The other guard spoke up. “Oh, Mr. Benedict took that one! Couple weeks back. You were on break, Russ,” he said to the burly guard. “Said he was going to fix it up, but I don’t suppose he got around to it before he left. I saw it in his study not two days ago, and it was still in awful shape.”
Reynie’s heart leaped. “His study? I guess we should go down there, then.” He and the others quickly turned to go, only to find their way blocked.
“Listen, you kids, I know what you’re doing,” said Russ, the burly guard.
They stared at him in bewildered dismay. How could he know? Was this over before they’d even begun?
Reynie forced himself to speak. “You know what we’re . . . doing?”
“You’re trying to distract yourselves,” Russ said. “I understand. You’re worried about Mr. Benedict and Number Two, and you’re just aching to think about anything else. Am I right?”
“Yes!” cried Sticky from behind Reynie. He sounded much too eager to agree, and Russ might have paused to consider this had Constance not crossed her arms and grumpily remarked, “If you say so.”
“Let me give you some advice,” said Russ, scratching a dry patch on his left jowl. “If you really mean to be distracted, don’t go down to Mr. Benedict’s study. Go back to your room and play a nice little game. Okay?”
“Why?” Reynie asked. “Why not go into his study?”
“It’s serious business down there, son. They’re going through all his papers right now — every folder, file, and book — looking for clues to his whereabouts. They won’t let you in there, anyway. Not until they’re finished, at least.”
“Thank you,” said Reynie as calmly as possible. “It’s . . . good advice. Come on, everyone, let’s go play a game.”
The children hurriedly said goodbye to the guards, who watched in bemusement as they bumped into one another, sorted themselves out, and walked with strange jerky steps down the long hallway, looking for all the world as if they were trying not to run in panic.
“Poor kids,” said Russ in a low tone. “They’ll do anything to avoid the scary stuff.”
As soon as the children were out of sight of the guards, they ducked into the first available room (it happened to be Number Two’s bedroom) to discuss their dilemma.
“If they find that clue,” Kate said, closing the door, “you know we’ll never see it.”
“They may
“We have to assume they haven’t found it yet,” Reynie said. “Mr. Benedict has an awful lot of books and papers in that study, and they probably won’t think to check the dictionary until they’ve checked everything else.”
“We need a distraction,” said Kate. “Something to get them out long enough for us to slip in and grab it.”
“Any ideas?” Reynie asked.
Sticky began to look around the room as if seeking inspiration. Everything he saw was familiar to him already: the open wardrobe with its array of yellow clothing; the basket of sewing materials and stacks of science journals by the bed (Number Two scarcely slept — seldom more than an hour or two — and filled her long night hours with quiet activity); the tidy writing desk with its bouquet of pencils in a cup; and of course the well-stocked cupboard full of snacks (for though she required little sleep, Number Two had to eat almost constantly or else grow irritable and faint).
“I wish we hadn’t come in here,” Sticky muttered, depressed by so many reminders of their missing friend. He went to the window to give himself something different to look at.
Different, though, hardly described what Sticky saw through the window. Indeed, it was one of the strangest spectacles he’d ever witnessed. In the courtyard below, the three police officers were spinning round and round with their legs flying out behind them, as if they were the spokes of a wheel. They were all trying to hold onto whatever it was that was spinning them; they had all lost their caps; and one had even lost his toupee, which lay on the ground nearby like a stunned ferret. At the same time, on the sidewalk beyond the fence, the unpleasant Mr. Bane appeared to have just attempted an unsuccessful headstand, for he lay on his back staring confusedly at the sky. And as if all this weren’t enough to make Sticky suspect he was dreaming, no sooner had his brain registered the bizarre scene than a large bird swooped down into it, snatched the policeman’s toupee, and flew up into the eaves of the house.
Sticky rubbed his eyes, stared out again, and suddenly understood. “I think we have our distraction — Moocho Brazos just arrived.”
The others rushed to the window (Sticky gave Constance a boost so she could see) and quickly made sense of the commotion below: Moocho had come to see Kate for some reason; Mr. Bane had rudely refused to admit him, which had got him tossed over the fence; and the police officers had then felt compelled to restrain the huge man, which they did first by grabbing him, then by clinging desperately as he tried to spin them off on his way to the front door.
A buzzer rang somewhere in the house below, followed by the sound of doors banging open and people rushing down hallways and stairs. The guards were swarming to the exits, and everyone else was hurrying to windows to see what was the matter.
“Sticky’s right!” said Reynie. “Now’s our chance!”
And whirling around as fast as he could, he discovered the bedroom door wide open and Kate Wetherall already gone.
They found Kate coming up the stairs just as they were starting down. In her arms was a massive old dictionary, and her blue eyes twinkled with excitement. She pointed back the way they’d come. Everyone turned and headed straight to Constance’s room, where Kate locked the door and went to the window.
“Good,” she said, peeking out, “Rhonda’s down there trying to clear things up. That buys us time.” She clucked her tongue. “Poor Moocho. I’ll bet he got her telegram and was worried out of his head.”
“You weren’t seen?” Sticky asked.
