Walls within Walls (4 page)

“May I help you?” she said, peering at the children over pointy glasses. She rubbed her lips together, as if making sure her lipstick was covering all parts of her mouth.

“We need to return this,” CJ said. He expected her to be surprised and thankful. But he didn't expect the reaction he got.

The woman flipped open the book. Thankfully, she didn't look at the inside title page, where someone had written in pen. She simply typed the title into her computer, as if this were a routine matter. When the overdue information came up on her screen, she sat there for a long minute, reading. Then she closed the book and gave the children a meaningful stare.

“Let's see,” she said. “This was due on April twenty-ninth, 1937, and today is September first, 2010, so that would be three thousand eight hundred fourteen weeks when we charged two cents per week.” Her fingers moved quickly over the calculator. “Your fine is seventy-six dollars and twenty-eight cents, and be happy I'm not adjusting that for inflation.”

“Are you kidding me?” said Brid. “It's not ours; we're just returning it! It looks like a valuable book, and my brother thought we should bring it back. We shouldn't have to pay this!”

“So you're saying you found this? This is a rare edition, so I'm sure the police would be interested in knowing where you ‘found' it,” Miss Cassidy said.

CJ was dumbfounded. “Let me get this straight. We do a good deed and return something, and now we have to pay for it?”

Brid piped in, “What if we were just to take it back home, and then we could keep both the book and our money. You don't make any sense.”

“Well, you could leave with the book,” the woman snipped, “but then I would have to call security, who would in turn call the police. Or you could return it, pay the fine, and collect the package that was to be given to the people who returned it. Pick your poison,” she added, snapping her gum and punching some keys on her computer.

“Package of what?” asked CJ.

The woman didn't look up from her screen as she replied. “When Mr. Post borrowed this book seventy-three years ago, he left something behind at the checkout counter. According to our records—which are impeccable—he left word that the package should be given to whoever returned the book, whether he or someone else. His wife was very generous to this library, so we couldn't just ignore his simple request. Now that you are returning the book, I guess you are entitled to the package—if, that is, the fines are paid up.” She pushed up her glasses and waited.

CJ said, “Ah, we need a minute here.” He motioned to his sister to step into the hallway.

“She is just trying to get our money,” said Brid.

“Either that, or she is playing some game with us.”

“We don't have that sort of cash anyway,” said Brid.

CJ looked at the floor.

“Do we?” Brid asked.

“Mom gave me ninety dollars today to buy two sets of Saint James's school uniform.”

“What if you bought only one uniform?”

“Hello, did you hear me say I only have ninety dollars? One uniform is forty-five dollars, and the fine is seventy-six dollars and twenty-eight cents.”

Brid was silent.

“Brid, did you bring some money?”

“C'mon, I have to get my uniform, too!”

“You are so busted. Give it up. We'll both just have one uniform,” CJ said.

“And we'll both be doing laundry every night,” Brid replied.

They grinned at each other and returned to the woman at the desk.

“Good thing you came back. I'd hate to have to call security,” she said.

“Aren't you curious where we found this book?” Brid asked.

“Not at all,” she said, though the kids didn't believe
her. How strange it was that they were about to fork over so much money for someone to take a rare book off their hands.

Miss Cassidy took their cash and disappeared into another office. Ten, then twenty minutes ticked by, and the children wondered if they had been duped.

Just as Brid was about to go looking for her, the woman returned, holding a package the size of a large book. It was wrapped in yellowed paper and red-and-white string, the type a bakery wraps its boxes in. She looked reluctant to give it to the children.

“Listen, kids, I'm not looking to make any friends here, but there is something you two should know. Something fishy is going on with the Post estate. An elderly man has been here many times over the years requesting this, and believe me, I'd much prefer to give it to a gentleman than you two. But he never had the book, and these instructions are crystal clear,” she said, nodding at her computer screen. “No
Treasure Island
, no package.” She shrugged.

“Who else knows about the package?” CJ asked.

“How should I know?” Miss Cassidy said snippily. “Just some old guy, says he is a relative of the Post family. It's possible that someone working here let it slip that this package was here. I have to say, something about giving this to you children doesn't seem right either.” She sniffed. “What's going on here?”

“We don't know,” said Brid. “We really don't know.”

 

Sitting on the steps of the magnificent library, Brid held the package to her chest. Something felt sinister in the air, and everyone around her suddenly seemed suspicious. The guy selling hot dogs was looking around too much. A construction crew taking a lunch break acted like spies in a movie.

Brid said, “Patrick was the one who found the book. Let's go home and open the package there so he can see it.”

“Are you kidding me? Since when do you care so much about Pat's feelings?” CJ said. “Nobody is looking at us. Let's open it now.”

“CJ, something is telling me to go home,” Brid said ominously.

“Nobody is watching, and nobody is thinking about
some fraidy-cat nine-year-old and her package. Open it!”

“I'm not afraid,” Brid said through clenched teeth. “I'm cautious. Can we at least go somewhere discreet?” She walked over to the north end of the stairs, at the base of a giant cement urn above the lion statues. She sat down and gingerly began pulling back the brown paper, which was glued down. “It looks like a seventy-year-old loaf of bread from the bakery,” she joked nervously.

“Yeah, that we paid seventy-six dollars and twenty-eight cents for!” CJ said, feeling a little guilty about making his sister do something against her will. “Look how yellow the glue marks are.”

“Probably from before the days of Scotch tape,” Brid muttered.

“Actually, Scotch tape came along in 1930, so I'm not sure why Mr. Post didn't use it,” said CJ.

“Only you and Mr. Scotch would know that.”

“Actually the guy who invented Scotch tape was named Richard Drew. Can you open that thing a little faster?”

Brid was never really surprised about the facts CJ had in his brain. She sometimes thought it was like having a computer follow her around.

“Brid, pick up the pace!”

Irritated by her bossy brother, Brid pulled what seemed to be another book from the packaging, but something metal fell out, too, clanging its way down the steps. The object stopped falling when it landed near the giant ped
estal that held one of the stone lions. CJ went barreling after it.

“CJ,” Brid called to him. “Here's a note from Mr. Post! I mean, I think it is, and it's addressed to whoever has this package! That's us! And this letter is written on the same stationery the other note was written on.”

CJ ran back up the stairs, panting and holding the metal object. “What other note? What are you talking about?”

“I'm saying there is a note inside this book that's written on the same stationery the other note was on, the note that said we should return
Treasure Island
.” Brid held up a yellowed piece of paper and a slender leather-bound book. “Listen to this,” she said, reading aloud.

“So,” said Brid, disappointment in her voice, “we paid all that money to read poems about New York City? How boring! And who are Hughes and Millay?”

“They're poets. I guess they're some of the poets in this book,” CJ said as he flipped through the pages. “But this letter says it's a puzzle that leads to his treasure.”

“You mean his treasure was never found? That was seventy years ago; of course it was found.” Brid's voice was rising.

“Mr. Post said these poems are about places in New York that he liked to visit with his children,” said CJ, still flipping pages. The book seemed to contain just a few poems, each printed in an ornate script. “And those places will lead to his treasure. We just have to find them.”

“Don't you think someone has already solved the mystery?” Brid asked.

“Maybe not. They didn't have this book, and they didn't have this,” CJ said dramatically as he slowly unfolded his fingers from the metal object that had rolled down the steps. It was a large brass key. “Mr. Post's collections were famous. If someone found them, people would know about it. Honestly, Brid, I think this was never solved, and all because…” His voice trailed off.

“All because his kids didn't return his library book?” Brid asked.

“Maybe it's really that simple.”

“That'll teach his kids to do their chores.” Brid laughed. “But why would he make things so complicated when he wanted his kids to have their inheritance anyway?”

“I don't know. I guess he just wanted them to obey him or something. I mean, it makes sense now why he wouldn't want the walls of the apartments to be renovated. He obviously needed the spaces behind the walls.”

“So you think the treasure is in the walls?” Brid asked. Then, changing the subject, she said, “I wonder what Eloise and Julian were like when they were our ages. And I wonder what happened to them.”

“I wonder why they never returned that book.”

“We don't always do what we're asked. I get that,” Brid replied.

“I wonder what this key is for,” CJ muttered. “You know who we need to ask, right?”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Brid said.

“We've got to get to them before they go back to boarding school,” said CJ.

When they returned home, Ray, the afternoon elevator man, was on duty. His thick eyebrows grew straight across his face and touched in the middle, as if someone had drawn a hairy gray line above his eyes. Brid and CJ quickly returned to the apartment and collected Patrick, who was playing with his Legos, looking bored. Then they summoned the elevator again.

“Take us to the Williamsons, please,” said Brid when Ray appeared.

“They expecting you?” is what Ray asked, but because his words all ran together, it sounded like, “Theyespecktinyou?”

The kids had started to call Ray's talk the “uniword,” a sentence all pushed into one long word. So when CJ
answered, “Not sure,” he said, “Nahsure.”

Apparently that was good enough for Ray. He rotated the round brass throttle to the right to engage the elevator gears, and they lifted off.

On the south side of the building—the fourteenth floor—Ray rotated the wheel left, pushed the sliding brass door right, and leaned on the lever to finally pull back the wooden door to reveal the Williamsons' apartment.

“Haveaniceday,” came the uniword, and in an instant Ray was gone.

The Williamsons' apartment, like many others, used the space right up to the elevator door as part of their entrance. So when the elevator door opened, the Smithforks found themselves immediately in someone else's home—someone who wasn't expecting them.

This apartment was much grander than theirs. The walls were paneled in wood that smelled like oil. There were statues that seemed to belong in a museum. This was not a home where footballs were tossed around. Pat's eyes grew wide and frightened, and he motioned back toward the elevator, pointing his finger to indicate he thought they should leave before they were found out.

“Hello?” Brid called softly. She wished Ray hadn't left them, and that she could go back home and call the Williamsons properly, but it was too late for that. A small white dog came running at them with the ferocious bravery of a rottweiler. It stood about ten inches
off the ground and appeared to have fur that was blown dry. It jumped at Patrick with its teeth bared, easily reaching his thighs.

“Whoa, killer!” said Pat, raising his arms and stepping backward, away from the tiny beast. It was a bad move. He bumped into a stone pedestal that held an enormous and expensive-looking stone statue. The statue fell forward. For one horrifying second, it leaned, as they all realized it was about to smash on the unforgiving stone floor.

“Watch it!” yelled CJ. He dove toward the statue, grabbing it in a bear hug and landing on his knees. All three children exhaled in relief, and the little dog stopped yapping and ran back down the hall, his poofy fur forming a halo around his head.

Just as CJ was about to say something sharp to Pat about watching his clumsy self, Pat preempted him by giggling. Brid soon joined him, as they both realized that CJ was hugging a bone-white, headless, naked woman made of stone. It was at this moment that a woman came padding down the hall toward them. She did not look pleased.

“Hello?” CJ said in a meek voice, unsure where to begin explaining.

The woman was dressed in a gray-and-white maid's uniform. Her silvery hair was constricted inside a hairnet. Her legs were thick inside her stockings, and her feet were
covered in the same blue surgical booties that the Williamson children had worn to the Smithfork apartment. Brid seemed to remember Lily saying their housekeeper was named Sonia.

“Where are you going with that statue?” she hissed in an accusing voice.

CJ was trying to get off the floor while not dropping the headless naked woman. “Um, my brother fell into the pedestal when the dog came running at him, and he knocked the statue over, and I caught it.”

The woman looked skeptical. Brid tried to lift the statue out of CJ's arms, but it was heavier than it looked. “A little help here?” Brid asked the maid.

“Who let you people into this home?” she asked as Pat came to the aid of Brid and CJ. It was then that the maid realized how close the statue was to being dropped, and she grabbed it. “I asked, who let you children into this home?”

“We showed ourselves in. We live on the other side of the wall. We wanted to talk to Lukas and Lily,” Brid said meekly.

The woman raised eyeglasses from a chain around her neck to get a better look at the Smithforks. Brid felt raggedy and underdressed.

“Lukas and Lily came over to our house unannounced this morning. We thought it worked both ways,” CJ said. “We are really sorry. We thought it would be okay.”

The woman's face softened a notch. “Really, they
didn't call first?” she asked. “I'm surprised. I will speak to them about that right now.”

“Wait.” CJ didn't mean to get Lukas and Lily in trouble, but the maid had already turned to a small panel near the door, and pressed Lukas's name on an LED screen. The screen seemed so out of place, so cutting-edge and modern compared to the antiques, but it did the trick.

Lukas's voice emerged from the wall.
“Oui, madame?”

Unbelievable, CJ thought, when the maid replied to this in French. They speak French, and they aren't even French. What is up with this family?

“
Toute de suite
,” came the reply. “I'll be right there.”

Soon they heard the familiar sound of padding feet, and Lukas appeared.

“What a grand surprise!” he said.

“Yes, well, we were surprised, too!” Patrick said. Lukas just looked at him quizzically.

Brid had never heard kids talk the way the Williamsons did, who weren't kidding around. “We were just hanging out at home, and we thought if you had a moment you could show us around a little. We haven't seen the servants' rooms you told us about, and we'd like to.”

“Of course, that would be a real pleasure,” Lukas replied. “Let me get Lily. She would love to see you again. Sonia, do you have the keys for downstairs storage?” he asked the maid. “Also, we will be needing shoes,” he added. “Something casual, such as loafers, would be
perfect. I'm going to take our new neighbors to see the bowels of the building.”

While Brid was still wondering how someone their age could use the word
bowels
to describe the basement, Sonia went away and returned with Lily, keys, and some shoes. She placed the shoes directly in front of the elevator so that the children would take only one step in the home while wearing them.

 

The servants' quarters, comprised of a long, dark row of rooms, were on a dusty and deserted floor, halfway underground. Many of the rooms had padlocks on them. Brid imagined how simply the servants must have lived compared to the splendid surroundings of the people they served.

“Does anyone live down here anymore?” CJ asked.

“No,” said Lukas. “It really was a different time. This hall used to be filled with drivers, cooks, nannies, butlers, and housekeepers. Now it's filled with people's belongings.” At the room on the end, he held up an antique-looking key Sonia had given him, and turned it in the lock. The door made a complaining, squealing noise. “Anyway, here are the quarters for the fourteenth-floor servants. Not much to look at, but it would make a good clubhouse.”

“Clubhouse,” said CJ flatly, “like for a six-year-old?”

Pat gave one of his electric-blue, wide-eyed head shakes. “Cool.”

Brid knew why CJ was so irritable. He had hoped to see a keyhole, a place that would accept the massive key bulging from his front pocket—the key from the library. Instead, when Lukas opened the door, they all took in the endless shelves, which were stuffed with brown boxes and piles of books with titles like
Tiffin Glass Collectors Club
,
Garden of Earth Book of Plant Life,
and
Great Homes of Chicago 1871–1929
. Brid raised an eyebrow toward CJ, wondering if he thought any of this was relevant to the treasure hinted at in the book they picked up from the library.

“It looks like they moved out in a pretty disorganized way,” Brid said.

“Or really quickly,” said CJ.

“Or just didn't care much about their stuff,” said Brid.

“Or what if they had just already read these books and left them for the new people?” Pat added.

“Or,” said Lukas, “maybe the owner passed away.” His voice was so respectful and matter-of-fact that the Smithforks immediately felt bad about their manners.

“Is that what happened?” asked Brid finally. “Did they die?”

“Not ‘they,' but ‘he,'” said Lukas. “You see, Mr. Post was a huge collector, a man who loved architecture, poetry, and paintings. He had a friend named J. P. Morgan. Morgan was a financier and philanthropist, and both men
were known for their incredible collections.”

“Collections of what?” asked Brid.

“Mr. Morgan had art, sculptures, rare manuscripts, and early children's books; Mr. Post had architectural renderings, jewelry, and poetry. The two men hosted a monthly salon of smart, fancy people to share and discuss some of their acquisitions—to show them off. It was the hot ticket of the time.”

“How do you know all that?” CJ asked him.

Lukas didn't answer but continued, “You see, Post also loved puzzles. He sometimes used to send invitations to his salons in riddle form. If you couldn't solve the riddle, you didn't know where and when the salon would be held. Apparently he never went easy on anyone or just gave them the information. When he passed on, the story was that he had a will, but it was such a riddle, his heirs couldn't collect their inheritance. He died before he had a chance to leave all the clues his family needed in order to figure out where their inheritance was.”

“But what about the apartment—those rules that said the walls of the apartment had to stay the same?” Brid asked.

“Yes, obviously Post didn't want anyone to mess with his original building, but that made it hard for his family to sell. Instead, they just ordered the apartment sectioned in four and had new walls put up for the next tenants, and moved out. But that was a long time ago; your apart
ment was empty for years. I'm sure Mr. Post's desire to maintain the apartments' original style and beauty was a sincere one. Maybe he just couldn't bear to think of his place being destroyed.

“Want to see a photo of Post?” Lukas asked.

“Sure,” the kids said in unison.

Lukas went rummaging in a box before pulling something out.

“Here it is,” he said, wielding a large portrait in a wooden frame. “Behold, the Post family.”

CJ and Brid gasped in a most uncool and transparent way.