Click Here to Start

by Denis Markell

I turn the remote around, and there, nested in the wires and circuit board, is a small gold key.

  I pick up the key, turn, and press it into Isabel’s hand.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asks. “Shouldn’t you be the one to open it?”

  “I don’t know,” I say softly. “I think it should be you.”

  I go to get the wooden box from my bedroom, leaving Caleb and Isabel alone.

  As I return, I hear Caleb say, “This book sounds pretty cool.” He’s flipping through Go for Broke.

  “Those guys were amazing,” Isabel remarks. “According to this book, they were the most decorated unit in United States military history.”

  “Hmm,” Caleb says.

  “That means they won more medals than—” Isabel starts.

  “I know what ‘most decorated’ means!” Caleb says, glaring at her.

  I put the box on the kitchen counter.

  “This is it!” Caleb says.

  Isabel slowly puts the gold key into the lock. She pauses as it fits in snugly. Then, her hand trembling a little, she turns the key. We hear a click.

  I lift the lid, and we take out the items one by one.

  All that’s inside are an old paperback and a two small black notebooks.

  Caleb makes a face. “This is it?” he says again, but meaning something totally different.

  Isabel looks crushed. “I knew you should have opened it.”

  “That wouldn’t have made any difference,” I say.

  “No jewels,” Caleb moans.

  “No gold coins,” Isabel sighs.

  “Who knows? Maybe it’s another puzzle.” I shrug.

  I pick up one of the notebooks. It has formulas and scientific information jotted down in a strong hand, written in what looks like fountain pen.

  Isabel picks up the book and reads the title: “The Maltese Falcon.”

  “I’ve heard of that!” Caleb says. “They made a really famous movie about it during the war!”

  “Maybe it was his favorite book,” I say.

  Isabel opens the musty paperback. “So it’s, what? A detective story or something?”

  “I guess so. My dad always goes on and on about it, like it’s the best one ever,” says Caleb.

  I reach behind the box and pull out the pad of paper from the hospital.

  “This is the last thing my great-uncle wrote,” I announce, reading off the sheet:

  “THE BOX IS ONLY THE BEGINNING. KEEP LOOKING FOR THE ANSWERS. ALWAYS GO FOR BROKE! PROMISE ME!”

  Caleb peers at the box and taps it on all sides. “You think there’s a secret compartment somewhere?”

  I examine the empty box. Why didn’t the game take me this far? Are there things I have to discover for myself?

  There’s nothing else in the box. No secret buttons or sliding doors.

  It’s just a wooden box. Containing nothing more than two leather-bound notebooks and a musty old paperback.

  “ ‘Keep looking for the answers,’ ” murmurs Isabel. “Do you think we didn’t search hard enough?”

  “Give me a break!” Caleb protests. “Ted was obviously supposed to find this. All the clues led to it. He figured everything out…even how to get into the hospital! What else did his great-uncle want him to do?”

  “I don’t know…maybe read?” Isabel answers, holding up the book.

  “Hey! Maybe it’s a valuable book! A collector’s item or something. You think that’s the treasure he was talking about?” Caleb asks me.

  “Maybe…but I keep thinking we’re missing something. Something obvious…”

  A gasp from Isabel jolts me out of my stupor.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask. Isabel looks like she’s seen a ghost.

  “Um…I just looked at the first chapter…”

  “So?” Caleb says impatiently. “What’s so horrible? Bad grammar? Something misspelled?”

  Isabel holds out the book so we can see the title of the first chapter: SPADE AND ARCHER.

  “How could he know?” Isabel stares at me, her usually cool eyes wide now.

  I look at the book and read a few lines. I skip ahead.

  “It seems that Spade is the last name of the hero in The Maltese Falcon, Sam Spade. And Miles Archer is his partner.”

  “That is definitely weird…,” Caleb mutters.

  “I think it’s just a coincidence,” I say quickly, trying to sound reasonable. “Archer is a pretty common name. I mean, your name is in that Henry James book too, right?”

  “Right. And of course, Edith Wharton named her protagonist in The Age of Innocence Newland Archer,” Isabel reasons to herself.

  “Exactly!” I exclaim. “Newland Archer!” The fact that I have no idea who Edith Whateverhernameis is, let alone what The Age of Innocence is, doesn’t matter. If it calms Isabel down, that’s all that matters right now. “Plus, Uncle Ted sent me on this mission before we even met.”

  Isabel takes a deep breath, and the color returns to her cheeks. “I’m sorry, guys. I just wasn’t expecting to see my name in that book,” she says. “Serves me right for not knowing my crime fiction.”

  “Archer is a mutant in the X-Factor comic books,” Caleb adds helpfully.

  I glare at him.

  “What? I’m just saying it’s a common name in literature.”

  “Good to know,” Isabel says dryly. “My name is also used for some dumb comic-book character.”

  “For your information, Archer isn’t dumb. He can transform at will into pure energy, and shoots photoelectric plasma bolts from his gauntlets.”

  “He sounds pretty cool,” I admit.

  Isabel riffles through the book. “And this actually looks pretty interesting. Is it okay if I borrow it? Maybe there’s something here. Some sort of clue.”

  “Great idea!” I say. “You can read that and report to Caleb and me. And we’ll each take one of these notebooks.”

  Caleb picks one up and opens it. It’s filled with drawings. Some are detailed diagrams, with arrows pointing to various parts of the picture; others are merely sketches with notations.

  “I can look through this one,” he says.

  I reach for the smaller book. “I guess that leaves this one for me.”

  I pick up the notebook by the back cover. My thumb feels the outline of something hard between the leather cover and the cardboard backing it’s glued to. I press my finger against the cover and feel it again.

  Isabel and Caleb are watching me. “There’s something in there?” Isabel asks breathlessly.

  “I’m not sure…,” I say distractedly, my fingers tracing the area.

  “I hope it’s not like a dead roach or something, ’cause that would be gross,” Caleb says with a grimace.

  “It would crunch if it were a roach…and there would be a hole where it had crawled in,” Isabel replies, glancing down with fascination.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” says Caleb, sounding relieved.

  “I bet it’s a jewel of some kind!” Isabel says confidently.

  “Only one way to find out,” I answer simply.

  I go to a drawer and get a small paring knife with a sharp edge. Carefully, I make a small slit in the leather. I put my fingers into the hole, fish around, and, looking at the others, pull something out.

  Caleb’s head drops to his chest in frustration.

  It’s another key.

  I look at it. All this for another key.

  And no idea what it’s for.

  I slap the key down onto the counter in frustration. “It seems like every time we learn something, it just takes us back to another blank page. No matter what we do.”

  “Plus ça change, plus c’est le meme chose.” Isabel nods.

  We look at her. She just stares back. “What?”

  “Just once I wish we didn’t have to ask you what you mean,” says Caleb, shaking his head.

  “Oh, right. I’m sorry. It means ‘The more things change, the more things stay the same.’ I guess I thought ever
ybody knew it.”

  “Maybe everybody back in your fancy private school.”

  Thankfully, a loud buzzing noise interrupts the scene. I look down and realize it’s my cell phone. Private Caller comes up on the caller ID.

  I raise the phone to my ear. “Hello?” I say hesitantly.

  “Is this Ted?” asks a pleasant voice. “It’s Clark…Mr. Kent. I’m going to be going back to Hawaii in a few days and just wondered if you ever remembered anything your great-uncle said.”

  I look at my friends and mouth the words “Clark Kent.”

  Isabel and Caleb listen as I continue.

  “As a matter of fact, some of it did come back to me….No, you don’t have to come over to the house. My friends and I were just about to get some pizza around the corner….Yeah, it’s called Fascati Pizzeria. We can meet there. See you in a bit.”

  I click off. Caleb and Isabel are staring at me with confused looks on their faces.

  “What’s with the pizza business?” Caleb asks.

  I gather up the box and my great-uncle’s pad and put them in my knapsack. “Look, all we know about this guy is that he doesn’t really work for the Honolulu Star-Advertiser. I don’t want him here at the house until I know who he is and what he wants.”

  “Meeting in a public place. Very smart.” Isabel nods. Then her face darkens. “So how are we getting there?”

  “Well, we don’t get our licenses for four years, so I guess it’s bikes,” cracks Caleb.

  “Well, I don’t have a bike. So, what? I guess I’m supposed to catch up on my reading again while you two go gallivanting around?” fumes Isabel.

  “Gallivanting? Really? You just said ‘gallivanting’?” Caleb asks incredulously.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Isabel asks. “It’s a perfectly good word. It means—”

  “I know what it means,” replies Caleb with a shake of his head. “I just didn’t think anyone under the age of seventy used words like that.”

  I can feel things getting out of hand again. “Guys, listen…”

  “Fine, from now on I’ll only use simple words. Like you find in comic books.”

  “That is such utter garbage,” Caleb seethes. “There is some really great writing in comic books. Which you might find out if you weren’t such a—”

  “Caleb. Chill. Isabel, you can use my mom’s bike and helmet. They’re in the garage.”

  Caleb and Isabel stand up, and I grab a pen.

  “What’re you doing?” asks Caleb.

  “Leaving my mom a note, letting her know where we’re going,” I say. “You know how moms worry….”

  “Mine doesn’t,” Caleb mutters.

  As we head for the garage, Caleb can’t resist. He turns to Isabel.

  “So you actually know how to ride a bike? I thought people at private schools only took like limos.”

  “My mother’s family has a place on Long Island. I go there every summer. Well, that is, until this summer, of course,” Isabel answers evenly.

  I am relieved that she doesn’t take the bait.

  “So listen, how are we going to handle this?” I ask as we push off in the direction of the pizzeria.

  “Simple,” says Isabel, easily keeping pace with us. “We just get Mr. Clark Kent to tell us the truth.”

  As we are about to enter the pizzeria, I turn and notice that the black Jaguar is already parked in front. Clark Kent waves from a corner, where he is sitting with a laptop open in front of him. We approach the table.

  “Hey, Ted,” Kent says affably. “How nice to meet your friends.”

  He jumps up and closes his laptop, making room and chatting away, seeming somewhat distracted.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce me? What is everyone having? A slice? A drink? It’s on me.”

  “No, we’re fine,” I say coolly. The three of us sit down, facing Kent.

  “I thought you wanted to meet here because— Ahem, I see.” Kent regards us sitting stone-faced across the table. “All business, well, well!” he jokes, and laughs nervously.

  “This is Caleb Grant, and this is Isabel Archer.”

  “Someone’s parents like Henry James!” exclaims Kent, nodding.

  Isabel reddens a little. “My father is an English professor.”

  “Just like Ted, huh? Something in common. That’s nice.”

  Now it’s my turn to feel the heat rising in my cheeks. “Look, we’re here for a reason, so maybe we could just talk about that.”

  “Fine,” agrees Kent a little too quickly. “So what did you remember?”

  “Actually,” Caleb says, “that’s not why we’re here.”

  “Oh?” Kent sounds less annoyed than nervous.

  Isabel takes a breath and then blurts out, “Why do you say you’re from the Honolulu Star-Advertiser when they’ve never heard of you?”

  Kent looks stricken, his eyes going from one face to another, finally landing on me.

  He laughs sheepishly. “You know, they say kids are always the hardest to fool. I’m actually doing this article freelance and was hoping to sell it to the paper—”

  “Then why make up a lie so easy to expose?” Isabel insists.

  “And why are you so concerned about Ted’s great-uncle?” adds Caleb.

  “Who are you really?” I ask.

  Kent takes out a handkerchief and mops his now sweating brow. “I never was a good liar. It’s written all over my face, I guess.”

  I know how that feels.

  “The truth?”

  “That would be refreshing,” Isabel answers.

  “Okay, this is kind of complicated. First, my name isn’t really Clark Kent.”

  I want to say “No duh” but feel that doesn’t sound all that mature. What would Isabel say?

  “So we gathered,” Isabel says coolly.

  Great. Now I know.

  “My name. I’m actually Stan Kellerman, with the MMFPA.” He hands us each a card with a logo of a laurel wreath next to the words Monuments Men Foundation for the Preservation of Art: Continuing the Work of the Monuments Men.

  “Monuments Men—?” I ask, holding the card.

  “It’s a long story,” says Stan Kellerman, who seems visibly more relaxed now that the truth is out. “And please call me Stan. Actually, I’m glad you other kids are here, as not enough young people know about our work,” he continues, opening his laptop.

  Stan types an address onto the browser bar, and a website with the same logo appears. There are individual articles trumpeting new finds of artwork, and the discovery of a ledger containing valuable information that turned up in the Library of Congress.

  Above these articles is a photo of a group of older men holding out the ledger, with a few younger men behind them. Stan points to one of the older men in the front, stooped and bald.

  “That’s my dad, Lieutenant Morton Kellerman. He’s one of the last remaining original Monuments Men.” Behind Lt. Kellerman in the photo, clearly beaming, is Stan.

  Stan looks fondly at the photo. Then he seems to remember his guests. “Oh, I still haven’t explained who they were. Are you sure I can’t get you anything to drink?”

  We look at each other.

  Isabel smiles. “I’ll have a Coke.”

  Off Caleb’s look, I say, “Make that three.”

  “While I’m gone, feel free to poke around the site—I’ll fill you in when I get back,” Stan says, getting up and moving toward the counter in front.

  We gather around the laptop. Isabel reads from the page:

  “ ‘Preserving the legacy of the unprecedented and heroic work of the men and women known as Monuments Men, who served in the Monuments, Fine Arts, and Archives—MFAA—section during World War Two, by raising public awareness of the importance of protecting civilization’s most important cultural treasures from armed conflict.’ ”

  Stan returns with the drinks.

  “So your dad was in World War Two?” I ask.

  “Yep. You see, most of
these men and women were museum directors and art historians who went over to Europe during the war to try to help preserve historically important buildings, but some of them were like my dad, who was just a military guy who fell in love with art while working with them.”

  “Okay, I get that,” I say impatiently. “But what does that have to do with my great-uncle?”

  “I’m getting to that,” Stan continues. “One of the most important parts of the Monument Men’s work was after the war, when they set out to discover the hidden locations of all the artwork that had been looted from museums and private citizens in the countries the Nazis had invaded.”

  Stan takes a sip of his soda.

  “We’re talking about thousands and thousands of priceless paintings, sculptures, jewelry, some of the greatest works of art ever created, hidden away in castles and even buried in salt mines. Da Vincis, Michelangelos…the greatest treasure hunt in history!” Stan concludes, his eyes gleaming.

  I realize none of us have touched our drinks, we’re so into the story Stan is telling.

  “And people like my dad have helped recover most of it,” Stan continues proudly.

  “And my great-uncle fits in how, exactly?” I ask again. I still can’t make a connection from this incredible story to the wooden box, black remote, and key sitting in my knapsack at this moment.

  Stan shifts uneasily in his seat.

  “You see, I, well…a lot of soldiers passed through these areas during the war. And it was quite common for them to take souvenirs home. Or even ship them back.”

  Isabel has been staring off, lost in thought. “Are you suggesting Ted’s great-uncle stole one of these pieces of art?” she finally asks.

  “No, not deliberately,” Stan says quickly. “I mean, a lot of these guys had no idea of the value of the objects they took. Which is where I come in.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say, not meeting Stan’s gaze.

  “My dad’s in his eighties. He can’t really do this sort of work anymore. So I go out and see if I can recover anything that might have been, oh…how do I say this?”

  “You are saying my great-uncle stole something from over there, aren’t you?”

  “It’s my job, Ted. I have to determine whether it was a simple mistake or—”

  “—or what, exactly? Is that why you lied about who you are?” I snap.