Book Scavenger (23 page)

___ ___E___E___

Themed?

Pieced?

Those were both words, but how would she know which one was the
right
word, if either one was at all? Or if she used
T
:

___ ___T___T___

Rotate?

Entote?

Was that even a word?

Astute?

Or
A
:

___ ___A___A___

Cravat?

She had to look that one up to make sure it was an actual word.

Graval? Weasal?

Those were almost words, but they weren't spelled right.

She wadded up her paper and threw it across the room, where it bounced off the reindeer antlers that were now sitting next to the raven box.

“Yeah, I'd rather be working with him on this, too,” she snapped at the antlers.

How had she ever enjoyed being a solo book hunter before? It was so … quiet and laughless working alone.

James's floorboards had creaked earlier, so she knew he was home, but there was no way she'd ask for his help now. She had tried getting a hint from Raven on Book Scavenger, but there was no response. (Which was especially annoying because Raven's “online” light was green, so she was obviously ignoring her.) The only other cipher expert she could think of besides James was Mr. Quisling, and there was no way she would ask for his help, either.
Interesting form of note-taking, Ms. Crane.
He would probably dismiss her with some admonishment to study more and play less.

“Oh!” A bolt of inspiration struck. Emily dug through her backpack, gently laying her notebook and
The Gold-Bug
aside, then tossed out various scraps of paper until she found the bent calling card of that poacher who stole her book at the Ferry Building weeks ago.

Babbage. That was the name. She remembered Booker had been listed on the profile, too, so they were schoolmates. Not that that meant much, since it was such a big school. She probably had a stronger familiarity with the window cat she passed on her way there than she did with 99 percent of the kids at Booker. She would send Babbage a message and ask if he or she wanted to meet up at school to talk ciphers. Maybe she should even mention this new puzzle. Puzzle people usually couldn't resist at least looking at a new one, if not attempting to solve it. Fingers crossed Babbage would reply to her message.

*   *   *

On Wednesday at school she did her best to avoid James. She didn't need him anyway—she'd quickly formed a new clique with the seagulls who hovered near her at lunchtime. She flicked a piece of bread to a seagull she'd begun to call Bob, because of the way he moved his head up and down while he watched her eat.

“Tomorrow's Halloween, Bob,” she said.

Bob twisted his head sideways and stabbed his beak at the piece of bread.

“Do the kids normally dress up here, Bob?”

Bob nodded.

“I don't know if you're trustworthy, Bob. I get the feeling you'd say anything for more food.” She tossed another bit of crust his way.

There had been no word from Babbage the day before, so when she got home she went straight for the computer to check her messages again. Her mom was updating their
50 Homes in 50 States
blog with photos from the Golden Gate Park concert. Emily leaned over her shoulder.

“Can I check my messages real quick?” she asked.

“No, but you can check them quickly,” her mom replied. “I love this one.” The image she was resizing was shot through a crowd to focus on Emily perched on the fountain with her hands pressed flat next to her thighs. Her head was turned toward the de Young Museum, so all you saw was her long ponytail. Orange lights glowed in the trees. The crowd was blurry and colorful around her—someone's tutu and butterfly wings, a person with a unicorn head, Benjamin Franklin, and a group of people with neon-colored wigs. It was like looking down a bizarro rabbit hole to a hoodie-and-jeans-wearing Alice.

Her mom saved her work and stood up, patting Emily's cheek. “All yours,” she said.

Emily logged into Book Scavenger, and a new-message notification greeted her. Babbage had replied! The message read:
I would be willing to meet with you tomorrow morning before school. I have first period in Room 40. We can talk there.

Hearing back from Babbage gave her a lift, so she decided to try her luck again with Raven, who was, of course, online. She was beginning to suspect Raven must be an adult who worked at a computer all day, because she always seemed to be there.

SURLY WOMBAT:
Hi, Raven. I found another clue.

RAVEN:
I can't help you with that.

Emily sighed. Raven was such a stickler with the whole “ask in the form of a question” rule.

SURLY WOMBAT:
Do you have a hint for solving the cipher in
The Maltese Falcon?

RAVEN:
Charlie, Sally, Lucy.

“What kind of hint is that?” Emily muttered. Beggars can't be choosers, though. She did individual searches for Book Scavenger players named Charlie, Sally, and Lucy, but there were hundreds of results. She'd have to think on this hint a bit more.

That night, in anticipation of meeting Babbage, she double-checked her bag for school, making sure she didn't forget
The Maltese Falcon.
She'd taken to always carrying
The Gold-Bug
and the Poe collection of stories with her, too, but because her backpack was so bulky she almost removed them. The two Poe books were the smallest ones and barely added to the bulk, so she left them in. Anyway, what if she and Babbage really hit it off talking about ciphers? She might want to tell him or her about Griswold's game, or at least show the original hidden message and how it worked. You just never knew, so it was better to be prepared.

Emily also squared away an idea for a Halloween costume, if you could call it a
costume
. She wanted something low-key so she could walk that line of not standing out in an embarrassing way if nobody actually dressed up, but also not looking like a stick in the mud if everyone did. She used plain white labels and cut out dots and dashes for Morse code and then stuck them on a black shirt like this:

For the first time since she and James stopped talking, she was kind of excited for school tomorrow.

*   *   *

Thursday morning, Halloween, Emily got to school extra early. The hallways were nearly empty. Two teachers Emily didn't know stopped talking as she walked by. One dressed in a striped red shirt, matching knit hat, and round black glasses raised his hand in greeting, and the woman dressed as a mad scientist added, “Morning!”

Emily rounded a corner, passing the papier-mâché witch hats decorated by sixth graders that lined the windows of the library. She studied every student in the halls, wondering if one might be Babbage. A boy wearing a panda hat and a Giants jersey, two girls with cat-ear headbands and their faces painted with whiskers.

Room 40 was where she and James had social studies with Mr. Quisling, so she shouldn't have been surprised when she stepped inside to see him there, grading papers, but she was.

“Oh!” Emily stepped backward. “I'm supposed to meet a student here.”

Mr. Quisling set down his pen. He hadn't dressed up for the holiday. “Surly Wombat?”

For a moment she thought he was asking if that was the student she was meeting. Finally, she understood he was asking if
she
was Surly Wombat.

“You …
you're
Babbage?”

She knew adults played Book Scavenger, but she didn't think that meant teachers.

“At your service.” His eyes flicked down to her T-shirt then back up. He cracked a smile. “Boo to you, too,” he said.

Emily's face warmed. “I wasn't sure if kids dressed up for Halloween or not…”

Mr. Quisling nodded. “Clever. Subtle. I like it. So, you have a question about a cipher?” His eyes narrowed. “This isn't one of the submissions for class, is it?”

“No, no, no,” Emily said. “It's not for school. It's just … something I was working on in my free time.”

This seemed to satisfy Mr. Quisling. “Let's take a look.”

Emily set her backpack on his desk and unzipped it to pull out her notebook. Before she laid a hand inside, Mr. Quisling cleared his throat.

“That isn't the book I think it is, I hope.”

Oh
why
didn't she think before opening her backpack?
The Gold-Bug
sat prominently on top of her notebook. She'd completely forgotten she'd told Mr. Quisling she'd hidden it through Book Scavenger and would try to retrieve it. As casually as possible, she shifted the book deeper into her backpack while she removed her notebook.

“I've already seen it. There's no use trying to hide it,” Mr. Quisling said. “It will be much worse if you lie to me. You can trust me on that.”

Reluctantly Emily said, “It … it is that Poe book. I
am
giving it back. Soon.”

Mr. Quisling's mouth formed a thin, tight line. He wiggled his jaw as if he were grinding something between his teeth. His next words came out very slowly.

“You did hear me say someone's job was on the line for that book? A man could be fired if he doesn't have it.”

“Yes,” Emily said. She couldn't meet Mr. Quisling's gaze. From the moment she'd met Mr. Quisling, she'd been on his bad side. He must have a very different idea of the kind of person she actually was.

“Let me get this straight. You would rather a man lose his job so you can keep a book?”

With every word Mr. Quisling said, Emily shrank an inch.

“I wasn't going to keep—”

Mr. Quisling held up a hand to stop her and then turned it palm up.

“Give me the book.”

She had to make him understand. “Mr. Quisling, it's not what you think.” Before Mr. Quisling cut her off, she rushed on. “It's Mr. Griswold's next game. And I can prove it.”

 

CHAPTER

32

MR. QUISLING
dropped his hand to his desk and didn't say anything. Emily wasn't sure if that meant he was surprised or not. Mr. Quisling's expressions were like a closet of pressed gray suits. All pulled together, all professional, all respectable. But it was hard to tell from day to day if the gray suit he wore was the same or different from the one he wore before.

She flipped open
The Gold-Bug
to the Bayside Press symbol that had a raven in place of the seagull.

“That was my first clue,” she said. “And then I found a secret message in the story. Mr. Griswold made this book with typos intentionally left inside. If you find the typos and list all the correct letters in one line, it spells the first sentence of another Edgar Allan Poe story.”

Mr. Quisling picked the book up and flipped through it as Emily recounted the rest of the scavenger hunt so far.

“And now I'm stumped with the clue I found in
The Maltese Falcon
. That's what I thought you could help me with.” She reached for her backpack to grab the book, but Mr. Quisling held up a hand.

“I don't want to see it, Emily.”

“But you could help me figure it out. We could work on the game together, and once we get to the end,
then
we could give the book back. I've been planning to give it back all along.”

“If I look at your newly found puzzle, I am sure I
will
want to solve it. Which is why I don't want to see it.” Mr. Quisling sighed. “I've met him, you know. Mr. Griswold.” He patted
The Gold-Bug
.

“Then you should understand better than anyone,” Emily pleaded. “People are saying he might…” Emily ducked her head, focusing on Mr. Quisling's desk. She couldn't say the words. She had stopped checking for updates on how Mr. Griswold was doing because she was afraid the news would be bad. “He would want his game to be played. He would want me to finish it.”

Emily didn't look up, afraid Mr. Quisling wouldn't get it, just as James didn't.

“You're probably right, Emily,” Mr. Quisling said. “And it's fascinating to learn about his game and everything you've figured out already. I'm glad you shared it with me, but that doesn't change the fact that we need to return this book.”

Emily couldn't do anything but blink at Mr. Quisling. How could he want to return the book after everything she'd just told him? How could he resist not knowing what lay at the end of Mr. Griswold's game? She almost felt tricked.

“But why?” she finally managed to say. “I know who this book collector is—Mr. Remora. I've met him.”

Mr. Quisling raised an eyebrow, which might be the closest he ever came to looking shocked.