now, let’s just find the most recent one…
” They followed the advancing dates until they came to present day, but the book that would have held the current year was missing. “Gah! Where is it? Look around, Katty.”
Katherine and Mrs. Chrysler searched the stacks hurriedly.
Misfiling seemed rather out of character for Angelo Splint, Katherine imagined, so it had to be somewhere obvious.
And, sure enough, she found it lying on a dusty patch of empty shelf near the door, as if cast there hastily.
Each full page was signed neatly at the bottom by Angelo Splint.
“He must have just been writing in it, right when we knocked,” Mrs. Chrysler said.
“Here, look.” Tucked inside the book, at the first empty page, was a strip of messenger pigeon paper, stamped with its own peculiar little watermark, same as the one in Angelo’s pocket, and inked with a curt set of numbers in rigid, spidery script.
Katherine compared the message with the last entry in the book, and it matched the “output” values listed, in smoother, less cramped writing, under “Seam 11” and “Seam 12.”
“Bag it,” Mrs. Chrysler said.
“The whole ledger?” Katherine asked. “He’s sure to miss it when he wakes up, isn’t he?”
“All right. The pigeon paper then, and one of last month’s pages. He won’t miss that as readily.”
Gingerly, Katherine tore one of last month’s pages from the ledger and tucked it in her friend’s bag, along with the watermarked message, then replaced the book carefully on its shelf to recreate how she had found it.
They extinguished the globe lamp, secured the hidden panel behind them, and massaged the heavy coats back into position before peeking out of the closet door to be sure the way was clear. Mr. Splint was still splayed, unconscious, on his small sofa, looking rather pathetic.
“We can’t leave him like this, Imogene,” Katherine said. “It would seem suspicious.”
“All right. Let’s wait a moment, see if he comes to on his own.” A few minutes ticked by and nothing happened. Mrs. Chrysler began to get antsy, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
“Wish I had some smelling salts or something.”
“I’ve got the plop.”
“Well, that might work.”
Katherine carefully withdrew the plop from her bag and undressed the tissue paper that was helping to keep its stench under wraps. She wafted the rock under Splint’s nose. He began to stir, and she hastily put the lump away.
“What? What happened?” he asked blearily, slowly opening his eyes.
“Doctor’s been and gone, dearie,” Mrs. Chrysler lied smoothly. “How are you feeling?”
“I don’t remember a doctor.”
“You fainted. He treated you and left, said for us to keep an eye on you till you woke up.”
“What about the charge?”
“He’ll bill you.”
Mr. Splint looked uncertain. “What time is it?”
“I don’t know, dearie. I’m not a pocket watch.”
The man, still pale and sweaty, pulled himself to sitting and withdrew his own watch from his pocket.
He cast his eyes about in alarm. “They’ll be back soon,” he said, and stood, drawing the blind back to look out the office window at the bay of cubicles.
“They can’t see me like this.” He began to smooth his clothes and hair in great agitation.
“Why don’t you go splash some water on your face,” Katherine suggested calmly, “and we’ll come back some other time when you’re feeling better?”
“Oh, but, ladies,” Angelo Splint protested, obviously sensing a sale slipping from his fingers, “that’s not necessary. I’ll be fine. Really. Thanks to you.” He looked around uncertainly.
“Yes, it’s a good thing we were here,” Mrs. Chrysler said. “But we really should go now. And you should get an exterminator.”
Splint looked about him with even greater unease, eyeing the ficus in particular with discernible trepidation. “Yes. I suppose I should.”
“Don’t worry. You haven’t seen the last of us, I assure you.”
“Well?” Ruben lifted his bottom from the brick wall with effort as his two companions emerged from 1402A Merchants Lane. Splint was on their heels, though, still with a protesting expression.
“It’s lunchtime, Brother Hoode,” Mrs. Chrysler said loudly for the benefit of their escort when they were outside. “Why don’t we get some? Thank you, Mr. Splint. Hope you feel better soon.”
Mr. Splint dabbed his brow with his handkerchief and gave her a pained but thankful look. “Yes. I’ll get that exterminator. Please return soon.”
“Will do. Come, kitties.”
“Ye gods, what did you do to him?” Ruben marveled when they were well away and the agitated Splint had returned inside.
“Nothing much,” Mrs. Chrysler said dismissively. “Convinced him he’d been bitten by a venomous spider. Made him faint. Rooted around in his private files. Hardly anything. He’s grateful to us for helping him.”
Katherine beamed despite herself. It was just like old times.
“But that’s not the best part,” Mrs. Chrysler continued. She thumped her bag meaningfully. “Let’s get somewhere we can talk.”
“Back to the Midden?”
Katherine shrugged. “Might as well.”