“WOO-HOO!” Alex grabbed the two sheets and began dancing. “Do you realize what this means?”
“Whoa . . .” Max said softly. “We might be able to save Evelyn.”
“It’s in English!” Alex screamed. “I don’t have to translate!”
“OK, keep going . . .” Max said. “Next page.”
Alex pulled it out, and they both stared.
Hkcta nbk Hgyci Yozzgncut ul Krnxguxjctgxcfs Iuzvfcignkj Kpktny, Fkgjcta nu nbk Jcyiupkxs ul g Yohyngtik ul Otyvkgeghfk Xkpufoncutgxs Czvuxngtik nu nbk Bozgt Xgik
Yohzcnnkj hs Agynut nbk Zgatclciktn
Hkact qcnb Cycy bcvvoxcy, ghupk gff gtj qcnbuon qbcib tunbcta igt bgvvkt.
Gjj nbk ygfohxcuoy gtj igngfsncigffs zgxpkfuoy kllkiny ovut nbcy yohyngtik, jkxcpkj lxuz nbk luffuqcta qgnkx yuoxiky:
* Vxkykxpkj qcnb nbk nctinoxk ul iucf joyn lxuz nbk Eumbcz Xcpkx
* Krnxginkj lxuz nbk xkj iugn ul nbk gticktn qkn xcpkx buxyk lxuz nbk yuoxik ul nbk Xcpkx Ynsr
* Ngekt lxuz g aufl hgff y iktnkx ct nbk lgn zuotngcty ul Zkrciu
* Jkxcpkj lxuz nbk hfgie yzkgx ul knkxtcns lxuz Gxzgtju ul Egnbzgtjo
* Xkyiokj lxuz g bun igpk ct nbk quxfjy iufjkyn fgtj zgyy
“Yuck,” Max said.
“It’s really long,” Alex agreed. “We’ll be here till next month.”
“But you translated Verne’s messages pretty fast.”
“Yeah, but those were word by word, not letter by letter!”
Max shrugged. “I’ll try some. I’m dying of curiosity.”
Quickly he began substituting in the first line:
Hkcta nbk Hgyci Yozzgncut ul Krnxguxjctgxcfs Iuzvfcignkj Kpktny, Fkgjcta . . .
Jldvu pcl Jhoda Oebbhpdiv . . .
“What the—?” He paused in midsentence and checked his work.
“Well, that’s a big help,” Alex said.
“This is a different code than Nigel’s note.”
“Oh, great. They changed it page to page?”
Max shrugged. “I guess.”
“Which means there’s only one thing to do,” Alex said.
Max shot her a look. “Find Nigel.”
Alex’s phone beeped again, and she pulled it out. “It’s Bitsy. She’s waiting by the gate to pick us up.”
“No!” Max said, gathering up the papers. “Tell her we died!”
“If we died, how could we be texting her?” Alex asked.
Max shoved the papers back into the box and slammed it shut. “Tell her I stepped in dog poop. Massive poop that will contaminate her car and eat through the floor. I don’t know, tell her anything! We can’t trust her, Alex. She’s driving a Niemand Enterprises car. We can’t give this secret to the enemy. Let’s find a back exit and text Gerrold.”
“Max, think. Avoiding her would be suspicious. She knows everything—why we’re here, what we’re looking for. But she doesn’t have to know what we just found. Put the papers in the box and put the box in your backpack. I’ll tell her we’re on our way. We’ll play it cool, say we found some old photos, then we’ll figure out a way to get rid of her.”
“OK. Right. OK.” Max let out a breath like an Arctic wind. He nearly busted a zipper trying to stuff the box into his backpack. Together they took the elevator out of the building.
Bitsy’s car was idling at the curb. She waved to them with a broad smile. “Helloooo! I convinced Mummy to let me pick you up. Did you find it?”
“No!” Alex and Max said at the same time.
“Just pictures,” Max said, as he pulled open the rear door. “Old pictures. A box of old pictures. A box of old pictures that can’t be opened.”
“How curious,” Bitsy remarked. “If it can’t be opened, how do you know what’s inside?”
Alex shot Max a panicked look. Now both Alex and Bitsy were staring at him.
Fish. Fish sauce. Fish cakes. Fish rain. Max’s fists were clenching and unclenching. Alex gave him a warning look. Which just made things worse. “You . . . you lied to us!”
“Beg pardon?” Bitsy said.
“Max!” Alex snapped.
“The logo on the back of your car!” Max blurted. “Tell us about that.”
“Oh dear, that thing,” Bitsy said. “I suppose you could say it’s one of the perks of working for old Stinky.”
Max whirled toward Alex. “See? She works for him, and she’s the enemy!”
“Oh, dear Lord, is that what you’re getting all barmy about?” Bitsy asked with a baffled smile. “This was Mummy’s company car. After all, she was married to him.”
Max swallowed hard. “Wait. So . . . you’re his daughter?”
Bitsy threw her head back in a laugh. “Mummy had been married before. When things were dire, I’m afraid Stinky came along and swept her off her feet with lofty dreams of changing the world.”
“Right. Underwater cities . . .” Alex murmured.
“Needless to say, those dreams died quickly. After the divorce, all she got was a modest house . . . and this car.” Bitsy reached out, taking Max’s hand and Alex’s. “I am so, so sorry to have made you fearful. I’ve asked Mummy repeatedly to have that awful insignia removed. To me it is like looking at a swastika. But she claims pulling it off would leave holes in the boot. She’s vain.”
Max let go of her hand. “You make me smell fish.”
“I had a tuna sandwich for lunch,” Bitsy said, covering her mouth.
“It means he’s afraid,” Alex said.
“It means I don’t trust you,” Max added.
“I see . . .” Bitsy thought for a moment. Then, slowly, she unclasped and pulled off her necklace. On it was a large silver locket, which she turned around to show Max.
Engraved on the back was a message. The letters were so teensy, Max had to hold the locket right up close to his eye:
FOR MY KINDRED SPIRIT
ON HER 13TH BIRTHDAY
FIGHT THE POWER
LOVE AND SMILES, BASILE
“The power was Niemand,” Bitsy said gently. “I knew how much Basile hated him. My uncle wanted to overthrow that tyrant, but he was too gentle a soul to do it. He considered me the daughter he never had, and his fight was mine. So you see, I’ve been at this longer than you. Please understand, whatever I can do for you, I will. Just name it.”
Max turned away, looking at the locket. Kindred spirit meant ‘soul mate.’ Basile had a terrible singing voice and sometimes bad breath, but he had a really good soul. Max trusted him. And it sure looked like Basile trusted Bitsy.
Max handed the locket back to Bitsy. “Do you still smell fish?” she asked with a smile.
“I think it must be the tuna sandwich,” Max replied.
“Max?” Alex said. “Are we good?”
Max nodded.
Taking a deep breath, Alex said, “OK, I think we may have an uncle too, Bitsy. One we never knew. That old guy who slipped us the note at the funeral home . . . we need to find him.”
“I never did actually see him,” Bitsy said. “What did he look like?”
“Old,” Max said. “Not much hair. Skinny.”
“Well, that narrows it down to half the men in London,” Bitsy drawled.
“A few minutes before we got to the funeral home, our driver almost hit him in the street by accident,” Alex said. “Somehow he managed to get out of the way. Amazing reflexes. Like an acrobat. Or a dancer.”
“He told us his name was Nigel,” Max added.
Bitsy’s frown loosened. She pulled out her phone, did a quick search, and held out the screen to them. “Was it this fellow?”
Max and Alex gazed at a black-and-white image of a bare-chested ballet dancer in midleap. His chest muscles gleamed, and he stared into the camera with a confident smile. Printed across the bottom of the image was the name NIGEL HANSCOMBE.
Alex pinched the photo out to look at the face. “That’s him, I think!” Max blurted. “A lot younger.”
“So he was a famous dancer?” Alex asked. “What happened?”
“His fame didn’t come from dancing, exactly,” Bitsy said, flipping into the article that accompanied the photo. “He was second understudy for the corps de ballet in the Northeast Swansea Terpsichorean Troupe. What made him famous was the thing that cut his career short. It was an errant trapdoor in a production of Swan Lake, which opened when it was supposed to stay shut. Injuries all over his body, his left eye nearly lost. After that, Hanscombe disappeared.”
“Bummer,” Alex said.
“Go back to the search,” Max said. “Can we get some contact information?”
Bitsy’s thumbs began working the phone again. As she scrolled down a list of hits on Nigel’s name, buried among all the ballet references was a link that read ST. STEPHEN’S EPISCOPAL CHURCH SHELTER AND SOUP KITCHEN, 55 WESTBY LANE, OPEN 7 DAYS A WEEK, REV. JONAS P. MUDGE, MANAGER N. HANSCOMBE.
Max smiled. “Bingo.”