Slowly the car rolled along, in the shadow of the grimy red wall. Ahead, Fergie and the professor saw a gateway. Two tall red-granite pillars rose above the level of the wall, and atop each one was a weathered and pitted stone skull. Between the pillars large black iron gates could be seen, and as the car drew close to them, the travelers could see that they were chained shut.
The professor's car slowed to a crawl and then pulled off onto a sandy piece of ground that was directly across from the gates. Beyond the iron bars Fergie and the professor could see a panel truck parked on the gravel drive that led to the front door of the mansion. Near it was a cement mixer, and beyond they could see some scaffolding that had been thrown up against one wall of the church. But there were no workmen around.
"Some place, huh?" said Fergie, as he gazed up in awe at the closed gates. "How much d'ya think it cost to build a great big huge dump like this?"
The professor chuckled. "You're a typical American, Byron—you're fascinated by how much things cost. Well, take a good look at the expensive old heap of stones. This is the place we're going to have to break into. Think it'll be a pushover?"
Fergie grinned confidently. "Sure, prof! No problem at all. We just scoot on out there tomorrow night with a ladder, climb that wall, an'—bingo! We're in! Or we could . . ." Fergie's voice trailed away, and a gleam appeared in his eyes. "Hey, prof!" he said suddenly. "Why don't we go over and see if we can get in right now?"
The professor was startled by this suggestion. He thought a second or two, and then he laughed. "Oh, not now, Byron!" he exclaimed. "I'm dressed in my good clothes, and on top of everything else, I'm tired. Let's wait till tomorrow night."
Fergie gave the professor a scornful look. "Aw, come on, prof!" he said in a taunting voice. "Are you scared to go over there now an' see if we can get in?"
The professor did not like to be kidded. He scowled at Fergie. "Now see here, Byron," he began, "I am not a coward. Who planned this trip, anyway? Whose idea was it to break into the estate, my fine feathered friend?"
Fergie shrugged. "Okay, okay, so you planned the big wonderful expedition! Then why don't you wanta go over there an' rattle a couple of doors? Huh?"
The professor spluttered a bit, and when he finally managed to calm down, he answered.
"Oh, very welll" he said irritably. "Let us wait half an hour to see if anyone comes out of that gate. Then we will trot over there and see if there's some way of getting in. Will that make you happy?"
Fergie nodded and grinned. They waited. The sun had set and it was getting dark. A night wind sprang up, and an owl began to hoot in the woods nearby. After a half-hour had passed, the professor went to the trunk of his car, opened it, and took out two nickel-plated flashlights. He gave one to Fergie and took one himself. As they started toward the gate, they noticed something that had been hidden by a clump of juniper trees that grew near the road. It was a small stone gatehouse that was built into the wall near the main gate. It had only one window, which was blocked up with bricks, but there was a narrow green door set in a round-topped arch.
"Hey, look!" Fergie exclaimed. "It's a door! See, what'd I tell ya?"
The professor laughed. "Yes, it's a door, isn't it? And I'll bet it's locked and backed with a piece of sheet steel an inch thick. But I suppose you won't be happy till you've rattled it, will you?"
Fergie stepped boldly forward through the tall, swishy grass. The professor followed, muttering unpleasantly to himself, and soon the two were standing in front of the weathered door. Fergie pointed the beam of his flashlight at the knob. Then he said, "Here goes nothin'!" and grasped the knob firmly. He twisted it and pushed, hard. With a dull rattle and a scraping sound, the door moved inward.
CHAPTER SEVEN
In silence, Fergie and the professor stared at the half-open door. For some reason neither one of them wanted to take the first step forward. Finally, Fergie summoned up his courage. "Hey, how about that!" he said in a voice that was a little too loud. "It's not locked!"
The professor said nothing. To his logical mind this open door did not make any sense. Why chain up the main gate and leave this door open? But then he thought of something.
"It may be a little too early to celebrate, Byron," he said as he stepped forward. "I mean, we may not be able to get any farther than this stupid gatehouse. Let's have a look."
With the flashlight beam moving across the floor in front of him, the professor stepped into the tiny room. Then he saw the other door. It hung halfway open. Beyond, they could see a gravel driveway and the looming shape of the mansion.
"Well, I never!" muttered the professor as he stepped through the doorway. "If I were the owner of this place, I would fire the people who are in charge of locking up at night. Lets just have a brief little stroll around and then go back to the hotel for the night. Okay?"
Fergie nodded, and he followed the professor down the gravel drive toward the mansion. It was twilight now, and they could not see much without their flashlights. Slowly they moved forward, and the only sound was the crunching of their shoes on the gravel. As Fergie walked along, an odd thought popped into his head: Somebody left the door open on purpose. Somebody wanted us to come in. This was a silly thought, and normally it would have made Fergie laugh. But he didn't laugh. Instead, he glanced nervously at the vast, shadowy church. What if a figure stepped out of the dark and moved toward them? What would they do? It was not a pleasant thought, and Fergie tried hard to put it out of his mind.
Suddenly the professor stopped, and he reached out and grabbed Fergie by the arm. "My friend," he said quietly, "I do not want to go poking around in that mansion tonight, even if all the doors are wide open. And I certainly do not want to fool around in the church without any tools. So let's just mosey around to the backyard of the estate. Maybe we can peer over the wall and see the beautiful Hudson River shining in the moonlight. We'll just have a quick peek, call it an evening, and go back to the hotel."
Fergie followed the professor around the side of the mansion. Quickly they padded across the long, matted grass and dodged a wheelbarrow that had been left by the workmen. They were on the back lawn. In the distance they could see the wall that surrounded the estate, and off to the right was a small grove of trees. Rising over the trees was the dome of some kind of small building. It was made of white stone, and glimmered faint and ghostly in the light of the moon, which had just risen over the roof of the church.
Fergie stared. "What is that thing over there?" he asked.
The professor squinted into the darkness. "Oh, you mean the dome? That is probably what they call a folly. In the old days they put up weird little buildings on the grounds of estates, just to make everything look pretty. Shall we give it the once-over?"
Fergie agreed, and they trotted off toward the grove of trees. A flagstone walk wound among the dark trunks, and it led to a flight of marble steps. The door of the building was made of bronze, and it was flanked by fluted columns. Over the door was an oblong slab, with the words TEMPLE OF THE INNER LIGHT chiseled on it. The place looked utterly deserted. The marble pillars were grimy, and pine needles littered the steps. A sagging cobweb hung across one corner of the doorway.
"Fancy, eh?" said the professor as he played the beam of his light over the front of the temple. "I wonder if old Zeb had garden parties out . . ."
Suddenly the professor stopped talking. He was staring at a statue that stood in a niche on the front of the temple. It was a statue of a short, hunched figure in a monk's robe. The hood of the robe was large, and hung down over the creature's face, but you could see something dangling from one long, drooping sleeve. It looked like an octopus's tentacle. Below the statue was an inscription: To him are given the keys of the Bottomless Pit.
Fergie let out a long, low whistle. "Boy!" he said, shaking his head. "They coulda had some great Halloween parties out here with a thing like that around!"
The professor grimaced. "I don't think you would have enjoyed the parties tha
t good old Zeb gave," he said. "Witches' Sabbaths would have been right up his alley, wouldn't they? Euchh! This thing is giving me the creeps! What d'ye say we . . ."
The professor froze. He had heard something—a loud crackling, crunching noise. It seemed to be coming from somewhere beside the dark, gloomy temple. As he and Fergie stood dead still, listening, the crunching went on. Then, suddenly, the air was filled with the sound of barking.
"Hey!" Fergie exclaimed. "It's just a dog! I wonder what he's doin' around here."
The professor sighed. "I'm sure I don't know, but I will say I am very relieved to find that it is only . . ."
Again the professor's voice died. The dog had stopped barking, but it started whining and whimpering in a pitiful, frightened way. A long, anguished howl filled the air, and then it was cut short.
Fergie and the professor stood motionless, listening for more noises—but none came. When the professor finally spoke, he sounded tense and frightened.
"Byron," he said in a low voice, "it may be a foolish thing to do, but I want to go around behind the temple and find out what has happened to that dog. Are you with me?"
Fergie wanted to say, You're right, pal, it is a dumb thing to do! But he merely nodded and followed the professor into the wet, dripping shrubbery that grew close to the temple. Carefully they inched their way along, following the curving marble wall. Finally they came out into a small clearing at the rear of the temple. At first they saw nothing. The two flashlight beams moved over the matted grass, and then they stopped on the same spot.
"Oh, my God!" gasped the professor. "Lord have mercy on us!"
They both stared, and felt their blood run cold. Lying on the grass was the body of a small collie dog. It was dead. There was not much doubt about that. All the flesh had been sucked away from the dog's head, leaving only a bleached white skull.
Fergie swallowed hard and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the fearful shape was still there. He turned to the professor, but the old man said nothing; he merely took Fergie by the arm and led him back around to the front of the temple. In silence they walked along the winding flagstone path and then onto the moonlit grass again. They went out through the little gatehouse and crossed the road. Finally, when they were standing by the car again, Fergie spoke.
"We shoulda buried the poor thing," he said sadly.
"Yes," added the professor. "We should have, I suppose. But I wanted to get out of that place as quickly as possible. I can't imagine who—or what—could have done such a thing, but I will tell you this: I have a plastic bottle of holy water in my glove compartment, and when we come back here, I'm going to be carrying it with me. I wish I had the little silver crucifix that Father Higgins gave to Johnny, but it seems to have disappeared. Mrs. Dixon searched in Johnny's room, but she couldn't find it."
"Do you think it would help?" asked Fergie skeptically. "I mean, it might just've been some crazy maniac who killed that dog."
"And left it in that condition, and did it that fast?" said the professor with a grimace. "I doubt it. Even maniacs need time to do their work. Come on. Let's get in the car and go back to the hotel. I've had enough of this rotten place for one night."
CHAPTER EIGHT
When Fergie got up the next day, he looked out the window of the hotel room and he groaned. The sky was gray, and it was raining. He knew that they were going to have to wait until evening to try their second break-in, and it looked as if they were going to spend the whole time cooped up in their room. The professor was more cheerful, however: He had lived in England, so he was used to rotten weather. After they dressed and washed up, the professor dug his collapsible umbrella out of the suitcase and took Fergie across the street to Steve's Steak House for breakfast. They pored over the map and the guidebook while they ate, and went back to their room and played chess for a while. Neither of them had gotten much sleep the night before, so late in the afternoon they took a nap.
When they awoke, the rain had stopped and it was colder. As the sun moved downward, fog came rolling up the Hudson and drifted into the town. Fergie and the professor paced about in their hotel room for a while, fussed, and grumbled about the weather. Around a quarter past six, the professor changed into his prowling-around clothes: a gray sweat shirt, grass-stained khaki trousers, and tennis shoes. There was a large baggy pocket on the front of the sweat shirt, and into it the professor put the holy water bottle. Fergie put on blue jeans and a plaid shirt, and he dug the red searchlight out of his suitcase. Meanwhile, the professor checked the two old nickel-plated flashlights that he normally carried in the car, and the "burglar" equipment in the leather satchel. One by one he laid the items out on the bed: a hammer and chisel, a coil of rope, a small pair of binoculars, a screwdriver, three files, a jackknife, a mallet, and a brace and auger for boring holes. To this collection he added Fergie's crowbar; he replaced everything in the satchel, and finally, at a quarter to seven, the two of them went downstairs, got into the car, and drove off toward the Windrow estate.
When Fergie and the professor pulled up across from the main entrance of the estate, they saw that the church and the mansion were wrapped in swirling gray fog. Overhead, the stone steeple rose into the dark sky, and at its very tip a red warning light glowed. Two white globe lights burned by the main gate, and haloes of mist hung around them.
"Wow!" said Fergie as he glanced out the car window. "This looks like a Sherlock Holmes movie, doesn't it?"
"Please keep your jokes to yourself," growled the professor as he got out of the car. "We have a job to do, and it's not likely to be terribly pleasant. You can yuk it up when we're back in our hotel room, safe and sound. Okay? Let's go."
The professor got the tool satchel out of the trunk, and he snapped on one of his small flashlights. With Fergie by his side, he trotted quickly across the road. When they got to the gatehouse, they found that the wooden door was still unlocked. Once again, as they pushed their way in, Fergie felt a pang of real fear: What if the creature that had killed the dog was waiting for them? It was better not to think that way, though, and Fergie forced himself to smile bravely as he stepped through the dark gatehouse and out onto the wet gravel of the driveway.
Dead silence hung about the two explorers as they padded forward through the fog. The white beam of the searchlight stabbed out, but not very far: Always, a pale wall of mist hung beyond the light.
"Byron?" the professor rasped. "Do you have any idea of where we are? This fog is awful! It's like walking around inside a box full of cotton batting!"
Fergie waved the beam of his searchlight around. Up ahead the dark shape of a building loomed, like a cliff in a mist. "I think the church is up that way," he said uncertainly. "Anyways, it looks like it."
They plodded on, and soon they were standing in front of a flight of broad stone steps. At the top was a tall pair of bronze doors with large drum-shaped knobs.
"Oh, good night!" exclaimed the professor. "Byron, you get D minus for sense of direction. This isn't the church, it's the mansion. But as long as we're here, let's have a peek inside. There's a stained-glass window in the library, and it may have some clues that will help us. It'll only take a minute."
"Hey, come on, professor!" Fergie exclaimed as he tugged at the old man's arm. "What is this, a guided tour or somethin'? We're supposed to be over at the church, lookin' for the Urim and the Whatsis, aren't we?"
"Young man," the professor said huffily, "I know perfectly well what we're here for. But if the Urim and the Thummim aren't in the coffin, we may need to follow other clues."
Fergie shrugged and followed the professor up the steps. They paused in front of the doors, and the professor twisted one of the knobs. With a loud, dismal groan the door moved outward.
"I don't get this!" said Fergie as they stepped into the dark, cool hallway. "How come all the doors in this joint are open? Aren't they scared of burglars?"
The professor chuckled. "You're forgetting that this place is being fixed up by an army
of workmen. They're traipsing in and out of these doors all day long, and at night they probably don't worry much about whether the place is completely locked up tight. They just chain the gates and kiss the place good-bye till the next morning. It's lucky for us, of course—I never was any good at lock picking. Hmm . . . I wonder where that library is. It ought to be through this door over on the right, if I remember the floor plan correctly."
Fergie quickly flashed his light down the long dark hall, and then he followed the professor. They passed a floor-polishing machine and stopped in front of a tall oak door set in a fancy carved arch. A large brass key was stuck into the door's lock, and the professor twisted it. Creaking a little, the door opened, and they stepped inside. The professor fumbled around on the wall, and his hand found an electric switch. Instantly the room was flooded with light.
"Hey!" exclaimed Fergie. "Do you think that's a smart thing to do? What if somebody drives by and sees the lights on?"
"They will think that the workmen are putting in some overtime," said the professor calmly. "Now quit griping and have a look around—we're not going to stay long."
They were in a huge, high-ceilinged room that would have reminded Fergie of his high school gym, except that built-in bookshelves stretched from floor to ceiling along three of the four walls, and a narrow balcony ran all the way around the room, so you could get at the shelves
that were higher up. The shelves were empty, and tall stacks of books were standing on the floor. As he paused to run his finger over the dusty cover of a book, he heard a loud whap! behind him.
"Ye gods!" exclaimed the professor as he whirled around. "Don't do that! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
Revenge of the Wizard's Ghost Page 5