The House of Puzzles (22 page)

Gerald pulled Alex’s zippo from his pocket. He flipped the top and took a deep breath.
His thumb hovered over the flint wheel—and he struck it. Sparks flew and a flame
danced in the darkness. Gerald paused—there was no massive explosion—and he turned
on the gas tap on the lamp. A thin hiss sounded from inside the lampshade. He held
up the lighter and, with a soft pop, the lamp flashed into life. Then in a chain
reaction, wall lamps lit up around the room.

Alex swallowed a gasp at what was revealed. ‘Far out,’ he said.

Gerald could only agree. It was far less grand than the room they had just escaped
from. But what it lacked in scale it more than made up for with its fittings. The
red velvet walls were hung from floor to ceiling with picture frames. Hundreds, probably
thousands, of picture frames. And they all contained the same thing.

‘Butterflies,’ Gerald said. ‘Zillions and zillions of them.’

Butterflies. Moths. Flying creepy-crawlies of countless varieties and varying degrees
of ugliness. Insects from the size of two outstretched hands to those barely bigger
than the pinhead that held them on the display cards. The room was a storage house
of specimens of the world’s airborne bugs, pressed under glass and frozen in time.

Gerald trailed along one of the walls in a state of wonder. ‘Looks like Diamond Jim
was a butterfly collector as well as a tinkerer,’ he whispered. He had no idea why
he should be whispering but the setting seemed to call for it. ‘What Jasper Mantle
wouldn’t give to get his hands on this.’

The vast collection appeared to be sorted geographically. One section was dedicated
to the countries of Europe and Africa, another to North America. Gerald drifted along
like a migratory moth, passing by the countries of South America: Chile, Argentina,
Brazil (lots and lots of butterflies from Brazil), Colombia, Ecuador. He paused in
front of a section labelled Galapagos Islands. Each insect was carefully recorded
with its name written beneath it. The Galapagos Sulphur butterfly. The Galapagos
Silver Fritillary. The Painted Lady. The Monarch. The Large-Tailed Skipper. Then,
his attention was captured by a single frame—about forty centimetres square—that
stood empty. From what Gerald could see on the walls around him, this was the only
gap in Kincaid’s collection: the only specimen he had failed to acquire. Gerald leaned
in close. Beneath the vacant frame were the words: XERXES BLUE.

‘That’s the butterfly that Jasper Mantle is always going on about,’ Gerald said.
‘It looks like he’s not the only one who couldn’t track one down.’

Alex grumbled impatiently. ‘This is all very fascinating, but it doesn’t get me
any closer to finding the perpetual motion machine, does it?’

The hair rose on the back of Gerald’s neck. He turned to face Alex.

It was time to get some answers.

‘What’s so special about this machine of Drebbel’s?’ Gerald said, advancing on Alex.
‘Why is Mason Green
ready to kill to get his hands on it?’

Alex saw the look in Gerald’s eyes and retreated a step. ‘Look, Gerald, I want to
help you. My father wants to help you.’

Gerald took another pace. ‘Yeah, because he’s such a sweet-hearted guy.’ Then a thought
suddenly pierced Gerald’s brain. ‘Your father made his fortune from oil,’ he said.

‘So what?’

‘The last thing an oil man wants loose in the world is a machine that runs on nothing,’
Gerald said. ‘He wants to destroy it.’

Alex retreated further. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘What did your father say about eliminating the competition? What bigger competitor
to the oil industry would there be than a machine that runs forever without any fuel?’
Gerald laughed. ‘As if I needed Mason Green to tell me. You can’t be trusted.’

Alex backed into the wall, knocking a collection of New Zealand moths to the floor.
Gerald advanced. ‘You’re going to rob me and take off with the one thing that can
save my friend’s life.’ Before Gerald could take another step, Alex’s hand darted
inside one of the zippered pockets of his jacket. He pulled out a thin block of black
plastic and flashed it before him.

Gerald pulled up and stared at Alex’s extended hand. ‘You’re going to attack me with
a fountain pen?’

Alex’s mouth formed an unsteady smile. He tilted
his head to the side, then flicked
his wrist. In a blur of movement, the black rectangle transformed into a menacing
blade.

Gerald’s eyes jolted in their sockets.

Alex stepped out from the wall. ‘It’s a butterfly knife,’ he said, almost apologetically.
‘Appropriate in the situation, I guess.’ He herded Gerald across the room and against
the wall. Then, with a quivering hand, Alex pressed the flat of the blade under Gerald’s
chin. ‘You need to find that machine.’

Chapter 23

Gerald touched his hand to his jaw and inspected his fingers. A thin line of blood
streaked his palm.

The tip of the blade danced at his throat. Alex’s hand was shaking. Gerald stared
into eyes that betrayed their owner’s nerves.

‘If you want that machine,’ Gerald said in the most confident voice that he could
raise, ‘you’d better help me look for it.’

Alex glared back at him, then lowered the blade. Gerald let out a long, slow breath
and turned to his backpack, lying open on the floor. He crouched and shot a glance
back at Alex. The knife was still in his hand, like the sting on a scorpion’s tail.
Gerald was banking on Alex being more nervous than nasty—a boy blundering
about in
his father’s cumbersome boots. He jerked his head towards the other end of the room.
‘See if you can find a door or some way out over there,’ he said.

Alex did not move. ‘I think I’ll stay where I can keep an eye on you,’ he said. ‘I
don’t want you running off.’

Gerald scanned the wall of insects in front of him. Apart from the hatch in the floor
where they had first entered the room, there didn’t seem to be any way in or out.
Gerald wandered back along the walls, past the South American butterflies, beyond
North America and on to Africa.

‘What are you looking for?’ Alex followed Gerald like a suspicious shadow.

‘I don’t know,’ Gerald said. ‘Something that looks out of place.’ He stopped in front
of a collection of butterflies and moths from France. The Provence Chalk-Hill Blue.
The Lesser Purple Emperor. The Two-Tailed Pasher.

He moved to the wall and ran his fingers across the wallpaper between the framed
display boxes. ‘That’s odd,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’ Alex asked.

‘Do you see how the velvet lies flat in the space between these frames?’ Gerald said.
‘Like it has been brushed smooth.’ He looked further along the wall. ‘But not over
there. Or there. It’s only in this section here, with the French butterflies.’

Alex shrugged. ‘So?’

Gerald studied the patchwork nature of the display
boxes in front of him. He reached
out and grabbed a horizontal frame.

‘Hey!’ Alex said. ‘The last time you touched something we were gassed almost to death.’

Gerald did not bother to look around. ‘You’ll just have to trust me, won’t you.’

‘What are you doing, then?’

‘Have you ever heard of the French painter Eugène Delacroix?’

‘No.’

‘I didn’t think so. But you do French at St Custard’s?’

‘Yeah. So what?’

‘How would you translate Delacroix?’

Alex thought for a moment. ‘I dunno.
De la croix
… of the cross?’

Gerald nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’ Then he rotated a frame of pink butterflies
through ninety degrees. Its edge brushed the wallpaper flat as it turned. The frame
reached the vertical and seemed to snap into place. Gerald ignored Alex’s protests
and adjusted more frames where the wallpaper had been brushed flat, turning them
left and right. The pattern on the wall was transformed.

‘This last one,’ Gerald said, reaching high, ‘and that should do it.’ He turned the
frame and it slotted into place with a soft click. Gerald stood back to survey his
work: the shape of a giant cross, made up of a mosaic of framed butterflies. There
was a light buzzing sound. Then a section of wall popped back, like a door on a hinge.

Gerald pushed on its edge and, perfectly weighted, it swung in smoothly to reveal
another set of spiral stairs.

‘How did you know to do that?’ Alex asked, his eyes widening.

Gerald lifted his foot onto the bottom step. ‘Someone had to do something,’ he said.
‘Puzzles don’t solve themselves.’

Then he started to climb. Alex moved in close behind him. The stairwell wound up
and up, taking them higher into the house of puzzles.

At the top of the stairs a gas lamp mounted by a wooden door shone a pale light over
a small landing.

Gerald glanced down the staircase. Alex was directly below him, the butterfly knife
still in his hand.

This could be his only chance.

Gerald lunged at the door and shouldered it open. He dived through the gap and spun
on his heel, throwing all his weight behind the door to slam it shut behind him.
The impact rocked the wall. Gerald’s hand darted to the doorknob, searching for a
lock or a key. There was none.

Fists pounded on the door from the other side. Alex screamed blue murder. Gerald
latched on to the doorknob with both hands and pressed his shoulder into the wood.

But the knob began to turn, slipping through his grip. Gerald clenched his teeth
and squeezed his hands like a vice. It was no good. The handle edged around, opening
the latch millimetre by millimetre.

Gerald’s eyes darted about, searching for something to stop Alex from getting into
the room. They landed on a sturdy iron bolt, attached to the top of the door. All
he had to do was push it home. But to reach it he would have to take a hand off the
doorknob.

Alex’s cursing reached a new level of toxicity, and the handle slipped further in
Gerald’s grip. He had to move now, and he had to move fast.

Gerald shot his right hand high, like a shell from a cannon. The heel of his hand
jammed against the base of the bolt. The iron shaft shifted sharply upwards, but
not before the door exploded open. Alex rammed his way into the room, sending Gerald
flying backwards.

He landed hard on an oriental rug, the air knocked from his lungs. Before he could
right himself, Alex was on top of him. Knees and hands held Gerald to the floor,
pinned and as powerless as any of Kincaid’s butterflies.

Gerald strained to roll free but Alex was too strong. He slumped back onto the rug
and glared up at his victor.

Alex smiled. A tangle of blond hair fell across his forehead. Then he smacked Gerald
hard across the face. The blow raised a glowing red welt on Gerald’s cheek. ‘Just
repaying the favour,’ Alex said. He pushed himself up, grinding his knees into Gerald’s
biceps on the way.

Gerald swallowed a yelp of pain. He refused to give Alex the satisfaction of crying
out loud.

‘Don’t try that again,’ Alex said.

‘Or what?’ Gerald said. He held a hand to his cheek
and sat up. ‘You’ll fillet me
like a fish? Even your family couldn’t keep you out of prison for that. Stop being
an idiot and help me find this machine. Then you can run back to Daddy for a pat
on the head.’

‘Don’t speak to me like that!’

‘Again,’ Gerald said, ‘or what?’

The two boys eyed each other. Then they noticed where they had landed.

The place looked like it had been shipped, piece by piece, from a Parisian garret.
Piles of artists’ canvases were stacked against one wall. A dusty overcoat lay discarded
across an even dustier chaise lounge. A gentle light filled the space. It took Gerald
a moment to realise it was coming through a bank of dormer windows that ran the length
of the room. It was his first glimpse of the outside world since he had walked into
the bizarre confines of the Billionaires’ Club hours before. He could feel the vibrancy
of Fifth Avenue seeping through the glass from twelve storeys below.

Gerald climbed to his feet and crossed to a large canvas on an easel by the closest
window. A grey drop cloth was draped over it. Gerald tugged on a corner and the cloth
tumbled free, clouding him in dust. He emitted a colossal sneeze, then looked at
the canvas and gasped.

Standing before him was a full-sized painting:
Liberty Leading the People
.

Gerald’s mouth dropped open. His eyes darted to the bottom right corner of the painting,
to just below the
satchel slung from the young boy’s shoulder. There, in blood red,
was the name:
Eug. Delacroix 1830
.

The roll of canvas tucked into Gerald’s backpack weighed heavy on his own shoulders.
‘What’s this doing here?’ Gerald said. His eyes soaked in the detail of the French
masterpiece. He slid off his pack and pulled out the cardboard tube that Mason Green
had given him. He unrolled the section of canvas and held it up. It matched the painting
perfectly. ‘So is this a copy?’ Gerald wondered aloud, ‘Or is the one in the Louvre
the copy?’

A sudden thought flashed through his mind and he walked to the back of the easel.
The reverse side of the canvas was stark white.

‘Interesting,’ he said.

His thoughts were interrupted by a shout from Alex Baranov. ‘Over here, Gerry. Come
and make yourself useful.’

Alex stood in a far corner of the studio looking at a large wall cabinet that reached
from the floor to the ceiling, similar to a display case in a department store. When
Gerald got closer he saw that the shelves were lined with identical boxes: a grid
twenty high and twenty across. The boxes were all painted a gloss black, the same
as the one on Mason Green’s desk at the Rattigan Club all those months before.

Gerald’s heart pounded.

The key to Professor McElderry’s life was hidden inside one of those four hundred
identical boxes. Gerald
mouthed a silent wish that Alex did not realise the significance
of what he had found. He scanned the expanse of boxes, and his eyes lit on a gap
in the grid. Nine rows up, seven in from the left. The alcove was empty.