The House of Puzzles (21 page)

Two keys.

One hole.

The one in his right hand looked like it might be the one. He slid it in place and
hefted the shank around. It moved smoothly through ninety degrees and stopped.

Gerald stared up at the grid of fifty keys in fifty holes. He slipped the spare one
into the pocket of his jeans.

The hiss of the gas was all they could hear. He looked around, hoping that somewhere
a panel had popped open and they could escape.

There was nothing.

The gas still poured through the fireplace.

Then, from high above, came the sound of splintering timber.

Gerald threw his head back to see a section of panelling fall free from the ceiling.
Sheets of wood veneer slipped from their mountings and tumbled like autumn leaves.
Alex leaped clear. The boards crashed to the floor, taking out a workbench and scattering
its contents across the room.

Gerald pressed his back against the wall. Plaster dust
added to the foulness of the
gas that ate into Gerald’s nose and eyes. He hacked up a cough that threatened to
pop a lung.

Alex lifted himself off the floor, his sleeve to his mouth. The two of them gazed
up at the ragged section of ceiling. For a moment neither of them recognised what
they were looking at, but then it hit Gerald like a slap to the face.

A door.

There was an ordinary wooden door set flat into the ceiling.

The clock chimed six times.

Gerald jumped from the stool and raced to Alex. ‘That has to be the way out of here,’
he said, gagging.

‘How are we supposed to get up there?’ Alex asked.

Gerald grabbed the edge of a workbench. ‘Help drag this to the wall. We should be
able to get to the balcony.’

They hefted the bench underneath the mezzanine walkway. Gerald and Alex scrambled
on top but the balcony was still too high. Gerald looked around and saw the stool
that he used to reach the keyholes. He jumped back to the floor and raced to fetch
it. It was like jumping into a swimming pool brimming with slime. The smell was horrendous.
He held his breath, grabbed the stool and handed it to Alex, who climbed on top and,
at full stretch, was able to reach the bottom of the iron balustrade. He pulled himself
up and hooked a foot between the railings. Seconds later he was
over the handrail
and onto the balcony.

Gerald leaped onto the stool and stretched high, straining up onto his toes. His
fingertips brushed the underside of the metalwork. ‘I…can’t…reach…’

The gas swirled higher. Gerald’s head was spinning. If he fell now, there was no
waking up tomorrow. His eyes were losing traction in their sockets, sliding backwards.
His knees buckled. He could feel himself drifting away.

Then, a strong hand snapped around his left wrist just as his head fell back, his
eyes lolling about like dumplings in soup. Gerald gazed drunkenly up to see Alex
leaning over the balustrade. He strained, a grunt wrenched from his chest, and he
hauled Gerald onto the mezzanine. They landed heavily, collapsing against a bookshelf.
Three leather-bound volumes fell loose, thumping one after the other onto Gerald’s
head.

The blows were enough for him to regain some sense. He wiped a hand over his face.
‘Thanks,’ he said to Alex with halting breath. ‘At least the air is better up here.’

‘Not for long,’ Alex said. ‘Three minutes to go. And that door is still a long way
up.’

Gerald propped himself on his elbows and looked up. The door was set flat into the
ceiling, about three metres out from the wall, the closest side roughly in line with
the outer edge of the balcony.

‘We need a ladder,’ Alex said.

‘What would we lean it up against?’ Gerald said. He struggled to his feet. ‘There
must be another way.’

Alex was swaying, his head bobbing. ‘I don’t feel so good,’ he mumbled.

Gerald moved too late to grab him. Alex staggered against a bookcase. He flashed
out a hand to steady himself and latched onto a brass light fitting. The length of
metal pipe came away from the wall and he crashed into the shelves, sending books
cascading to the floor. He crumpled on top of them, like a scarecrow knocked from
its perch.

‘Are you okay?’ Gerald was by Alex’s side. He took the length of piping from his
hand.

Alex blinked hard. ‘No, I’m not,’ he said. ‘Thanks for asking.’

‘I was more worried that the flame from the lamp was going to light the gas,’ Gerald
said. He held up the brass pipe—then stalled in thought. His eyes darted around the
mezzanine. There were at least twenty identical fittings set into the walls. None
of them was alight.

Gerald pulled the lampshade from the fitting in his hand. There was nothing on the
end. No wick, no bulb. The fitting was an S-shaped length of solid brass—with sharp
corners, not rounded at the bends.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed eight times.

Gerald rushed to the wall bracket where Alex had torn off the light. It was a brass
plate about ten centimetres across, with a looping, clockwise-pointing arrow engraved
on the front in fine filigree. Gerald slid the light fitting back into place.

‘What are you doing?’ Alex’s breathing was tight, laboured.

Gerald grabbed the free end of the brass rod with both hands. ‘These things aren’t
lights,’ he said. ‘There’s no gas line, no wiring. So what are they for? Decoration?’

Alex bowed his head between his knees. ‘Does it really matter?’

‘Kincaid liked his wind-up toys,’ Gerald said. ‘Let’s see what this does.’ He leaned
on the brass rod. It moved smoothly around, turning clockwise, in the direction of
the arrow. Gerald cranked the handle like he was trying to start a vintage car. The
far end of the next bookcase along started to swing out, arching back towards Gerald
through ninety degrees before it juddered to a halt, perpendicular to the wall. He
kept cranking and the shelves started to cantilever, sliding back one by one to form
a flight of seven stairs up the side of the wall.

‘It’s too short,’ Alex said. ‘We can’t reach the door from the top of that.’

Gerald ran to the next light fitting and reefed off the glass lamp cover. He cranked
the handle. The far end of the neighbouring bookcase lurched outwards, swinging across
the balcony to be parallel to the first set of shelves. Then the bookcase moved straight
up, gliding on tracks hidden in the pattern of the wallpaper. When the bottom shelf
was level with the top of the first bookcase, it too cantilevered back, extending
the staircase to fourteen steps.

Gerald traced his eyes across the gap from the top step to the door in the ceiling.
‘This is our way out of here,’ he said.

The clock chimed nine times.

He stumbled to the next light fitting and turned the handle. As a third bookcase
swung out from the wall, Gerald looked back over his shoulder and shouted to Alex,
‘Start climbing. One more after this and we should reach the door.’

Pinpricks of colour sparked in Gerald’s eyes like flickering Christmas lights. The
gas was thickening. Breathing was near impossible.

The bookcase moved up the wall, then tilted back to join the rest of the stairs.
Gerald staggered to the next set of shelves. This one should do it.

He turned the handle, struggling to get feeling into his fingers. It was as if his
body was shutting down, withdrawing troops from the perimeters. The fourth bookcase
swung out, then climbed high up the wall. Gerald looked up to see Alex directly above
him, on his hands and knees. The handle cranked six more times and the final piece
in the staircase snapped into place.

Gerald stumbled through the clutter of spilled books onto the stairs. He dropped
to his hands and knees and hauled himself up on all fours.

The staircase reached to just below the ceiling, right next to the door. Alex lay
on the top step, his head resting on his arm.

Gerald slid in beside him and shook his shoulder. ‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘We’re almost
there.’

Alex peeled back an eyelid and stared vacantly at Gerald.

‘It’s no use.’ His voice was barely a whisper. ‘The door. It’s…locked.’

Gerald stared at a keyhole next to the door handle.

And from far beneath them, the clock began to chime.

Chapter 22

The clock counted down the seconds. Gerald struggled to focus on the door that
stood between his life and his death.

Dong, dong, dong…

Was that five? Or six? Concentrating was impossible. Gerald was aware of Alex Baranov
by his side and of the doorknob above his head. And that was all. His world had collapsed
to just those two things.

Dong, dong…

He could no longer smell the gas, could not distinguish it from normal air. His
eyes were open but he could barely see. It was like staring down a funnel.

His mind flitted to his mother and father, to Sam and Ruby. He would never have the
chance to say goodbye
to any of them. Or to tell Ruby how he really felt, even if
he could find the words. He had kept that much locked up inside. And now it was too
late.

Locked up inside.

Locked.

Need to open.

Need…a…

Key.

Gerald’s eyelids flickered.

A key?

From deep within his oxygen-starved brain Gerald somehow mustered the wit to slide
his hand into the pocket of his jeans. He pulled out the last key from the display
case. He gripped the end and with an unsteady hand pushed it into the keyhole in
the door.

It was received like an old friend.

He turned the key and the door dropped open. Fresh air gusted into Gerald’s face.
The sudden infusion of oxygen was a tonic. He dragged Alex up by the collar to sit
next to him.

‘Wake up!’ He slapped Alex hard in the face. He slapped him again. Then a third time.
Alex slurred a mumbled. ‘Whazzit? Whassamatter?’

Gerald was laughing now. ‘Oh, that felt good!’ he said out loud. He wound up and
smacked Alex again. ‘Wakey, wakey!’ The last hit was more for Gerald’s benefit than
for Alex’s. ‘Come on,’ Gerald said. ‘Time to go.’

A set of sliding stairs dropped through the doorway in the ceiling, reaching down
to the top of the bookcase. Gerald shoved Alex in the back and heaved him up. He
could smell the gas gathering around them once more.

Gerald climbed up after Alex, and they emerged into a dark room. A waft of gas vapour
chased after them. Gerald looked about and saw a trapdoor hinged at the floor. He
swung it shut over their escape hatch. The door sealed tight, preventing any gas
from sneaking through the cracks.

Gerald collapsed onto his hands and knees and breathed the clean air. It was like
drinking a glass of iced lemonade on a summer’s afternoon.

Alex slumped onto the floor, his hands over his eyes. His lungs pumped like bellows
at a forge. After a while, his breathing steadied.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why would they try to kill us?’

Gerald sat on the floor, his legs out in front of him. ‘If you’re going to be a junior
billionaire,’ he said, ‘you’re going to have to get used to this type of stuff.’

Alex lifted his hands from his face. ‘What are you talking about?’

Gerald laughed. ‘The members of the stupid Billionaires’ Club aren’t trying to kill
us,’ he said. ‘Mr Mantle and the others don’t know what’s inside most of this building.
We’re probably the first people to make it this far into the club since Diamond Jim
Fungusguts opened for business. That room down there,’—he nodded
at the hatch in
the floor—‘was in perfect condition when we arrived. It was untouched. Not so much
now.’

‘But Mantle said someone got to the second floor,’ Alex said.

‘If they did, they didn’t get out the same way we did.’

‘But why would someone set a trap like that?’

Gerald was convinced that Kincaid had set the snare to protect the perpetual motion
machine, either Drebbel’s original or one that Kincaid had managed to build on his
own. But he was not about to share that theory with Alex Baranov. ‘People go a bit
bizarre when it comes to defending what’s theirs,’ Gerald said. He hoped he sounded
convincing. ‘Especially mega-rich people.’

‘We have security in our house in London,’ Alex said, ‘but we don’t go to the point
of gassing intruders. Who would do that?’

A vision of Sir Mason Green appeared before Gerald’s eyes. ‘I can think of a few
people,’ he said. He shook his pack from his shoulders and pulled out a water bottle.
He took a long drink and tossed it to Alex, who caught it with a nod of thanks. He
drank and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘You saved my life down there,’
he said.

‘You did the same for me,’ Gerald said. ‘If I’d fallen off that stool there was no
way I was getting up again.’

Alex unzipped a pocket on his sleeve and dug inside. ‘Twix?’

Gerald nodded and accepted the snack. For a
moment, the two of them were content
to savour the taste of chocolate.

‘So, why have you been trying to stop me from coming here?’ Gerald looked sidewards
at Alex. ‘The pillowcase over the head. The slingshot at the horse. Why try to keep
me away?’

The question seemed to catch Alex off guard. He studied Gerald’s face for a moment.
‘What’s the quickest way to win any competition?’ he asked Gerald.

Gerald shrugged. ‘How?’

‘Have your opponent quit before it has even started,’ Alex replied. ‘My father says
everything in life is a competition. To win, someone must lose. And for him, losing
is not an option.’

‘That’s a pretty miserable way to look at life,’ Gerald said.

Alex swallowed the last of his chocolate. ‘You’ve met my father,’ he said.

Gerald stood shakily and made his way through the gloom towards the nearest wall.
He ran his hands along velvet wallpaper until he found what he was looking for. ‘There’s
a lamp here,’ he said to Alex. ‘Should I risk lighting it?’

Alex sniffed the air. ‘I can’t smell any gas,’ he said. ‘And we need to see to find
a way out of here.’