The Whites of Their Eyes by Andrew Clements
Robert wandered over to a tall brass table and began studying the deposit and withdrawal slips. He looked around a little, then took a lollipop from a bowl. When Jill frowned and shook her head at him, he went back and took another one.
After another long three minutes, a trim, white-haired gentleman wearing a dark gray suit came out of a hallway to their right. He walked straight to Ben and put out his hand. “May I examine your medallion, please? I need to establish its authenticity.” Ben reluctantly gave it to him, and he disappeared down the same hallway.
Less than a minute later the man was back. Ben couldn’t read the expression his face—something between relief and awe. He handed the metal tag back to Ben.
In a low, carefully restrained tone he said, “All of you, kindly follow me.”
Down the hallway they went, footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. After a few turns, they were led into a walnut-paneled conference room. A large rectangular table made of the same rich wood filled most of the space. The chair seats were covered in dark green leather.
Their guide pointed and said, “Please, sit.”
They took chairs along one side of the table, and after closing the door, the banker sat across from them. Ben lay the brass tag on the polished wood in front of him. The man stared at the medallion a moment, then cleared his throat.
“Ahem . . . let me introduce myself. I am Arthur Rydens, and I am the senior trust officer here at Edgeport Bank and Trust Company, a financial institution that traces its roots back to the year 1790. One of my first duties upon joining the trust department thirty-some years ago was to take complete responsibility for trust account number eleven.”
He paused long enough to look each of them in the face. “Trust number eleven was established in February of 1791, which makes it the longest-lived responsibility this bank has ever had. Through more than two hundred years, one trustee after another has each done his or her best to secure and grow the assets originally placed under our care.”
The man paused again and scanned the row of faces across the table. “Are there any questions?”
Tom Benton raised a hand. “Do you . . . have any snacks handy? Maybe some fruit . . . or some cold juice?”
The man shook his head. “Sorry, no. I meant, are there any questions about what I’ve said so far?”
Robert raised a hand. “Sir, how come you haven’t asked us who we are?”
The banker’s eyebrows shot up. “That is a perceptive question, young man, and it leads me to the next portion of my explanations. Ahem . . . a trust agreement involves three parties, three main participants: the settlor, the trustee, and the beneficiary. In simple terms, the settlor is the original owner of the property that is placed in trust; the trustee follows the settlor’s orders about how that property is to be managed; and the beneficiary gets the results or the benefits from whatever has been left in the trust. In this case, the bank is the trustee—”
“Right,” said Robert, not bothering to raise his hand this time, “we get it—someone left something with detailed instructions, you followed the instructions, and today we showed up with tag number eleven. How come you haven’t asked us anything about who we are, or even how we got the medallion?”
The man’s eyes flashed, but he kept his voice even. “Because the settlor’s instructions state that I am to make the full assets of the number eleven trust available to whoever shows up with that.” And he pointed at the brass tag.
“Whoever shows up?” said Robert. “You mean anybody—”
The man cut him off, still pointing, “Yes, anybody who walked in the door with that.” He opened the folder in front of him. “Now—”
“Excuse me,” Robert said, then paused, his head tilted to one side, “but how did you know that this tag is the real one, and not just some fake that I made down in my basement?”
Arthur Rydens folded his arms. “I am not at liberty to reveal that information.”
“So . . . who was the settlor?” asked Robert.
The banker shook his head. “The terms of the trust do not give me permission to reveal that.” He glared at Robert. “May I continue now?”
“Sure,” Robert said, “except we all know who set up the trust. But go ahead.”
“Ahem . . .” The man pulled a pair of glasses from his coat pocket and perched them on the end of his nose. “The initial trust deposit was a quantity of gold coin from various countries of origin, principally Britain and Spain. We were instructed to keep that gold for a period of ten years, and then convert it into United States dollars. We were then instructed to, and I quote, ‘invest the dollars in reputable American companies engaged in or supporting the business of transporting goods and/or people.’ We were also instructed to continue in this same activity indefinitely, reinvesting whatever profits we were able to secure, on behalf of the trust.”
“Do you have a list of those companies?” Ben asked.
“Certainly.” The man flipped through his folder, then slid one sheet across the table.
Ben’s eyes lit up as he scanned the paper, and he started reading aloud. “Clipper ship companies, wagon builders, horse farms, carriage and sleigh makers, Bath Iron Works, three different road-building companies, Wells Fargo, Anchor Line Riverboats, the Union Pacific Railroad, American Bicycle Company, Indian Motorcycle Company, American Steamship Company, Standard Oil, Goodrich Rubber Company, General Motors, Ford Motors, six trucking companies, Pan American Airways—even airplane builders like Boeing! This is the whole history of transportation!”
“Mr. Rydens,” Jill said quietly, “I’d like to know about the money, please.”
The banker smiled at her. “I was starting to think no one would ever ask.” He riffled through more papers. “Ahem . . . after the bank sold off the gold coin in 1801, the original investment sum was fourteen thousand, three hundred and seventy-seven dollars. We have grown that amount at an annual rate of 4.2 percent—not better than the U.S. stock market average since 1871, but even four percent asset growth is not easy to maintain when limited only to transportation-related sectors, if I may say so. We’re actually quite proud of that.”
Mr. Rydens removed his glasses, pulled a silk kerchief from his coat pocket, polished both lenses, then balanced the spectacles back on his nose.
“Ahem . . . Now, you must also bear in mind that the bank has always subtracted an annual commission, and then there are day-to-day fluctuations in the currency markets . . . and, of course, our trusteeship has spanned difficult times such as the War of 1812, the Civil War, the Panic of 1907, the First and Second World Wars, the Great Depression—”
“Sir, we get it,” Robert interrupted, “America’s total history. How much money’s in the trust right now, today?”
“Ahem . . . eighty-eight million, two hundred thirty-one thousand dollars.”
Mrs. Keane gasped, then silence—two seconds . . . five seconds . . .
Ben whispered, “Eighty-eight . . . million?”
The banker nodded. “Yes—in that region.”
“That’s quite . . . a region . . . isn’t it?” breathed Mrs. Keane.
“It is,” the man agreed. “When it comes to growing money, there’s nothing quite like time.”
Jill stammered, “And w-we can use that—that money—however we want?”
Mr. Arthur Rydens smiled for the second time. “Another very perceptive question. The answer is yes . . . and no. Again, I quote from the terms in the trust document: “Whoever presents the medallion for the number eleven trust shall be given unquestioned access to whatever sums may be then available, provided that such funds are to be used exclusively and in good faith for the welfare, preservation, and continuing operation of the Captain Duncan Oakes School, located between Washington and Ocean Streets, in Edgeport, Massachusetts.”
“But what if . . . ,” began Robert, his head tilted to one side, “what if the school had burned down or something, like, a hundred years ago—would the bank have used that money to rebuil
Mr. Rydens raised one eyebrow and frowned at him. “There are certain provisions in the trust that I am not at liberty to discuss—with anyone.”
Again Ben whispered, “Eighty-eight million dollars!”
Robert said, “And we’re all in charge of that money now, all five of us?”
“That is correct,” said the banker. “You are the ones who showed up.”
CHAPTER 13
Not So Sure
It was 3:22 on Friday afternoon. Ben and Jill and Robert were in the library, and Lyman had just left the room after his second visit to be sure no one was roaming the halls. He wouldn’t be back for at least five minutes, so the three Keepers risked a quick conference in the alcove—they were still keeping away from Robert during school hours so Lyman would continue to believe they were trying to conceal their collaboration.
Robert slid onto the bench next to Ben and whispered, “Have you checked this area for microphones?”
Ben nodded. “Twice.”
“Good.” Robert smiled. “So, you guys have any good ideas about how to use our money? I’ve got tons!”
“First of all,” said Jill crisply, “it’s not our money—there are rules.”
“Yeah, yeah, Miss Scrooge, I know all that, but there’s still a lot of cool stuff we could really use.”
Jill sniffed. “I suppose you want a big powerboat that’ll do seventy miles an hour—in case Lyman tries to steal the whole school one night and tow it out to sea.”
Robert made a fake smile. “Ha. Ha. Ha. You are so funny . . . looking. I’ll continue this discussion with the other three members of the finance team.”
Riding home from the bank on Thursday with Mrs. Keane, Jill had told Robert he’d been pretty rude to the banker, and that had led to an argument, and there had been a chill in the air ever since. Ben wanted to change the subject, but Jill kept talking.
“You heard Mr. Rydens, Robert. If we use any money, the decision has to be unanimous—all five of us have to sign every release form . . . just in case you forgot that little detail.”
“So, Robert,” Ben said quickly, “you never did tell us your theory about the north staircase room.”
Robert shook his head. “I don’t want to say until I look at all the artifacts in there myself.”
Jill rolled her eyes, and Ben knew what she was thinking. He was getting tired of Robert’s attitude too. Yes, the kid was amazingly smart, but still . . .
Jill jumped back in. “I don’t see how we’re going to get in there now—I mean, Lyman knows we have keys, he knows we know about his alarm system, so he’s probably adding new security measures all the time. He’d just love to catch us doing something against the school rules—or something illegal. Then we’d be totally messed.”
Ben agreed with what Jill was saying . . . but suddenly the edge of an idea appeared, then an entire little plan popped into his mind. In a flash he knew it could work—and he blurted out the whole idea before Robert saw it—or had time to come up with something even smarter.
“Listen,” he said, “how about today, right now, we go to every door and we peel off all of Lyman’s sensors, every single one of them! No way will he have enough spares to replace all of them, and it’ll take him at least a day to get more, right? We take his whole system down! And then we wait until three a.m.—even if he patrols the place himself tonight, he’ll be gone by then—and we show up, choose a door, and we’re in!”
Jill looked skeptical—and Ben saw she also looked hurt, like he’d turned against her. She frowned. “Well, I can’t sneak out at three in the morning—and, Benjamin, you’re staying on your dad’s boat. One tiny sound and he’ll hear you, you know he will.”
“So . . . ,” Robert said, “Pratt comes to my house for a sleepover. We can get out of my house easy, no problem. I really do need to see that stuff.”
Jill shook her head. “Too risky. It’s not worth it.” She clamped her jaw shut, which made her bottom lip stick out a little.
Ben knew that look. She’d made up her mind, and she wasn’t going to change it.
Robert turned and looked at Ben, one eyebrow raised. “What do you say, Pratt?”
He was asking, Are you with meon this . . . or with her?—and all three of them knew it.
Ben looked at Jill, hoping to bring her back in. Because he really did think this was a workable plan . . . and if Robert’s past successes were any indication, there might actually be something important under those stairs.
But Jill looked down at the library table, her jaw still clamped.
Ben made his choice. “I’ll ask my dad about a sleepover.”
Robert slapped Ben on the back. “Great! Now, there are twelve doors, including the ones in the Annex, and there are three of us, so each of us just has to—”
Jill stood up, tucking her papers into her backpack. “Divide those doors by two—count me out. See you Monday.”
“Come on, Jill,” said Ben, “don’t be like that. . . .”
“Like what?” she snapped. “Cautious? Intelligent? You’re the one who’s been telling everybody not to be impatient, not to rush things. Well, you’re on your own for this one . . . Pratt.”
Jill swung her book bag onto her shoulder and walked away.
Robert didn’t skip a beat. “So, then how about you pull the sensors off all the doors on the south and east sides, and I’ll get the doors on the north and west. And if Lyman sees us, so what? It’s not like he can shove us around, or go and report us for shutting down his private surveillance system. . . .” Then Robert noticed Ben’s face. “Hey,” he said, “don’t worry about Jill . . . she’ll be back, you know she will.”
Ben didn’t feel so sure about that—and as he and Robert left the library and split up, he wondered if he was making a mistake. He could still put the brakes on this thing . . . shut it off right now, then call Jill and apologize.
But Ben didn’t want to do that. After all, he’d sneaked out once before in the middle of the night, and it’d been fun . . . sort of. And with Robert along, it’d be even more of an adventure. Actually, it might be better just having the two of them for a job like this . . . and as long as they were super, super careful, what did they have to lose?
Ben was standing at the front door now, his stainless-steel ruler already in his hand. He looked both ways, pushed the door wide, and reached up, sliding the end of the ruler under the bottom edge of the sensor. It came loose and dropped to the floor. He picked it up and stuck it in his pocket.
Letting the door close, he walked quickly past the office and headed for the entrance by the bus driveway. One door was disarmed, and he needed to get to five others as quickly as possible—and also try to avoid being seen by Lyman. A plan was in motion, and the tall guy was going to get a big surprise.
Ben smiled at that thought, and then made a slight correction—My plan is in motion.
CHAPTER 14
History, Revised
When his dad stopped the car in front of 37 Beecham Street around seven thirty, Ben thought they must be at the wrong address. Robert lived in a small saltbox-style house—not what Ben had imagined. What with his brand-new racing sailboat last year, and the way he always wore nice clothes to school, Ben had thought Robert’s family must be rich or something. As he and his dad went up the front walk, Ben saw that the house needed painting, and a couple of the boards on the front steps had wide cracks—nothing dangerous, just not shipshape.
“Hey, Ben, come on in. Hi, Mr. Pratt—this is my grandmother.”
Ben’s dad stepped forward and shook hands with a woman in her midsixties.
She smiled warmly and kept hold of his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Pratt, and I’m so glad Benjamin’s come to spend the night. It gives me a chance to thank both of you in person for the way he rescued Robert the other weekend. I hope you got my thank-you note.”
“Yes, thanks,” Ben’s dad said. “My wife mentioned that you’d written to Ben. We’re proud of him
“Yes, I’m sure they’ll have a good time. I’ll be running some errands around ten tomorrow—shall I bring him home? I’ve still got your address over on Walnut Street.”
“Actually,” his dad said, “if you could drop him off at Parson’s Marina, that’d be great. He’s staying there with me this week.”
“All right, that’s fine. Really, it’s so good to meet you.”
“Thanks, you too.” Turning to Ben, he said, “Have a good time, and behave yourself, all right?”
“I will, Dad. Bye.”
Following Robert inside and through the living room, Ben noticed that the chairs and couch weren’t fancy, and that the carpeting looked a little worn. But the wooden floors were waxed and buffed, and the whole place was spotless—completely shipshape. The kitchen was plain as well, but orderly and clean, and the smell of chocolate chip cookies was in the air.
The kitchen opened into a small sunroom that had been added to the back of the house. Robert pointed at a doorway with steps down into the backyard.
He whispered, “Check it out—it’s gonna be a snap to do you-know-what at you-know-when.” Pointing again, he said, “Toss your sleeping bag on the couch—I’m using the cot over there. Gram said we could sleep down here in the TV room, after I begged for about twenty minutes. Pretty sweet, huh?”
“Yeah—she seems really nice,” Ben said. “Are your parents out of town or something?”
“No,” Robert said slowly, “they’re in town, sort of. They’re just . . . not alive. They’re in the cemetery behind the Congregational Church. They both died in a car crash about six years ago. And my grandfather died three years ago—so here at 37 Beecham Street, it’s the widow and orphan show, seven days a week. Welcome to this Friday night performance.”