Free Tom Swift and the Visitor From Planet X by Victor Appleton II

Hammond found the young inventor standing chagrined and knee-deep in water, five feet below floor level.
    "What’s that hole?" the trooper snapped at Latty, who had remained on the stairs.
    "What does it look like?" the man snapped back. "It’s an old well."
    "A well!" the trooper exclaimed as he knelt down to extend a hand to Tom. "And not even covered? What’re you trying to do—kill people?"
    The man sniffed. "Used to be covered, but the lid’s gone. Figgered you could just walk around it. Didn’t expect to have a bunch of nosy fellers pokin’ around down here!"
    The policeman reddened. As he yanked Tom up to safety, he stood up to his full six-foot-two. "Look, mister— what’s your name again?"
    The man shrank back, as if suspecting that the inspector’s patience might have been tried too far. "Pete Latty," he mumbled.
    "Okay, Mr. Latty, you take a deep breath and visualize every square inch of this basement! Got it? Now—any more booby traps we should know about?"
    Latty gulped. "Nope. Nothin’ else." He turned toward Tom, whose trousers were wet and stained, but was unharmed. "Sorry, son," Latty said with hasty apology. "Guess I should have warned you."
    Tom chuckled good-naturedly. "It’s all right," he said. "It was my own fault for not watching where I was going. Besides, you can’t blame a true-blue American for not liking the idea of having his home searched." He wondered if his choice of words had sounded sarcastic. He knew they had been meant that way.
    Latty chuckled too and flashed a wary eye at Jack Hammond.
    "Uncle Pete, you down there?" called a voice from atop the stairs.
    "S’okay. Just showin’ some visitors what’s what. You can stay up there, Freddy." The paunchy unshaven bachelor turned back to Tom and Hammond. "Just my nephew. Lives here too."
    Tom noticed a large packing crate. A smear of grime on the floor testified that it had been freshly moved. He walked over and began to shove the heavy box aside.
    "Wh-what’re you doing?" Latty piped.
    "I want to look underneath," Tom replied. "We have to check everywhere for radon smudges around the cracks." Hope Latty doesn’t know anything about radon! Tom thought. A second later his eyes widened with satisfaction as he uncovered a trap door, evidently leading to a subcellar. It sported a shiny stainless steel padlock.
    Tom beckoned his partner over and showed his discovery. "Where does this lead to?" Hammond asked calmly, turning back to Latty.
    "Just a little storage place," the owner replied with a shrug. "Nothin’ much. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning. Don’t use it no more. You’d better not go down there," he added hastily. "The ladder steps ain’t safe."
    "Just the same, we’ll take a look," the policeman stated. "You don’t use it, hmm? Funny—looks like a nice new lock to me, Mr. Latty. Unlock it, please."
    "Don’t got th’ key."
    Hammond looked dangerous. "Get it."
    "Lost it."
    "Find it."
    "Then do it at your own risk!" Latty snapped. He pulled a keyring from his pants pocket and produced the key. In a moment Hammond pulled up the trap door and Tom shone a light down. The cement-walled room below was much larger than Pete Latty’s description of it, about ten feet square. The four walls were crowded with metal cabinets and new shelving. On the floor, at the foot of an aluminum ladder, lay a large bundle wrapped in a tarpaulin.
    Tom descended the ladder cautiously and opened the tarpaulin to see what was inside. The contents made him gasp—a large, well-oiled collection of rifles and pistols!
    Looking up, Tom saw both Hammond and Latty peering down at him—the officer openmouthed with grim surprise, Latty scowling nervously. "Don’t touch ’em!" Latty warned. "Some are loaded. I keep ’em hidden for safety, but sometimes my nephew Fred here and I have target practice. I—er—guess they ain’t all legal—don’t care t’have folks find out about ’em. But that’s not your department, boys."
    Just then