Time Trapped (5 page)

“The key to Houdini's escape was an event that by its ordinariness went unnoticed by all of you,” says Uncle. “Similarly, the snatch of the man's wallet was masked by an event that appeared quite normal.”

He pauses for a moment, perhaps waiting to see if anyone will guess. But there are no takers.

We've all failed miserably. Everyone is looking at the ground, except for Frank. He's smirking and looking out over the water as if he doesn't have a care in the world. Well, he's a fool to be so relaxed. Because there's no way Uncle is going to let this one go by. One of the first lessons he taught us when we were small was how important it was to be aware of our surroundings. And not one of us got it right today. In my mind's eye, I see Uncle nodding to Luca, then Luca tying us up, strapping on some of Houdini's iron weights and throwing us into the East River, one by one. He'll probably do it in reverse order of how we came here, which means I'll be the lucky one to go first.

“No one?” says Uncle. “All right, I will tell you. First, the boy. When he was frisked, the wallet could not be found because he had already passed it off to his mother, who had safely disposed of the wallet to the hot dog vendor as she passed by his cart.

“As for Houdini,” Uncle continues, “some of you may recall that a woman stepped up and kissed him on the lips moments after he had been searched but before he got into the crate. When they kissed, the woman passed a skeleton key from her mouth to Houdini's. Once out of sight in the crate, he gripped the key in his teeth to undo the locks on his hands and then used his hands to free himself.”

I never would have guessed that in a million years.

“You should all have seen these things. There is no excuse. This is not the first time I have spoken of the power of intelligent observation, of not accepting without question what your eyes are telling you has taken place, of seeing with your mind.”

My eyes flick to Luca. Any moment now, Uncle is going to give him the signal. I find myself holding my breath, which is a stupid thing to do, because I should save that for when he throws me in the water. Not that it will make much difference, though. Assuming he does a half-decent job tying me up, I'll never be able to hold my breath long enough to break free.

“Soon you will all have new recruits to train,” Uncle says. “And I want you to teach them intelligent observation. It will be the key to their future success as time snatchers.”

He removes his hat and throws it into the air. Reflexively, my eyes follow the path of the hat. When I look back down, Uncle is gone.

That's it? No punishment? I can't believe it. Abbie is right: Uncle's turning soft. There's no other explanation. Well, maybe one . . . and that is he's gone off the deep end with his obsession about Robert the Bruce and being king and hero to us, his loyal subjects. Whatever the reason, it's too early to celebrate. After all, Frank can do nasty just as well as Uncle, and if Abbie's right about Frank's power increasing, then we're all in big trouble.

Luca hands each of us a satchel. “Here is your clothing for the next stop. Find a place to change. We leave for Paris in ten minutes.”

I nod along with the others, but my eyes are scanning the crowd. He's got to be here somewhere. Intelligent observation or not, there's no way even Uncle would have picked up on all of those details unless . . . unless he has been to this time/place before.

Gulls land on the seawall, shrieking. A man, wearing shabby clothes and a fisherman's cap, shuffles toward them, flicking bread crumbs their way. As they dive for the bread, the man removes his cap for a moment to wipe the moisture from his forehead. In that moment, I glimpse Uncle's shiny head. Gotcha!

I smile to myself. Maybe I'm not such a slow learner after all.

July 4, 1884, 12:49
P.M.

Paris, France

I
land in an alcove of a building, facing a brick wall. Laughter, shouting and chamber orchestra music waft over to my landing spot. As my time freeze thaws and I'm able to turn, I see maybe two hundred people gathered in a large square. Beyond the crowd and framed in scaffolding is a gigantic sculpture of gleaming copper.

My jaw drops when I recognize what I'm looking at. I've never been this close to it before, and it's not only the size that throws me, it's also the location.

What in the world is the Statue of Liberty doing here in the middle of a city square in Paris, France?

I spot Luca and Uncle at the rendezvous point. As soon as everyone is present, Uncle begins.

“Your eyes are not deceiving you,” he says over our mindpatches. “That is the original Statue of Liberty, conceived by Frédéric Bartholdi as a gift from the French people to the American people. We have arrived here in Paris in time for its grand unveiling.

“Impressive, isn't it?” he continues. “After today's festivities, the statue will be disassembled and each piece placed in a separate shipping crate bound for New York Harbor. But the unveiling of the Statue of Liberty is not the reason we are here today.”

Why does that not surprise me?

“Nor are we here to study the techniques of the Parisian pickpockets, even though they are all around us.”

Now he's got my interest. If we didn't come for the pickpockets, then why are we here at all?

“Do you see the red-haired man standing by the scaffolding near the statue's right foot?” Uncle asks.

“Yes, Uncle,” Frank says, and I realize for the first time how quiet he has been this whole trip.

“His name is Julien. He is an . . . acquaintance of mine. Lydia, what do you suppose is Julien's
métier,
his profession?”

“Stonemason,” she says.

“That is a fair guess,” says Uncle, “but incorrect. Look, it appears he is leaving. Let us follow him and see where he goes.”

As we follow Julien, I wonder for the umpteenth time what the point of today is. I mean, it's not like we're snatching anything. They say that people mellow when they grow older, and maybe that's what's happening with Uncle—and this trip is his way to show us, his senior time snatchers, how much he really appreciates us.

Nonsense. I think he really believes that today's little excursion will sharpen our skills to deal with the next wave of fresh-faced recruits. Which is more proof that Uncle's losing his edge. Because none of the stuff he's talked about today is new. They're all old lessons he taught us years ago.

Following Julien is easy at first, because there are lots of people milling around to use as cover. But then he turns into a back alley, and not being noticed becomes trickier.

Crumbling buildings line the alley, and there's a strong smell of sewage. This isn't the side of Paris you usually see on postcards. I consider holding my breath until we reach a better part of town, but then our guy stops at a narrow doorway and slips inside.

Uncle signals us to wait.

The alley is deserted, except for a man with an eye patch, who passes with hardly a glance our way.

A few moments later, Uncle beckons us forward and raps on the door.

No answer.

“Our friend is not accustomed to having visitors,” Uncle explains.

He knocks again. Still no answer.

“Luca, if you please.”

Luca positions himself in front of the door and gives it a solid kick. It splinters open with a loud bang.

Uncle enters first, and we follow. The room is small and plain. Sunlight streams in from a tiny window set high in one wall.

The only piece of furniture in the room is a large wood easel, scuffed and marked with random splotches of paint. Julien stands in front of it, paintbrush in hand.

He turns slowly toward us, and I catch a glimpse of the painting resting on the easel. It's breathtaking: a swirling landscape of ochre and green with a majestic violet mountain in the distance.

“
Qu'est-ce qui se passe?
” says Julien, his eyes wide.

“
Bonjour
, Julien,” says Uncle, smiling.

“Oncle?”
Julien's voice is fearful, shaky.

“I have been looking for you for quite some time, Julien,” says Uncle. “You didn't mention to me that you had moved.”

“
Mais non
 . . . I have not moved,” he says, his eyes flicking from Uncle to Luca to the rest of us. “This is my brother's place. I look after it for him while he is in the country.”

“I see,” Uncle says. “But why did you not tell me, Julien? In fact, it is only by chance that I have found you.”

Julien says nothing.

“Julien is a painter,” Uncle tells us, although that part I pretty much figured out. “He has all of the skill and talent that it takes to be one of the most important painters of his generation. And he would be, were it not for one small shortcoming.”

Uncle paces the small room, stopping to examine the painting on the easel. “You see, my friends, Julien has no imagination. He cannot create original works of his own. He can only copy the great works of others. Isn't that right, Julien?”

Julien stays silent, but his hands are trembling.

“Up until today, we had an arrangement. I own a modest building not far from here. I let Julien stay in one of my rooms, and for that he pays me with his copied paintings. But I have received no payment for going on two months now. Is that what this is about, Julien? Have you been hiding from me to avoid paying rent?”

“
Non, monsieur
.
Ce n'est pas vrai.
I am an artist. Artists do not hide.”

Uncle smiles. “Good. I am glad. Since you are not hiding, you will not object to me taking the rent painting now.”

I watch Julien's expression. The line of his lips gets tighter, and his eyes flick to the left, where a canvas, half-covered by a cloth, leans against the wall.

“Frank, why don't you select a painting?” says Uncle, making it sound as if there is a whole roomful of them, when in fact there are only two—the one on the easel and the one by the wall.

Frank takes two steps toward the painting leaning against the wall and uncovers it. My eyes go wide. It's the exact same as the painting resting on the easel.

“
Non!
” exclaims Julien. “It is an original Cézanne! I have only borrowed it from a dealer. Please,
monsieur,
this will be the end of me!”

Uncle smiles a thin smile. “It is not I who chose to break our deal, Julien.”

Then Uncle turns to Raoul and says, “Here is your chance to redeem yourself. Do you remember the lesson of earlier this morning?”

Raoul nods.

“Excellent. I'd like you to apply that lesson now. Look with your eyes, but more important, with your mind. Without performing a replica scan, I'd like you to tell me which is the original and which is the copy.”

A long moment passes as Raoul studies the two paintings. Then he clears his throat and says, “The one on the easel is the copy, Uncle. He was putting the finishing touches on it when we came in.”

“I see,” Uncle says. “Does everyone else agree?”

“The other one is the copy,” Frank says. “Julien did not immediately react when we burst into the room. That meant he knew we were coming. My guess is that the man with the eye patch tipped him off.”

“Go on.”

“He had time to switch the paintings so that we would think the one on the easel is the copy . . . when in fact it's the original.”

“Excellent observation, Frank. Does anyone else have something to add?”

“Yes, Uncle,” says Abbie. “The brush he is holding is dry. He is using it as a prop to make us think that he is completing the painting on the easel.”

Uncle gives Abbie a radiant smile. Then he turns back to Julien and shrugs. “I'm afraid my little band of detectives has sniffed out your lie.”

Uncle gives a nod to Frank, who grabs the painting off of the easel.

“
Non,
” says Julien, and I can see sweat beading on his forehead. “I beg you,
Oncle
. Do not take that painting. The dealer, Monsieur Letourneau, will be enraged if I do not return it to him. Please, come back
demain
. Or even better, on Thursday next. I will have two new paintings for you then!”

“It is too late for bargaining,” says Uncle, drawing a knife from inside his jacket. I recognize it immediately. It's one of the dirks that was hanging in the Great Hall at the castle.

Julien is on his knees, clutching at the fringes of Uncle's coat. “
Non, monsieur.
You do not understand . . . this will crush me!”

“Calm yourself, Julien,” Uncle says. “It is not quite that bad. You are an artist, remember? Artists are meant to struggle. So, in a way I am helping you . . . by providing you with a struggle to overcome.”

Uncle shakes free of him and takes two quick steps over to where the second painting leans against the wall.

Holding it up for Julien to see, he stabs at the painting with the blade. There's a terrible ripping sound as the knife slices diagonally through layers of pigment and canvas.

Julien is sprawled on the floor, sobbing.

“I'm afraid we must be going now,” says Uncle, pocketing his dirk. “
Adieu, monsieur.
Come along, everyone.”

Uncle nods to Luca, who hangs back with Julien while the rest of us exit.

“Did anyone notice whether Julien is right-handed or left-handed?” Uncle asks as soon as we are out of the narrow hallway.

“He was holding the brush in his left hand. So I would say that he is left-handed, Uncle,” Lydia says.

A terrible scream comes from Julien's studio.

Uncle smiles and says, “That
was
true, Lydia, up until a moment ago. From now on, however, I can assure you that Monsieur Julien will be painting with his right hand. And as adaptable as our friend is, the paintings he will produce with his right hand will never approach the sheer brilliance of his earlier forgeries.”

“I . . . I don't understand, Uncle,” says Lydia. “If he is not able to paint as well, won't that mean less money for us?”

How caring. A guy has just had his hand chopped off and all Lydia can think about is her allowance going down.

“An excellent question, Lydia. One that I am afraid will take longer to answer than the time allotted to this part of today's outing. Suffice it to say that lately I have done some deep thinking about life's big questions, including the flaws of history and how mankind would be better off if certain historical wrongs were corrected. And I would count as a historical wrong any event that diminishes one of the greatest attributes of civilized humanity—creativity. It is the charlatans and the fraudsters and the second-rate forgers like Julien who by their actions pollute the pristine waters of artistic expression and taint the purity of the world's creativity!”

Lydia nods. No one else says anything, but I'm sure they're asking the same question I am: what the heck is he talking about? Correcting “historical wrongs”? It sounds crazy. And who gets to decide what part of history needs correcting?

The alley is shrouded in fog, and everything seems dreamlike. For a moment, it's as though the haze is penetrating more than just my surroundings . . . it's also inside me. I watch as Uncle turns out of the alley and gets swallowed up by the fog.

Luca's voice cuts through the mist. “Grab your clothes packets and change quickly. Uncle and I will meet you at the next time/place.”

Judging from what I've just seen, I take back anything I ever said about Uncle getting soft or losing his edge. And as I change clothes, an even scarier thought occurs to me—Uncle made Julien wait for two months before punishing him. But in the end, Julien's punishment came. In spades.

I wonder how long he's going to make me wait for mine?