by Bill Doyle
Now it was all starting to come together. “They’ll kidnap Mrs. Craffin tonight. The robbers will get the key from Mrs. Craffin and steal the box at some later point.”
Madame Katerina nodded toward a black-and-white TV monitor. It showed a blurry view of the audience. She pointed at a woman in the crowd.
“There she is,” Madame Katerina said with a wicked smile. She was pointing straight at Judge—but Madame Katerina thought she was indicating Mrs. Craffin.
I had to stall for time. “But why the floor? There must be an easier way to communicate?”
Once again, the rage flared on Madame Katerina’s face. “It was easy, but who could have imagined there would be so many blunders? It was the ideal way of sending out messages to people who want to remain anonymous. There is no way to trace who is decoding the message. The show is being transmitted to homes all around the globe. The robbers could be in one of those homes or right here in the audience. This is the way my employers wanted it—complete anonymity.”
“You wrote that phony entry in my journal.”
“Did you like that? I’ve written one or two fake checks in my day, but I never knew I had such hidden talent as a forger. You will take the blame for all this. Or at least tie up the authorities with suspicions long enough for me to get away.
“No one will believe that I did that.”
“Don’t be so sure. After all, you were ready to blame your own twin brother.”
Her smiled broadened when she could tell that hit a nerve. Score another point for Madame Katerina. I tried changing the direction of the conversation. “Why did you knock out Mr. Myles?”
Madame Katerina said, “I had to make sure that the right dance is performed tonight. I couldn’t risk any more mistakes.”
“What was the message that was hidden under hair?”
“Clever boy! That was the moldy bread. Scrape it away, and the message was right there.”
“What did it say?”
Madame Katerina said, “Another threat warning me that if I fail in this mission I’ll be sorry. And I don’t plan on failing. I have to let the robbers know that I couldn’t get the code.” She turned to R.T. “Get your mask on and get ready to dance.”
R.T. looked at her like she was crazy. “No way.”
Madame Katerina gazed at her small dagger. She didn’t move it any closer to either of us, but the threat was clear. “Why do you think I told you that long story? So that you would understand that I will do anything to finish this job. Now get ready to dance. You have no choice.”
R.T.’s eyes blazed with determination. “Yes, I do,” he said quietly. And in a flash he grabbed a rag lying on the desk—in that same instant I realized that this must be the same chloroform-soaked rag that was used to knock out Mr. Myles—and earlier in the evening, me!
“No!” Madame Katerina shouted as she swept the dagger toward him.
R.T. knocked himself out!
But R.T. already had the rag over his own face. In an instant, his legs buckled and he collapsed to the floor, his limp body lying next to Mr. Myles.
“That was stupid … STUPID!” Madame Katerina shouted, spittle flying from her lips.
“Actually, I think it was pretty smart. Now you can’t use him to send out your message—”
I turned to the door. But once again, Madame Katerina stopped me. And this time, she didn’t have to say a word. She just took a step closer to my brother. She looked down at him for a moment, then at the weapon in her hand, and finally at me. She raised her eyebrows at me as if we were playing a game of chess, and she was waiting for my next move.
“Not to worry, I’ll let your brother go. But first you must take his place out on the dance floor.”
I was too flabbergasted to speak. She wanted me to dance R.T.’s part?
“You know the choreography. You’re the only one. It has to be you.”
“What? You’ve seen me. I can’t dance!”
“I think you can do more than you know.”
This was ridiculous. She was completely out of her mind. I had to stall for time until someone came into the control booth or until the show started. “I can program the lights to do whatever you want.”
“That’s exactly my point. You’re a smart boy. You can do whatever you set you your heart to—whatever must be done.”
I said, “Please don’t give me a pep talk.”
She gave a bitter chuckle. “The message must come from the dancer. You will dance.”
“No, that’s something I’ll never do,” I fired back. “You wouldn’t hurt him. Not really. You’re not that evil.”
With our eyes still locked, Madame Katerina shrugged. “Maybe you’re right, and maybe you’re not. Are you willing to take that chance?”
I didn’t think it would be possible, but her voice took on a colder tone. “Either way, if my employers can’t get Mrs. Craffin, I imagine they’ll take someone else they use as a hostage. Hmm … whom else might they take? Looks like your brother isn’t doing anything special right now.
“Here are your choices, little man. Option number one: Don’t dance, and you endanger your brother. Option number two: Dance, and Mrs. Craffin is kidnapped, but your brother will remain unharmed. I’d say it’s a simple choice. Now, you’d better get changed. We go the air in …” (She glanced at her watch) “… in less than five minutes!”
What should I do?
If I dance, Judge, who is in disguise as Mrs. Craffin, will be kidnapped. If I don’t dance, R.T. might be hurt!
I didn’t know what to do. That’s why it was so surprising to hear the words tumbling out of my mouth.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll do it. I’ll dance.”
I couldn’t believe I was taking R.T.’s place!
AUGUST 4, 1977
3:15 PM
With only a minute to go until show time, I left the control booth.
One of the boys in the chorus spotted me. He’d never bothered to speak to me before, but now he said, “You’d better hurry, dude.”
He thought I was my brother. And why shouldn’t he? I had switched clothes with R.T. and put on the mask.
I walked unsteadily out onstage and nearly tripped over my shoelace. If I couldn’t even walk, how was I supposed to dance? Lucy caught me before I stumbled off the stage.
The mousy girl was surprisingly strong. “Two-minute warning, R.T.” Then to the rest of the cast, she said, “Has anyone seen Mr. Myles?”
Lucy was looking toward the control booth. I couldn’t let her go up there. Madame Katerina might panic and who knew what might happen then.
I lowered my voice to make myself sound like R.T. and hoped that the mask would muffle my voice. “Mr. Myles said you should call the show from down here.”
She looked at me. For a minute, I thought she realized that I wasn’t R.T. and was going to unmask me. But then she said, “Yes. I think I can do that.”
I shuffled to where I thought R.T. started the show.
But I guess I was wrong, because the tall chorus girl gave me a little shove. “No, you stand over there. Are you all right?”
She started practicing the smaller leap the chorus did upstage when the lead dancer—who was now ME!—had to make his death-defying leap. It was clear she thought I was R.T. and was trying to impress me.
“Your shoe is untied,” she told me as if she had just performed some invaluable service.
As the tall girl leaped back and forth in front of me, I kept scanning the crowd.
There! I spotted Judge in the audience. Her eyes were already on me, and her fingers were crossed as if to say, “Good luck!” She, too, thought I was R.T.
But in a flash, she frowned slightly. She did a double take, and I knew that even in this costume, I couldn’t fool her. Her eyes ran over me, taking in the slimmer, shorter build. Her mouth formed the shape of a small O as she understood that I had taken R.T’s place.
Looking a little worried, she started to get to her feet. I quickly r
aised a hand, signaling for her to stay seated. Judge hesitated then smiled slightly, shook her head, and sat back down. It was clear she thought R.T. and I were up to some kind of prank.
If only that were true!
I could feel the camera lens on me like the watchful eye of a hungry wolf. I’m sure Madame Katerina was watching my every move on the monitor.
She had told me as I left the control booth, “If you tell anyone what’s going on before we start, I can’t say what might happen to your brother.”
Even now her words made my stomach clench with fear. I had to find a way to warn Judge without alerting Madame Katerina to what I was up to.
“We have to start,” Lucy told the tall girl.
“Okay, let me do one more practice jump,” the girl said.
Angling away from the camera, I crouched down to tie my shoe and waited for the girl to leap between the camera and me. When she did, she would block me from Madame Katerina’s view for a moment and I could deliver a short message to Judge. Should it be “Run!” or “Danger!”? There wasn’t enough time for me to decide—
Then the tall girl was running and jumping—and just as she passed between me and the camera lens—I twisted my mouth free from under the mask and mouthed the words: “de Bonet.”
That’s all I had time for. I jerked my face under the mask again and prayed that Judge would understand.
TEC TIP
HAND SIGNALS
Use sign language to send messages most people won’t be able to read! In 1620, Juon Pablo de Bonet of padua, Italy, published the first book that illustrated alphabet signs that could be made with the hands.
Judge’s brow was furrowed in concern. Had she gotten the message? There was no more time.
“We go live in 3 … 2 …” The cameraman held up a finger, and the light on the camera suddenly glared red like the eye of a Cyclops.
A car salesman from Chicago was tonight’s emcee, and he introduced the dance.
I was scared to death. My brother is the athlete, not me! I can’t dance!
But I couldn’t afford even a second of hesitation. My feet had to follow the moves of the dance exactly. Or my brother might be kidnapped or harmed—or both!
How strange that it was that the villain who ended up helping me find the inner strength I needed. Plus, the mask helped give me confidence. I could be anyone I wanted to be under here—and I realized then how much the way people treated you could affect your confidence. When people treat you like a star—like R.T.—you feel like a star.
My feet were going through the steps, lighting up the squares on the dance floor and sending a message out to the bad guys. I imagined each step that I took was a letter of the alphabet going out to the villains. That step was an O and that one a T.
Meanwhile, my hands were on their own mission. They were spelling out words to Judge.
“What are you doing with your hands? Stop it!” the tall dancer was hissing at me.
What could I say? I’m spelling words using my hands. I’m warning Judge that there is a kidnap plot and that my brother is danger. What are YOU doing?
But of course, I didn’t say any of that. I had enough on my plate.
“Who are you?” the tall girl demanded as she spun close to me. “You’re not R.T.”
I felt like spinning this girl right offstage. I didn’t need this now.
I risked a glance at Judge to make sure she understood. But she was gone. Her seat was empty! Either she had been kidnapped or she’d gotten my message and was headed for safety. But no matter what, I had to finish the dance.
I had managed to hit all the right steps, but there was still the big finale moment where I had to leap across the stage. Before I did, the choreography called for me to go behind the chorus dancers.
Breaking from the routine, the tall chorus girl ducked behind them with me.
“What are you doing?” I whispered to her.
“Who are you? What did you do to R.T.?” she hissed, and before I could stop her, she tore off my mask.
I did it!
AUGUST 4, 1977
4:25 PM
I reached for it, but she was backing away too quickly. I couldn’t risk stepping on any unintended squares and sending out a garbled message.
The chorus dancers spread out to the sides of the stage, leaving me to do my solo leap.
Without the mask, I felt naked and exposed to the camera. I didn’t have any protective layer. Now it was just I.
There was a slight gasp from the audience, but then they settled down, thinking this was all part of the show. The same couldn’t be said for the other dancers. They seemed frozen in shock. “Not you!” one of them shouted. “You’ll ruin everything!”
The tall girl’s timing couldn’t be worse.
I had to make the last big leap—the one that almost no one had been able to do before. I heard my brother’s voice in my head, urging me on.
1. …
2. …
3. …
I felt myself break through that mental wall and—KABLAM!
4. I did it!
I finished the dance! The crowd was on their feet.
I didn’t take time to bow. Running off the stage, I headed to the control booth.
I threw open the door—
So frightened by what I would see—
And the first person I saw was Judge!
She smiled and rushed over to me. She gave me a hug.
“Did you get it? Did you get my message?”
“Loud and clear, my friend,” she hugged me harder. “The Secret Map Box and Mrs. Craffin are safe and sound. And so am I. Thanks to you.”
When she pulled back, I could see a few security guards holding Madame Katerina between them.
“These men work for me,” Judge said. “We’ll hold onto her until the police arrive.”
“The show—” Mr. Myles was waking up.
“R.T.?”
A doctor was examining R.T.
Judge looked across the room, and I followed her gaze. R.T. was still on the floor, but someone had placed a folded jacket beneath his head. A man with a stethoscope around his neck was holding R.T.’s wrist, checking his pulse. The doctor nodded at Judge. “He should be fine.”
“But what about the robbers?” I asked her.
“See for yourself.” Judge pointed to the far side of the exhibition space where two people were being led away in handcuffs. Even in their disguises, I recognized them. One was the man from the audience with the thick glasses that Max had landed on in New Orleans, and the other was the woman with the pearls who’d pushed me in Cincinnati.
The Vettles in handcuffs
Judge said, “Meet Dr. and Dr. Vettles. They are archaeologists who specialize in Egyptian art, but they are better known for stealing things from the digs they work on. Now, no one will allow them near a site. They were obviously desperate to take the box and its secrets for themselves, but the exhibition would not even let them examine it.”
As she spoke, I remembered what Nora had said about uncovering an art fraud that involved the Vettles.
“The two of them concocted this whole scheme as a way to get their hands on the Secret Map Box before it could be decoded by the Egyptian government. They wanted to grab the hidden treasure for themselves. Thinking I was Mrs. Craffin, they tried to nab me when I headed backstage, but thanks to you, we were ready for them.”
Judge patted my back as I hovered over R.T.
Lucy was operating the camera. Onscreen, a haggard but happy-looking Mr. Myles was accepting the ankh necklace from Mrs. Craffin. He looked tempted to hold onto the key, but he handed it over to the man from the Egyptian government.
R.T.’s eyes were still closed.
“Is he hurt? Is he okay?” I said to the doctor.
“I don’t understand.” The doctor didn’t look as confident anymore. “He should have woken up by now.”
“I think he already has,” Judge said.
Suddenly, R.
T.’s eyes opened. He rubbed at them lazily and then stretched as if he’d just been taking a nap. He sat up slowly, his hair rumpled on one side. “What? Can’t a guy take a nap?”
He gave me a wink to let me know he was only kidding. “I could kind of hear what was going on.” Then he said, “Way to go, Enigma. You’re a real hero.”
Laughing, I stuck out my hand and pulled him to his feet.
WARNING: This message gives away parts of the story!
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR
Two of the greatest things I remember about the 1970s are disco roller-skating and the King Tut craze. When planning this book, I thought, “How cool would it be to combine those two things into one exciting mystery?”
In order to reach my goal, I had to reshape history a little. For instance, the King Tut exhibition of the 1970s didn’t follow the path across the United States that I described. When it did stop in a city, it stayed longer than a week or two, as it does in my book.
Unfortunately, there probably wasn’t disco dance extravaganza at the museum or a secret box that would unlock the unknown treasures of Tut. But wouldn’t it be great if there were?
What is real in the book? Many of the investigative tools that Zeke uses to solve the crime are real, and so are all the cryptologists—like Porta—that help Zeke crack the case. If you are interested in codes, be sure to read more about these guys.
Just remember that Judge, the characters, and the story are about as real as my disco roller-skating talent. In other words, don’t use this book when studying for a test. Or you might find your report card struck by the Curse of King Tut!
Yours in time,
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Bill Doyle was born in Lansing, Michigan, and wrote his first mystery when he was eight. He loved seeing the shock on people’s faces when they discovered the identity of the story’s villain—and knew then that he was hooked on writing. Bill has written for Sesame Workshop, Leapfrog, Scholastic, ROLLING STONE, TIME FOR KIDS, and the Museum of Natural History. He lives in New York City With a mysterious dachshund named Esme.
