The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (8 page)

“Two-five-three-seven-three-three.”

“What's that?”

“That,” I said, “is my name.”

He stared at me. I said, “It also could be ‘Alepee,' but that doesn't make much sense.”

“Neither do you. Somebody ratted us out, Alfred.”

“Or maybe the desktop was wired,” I said.

“Right. Alarm goes off in the monastery and the monks break from vespers and scramble for battle.”

The lobby was eerily quiet, except for the splashing of the water in the fountain.

“What happened to the cops?” I asked.

“That's what I'd like to know,” he growled. “It's true. Never one around when you need one.” He told me the third monk was waiting for him in the lobby when he stepped out of the elevator. He put a sword to his throat and took Uncle Farrell straight back to the penthouse.

Uncle Farrell stopped at his desk and hit the switches. The monitors flickered back to life. The hall on the top floor was empty. I looked at the wall behind the desk where the red indicator lights showed the location of all six elevators. The express elevator was still on the top floor.

“They took the stairs,” I said.

“What do we do now?” Uncle Farrell asked. It was as if holding the sword put me in charge.

I thought about it. “Call the cops.”

“Huh?”

“Maybe the monks or whoever they are intercepted the automatic emergency call. Call the cops, Uncle Farrell.”

“And tell them
what
?”

“Tell them you've got three guys, maybe more, running around with swords.” I reached around him again and hit a button that was labeled “Alarm.” A red light began to flash on the panel.

“Okay, and while I'm waiting for the cops I think I'll whip up a snack for me and the monks when they get here. What are you talking about, Alfred?”

“They don't want you,” I said, meaning the brown-robed monk men. “They want the sword, and the sword isn't going to be here.”

“You're leaving? Al, you can't leave.”

“Sure I can, Uncle Farrell. Give me your car keys.”

“You can't have my car!”

“You'll get fired if you leave.”

“Alfred, I'm about to be a millionaire—do you really think I care if they fire me? We're getting outta here!”

We took the access stairs to the underground lot. Uncle Farrell drove while I sat in the backseat, the sword across my lap. Three cop cars roared past us in the direction of Samson Towers, sirens wailing.

Once we were safely away, my own panic and fear started to set in. I broke out in a cold sweat and fought back tears. “Okay, Uncle Farrell, you've got to tell me what's really going on here.”

“I don't know.”

“Where'd those guys come from?”

“I don't know.”

“How'd they get into the building?”

“I don't know.”

“Why is my name the code to the secret chamber?”

“I don't know.”

Apparently, there wasn't much Uncle Farrell did know. That made it even worse, the thought that I was the real brains of the operation.

He drove straight to our apartment. He doubled-parked on the street. It was almost three a.m.; we didn't see anybody going up the stairs. Uncle Farrell went in first so I could check out the hall one last time.

Then I stepped into the dark room and asked, “Uncle Farrell, is everything all right?”

I flipped the switch and heard Uncle Farrell gasp. He was standing about ten feet away, by the sofa. Behind him stood Arthur Myers, his forearm across Uncle Farrell's throat.

“Of course it's all right, Mr. Kropp,” Arthur Myers said.

9

“Alfred,” Uncle Farrell wheezed. “I can't breathe.”

“He's having some difficulty breathing, Mr. Kropp,” Mr. Myers said. “Drop the sword and step away, please.”

I dropped the sword. It made a dull clang as it hit the floor.

“Very good. Step away, toward the window, please.”

I sidestepped to the window, keeping my eye on them.

Mr. Myers let Uncle Farrell go, stepped around him as he fell back onto the sofa, and strode quickly to the sword. He picked it up and turned it from side to side.

“All right,” I said. “You have the sword. You can go now, Mr. Myers.”

“Wait a minute,” Uncle Farrell said, rubbing his throat. “I want some answers first. What in the name of Jehoshaphat is this sword and who were those guys in the funny robes trying to take it?”

“They weren't trying to take it,” Mr. Myers said. He was staring at the sword with a weird expression. “They were trying to stop you from taking it.” He leveled his eyes at me and something dark passed over his face.

“You have done me a great service, Mr. Kropp,” he said to Uncle Farrell, but he was still staring at me. “So I will pay you in kind.”

“That's good,” Uncle Farrell said. “We had a deal, and I almost got killed getting it.”

“Oh, yes. They certainly would have killed you for the sword. They are sworn to protect it at all costs. They are ruthless men of iron will, Mr. Kropp. Ruthlessness has gotten a bad reputation over the years, but there is honor in ruthlessness, a purity to it, would you not agree?”

Mr. Myers had the sword now, but he was getting at something important, something he wanted us to understand before he left.

“They are my enemies, in a way, since we work at cross-purposes, but I admire them,” Mr. Myers said. “They have much to teach us about the importance of the will.” He turned to me. He was smiling. It was the kind of smile that could give smiling a bad name.

“You see, Alfred Kropp, the will of most men is weak. It buckles at the slightest challenge. It crumbles at the first sign of resistance. It does not listen to the dictates of necessity. Are you following me, Mr. Kropp?”

“Not really,” I said. “You've got the sword, Mr. Myers. Can we have the money now?”

“I'm going to give you something much more valuable than money, Mr. Kropp. I am going to give you an important life lesson. I am going to teach you what happens when your will conflicts with one that is stronger.”

In two strides, he was in front of the sofa, and I could do nothing but watch as he drove the sword into my uncle's chest, burying the blade into the cushions behind him. Uncle Farrell's eyes slid in my direction and he whispered, “
Alfred
,” before he died.

10

Myers came toward me. I froze, waiting for him to slam the sword into my chest, but instead he put a finger to my lips and whispered, “Shhhhh.” Then he left without another word.

I realized right away that this was the time to get some adults involved and, since Uncle Farrell was the only adult in the room and he happened to be dead, I dialed 911.

The police came. First a couple in uniforms, then the detectives, who wore rumpled jackets and crooked ties. A photographer came to snap pictures of my dead uncle, and a lady from the coroner's office. Then another lady showed up who said she was a counselor from social services. I told her instead of some counseling I could really use a glass of water. One of the policemen brought me a glass of water.

I told them everything, from the night Mr. Myers gave Uncle Farrell the down payment to get the sword, to my fight with the brown-robed sword-fighting monks, to Mr. Myers stabbing Uncle Farrell and how he promised to kill me too if I didn't keep my mouth shut.

Nobody acted like they believed me.

Then they put Uncle Farrell in a black plastic bag and carried him into the hall, where all the neighbors were standing around, gawking. One of the detectives asked me to describe Mr. Myers, so I did. I told him about the long hair drawn back in a ponytail and the shimmering suit.

One of the detectives took a call on his cell phone and he talked in a whisper for a long time. I don't know what time it was, but it must have been close to dawn when the door opened and a big man with a lion's mane of golden blond hair stepped into the room, followed by two tall men in dark suits.

“Are you done?” one of the men in dark suits asked a detective.

“We're done.”

They left us alone, and the two guys in dark suits took positions on either side of the door and stared at nothing.

The big man with the golden hair sat beside me by the window. The rising sun shone through the window, glinting off the ends of his hair. He put a hand on my forearm.

“Do you know who I am?” His voice was kind and very deep.

“Are you Bernard Samson? You look like the guy in the picture.”

“Yes, I am Bernard Samson, Alfred,” he said softly.

“How do you know my name?” I asked.

He smiled. “What I know might surprise you.”

“Are you going to explain what's going on, Mr. Samson?”

“Yes, Alfred, I am,” he said in that same soft voice. “Would you like anything?”

“One of the cops gave me a glass of water,” I said. “So that's taken care of. I could use some sleep. I haven't slept in twenty-four hours. Plus I'm hungry, but I'm afraid if I eat anything, I'll puke. Mostly what I'd like, though, is some answers.”