by Damien Love
“Uh-huh,” Alex’s grandfather said.
Cane held ready, the old man stepped out past him, glanced around the empty hallway.
“Just yourself, is it?”
“Please,” the little man said in an unctuous whine. “If I may trouble you to allow me to come in for a moment.”
“Mm-hmm.” Alex’s grandfather pushed past him back into the room, crossed to the table, and sat, beckoning. “By all means. Make yourself at home.”
As Alex backed away, the man crossed the threshold, then stood with his back against the closed door. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a small black gun. Alex froze.
“Oh, you are joking,” Alex’s grandfather groaned, piling pâté onto another biscuit. He held it up. “Here. Put that away and try some of this. You won’t believe it.”
“Please,” the little man said with an apologetic snicker. He gestured almost sadly with the gun at Alex, waving him toward the old man. “If you could also go over there, please.”
Alex did as he was told, staring at the snout of the pistol as it followed him. The only sound was biscuit crunching between his grandfather’s teeth.
“I said to them that there was no need for any of this.” The man made a weak, remorseful gesture. “I said we could avoid all this unpleasantness. We could just talk, you and I. That you would see sense now—now that you have the child to think about.”
He turned to Alex. The round glasses lenses seemed perpetually to reflect the light, making his expression impossible to read. Still, Alex had the creeping sense of being under intense study.
“A strong resemblance,” the man finally said.
Alex’s grandfather’s smile vanished. “Just get on with what you came to say.”
“I told them,” he continued, “that you could be persuaded. So. Just give it back to me, now. Then I can give it to him, and you can take the boy safely back to his home. It was I who found it, after all. I. After all these years. And you stole it from me.”
“Now, now.” Alex’s grandfather said, wagging a finger. “I bought it, old chap. Bought it. All fair and above board . . . ish. And just to be clear: you didn’t find it. After all these years, it popped up in the cellar of this woman none of us had ever even heard of.
“Alex”—the old man flourished a hand in introduction—“meet Hans Beckman. Owns a very nice toy shop. In Prague, as it happens. Little dusty, but very nice.
“Now, as soon as Beckman here heard through the grapevine about the discovery of all these toys in the basement, he had rather a crafty idea. He called up the family, before the auction, and made them an offer they couldn’t refuse for the robot. Not really the done thing, but they agreed to sell it to him. The thing was, though, at much the same time, I’d had much the same idea myself—only I went around in person to make my offer. And when I showed up and said I was calling about the toy robot, well, you know, they might possibly have just assumed that I was the Herr Beckman they had spoken with on the telephone, and I might possibly have failed to correct them and then put on a German accent. But, anyway, they sold it to me. For less than I was going to offer at first, actually. Had it all nicely packaged up, waiting. Even gave me a receipt!
“Trouble was”—Alex’s grandfather shrugged—“just as I left their house, I ran into Hans here along with those shaven-headed thugs you’ve already met, in rather a hurry to collect it themselves. That got a little sticky. There was quite the most unseemly chase, and by the time I’d made it to the center of town, ah, our jumping friend and the girl had got involved, too.
“I’ll admit, I started to worry I might get caught. So I decided that if they were going to get me, the only thing left to do was make sure they didn’t get it. I made for the post office—wonderful building, actually, Alex, we should visit there someday—and I slipped it in the mail to you. That’s an old trick. The mail is like the poor man’s safe. Or the man in danger and in a hurry. But then I got away after all. It was very busy in the post office, what with Christmas, and they didn’t want to draw too much attention and have anyone calling the police, and I managed to give them the slip. Or I thought I had. Although, as you know, it turns out they were never far behind me.
“But, Beckman”—he turned back to the little man, ignoring the gun—“my dear fellow: less of the ‘stealing,’ if you please. You can’t blame me because you didn’t get in there in time. You’re a collector. Rules of the game. Anyway, who’s to say that it’s even the toy we think it is?”
“I’m to say,” Beckman whined. “I know it is. Now, don’t do that, please.”
Alex’s grandfather had reached for the pâté knife. “No?” He pouted. “No, I suppose you’re right. Very rich, Alex, not at all good for you.”
“Will you give it to me?” The little man was almost pleading.
Alex’s grandfather leaned forward, elbows on the table, made a steeple with his fingers, and touched the tips to his nose.
“No,” he said after a moment’s consideration. “I don’t think I will.”
“Then, please, I must make a search of these rooms. You”—the gun pointed at Alex, then the open bathroom door—“bring that bag, please.”
Alex looked at his grandfather, who shrugged. He got the Gladstone from the bathroom.
“Now, please, empty it onto that bed there. Slowly, please.”
Beckman took a few steps back, so he could see both Alex and his grandfather, but the bed and the table were too far apart to keep watching both at once. Behind the shining lenses, Alex could glimpse his eyes darting nervously side to side.
The Gladstone was amazingly heavy, and, as Alex tipped it out, there was an amazing amount inside. Shirts, shorts, and socks. Many mysterious little bags and pouches. Old books, maps, a tin of hard candies, salt packets. A few spools of electrical wire, a coiled length of rope with a grappling hook on the end. Lots of string.
As he sorted through the junk, Alex saw from the corner of his eye that Beckman was looking more and more intently at the growing pile on the bed, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
“Please. What’s that? Open that, please.”
Alex held a thick brown leather bag, about the size and shape of a brick, zippered shut. Inside was an ancient shaving kit, complete with brushes and shaving soap, wicked-looking razor blades, and a dusty jar of talcum powder. As he held it open for Beckman to see, at the periphery of his vision, Alex thought he saw his grandfather’s hand flash forward and back from the table.
“Ach,” Beckman groaned, stepping across the room to him, spinning awkwardly on his heel to keep Alex’s grandfather in his sights. He grabbed the Gladstone and held it upside down. The few remaining contents rained onto the bed. A pack of playing cards was the last thing to drop out.
“Oh, I’d been looking for those!” Alex’s grandfather piped happily.
“Ach,” Beckman said again. Glancing rapidly around the things on the bed, he picked up the note from Harry, left lying where Alex had tossed it. Reading, he smirked, then folded it away into his pocket. He gestured toward the main bedroom.
“Now, please.” The gun pointed at Alex’s grandfather. “In there. Hands up, please.”
The old man stood and, with a sigh, raised his hands loosely. He started toward the bedroom.
“No. Wait. Please.”
Beckman was smiling. Something was visibly bulging from the inside pocket of Alex’s grandfather’s coat.
“Please. If you would show me what you have there?”
“Hmmm? What?” The old man glanced vaguely down. “Oh, that?” He smiled. “That’s nothing, my dear fellow. Just a badly cut coat is all. The line is off, the hang’s all wrong. Been meaning to have a word with my tailor about it, actually. Don’t know if you know him, little basement just off Savile R—”
“Please. If you would show me what it is you have there.”
“But— Oh, okay. There’s no fooling you, I can see that.”
Alex’s grandfather reached quickly toward the pocket. Beckman’s gun jerked up in alarm.
“Stop. Please. Hands up.”
The old man raised his hands again.
“You think I am not so smart.” Beckman snickered softly. “This is fine. No one thinks Beckman is smart. But this is a strength for me. So, please, if you wouldn’t mind turning around, I shall get it for myself.”
The old man spun slowly on his heel, offering his back, hands still up. Alex’s eyes darted around the pile on the bed, searching for something usable.
“Keep still, please.”
Beckman crossed the room and stood close behind the old man. He held the gun in his right hand, aimed at Alex’s grandfather’s shoulder blade, and reached around with his left, fishing blindly inside his coat.
With a savage, yet strangely lazy movement, Alex’s grandfather whipped back his raised right arm, going into a turn. His elbow smashed into Beckman’s temple, sending him reeling. At the same time, the old man stamped hard on Beckman’s foot, pinning it down. Unable to steady himself, Beckman started falling backward. The hand with the gun swung up, to be met hard by Alex’s grandfather’s now straightened right arm.
The gun jerked out of Beckman’s hand, twirling. Alex’s grandfather picked it casually from the air, lifting his foot, allowing Beckman to fall in a crumpled heap.
Alex leapt across and threw the contents of the jar of talcum powder into Beckman’s face. The little man started sneezing, sending up delicately perfumed clouds.
Alex’s grandfather turned with a look of incomprehension. “What on earth did you do that for?”
“I was helping you!” Alex shouted.
“That’s expensive stuff, that.” The old man frowned. Then, seeing the fury breaking across Alex’s face, quickly added, “But quick thinking.”
He stood considering the little man, weighing the tiny pistol in his hand, then slipped it into his pocket. Reaching inside his coat, he brought out the remains of the loaf they had been eating for lunch. He bit off a corner and chewed.
“I was saving this for later,” he said.
“Please,” Beckman moaned. “Please give it to me. You don’t want to do this. You don’t want this to happen. Please.” He sounded almost in tears.
“Now, now.” Alex’s grandfather bent forward, offering his hand. “None of that.” He pulled the little man to his feet and dusted at his shabby coat lapels. Talcum rose off him in drifts.
“Look at that, you’ll be the best-smelling chap in town. So. Where are they?”
“Downstairs.” Beckman was kneading his hands together. “In the lobby. I told him I could talk to you. Please.”
“Well, then.” One arm around Beckman’s powdery shoulders, Alex’s grandfather steered him to the door. “You shouldn’t keep them waiting. Tell me, though, before you go. Does he have the key?”
Beckman said nothing, staring at his feet.
“Okay.” The old man sighed. “Off you go. Be seeing you in a few minutes, I’m sure.”
He stood leaning in the doorway, watching the little man slope toward the elevator. As Beckman disappeared around the corner, Alex’s grandfather jumped across to the camp bed, searching through the scattered contents of his Gladstone.
He pocketed a couple of leather pouches, some string, the wire. Gathering up all the salt he could find, he stepped into the hallway, spreading a thick line over the carpet from wall to wall. Coming back into the room, he locked the door, lifted the saltcellar from the table, and emptied it along the foot of the door.
“Don’t have much time,” he said. “Push your bed against the door, Alex, then see if you can’t drag that table and chairs over, and pile them up.”
“But—”
“Alex. Seriously. Move.” The old man disappeared into the bedroom.
“Want me to pack your bag?” Alex shouted as he hauled the camp bed across the room.
“No, no time. I have everything we need. Actually”—his head popped back around the door frame—“if you could grab that tin of sweets.”
The mattress from the big bed appeared in the bedroom doorway, followed by Alex’s grandfather, grunting. Leaning it against the wall, he helped Alex with the table and chairs, set the mattress against them, then finally pulled the sofa from the center of the room and upended it heavily against the pile.
Standing back to contemplate their work, he took the candies, popped one into his mouth, then offered the tin to Alex, who shook his head.
“I’d hoped I’d be able to get the bed frame out,” his grandfather said, sucking sadly at his candy. “But I’d need to take it apart. No time. Ah, well, that’ll have to do. It’ll only slow them, anyway. Just depends what they have with them. Mmmm. Black currant. Very, very good.”
Stepping to the bathroom door, he leaned in, fiddling at the handle, then jumped out, slamming it shut, repeating his trick from the train, as though it had been locked from inside. “Keep ’em guessing.” He beamed at Alex and slapped his hands together. “Now. Time to go.”
“Go?” Alex nodded at the barricaded door. “Go where?”
“This way, of course,” his grandfather said, heading toward the balcony.
* * *
• • •
SNOW WAS COMING down thick and fast now, spiraling prettily in the biting Paris wind.
Alex’s grandfather stood poking with his cane at the lintel above the balcony door. After a few seconds of fruitless fishing, he brought it back down, the rucksack hooked over the end.
“Never liked a rucksack much,” he said, holding it so Alex could slip both arms through the straps. “You see people walking around town with them, always thought they looked rather silly. But, if you need your hands free, handy things. As it were. Now.”
Turning, he bent to the door handles, wrapping wire from a spool tightly around them, binding them shut. Satisfied, he walked to the end of the balcony and stepped casually up onto the thin iron rail.
Alex felt his heart stop, then start again, faster, in his throat.
“Grandad!”
The old man stood balanced above the street like a tightrope performer, inspecting a ledge that ran along the front of the hotel at waist height from his position. It led from their balcony to the next, about thirty feet away.
“Looks fairly easy,” he said, smiling down at Alex. “Although, I really must stress this, Alex: you should never, under any circumstances, do what we are about to do.”
“I’m not doing that! This is insane!”
Alex looked around desperately. Far below, traffic moved along the shining road. The lights made the snow pale gold, shot through with blue. Across the street, the small figures of two grown men pelted each other mercilessly with snowballs. As he watched, they launched an attack on a man and a woman who had just passed beneath Alex’s balcony. The man’s annoyed curses came drifting up, sounding far away.
Back inside the bright hotel room, the pile of furniture against the door seemed an odd and dreamlike assemblage. As he stared at it, Alex saw it shudder slightly.
He looked back up at his grandfather, balanced on the railing.
“You could take it,” Alex said, voice hoarse. “I could stay here.”
“True. But then, he would take you, to make me give it to him. So, Alex. Time to choose. What’s it to be?”
In the room, a muffled thump came at the door. Then another, accompanied by a weird, high buzzing.
“Mum’s going to kill you,” Alex muttered, moving stiffly to the end of the balcony.
“Good show,” his grandfather said. “Nothing to worry about. This’ll be a walk in the park.”
The old man hoisted himself up onto the snowy ledge. Facing in toward the wall, it was just wide enough for his f
eet. He crouched, extending a hand.
“Now, up you come, onto the railing first, then a jump up here. Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall.”
Alex looked at the railing, the long drop beyond. His heart was hammering. He didn’t feel he could trust his arms or legs.
“Just take my hand.”
Grabbing his grandfather’s hand, he felt himself lifted more than climbing. Then, almost without realizing, he was standing on the narrow ledge high above the street, his forehead against the hotel wall. He heard faint crashing noises coming from their room.
“So.” His grandfather had one hand firmly grasping Alex’s collar. “We’ll just shuffle along over here. You know what they say: don’t look down.”
Alex had no intention of looking down. He moved his feet sideways without lifting them. The ledge was slippery with snow. He moved his right foot to the right, then dragged the left over to meet it.
Then again.
His grandfather’s hand reassuring at his neck. He moved one foot to the right, then dragged the other to meet it.
And again.
Wind whipped his ears.
One foot, then the other.
And again. And again.
“Now, then. Here we are. Just you balance there while I climb down.”
The hand at his neck was gone. He stared into the sandstone at the end of his nose. Small things glittered there in the faint light. He closed his eyes, pushed his forehead harder against the coldness of the wall. He felt a sickening sensation, warm gravity reaching up, pulling him backward. He had to keep his head pressed against the wall.
“Alex?”
He opened one eye, turned as much as he dared. It was like looking through binoculars the wrong way. His grandfather stood on a balcony about a hundred miles below, holding up a hand.