by Tonke Dragt
“Don’t forget Ivan,” said Frans, looking at the cat, who was still lying inside the suitcase.
“Oh no, Ivan is far too dignified for that,” said Geert-Jan. “Come on, beastie, you need to get out of there. You’re squashing everything.”
Ivan reluctantly did as he was told and left the room with slow steps, his tail in the air.
“Come on. Let’s go too,” said Geert-Jan.
At breakfast, the atmosphere was rather tense. As the birthday boy, Geert-Jan was the most important person in the room, and he let it show. He was very talkative, bubbling over with glee, and as cheeky to his uncle as he dared. Count Grisenstein did not forget his dignified composure for a moment, although he clearly wasn’t enjoying himself very much. He made no comment about what his nephew and his nephew’s tutor were wearing on their heads, but firmly refused to wear a hat himself. He did, however, give Geert-Jan the present that (as Frans knew) he’d dashed off to buy the day before. It turned out to be a couple of toy cars. Geert-Jan thanked him rather frostily, but then he started driving them around his plate and talking, with twinkling eyes, about traffic lights. Luckily, Selina then turned up and once she’d put on a paper hat – while loudly protesting – that dangerous subject was forgotten.
Frans was happy to leave the table. He’d felt the count’s cold but keen eyes lingering on him several times. He’d barely dared to look at him and he was sorry that he hadn’t thought of making his eyelashes black or brown, with shoe polish, for instance.
“Now we’re going to decorate the place,” said Geert-Jan.
“Decorate the place?” said the count. “I think we should go out to celebrate your birthday. I’ll have the coach made ready, and then we can go out for a ride and stop somewhere for an ice cream.”
“I don’t want to go out,” said Geert-Jan. “It’s raining far too hard. I could get wet feet. I want to decorate the Small Banqueting Hall and play games.”
“Aren’t you a bit old for that?” said the count.
“I’m eleven,” said Geert-Jan. “And eleven’s my lucky number, so I want to have fun.”
“As you wish,” said the count with little enthusiasm.
“Mr Van der Steg brought a lot of streamers with him,” said Geert-Jan. He obviously couldn’t say that Jan Tooreloor had sent them. “Are you going to come and help with the decorations?” he asked Frans. Then he hurried out of the room, loudly singing “Oh, where did you get that hat? Where did you get that hat? I made it out of paper. And some whiskers from a cat!”
“You can take your hat off now,” the count said to Frans.
“I’d actually rather keep it on, Count Grisenstein,” he replied brightly. “It fits me just fine, and it’s what Geert-Jan wants.”
“My nephew is in particularly high spirits today,” said the count. “I do hope you’ll make sure he doesn’t get over-excited. It’s not good for him.”
“Surely he’s allowed to be happy!” said Frans.
“There’s a big difference between happy and over-excited,” said the count in his chilliest tones. “Over-excitement can quickly tip over into unacceptable behaviour. My nephew is ten years old plus one more year today. He’s almost a teenager – and I’m sure you’re well aware that teenagers’ parties can become very rowdy. I am of the opinion that only a decent upbringing can keep modern youngsters in check. Those who are young and green need a firm hand to guide them.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Frans, taking a step back at the word “green”. “But you really have no need to be concerned about your nephew.” And he wondered what the count would do when the children turned up later.
“I trust you,” said Count Grisenstein, coming closer, “not to disappoint my faith in you.”
“Of course I won’t,” replied Frans, automatically bringing his hand to his hat. “I’ll go and help Geert-Jan with the decorations.” Luckily the count didn’t go with him when he headed off to Gregorius’s Small Banqueting Hall.
Geert-Jan had already got to work; he was cheerfully giving orders to Berend and Manus, who were staring at him with bewildered expressions. One of them was wearing a pink pointed hat with gold dots on top of his bald head, while the other had a purple fez with a tassel perched on his curls.
“The yellow and orange streamers need to go around the banisters,” said Geert-Jan, “and the long green ones have to go across the room. Berend, maybe you should go and fetch a ladder.”
“Yes, but I’m supposed to be patrolling outside,” he began.
“It’s my birthday,” said Geert-Jan. “And you have to do as I say.”
Then Frans realized that Count Grisenstein had followed him after all. He had appeared in a doorway between two suits of armour and was beckoning Manus. The servant hurried over to him, and Berend went off to fetch the ladder.
“Hello, sir! Come over here!” called Geert-Jan. Frans helped him to hang up some streamers and to wrap the suits of armour with garlands of paper roses. When he looked around, the count and his servants had all gone.
“Hey, where have Berend and Manus got to?” said Geert-Jan. “They’re supposed to be helping me. It’s already past ten. We don’t have much time.”
Goodness me, thought Frans. The festivities are about to begin… but how’s it all going to end? Berend returned, still wearing the pointed hat, but without a ladder. He turned to Frans and said quietly, “The count wants a word with you.”
“Why don’t you get started on the banisters?” Frans said to Geert-Jan. And he followed Berend with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Count Grisenstein was waiting for him in the hall by the back door.
“I have a small issue I’d like to discuss with you,” he said to Frans. “This is my house, and I expect my guests to…” – he reached out his arm – “…take off their hats!” As he spoke those words, he snatched the straw hat off Frans’s head.
For a moment they stared at each other.
“So my suspicions were correct!” said the count. He dropped the hat on the floor, crossed his arms and continued, “You, sir, tricked your way into this house with sinister motives.”
“Whatever makes you think that?” said Frans, trying to act both calm and completely surprised.
“Do not try to fool me,” said the count coldly. “I have torn off your mask, or rather your hat. Clearly I can no longer permit your presence in this house. You are fired.”
“But why?” exclaimed Frans. “I haven’t done anything wrong!”
“I do not wish to employ a tutor with green hair,” said the count.
“You’ve never mentioned that before,” Frans began.
“You’re not suggesting I should have specified it in my advertisement, are you?” the count interrupted him. “No sensible person would do so. It’s obvious that no one has green hair.”
“But why should it be a problem if someone’s hair is green?” said Frans. “And besides, I didn’t choose this colour myself.”
“I’m afraid I don’t believe you,” said the count. “That green hair of yours is deliberate! I don’t know what else you’ve done to make my nephew fall for your tricks. But I know what you’re planning to do, what you’re hoping and wishing for…”
“My only wish,” said Frans, “is to help your nephew.”
The count held up one hand. “Silence!” he said. “You have abused my trust and are a danger to Geert-Jan. I am firing you with immediate effect and if you do not leave immediately I shall have you thrown out.”
“I won’t stand for this!” said Frans angrily. “You’re the one who’s putting Geert-Jan in danger! And you can’t just dismiss me like that, and on his birthday too. The boy’s counting on me and I will not abandon him.”
“Berend…” said the count.
Frans followed his gaze and saw the big man standing in a corner of the hall, waiting for instructions, his enormous fists clenched.
“Berend used to be a bouncer,” said the count with a smile. “I meant w
hat I said, Mr Van der Steg. If you do not leave of your own accord, he will throw you out.” He put his hands in his pockets and added coldly, “Or possibly employ more drastic measures…”
Frans put his hands in his pockets too – unfortunately he had no weapons; all he could feel was the little leather box. And what could he have done with a weapon anyway? He could hardly risk a fight, and not just because he was facing more than one man, but also because Geert-Jan might become involved too. And then the boy really would be in danger…
He looked at the count and said, “You know as well as I do that I’m only thinking of Geert-Jan.”
The count responded to his glare with a menacing glint in his eyes. “Never speak my nephew’s name again,” he said. “He’ll forget you soon enough. You can be sure of that.”
“No, he won’t,” said Frans. “And I’ll be back!” He stepped to one side, as Berend had suddenly appeared beside him.
“In order to return, you will first have to leave,” said Count Grisenstein with a mocking sneer. “Berend will let you out. The coach is waiting with your coat and luggage. You see, I’ve thought of everything.” He opened the back door and gave Frans a polite bow. “Goodbye, Mr Greenhair.”
“Farewell, Fiendish Foe,” said Frans in the same tone. With Berend on his heels, he stepped outside.
“You’ve forgotten your hat,” said the count.
“The hat belongs to Geert-Jan,” replied Frans. “You can tell him from me that I’ll find my way back here. That’s no great challenge for a man who has travelled the Seven Ways.”
Then he quickly headed down the stairs and climbed into the waiting coach, with Manus sitting up front. Berend jumped up behind – and away they rode.
He climbs a long ladder and… the party begins
THIS IS SIX
The coach went very slowly, but Frans knew there was no point trying to jump out, with Manus up front and Berend at the back. Furiously tugging his green hair, he cursed Mr Thomtidom. Thanks to the man’s meddlesome magic, everything had gone wrong. Greenhair had not defeated the count; instead the count had defeated Greenhair and fired him as well, just as he’d done to Jan Tooreloor.
The coach jolted around the outside of the house. It seemed he was to be sent packing via the front gate. Frans looked gloomily at the strange building. Geert-Jan would be waiting for him inside. The boy would remain imprisoned until the treasure had been found, and the count would…
Then he gasped. There was a ladder leaning against the house. It was just an ordinary wooden ladder, but he’d never seen it there before…
Frans completely forgot that he shouldn’t put all his faith in prophecies. A window cleaner had probably left the ladder there; there was a bucket hanging from it. But it could hardly be a coincidence that it was there now of all times, on the day his hair had turned green… Maybe Gregorius the Mad had been right after all! Maybe these were the steps they were looking for!
Frans watched the ladder for as long as he could. He hoped Berend and Manus hadn’t noticed it. No, they probably hadn’t – the first man seemed too stupid and the other was too occupied with the reins and the whip.
As the coach left the House of Stairs behind and rolled faster and faster down the driveway, he frantically began forging plans. He had to make good on his challenge to the count and return to the house – today! When the gate had closed behind him, he’d act as if he were leaving, but he’d simply walk around the outside of the estate and sneak back in through the gap in the fence… One way or another, he was going to free Geert-Jan from the clutches of his uncle, who had now revealed his true colours.
The coach suddenly juddered. Frans leant out of the window and saw that Berend had jumped off. He strode away and disappeared into the trees. Oh, that was right, he was on patrol outside. Soon after that, the coach came to a stop; they’d reached the gate. Manus jumped down and went to open it.
As he was unlocking the gate, a tall figure appeared on the other side of the railings.
“Hey, Manus! Chief cook and bottle-washer!” called Jan Tooreloor. “And now it would appear that you’re daring to drive my coach around too!”
“I’m Count Grisenstein’s coachman now,” snapped Manus, and he looked at Frans.
Then Tooreloor spotted him too, and his jaw dropped.
“Would you please stand aside?” asked Manus. “Then I can let the tutor out.”
Jan Tooreloor didn’t move. He just went on staring at Frans, who opened the door and got out. “That’s incredible!” he cried. “They were all talking about your beautiful red hair, but I’d never have believed it would turn so green!”
“Indeed,” said Frans curtly. “So green that Count Grisenstein has fired me. That’s something else you and the other conspirators would never have believed!”
“Fired?” repeated Tooreloor.
“Yes,” said Manus spitefully. “Just like you.”
As the gate swung open, Jan Tooreloor charged through, pounced on Manus like a tiger, and held him in an iron grip. “You disgusting little spy!” he roared, giving him a good shaking. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
“H… h… help!” groaned Manus, struggling to free himself.
Jan Tooreloor laughed. “And now I shall take the reins!” he cried. He lifted up the struggling spy like a sack, threw him into the coach, and slammed the door. Then he hopped up front.
“You deal with things here!” he called to Frans. “I’ll go and let the others know.” With a crack of his whip, he drove out through the gates.
“Halt! Stop right there!” shouted a furious voice, and Berend came running up, waving his arms.
Jan Tooreloor didn’t even look back.
Frans was still standing in the same spot. He watched in bewilderment as the coach rode off, with Berend shouting and running along behind. They disappeared in the direction of Langelaan.
Frans realized that Count Grisenstein had lost both of his manservants and his coach. He didn’t stop to wonder how it was all going to work out, but turned around and ran back to the House of Stairs.
*
The ladder was still there. It was a narrow ladder, a very long ladder, which ended at a roof window, high up in a tower.
Frans didn’t hesitate; he barely even stopped to think. He scaled the ladder without looking down once, quickly and steadily, rung by rung. The window was open; he swung his legs over the ledge and was inside.
Wiping his forehead, he looked around. He was in some kind of junk room, with a low, sloping ceiling. As far as he could remember, he’d never been there before. His first impression was that these steps certainly hadn’t shown him where to go… What could be precious about battered suitcases and shabby old chests, broken chairs and damaged bric-à-brac? An old junk room…
But wasn’t that the perfect place to hide something that was very valuable? Who knew what he might find in those cases and chests? What might be concealed behind the threadbare velvet curtain in that corner?
Frans stepped over a heater, almost knocked over a jug, and peered around. Cabinets… cases… chests! He spotted a large black box with gold corners; it had a chair on top of it and a broom leaning against it.
“I know that the treasure is kept in an ebony chest. And legend has it that only one key fits the lock…” The golden key that he was looking after!
Frans took the leather box from his pocket and opened it with slightly trembling fingers. A moment later, he was standing beside the chest, lifting down the chair, moving the broom…
He knelt down, with the key in his hand. I must let Geert-Jan know, he thought. But first I’ll just see if it fits…
But before he could put the key in the lock, an unexpected sound made him freeze.
An icy voice said, “Don’t move.”
A footstep creaked on the floor. “Look at me,” the voice said. “Hands up or I’ll shoot.”
Frans turned around. Count Grisenstein was standing in front of the threadbare velvet cu
rtain, and he was aiming a pistol at his chest.
Frans slowly stood up, still clutching the key in his hand.
“Hands up!” repeated the count. “So, will this little plaything make you do as I say?”
One look at the pistol was enough to convince Frans that this gun wasn’t a toy at all, and he did as he was told, speechless with fear, regret and helpless rage.
Count Grisenstein smiled. “I told you I’d thought of everything, didn’t I?” he said. “Your hair is green, you’ve travelled the Seven Ways… and so I thought it would be a nice idea for Berend to leave a ladder out so that you could scale the heights. Manus was given the job of driving past very slowly, so that you couldn’t miss it. I hardly dared to believe that you would fall for it, but you see, your faith in the Sealed Parchment has proven even stronger than I thought. You’ve forgotten just one thing: that you’ll never find the treasure on your own.”
Frans said nothing. But he could have hit the count – and himself even more so.
“Don’t move!” the Fiendish Foe said again. “Or my pistol could quite easily go off. You’ve fallen into my trap, Mr Van der Steg! You were caught red-handed breaking into my house! Just give me that key – I don’t know how you got your hands on it, but it belongs to me.”
“This key belongs to Geert-Jan,” said Frans, breaking his silence.
“Which makes it even worse,” said the count calmly. “You’ve stolen from a poor, innocent child! And that is exactly what I intend to tell the police.”
“The police?” said Frans. He lowered his arms, but clasped the key even more tightly.
“Hands up!” the count ordered sharply. “Yes, the police,” he continued. “When I get rid of someone, I do it permanently. Soon you’ll be under lock and key – and then try proving that you didn’t break in here!”
He came closer. Frans stepped back, almost stumbling over the chest, and had to let the count take the golden key from him.
