They studied all the papers and odds and ends. James picked up a worn paperback that had been frontside down.
“‘The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett,’” he read aloud.
“Oh, my parents gave me that!” Emily said.
Jack nodded. “One of San Francisco’s most notable writers.”
“Why are people sending these things?” Emily asked.
Jack took a moment before he replied. “Books and games are how people feel close to Mr. Griswold. That’s what connects them to him. They want his game to exist, and so they find it in the unlikeliest of places. All of these”—Jack waved a hand over the odds and ends—“are examples of what Mr. Griswold has instilled in people: the ability to see something in nothing, to find a puzzle in what someone else would call trash.” He held up a matchbook.
“Of course, some of these are from people who maybe have an unhealthy fascination with Mr. Griswold, or who are trying to trick us into awarding them a prize. But others are from people who genuinely believe they’ve found something. Like that Maltese Falcon.” Jack pointed to the book James had placed back on the table. “The person who sent us that didn’t want anything in return. They found it hidden through Book Scavenger and were convinced it was part of Griswold’s new game. They just thought we should know about it. They couldn’t bear the thought of an unfulfilled promise, a game that never gets launched.”
Still holding The Gold-Bug, Emily studied the pile and considered which category of fan she fell into until she realized she was different. She really had found Mr. Griswold’s game. She wasn’t just hoping it to be true. And similar to that person Jack had described, she also couldn’t imagine ignoring The Gold-Bug puzzle now that she’d found it. It had to be solved.
“So you don’t believe the person who turned in The Maltese Falcon? You don’t think it’s part of the game?” Emily asked.
Jack smiled sadly. “No. But it doesn’t matter even if I did. Whatever Mr. Griswold was planning just isn’t a priority for us at this point, I’m sad to say. Things were hectic before everything happened, and now…”
These game submissions piled on the table were a physical representation to Emily of how many people would wish to be in her shoes. She was glad Jack didn’t believe her about The Gold-Bug.
“You know, it’s been a nice break talking with you two.” Jack looked through the glass walls of the conference room. “I’m glad I happened through the lobby when I did. You two are the epitome of the types of readers Mr. Griswold was most hopeful about reaching—young, enthusiastic, dedicated. In fact …
“Oh, what the hey,” he said as if he’d settled an internal debate. “I’ve got something else to show you. If Mr. Griswold were here, he’d show you this himself.”
CHAPTER
16
EMILY AND JAMES scurried out of the conference room after Jack. The hallway opened to a large space filled with cubicles, the hum of computers, the rustle of papers, and a few low voices. A woman sat at a long table with two stacks of paper in front of her. Emily recognized what she was doing from watching her dad work. She was proofreading a book. One stack of papers was a copyedited manuscript—basically a printout from a computer file that had been marked up in colored pencil with a bunch of edit marks. Long, rectangular sheets made up the other stack. Her dad called them proofs. They showed the book as it would look when it was published, with the pages printed side by side on each rectangular sheet. The proofreader ran her finger from edit mark to edit mark across the manuscript pages and then checked the other stack to make sure all the edits had been made in the almost-a-book version. Emily had seen her dad do this sort of work dozens of times, but now, as she was surrounded by everything Griswold, it sparked an idea. The collection of Poe stories Hollister had given her included “The Gold-Bug.” So why not compare that “Gold-Bug” against Griswold’s? Maybe if she checked word by word she would uncover more typos, or something else that would help her solve the puzzle once and for all.
The idea put a little hop-skip in her step, and James looked over, a questioning smile on his face. “Do you know what he’s going to show us?” he whispered.
“No. I’m just glad we came here, that’s all.”
After leading them through a maze of cubicles, Jack slowed in front of one and said, “That’s my space.” There were dog photos tacked behind his computer, and some of the same editing books Emily recognized from her dad’s shelves sat next to a bobblehead collection. But it was his name on the placard that really caught Emily’s attention.
“You’re Jack Kerouac? You’re my dad’s favorite author! We named our minivan Sal after one of your characters.”
She wouldn’t have guessed Jack Kerouac would be this young, and from her dad’s descriptions she hadn’t pictured him as someone who wore argyle.
Jack blushed. “Ah, well…”
She needed to have Jack sign something. “Do you have a pen?” In her excitement, she’d forgotten she was wearing her backpack. She unzipped it and dropped The Gold-Bug inside so her hand was free to dig for a pen.
“I’m not the Jack Kerouac,” Jack explained. “Not the one who wrote On the Road. He passed away decades ago. My mom was a fan of the Beat poets, and she made my name legally Jack Kerouac in homage to my father, who was involved in the movement himself. Not that he knew I existed—my father, I mean. Although the original Jack Kerouac wouldn’t have known I existed, either, of course.”
Jack fiddled with his collar.
“Your mom gave you your own first and last name?” James asked. “You can do that?”
“It was the sixties,” Jack said, as if that explained it. “It’s served me well, though. Mr. Griswold got a kick out of it. I think part of the reason he hired me was so he could tell people Jack Kerouac worked for him. Come on, what I want to show you is right behind us.”
They turned to a closed set of double doors. Jack jiggled a key in a lock, then opened them to reveal an enormous room decorated in burgundy and silver-blue, just like the lobby. Mr. Griswold’s office. Emily knew it at first glance. Windows spanned the far side of the room, showing a view that encompassed the Ferry Building and the bay beyond. Bookcases lined the walls and were filled with books, of course, but also a variety of games and puzzles and toys: a miniature Ferris wheel, a chessboard with the pieces placed mid-game, a large wooden elephant assembled with carved wooden pieces. Something whirred and ticktocked at an uneven pace, and Emily finally zeroed in on a glass case with a structure inside designed to keep marbles perpetually moving up in buckets, down slides, and around sprockets. Emily could envision Mr. Griswold roaming this room, flipping through his books and playing with his toys.
Something moved in her peripheral view, and Emily turned to see an actual man standing there, scanning the titles on the bookcase alongside the entrance. For a fleeting, hopeful second—before she got a good look at him—Emily thought it was Mr. Griswold himself. But then Jack said sharply, “What are you doing in here?”
The man held his battered briefcase in front of himself, almost protectively. His sweaty dome was crisscrossed with long strands of ginger hair, and his suit was rumpled. The man practically leaped forward and extended a hand.
“Leon Remora. So sorry if I startled you. I work with Mr. Griswold—at his home, not here at Bayside Press. But I have his keys, you see?”
Mr. Remora held up a ring of keys and jangled them. “I’m a rare-book collector. I work for Mr. Griswold—I said that already, didn’t I? Well, I’m trying to locate one of his missing books, and when he and I last spoke before his, ah”—Mr. Remora twirled his fingers in the air, searching for words—“his you know. Before what happened happened…” The man pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face with it. “Mr. Griswold told me he’d left it in his office. This book I’m looking for. And since I have access to his keys—with his permission, of course—I came here to retrieve it.”
Jack’s arms were crossed now, and he studied Mr. Remo
ra the way you might an abstract painting. “And you locked the door behind you because…?”
“Did I do that? I don’t recall doing that. Are you sure they don’t automatically lock?”
“No, they don’t.”
“Well, I must have locked it out of habit. Absentminded and all that, you know?” Mr. Remora tapped his skull with his index finger.
“Did you find the book you were looking for?” Jack asked.
“No, but if I could just look a bit longer—”
“I’m sorry, but no,” Jack said. “We aren’t allowing anyone in here.”
Mr. Remora’s puppy-dog pleading eyes darkened. “Aren’t children anyone?” he said.
“That’s enough, Mr. Remora,” Jack clapped his hands. “You’ve had your chance to look over these books. If you need more time, you’ll need to make an appointment, and perhaps someone can assist you.”
“But I’m his book collector! I should have full access to the books in his office!”
“Mr. Remora, you might manage his personal collection, but you have no business here. Now, please, don’t make me call security.”
Jack stepped back, prompting Emily and James to move with him. Mr. Remora strode past, dabbing his handkerchief around his neck and not making any eye contact whatsoever.
Once Jack had watched the man walk out of view, he turned back to Emily and James.
“Sorry about that, guys. He put a damper on my fun surprise now, didn’t he?” Jack flourished his arm and said, “I give you Mr. Griswold’s sanctuary.”
A sculpture of a man’s head sat in front of the expansive windows, and thanks to the small illustration on the cover of the short story collection Hollister had given Emily, she recognized it immediately.
“Is that Edgar Allan Poe?” she asked.
“Impressive!” Jack said. “It is indeed. Mr. Griswold has a special affinity for his work.”
“You could say that again,” James said.
Jack looked quizzically at James, but Emily spoke up. “He’s a fan of his, then?”
“Big-time,” Jack said.
Well, that solved one mystery, at least, Emily thought. Emily and James had puzzled over why Griswold chose Poe for his game.
“Why is Poe wearing a necklace?” James asked. The statue wore a golden pendant in the shape of a rabbit. The rabbit had elaborate scrollwork making up its middle, and bells hung off its feet.
“One of Mr. Griswold’s most prized possessions,” Jack said. “You’ve heard of the hunt for the golden hare?”
Emily and James gave him blank looks.
“Of course you haven’t. That was a silly question. Your parents were probably as young as you then.”
“What was it?” James asked. “Were people searching for a wig spun out of gold?”
Jack laughed. “Not hair.” He threaded his fingers through his bangs and tugged. He pointed to the necklace. “A hare, a rabbit. This was in the seventies. An eccentric artist and a publisher worked together to create a book called Masquerade. It was a picture book with clues, hidden in the illustrations. If you solved the clues, they led you to a buried treasure—the necklace that you’re looking at, to be precise. Mr. Griswold wasn’t the one to find it originally. He bought it at auction several years ago.”
Clues hidden in a book that led to buried treasure? That was similar to “The Gold-Bug” story and what they had guessed the game would be. This had to be what Mr. Griswold had planned. Emily gently stroked the golden hare necklace, trying to mask her excitement as best as she could, but inside she was jumping up and down.
“The treasure hunt became something of a phenomenon,” Jack continued, “but it bombed when the clues proved to be too difficult. It took three years, and in the end the person who found the treasure cheated. But it spawned a whole genre called armchair treasure hunts.
“Mr. Griswold loved this bit of publishing lore. To him that rabbit represents how one idea—whether it’s a book or a game or something else—can capture the fascination of so many people at once, to the point where a community is built up around it where nothing existed before.”
“Like Book Scavenger,” Emily said.
Jack paused, head cocked to the side, and thoughtfully nodded as he considered this. “Yes. Exactly. Mr. Griswold would have been thrilled to hear you say that.”
Emily smiled shyly at the golden hare. It thrilled her to know that.
CHAPTER
17
EMILY AND JAMES spent their Friday lunchtime in the school library. James wanted to research ciphers for Mr. Quisling’s challenge in order to come up with something super hard for others to break. The rest of their sixth-period social studies class must have had the same idea, because nearly every table of the library was full. After learning about the challenge, the school librarian assembled a cart of books related to ciphers and codes and made a temporary “no checkout” rule for them, to ensure they stayed available for everyone’s use.
Emily had said she’d help James research ciphers, but first she wanted to finish comparing the two editions of The Gold-Bug. She’d started last night after they got back from Bayside Press, and now it was almost the end of lunch period and she still wasn’t done. Comparing texts word by word turned out to be quite the consuming task.
“I can’t believe you keep finding them,” James said, looking up from Mysterious Messages.
“That makes seven total during this lunch period alone,” Emily said.
On her right was Garrison Griswold’s Gold-Bug, and on her left was the same story printed in the Poe collection from Hollister. Emily tapped her pencil back and forth from a word in one Gold-Bug to the same word in the other. She found another typo in Griswold’s: exsessively—a misspelling she had missed all the previous times she’d pored over this story. She crossed out the first s and wrote c above the word.
“I’m almost at the end of the story, so I better have them all. This is tedious.” She compared the last few paragraphs and didn’t find any additional typos. “Now what?” Emily muttered, more to herself than anything else.
“Have you tried writing all the letters on a separate page, in the order they show up in the book?” James asked. “It might be easier to make out the words if we’re looking at just the found letters together on one page.”
That was a good idea. Emily started copying the letters onto her notebook. James stopped her after the fifth letter to say, “Look, we found fort before, but an h comes next. Maybe the word isn’t fort but forth? As in ‘go forth, my son, and find my hidden message’?”
When Emily finished, the string of letters read:
forthemostwildyetmosthomelynarrativewhichIamabouttopenIneitherexpectnorsolicitbelief
James took a stab at reading it aloud, “‘Forth em’—no … ‘For the most wildy—wild yet home … homely narrative which I am about to open in either expect nor solicit belief…’”
“That doesn’t make sense,” he said.
“You doubled an o,” Emily said. “See? It’s not to open; it’s topen. To pen.”
They tried the sentence again, reading together out loud: “‘For the most wild yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief.’”
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever seen,” James said, flipping through the pages of The Gold-Bug. “Or I should say, ‘the most wild and homely’ thing I’ve ever seen!”
“It sounds like there should be more, doesn’t it?” Emily asked. “It’s like he’s saying, ‘Wait until you hear this wild and crazy story…’ but then there’s nothing else.”
“And the wording is funny,” James said. “Old-fashioned. I mean, who says they’re going ‘to pen’ something?”
“Maybe that’s the way Mr. Griswold talks?” She threw it out as an idea, but she’d watched videos of him online before and she didn’t remember him sounding like this.
James shook his head. “No. He gave a welcome speech at that book carnival. He talks lik
e a regular grown-up. Maybe a little happier and more dramatic, but he didn’t sound like he time-traveled from a hundred years ago or anything.”
“How is a hidden sentence a game?” Emily muttered out loud.
“It’s too bad there isn’t anyone we could ask for help,” James said.
“That’s it!” Emily pointed to James.
He looked around himself to see what she was pointing at. “Me?” his voice squeaked.
“Help,” Emily said. “Someone who’s willing to help—Raven.”
“You’re right!”
They ran to the computer bank at the back of the library. James dropped into a chair and shook the mouse to wake up the computer. They pulled up the Book Scavenger site, Emily logged in, and fortunately for them, Raven was online.
“Here.” She slid her notebook next to the keyboard. “Type the sentence and see what Raven says.”
Emily read the sentence aloud as James typed.
RAVEN: I can’t help you with that.
“Nuts,” James muttered. “I forgot it has to be a question.”
SURLY WOMBAT: Is “For the most wild yet most homely narrative which I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief” a clue for Mr. Griswold’s game?
RAVEN: Congratulations! You have found the first clue in Garrison Griswold’s literary scavenger hunt launched on November 10. If you made it this far, you have found one of the fifty copies of THE GOLD-BUG hidden across the city. You have also located my game assistant, Raven. Raven is willing to offer you a small measure of help on your journey, provided you ask the right questions.
Emily blinked at the screen. She had fantasized about this—moving to San Francisco and participating in one of Mr. Griswold’s games. She’d done it. She’d found his next game. She reread the message again.
Book Scavenger Page 10
