Edison's Gold (25 page)

S
plintered pieces of baseball bat were scattered across the entire hotel desk, and Curt Keller was no closer to figuring out the next piece of the puzzle.

Here your search will terminate. So pop the cork and celebrate!

He'd found the worn cork on the top of the barrel, but once he'd popped it, there was nothing hidden within the hollowed-out space.

Had the little Edison brat managed to sneak it out right from under his nose?

Rage filled Keller's brain. It was bad enough that there was a warrant out for his arrest, but now Faber wasn't answering her phone, and neither was that pitiful private eye.

The Edisons had to have the next clue, Keller decided. There was no other explanation.

Stepping into the hotel bathroom, he gave his reflection a hard stare. He was showing his age. The wrinkles around his tired eyes and in his sallow cheeks were losing the inevitable battle against time.

The alchemy formula would be his final fight, and he would not be at peace until it was in his hands where it belonged.

All in due time
, he thought.
For now, there are more pressing matters
.

First, he'd have to reach Faber and figure out how to distance themselves from these kidnapping and robbery charges. So many people would have to be paid off, so much evidence hidden. It was exhausting just to think about.

The cops would certainly be looking for the Babe Ruth bat. Fortunately, Keller and little Tom were the only ones who'd seen the Louisville Slugger up close.

It was his word against a seventh grader's.

And once the police were taken care of, Keller could refocus his attention where it belonged—finishing his great-grandfather's fight.

T
he Edison station wagon crept along the gravel drive and turned between the two columns that guarded the sprawling estate.

According to their research, the house had once belonged to the writer Washington Irving, who had not only written some of the best-known ghost stories of his time but was also one of the Thomas Edison's favorite authors.

“Ya know, I do remember my father having a signed copy of
The Legend of Sleepy Hollow
,” said Tom's dad as he followed the parking signs up the winding driveway. “But I think he had to sell it to fund some of his inventions.”

“So I guess Irving must've been in the Sub Rosa, too,”
said Tom, taking in all the vivid flowers and overhanging trees that lined the property.

Tom's dad shook his head. “I don't think so. He died when Edison was only twelve.”

“Still looks like as good a place as any to bury a secret,” added Colby.

His dad parked the car, and Noodle and Colby sprang out, racing each other to the front door. The house itself was a quirky piece of architecture, multigabled with a red tiled roof adorned with copper weather vanes and multiple chimneys. Blooming wisteria vines snaked their way up the estate's stone walls, which made the whole structure look enchanted.

“Mom would love this place,” said Tom as he and his dad approached the house's entrance and Mr. Edison paid for all of their tickets.

“Maybe we'll bring her next time.”

Tom's mom had only allowed them to follow the next clue under the condition that she didn't get any surprise calls from the police. Even with the promise of the Sub Rosa treasure, she still wasn't thrilled about Tom and his dad making this trip.

Irving's home had long since become a popular Hudson
River Valley tourist attraction, and there was already a small crowd of people gathered for the two o'clock Saturday tour.

Slipping in with the tour group, the foursome was first led past the grand hall and into Washington's cozy study.

“The estate was acquired in eighteen thirty-five and then dramatically improved by Mr. Irving,” said Hannah, their beetly little guide, her hands fluttering with excitement while she spoke. “To this day, we have worked to preserve and maintain his spirit of exuberant romanticism.”

Hannah then began to recount an anecdote about the origin of Mr. Irving's favorite pen name, Diedrich Knickerbocker. As soon as the old woman turned to putter down another hallway, Tom's dad gave the signal, and part one of their plan was put into motion. It was simple trial and error. All four of them needed to search every single lock in the house, to assess which ones might fit the tiny key.

Certainly not the most effective scheme.

Colby and Tom were the first to break away from the group, venturing into the estate's formal parlor, a
room filled with mismatched Victorian furniture and gilt-framed paintings. Its central feature was a lavish stone fireplace with intricate inlaid brick designs and hand-painted clay tiles.

Colby tapped Tom on the shoulder and pointed to a small sideboard in the corner of the room with a simple silver lock. Tom tried the key, but it was a little too big.

“We might need to rethink our strategy,” he said, studying the room. “It could take weeks to find all the locks in this mansion.”

“Plus that key could open anything,” Colby added. “A box, a chest, a secret room that we don't even know about.”

“Maybe the answer's hidden somewhere on the film or in the Firestone photo.”

“Which, last I checked, are both in Curt Keller's possession.”

“Right.” Tom stepped out into the downstairs hallway, checking both directions. For the moment, the house was dead quiet.

“I'm gonna go inspect the foyer,” he said, just as Noodle and his dad rounded the corner.

“The tour group went out to see the rose garden,” his
father announced. “We've bought ourselves some time.”

“I did see one of the curators wandering around somewhere, but I'm pretty sure he's half blind.” Noodle entered the parlor and peered out the window.

“Tom, why don't you take the upstairs rooms?” his dad offered. “Noodle, you go look in the kitchen, and I'll—”

“Excelsior!”
Colby's voice interrupted them from the parlor.

“What?” Tom followed her voice and found Colby crouched on her hands and knees, peering into the mouth of the large fireplace.

“
Excelsior
,” she repeated, pointing to a tile on the fireplace's floor, where sure enough, the word
Excelsior
had been scripted in a neat vertical hand. It was almost identical to the brass plaque she'd seen in the secret tunnels below Grand Central.

“I saw this exact word in that elevator, too.”

“What does it mean?” Tom turned to his dad.

“It's Latin,” he answered, bending over to examine the tile. “Means ‘higher,' or ‘upward.' Something like that.”

Tom knelt next to Colby to take in the soot-covered bricks that lined the back of the fireplace chimney. He lifted his head.

“Higher,” he whispered.

His eyes cast upward. In the back of the flue, one small black square of tile was almost invisible against the bricks, unnoticeable but for one thing.

The familiar seal of the Sub Rosa was etched into it.

U
sing his fingernail, Tom pried off the ceramic tile. It came off as neat as a lid.

“Crazy.” Colby caught her breath.

None of them could believe what they saw. Hidden beneath the tile was a tiny golden keyhole.

“I got a weird feeling that's our match,” whispered Noodle.

Colby rolled her eyes. “Gee, how'd you solve that one, Copernicus?”

Tom's father inhaled deeply with nervous anticipation as his son pulled the old key from his pocket.

With a little bit of elbow grease, Tom wriggled the key into the rusty lock and turned it to the right. From
deep within the room's walls came several low clicks and grumbles, followed by an eerie silence.

“Okay, that was weird,” said Noodle. “The house just burped.”

Mr. Edison looked up at the ceiling, then the windows. Something had begun vibrating beneath their feet. He just couldn't tell what it was.

“Tom, watch out!” Colby dove and pushed him out of the way as a small section of floor in front of the fireplace began to lower, foot by foot, exposing a narrow spiral staircase that led deep into the ground below them.

“Man, the Sub Rosa's some sneaky cats,” noted Noodle.

Tom's dad pulled a flashlight from his bag. “All right, let's take a vote,” he said. “Should we wait and tell a curator about this, or head down those stairs?”

“Stairs!”
Tom, Colby, and Noodle answered in unison.

“I couldn't agree more.”

Mr. Edison quickly ushered the other three past him.

“Keep your eyes peeled and be careful,” he said as they began to descend the stone steps. “This house is old.”

Around and around they went, deeper into the floor.
Halfway down the staircase, Tom noticed that the dark walls were beginning to grow lighter, until they were almost a bright gold color, while the streaky sunlight from the parlor above them faded with each step.

Finally, the four of them reached the bottom. The air was heavy with a musty humidity and smelled like a root cellar, though it was hard to tell where they were.

From her backpack, Colby pulled out another, smaller flashlight, which cut a narrow beam through the darkness. It caught bits of objects—the reflection of a brass chest, the flash off a shard of glass. It was clear now that they were standing in front of a wide, cavernous room.

“Everyone all right?” asked Tom's dad when he'd reached the end of the stairs behind them.

“Yeah. We're in, like, a storage space or something.” Tom found a wall-mounted light switch and flipped it on.

Light flooded in.

“Holyyyyyy …” For maybe the first time in his young life, Noodle was lost for words.

The room was part inventor's lab, part treasure cave, and had not been touched for years. Gold coins, jewels, and trinkets, thick with dust, made table-high stacks.
Shelves of journals, manuals, and books lined the walls, and arranged on top of a long trestle table were dusty beakers and flagons that probably hadn't been used in more than a century.

“We're all gonna be so loaded!” Colby raced toward an overflowing chest of golden rings and necklaces and tried several of them on, modeling the jewelry in front of a dusty full-length mirror.

“Like a pharaoh's tomb.” Still unable to form complete sentences, Noodle walked like a zombie toward a pile of gold coins and sank to his knees. “Can't believe stuff like this actually happens to people like us.”

Tom turned to his father, who just held a hand over his mouth. Tears were forming at the edges of his eyelids.

“Make sure you remember to breathe, Dad,” said Tom.

His father nodded silently before speaking. “How did I almost walk away from all this?”

“I don't know,” Tom said with a casual shrug. “But in the end, you didn't.”

Colby's laughter filled the room as she dragged Noodle through all of the golden treasures, stopping every few seconds to pour a stack of gold coins through her fingers or to inspect a golden chalice. She was now weighed
down with so much priceless jewelry that she could barely move.

Tom walked along the edge of this magnificent room. His father was still standing at the entrance, just watching them.

There was so much to see, and Tom was on a humming, buzzing sensory overload, so he couldn't have explained, exactly, why he was curious about one object in particular. Perhaps it was because the dusty and drab wooden trunk had been pushed so far into the corner and was easily the most unexceptional thing in the room. Tom only noticed it because it seemed so out of place, sitting there alongside so much sparkling treasure.

As he approached the trunk, his heart lurched to see the three initials, same as his own, stamped plain beneath the complicated-looking latch.

He ran his fingers along the lip of the lid and nudged a tiny lever located just beneath the trunk's lock. The padlock flipped down, and Tom opened the box with a creak.