The Mystery of the Iron Box A Ken Holt Mystery

The loud-speaker’s bellow died away and there was an answering stir in the big terminal building of the airport. People began to move toward the wide windows that overlooked the landing field. Soon there was a thick wall of humanity packed against the rail that protected the glass.

“Too jammed up here. Let’s go outside.” The young man who spoke was slender and slightly more than medium height. Over a neat gray flannel suit he wore a tan trench coat which hung well from broad shoulders. His black hair looked even blacker than usual in the brilliant glare of the well-lighted room.

His companion towered over him by almost half a foot. A trench coat, also tan, dropped from massive shoulders that hinted of tremendous power. He lifted his left hand to look at his wrist watch. “On time,” he said. Then, using his shoulders as a wedge, he gently forced a path to the doors. His flaming red hair stood out above the crowd like a beacon.

Outside, in the crisp December afternoon, the air was filled with the heavy throb of plane motors. Overhead, a silver ship was wheeling into the wind, landing gear down.

The loud-speaker came to life again. “Flight two-oh-six, from Paris,” it intoned, “now landing.”

Sandy Allen, the huge redhead, touched his friend’s arm. “Feels good to have him coming home for Christmas, huh?”

Ken Holt grinned briefly, his eyes steadily riveted on the plane now zooming toward them down the paved strip. “And how!”

“If I had any sense,” Sandy said, “I’d fade out on an occasion like this. It isn’t often that you and your father—”

“If you had any sense,” Ken interrupted, “you’d remember that if it weren’t for the oversized Allen clan I might not even—”

The deafening roar of engines cut off the rest of his sentence, but Sandy’s face had already begun to redden. He could take almost anything except gratitude, and he hated to be reminded of the circumstances in which he and Ken had first met. Ken’s father had been in desperate danger then, and the entire Allen family—Pop, Bert, Sandy, and Mom—had taken part in the frightening hours of action that followed their meeting.

Afterward, Ken Holt, motherless for years, had left his boarding school at the Allens’ insistence to make his home with them. Mom Allen treated him like another son, and Pop Allen had given Ken a part in the operation of the Allen-owned newspaper, the Brentwood Advance.

Ken and Sandy had shared many adventures since then; had encountered many exciting and dangerous puzzles which they had solved together. They worked as a team, both in unraveling mysteries and in reporting them afterward. Ken’s stories and Sandy’s photographs had been eagerly accepted not only by the Advance, but also by Global News, the gigantic news-gathering agency for which Ken’s father, Richard Holt, worked.

Ken glanced up at Sandy’s flushed face. “Relax, chum,” he said. “I won’t say another word about how much I owe—”

Sandy clamped his huge hand over Ken’s mouth. “I’ll say you won’t.” He grinned. “In return for your silence—something we rarely get from you,” he went on, “I’ll let you in on a secret.” He removed his hand and reached into his pocket.

“What secret?” Ken asked suspiciously.

“You remember that last little mess we got into—the one Pop called The Secret of Hangman’s Inn?”

“I’d just as soon not remember that,” Ken said.

“Have it your own way.” Sandy had pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. “In that case you won’t want your half of this check from Global for the yarn and the pictures we sent them.”

Ken grabbed for the check and looked at it. “What do you know!” he murmured. “A hundred and fifty dollars! Granger must be getting soft in the head.”

“Granger,” Sandy said loftily, “is a top-flight news editor. He appreciates the remarkable quality of my pictures. He’d probably make it two hundred if he didn’t have to wade through that stuff you call writing.”

Ken handed the check back to Sandy. “Pictures,” he said, “are something anybody can take. But writing—real writing—” Suddenly he broke off. “There’s Dad!”

Richard Holt had just stepped out of the plane, first in the line of passengers descending the stairway. He was a slender figure in a rumpled topcoat, with a brief case clamped under one arm. The other arm raised in a swift salute as he spotted them.

“Hi!” he shouted.

“Dad!” Ken’s answering shout carried far across the field. His father spent most of his time in distant quarters of the globe, ferreting out the stories that had made him famous. His visits home, brief and infrequent, were always exciting. The Allens enjoyed them as much as Ken himself did, and this year they were all particularly pleased at the thought of having Richard Holt at hand over the holidays.

“We’ll meet you outside the customs office,” Ken called, as his father drew nearer.

Richard Holt nodded, smiling.

“Come on!” Ken said to Sandy, and they turned back through the crowd. “It won’t take him long to clear customs. They know him by now.”

Twenty minutes later Richard Holt came through the barrier to where they were waiting for him. He dropped two bags and his brief case and threw an arm around each of the boys. Then he stood back a pace to look them over.

“Are you two as good as you look?” he demanded, grinning widely.

“We’re even better,” Sandy assured him, scooping up both the bags. “You look O.K. too.”

“You look great, Dad,” Ken said.

“I am. And glad to be home too.”

“This is our first Christmas together in three years.” Ken groped for the brief case, but his eyes never left his father’s face.

“We’ll make it a good one, son.”

Sandy began to lead the way to the parking lot. “If food will help,” he said, “I think you can count on Mom. Wait until you see the turkey she’s got!”

“With cranberry sauce?” Richard Holt asked.

Sandy nodded. “Also with dressing, sweet potatoes, plum pudding—”

“Stop!” Ken’s father commanded. “Let us waste no more time talking. On to Brentwood! That is,” he corrected himself, as he came to a halt beside the boys’ red convertible, “on to Brentwood after a quick stop at my apartment. I want to get rid of some of this luggage and change my clothes. I’ll sit in the back seat with the bags, if you don’t mind,” he went on, “so I can be sorting out the things I want to take with me. It’ll save time.”

Sandy started the motor and the car slid smoothly into the line of traffic heading for New York City. Forty-five minutes later he pulled to a stop before the building in which Ken’s father maintained his seldom-used apartment.

“Give me five minutes,” Richard Holt said.