"It's all right," he said. "It was my own
fault for not watching where I was going. Besides, you can't blame an
American for not liking the idea of having his home searched."
The old man chuckled too and flashed a wary eye at the trooper. "I'll go
get ye a towel to dry off with," he told Bud.
Meanwhile, Tom was investigating a house down the road with another
state trooper. The owner, a paunchy unshaven bachelor named Pete Latty,
and his seventeen-year-old nephew accompanied them to the basement.
A naked light bulb, hanging from the ceiling, revealed an ancient
furnace, and an accumulation of junk. Most of it was covered with dust,
but Tom noticed a large packing crate that looked as if it had been
freshly moved. He walked over and began to shove the heavy box aside.
"What're you doing?" Latty asked gruffly.
"I want to look underneath," Tom replied. A second later his eyes
widened as he saw a trap door, evidently leading to a subcellar.
Tom beckoned his partner over and showed his discovery. "Where does this
lead to?" the trooper asked, turning back to Latty.
"Just a little storage place," the owner replied with a shrug. "I didn't
think it was worth mentioning. You'd better not go down there," he added
hastily. "The steps ain't safe."
"Just the same, we'll take a look," the trooper said.
"Then do it at your own risk!" Latty snapped.
The officer pulled up the trap door and Tom shone a light down.
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