The Great Gold Robbery

by Jo Nesbo

  Then they sat down at the table.

  And while they slowly consumed yard after yard of the best Jell-O any of them had ever eaten, Lisa whispered to Nilly, asking him if he was sure he had managed to swap out the trophy in the players’ tunnel. And Nilly responded that it was true, that type of on-the-fly, pitch-dark trophy exchange was not for amateurs, but he wasn’t Nilly for nothing. Was he?

  Lisa studied her friend thoughtfully as he arrogantly stuffed another foot or so of Jell-O into his mouth.

  “But you’re totally sure that—” she began.

  She didn’t get any response, because just then they heard a voice yelling and the distant hum of an engine. Everyone looked around, unable to place where the sounds were coming from. Until someone happened to look up. And there, high above the top of the pear tree, they saw a triangular shape approaching.

  “Look at me! I’m Petter! I’m the one and only Petter, and a heck of a Petter I am!”

  “Petter!” Lisa called up to him. “Who’s that with you?”

  “Huh?”

  “The girl next to you?” Lisa clarified.

  “Oh, right. This is Petronella. She’s the one and only Petronella! A heck of a Petronella! She’s the one who added the engine to the hang glider. A real Hillman engine! We flew straight into the headwind! Is there any Jell-O left, Doctor?”

  And there was.

  And as our friends ate, laughed, and told their unbelievable stories, and Nilly tried to teach everyone the Toes song, the spring sun sank behind the crooked blue house at the very end of Cannon Avenue.

  And with that, we call the game over for now.

  THE END

  OR . . .

  MEANWHILE, ACROSS THE North Sea, three brothers were playing poker in the city called London. And their mother covered her ears as they yelled things to one another like:

  “It is too true! You got a flush. That means you have to flush it down the toilet, so I win! International rules!”

  “But then I jack your ace, so now it’s my ace!”

  “Stick out your knuckles!”

  “You boys are driving me crazy,” their mother muttered, escaping to the kitchen to make more Birmingham pudding.

  IN A SMALL shack of a clubhouse, Krillo yelled for Nero to come help him lift the trophy into the trophy case, which had been empty ever since Rotten Ham had been founded a hundred years earlier.

  “It’s almost weird,” Krillo groaned as they lifted. “That a trophy should be so heavy!”

  AND LONG AFTER the sun had set in Norway and England, the party was over, and you and I had gone to bed, a guy by the name of Nilsen woke up when the phone next to his bed rang.

  “Yes?” he said with a yawn.

  “Is this the host of Norway’s Biggest Liar?”

  “Yes,” Nilsen said, wondering where he’d heard the caller’s voice before.

  “I have an anonymous tip for you. Do you remember that guy named Nilly, who you had on your show?”

  “The one who said he was Napoléon and saved the world from moon monsters?” Nilsen said, chuckling. “He’s not easily forgotten.”

  “I know,” the voice said. “But I just want to give you this supersecret tip that he’s Beckadona Hamarooney Sherl.”

  “The player who scored the goal against Chelchester in the World Cup finals and just disappeared?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, he had more important things to do than hang out in England and revel in the glory, becoming rich and famous and running away from English girls who wanted to kiss him. But you might find it interesting to know that Nilly, aka Sherl, is going to be on display as a wax figure in Madame Tourette’s Wax Museum.”

  “This is totally unbelievable!” Nilsen said, thinking that there was something very familiar about that voice.

  “You could mention this on your stupid show, that that Nilly had the goods after all. Good night.”

  “I see. This wouldn’t happen to be Nilly I’m talking to, would it?”

  But the caller had already hung up.