Ken smiled faintly. “I’m convinced that your arguments are unanswerable—for the moment,” he admitted. “But do you honestly believe there’s no connection at all between that unlocked door at Dad’s apartment, the attempted entry into the house here, and the fire at Sam’s?”
Sandy ran his gloved hand through his hair. “I’ll go this far: I’ll agree they make a curious string of coincidences. And you know how I mistrust coincidences. But don’t ask me what the connection is. And don’t expect me to believe that the box is a priceless antique.” He turned the door handle. “And don’t go on about this when we get inside,” he added menacingly.
“All right,” Ken agreed. “I’m with you there.”
The rest of the Allens were already in the kitchen. Pop, towering on one side of his tiny wife, was slicing generous slabs of white meat from the turkey carcass. Bert, towering on Mom’s other side, was cutting bread. Mom, between them, was making sandwiches.
“Ha!” Bert said. “The demon sleuths—and probably on the trail of food this time.”
“Lock up the pots and pans, Mom,” Pop contributed.
“Now that will do,” Mom said firmly. “Boys, get the milk from the icebox and get some glasses.”
Sandy brought his pictures out as soon as they had sat down, to ensure a safe subject of conversation. “Look what that little camera can do,” he announced proudly.
The strategy was effective. Even Bert became engrossed. And half an hour later, when the boys were left alone in the kitchen to clean up, Bert forgot to warn them against setting further booby traps as he went up to bed.
“I’ll wash,” Ken said. “We’d better put these things away before they get splashed,” he added, beginning to gather together the prints still spread out among the dishes.