The Mansion in the Mist (10 page)

Anthony sat rigidly still, staring at the windshield. "Turn around and go back a little ways and you'll find out what's the matter," he muttered. "Across the way and to the right down a side street. That's where it is."

Miss Eells wanted to ask, "Where
what
is?" but she didn't. Instead she revved up the car and looked up and
down the road. Nobody was coming, so she did a U-turn and cruised slowly back down the main street of the town.

"This street," said Anthony faintly. "Off to your right."

Miss Eells swerved onto a rutty side street and then suddenly, like Anthony, she gasped. "Oh, my good Lord in heaven!" she said. "I see what you mean. This is incredible!"

Miss Eells stopped the car next to a fire hydrant, and the two of them got out. Then they just stared for a long while. They were looking at a three-story black stone mansion with narrow windows and a slate roof. The tall chimneys were capped by iron chimney covers that looked like Chinese pagoda roofs. They could see the south side of the building, which was thick with tangled vines, and level with the ground was a false stone doorway with a Greek cornice. Next to it stood a headless statue of a woman in a toga. Her marble arm pointed up. And a little way off to the left were the tangled, weedy remains of a garden.

"It's... it's..." quavered Miss Eells, but she couldn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to—Anthony knew, as she did, that they were staring at a house that was like the mansion they had seen in that misty moonlit otherworld.

After opening and closing his mouth a few times, Anthony finally found that he could speak. "I wonder what it means," he said in a choked voice.

"I don't know," replied Miss Eells quietly. "This is all very, very strange. We'll have to tell Emerson about it. Before we go, though, I'd like a slightly closer look."

Anthony was terrified. He grabbed Miss Eells's arm. "You're not going
in
there, are you?" he gasped. "Please don't! Please, please don't!"

"Of course I'm not going in!" said Miss Eells. "I may be weird and impractical, but I'd like to live a few more years. I just want to walk to the main gate and see if I can see any signs of life. Are you with me?"

Anthony nodded, and he followed Miss Eells along the spike-topped iron fence that surrounded the mansion's grounds. The empty windows stared out silently at them, and once they were startled by a crow that suddenly took off from one of the chimneys. It flew past, cawing loudly. Soon Anthony and Miss Eells came to a padlocked gate and two tall black stone gateposts with lanterns on top. The frosted panes of the lanterns were broken; there was a wooden sign wired to the gate. It said:

FOR SALE

Hjalmarson Realtors

Phone: 6854

Anthony noticed two more weathered FOR SALE signs. They were lying in the tall grass just inside the gateway, and they had the names of other real estate companies on them. Apparently it had been hard to sell this depressing old place.

Miss Eells peered through the bars at the tall porch of the mansion. It was narrow, just a flattopped canopy over the front door, held up by square-edged wooden posts. "I've never seen the main entrance of that other mansion," she said. "Have you, Anthony?"

Anthony shook his head. "No, I haven't," he said. Then he added in an odd voice, "I'll bet they're both the same."

"No bet," said Miss Eells grimly. She folded her arms and went on gazing at this strange abandoned building. After another long look she turned away. "Come on, Anthony," she said softly, as she touched him on the arm. "We'd better be getting back home. It's after five, and we'll be lucky to make it to Reifschneider's before the dinnertime crowd."

That evening after dinner Miss Eells phoned her brother Emerson and told him about the discovery that she and Anthony had made. Needless to say, Emerson was surprised. He was also a little bit frightened.

"Look, Myra," he said, talking rapidly as he always did when he was excited, "find out whatever you can about the former owner of that mansion. I'll bet that it was the Grand Autarch himself, though I doubt that was the name he used when he lived in New Stockholm. The really interesting thing about your discovery is that it gives us hope."

Miss Eells was mystified.
"Hope?
What kind of hope?"

"If the mansion in the Autarchs' world is a copy of the one you saw," said Emerson, "then maybe inside it
is something we could use the way we used the magic chest. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Brother dear," Miss Eells said, "your logic escapes me. Why should there be anything magical inside that old run-down heap of a house? I'd expect cobwebs and mice, perhaps, but not magic chests that travel between dimensions."

"I'm not being logical, I'm playing a hunch," said Emerson. "And anyway, it's the only hope we have of getting back to the Autarchs' world."

Miss Eells shuddered. "Why ever would we want to do that? I thought that whole episode was over and done with. Are you still thinking about the Logic Cube, or whatever it's called?"

"Yes, Myra, I am," said Emerson. "Do you really think those black-robed creeps are going to sit back and forget about the cube? It's changing their world without their permission. Also, they have a plan for taking over
our
world—remember, I heard it with my own ears—and they can't do it without the cube. Do you think I can sleep nights while there's a chance they might find the cursed thing and work unimaginable magic with it?"

Miss Eells heaved a despairing sigh. She knew Emerson, and when he was convinced that he was right, you couldn't argue with him. Also, Miss Eells had to admit that what he was saying made a weird sort of sense. Maybe the world was in danger, and maybe they had better find a way to get the cube before the Autarchs found it. "Very well, Em," she said at last. "I'll go back
up to New Stockholm and try to find out about the former owner of that ugly old dump. Maybe I can pretend to be someone who wants to buy the place."

"Sounds like a good idea," said Emerson. "You find out what you can, and call me immediately if you discover something. I have a few wills to draw up, but there's nothing that can't be shoved aside for a few days if I absolutely have to come down there. Good luck." And with that he hung up.

"Good luck indeed!" muttered Miss Eells to herself, as she put the receiver back in its cradle. "I wonder what I have gotten myself into?" Then she decided to call up Anthony and tell him about Emerson's latest idea.

The very next Saturday afternoon, Miss Eells and Anthony found themselves standing in the front hall of the mansion in New Stockholm, Wisconsin. The real estate agent was a short cheerful man who wore a checkered sport coat and a handpainted tie that looked like a sunset in the tropics. He had a thin mustache, was nearly bald, and he smelled of cheap cigars. Miss Eells didn't like him, but she smiled politely and tried to seem interested as the man went on about the old house and its wonderful qualities. Who had lived here before? A guy by the name of Ambrose. Marius F. Ambrose, that was his name. He had disappeared mysteriously in the mid-1930's, and the house had become the property of a cousin named Harlow Fredberg, who very much wanted to sell it to someone who would take good care of it. And how much was he asking? Only $20,000.

A steal it was, for a grand place like this, an absolute steal! Genuine hardwood floors, wainscots covered with real leather, and lots of very fine wood carving that showed Old World craftsmanship. And the fireplaces, well, they were...

"Could we see the house?" Miss Eells cut in. She didn't mean to be rude, but she knew that they'd be here all day if she didn't get pushy.

The agent gave her a look—he was enjoying the sound of his own voice, and he hated to be interrupted. But he shrugged and led his two customers into the house. They trekked through room after room where furniture lay shrouded in gray dustcovers. Living room, back parlor, dining room, kitchen, pantry. It was a house meant for rich people who paid an army of servants to keep the place tidy and serve meals.
Those days are gone forever, thank God!
said Miss Eells to herself. She had never been able to afford servants, but it didn't matter anyway. She hated being waited on by anyone. They climbed the main staircase to the landing above. Suddenly Miss Eells stopped. As soon as Anthony saw the dusky oil painting that hung in a gilt frame on the wall, he knew why they were pausing.

The painting showed a tall, gloomy-looking man in a frock coat, wing collar, and black string tie. His forehead was high, and his red-rimmed eyes burned below arched black eyebrows. His nose was long and ridged, and a pair of pince-nez glasses hung by a black ribbon from his lapel. He was standing behind a small table—
a writing desk it was, actually, with a slanted top and a low railing on three sides. The man's right hand was stuck into the pocket of his jacket; his left hand pointed at some playing cards that lay before him on the table: the three, seven, nine, and ace of spades. All the cards were right side up, facing the man who was pointing at them—except for the ace, which was upside down. Behind the man, the painter had sketched in part of a bookcase lost in shadows, and over his left shoulder a small pointed window could be seen. It was topped by three round panes, that reminded Anthony of the clubs on playing cards:

For a long time Miss Eells studied the painting. She had only seen the Grand Autarch once, when he was standing on the dark pathway in front of the cottage. But Anthony had gotten a better look at the evil man, so she turned to him and gave him a questioning look. Anthony knew what she meant, and he nodded solemnly. That was all Miss Eells needed, and she turned abruptly to the agent.

"Is this a picture of Mr. Ambrose, the former owner of the house?" she asked.

"Yes!" said the agent eagerly. "And a very good likeness, if I do say so myself. It's quite an unusual item, and the experts say that it could command a large price
in an auction." The agent was lying—he had always been told that the painting was worthless, but if this silly old woman was willing to pay a lot for it...

Miss Eells's voice cut in on the agent's greedy thoughts. "I guess we've seen enough of the picture," she snapped. "Would you show us the rest of the house?"

The agent flinched, but he forced himself to smile. He didn't like Miss Eells, but if she was crazy enough to take the mansion off his company's hands, he might get a handsome commission. "Very well, madam," he said stiffly. "If you will just follow me..."

After the tour of the house was over, Miss Eells forced herself to smile and shake the agent's hand. "Thank you so much for showing us this
fascinating
house," she said with fake sweetness. "I'm not sure it's within my price range, but if I think I can afford it, I'll give you a call." And with that, she and Anthony hurried out the door.

Anthony was glad to get out of the place, which was beginning to give him the creeps. Maybe it was the resemblance to the other mansion, or maybe there was some evil presence in the house. Whatever the reason was, he kept expecting to see the evil Autarch every time he turned a corner. So as they drove away, he heaved a sigh of relief.

"Have you had enough of Grisly Grange?" asked Miss Eells with a chuckle. "Wouldn't you love to live there, Anthony?"

Anthony winced. "I'd like to buy some dynamite and
blow the place up," he said vehemently. Then he paused and looked fearfully at Miss Eells. "Emerson doesn't really think that... that..." he began falteringly.

"He does indeed," said Miss Eells glumly. "He believes that somewhere inside that house is a way back to the misty moonlit world where the Autarchs live. Well, I didn't see anything like a magic chest, did you? No, I didn't think so. There was, however, that weird painting, which may interest Emerson. I suppose I'd better tell him about it."

That evening when Miss Eells phoned her brother, she gave him an account of her visit to the mansion, and she described the painting in great detail. Throughout most of Miss Eells's tale, Emerson had sat silent. Now and then he made little grunts and uh-huh noises, but that was all. But when he heard about the painting he got so excited that Miss Eells thought he would jump through the telephone wires and land in the room next to her.

"Myra!" he crowed. "That painting is just what we want! Nasty old Mr. Ambrose was leaving a clue for those who could read it! How about that!"

Miss Eells covered her face with her hand—she had been afraid of getting some reaction like this. "Emerson," she said patiently, "when you're through turning somersaults will you kindly explain to me what you're talking about?
What
is the painting a clue to?"