Public Enemy Number Two

“But he isn’t even wet.”

“Another boat, then?”

“Did you hear anything?”

Tim shook his head. Meanwhile the figure had reached the gate and was opening it, turning the padlock with a heavy brass key. He was dressed in dark trousers and shirt. He looked up and down the road, checking that there was nobody in sight. Then he went back to the boat.

“It’s impossible . . .” Tim hissed.

“Sssh!”

There was a soft rumbling and a truck appeared, its tires crunching on the gravel. For a moment I thought it was going to drive right past, but then it stopped and reversed, coming to a halt with its back only a foot or so from the gate. It was the sort of truck you see outside houses when people are moving. The back folded up like a venetian blind. Two men got out and moved toward Penelope.

The first man—the one in the dark clothes—had been joined by three more, each of them carrying a crate the size of a tea chest. They were walking out of the boat as if they had been there all evening. But I knew that wasn’t the case. The boat had been empty when we explored it. It had never been out of our sight since. So where had the men come from—and for that matter, the crates?

And that was only the start. The five men must have made a dozen journeys to Penelope and each time they returned to the truck they were carrying something more. First there were some more crates. Then there was a rack of coats, a stereo system, another dozen crates, and finally two oil paintings, each of them bigger than the cabin they’d just come out of.

By now they’d managed to fill an entire truck from an empty boat. The two men got back inside and it drove off—only to be replaced by a second. Then the whole procedure began again. This time they carried three antique tables, six crates, two rolls of carpet, four life-size statues, and—to cap it all—a grand piano. The piano had to wait for a third truck to arrive. The way things were going I wouldn’t have been surprised if a ninety-piece orchestra had followed.

“It’s impossible,” Tim muttered for a second time.

And I had to admit, he was right. It was impossible. You must have seen that trick magicians do on the stage. They show you an empty hat and then they pull out a rabbit. Well, imagine the same thing only with an elephant and you’ll get the general idea.

The whole operation took an hour. At last the third truck moved away. The man in the dark clothes locked the gate and went back to the boat. The light went out and then everything was just as it had been before it started.

For a long time neither of us spoke. Then Tim broke the silence. “Nick,” he said, “do you think you could have missed all that when you searched the boat?”

“Missed it?” I almost screamed. “You were there, too. The boat was empty. We’d have had to be blind to miss it. I mean . . . where do you think it all was? Under the licorice paper?”

I closed my eyes, trying to work it all out. Penelope . . . I’d realized there was something screwy about it from the very start. And now I remembered what it was. It hadn’t rocked. The morning we’d arrived in Wapping, I’d seen it. The Thames water chopping and swelling but the boat standing fast. Like it wasn’t actually floating.

And then I thought about Johnny Powers. I followed him when he’d “gone to Penelope.” I knew what he’d meant by that now. But he hadn’t gone anywhere near the dock. So maybe . . .

“Let’s move,” I said.

“Where?”

I smiled at Tim. “Where do you think? To the Wapping subway station.”

UNDERGROUND

The subway system had shut down for the night, but just for once luck was on our side. The station must have been being cleaned, as the door was open and the lights were on. Not that they were expecting anyone to break in. What was there to steal after all? A ticket machine?

Even so, we crept in as quietly as we could—in case there was someone around to stop us. At the last minute I managed to stop Tim from trying to buy a ticket and we headed for the stairs. Then it was back down the winding staircase and onto the platform where I had lost Powers the first time. The station was as silent as a tomb. The arched brickwork could have come straight from a cemetery. All it needed was a couple of coffins to complete the picture.

We walked to the end of the platform and gazed into the endless night of the tunnel. There would be no trains for at least five hours. I assumed that meant there would be no electricity in the tracks either. If I was wrong, I might be in for a nasty shock in more ways than one. But I had to be right. The tunnel stretched underneath the Thames. Somewhere there had to be another passageway leading to . . . But I still had no idea what I’d find at the other end.

“Nick,” Tim whispered. “I don’t think there’s going to be another train tonight.”

“Tim!” I thought I’d explained it to him already. “We’re not taking a train.”

“Well, if you’re hoping for a bus—”

“We’re walking!”

“Down there?” Tim stared at me, his mouth as wide as the tunnel’s.

“It’ll be easy.”

That was when the lights went out. The darkness hit us, a right hook between the eyes. There must have been somebody in the station after all because a moment later I heard the clatter of the iron gate being drawn across the entrance. Then there was nothing. No sound. No light. You had to pinch yourself to be sure you were still alive.

“Easy?” Tim’s voice quavered out of the darkness.

“Hang on a moment . . .”

Fortunately I still knew what direction I was facing. In the total blackness I could have taken three steps and hurled myself off the edge of the platform. I reached out and found the wall. Then slowly I shuffled toward the tunnel. There were three steps leading down—I remembered them from my first visit. My foot found the top one and I lowered myself. My shoulder hit one of the fire buckets with a dull clang.

“Who is it?” Tim squeaked.

I ignored him. Somehow I found the sliding door. With a sigh of relief I felt it open. I ran my hand up and down the wall, searching for the light switch. I hit it with my thumb. The light went on.

Tim came down and gazed into the storage room. It was just as I remembered it: telephones, dust, litter, and a tap. “There’s nothing here,” I said. “Let’s go before something horrible happens.”

“Wait a minute.” Tim pushed past me.

“What’s up?”

“I’m thirsty.”

What happened next was the second big surprise of the night. Surprise? You could have knocked me sideways—in fact, Tim did knock me over sideways in his hurry to get out.

He’d gone over to the tap. He turned it on. Nothing came out. He muttered something and hit it with the heel of his hand. The tap swiveled in the wall. There was a loud click. And a moment later a whole section of the wall swung open to reveal a jagged entrance and a stairway leading down. I stared at it.

“Tim!” I exclaimed. “You’ve found it!”

“That’s right!” he agreed. “I have!” He frowned. “What have I found?”

“The answer. That’s how Johnny Powers disappeared the day I followed him. He didn’t go into the tunnel. He went down there.”

Tim looked at the stairs. “A secret passage . . .”

“And you opened it when you twisted the tap. You’re brilliant!”

Tim smiled. “Just leave it to me, kid,” he drawled. “I told you I’d look after you.”