Over the red-checkered tablecloth at Dominick’s that night Ken told his father about the inquiries they had set in motion about the iron box. Mr. Holt looked slightly amused, but just as he was about to comment, at the end of Ken’s recital, he glanced at his watch.
“Come on!” he said, leaping up. “The first match begins in a few minutes. We’re going to have to leave before they’re over, anyway, if I’m going to catch my Washington plane. So let’s not miss the beginning.”
The wrestling matches were particularly exciting. Conversation, as the boys and Richard Holt watched them, was limited to shouts of encouragement and howls of dismay. And Ken’s father made no reference to the box as they drove him out to the airport.
But as he got out of the car there, with a minute or two to spare, he turned back for a final word.
“I’m not going to tell you to drop this iron box mystery you’ve cooked up,” he told Ken. “That wouldn’t do any good.” He grinned at his son. “But I think Sandy’s reasoning is sound. If the box is valuable—if it’s been stolen, say—I’d never have been allowed to bring it through customs. And if it isn’t, why go through any hanky-panky about it, as the British say?” He took his brief case off the seat and slipped it under his arm. “In any case, take it easy. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow. You’ll be in Brentwood then?”
“Probably, Dad,” Ken said.
“But we’re not going back until we’ve used the basketball tickets you’ve left us for tomorrow night,” Sandy added.
“Have a good time.” Holt raised his arm in a farewell salute and disappeared through the doors of the terminal building just as the loud-speaker announced the ten-thirty flight to Washington.
It was a few minutes past eleven when the boys let themselves into Holt’s apartment.
“I hope we haven’t missed Barrack,” Ken muttered.