If You’re Reading This, It’s Too Late (8 page)

I fell asleep in my car halfway through my twelfth Hershey bar. (Why can’t you ever find any decent imported dark chocolate in the middle of the night?) By the time I checked back at the diner, well, that napkin was wiping off anybody’s chin but mine.

Don’t worry — you’re not missing anything. The chapter didn’t contain anything important.

Oh, except that I finally revealed the Secret.

Or did I?

Actually, if you want to know the truth, my head’s a bit fuzzy at the moment — not to mention a bit funky, considering all the chocolate stuck in my hair. I don’t remember
what
I wrote on that napkin. I hope I didn’t write anything I shouldn’t have because it could be anywhere by now. And anyone could be reading it.

Well, there’s nothing to be done. The whole thing is out of our hands — out of mine, anyway.

Why don’t you skip ahead to the next chapter? I’ll be with you in a minute.

Ahem . . .

Cough . . . cough . . .

If you don’t mind . . .

Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear enough:

Move on. Now. Please.

I’m in desperate need of a shower.

I
t took six dollars, three buses, two hours, and one last bag of trail mix to get there.

But where?

Cass had told herself not to expect a medieval castle. But a mini-mall?

“Well, at least we can get Slurpees before we go back,” said Max-Ernest, looking at the convenience store that stood where the Magic Museum should be. There was also a dry cleaner and a pet grooming salon called Shampooch.

At first, they thought they had the wrong place. But when they walked around the side of the building by the bathrooms, they saw a stairwell leading to a basement door.

Next to the door was a small sign:

THE MAGIC MUSEUM

Members Only

“Members only?” Max-Ernest was disconcerted.

“Well, we are members — in a way. Terces members. At least, almost.”

“True,” Max-Ernest reflected. “And it doesn’t say you have to be a
museum
member — you could be a member of anything!”

Cass tried the handle and the door swung open with surprising ease.

They found themselves in a small waiting room that looked like it belonged in a Victorian mansion rather than under a mini-mall. Persian carpets were piled haphazardly on the polished wood floor. On the walls, portraits of famous magicians — some in tuxedos, others in robes and turbans — hung from satin ropes. And in the corner, perched on a brass stand, an iridescent green parrot preened in front of a full-length mirror.

An attractive but aloof-looking woman wearing black-framed glasses and a black satin suit sat behind a cluttered desk. Above her, flyers advertising museum events were posted on a bulletin board:

THE MAGICAL MIMES:

Quietest Magic Show on Earth

Next month:

THE OLE TIME TRAVELING CIRCUS REUNION

She smiled coolly at the two young people in front of her. “I’m sorry, the museum is closed to the public,” she said.

“Members only! Members only!” the parrot squawked.

“Owen told us to come,” said Cass, suddenly aware for the first time how they must look in their muddy clothes and ocean-washed hair.

“Does Owen have a last name?” asked the receptionist, expressionless, consulting her computer.

Cass shook her head hesitantly.

“Well, he probably does,” Max-Ernest corrected. “We just don’t know it. We don’t even know if Owen is his real name. Sometimes he calls himself Mr. Needleman.”

“Sorry, that name doesn’t ring a bell, either. If you’d like to come back — we offer tours on the third Sunday of every month.”

“What about Pietro Bergamo?” asked Cass. “He’s a magician — don’t you know him?”

The woman shook her head.

“Members only!” the parrot repeated, as if speaking for her.

A youngish man with longish hair and a shortish goatee on his chin walked in from outside. He wore round wire-rimmed glasses, and his eyes flickered briefly over the kids before he nodded at the receptionist.

Then he looked directly at the parrot. “Password please,” he said in a precise English accent.

“Make a spell. But don’t try very hard,” replied the parrot.

The Englishman thought for a moment. Then he said:

“Abraca-dabble.”

The parrot’s eyes glowed red and he spread his wings with the squeak of a hinge.

“I thought the parrot was real,” Cass whispered.

“I think it is — or was. It’s taxidermy,” Max-Ernest whispered back.

Behind the parrot, the full-length mirror swiveled on its axis, revealing a dark hallway. Without another word, the Englishman strode through the opening. The mirror closed behind him.

“Well, if you have no further questions, it’s time for my break now,” said the receptionist, standing. The kids expected to be ushered out but instead the receptionist smiled at them and exited the building, leaving them alone inside.

“I can’t believe she just left us like that,” said Max-Ernest.

“I think she did it on purpose,” said Cass. “I don’t know why. Like, she knows we’re not allowed but she wants us to get into the museum anyway. . . . Either way, let’s try to get in fast.”

Cass walked up to the parrot and looked it in the eye. “Abraca-dabble!” She stepped toward the mirror but the parrot didn’t move — and neither did the mirror.

“I bet the password changes every time,” said Max-Ernest. “That’s why he had to ask for the clue.”

He looked at the parrot and said, “Password please.”

“Demand entry,” said the parrot. “But don’t forget to feed me.”

“What kind of clue is that?”

“It think we’re supposed to put two words together — you know, like
Shampooch
,” said Max-Ernest. “
Abraca-dabble
is
abracadabra,
which was the spell part, plus
dabble,
which means not trying very hard.”

Cass looked skeptical. “So we need a word that means
demand entry,
and then one that means
food for the parrot
?”

“Yeah . . . maybe.”

“How about, ‘let me in . . . parrot food’?”

Max-Ernest scrunched his face. “Um, that’s kind of the idea. But the words should fit together.”

“Open up. Pizza delivery for a parrot!” said Cass.

“We’re not thinking about this right,” said Max-Ernest. “What do birds eat?”

“Birdseed,” said Cass. “How about, ‘open birdseed’?”

“That’s it — you got it!” said Max-Ernest excitedly.

“I did . . . ?” She looked at the parrot, but the parrot didn’t blink.

“Well, not exactly . . . but I know what it is now.”

Max-Ernest stepped in front of the parrot and said:

“Open sesame seed!”

The bird’s eyes glowed red.

It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness.

The only light in the hallway came from the display lights above the old magic show posters that lined the walls:

At the end of the hallway, they walked under a sign that read
Magic — A History of Disappearing, or a Disappearing History?
and they entered a large room displaying numerous magical antiques.

Max-Ernest excitedly explained to Cass what they were looking at — at least the things he recognized from books. Ingeniously hinged cages designed to conceal birds before they were released onto a stage . . . folding tables with hidden holes in which to drop rabbits . . . secretly marked playing cards and unevenly weighted dice . . .

“And that’s Houdini —”

Max-Ernest pointed to a black-and-white photo of a bare-chested man that hung above an exhibit of his locks and chains.

Cass didn’t say it, but she thought Houdini looked fairly undignified, less like a world-famous magician than a short man in a Tarzan outfit.

What, she wondered, would Pietro look like? Surely, he didn’t look like the white-bearded wizard of her imaginings. Or wouldn’t she ever get to see him, after all?

Max-Ernest nudged her: in the middle of all the displays was an empty black pedestal bearing a small brass plaque:
The Sound Prism.
A few tiny shards of glass missed by the vacuum cleaner remained on the floor beside the pedestal.

The scene of the crime.

Spooked, they looked at it for a moment — for some reason, it felt as though Dr. L and Ms. Mauvais were about to pounce on them — and then they continued on.

The next room was round and covered in striped fabric — an indoor circus tent.

SIDESHOW……..SIDESHOW……..SIDESHOW…….. blinked a sign made of tiny, popcorn-style lightbulbs.

Here they found old photos of grinning Siamese twins. Saucy dancing girls. Surly bearded ladies. Tattooed fire-eaters. And — “Ow!” said Max-Ernest — an Indian fakir lying on a bed of nails.

They stopped to examine a fading circus poster in a peeling gold frame. It showed two identical young boys in tuxedos, one blindfolded, standing over some kind of fiery cauldron. Smoke curled up around them. “The Amazing Bergamo Brothers and their Symphony of Smells,” it read.

Pietro and Luciano at age eleven.

Our two friends turned and looked at each other, eyes shining: now they knew they were in the right place!

“Uh, Cass, what do we do now?” asked Max-Ernest a moment later. He nodded toward the end of the hallway, where a man in a gray suit sat at a small table writing a note.

“Just act like we’re supposed to be here. . . . Excuse me, mister,” Cass said, raising her voice. “Do you know where we can find —”

The man didn’t look up, and when they got closer they could see why: he was not real, he was mechanical. And the note he was writing was simply a phrase written over and over in his jerky but precise hand:

Loose lips sink ships. Loose lips sink ships. Loose lips sink . . .

“Kind of creepy, don’t you think?” asked Cass.

“Not really. I think he’s cool,” said Max-Ernest. “He’s an automaton. Kind of like an old-fashioned robot. I read about them. In the old days, magicians used to perform with —”

Before Max-Ernest could finish:

Thwang! Thunk!

The two kids jumped as one: an arrow whizzed by their heads and landed right next to them amid dozens of arrows on a large target.

“Hey, you could have killed us!” Cass shouted.

But when they turned to see who’d nearly shot them, they saw only another automaton: this one holding a bow, a quiver full of arrows on the floor beside him.

As they looked around the room, they saw other automata playing games of cards or chess; watering fake flowers; telling fortunes over crystal balls. There were also mechanical animals: rabbits, chimps, birds. It was quite a collection. Most of the automata looked very old and some of them creaked very loudly or seemed to be broken altogether.

Apart from all the mechanical people, there didn’t seem to be a soul around. They thought they heard someone playing the piano — but when they followed the music to its source, they saw an old player piano, unaccompanied by anyone human or otherwise, its keys moving up and down, seemingly of their own accord.

“You think they’re just not here? Do we have to come back?” asked Max-Ernest. “Where did that guy with the glasses go?”