The toes of the Ouvolpo-Pierrots barely brushed the floor. Chad was turning purple beneath their white greasepaint. At first, Shenanigan thought Otto had escaped, but Beige, of all people, had managed to pin him against the front desk, one arm twisted behind his back. His glasses were crooked, his clothing torn.

“Put them down,” demanded Rousseau.

Paul and Denis glanced at Soufflé, who nodded. The two Pierrots were lowered to the floor, gasping, though the men kept a tight hold of their wrists.

“Beige?” said Grisaille, clinging to Soufflé’s sleeve. “Are you all right?” Beige nodded and eased her grip on Otto.

The Martinets, the Swifts, Ouvolpo, and the Société des Pierrots all looked between each other, like several armies that had turned up to a battlefield unsure of who they were supposed to be fighting. It was the most crowded the lobby had been in years. Shenanigan worried that the crack in the floor would split further, opening like a mouth and dropping them all into the catacombs below.

“Otto, you okay, man?” asked Chad, massaging their throat.

“I’m not Ruth. I mean, hurt,” Otto said, nursing his arm. “Vy?”

“Pgs,” spat Vy.

Soufflé beamed. “So, where is my dear niece?” he asked. “I don’t see her here. Nor the acrobat.”

The three members of Ouvolpo said nothing.

“Mercredi, call the police,” said Soufflé. “Unless, Inspector, you will arrest them yourself?”

Rousseau seemed almost disappointed in Ouvolpo, as if he had expected better of them than to be captured by the second-rate goons of Soufflé Martinet. “Coming here was unwise,” he said to them, but made no movement other than that.

Mercredi picked up the phone, but she only stared, conflicted, between Soufflé and the rotary dial.

“Did you mean Pomme?” she asked. “You’re saying Pomme is part of Ouvolpo?”

“She doesn’t have the drive for that sort of thing, surely,” said Débris doubtfully.

“It would take a lot of forward planning,” said Bouquet.

“For all her excellent qualities, that has never been her strong suit,” agreed Esprit.

“Beige searched her room,” said Soufflé impatiently, “and as soon as she found the sketchbook labeled ‘Tableau Ideas,’ I assure you, we managed to figure it out. Coming here was an act of desperation once she realized she’d stolen a fake.” He shook his head at Vy, Chad, and Otto. “Toujours j’attends has been kept here safely for decades. What made you think you could steal it now?”

Shenanigan glanced at Erf, who was leaning against the elevator, their ear surreptitiously pressed to the grille. They nodded to Shenanigan. It was time. Shenanigan caught Vy’s eye, and winked.

Vy’s face split into such a feral grin that Soufflé stepped back.

“Y’r t lt,” she croaked.

Bouquet frowned. “Pardon?”

“She said ‘you’re too late,’ ” said Shenanigan.

“We’ve got the Pierrot,” said Chad.

“You stole a fake,” Soufflé repeated to Vy, as if she hadn’t understood.

“We know,” said Otto. “And now we have the real one too.”

“The one from the Le Chiffre in the gray lady’s room,” added Chad.

“I…That’s not possible,” said Grisaille, clutching her pearls. “I checked it just this morning.”

“Maman,” said Soufflé, “perhaps I should go and—”

“No,” said Grisaille firmly, shaking her blindfolded head. “This is an act of desperation, as you said. Mercredi, I have not heard you finish dialing.” Her voice was suddenly sharp, authoritative. It made the rest of the Martinets jump.

Mercredi looked up from the phone. Her dark eyebrows were set into a frown. “Ouvolpo killed Bernard. Pomme would never kill Bernard,” she said firmly. “There has been a mistake.”

Monsieur Laurent stepped forwards to address Grisaille, fiddling nervously with his tie. “Madame, if I may. We have all just learned that your Family knowingly provided the museum with a fake for our exhibition. This I can forgive, under the circumstances, as the one I examined here a few days ago was undoubtedly the original, and so has been saved from theft. But if what these thieves say is true…”

He trailed off, but the implication was clear. Produce the real sculpture, or there will be no exhibition. No exhibition, no ticket sales, and no share of the profits for the Martinet Family.

“Very well,” said Grisaille. “You may set your mind at ease, Monsieur. Souris, with me. And, dear Shenanigan, if you would accompany me too?” she quavered. “For my comfort.”

Shenanigan began to step towards the lift.

“If you don’t mind,” called Aunt Schadenfreude, “I’d like to come as well.”

A hand closed round Shenanigan’s heart and squeezed. This was not part of the plan. Aunt Schadenfreude wore an expression of polite interest, but Shenanigan could see her eyes glinting in that wrinkled face. She had an unnerving knack of knowing when Shenanigan was up to something.

Grisaille paused. “Thank you, Schadenfreude, but it’s not necessary.”

“No, no”—Aunt Schadenfreude waved her walking stick—“this is the most exciting thing to happen since my retirement. Come on, Grisly. For old times’ sake? Family unity, and all that.”

Grisaille shrugged. “Very well,” she said, stepping into the lift. Souris dragged the grille closed behind them. He inserted his brass key into the mechanism, and the lift jerked and shuddered upwards towards the Management Suite, the bent metal dragging against the elevator wall.

They were all quiet, listening to the grinding and scraping of their ascent.

“I have been meaning to ask,” said Aunt Schadenfreude mildly. “The blindfold?”

Grisaille sighed. “The world looks so different now,” she said sadly. “In the end, I became sick of looking at it. You’re of a similar age. You understand.”

“Not really,” said Aunt Schadenfreude. “I just assumed you had got conjunctivitis again, like when you were six.”

There was a loud thump, and the lift juddered to a halt.

“This elevator,” tutted Grisaille, shaking her blindfolded head as Souris opened the door at the top of the car and slithered out. They heard him tinkering, one foot swinging through the open panel and narrowly missing Shenanigan’s nose. “Always gets stuck between the fourth and sixth floors. Every time we try to fix it, it breaks again.”

“Mmm,” said Aunt Schadenfreude, squinting up through the trapdoor. “Competent grandchild you have there.”

“Grand-nephew.”

“Of course.”

Souris hopped back down into the car, pulled the lever, and the elevator dragged its way upwards again.

“You really do remind me of my Pomme,” Grisaille said to Shenanigan. “I hope you don’t go the way she did. She was always a troublemaker.”

“A bad apple, as it were,” said Aunt Schadenfreude.

“Yes. But there’s still time with this one,” Grisaille said, reaching out and patting Shenanigan’s hair. “You’ll want to watch her, Schadenfreude.”

“I feel I do little else.”

The elevator stopped with a reluctant ping.

“Come along,” said Grisaille. Souris scurried ahead of her, first to get the grille, and then to unlock her room. As soon as she was inside, Grisaille wrenched the blindfold off her face. She glanced around her featureless gray room, with its ashen floor, rain-colored wallpaper, and steel-upholstered furniture, sighing in relief.

“That’s better,” she said, turning her gray eyes on Schadenfreude. She looked her cousin up and down. “You’ve got old.”

“You’re one to talk.” Schadenfreude surveyed the room. “I love what you’ve done with the place. Very, ah, neutral.”

“I have kept it just as it was when I was a girl, other than the color scheme,” Grisaille said proudly. She turned to the black-and-white photo on the wall, the one of her father, Tyran, on opening day, and swung back the frame. Behind it was the dense black beast that was the Le Chiffre. Shenanigan watched carefully as Grisaille twisted the dial, lips moving as she entered the combination. She opened the safe, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the box was still there.

“Great, let’s go,” said Shenanigan, turning on her heel.

“Hold on. Let me be sure.”

Shenanigan lingered by the half-open door as Grisaille lifted out the case, exactly the same as the one Ouvolpo had used when they’d stolen the fake. She carried the case to her table and opened it. The Pierrot looked out, his sad eyes staring from the pool of black velvet, and she caressed his cheek with one gray hand.

“I knew those creatures were lying,” she murmured. She closed the clasp with a snap and moved towards the door.

“You’re bringing it downstairs?” asked Aunt Schadenfreude, surprised. “Ouvolpo could still take it, you know.”

Grisaille shrugged. “That inspector is there, and I’m sure by now the police are on their way. The three we have will give up their compatriots, one way or another. It’s such a shame we don’t have the guillotine anymore. I would pay to watch their heads roll.” She sighed. “I would even endure the sight of all that red.”

Souris retied her blindfold, and they headed back to the elevator. It was only once it started moving again that Shenanigan, who had made herself keep quiet all this time, spoke.

“You couldn’t have kept him in the dark forever, you know,” she said.

“I don’t plan to,” Grisaille said, surprised. “I do think he should bring people joy. For the price of a ticket, split sixty–forty between the Musée Deburau and us.”

“I’m not talking about the sculpture. I’m talking about Pierrot.”

Grisaille’s smile wavered. Her head turned in Shenanigan’s direction. Grisaille couldn’t see her, but Shenanigan felt those gray eyes regardless, boring through the fabric. Arch-Aunt Schadenfreude, leaning into the corner of the elevator, watched the exchange with interest.

“Oh dear, Grisaille,” she murmured. “What have you been up to?”

The lift slowed to a stop. Souris opened the grille, and Grisaille’s smile was back in place. She held up the box containing the Pierrot.

“Here,” she said. “As I said. Safe and sound.”

Which was when Pomme dropped through the ceiling of the elevator car, snatching the Pierrot from her grasp.

“Martinets! Swifts! Pierrots!” Pomme cried, striding forwards. She wore her blue frock coat. A set of paintbrushes hung at her hips. Two bandoliers, one containing pastels, one containing chalks, crisscrossed at her chest. Her familiar grin lit the room. “Unaffiliated henchmen! And you, Inspector! Lend me your— Ouf!”

In a second, Beige was on Pomme, wrenching back her arm, but to do that she had to let go of Otto. As Pomme went down, she slid the case across the floor towards the now-freed Otto, who snatched it easily. Paul and Denis were not very intelligent men, and let go of Vy and Chad in order to dive for the case—which meant Otto could toss it overhead to Vy, who tossed it to Felicity, who very carefully placed it in the care of Chad, who finally threw it to Shenanigan, who had just leapt up onto the front desk. She opened the case and pulled out the sculpture. The Pierrot’s sad eyes surveyed the crowd. The assembled members of the Société des Pierrots gasped, and some, overcome by the sight of this artistic holy grail, began to weep.

Shenanigan held the Pierrot aloft over the black-and-white tiled floor of the lobby.

“Everyone stay calm!” she shouted. “Or the clown gets it!”

The room froze.

Grisaille sidled forwards, her hands out as if she was trying to soothe a wild animal.

“Pomme,” she said to her granddaughter, still in Beige’s grip. “What is this? What are you doing?”

Pomme ignored her. She glared at Soufflé. “Let my friends go,” she said.

Soufflé laughed, disbelieving. “If you think—”

Shenanigan tossed the Pierrot up in the air and caught it neatly.

“Ask my family how good I am at breaking things,” she said.

Soufflé stepped back, looking ill. Paul had secured Vy in a headlock, but with a nod from Soufflé, he released her.

Vy looked up at Pomme. “Dd ml gt t?” she asked. Pomme nodded.

“Then it’s done,” Vy said. Her voice was low and pleasant and very French, now that she had her vowels back. She bowed sarcastically to the assembled audience. “I would say that it has been a pleasure, but it certainly was not. Martinets, adieu. Inspector”—and her smile to Rousseau was sharp—“à bientôt.”

The next moment, Chad, Vy, and Otto had slipped out of the Hôtel, and were gone.

Grisaille’s lips were so thin they were almost invisible. “Did you call the police?” she asked Soufflé. He nodded. “Then they’ll soon be caught.”

“There’s a line of Pierrots stretching all the way round the building,” noted Pomme. “How are they supposed to pick three of them out of a crowd? Or will they just arrest them all? I’m not sure the police have that many pairs of handcuffs.”

“Please.” Laurent stepped forwards, eyes on Shenanigan. “I’m not sure what’s going on, but you are holding a piece of history that means a lot to many people. Whatever your disagreements are—”

“We can negotiate,” said Soufflé, dabbing his bald spot with his handkerchief. “There has to be something you want. Get down, and we can discuss things.”

“He’s right. Pomme, call the child off. You don’t want to ruin your Family,” said Grisaille.

Pomme laughed. “I really, really do, though.”

With no small amount of satisfaction, Shenanigan dropped the Pierrot. The little clown plummeted, and managed to turn one full revolution before it smashed to fragments on the Hôtel tiles.