“Maybe some of them are,” said Lewis, thinking it over. “I’ve never really asked him.”
Just then Jonathan Barnavelt called from the dining room in a booming voice: “Kids! Dinner’s ready! Come and get it, or I’ll throw it to the hogs!”
“You will do no such thing, Brush Mush!” said the outraged voice of Mrs. Zimmermann. “Not after I worked so hard over this hot stove, you won’t!”
“Come on,” said Lewis with a grin, and he and Rose Rita raced to the dining room.
CHAPTER TWO
Even though Lewis knew all about Mrs. Zimmermann’s culinary talents, this time he had to admit she had outdone herself. Dinner was a succulent, perfectly browned roast, so tender that it practically melted in Lewis’s mouth, together with luscious, buttery whipped potatoes that were just right, not too dry and not too gloopy. Uncle Jonathan used a ladle to make a little well in the top of each mound of mashed potatoes, and he poured in some rich brown gravy. Mrs. Zimmermann had also cooked candied carrots and petite green peas with baby pearl onions, and there was a big apple pie for dessert. “This feast is in honor of school starting again,” Mrs. Zimmermann explained, a pleased twinkle in her eye as she saw how much Lewis and Rose Rita liked the food. “I know how this can be a hard time in life, and I thought a celebration might be in order.”
“It’s wonderful, Pruny Face,” said Jonathan Barnavelt with a chuckle. He patted his stomach. “Still, we’ll have to watch it for the rest of the week. I’ve put on weight since I gave up smoking!”
“Then feast today and fast tomorrow,” replied Mrs. Zimmermann tartly. She was a trim, elderly woman with an untidy nest of white hair, and she was wearing a purple floral dress. Florence Zimmermann loved the color purple, and her house was full of purple furnishings—rugs and wallpaper and even the toilet paper. “More carrots. Rose Rita?” she asked.
For a little while Lewis gave all his attention to the wonderful meal. Finally, as he watched his uncle bring in the golden-brown apple pie, Lewis felt Rose Rita kick him under the table. He looked at her in surprise. “Ask him,” Rose Rita mouthed.
Lewis cleared his throat. “Uh, Uncle Jonathan,” he said, “do you know anything about stage magic? Conjuring?”
Uncle Jonathan raised his red eyebrows as he put a slice of pie on a small plate and passed it to Rose Rita. “Oh, a little,” he said. “I can do some nifty card tricks that don’t depend on real magic. Why do you ask?”
Lewis explained the problem he and Rose Rita faced. Mrs. Zimmermann shook her head and sighed. “That’s one thing I never liked to do when I was teaching school—force a student to get up onstage and perform in front of others,” she said. “Oh, I know it’s supposed to give you poise and confidence, but it always seemed cruel to me. Not everyone has the kind of talents that shine out from a stage. Some of us are more quiet and private.”
“Hm,” said Uncle Jonathan. “I agree with Florence, but it seems to me that we still have a problem. The talent show is an old tradition, and you know how teachers hate to disturb tradition. So your idea is to do a magic show, is it?”
“Yes, but just conjuring tricks, not real magic,” Lewis said quickly.
“Good,” his uncle replied. “Real magic can get you into a world of trouble—as you know very well. Florence, I think Lewis and Rose Rita ought to consult Mr. Robert Hardwick. What do you say?”
Mrs. Zimmermann’s bright blue eyes shone. “That’s a wonderful idea. Weird Beard! If anyone in town could help them put an act together. Bob Hardwick is the man!”
“Who’s he?” asked Rose Rita. “I never heard of him.”
Uncle Jonathan passed a slice of pie to Lewis and laughed. “Bob Hardwick is a retired newspaperman and an amateur conjuror. He can do some amazing tricks with ropes and steel rings. He used to do shows for schools—called himself Marcus the Great. Well, he retired a few months ago and moved from Detroit to New Zebedee. He has a huge collection of magical memorabilia—things like original Houdini posters and a little cannon that the great Blackstone once used in his act—and he’s putting these items into a museum that he plans to open downtown in the old Eugster Brewery building.”
Mrs. Zimmermann winked. “Mr. Hardwick thinks your uncle is a conjuror too,” she confided. “When you see him, please keep the Capharnaum County Magicians Society a secret. Mr. Hardwick doesn’t know there are real sorcerers and witches about.”
Lewis nodded. He always kept his uncle’s magical hobby to himself. Once, years before, he had asked Uncle Jonathan to show off to impress a friend of his named Tarby Corrigan. Unfortunately. Uncle Jonathan’s magical eclipse of the moon had frightened Tarby. Lewis had lost a friend. Except for the other members of the Capharnaum County Magicians Society, now only Rose Rita knew about the real magic that Uncle Jonathan and Mrs. Zimmermann could command. Luckily, Rose Rita liked both of them. She knew better than to talk about their magic.
“Tell you what,” Uncle Jonathan said as he served Mrs. Zimmermann’s pie. “I’ll give Bob a call. Tomorrow’s Saturday, so he’ll probably be downtown. Maybe we can arrange for you to see what his museum’s going to be like. And I’m sure he can help you put together some conjuring tricks.”
And so it was all arranged. Early the next morning Lewis and Rose Rita went down to Main Street. The former brewery was a brick building that Lewis liked a lot. The redbrick walls were mossy and battered, and chiseled in the cornerstone was the date 1842 in swirly numerals. One side wall had round windows, like the tops of beer barrels, each one divided into four wedge-shaped panes. Eugster’s Brewery had gone out of business years before. As long as Lewis could remember, the building had been vacant, its front windows papered over from inside, a chain and padlock on its front door.
On Saturday morning, though, the change was obvious. The windows sparkled in the morning light, framed by maroon curtains edged in gold lace. An oblong cardboard sign, inside the window on the right, showed an old-fashioned steel engraving of a top-hatted magician levitating a woman, who lay as stiff as a board in midair. Above the artwork, in ornate circus-poster lettering, were the grand words
The National Museum of Magic
Under the artwork were more words, in a smaller type. Lewis giggled as he read what they had to say:
ABSOLUTELY the finest collection of memorabilia relating to conjuring, prestidigitation, hocus-pocus, flummery, thimblerigging, sleight of hand, jiggery-pokery, and good-natured foolery known to MAN or BEAST! GUARANTEED thrills, chills, brainteasers, crowd pleasers, mind-bogglers and hornswogglers! YOU will be AMAZED!
ENDORSED by the Pulpit, the Press, and the Lectern as WHOLESOME FAMILY ENTERTAINMENT! if you are OVERCOME by the SHEER GRANDEUR of the show, the Management will provide FREE SMELLING SALTS to bring you back to FULL CONSCIOUSNESS! Come one! Come all!
—Robert W. Hardwick, Prop.
“Whoosh!” commented Rose Rita as she read the placard. “Mr. Hardwick promises a lot, doesn’t he?”
Lewis felt a quiver of anticipation. “I hope he can suggest something for us.” He tried the door, and it swung open, jingling a bell overhead. “Hello?”
Lewis and Rose Rita looked into a long, narrow room, cluttered with all sorts of weird objects: mummy cases, steamer trunks with swords thrust into them, a huge galvanized-steel milk canister with its lid padlocked shut, shelves full of top hats, canes, wands, and handcuffs, and on every wall poster after poster advertising magicians and their shows. Lewis saw placards announcing the Great Rapid, the Hindoo Fakir; Long Chi, the Chinese Marvel; the Mystic Marquis and His Thousand Wonders; and many more. It was hard to see anything beyond a few feet from the door, because the lights were out. Rose Rita said, “Looks like nobody’s home.”
Next to the door stood an upright mummy case, six and a half feet tall. The carved and painted face at the top was cruel, with frowning eyebrows, a hooked nose, a vicious mouth, and a strange squared-off goatee. But what caught Lewis’s attention were the eyes—the wooden eyelids were opening slowly, and the
glaring, dead eyes stared straight at him! He could only squeak and tug at Rose Rita’s arm, pointing at the thing.
“What is it—Oh!” Rose Rita stiffened as she noticed the mummy case too. Now the lips were moving.
In a grotesque, creaking voice, the mummy case demanded, “Who dares disturb my three-thousand-year slumber? Who?”
Lewis gasped.
After a moment the mummy case sighed. “You’re supposed to say your names, and then I can tell you to go right upstairs. This is a trick, kids. It’s electric motors and a microphone and speaker. I take it you’re Lewis and Rose Rita?”
Rose Rita recovered first. “Yes, we are.”
“Then come on up.” The mummy case’s eyelids clicked shut. Then they flicked open again. “The light switch is beside the door on your left. Please close the door before you come upstairs. We’re not officially open yet.” The eyes clacked closed.
Lewis turned on the lights, and Rose Rita closed the door, its lock clacking loudly. Now they could see the stairway on their right. They climbed up. At the top they saw four men sitting at a table. They had been playing cards, and they all smiled as the kids walked toward them. One man, slim and about sixty, with curly gray hair and glasses, stood. “I’m sorry I startled you,” he said, holding up a silvery microphone shaped like a flattened baseball. “I couldn’t resist.” He put the microphone down and shook hands with Lewis. “Mr. Lewis Barnavelt, I presume?”
“Yes,” Lewis answered. “And this is Rose Rita Pottinger.”
“Charmed to meet you,” replied the man. “I am Robert Hardwick, and with my dear wife, Ellen, I own this establishment. You can call me Bob, if you like. These are my Saturday poker buddies. Allow me to introduce Mr. Clarence Mussenberger, Mr. Thomas Perkins, and Mr. Johnny Stone.”
Each of the men stood to shake hands. Mr. Mussenberger was stocky and round faced, with cheerful brown eyes. He looked familiar, somehow. Mr. Perkins was very tall and thin, with distinguished streaks of gray in his black hair. And Mr. Stone was unusually short—even shorter than Lewis—with a mischievous glint in his eye and a double chin. He was almost completely bald, except for a fringe of gray hair.
“Well now,” Mr. Hardwick said, bringing over a couple of folding chairs for Lewis and Rose Rita. “Your uncle Jonathan says you need help. Tell him that one of these days I’m going to figure out how he does that trick with the three candles and the ace of spades! But now, what do you need?”
Feeling embarrassed, Lewis stammered out his problem. “So Rose Rita and I thought we might put together a magic act,” he finished.
Mr. Mussenberger cleared his throat. “You need about five good, quick tricks,” he rumbled.
Rose Rita blinked. “Oh, my gosh! You’re Creamy the Magical Clown, from TV!”
The men all laughed, but Mr. Mussenberger beamed. “Pipe down, you mutts,” he said to the others. “My dear, you are correct. Five days a week I am Creamy the Magical Clown, in the service of the Twin Oaks Dairy Company. On weekends, however, I am simply Clare.” He nodded to the other men. “Of course, these gentlemen aren’t nearly as famous as Creamy, but let me tell you that Mr. Perkins is also known as Lord Puzzlewit, and that he can do amazing things with a deck of cards. When performing, Mr. Stone is Bondini, Escape Artist Extraordinaire. Chains, locks, jail cells, straitjackets—nothing can prevent his getting out!”
“Except his wife, of course,” put in Mr. Perkins, with a wink.
“Just for that,” said Mr. Stone, “I’m gonna tell the others next time I see you pull a couple of aces out of your sleeve!”
They all laughed again, making Lewis feel more at ease.
“Well, Lewis, you have a number of experts here,” said Mr. Hardwick. “So what will it be, gents?”
“The Square Circle,” Mr. Mussenberger said at once. “You can’t go wrong with that.”
Mr. Perkins stroked his long chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. Perhaps the Chinese Rings? Or the Floating Lady? Those both require a lovely assistant.”
“The Basket of Torment,” added Mr. Stone. “Kids, you’ll wow ’em. Miss Rose Rita climbs into the basket, Lewis pierces it with a dozen razor-sharp swords, and when the swords are removed, Rose Rita comes out in a completely different costume!”
Mr. Hardwick held up his hands. “Please, please! Gentlemen, remember that Lewis and Rose Rita have to be ready in four weeks—and they can’t afford fancy props.” He got up and opened a door, beckoning Lewis and Rose Rita over. “I’ll tell you what. In this room is my collection of books on magic—more than seven thousand of them!” He switched on the light.
Lewis and Rose Rita stepped into a room that was like a library, with shelf after shelf of books. Daylight poured in through two round side windows, and dust motes floated in the slanting sunbeams. Mr. Hardwick pointed to a tall bookcase. “Now, this section has all sorts of books on simple stage-magic tricks,” he said. “You two rummage around and find five or six likely books, and I’ll let you borrow them—if you promise to take very good care of them!”
“We will,” Lewis agreed at once.
“Good.” Mr. Hardwick said. “Now I’ll get back to fleecing these three marks. I’m already ahead twenty-five cents!” He closed the door as the others protested against being called “marks.”
For a couple of minutes Rose Rita and Lewis just stared at all the books. Then they began to look at the intriguing titles—Chemical Magic with Everyday Ingredients; Close-Up Tricks with Matches, Coins, and String; How to Amaze Your Friends, and others. Lewis pulled some out, thumbed through them, replaced a few, and kept others. At last he clutched five books under his arm. He looked up and saw that Rose Rita was far off at another shelf. “We can’t take those,” he said.
“I know,” replied Rose Rita. “I was just looking. There are books here by Houdini, the great escape artist. And here’s one by Blackstone—I’ve seen him on TV. Here’s something funny.”
Slapping book dust off his clothes, Lewis went over to look. Rose Rita held a scroll—a rolled-up length of parchment. It had a faded cloth wrapper, and some words had been embroidered on the cloth. Rose Rita read them aloud: “Madame Frisson: Her Testament from Beyond the Grave.”
Lewis’s neck felt prickly. “I don’t think we should mess with that,” he said uneasily.
“Don’t be such a worrywart. I’m not messing with it—I’m just reading it. What’s this?” Rose Rita had found a little pocket in the cloth wrapper. She pulled out a yellowed packet made of paper. Tucking the scroll beneath her arm, she began to unfold the packet as Lewis looked on with a strange dread.
“What is it?” he asked, his voice a dry croak.
“Some kind of gray powder,” Rose Rita said. “There’s only a teaspoonful of it—Ouch!” She jerked her hand, dropping the packet. It landed flat without spilling much of the powder.
“What’s wrong?” Lewis asked, so frightened he almost dropped his books.
“Paper cut.” Rose Rita shook her finger, making a face. She reached down to pick up the packet, and a single bright red drop of blood fell from her finger right into the gray substance.
Lewis gasped. The powder began to boil. It hissed and bubbled. A dull brown vapor rose from it, drifting in strange, stringy wisps, like strands of cobwebs. The whole mass sizzled, the reddish-brown bubbles bursting until it became a seething liquid. Then it shrank into a dark little ball about the size of a pea. It was as black and shiny as a round button made of ebony. Rose Rita paused. “What is that?” she asked. “It looks like a small black pearl.” She reached down for it—
And yanked her hand away with a startled shriek! The black ball sprouted spindly legs and scuttled under one of the bookshelves. Lewis uttered one strangled shout. Somehow, with Rose Rita’s drop of blood, the powder had become a living spider!
CHAPTER THREE
Lewis and Rose Rita backed away toward the door. With his left hand Lewis clutched the books. Reaching behind him with his right, he fumbled for the knob. A horrible thought hit hi
m. What if his hand closed on a cold, squashy, wriggling, round body? Spiders were venomous. He had heard of people dying in agony from the bite of a black widow. The dusty, book-scented air seemed hard to breathe. His throat closed. Lewis gritted his teeth to keep them from chattering. The spider couldn’t be there, he told himself. He had seen it run under a shelf all the way across the room, and it was too small to have zipped past them.
More afraid of what he had seen run under the bookshelf than what might be behind him, Lewis grabbed the knob and opened the door. He and Rose Rita stumbled out. The magicians hardly glanced up from their game. “Find some stuff?” Mr. Hardwick asked in a vague kind of tone as he frowned at his cards. He waved a hand. “Fine! Just let yourselves out, and the door will lock behind you. When you finish with the books, bring them back.”
Rose Rita rushed for the stairs, and Lewis followed close at her heels. The two of them clattered down the steps. She unlocked the door, and they plunged out into the morning sunlight. The door slammed shut behind them, the automatic lock clicking. For a second Lewis and Rose Rita just stood there looking at each other with wild eyes and panting to get their breath back.
Then the ordinary Saturday-morning sounds of New Zebedee brought them back to reality. Chevrolets and Fords rolled past. Someone’s big brown Labrador dog was barking at a frisky squirrel outside the post office. A kid rode his bike down the street, jangling the bell. Lewis took a long, shaky breath, feeling relief at their escape. Then he stared at what Rose Rita held clenched under her arm. “You’ve still got it!” he said in a shocked voice.
Rose Rita took the scroll in both hands and swallowed hard. In the sunlight it looked worn and shabby. Lewis saw that the scroll itself was parchment or something like it, creased, dull brown, and badly frayed at the edges. It was on a wooden roller like a spool. The cloth covering was moth-eaten purple velvet, faded to a dull brownish maroon. The embroidered letters were a dull greenish yellow. Maybe they had been gold at one time. “I was so scared, I didn’t even drop it,” Rose Rita said. She looked at Lewis with a sick expression. “What should I do?”
The Specter from the Magician's Museum Page 2