  “Here, lend me a shoulder!” Mr. Eckenrod ordered as Penny hesitated. “Or aren’t you interested?” “Oh, I am—but your leg.” “Stuff and nonsense! The doc said it wasn’t broken, didn’t he? I’ll be walking as well as ever in a few days.” Supported on one side by Penny and on the other by his wife, the artist hobbled to the adjoining studio. On easels about the room were many half completed paintings. Several fine pictures, one of the artist’s wife, hung on the walls. A paint-smeared smock had been draped carelessly over a statue. “Vernon,” sighed his wife, reaching to retrieve the garment, “you are so untidy.” “Without you, my dear, I should live like a pig in a sty and revel in it,” chuckled the artist. At a desk, amid a litter of letters and papers, were several large sheets of yellowed drawings. “These are the original plans of the monastery,” Mr. Eckenrod said, placing them in Penny’s hands. “They show every detail of the old building before it was remodeled by later owners.” “How did you get these plans, Mr. Eckenrod?” “The present owner of the building let me have them to study at the time I planned to buy the property. He would have sold the place to me too if that soft-talking fellow who calls himself Father Benedict hadn’t come along!” “Vernon, you mustn’t speak that way of him!” reprimanded his wife in a shocked tone. “I’m sure he’s a good, kind man of religion. Just because you had a quarrel with his servant—” “Father Benedict has less religion than I’ve got in my little finger!” the artist growled. “You said yourself only last night that something’s wrong at the place! What of those screams we heard?” “It was explained to me that a simple-minded woman named Julia works at the monastery,” Penny volunteered. “She is supposed to be easily upset.” “Humph!” muttered Mr. Eckenrod. “All I can say is, Father Benedict surrounds himself with mighty queer people.” “It’s really none of our affair, Vernon,” said his wife mildly. “What goes on there is my business until the paintings are finished! But Father Benedict and ten hunchbacks can’t keep me away! With these plans I can always outwit them!” “What do they show?” Penny could not make much from the dim lines. “The building is built on the pattern of Sherborne in England,” Mr. Eckenrod explained. He pointed out the main part of the church with nave, south and north transepts, choir and chapel. “This section is a ruin now, but could be restored. Unfortunately, the roof has caved in and all paintings and statues were long ago destroyed.” “Show me the cloister,” requested Penny. “Here it is.” The artist pointed with a stubby thumb. “Passages radiate from it. One leads to the old chapter house. North of the cloister is the refectory, used as a dining room. Behind is the abbey’s kitchen.” “The sleeping rooms?” “They’re above the refectory and also to the west of the cloister. Under the refectory are the cellars. They also extend beneath the old chapel.” “Have you ever visited them, Mr. Eckenrod?” “The cellars? I have. Also the burial crypt. A few of the old tombs remain in fairly good state of preservation.” “But where is the secret passageway?” asked Penny. “Through the crypt. It leads into the churchyard to the west of the building.” “Do many people know about it?” “I rather think I’m the only one. The building owner never bothered to study the plans, because he wasn’t interested. Father Benedict may have learned the secret, but if so, he stumbled onto it by accident.” “Is the passageway well hidden?” “Very cleverly. From the churchyard, one enters an empty tomb above ground. A passageway leads down to the crypt beneath the old chapel.” “Not a very pleasant way to enter or leave a building,” said Penny with a shudder. “But convenient in a pinch,” chuckled Mr. Eckenrod. “If Father Benedict is stubborn about allowing me inside, I’ll bide my time and slip in to finish my paintings one of these days when he is away.” Poring intently over the plans, Penny remarked that she would like to explore the passageway sometime. “Wait a few days until my leg is strong and I’ll take you through!” the artist offered. “And if Father Benedict should catch us?” “We can handle him!” “Vernon, you shouldn’t put Miss Parker up to such tricks!” his wife protested. “When it comes to playing pranks, or getting even with folks, you’re just like a child!” “It was no child’s play pushing me into the crevasse!” the artist exclaimed. “As soon as I can hobble to town, I’ll swear out a warrant for that hunchback’s arrest!” “And involve us in an endless feud with our neighbors,” his wife sighed. “Vernon, you must forget it!” The discussion was brought to an abrupt end by Penny who declared that she must leave immediately. The Eckenrods thanked her again for her timely assistance, urging her to visit them again soon. “Don’t forget our date!” the artist added with a chuckle. “I’ll be walking in a day or two. Then we’ll explore the crypt.” “I’ll not forget,” promised Penny. Shadows were deepening into early darkness as she set off across the fields, guided by a flashlight Mrs. Eckenrod insisted she take. The motor of her car was cold, the oil heavy. After two attempts she started it and soon was entering the outskirts of Riverview. “Wonder if Dad’s still at the office?” she thought. “If he is, I may as well give him a lift home.” By the time Penny had parked and climbed the stairs to the Star editorial room, the hands of her wristwatch were nosing six o’clock. The first edition had rolled from the presses, and reporters, their feet on the desks, were relaxing for a few minutes. Mr. DeWitt, the city editor, sat scanning the paper, noting corrections or changes to be made in the next edition. “Hi, Mr. DeWitt!” Penny greeted him as she paused by the desk. “Dad here?” “Hello there, Penny,” the editor smiled at her. “He was a minute ago. Yes, here he comes now.” Mr. DeWitt jerked his head sideways toward the publisher’s private office. Mr. Parker had on his hat and topcoat and would have left by the rear exit without having seen Penny had she not overtaken him. “Want a lift home, Dad?” she inquired. “Why, hello, Penny!” he said, pausing in surprise. “I certainly do. I left my car at home today.” Beside them, an unhooded Western Union teletype bell began to ring insistently. “What’s that for?” Penny inquired curiously. “An incoming telegram,” her father explained. “We have a direct wire with the Western Union office now. It saves sending so many messenger boys back and forth.” The carriage of the machine began to move and the telegram was typed on the long roll of yellow copy paper. “Why, it’s for you, Dad!” Penny said in surprise. “A wire from Chicago.” “Chicago?” Mr. Parker repeated. “Guess we’d better wait and see whom it’s from. By the way, how did you and Mr. Ayling make out this afternoon at the monastery?” “I haven’t seen him since yesterday, Dad. When I went to the hotel to meet him, he wasn’t there.” “Busy with other matters perhaps.” “I suppose so,” Penny agreed, “but he might have notified me. He missed a lot of excitement by not going along.” Before she could tell her father about the skiing accident, the teletype message was completed. Mr. Parker ripped it from the machine. He whistled softly. “Why, this wire is from Mr. Ayling!” “Then he’s in Chicago!” “Apparently so. Listen to his message: ‘CALLED HERE UNEXPECTEDLY BY TELEGRAM SIGNED MRS. HAWTHORNE. TELEGRAM PROVED A FAKE. RETURNING TO RIVERVIEW IMMEDIATELY TO RESUME SEARCH.’” |
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