“That’s the story,” Eddie replied.
“What’s the rest of it?”
“You’re gonna have to wait and hear it from Hank Ives on ghost-story night. It’s a wowzer. Come on,” he added, leading the way past the well to the front of the house. The Bomber was on the porch, peeking through a window.
“Hey, you guys – get a load of this-” he called over his shoulder.
“Whatcha got?” asked Eddie.
“Wait’ll you see,” said the Bomber, his tone inviting their participation.
Leo hung back, his heart suddenly pounding, but Eddie sprang nimbly onto the porch. “Screw off, Jerome, I bet it isn’t anything.”
“That’s what you think. Have a look.” He pointed to the window. “There’s a dead body in there.”
“Aw, come on, Fat Stuff. Can it, willya?”
“If you don’t believe me, see for yourself. There’s a stiff in that room: it’s lyin’ right there on the floor, a real live dead body. If you don’t see no corpse in that room I’ll let you have my desserts for a whole week.”
Eddie, whose great weakness was desserts, was snared. He crossed the porch, leaned on the windowsill, and looked inside. What he saw provoked a scornful exclamation, and as he yanked his head back he banged his crown against the sash.
“So, wasn’t I right?” the Bomber crowed. “Didn’t you see a dead body?”
“It’s only a bird,” Eddie said.
The Bomber gloated. “So what? Dead’s dead, ain’t it? I win.”
“The heck you do,” Eddie declared. “That’s not a fair bet.”
Eddie’s indignation fell on deaf ears as the Bomber dropped to the ground and gave Leo an elbow and a wink, then made his way along the side of the house. Harpo, ever curious, went bounding after him. By the time Eddie and Leo came around the corner, the Bomber was waiting on the top step of the cellar hatchway. Were they actually going down there?
Eddie tossed Leo an encouraging nod and disappeared after the Bomber and Harpo, leaving Leo staring at the gaping hatch. Once again his heart was pounding. Over the low doorway was a crudely crayoned legend:
RINKYDINKS MEMBERS ONLY ALL OTHERS KEEP OUT AT PERIL OF LIFE!
and under this warning, a skull and crossbones. A moment more Leo stood at the top, trying but failing to hear the voice of conscience, knowing the others would think he was merely scared if he turned back now. Then he ducked his head and, imperiling the only life he’d ever get, entered the dim, musty room.
In the dim light, he could just make out the other two, busy doing something in a corner. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he saw that the Bomber was bending over a long bench, lighting a candle stub. Soon a wavering glow was making the shadows dance in the corners and along the ceiling.
“So what d’you think?” the Bomber asked as if he were welcoming a guest to his new house.
Leo shrugged; what could he say? The cellar was large and – well – spooky. It had a strange, earthy smell, but, then, what else could you expect from the cellar of a haunted house? Of ample proportions, it formed a spacious, below-ground room with stone walls, a hard-packed dirt floor, and a low-beamed ceiling supported by squared-off posts, into which a hinged trapdoor had been cut and from which a broken stair-ladder hung at an angle. There was an old furnace and an empty coal bin, and a cobweb-covered fuse box was attached to one wall. The mixture of odors – of dampness, soil, must, dust and rust, of stagnant rain pools in the corners – gave the place a special character that both attracted and repelled, a place for sinister doings.
“What does the sign mean?” Leo asked. “What are Rinky dinks?”
While Eddie described the illegal organization, the Bomber marched over to a wall and paced out a distance along the footing, then knelt and dislodged a stone, from behind which he extracted a coffee can. Bringing it back to the bench, he removed the lid and pulled out a half-empty pack of Old Gold cigarettes, along with a finger-soiled envelope.
“Smoke?” He fished a squashed cigarette from the crumpled pack and lit up.
“Sure, give us a drag,” Eddie said. The Bomber handed over his butt, then watched Eddie draw and choke, expelling the smoke in three gusts through both mouth and nostrils. The Bomber was contemptuous.
“Cripes, Ed, you know somethin’ – you smoke just like an old lady. Why don’tcha learn to inhale like I showed you?”
“It hurts my throat.”
“You got to get it way down into your lungs and then blow it out. See? Like this.” The Bomber offered an eloquent demonstration of this procedure, puffing voluminously, then proceeded to blow three uniform smoke rings that waffled gracefully through the air.
“You want a drag, Leo?” The Bomber held out the fuming butt. “These have ‘latakeeah’ in ’em,” he pointed out.
“Latakeeah’s only a kind of Turkish tobacco, that’s all,” Leo said knowledgeably. He took a drag, inhaled it, then coughed it out in a thick cloud.
“Must be the latakeeah,” the Bomber said with a smirk.
Leo took another puff; the pugeant tobacco was at once heady^ and dizzying. “ 'Kaf kaf,’ said Major Hoople,” he said; Eddie and the Bomber both chuckled. The blowhard major with the Shriner’s fez was a comic-strip favorite.
The three continued puffing on the cigarette, passing it back and forth; while they smoked, the Bomber made Leo privy to the contents of the envelope: half a dozen dog-eared photographs, which he ceremoniously tendered to Leo for perusal.
Leo blushed; he had never gazed upon their like before – though he’d heard of such phenomena often enough at Pitt, the large-buttocked women clad only in black stockings, the gentlemen self-conscious in funny-looking underwear, gartered socks; one of them wore a derby hat, which rendered him ridiculous, given his activity.
“They’re French,” the Bomber explained, about the cards. “From Gay Paree.”
Leo nodded, hoping he appeared sophisticated. He wondered what Kretch would have to say about all this. The Bomber made a sudden move, holding out his hand for silence.
“Cripes!”
“What is it?”
“Sssh. Button up. Somebody’s up there. Hear?”
Leo cocked an ear and, indeed, the Bomber was right. From overhead came the sound of stealthy footsteps. Someone was tiptoeing around up there! Cripes. The Bomber snatched the pictures from Leo’s hand and stuffed them back in the coffee can, then hastily returned it to its hiding place. Leo listened hard, wondering whether to bolt or stay put. Yes, definitely – someone was moving around up there. Now he was wishing they hadn’t visited the cellar – it was a mistake – they should have obeyed the signs and avoided the place like a pesthouse.
Suddenly the silence in the cellar was broken. Bounding toward the hatchway steps, Harpo began to bark. Harpo! His noise was bound to give them away.
“C’mon, let’s scram outta here,” the Bomber said and started toward the hatchway. But before they could gain the stairs, Bullnuts Moriarity came thundering down at them bellowing like a Blue Briton, followed by what seemed to Leo like a horde of savages, all yelling and waving their arms. Among the foe he glimpsed the moon-like features of Moon Mullens; Billy Bosey was there too, and Barty Tugwell, all bent on punishing the boys who had intruded into their sanctum. Leo felt himself slammed from side to side until he came dizzy. Someone gave him a jab in the ribs, while another had got his fingers into Leo’s hair and was trying to yank it out. Then, using brute force, the Bomber muscled his way through, dragging Leo along with him, Eddie in their wake. Before he knew it Leo was out the lower door and scrambling up the hatchway steps to freedom.
At the top he barked his shin on the edge of the stone step. The pain was excruciating and, biting back his moans, he hopped around on one foot, then hobbled off to hide in a clump of sumac bushes. By this time Eddie and the Bomber had reached the road and were nearly around the bend. From the cellar came angry voices, disputing whether or not to give chase. Evidently the decision was against pursuit, for no Rinkydink reappeared. Finally, feeling himself safe, Leo made his way back to the pond to collect his knapsack and violin; then, brushing the leaves from his knees, he headed down the lane to the road where he turned toward camp. When he reached the bend, he glanced back over his shoulder, as if checking to make sure that the house was still there; as he looked, he saw, or had the impression of, a shadowy figure seated in the upstairs window, gazing out – at him or at the view? He could not tell.