The Billionaire’s Curse (12 page)

“Club?” Ruby said. “What club?”

The driver leaned over from the front seat.

“The Rattigan Club,” he said. “Exclusive place, that one.”

A few minutes later they pulled up outside a four-story sandstone building. The front was marked by a row of tall columns, each decorated at the top with a globe of the world. To one side of the front doors was a brass plaque embossed with a single
R
.

Gerald, Ruby, and Sam climbed out of the cab at the bottom of a flight of marble stairs.

“What do you think?” Ruby asked.

“I’d say our diamond thieves have been here,” Gerald said. He walked up the stairs and pushed against one of the large oak doors.

T
he heavy portal opened and Gerald led the way inside. As the door closed behind them, all noise from the outside world was silenced. Not a bird, not a car could be heard. The only sound was the dull ticking of a clock somewhere inside the building.

They stood in a grand foyer. The floor was an intricate parquetry in a pattern of roses and ivy. In the center was an enormous green carpet with the letter
R
woven in red in the middle. Long green-and-gold–striped drapes lined the tall Georgian windows, blocking all outside light. The main illumination came as a restrained glow from a crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling high above. In front of them was a huge Y-shaped staircase that split left and right at the landing, leading to the upper floors beyond. The place reeked of a mixture of wood polish, stale cigar smoke, and privilege.

Gerald, Sam, and Ruby took some cautious steps into the foyer until they were standing beneath the chandelier and on top of the red
R
in the carpet. Before they could decide what to do next, a sharp voice broke the silence.

“What are you doing?” A short pigeon-chested man in a black suit with a gold fob chain suspended across his middle emerged from a vestibule tucked away on one side of the entrance. His heavy black shoes shone with parade-ground precision, and they squeaked as he walked. He carried a bright yellow cloth in one hand and a tin of polish in the other. The man reminded Gerald of a bonsai version of Mr. Fry.

“You can’t just wander in!” the porter said as he advanced across the parquetry. “This is a private club.”

Sam winked at Gerald and walked up to the man.

“You mean this isn’t the…um…Ruby…the Rubicon Hotel?” Sam asked.

“Never heard of it!” the man said. “This is the Rattigan Club. Members only. So shove off.”

“Oh,” said Sam in a disappointed voice. “See, we’re supposed to meet our father at the Rubicon Hotel, and my sister over there—”

“Not interested,” the man said, waving a hand as if shooing a fly.

“My sister has an unfortunate medical condition, you see. When she has to go—”

The man looked at Ruby. She was doubled at the waist. Her face contorted as if she was about to burst.

“It comes on suddenly, you see, and once she starts going, well, there’s no stopping her.”

The man’s eyes shot out. Ruby was standing right on the
R
of the Rattigan Club’s foyer carpet. “I can’t hold on much longer,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Not there!” the man squeaked. “It’s just been shampooed.” He rushed across and grabbed Ruby by the shoulders, pushing her in front of him like a shopping trolley. “Hurry. This way.” He bustled Ruby toward a side door, shouting back over his shoulder, “You pair stay right there.”

“Of course,” Sam called back. “Wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else.”

The moment the man and Ruby disappeared through the door, Sam grabbed Gerald by the elbow and dragged him toward the staircase.

“What’s that all about?” Gerald asked.

Sam smirked. “There’s nothing a grown-up fears more than somebody else’s kid with a full bladder. Come on!”

“You’ve pulled that trick before, then?”

They took the stairs two at a time.

“That medical condition has got us out of so many history lessons.”

They reached the second floor and paused. “You go that way and we’ll meet downstairs in ten minutes, okay?” Gerald said.

Sam nodded and turned to go, then stopped in his tracks. “What are we looking for?”

“I have no idea,” Gerald said. “But let me know when you find it.”

Sam grinned and headed off.

Gerald walked down a long corridor, his feet scrunching into thick maroon carpet. The walls were hung with rows of oil portraits of former club members, each with a brass lamp attached above it, spreading a yellow glow over the unsmiling faces. Closed doors ran the length of the passage. Above a number of the doors were small hand-painted signs. Gerald passed the Green Room and the Blue Room, and when he came to the Pink Room he decided to try the door handle. It pushed down easily and Gerald opened the door and stepped inside.

He found himself in a room decorated in a dozen shades of pink. Pink roses woven into the carpet, pink striped wallpaper, pink curtains, a pink upholstered sofa, and pink armchairs. In the middle of the room was a square dining table set for two (pink tablecloth to the floor, pink napkins), and along one wall was a buffet, covered with a selection of cold meats, salads, and desserts. Gerald glanced at his watch—it was almost two o’clock and he realized that he was incredibly hungry. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and his stomach was crying out for something. He picked up a plate and piled on some chicken legs and dinner rolls. He sank his teeth deep into a drumstick.

Behind him, the handle on the door started to turn. Gerald let out a high squeak through a mouth stuffed with chicken meat. His eyes darted about the room. There was another entry on the wall opposite the buffet but it was too far away. The door opened an inch. The curtains only came halfway down the wall so there was no chance of hiding there. A dusty brown shoe appeared through the gap. The only place to hide was under the dining table. Half a leg clad in tweed trousers emerged through the doorway. Grabbing his plate, Gerald dived under the tablecloth just as the door to the pink room swung wide. He sat hugging his knees, his plate balanced on his shoes. Two voices floated over from the direction of the buffet.

“Get yourself some lunch, Arthur,” said a gravelly voice, sounding like the product of a lifetime of whiskey and cigarettes. “There’s a lot to go over.”

Plates clattered and serving forks scraped before two sets of shoes appeared on the carpet on either side of Gerald—a pair of old brown shoes belonging to the tweed trousers and a pair of pointed black boots that came connected to legs in a black pinstripe suit. It was Tweed Trousers who sounded like he’d swallowed a distiller’s ashtray.

“Glass of claret, Arthur?”

“No, thank you. Never before five.”

“Don’t mind if I help myself, do you? I can barely hold off till noon most days.”

The man didn’t wait for a reply. There was a sound of bottle clinking crystal and a generous glush of liquid, followed by an equally generous slurp and a deep “Aaaah.”

“That’s more like it. Sure you won’t have one? No? Well, eat up anyway.”

Under the table, Gerald shifted from side to side. His buttocks were going numb. He looked at the chicken legs on the plate balanced on his feet but didn’t dare touch them. Above him, food was being stuffed into hungry mouths.

“So, Major,” Pinstripe Trousers said eventually, “the…uh…thing, you know…it’s all secure? Got it safely locked away?”

Tweed Trousers let out a moist belch then took another long slurp. “You mean the diamond?” he asked.

The black boots under the table shot up and almost collected Gerald’s ribs. Gerald’s eyes bulged. Did Tweed Trousers just say
diamond
?

Pinstripe Trousers gagged. “Don’t say that! We agreed to only talk about…you know…it…remember? Who knows who could be listening?”

The sound of bottle on crystal rang out again.

“Don’t be such a big girl’s blouse,” the major gargled through his drink. “You’re worse than your father. Yes, it is locked away at Beaconsfield. I’m heading down tomorrow to make sure everything is in order.”

“Excellent,” Pinstripe Trousers said in a calmer voice. Then even softer, “We need to keep this between you and me.”

Tweed Major grunted. “I only got you in to help because I’m getting too old for this,” he blustered. “And I owe your father a favor.”

Pinstripe Trousers bristled. “And a large sum of money, too.”

The major lowered his voice to a doglike growl. “I haven’t forgotten. You and your father will get your cash.”

There was an uneasy pause in the conversation as a knife scraped across china. Pinstripe Trousers was first to speak again. “Well, what about the…you know…other item? What’s the latest on that?”

“Other item?” the major rumbled. “You mean the diamond casket?”

A black boot threatened to take out Gerald’s front teeth. A bread roll bounced off his plate onto the carpet and Gerald scooped it up just in front of Pinstripe Trousers’ flailing feet.

“For pity’s sake, will you stop doing that,” the younger man demanded.

The major let out a low wheeze. There was another long slurp, then the sound of paper being unfolded and smoothed out. “This page is all we’ve got to go by,” Gerald heard the major say. “From that book I found in the town.”

There was a long silence before Pinstripe Trousers spoke. “‘
Pic de la lumière éternelle
,’” he read slowly. “The peak of eternal light—‘
indiquera le chemin
’—will show the way. What on earth does that mean?”

“Pardon my French, but it means what it says,” the major said. “We need to find the peak of eternal light and then we’ll find the casket.”

“Well, where’s this peak then? On your estate?”

The major groaned. “I’ve got four thousand acres down there and hills all over the blasted place; it’s got to be one of them.”

Under the table, Gerald couldn’t believe what he was hearing. These two had stolen the diamond—they’d all but admitted it. Did that mean they’d killed Geraldine? And why did everyone want to find the diamond casket?

“The buyer was very specific,” the major said. “We have to locate the position of the casket by Midsummer’s Eve—that’s next Friday—or the deal’s off. Mother is hosting her tiresome party as usual. There has been one held on the estate every midsummer since the Middle Ages, so she’s insisting it goes ahead. Keeping up appearances and all that.”

Gerald frowned. What did Midsummer’s Eve have to do with anything?

“Won’t that get in the way of what we’re doing?” Pinstripe Trousers asked. “People all over the place?”

“If past years are anything to go by, they’ll all be legless by midnight and pocketing the silverware. You know what these London types are like.”

Pinstripe Trousers sat up stiffly. “I am a London type,” he said.

“Yes,” the major said midslurp. “I know.”

Just then the door to the room burst open and someone rushed in. From his hiding place, Gerald couldn’t see a thing, but he recognized the newcomer.

“Beggin’ your pardon, Major Pilkington…your Lordship,” a rough voice said. “Have you seen three kids running around the club? They’ve managed to get away from me.”

The major’s brown shoes disappeared from under the table. “No we have not,” he growled. “What’s the point of having a private dining room if I’m going to be disturbed? Out!”

The porter mumbled an apology and the door closed again. “Right, Arthur. Grab some pudding and then we can get stuck into this rather excellent port.”

The black boots also disappeared from under the table and the sounds of serving spoons on crockery soon came from the buffet. Gerald lifted a corner of the tablecloth and peeked out. The diamond thieves had their backs to him. For the first time, Gerald got to see them from the ankles up: a young man in a dark pinstripe suit cutting a slice of cake and an older gent—the major—helping himself to the port.

Now’s my chance, Gerald thought, and he rolled out the other side of the table and scurried on hands and knees across to the door on the far wall. He opened it and disappeared through the gap just as the major turned back to the table.

Gerald was appalled to find himself buried in a forest of old coats.

Dammit, he thought. A closet. With his head surrounded by cloth, Gerald could only pick up a few snatches of the conversation in the pink room. It sounded like the major and Pinstripe Trousers were finishing up.

“See you in a week at Beaconsfield,” he heard the young man say. “Let me know if you have any luck with…you know…”

The major made some rumbling noises and Gerald glanced down to see the door handle to the closet start to turn. His eyes wide, Gerald pushed hard with his feet, shuffling as far back as he could, pulling jackets across in front of him. The door flung open. The major rummaged about inside, looking for his coat. Gerald pressed against the back of the closet. He could smell the major’s breath now—a toxic mix of alcohol and burned sausages. Then, just four inches from Gerald’s nose, the major’s gnarled hand appeared. It wrapped itself around the only coat left hanging between them and reefed it to one side.

Gerald stared, horrified, right into the major’s bulging left eye.