The House of Puzzles

by Richard Newsome

  Gerald traced his eyes across the gap from the top step to the door in the ceiling. ‘This is our way out of here,’ he said.

  The clock chimed nine times.

  He stumbled to the next light fitting and turned the handle. As a third bookcase swung out from the wall, Gerald looked back over his shoulder and shouted to Alex, ‘Start climbing. One more after this and we should reach the door.’

  Pinpricks of colour sparked in Gerald’s eyes like flickering Christmas lights. The gas was thickening. Breathing was near impossible.

  The bookcase moved up the wall, then tilted back to join the rest of the stairs. Gerald staggered to the next set of shelves. This one should do it.

  He turned the handle, struggling to get feeling into his fingers. It was as if his body was shutting down, withdrawing troops from the perimeters. The fourth bookcase swung out, then climbed high up the wall. Gerald looked up to see Alex directly above him, on his hands and knees. The handle cranked six more times and the final piece in the staircase snapped into place.

  Gerald stumbled through the clutter of spilled books onto the stairs. He dropped to his hands and knees and hauled himself up on all fours.

  The staircase reached to just below the ceiling, right next to the door. Alex lay on the top step, his head resting on his arm.

  Gerald slid in beside him and shook his shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘We’re almost there.’

  Alex peeled back an eyelid and stared vacantly at Gerald.

  ‘It’s no use.’ His voice was barely a whisper. ‘The door. It’s…locked.’

  Gerald stared at a keyhole next to the door handle.

  And from far beneath them, the clock began to chime.

  Chapter 22

  The clock counted down the seconds. Gerald struggled to focus on the door that stood between his life and his death.

  Dong, dong, dong…

  Was that five? Or six? Concentrating was impossible. Gerald was aware of Alex Baranov by his side and of the doorknob above his head. And that was all. His world had collapsed to just those two things.

  Dong, dong…

  He could no longer smell the gas, could not distinguish it from normal air. His eyes were open but he could barely see. It was like staring down a funnel.

  His mind flitted to his mother and father, to Sam and Ruby. He would never have the chance to say goodbye to any of them. Or to tell Ruby how he really felt, even if he could find the words. He had kept that much locked up inside. And now it was too late.

  Locked up inside.

  Locked.

  Need to open.

  Need…a…

  Key.

  Gerald’s eyelids flickered.

  A key?

  From deep within his oxygen-starved brain Gerald somehow mustered the wit to slide his hand into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out the last key from the display case. He gripped the end and with an unsteady hand pushed it into the keyhole in the door.

  It was received like an old friend.

  He turned the key and the door dropped open. Fresh air gusted into Gerald’s face. The sudden infusion of oxygen was a tonic. He dragged Alex up by the collar to sit next to him.

  ‘Wake up!’ He slapped Alex hard in the face. He slapped him again. Then a third time. Alex slurred a mumbled. ‘Whazzit? Whassamatter?’

  Gerald was laughing now. ‘Oh, that felt good!’ he said out loud. He wound up and smacked Alex again. ‘Wakey, wakey!’ The last hit was more for Gerald’s benefit than for Alex’s. ‘Come on,’ Gerald said. ‘Time to go.’

  A set of sliding stairs dropped through the doorway in the ceiling, reaching down to the top of the bookcase. Gerald shoved Alex in the back and heaved him up. He could smell the gas gathering around them once more.

  Gerald climbed up after Alex, and they emerged into a dark room. A waft of gas vapour chased after them. Gerald looked about and saw a trapdoor hinged at the floor. He swung it shut over their escape hatch. The door sealed tight, preventing any gas from sneaking through the cracks.

  Gerald collapsed onto his hands and knees and breathed the clean air. It was like drinking a glass of iced lemonade on a summer’s afternoon.

  Alex slumped onto the floor, his hands over his eyes. His lungs pumped like bellows at a forge. After a while, his breathing steadied.

  ‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why would they try to kill us?’

  Gerald sat on the floor, his legs out in front of him. ‘If you’re going to be a junior billionaire,’ he said, ‘you’re going to have to get used to this type of stuff.’

  Alex lifted his hands from his face. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Gerald laughed. ‘The members of the stupid Billionaires’ Club aren’t trying to kill us,’ he said. ‘Mr Mantle and the others don’t know what’s inside most of this building. We’re probably the first people to make it this far into the club since Diamond Jim Fungusguts opened for business. That room down there,’—he nodded at the hatch in the floor—‘was in perfect condition when we arrived. It was untouched. Not so much now.’

  ‘But Mantle said someone got to the second floor,’ Alex said.

  ‘If they did, they didn’t get out the same way we did.’

  ‘But why would someone set a trap like that?’

  Gerald was convinced that Kincaid had set the snare to protect the perpetual motion machine, either Drebbel’s original or one that Kincaid had managed to build on his own. But he was not about to share that theory with Alex Baranov. ‘People go a bit bizarre when it comes to defending what’s theirs,’ Gerald said. He hoped he sounded convincing. ‘Especially mega-rich people.’

  ‘We have security in our house in London,’ Alex said, ‘but we don’t go to the point of gassing intruders. Who would do that?’

  A vision of Sir Mason Green appeared before Gerald’s eyes. ‘I can think of a few people,’ he said. He shook his pack from his shoulders and pulled out a water bottle. He took a long drink and tossed it to Alex, who caught it with a nod of thanks. He drank and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You saved my life down there,’ he said.

  ‘You did the same for me,’ Gerald said. ‘If I’d fallen off that stool there was no way I was getting up again.’

  Alex unzipped a pocket on his sleeve and dug inside. ‘Twix?’

  Gerald nodded and accepted the snack. For a moment, the two of them were content to savour the taste of chocolate.

  ‘So, why have you been trying to stop me from coming here?’ Gerald looked sidewards at Alex. ‘The pillowcase over the head. The slingshot at the horse. Why try to keep me away?’

  The question seemed to catch Alex off guard. He studied Gerald’s face for a moment. ‘What’s the quickest way to win any competition?’ he asked Gerald.

  Gerald shrugged. ‘How?’

  ‘Have your opponent quit before it has even started,’ Alex replied. ‘My father says everything in life is a competition. To win, someone must lose. And for him, losing is not an option.’

  ‘That’s a pretty miserable way to
look at life,’ Gerald said.

  Alex swallowed the last of his chocolate. ‘You’ve met my father,’ he said.

  Gerald stood shakily and made his way through the gloom towards the nearest wall. He ran his hands along velvet wallpaper until he found what he was looking for. ‘There’s a lamp here,’ he said to Alex. ‘Should I risk lighting it?’

  Alex sniffed the air. ‘I can’t smell any gas,’ he said. ‘And we need to see to find a way out of here.’

  Gerald pulled Alex’s zippo from his pocket. He flipped the top and took a deep breath. His thumb hovered over the flint wheel—and he struck it. Sparks flew and a flame danced in the darkness. Gerald paused—there was no massive explosion—and he turned on the gas tap on the lamp. A thin hiss sounded from inside the lampshade. He held up the lighter and, with a soft pop, the lamp flashed into life. Then in a chain reaction, wall lamps lit up around the room.

  Alex swallowed a gasp at what was revealed. ‘Far out,’ he said.

  Gerald could only agree. It was far less grand than the room they had just escaped from. But what it lacked in scale it more than made up for with its fittings. The red velvet walls were hung from floor to ceiling with picture frames. Hundreds, probably thousands, of picture frames. And they all contained the same thing.

  ‘Butterflies,’ Gerald said. ‘Zillions and zillions of them.’

  Butterflies. Moths. Flying creepy-crawlies of countless varieties and varying degrees of ugliness. Insects from the size of two outstretched hands to those barely bigger than the pinhead that held them on the display cards. The room was a storage house of specimens of the world’s airborne bugs, pressed under glass and frozen in time.

  Gerald trailed along one of the walls in a state of wonder. ‘Looks like Diamond Jim was a butterfly collector as well as a tinkerer,’ he whispered. He had no idea why he should be whispering but the setting seemed to call for it. ‘What Jasper Mantle wouldn’t give to get his hands on this.’

  The vast collection appeared to be sorted geographically. One section was dedicated to the countries of Europe and Africa, another to North America. Gerald drifted along like a migratory moth, passing by the countries of South America: Chile, Argentina, Brazil (lots and lots of butterflies from Brazil), Colombia, Ecuador. He paused in front of a section labelled Galapagos Islands. Each insect was carefully recorded with its name written beneath it. The Galapagos Sulphur butterfly. The Galapagos Silver Fritillary. The Painted Lady. The Monarch. The Large-Tailed Skipper. Then, his attention was captured by a single frame—about forty centimetres square—that stood empty. From what Gerald could see on the walls around him, this was the only gap in Kincaid’s collection: the only specimen he had failed to acquire. Gerald leaned in close. Beneath the vacant frame were the words: XERXES BLUE.

  ‘That’s the butterfly that Jasper Mantle is always going on about,’ Gerald said. ‘It looks like he’s not the only one who couldn’t track one down.’

  Alex grumbled impatiently. ‘This is all very fascinating, but it doesn’t get me any closer to finding the perpetual motion machine, does it?’

  The hair rose on the back of Gerald’s neck. He turned to face Alex.

  It was time to get some answers.

  ‘What’s so special about this machine of Drebbel’s?’ Gerald said, advancing on Alex. ‘Why is Mason Green ready to kill to get his hands on it?’

  Alex saw the look in Gerald’s eyes and retreated a step. ‘Look, Gerald, I want to help you. My father wants to help you.’

  Gerald took another pace. ‘Yeah, because he’s such a sweet-hearted guy.’ Then a thought suddenly pierced Gerald’s brain. ‘Your father made his fortune from oil,’ he said.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘The last thing an oil man wants loose in the world is a machine that runs on nothing,’ Gerald said. ‘He wants to destroy it.’

  Alex retreated further. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘What did your father say about eliminating the competition? What bigger competitor to the oil industry would there be than a machine that runs forever without any fuel?’ Gerald laughed. ‘As if I needed Mason Green to tell me. You can’t be trusted.’

  Alex backed into the wall, knocking a collection of New Zealand moths to the floor. Gerald advanced. ‘You’re going to rob me and take off with the one thing that can save my friend’s life.’ Before Gerald could take another step, Alex’s hand darted inside one of the zippered pockets of his jacket. He pulled out a thin block of black plastic and flashed it before him.

  Gerald pulled up and stared at Alex’s extended hand. ‘You’re going to attack me with a fountain pen?’

  Alex’s mouth formed an unsteady smile. He tilted his head to the side, then flicked his wrist. In a blur of movement, the black rectangle transformed into a menacing blade.

  Gerald’s eyes jolted in their sockets.

  Alex stepped out from the wall. ‘It’s a butterfly knife,’ he said, almost apologetically. ‘Appropriate in the situation, I guess.’ He herded Gerald across the room and against the wall. Then, with a quivering hand, Alex pressed the flat of the blade under Gerald’s chin. ‘You need to find that machine.’

  Chapter 23

  Gerald touched his hand to his jaw and inspected his fingers. A thin line of blood streaked his palm.

  The tip of the blade danced at his throat. Alex’s hand was shaking. Gerald stared into eyes that betrayed their owner’s nerves.

  ‘If you want that machine,’ Gerald said in the most confident voice that he could raise, ‘you’d better help me look for it.’

  Alex glared back at him, then lowered the blade. Gerald let out a long, slow breath and turned to his backpack, lying open on the floor. He crouched and shot a glance back at Alex. The knife was still in his hand, like the sting on a scorpion’s tail. Gerald was banking on Alex being more nervous than nasty—a boy blundering about in his father’s cumbersome boots. He jerked his head towards the other end of the room. ‘See if you can find a door or some way out over there,’ he said.

  Alex did not move. ‘I think I’ll stay where I can keep an eye on you,’ he said. ‘I don’t want you running off.’

  Gerald scanned the wall of insects in front of him. Apart from the hatch in the floor where they had first entered the room, there didn’t seem to be any way in or out. Gerald wandered back along the walls, past the South American butterflies, beyond North America and on to Africa.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Alex followed Gerald like a suspicious shadow.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gerald said. ‘Something that looks out of place.’ He stopped in front of a collection of butterflies and moths from France. The Provence Chalk-Hill Blue. The Lesser Purple Emperor. The Two-Tailed Pasher.

  He moved to the wall and ran his fingers across the wallpaper between the framed display boxes. ‘That’s odd,’ he said.

  ‘What’s that?’ Alex asked.

  ‘Do you see how the velvet lies flat in the space between these frames?’ Gerald said. ‘Like it has been brushed smooth.’ He looked further along the wall. ‘But not over there. Or there. It’s only in this section here, with the French butterflies.’

  Alex shrugged. ‘So?’

 
Gerald studied the patchwork nature of the display boxes in front of him. He reached out and grabbed a horizontal frame.

  ‘Hey!’ Alex said. ‘The last time you touched something we were gassed almost to death.’

  Gerald did not bother to look around. ‘You’ll just have to trust me, won’t you.’

  ‘What are you doing, then?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of the French painter Eugène Delacroix?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think so. But you do French at St Custard’s?’

  ‘Yeah. So what?’

  ‘How would you translate Delacroix?’

  Alex thought for a moment. ‘I dunno. De la croix… of the cross?’

  Gerald nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’ Then he rotated a frame of pink butterflies through ninety degrees. Its edge brushed the wallpaper flat as it turned. The frame reached the vertical and seemed to snap into place. Gerald ignored Alex’s protests and adjusted more frames where the wallpaper had been brushed flat, turning them left and right. The pattern on the wall was transformed.

  ‘This last one,’ Gerald said, reaching high, ‘and that should do it.’ He turned the frame and it slotted into place with a soft click. Gerald stood back to survey his work: the shape of a giant cross, made up of a mosaic of framed butterflies. There was a light buzzing sound. Then a section of wall popped back, like a door on a hinge.

  Gerald pushed on its edge and, perfectly weighted, it swung in smoothly to reveal another set of spiral stairs.

  ‘How did you know to do that?’ Alex asked, his eyes widening.

  Gerald lifted his foot onto the bottom step. ‘Someone had to do something,’ he said. ‘Puzzles don’t solve themselves.’