Chapter 5
Someone was inside! I screamed and dropped the door. It slammed shut with a bang that reverberated in the stairwell. I shook my head. Had I really seen someone lying in there with a spear jutting out of his back? That couldn’t be.
Bob ran up the stairs, breathless. “Was that you? What happened?” He stopped talking as he took in the misplaced carpet and the trapdoor. “What’s going on?”
A small crowd climbed the stairs behind us.
I could hear someone asking, “Florrie? Are you okay?”
“There’s someone in there,” I whispered to Bob.
“That’s very funny. Is today trick-your-coworker day?”
I shuddered.
“You’re serious? Why would anyone be in there? Should I get a weapon?”
“He’s lying on his stomach. I’m not sure you’ll need a weapon.”
Bob leaned forward. His forefinger hovered over the hole briefly. He yanked his hand back and straightened up. “Stand on it.”
“What?”
“Stand on the hatch to make it more difficult to open. Just do it. I’ll be right back.” He ran up to the third floor and in the direction of Professor Maxwell’s office.
I stepped onto the door timidly, as though I thought I might plummet into the well beneath, which made no sense at all because I had unknowingly walked across it hundreds of times. There was no reason it should give way under me. Still, now that I knew of its existence, I couldn’t help feeling like it might break, plunging me down a frightening rabbit hole.
Besides, even if there wasn’t an Alice in Wonderland–type slide inside, I certainly didn’t want to fall on someone who lay in a position all too reminiscent of a crime scene body outline. I had only seen it for a moment. Maybe it wasn’t really that scary?
I tried to be reasonable. But there wasn’t a good reason for a person to be inside. Just because he was on his stomach didn’t mean he was dead. But I really ought to call 911. If he was alive, he might need help.
Mr. DuBois’s words from the night before ran through my head. The Maxwells didn’t like publicity about trouble. It couldn’t be helped this time. But what if it was a gag? A manikin or something?
I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and dialed Professor Maxwell’s cell number. He was probably at his sister’s house dealing with devilish Delbert.
When he answered my call, I asked, “Do you know about the trapdoor in the stairs?”
“In the store?” he asked.
“Yes.”
There was a long moment of silence before the professor said, “Yes, I do.”
“You might want to come over here. There’s someone inside it.”
I heard a quick intake of breath. “What? Who is it?”
If it was a manikin, he had no knowledge of it. “I don’t know yet. I’m standing on the door so he can’t open it, but,” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper, “Professor Maxwell, I’m afraid he might be dead.”
“Thank you, Florrie. I am on my way. Don’t take any chances.” He sounded completely calm, as though I had told him the mail had arrived. His phone clicked off.
Bob returned wielding an intimidating primitive hatchet-type battle-ax from one of the professor’s adventures. He stood beside me and whispered, “Okay, you open it, and I’ll be ready.” He lifted the hatchet in preparation.
“Maybe we should wait for Professor Maxwell.”
“You think I’m not macho enough to clobber whoever is in there?”
“This isn’t about being macho.” I didn’t know what it was about. I gazed at the collection of people on the stairs below us and back at the trapdoor again.
It gradually dawned on me that we had a bigger problem. “Bob,” I whispered, “he could have closed the cover on himself, but he couldn’t have pulled the carpet over the closed trapdoor.”
“What are you saying?” asked Bob, following my example and speaking softly. “That he had an accomplice?”
I hadn’t thought of that. But why would he hide in there? Was he waiting for us to close the shop and leave? That didn’t make sense. “No. What I’m saying is that someone must have left him in there.” I lowered my voice to the barest whisper. “I’m thinking he could be . . . dead.”
Bob blanched. “I am not jumping in there with him to find out.”
I took a deep breath and squared my shoulders. I raised the door again and let it lean against the wall. The person inside didn’t move. He lay on the floor about four or five feet below the opening.
“The jig is up! Come out of there!” Bob did his best to sound tough, but he wouldn’t have scared anyone older than eight. He was just a big softie.
A couple of Professor Maxwell’s friends had made their way past the others and stood one step down from Bob, looking on. One of them yelled, “Hey! You!”
I pulled out my phone again. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
Bob looked queasy.
I reported that we had found someone who might be injured and was in a difficult location. They promised to send someone right away.
A couple of Professor Maxwell’s friends squished between us and looked down at him.
Professor Goldblum, a tiny man with small eyes and a pudgy figure, had boundless curiosity. “Fascinating! A hiding place for liquor during Prohibition. I have heard about them but never had the good luck to see one.”
Really? That’s what interested him? He couldn’t see the man lying at the bottom with a spear jutting out of his back?
“It’s not holding liquor now,” observed Professor Bankhouse.
“Indeed. Most curious. I’m too short. You jump in, Bankhouse.”
Edgar Bankhouse blanched. “Where’s Maxwell? He’s the intrepid adventurer.”
What was wrong with these men? I was a little scared myself, but I hoped someone would have the courage to jump in if I were the one lying inside. Someone had to help him! I sat on the edge of the hole, wishing I had chosen to wear trousers. It wasn’t that big of a jump. I took a deep breath and leaped, doing exactly what I had wanted to avoid—I landed directly on top of the man, narrowly avoiding the spear.
“Florrie!” yelled Bob. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” I would be bruised all over later on but for the moment I was okay.
The guy on the floor hadn’t grunted or moved. That couldn’t be a good sign. I scrambled to my knees and crawled toward his head. A shock went through me when I recognized the slightly Neanderthal brow and the features I had sketched just the night before. I dared to touch his neck in search of a pulse. His skin was cold and stiff. Delbert was dead.