IT’S THE NEXT MORNING, and I start awake to the sound of munching. Violet Parma is sitting in the middle of my lost-property cellar, wrapped in a blanket that she is showering with golden crumbs from an enormous croissant. For a girl who doesn’t exist, she’s making quite a mess.
“Breakfast?” Violet says, pulling a Danish pastry out from somewhere and tossing it to me.
“Where did you get this?” I say, as I sit up and catch it. “It’s still warm!”
“There was a pile of them on a trolley upstairs. In the kitchen.”
“Wait, you’ve been up into the hotel? Did … did anyone see you?”
“There was a man who shouted at me in French,” says Violet, taking another bite. “And a fork bounced off the wall behind me as I ran behind a waiter, but I don’t think anyone got a good look at me. Why?”
I groan. Monsieur de Grees, the hotel’s Belgian chef, guards his kitchen like a fortress. And if he thinks there’s a thief about…
“Do you know what a cameraluna is?” I ask, taking a cautious bite from my pastry.
Violet shakes her head.
“But you know what a spy is, right?” I say. “Just don’t let anyone see you, OK? Things, er, things could get very serious if you do.”
“There are spies in the hotel?” Violet’s eyes light up.
I ignore the question. I’ll be expected to open up my Lost-and-Foundery soon, and already I can hear guests checking in and out at the hotel reception, and the distant sound of breakfast being served.
I start tidying some of the mess from yesterday, and I’m pleased when Violet gets up to help. Between us it’s not long before things are almost back to how they should be in my little cellar: utter chaos, but the sort of chaos where I more or less know where everything is, and where some proper lost-and-foundering could be done if someone rings my bell.
“I wonder where it is,” says Violet, as we survey our handiwork. “Or where they are. They might have had more than one.”
“Where what is?” I say, straightening my cap. I’m already struggling to keep up and the day has barely begun.
“My parents’ suitcase,” says Violet. “Or cases. I mean, they surely had luggage. Luggage that they would have left behind in the room when they vanished. Well, where is it?”
It’s a good question.
I should have thought of it.
“There are hundreds of lost bags and suitcases down here,” I say, “going back over a century. I’d need to check the register.”
“Well, can you?”
“Can I what?”
“Check the register.”
I go up to my cubbyhole and lift down the big leather book where I, and all Lost-and-Founders before me, have recorded everything that has ever been handed in at the Lost-and-Foundery. I bring it down to the cellar, open it out on the floor, and flick back to twelve years before.
“What are the green ticks for?” asks Violet.
“That’s for when something is returned. See, you write a description of the item in black ink, make notes in blue if you have a lead to the owner …”
“If you find clues, you mean,” says Violet, but I ignore her.
“… and then tick the entry off in green if it gets returned.”
“I see. So, is there an entry for Parma? About twelve years ago? I know I was found in December…”
Violet stops talking. I’ve found the entry, describing two suitcases and several loose items that were handed in the day Violet’s parents vanished. The name PARMA is written in careful letters. There are no notes in blue ink, and no green ticks. What there are, though, are hard red lines crossing out the entire entry.
“What does that mean?” says Violet.
I fiddle with my cap.
“It means … er, that is to say … the red lines are, um…”
“Herbie!”
“Well, I’m afraid it means the owners were declared dead, and the suitcases handed over to the next of kin. It means your parents’ luggage isn’t here. It means someone else in your family came to collect it.”
Violet shakes her head.
“No. No, that isn’t right. My dad has no other family. Except my great-aunt Winniegar, of course.”
“Great-Aunt Who?”
Violet pulls a face. “Great-Aunt Winniegar. She’s my guardian. But she would never bother with lost suitcases. Not unless she thought there might be cash and jewels in them.”
“How do you know there wasn’t?”
“Because my dad’s a writer,” says Violet. “Great-Aunt Winniegar said he wasted his life chasing stories instead of money.”
“Not bothered about sentimental value then, your great-aunt?”
The face again, only worse.
“How about your mum?” I say. “Didn’t she have any family?”
There’s a pause.
“Violet?”
But now I cannot see Violet’s face at all – it has vanished behind her mass of hair.
“I have no idea who my mum is,” she says eventually. So I go quiet.
Then I see the date.
“Hey, wait! It says here that your parents’ cases were collected two years ago. But I was here then! I don’t remember that. It’s not even my handwriting!”
“Then they must have been stolen,” says Violet. “One day when you were out, someone came here and TOOK my parents’ things!”
Stolen?
From my Lost-and-Foundery?!
But it’s possible. And if they were stolen, then someone who knows how the Lost-and-Foundery works must have done it.
I go to the shelf where the PARMA suitcases should have been, and sure enough, there’s a gap. I shove my hand deep into the dark space between the other lost bags. My fingers find something at the back, so I pull it out.
It’s two pairs of shoes, all tied together by the laces. Attached to them is a neat label marked: PARMA – loose footwear. I bring them over and hand them to Violet.
“These belong to you, now,” I say. “It’s all that’s left. I-I’m sorry, Violet.”
Violet stares at the shoes in her arms, amazed. One pair is a man’s brogues, well worn and scuffed. The other is a pair of ladies’ boots – stout, ankle-length and polished smart beneath the dust.
It’s the shoes the police found on the harbour wall after Violet’s parents went missing.
As I watch, Violet unties the laces with trembling fingers. Then she kicks off the flimsy canvas shoes she arrived in, and slips the ankle boots onto her feet.
“Aren’t they a bit big?” I ask.
Violet shakes her head. “My mum must have been quite small.”
For a moment I think she’s going to hide in her hair again, but she wipes her eyes furiously.
“Is quite small, I mean.”
Then Violet snatches up the big leather register and taps the page. “Room 407. It says here my parents stayed in Room 407.”
“Well, yes…”
“I want to go there,” says Violet, shutting the book with a thud. “I want to go there now.”
I think about saying no. I think about explaining that sneaking Violet up to the fourth floor without being seen is impossible, not with the chambermaids on their rounds and Mr Mollusc on the prowl. But one look at Violet is enough to tell me there’s no point.
Somehow or other, we’re going to Room 407.
Five minutes later, I’m lurking in my cubbyhole, waiting for the coast to clear.
The Grand Nautilus Hotel is a strange place. In high season, it’s full of summer guests – people in shorts and shades and sunburns who drift about looking at everything and noticing nothing.
But it’s not like that in the winter. In the winter, people only stay here if they have a good reason. Or a bad one. These are the kind of people who look at their reflections in the lobby mirrors just to see if they are being followed. Or ask to be seated where they can see but not be seen. These are people with secrets to keep or secrets to uncover. These are people who notice everything.
And that’s why I’ve waited till there’s no one at all in the lobby except me and Amber Griss.
The hotel receptionist is standing as usual at her enormous mahogany desk. As I saunter over to her – all casual and nothing’s-up-at-all – she makes a face at me that says, “I like you, Herbie Lemon, I always have, but I’m tired of defending you from Mr Mollusc, so don’t try any funny business with me today, OK?”
I have a bit of a reputation.
“Morning, Amber,” I say. “There’s some funny business going on outside. I think you should go and see for yourself.”
“Now, Herbie…” Amber warns, peering over her severe spectacles.
“No, really!” I say. “Did you hear that someone stole some croissants from the kitchen this morning?”
“Yes, I did. Chef is furious —”
“Well,” I say, “the thief is just outside, selling those croissants round the side of the hotel!”
“What?”
“I can’t do anything about it because I’m only twelvish, but someone needs to before old Mollusc finds out.”
“Old Moll—” Amber starts to say. “I mean, Mr Mollusc will go ballistic if he finds out. But I can’t just leave Reception.”
I tug the front of my uniform straight and snap to smart attention.
“I’ll cover the desk for a moment,” I say. “You can count on me.”
Amber looks uncertain.
So I try to look fresh-faced and dependable.
“Fine,” Amber says eventually. “Thanks, Herbie. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
And she leaves her desk and clip-clops across the marble to the great revolving doors, leaving me feeling triumphant and clever and, yes, also a bit guilty.
But I can worry about that later.
I nip round behind the Reception desk, and glance both ways.
Now I’m completely alone.
With the keys to every room in the hotel!
But just as I’m reaching for the key to Room 407, something really annoying happens.
There’s a ting from the lift. Its doors clack open and Mr Mollusc steps out.
Of course, he sees me immediately.
“Herbert Lemon!” He spits my name as he strides towards me. “What are you doing there? Where’s Miss Griss?”
At this point, I could either lower my hand and try a grin, which would almost certainly make me look more suspicious, or I could go for a more daring approach.
I take the key.
“I’m on important Lost-and-Founder business,” I say, in my poshest voice. “Someone has left something in Room 407.”
“Sir!” Old Mollusc barks the word out.
“Er … sir?” I say.
“On Lost-and-Founder business, SIR!” Mollusc corrects, going a little crimson round the edges. “You will address me as ‘sir’ on all occasions.”
“Certainly, sir.” I snap to attention again. “Not just on certain occasions, sir, but always, sir.”
“Good. Now…”
“Sir, sir, sir!”
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Just practising.”
“Just practising, SIR!” Old Mollusc is close to bursting a blood vessel by now. A winter guest, coming out of the dining room, looks over and frowns suspiciously.
“I will, sir. Of course, sir,” I say, backing away from behind the desk with little bows, giving the manager enough respect and sirs! for him to feel he has won out over me. “Thank you, sir. I must be off now, sir.”
And, still clutching the key – and to the sound of Amber clip-clopping back into the lobby – I turn and run up the stairs.
