“Callan,” said Susan. “I’ve seen it. I suppose it makes sense, to blend in. Though I’d have thought it was quicker to take the Tube most of the time.”
“We can’t take the Tube,” said Merlin. He went out the front door but paused on the bottom step, resting one hand on the low iron gate. Susan shut the door behind them and stood on the next step up from Merlin, waiting for him to go on. But he didn’t move, instead looking up and down the square.
“The mythic palimpsest concept I mentioned to you—well, the layers are very thick and close throughout London in general, but particularly below. There are lots of things under us that are bound or forgotten, and best left undisturbed. And others, wakeful, but not roused to action. Our presence disturbs them. We only take the Tube when we absolutely have to.”
“Inconvenient,” muttered Susan. “What about the bus?”
“Oh, we can take buses all right,” said Merlin. “But one of our taxis is better. I was lucky they let me have one this morning. Either you’re really interesting or they’re feeling for me in my weakened state.”
“I’m sorry I grabbed your shoulder,” said Susan. “I should have remembered.”
“Didn’t feel a thing, to tell the absolute truth, but don’t let anyone else know,” said Merlin. He was still looking up and down the square. “Where has Aunt Audrey gone with my cab?”
Susan looked, too. There were plenty of cars parked up all around the square, but no black cabs.
“She’s taken a fare, damn it!” swore Merlin. “She’s always tempted by a short run, bit of extra pocket money. She wouldn’t dare do it for the older cousins. And it’s going to rain.”
“So we have to get the bus after all,” said Susan. She looked up at the clouds gathering above. It was going to rain, in defiance of a brief promise of the spring becoming an early summer even earlier, with blue sky and sunshine between approximately 8:20 a.m. and 9:13 a.m. “Um, where are we going, by the way?”
“The New Bookshop,” said Merlin, who was still studying the cars on their side of the square. “Mayfair. Stanhope Gate.”
“Oh. I thought Inspector Greene said you sold new books at a big shop in Charing Cross Road. I’ve been to Foyles. Is it near there?”
“The New Bookshop sells old books, collectibles, and rarities,” replied Merlin, who still hadn’t moved off the step. Following his gaze, Susan saw he was intent on a green Ford van with two men sitting in it. “The Old Bookshop sells new books in Charing Cross Road. About a hundred yards up from Foyles.”
“That’s confusing,” said Susan. “Are those the actual names of the shops?”
“Yes,” said Merlin. “The New Bookshop, in its current form, was built in 1802; the Old Bookshop was built in 1729. Hence New and Old. Have you seen that green van before? In the square?”
Susan looked. It was a very nondescript green panel van, at least a decade old. It had faded “Greater London Council” lettering on the side.
“I don’t know,” she answered slowly. “I don’t pay much attention to cars.”
The men in the car saw her looking, turned to each other, and had a very brief conversation, ending in mutual nods. Doors opened, and they got out. Two ordinary workmen in overalls. Though the balaclavas and hammers were a bit unusual. . . .
One of them pointed at Susan.
“You, Susan Arkshaw. Come here!”
“Go inside and tell Mrs. London to press the button,” said Merlin easily, opening his tie-dyed bag. His gloved hand went in and came out holding the very large revolver. A Smython .357, Susan recalled as she fumbled her key into the lock and pushed the door open.
“Mrs. London! Merlin says press the button!”
Outside, Merlin was speaking in a conversational tone.
“Drop those hammers and hold your hands up . . . very high.”
Mrs. London came down the stairs at a trot, Mister Nimbus at her heels.
Susan couldn’t quite hear what one of the men in balaclavas said, but it was something along the lines of “Pretty girl . . . that gun’s too big for—”
Followed by the boom of a gunshot, a scream, the sound of hammers clattering on the road, and Merlin calmly issuing some more instructions.
“Booksellers!” spat Mrs. London, hurrying over to the “Stag at Bay” print in the gilded frame that hung in the hall above the shared phone on the wall. She pushed a corner to tilt the painting, revealed a recessed push button in the wall, and pressed her thumb firmly against it for a full second.
Susan stood aside as the landlady surprised her even more by drawing a small, blue-finished automatic pistol from her apron pocket and going to the partly open door, where she stood off to one side and looked out, holding her pistol with both hands down by her thigh in what seemed a very professional manner.
“Hmph,” she said. As Susan moved closer, she added, “No. Stay there.”
Merlin was saying something else to the men. Susan tensed, half expecting another gunshot. But none came. In the distance, she heard multiple sirens.
“What’s happening?”
“Two very stupid men are lying facedown in the road, one of them likely missing half his foot,” said Mrs. London.
The phone rang. Mrs. London left the door partly open but kept watching it, backing up to pick up the handset with her left hand.
“London. Yes. Secure. Two assailants down in the street,
