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“What would anyone do in our attic this time of night?”
“Burgling all our old junk?”
“You don’t think they’ll come down and attack us?”
“What, two old fools, with skinny backsides?”
“Thank God, the trapdoor only works one way, and is locked beneath.”
They began to edge step by step back up toward the hidden sounds.
“I know!” said Rose, suddenly. “In the Chicago papers last week: they’re stealing antique furniture!”
“Pshaw! We’re the only antiques here!”
“Still, there’s some up there. A Morris chair, that’s old. Some dining room chairs, older, and a cut crystal chandelier.”
“From the dime store, 1914. So ugly we couldn’t put it out with the trash. Listen.”
It was quieter above. On the top floor, they gazed at the ceiling trapdoor and cocked their ears.
“Someone’s opening my trunk.” Emily clapped her hands to her mouth. “Hear that? The hinges need oiling.”
“Why would they open your trunk? Nothing is there.”
“Maybe something …”
Above, in the dark, the trunk lid fell.
“Fool!” whispered Emily.
Someone tiptoed across the attic floor, careful after being clumsy.
“There’s a window up there, they’re climbing out!”
The two sisters ran to their own bedroom window.
“Unlock the screen, poke your head out!” cried Rose.
“And let them see me? No, ma’am!”
They waited and heard a scraping noise and a clatter as something fell on the driveway below.
Gasping, they shoved the screen out to peer down and see a long ladder being toted along the driveway by two shadows. One of the shadows grasped a small white packet in his free hand.
“They stole something!” hissed Emily. “Come!”
Downstairs, they threw the front door wide to see two sets of footprints on the lawn in the dew. A truck, at the curb, pulled away.
Running out, both ladies shaded their eyes to read the vanishing license plate.
“Damnation!” cried Emily. “Did you see?”
“A seven and nine, is all. Do we call the police?”
“Not till we know what’s gone. Shake a leg.”
By flashlight on the attic stairs they unlocked the trapdoor and climbed up into darkness.
