The Mystery of the Flaming Footprints - M. V. Carey [33]
“Mum kind of gets a second wind,” said Tom, a little embarrassed.
“Good eggs,” said Jupiter. He had served himself and was eating on his feet, leaning against the doorway. “I think we’d better do the dishes before she gets back.”
“Your years with Aunt Mathilda have given you a sound sense of psychology,” Bob said.
“Your mother is, of course, quite justified in being angry with your grandfather,”
Jupiter told young Tom. “However, I don’t believe The Potter wanted to hurt her. He never wanted to hurt anybody. A lonely person, but very gentle, I think.” Jupiter put down his plate in the sink and remembered again the men in the Cadillac and their confrontation with The Potter. He remembered The Potter standing in the driveway of the salvage yard, holding his medallion with his hand.
“The double-headed eagle,” said Jupiter. “Tom, you said your grandfather sometimes sent you things which he had made. Did he ever send anything with a double-headed eagle?”
Tom thought a minute, then shook his head. “Mum likes birds,” he told Jupiter.
“He sent things with birds on them, mostly, but just regular birds — robins and bluebirds. No freaks like that plaque upstairs.”
“But he wore the eagle on the medallion,” said Jupiter, “and he used it when he designed that plaque — and a plaque for an empty room, incidentally. Now why would he go to the trouble to make a huge thing like that and install it in an empty room?”
Jupiter wiped his hands on a tea towel and started for the stairs. The other boys instantly abandoned their breakfasts and followed him up and into the room which had been occupied by Mrs Dobson.
The crimson eagle glared at them from above the mantel.
Jupiter felt around the edges of the plaque. “It seems to be cemented into place,”
he said.
Tom Dobson ducked back into his own room and returned with a nail file. “Try this,” he said.
Jupe pried at the edges of the ceramic piece. “No. It’s up there to stay,” he announced. “I think The Potter must have replastered the wall above the fireplace and put the plaque right into the plaster.”
Jupe stepped back and looked up at the screaming bird. “What a job that must have been. It’s a very large piece.”
“Everybody’s got to have a hobby,” said Tom.
“Wait!” said Jupiter. “It isn’t cast all in one piece. We need something to stand on.”
Pete darted down to the kitchen and came back with one of the chairs. Jupiter stood on it and reached up towards the right head of the eagle. “That eye isn’t the same as the other,” he said. “It was cast separately.” Jupiter pressed on the white porcelain of the eagle’s eye. It gave under his fingers, and the boys heard a faint click.
The entire wall above the mantel moved slightly.
“A secret door,” said Jupiter. “Somehow, that makes sense.” He stepped down from the chair, took hold of the ornate moulding that edged the wall panel and tugged. The panel swung out on well-oiled hinges.
The boys crowded close to look into a compartment that was almost six inches deep. There were four shelves between the mantel and the ceiling, and they were piled with papers. Jupiter lifted one out.
“Why, they’re only old copies of the Belleview Register and Tribune!” exclaimed Tom. He took the paper from Jupiter’s hands and glanced through it. “This is the one that has the story about me,” he said.
“How’d you make the news?” asked Bob.
“I won an essay contest,” said Tom.
Jupiter had unfolded another paper – a much older one. “Your mother’s wedding announcement,” he said.
There were more — stories about the birth of young Tom, and about the death of his grandmother. There was a story on the grand opening of the Dobson Hardware Store, and one about a speech Tom’s father had given on Veteran’s Day. All the doings of the Dobsons had been chronicled in the papers, and The Potter had saved every one.
“A secret library,” said Pete, “and you and your mother were the big secrets.”
“Sure makes you feel appreciated,” said young Tom.
“He was most reticent,” said Jupiter. “No one even knew you existed. Odd. What is even more odd is the fact that there is nothing