The House of Puzzles

by Richard Newsome

  Gerald shrugged. ‘It’s a list of names from an old newspaper,’ he said. ‘So what?’

  Felicity frowned at him. ‘You’re lucky I’m not Ruby or you could be experiencing physical pain. This is from The Times in 1817. It’s a list of people sentenced to transportation to New South Wales.’

  Gerald shrugged again. ‘Lots of convicts got sent to Australia back then. What’s so special about this lot.’

  Felicity pointed to one name on the list. ‘Kobe thought this name looked interesting.’

  Gerald peered at the list. ‘Ralph Davey?’ he said. He thought for a moment. ‘Do you think it’s a relative of Jeremy’s?’

  Felicity nodded eagerly. ‘Kobe and I think he might be Jeremy’s father. The date would fit.’

  ‘So, his dad was transported to Sydney for stealing a loaf of bread. Does that get us any closer to the keyword?’

  ‘What did I say to you about physical pain? Ralph Davey was not sent to Australia for stealing. Kobe also found this article, about Davey’s trial. He was a Luddite.’ Felicity made the statement as if it answered everything.

  Gerald looked at her blankly. ‘And a Luddite is what, exactly?’

  Felicity flicked her hair behind her shoulders in the way she always did just before showing off some piece of superior knowledge. ‘We learned about them in history class at St Hilda’s last year,’ she said. ‘The Luddites were a group of craftsmen and textile workers who tried to hold back the industrial revolution in the early 1800s. They smashed up the machines that were replacing them. There were riots in the north of England. The protest leaders were hanged, or transported to Australia.’

  Gerald’s face remained blank. ‘So Jeremy Davey’s father was one of the Luddites sent to Australia because he burnt down a widget factory. How does this help us?’

  Felicity flicked her hair again. ‘Have you thought that his father’s name could be the keyword? Or Luddite, maybe?’

  Gerald’s eyes widened and he opened his notepad to his many scribblings trying to crack the code. He tried Ralph and Ralphdvey and ludite in the grid. ‘You have to drop any letters that appear twice,’ he explained as he beavered away with a pencil, ‘otherwise you end up with more than twenty-six letters which is, you know, not going to work.’

  As it turned out, none of Gerald’s guesses worked either. He tossed down his pencil in frustration. ‘Well that got us absolutely nowhere,’ he said. ‘Did you and Kobe make any other grand discoveries?’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ Felicity said. ‘We all want to rescue Professor McElderry. You’re not the only one worried about him.’

  Gerald felt a flush of shame. As his departure for New York drew closer, he was becoming increasingly irritable. There had been no further contact from Sir Mason Green and, if anything, the silence had been worse than the ordeal of sitting opposite the insane old man on a remote highland track sipping a cup of tea. Gerald’s nerves were on edge.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m just—’

  Felicity put her hand on Gerald’s arm. ‘We did find one other thing,’ she said. ‘Most of the diary is Davey complaining about how hard it is to provide for his mother and younger brothers. It sounds like he was having to put food on the table for the whole family from quite a young age.’

  Gerald drummed his fingers against his cheek, thinking. ‘That fits with his father being transported, I guess,’ he said.

  ‘And then there’s this,’ Felicity said. ‘It’s another clipping. This one is about a voyage around the world being planned for 1831, for a ship called HMS Beagle. Davey has circled it. It says the ship was due to leave England and chart the west coast of South America before crossing the Pacific to visit—’

  ‘Australia!’ Gerald got in first. ‘You think that’s the ship Davey was on?’

  ‘To go to find his father. That is exactly what Kobe and I think,’ Felicity said. ‘And then, around October 1835, the young midshipman Jeremy Davey got into some sort of trouble and tossed a coded message into the sea.’

  Gerald looked down at his notebook and ran his fingers across the jumble of random letters that he had copied from Davey’s note. If Felicity and Kobe were right that Jeremy Davey had written the message while trying to find his father, it somehow made Gerald’s task that bit more noble. He had a sudden urge to know Jeremy Davey’s fate.

  Chapter 19

  New York City! Gerald had seen a lot of the world in his eight months as a billionaire. London, New Delhi, Paris, Rome, Athens, Prague and quite a few points in between. And now, once again, his senses were dazzled, this time by the mad scramble of downtown Manhattan in evening rush hour. Lights blazed in shopfronts, casting a rainbow of colours onto the fresh blanket of late winter snow on the footpaths. Harried locals did battle with gawping tourists along the bustling boulevards, all with someplace to go and scant time to get there. Streams of people in overcoats and woollen hats swirled around the hotdog vendors and pretzel carts. Hawkers in sandwich boards stood on corners, trying to convince shoppers to venture down side streets for the latest fashion wear at sale prices. A jangling chorus of car horns echoed along the canyons of office towers and apartment buildings, like an orchestra tuning up in never-ending disarray, waiting for a conductor who would never appear. Police on point duty tried to keep the yellow cabs and the cars and the courier vans and the limousines and the buses and the delivery trucks and the postal carts and the tourist coaches moving smoothly in a stop-start crawl that was barely faster than walking pace.

  In the middle of all the chaos, Gerald’s limousine edged along Fifth Avenue. Gerald, Ruby, Felicity and Sam pressed their noses against the windows and gazed at the frenetic activity of the night outside.

  ‘It’s just like the movies,’ Sam said in awe, ‘only there’s more of it.’

  ‘Look at all those boutiques,’ Felicity said, her eyes widening. ‘I could do some serious shopping here.’

  ‘Once we get the professor free from Mason Green, maybe we can spend a little time in the shops,’ Ruby said. ‘Right, Gerald?’

  Gerald tapped on the glass partition behind the driver’s seat. ‘Once we rescue Professor McElderry, you can swing by the ankles from the top of the Statue of Liberty if you want,’ he said. The partition slid down, revealing the back of Mr Fry’s head. ‘How far to go, St John?’ Gerald asked.

  The butler’s jaw tightened at the use of his first name. ‘Sir will arrive at the Billionaires’ Club in a matter of minutes. I will then take your companions to the Royal Suite at the Plaza, where they are free to order room service until they split at the seams. I shall retire to the hotel bar, on high alert for unsavoury characters and a mere telephone call away should anyone require my assistance or the world suddenly come to an end, whichever occurs last.’

  ‘Sounds great, Sinjin,’ Sam said from the back seat. ‘Do you think they’ll have cheese burgers on the room service menu?’

  Mr Fry sniffed. ‘I should be astonished if they have anything else.’

  The limousine pulled to the kerb outside a freestanding building that overlooked a small park, blanketed in snow. Gerald peered through the window at the red-brick structure and counted up twelve storeys. An iron fire-escape zigzagged down a side wall that faced
a narrow laneway. A dozen dormer windows in the roof looked down over the bustling street below. Black wrought-iron flower boxes, empty for the winter, sat beneath the tall, narrow windows along the street frontage, every one of which appeared to be bricked over. The entire building exuded a cold indifference to the world.

  Gerald climbed out of the limo and ducked his head back inside. ‘Wish me luck,’ he said. Sam gave him a thumbs up and Felicity blew him a kiss. Gerald turned to Ruby. She gave him a stern look.

  ‘Do you have the note from Davey?’ she asked. ‘And the piece of Delacroix painting?’

  Gerald patted his backpack and nodded. He was about to say goodbye when Ruby jumped forward and threw her arms around his neck. She squeezed warm and hard, then kissed him on the cheek. ‘Be careful in there,’ she breathed in his ear.

  Gerald stumbled backwards into the night and watched as Mr Fry steered the limo back into the flow of traffic. He raised a hand to his cheek and, staring after the red tail-lights of the limousine, whispered, ‘Scooby dooby doo…bee.’

  The evening crowd hurried along the footpath of one of the world’s most famous boulevards. Through the flicker of faces flashing past, Gerald spotted Jasper Mantle. He was wrapped in an overcoat and standing in the building’s main doorway. Gerald swung his pack onto his shoulder and picked his way through the snow to greet him. As he got closer he saw that Alex Baranov was also there.

  Gerald stood and stared at Alex. He was dressed entirely in black commando gear. His trousers were tucked into a pair of combat boots and his jacket seemed to have more pockets than a billiard table. The outfit was topped off with a black woollen beanie. The only things missing were camouflage paint and an assault rifle.

  Gerald nodded at Jasper Mantle and hitched his pack tighter onto his shoulder. ‘Did I miss the invasion?’ he asked, ‘or do I have time to get a gas mask and rations?’

  Alex glared at Gerald but said nothing.

  Mantle clapped his gloved hands together. ‘Let’s get inside and out of this chill.’

  The front door was nothing grand: plain red and thick with street grime. Jasper Mantle pulled a key from his pocket, opened the door and led the boys into a dimly lit foyer. He bolted the door behind them, blocking out the buzz of the city.

  Gerald sneezed hard. Twice. He rubbed his nose. ‘It’s very dusty,’ he said. Another sneeze sprayed across Alex’s back. Gerald did not bother to wipe it off.

  Jasper Mantle flicked on more lights. They did little to improve the visibility, only serving to illuminate more dust. At the far end of the foyer was a single lift with an art deco semi-circular floor indicator with an arrow. It was the only thing in the room that could pass for decoration. There was not a stick of furniture, the walls were naked, and a small mound of junk mail on the floor inside the door suggested the Billionaires’ Club was not the heart of New York’s social scene.

  Gerald looked at the dingy surrounds. ‘It’s not quite what I expected,’ he said. ‘You know, considering the neighbourhood we’re in.’ He had the prickly sensation of insects crawling over his skin and down his neck.

  Jasper Mantle fished inside his overcoat pocket and pulled out a stubby brass key. ‘Don’t let the decor fool you,’ he said. ‘We keep the location of the club secret. You can imagine what a target we would be if we advertised. The lobby is maintained like this to deter any thieves who might make it inside the front door.’

  Alex looked around with distaste. ‘I would hope so. I have no intention of spending the night in a fleapit like this.’

  Mr Mantle inserted the key into a lock by the lift doors and pressed the button. Far above them, cogs and wheels moved into action.

  With a clunk the doors juddered two-thirds of the way open. The lift had stopped thirty centimetres short of floor level. Mr Mantle wedged his shoulder against one door and his hands against the other and shoved them fully apart.

  ‘You’ll have to excuse some of the facilities,’ he said. ‘It’s a very old building. We haven’t had cause to use it much lately.’

  ‘Since 1830, apparently,’ Gerald muttered. He went to climb in but Alex shoved him aside. He surveyed the interior of the lift and his top lip curled. ‘What a dump,’ he said.

  It was going to be a long night.

  ‘In you go, Gerald,’ Mr Mantle said, following after him. ‘Adventure awaits.’

  The doors stuttered closed, and the lift shunted upwards. After a short journey it ground to a halt. The doors pulled back halfway: they were a good metre below the floor level. Alex pushed the doors fully open and climbed out. He reached down and helped Mr Mantle up and through the opening. Gerald held out his hand, but Alex looked down through the gap and laughed. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘You are a dipstick of epic proportions,’ Gerald grumbled under his breath. He tossed his backpack between the doors and clambered out.

  As he emerged into the light, it took him a moment to absorb his surroundings. ‘Now,’ he thought, ‘this is more like a Billionaires’ Club.’

  The reception salon was straight from an eighteenth century French palace. Crimson silk lined the walls, resplendent with enormous oil paintings. Antique card tables surrounded by high-backed chairs were set around the room, laid out for games of chess and bridge. There were no windows, but eight oak doors were evenly spaced around the walls. A fire blazed in a grate beneath a grand mantelpiece, infusing the room with a snug cosiness that had Gerald hankering for his slippers and a corner of one of the plush lounges on the hand-woven oriental carpet.

  He unzipped his jacket and let it fall in a heap to the floor behind him.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. It seemed the most appropriate thing to say.

  Mr Mantle removed his gloves and tossed them into the bowl of his up-turned hat. He laid his overcoat along a leather banquette and gazed around with satisfaction. ‘It has been a while since I’ve been here,’ he said. ‘The old place hasn’t changed a bit.’

  Alex’s eyes widened, drinking in the scene. ‘If you haven’t been here for a while,’ he said, ‘then who lit the fire?’

  Jasper Mantle eased himself onto a lounge and propped his feet on an ottoman. ‘That is one of the many tricks of the house,’ he said. ‘It’s a bit like the light inside the refrigerator. The fire goes on when the doors open—in this case, the elevator doors. We get a bill once a quarter from the gas company and leave it at that. The fire goes out when the last person leaves. It’s the same with the chandeliers and lamps. Quite ingenious.’

  Gerald pulled out a chair from a card table. ‘So we just sit here all night?’ he asked. ‘Seems a bit pointless. Comfy, but pointless.’

  Mr Mantle grinned broadly. ‘As I told you at Oates, the club’s founder, Diamond Jim Kincaid, was somewhat eccentric. He installed a few surprises in here.’

  ‘By surprises you mean puzzles?’ Gerald said.

  ‘Puzzles. Booby traps. Dead ends. All sorts of mischief,’ Mr Mantle said. ‘Nothing too serious, of course—just a little fun. But it is written in our constitution that each new member must spend a night here to solve as many puzzles as they can. The more you solve, the further into the house you get. Some of the puzzles don’t do anything when you crack them, but others unlock hidden doors, or give clues to other
conundrums. The best anyone has done so far is get to the second floor.’

  Gerald blinked. ‘Are you saying that the Billionaires’ Club has been around for almost two hundred years and no one except Diamond Jim Whatsisface has ever been above the second floor? What’s up there?’

  ‘No one knows for sure,’ Mr Mantle said. ‘But it’s every club member’s duty to try to find out. Wouldn’t you like to be the first?’

  ‘If it’s that important, why do we only get one night to do it?’ Alex asked.

  Mr Mantle picked up his hat and tugged his gloves onto his hands. ‘You don’t become fabulously wealthy by playing at games all the time,’ he said. ‘This is a pleasant distraction that might test your lateral thinking skills and tickle your ego, but it’s hardly going to make your fortune. I will leave you to it. I can’t hang around here all night.’ Mr Mantle allowed himself a polite laugh. ‘That’s your job.’

  He crossed to the lift and consulted his watch. ‘It’s eight o’clock. I’ll be back at eight in the morning to let you out. I look forward to hearing all about your adventures.’ He climbed down into the lift and the doors faltered closed. The arrow indicator tracked him down to the ground floor.

  Alex looked at Gerald.

  Gerald looked at Alex.

  Twelve hours to locate a hidden box, or Professor McElderry was a dead man.

  ‘So, what’s with the commando gear?’ Gerald said. ‘Is there a paintball arena on the fourth floor?’

  Alex smiled. ‘My father did this night twenty years ago,’ he said. ‘He gave me a few clues.’

  Gerald shrugged. ‘Well, go for your life, champion. Don’t let me stop you storming the castle. I’ve got my own puzzles to solve.’ Gerald wandered over to the closest door and tried the handle. It wouldn’t budge.