The Family Hitchcock

by Mark Levin

  The man leaned close. Benji could sense his father’s fear.

  “Est-ce que c’est votre famille?”

  Roger painted on a fake smile. “I’m sorry, but your accent’s a little thick. If this is about the seats, I can explain everything.” He paused. “Maybe if you try English?”

  “Not the seats,” the man said with a heavy French accent. “The airplane awaits.” The man paused, studying Roger’s face. “The flight to Algiers.” Now he glanced toward the door to the box seats. “Where is your baggage?”

  Benji gasped. The man was in league with the Elevator Man! He had to be! And he was about to kidnap his father and take him to Algiers! But what could Benji do about it? Call for an usher? The police?

  But if Benji was panicked, his father seemed almost relieved.

  “I’m sorry,” Roger said. “Flight to Algiers? I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”

  Yes, Benji thought. That’s it. A case of mistaken identity. His father would clear things up and everything would be fine.

  “Oui,” the man whispered intensely. “As you requested.”

  Inside the theater, Benji heard the soprano and tenor hold a high, loud note. When they finished, the audience cheered.

  “Like I said, we’ve had a misunderstanding.”

  He turned toward the box. The man grabbed his arm hard.

  “Are you saying you aren’t honoring your agreement, Monsieur Vadim?”

  Benji’s brief reprieve was over. Suddenly there was an intensity to the man’s tone that told him that his family had blundered into something serious.

  Roger swallowed, but his throat was bone dry. “You see, I’m not Xavier Vadim. I’m Roger Hitchcock!”

  Another burst of applause came from inside the theater. Benji could hear shouts of “Bravo!” echo into the lobby.

  “I guess it’s intermission,” his father said.

  The man moved closer. His voice now held no traces of politeness. “Do not play games with me, Vadim! Where is the MGF?”

  Benji felt his legs go weak. He clutched the curtain for support.

  “The MGF?” his father said.

  “You heard me!”

  “I don’t know anything about it!”

  “We had a deal! You tell me! Now!”

  Roger pulled himself free. When the man lunged for him again, Benji broke out of the curtain and pushed the man away—hard. To his surprise, the man’s foot caught on the carpet. The next thing Benji knew, the man was falling backward, head-over-heels, down a marble stairway like a giant yellow Gumby. Father and son stood frozen, watching the man somersault down, down, down all the way to the bottom, where he landed on his back with a loud thud.

  “What were you doing there?” Roger asked.

  “I was curious,” Benji said.

  A split second later, the Hitchcock men became aware that intermission had started. The lobby was filling quickly and the man, though shaken, was rising slowly to his feet.

  “We’re out of here!” Roger said.

  Benji pushed his way back through the growing crowd to his box, where Rebecca was standing up, still looking happily at the stage. Maddy was awake now, glancing sleepily through the program.

  “Wasn’t that beautiful?” Rebecca asked.

  Benji looked at his dad. Best to let him explain things. Roger took a deep breath and tried to appear calm.

  “Did I see a man in a yellow suit?” Maddy asked. “Or was I dreaming?”

  “Funny story,” Roger said with a forced grin. “We never got to exchange names. But you know what? I think these opera tickets may not have been our single greatest idea.”

  Rebecca blinked. “What?”

  “Come on, honey. Time to go.”

  Rebecca looked stricken. “Oh, Roger! I have to see what happens.”

  “Sorry! We’re leaving.”

  “But it’s only intermission!” Rebecca said. “There are three more acts! We haven’t finished the wine!”

  “Mom!” Benji said. “This is serious!”

  Roger did something he almost never did—raised his voice. “Rebecca! Now!”

  When Benji followed his family out of the box, he expected the man to be waiting, possibly with a gun. To the boy’s relief, he was still struggling up the steps against a great tide of operagoers headed downstairs to the bar and bathrooms.

  “This way!” Roger called, and all but yanked Maddy across the lobby, away from the stairs.

  “Roger?” Rebecca said. “What’s happening? Benji? Do you know anything?”

  “We’ll tell you when we’re safe,” Roger said.

  Benji looked over his shoulder. The man was a step away from the top of the stairs and was scanning the crowd.

  “Over here!” Benji said, and pushed his family against a wall, out of the man’s line of vision.

  Roger turned to his daughter. “Maddy. What’s the French word for fire exit?”

  “Sortie!” Maddy pointed. “Right there!”

  A moment later the family was running full out across the lobby. They ducked through the exit and all but galloped down the stairs and out of the opera house. With every step, Benji expected to hear the man’s footsteps—maybe even a gunshot. But in moments they were safely in a cab. As the driver moved from the curb, Benji glanced out the back window. There was no one following. They had escaped—for now.

  But from who?

  Chapter Nine

  Back at the Vadims’, the family hustled upstairs as fast as they could.

  “I still don’t get it,” Rebecca said when they were finally inside the apartment and had changed back into their regular clothes. “It’s not like we did anything wrong. The Vadims couldn’t use the tickets. They’re in Chicago, for crying out loud.”

  “I know,” Roger said. “But this guy thought Monsieur Vadim was headed to Algiers.”

  “Algiers?” Maddy said.

  “Yeah,” Benji said. “He was looking for the MGF.”

  “What’s that?” Rebecca asked.

  “We don’t know, Mom,” Benji said. “Or if this Algerian guy has any connection to the Elevator Man.”

  “Forget the Elevator Man,” Rebecca said. “We should call that man from the embassy, Harry Huberman—that’s what we should do.”

  “And say what?” Roger said. “That a strange guy in a yellow suit accosted me at the opera, so my son tossed him down the stairs?”

  Maddy looked disbelievingly at Benji. “I still can’t believe you did that.”

  “Oh, believe,” Benji said. “Right, Daddy-o?”

  “Right, wingman.”

  “But wait,” Rebecca said. “Who was the guy anyway? You still haven’t said.”

  “That’s the point, Mom,” Benji said. “We don’t know.”

  Before Rebecca could respond, there were three loud raps at the front door. The family froze. For a second that felt like a minute, everyone was silent.

  “It’s him!” Benji whispered finally. “The Algerian.”

  “Has he come for the MLF?” Maddy asked.

  “MGF,” Benji said.

  “Whatever.”

  “No one move,” Roger said. “Act like we aren’t here and whoever it is will go away.”

  Again the family was quiet, doing their best to draw courage from one another. When three more knocks filled the room, Roger broke first.

  “It’s him. It has to be!”

  “What do we do?” Benji asked. “Want me to push him down another flight of stairs?”

  “You’ll do no such thing!” Rebecca said.

  But then a voice came from the other side of the door. Not of a man but of a girl speaking heavily accented English.

  “I know you are in there! I saw the lights from the street.”

  Roger hadn’t ever remembered feeling so relieved.

  “I’m sorry?” Rebecca called out, walking to the door. “Who is it, please?”

  “Camille,” the voice said. “L’amie de Veronique.”

&nbs
p; “Veronique’s friend,” Maddy said. “We’re safe.”

  Roger and Benji slapped five.

  “Yes!” Benji said. “Safe!”

  “Show her in, sweets,” Roger said.

  Rebecca pulled open the door, revealing a short, stocky girl whose twisted expression brought to mind an irate pitbull. She was dressed entirely in black.

  “Can we help you?” Rebecca asked.

  Without a word, the girl marched toward Veronique’s room, throwing a hard shoulder into Rebecca as she passed.

  “Excusez-moi!” Roger cried. “That’s my wife!”

  Then Camille was in Veronique’s room. The other Hitchcocks hurried behind, with Maddy at the lead.

  “Hey, watch my stuff,” she said.

  “I am not looking for your stuff,” Camille said, and went straight to the desk, opened the third drawer, and began to root under the paper.

  “Hey, hey,” Roger said. “This is a little bit out of the ordinary.”

  Camille threw all the paper on the floor.

  “Where is it?” she called out.

  Maddy swallowed hard. “Where is what?”

  Camille took a step toward her. Though not much taller than Benji, she looked as though she could knock Maddy out with one hand.

  “Don’t lie to me. I can tell in your eyes that you have it.”

  Despite ongoing battles with her mother, Maddy didn’t think of herself as a fighter. With peers, she was more likely to back down than make a stand. Then again, she had never met anyone as pugnacious as Camille. True, Maddy had accidentally stumbled on the diary. She had even read a page or two. But why should she hand it over to a warthog of a girl who barged into the Vadims’ home like she owned it without so much as a smile? Besides, there was something else: Why had Camille shown up at the Vadims’ right after the strange scare at the opera? Was there was some sort of connection?

  Maddy met the girl’s eyes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Camille took another step toward Maddy. The two girls were practically touching.

  “You are lying!” Camille said to Maddy.

  Maddy didn’t budge. “Don’t you have an appointment somewhere?”

  “Are you asking me to leave?”

  “I’m telling you to leave!”

  “No one talks to Camille like that!”

  The short girl lowered her head like a ram and lunged. Maddy jumped aside a split second before Camille connected with her gut. Then Roger stepped in, waving his arms.

  “OK, easy does it! No fighting on my watch.” He turned to Camille. “My daughter doesn’t know what you’re saying. She barely speaks French. She got a C- minus.”

  Maddy had never been happier about getting a bad grade. Camille nudged Roger aside and held Maddy’s gaze.

  “Je retournerai,” she said. “I will call Veronique and je retournerai very soon.”

  The French girl stalked out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her. The moment the coast was clear, Rebecca turned to Maddy.

  “What in the world was that about?”

  “She wanted Veronique’s diary.”

  “Then why didn’t you give it to her?”

  “I didn’t like her,” Maddy said. “I also have a feeling—a strong feeling—that Veronique’s diary holds some sort of a clue.”

  “A clue?” Roger asked.

  Benji rubbed his hands together. “Ooh, I like this! The plot thickens!”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Rebecca said. “This is crazy.”

  “Is it?” Maddy said. “You think it’s a coincidence that someone tried to put Dad on a plane to Algiers and the minute we get home a strange girl barges in looking for Veronique’s diary?”

  Roger nodded. “Maddy,” he said. “Get the diary!”

  Moments later the Hitchcock family was gathered around the kitchen table. Maddy held the diary while Benji manned the French/English Dictionary. Roger had a pad and paper. As for Rebecca, she paced nervously, watching over everyone.

  “Are you sure we should be doing this?” she asked.

  “Absolutely,” Roger said. “Camille wanted the diary for a reason. It might hold some sort of secret about this family. We need to figure out what’s going on.”

  With Benji helping her translate, Maddy was able to get a reasonably quick sense of what most of Veronique’s entries entailed. Many were about Stephan, the boy across the courtyard who she adored. The rest were less interesting, mostly random observations about school or her parents. “All normal stuff,” as Benji put it. But then, after about a half an hour of steady work, Maddy and Benji came upon a new subject. In red Magic Marker, Veronique had written: “Je deteste Sofia!!!”

  “Sofia?” Roger said. “Who’s that?”

  “And why does she hate her?” Rebecca asked.

  No one knew. But a page later, Veronique brought her up again, this time writing in all caps: “JE SOUHAITE QUE SOFIA N’AIT PAS FAIT EXIST!!!”

  “She wishes Sofia didn’t exist?” Maddy said.

  “Whoa,” Benji said. “That’s pretty extreme.”

  “Maybe Xavier Vadim has a girlfriend named Sofia,” Rebecca said. “Maybe he’s planning to leave the family. Maybe that’s what this is all about.”

  “Who knows?” Maddy said. She turned to the next page of the diary. “OK, wait a second. I think I have something. Mon père est voleur. My father is a . . . come on, Benj, help me out.”

  Benji was already flipping through the dictionary. “Voleur. Wait for it. Hold on. Got it! Thief.”

  “My God,” Rebecca said, eyes wide. “Is Veronique saying her dad is a crook?”

  “Could be,” Roger said.

  “It gets better,” Maddy said. “Listen up. Veronique writes that she found some sort of a fiole. What’s that, Benji?”

  “Wait for it,” he said, leafing through the book. “A fiole is . . . a vial!”

  “Vile?” Maddy said. “Like in disgusting?”

  “No,” Benji said. “A vial, like in chemistry.”

  “Chemistry professors use vials,” Roger said. “And Vadim is a chemistry professor.”

  “So let’s back up,” Rebecca said. “What do we have so far?”

  Maddy looked at her translation. “Veronique discovered that her father stole a vial, which she saw in his . . . cachette.”

  Again, Benji flipped through the dictionary at lightning speed. “Hmmm . . . cachette . . . that means . . . secret hiding place!”

  “Secret hiding place?” Maddy said.

  “This is getting creepier and creepier,” Rebecca said.

  Roger paced the table, sorting it all out. “So according to Veronique, her father stole some sort of a vial and has it tucked away in a secret hiding place. But that could be anywhere.”

  “Maybe we can figure out where it is,” Benji said. “Dad? Where’s your secret hiding place?”

  “Everyone knows that,” Maddy said. “The drawer by his bed.”

  “Have you been stealing twenty-dollar bills from your father?”

  Maddy rolled her eyes. “Of course, Mom. How else would I survive?”

  “Ladies!” Roger shouted. “Please! Let’s focus on the situation at hand. We’ve got to find this secret hiding place. Now work with me. And think like a Vadim! Get looking!”

  With those words, the family dispersed through the apartment like mice scurrying through a maze. Maddy made a beeline for the master bath, where she searched the medicine cabinets and shower. Rebecca combed through the master closet, patting down Beatrix Vadim’s dresses and searching in each one of her shoes. While the ladies of the family were busy in the Vadims’ bedroom, Roger searched the living room, looking inside the grand piano and under sofas.

  It was Benji, however—the family member who hung close to the kitchen—who found what they were looking for. The clue wasn’t in a secret hiding place but in plain sight. On the countertop was a piece of scrap paper. On it was the vague outline of some writing. Benji held it up to the light.


  “Hey, guys!” he shouted. “Guys!”

  But an even louder shout filled the apartment.

  “Oh, yes! Yes!”

  His mom. She ran into the kitchen, clutching a wad of bills.

  “What’s that?” Benji asked.

  “I found it in one of Beatrix Vadim’s high heels,” Rebecca said. “It must be her mad money.”

  “Mad money?” Benji asked.

  “Money a wife stores away in case she wants to make a quick dash to freedom,” Rebecca said.

  Benji’s eyes went wide. How did his mother know so much about a woman trying to leave her husband? He turned to Maddy, who had “I told you so” written all over her face.

  “Nice find, Rebecca,” Roger said, entering the room. “How much is there?”

  “Nine thousand Euros!”

  “Hey,” Benji said. “Forget about the mad money, OK?” He reached for two pots on the stove and banged them over his head. “I found something, people! A real clue!”

  He held up the piece of scrap paper. Roger squinted.

  “It’s a blank piece of paper.”

  “No, no,” Benji said. He plopped the pots back on the stove. “Look more closely. See there? There are the outlines of a name and number, as though someone wrote on a piece of paper that used to be on top of it.”

  “That could be,” Rebecca said. “But I can’t read it.”

  “Leave this to me,” Maddy said.

  A moment later she was rifling through Beatrix Vadim’s spice collection.

  “Maddy?” her mother said. “What in the world are you looking for?”

  “This!”

  Maddy grabbed a red bottle.

  “Paprika?” Roger said.

  Without saying a word, Maddy laid the notepaper carefully on the countertop, then sprinkled the red paprika over it.

  “What are you doing?” Roger asked. “Seasoning the paper?”

  “Something like that.”

  As the spice settled on the paper, the outlines of the indented word and numbers became clearer.

  “How’d you learn to do that?” Rebecca asked.

  “Grace showed me.”

  “Why?”

  Maddy smiled. “You don’t want to know.”

  Roger took the paper and held it up to the light.

  “Check this out, people! Our first clue!”

  There in vivid relief was a simple word: SOFIA. Underneath was what appeared to be a telephone number: 07-08-124-977.