“Just follow my lead,” Madge whispered. What in the world does she mean? Walt wondered, staring at the sweet smile on Madge’s face as she beamed up at the head of security. “Hello, Miss Fitzbane, how nice of you to remember us.”
“What are you doing here?” Miss Fitzbane demanded, the light flashing off her round glasses making her look like Professor Strange in the Batman comics. “Why aren’t you in school?”
“Canceled,” Madge replied quickly, giving Walt’s arm a pinch. “So we could be with our families and pray for our country in its time of need.”
“Neither of which do you appear to be doing.” She focused on Walt. “What about you, boy, do you have a tongue in your head?”
“Um, well, I . . .”
“Walt’s family is in France, so he could hardly be with them. He wanted to come here because it’s where he feels most peaceful. Isn’t that so, Walt?”
Walt stared at Madge. “Actually . . . yes.”
“Plus we wanted to check in with Dr. Bean to see if everything was hunky-dory after what happened yesterday.”
“And did you find Dr. Bean? I haven’t seen him yet today.”
“He’s gone to talk to his friends at the FBI about getting poor Mr. Akiyama released,” Madge said. “But he asked us to help him with a special project at the museum—a scavenger hunt.” Madge nudged Walt and plucked his notebook out of his hands. “We’re making notes on it now. Doc thinks it will help keep kids’ minds off the war.”
“And have chill-drun running helter-skelter all over the museum, no doubt. I’ll have to have a word with him.”
Miss Fitzbane was turning toward the north galleries, but Madge slid in front of her. “Like I said, the doc’s not here.”
“I will leave him a note in his office,” she said, plucking an enormous ring of keys from the alligator handbag on her arm. “And make sure all is hunky-dory, as you put it.”
She sidestepped around Madge and started off toward the north galleries. “What’ll we do?” Walt whispered. “If she finds Kiku and Joe in there . . .”
“You go head off Miss Fishbone and delay her. I’m going to go through the basement and warn them.”
Madge took off toward a staircase on the southwest side of the hall, leaving Walt to head off the indomitable and scary Miss Fitzbane. That was something that Madge—fairly indomitable and a little scary herself—would be much better at. How those stories had flown from her lips! What a spy she would make! Why had she trusted him with this job? It was clear that she thought he was a naïve boy—News flash, kiddo!—and then he’d gone on about all the bad things in Germany.
He’d never told anyone about that because it embarrassed him that he’d done nothing. He remembered when they came to take Jacob Goldblatt’s father. Jacob Goldblatt had been his best friend, but Walt had hidden in a wardrobe when he’d heard the soldiers marching down their street. Afterward, he had seen Jacob crying on the stairs and he hadn’t gone up and comforted him because he was afraid that if people saw them together the Nazis might come and take his father away. That’s who the Egyptian boy had reminded him of—Jacob Goldblatt staring out at him through those ancient brown eyes. Well, he’d failed Jacob. He wasn’t going to fail Madge and Joe and Kiku.
“Uh, Miss Fitzbane!” he squawked when he’d caught up to her—which happened to be right next to the portrait of the Egyptian boy who looked like Jacob. She turned around, her skirt hissing, and glared at him.
“What is it, young man? I don’t have all day.”
He opened his mouth, willing a story to come to his lips the way they came to Madge’s, but those shiny round glasses seemed to mesmerize him into silence.
Miss Fitzbane clucked her tongue impatiently. “Are you trying to catch flies or do you have something to say?”
Walt gulped. He could feel the blood rising to his face. Why was it always so hard for him to speak up when he most needed to? He looked away from Miss Fitzbane into the eyes of the Egyptian boy.
It’s because you want everyone to like you, a voice inside his head said. What the heck did that mean? He looked back at Miss Fitzbane and noticed her name tag for the first time. HEAD OF SECURITY, it read beneath her name.
“This must be a difficult time for you,” Walt said. “I mean, making sure the museum is safe now that we’re at war.”
“You have no idea,” Miss Fitzbane snapped. “Three of our night guards quit today to enlist! Who’s going to protect all this?” She held up her long bony hands to indicate the statues and sarcophagi. “And where am I going to find replacements when every able-bodied man is running off to war? It’s an enormous responsibility.”
Walt whistled. “Jeez Louise—” That’s what Madge would say. “I bet! But I notice you’re always down here. I bet the director stays up in his office.”
“Well, yes,” she sniffed, touching the pin on her lapel. It was a weird pin shaped like a lizard with wings and with a human head at the end of its tail. It gave Walt the creeps. So did looking at her glasses. They seemed always to catch the light so you couldn’t see her eyes. “That’s only befitting his dignity. I like to keep . . . an eye on things.” When she said eye, her hips twitched, and Walt got the queasy feeling she had eyes back there. Yech!
“I’m here every Sunday, you know, and I’ve seen you prowling—I mean patrolling the galleries,” he said.
“Well, I have to.” She leaned closer to Walt. Her breath smelled like the dead mice he threw out for Aunt Sadie when they got caught in a trap. “You’d be surprised at how many guards I find napping. . . .” Miss Fitzbane went on to outline the grave security risks to the museum, from sleeping guards to unlocked exit doors. Unfortunately the unlocked exit door led her back to the subject of Dashwood Bean. “He has been known to disable the alarm and prop the door open to smoke his pipe!” she exclaimed. “I’ll add that to the note I plan to leave him.”
She was off again, alligator shoes clicking through the Egyptian galleries toward the Arms and Armor gallery and down the stairs. Walt could only follow, hoping that Madge had had time to warn Kiku and Joe. At the foot of the stairs, Walt thought he glimpsed a door closing in the hallway. He opened his mouth, and Miss Fitzbane wheeled on him as if she’d seen him.
“Catching flies again, boy?” she demanded. “Civilians—especially chill-drun—are not allowed in this section of the basement.”
“I-I just wanted another look at the workroom,” Walt stammered. “Dr. Bean said he’d give me a tour.”
“Well, you’ll just have to wait.” Miss Fitzbane was sorting through the keys on her enormous ring. Had they had time to get out? Would Miss Fitzbane notice anything amiss about the workroom? Had they put back everything in its right place?
Miss Fitzbane opened the door and flicked on an overhead light. The workroom was empty, the tabletop bare except for a piece of paper held down by a medieval dagger. Walt thought he could still detect the aroma of honey and tea he’d smelled earlier, but Miss Fitzbane didn’t seem to notice. She picked up the note. Walt read over her shoulder.
To whom it may concern,
I will be out today, attending to matters of the gravest national security. Miss Lake has accompanied me. Please refer any questions to my new assistant, Miss Margaret McGrory (who has been kind enough to take this note down from my dictation in her excellent hand).
Sincerely,
Dr. Dashwood Bean,
Esquire
“Assistant?” Miss Fitzbane sniffed. “We’ll see about that!” She sniffed again. “What is that smell?”
Walt shook his head. “I don’t smell anything.”
“Humph. Well, tell your friend Miss McGrorrrr-y that she shouldn’t expect a salary. I’ve heard the girls in accounting saying that Dr. Bean is far over budget.”
She shooed Walt out the door, but paused behind him on the threshold, hips twitching, glasses flashing
as she scanned the workroom suspiciously. When her eyes came to rest on Walt, he felt a chill run up his spine, but she only sniffed at him, as if she suspected he was the source of the peculiar odor in the room, and locked the door behind them.
* * *
Walt had to follow Miss Fitzbane back upstairs, but as soon as she left the Arms and Armor gallery, he ran back downstairs and knocked lightly on the door he’d glimpsed closing before. “Hey, guys,” he whispered, “the coast is clear.”
The door behind him opened and three faces peered out. “Is she gone?” Madge whispered—at least she tried to whisper. She had a carrying voice that could have been heard as far as Fifth Avenue.
Walt nodded and they all came down the hall. Joe was carrying a stack of books; Madge balanced four teacups and saucers. Kiku unlocked the door to the Arms and Armor workroom.
“Phew! That was close,” Madge said, collapsing in a chair. “Did she buy my note?”
“I think so,” Walt said, looking at the books Joe was laying out on the table. They were museum catalogues and guides to the exhibits. “She said not to expect a salary.”
“We’ll see about that,” Madge said, grinning. Then she slapped Walt’s arm. “Good diversionary tactics, Freckles. How’d ya do it?”
“I asked her about security precautions for the museum—Hey, did you know that three of the night guards quit to enlist?”
“Hm,” Kiku said, rattling the keys in the box they’d found in Dr. Bean’s desk. “That will make it easier for us to sneak around when we go get the first chapter.”
“You know where it is?” Walt asked.
“Kiku’s figured it out!” Joe said, beaming at her. “She knows where the first chapter is hidden.”
“Well, I don’t know,” she said, blushing. “But I have an idea. I was looking through the Greek and Roman collections because they were always swearing to the truth.”
“Hey, that’s what Freckles was saying,” Madge said. “We were on our way over there when we ran into Miss Fishbone.”
“It’s just as well you were delayed. There are some things you should know about this statue before anyone tries to get the chapter out of it.” Kiku slid a catalogue across the table for Walt and Madge to see. It was open to a page showing a black-and-white photo of a lion carved out of marble. Its mouth was wide open in a menacing snarl.
“Jeepers, he looks angry!” Madge said.
“She,” Kiku corrected her. “She’s a lioness, made in Greece around 400 BC. But she was found in a Roman ruin in Great Britain. They think she was meant to guard a tomb. There’s a superstition about her . . .” Kiku hesitated.
“Go on, tell them,” Joe urged her. “They ought to know.”
“It’s something Sir Bricklebank once told me. I thought it was just one of his fanciful stories, but then there was the incident . . . and now that we know he hid the book in the museum, I figure it might be important . . .”
“Go ahead and spill it!” Madge cried, fidgeting with impatience.
“Well . . . it was believed that if you put your hand in the lion’s mouth and told a lie, the lion would come to life and bite your hand off.”
“Holy moly! Why would anyone chance it?” Madge asked, looking with terror at the open mouth. “I wouldn’t put my hand in that thing on a bet.”
“I guess the threat was enough to make anyone afraid to lie. There’s a legend that a Roman centurion put his hand in it to swear his loyalty to the Emperor and he took out a bloody stump.”
“Holy smokes!” Walt said, his eyes wide. “And you think this is where Sir Bricklebank hid the first chapter?”
“It makes sense. It’s certainly worth a try. Only the Greek and Roman gallery is near the information desk in the Great Hall, where Miss Fitzbane sits during the day, and I’m afraid she’s already suspicious of us.”
“We should wait until night,” Joe said.
“You mean stay here after the museum is closed?” Walt asked, his eyes widening. “But isn’t that against the law?”
“So is poking around ancient artifacts, I suppose,” Madge said. “But what about the guards?”
“Walt just said that three of them quit,” Kiku said. “That leaves only two and it will be Jenkins and Carson, the two oldest guards. On nights I stayed here with my father I noticed that they usually spent the night playing pinochle or taking turns napping. It won’t be hard to avoid them. And the only other curators who stay late are Dr. Bean—who’s not here—and Monsieur Dupin, curator of European Sculpture and Decorative Arts. He spends his time in Marie Antoinette’s bed.”
“In what?” Madge asked.
Kiku smiled. “Well, it’s not really Marie Antoinette’s bed, but it is of the same period. He thinks he’s her reincarnation. He’s a little . . . eccentric. He won’t give us any trouble.”
“Well, then,” Joe said, “it’s settled. We’ll stay the night. Of course, if you two have to get home . . .”
“My aunt Jean won’t notice I’m gone,” Madge said—with a trace of bitterness, Walt noticed.
“My aunt Sadie will, but I can run home and sneak out. I’m not going to miss seeing the Lion of Truth! But what was the incident you were talking about, with the statue?”
“Oh,” Kiku said, “a little boy stuck his hand in it and said it bit him. The parents sued the museum because . . . well, the tip of his pinkie had been cut off.”
11
THE LION OF TRUTH
MADGE THOUGHT SHE should go home just in case Aunt Jean decided to put in an appearance. She found a note toothpicked to a tray of sandwiches in the icebox.
Gone to Niagara Falls with Tony to get hitched! Be back Friday. Lois will meet you at the diner back door to give you leftovers. Wish me luck! XOXO Jean
PS Stay out of trouble!!!
“Meet me at the back door,” Madge muttered, slamming the icebox. “Like I’m an alley cat or a tramp!”
She opened the icebox again and took out half a sandwich and a half-full bottle of milk. She sat chewing a liverwurst on rye without tasting it and then washed it down with the milk. When she was done, she left the unwashed milk bottle and a plate full of crumbs on the counter.
“What the heck!” she said out loud. “There’s no one here to notice.”
She went into Aunt Jean’s room and tried on her face powder, which made her sneeze, and then went through her closet looking for something she could wear tonight that would make her feel like a proper spy. Like Madeleine Carroll in Secret Agent. In the front of Aunt Jean’s closet were her extra waitress uniforms and the two good dresses she wore when Tony took her out to the movies on her nights off. Behind that row were silk dresses and scarves that Madge had never seen her aunt wear. She remembered, though, that Aunt Jean used to dance in vaudeville. When Madge was little, they’d sometimes go to New Haven to see her in a preview. Her mother told her once that Jean had lived in Greenwich Village with “the bohemians.” That must’ve been when she wore the high-waisted trousers Madge found at the back of the closet. Well, Jean wouldn’t miss them now that she was marrying Tony.
Madge put on the trousers and found that not only did they fit but they made her instantly feel more grown up. She practiced strutting around the apartment in them, hands in her pockets. She felt swell. She added a wool sweater, a navy peacoat that belonged to Frankie, and a tam-o’-shanter her mother had knitted for her that she pulled low over one eye. She gave herself a once-over in the mirror. She looked like a girl who could take care of herself, which was just as well, since apparently no one else was going to.
* * *
Joe stood behind the museum waiting for Madge’s arrival and watching the shadows that lurked outside the circle of light from the lone streetlamp. He’d spent enough time in the park to know that even though he didn’t see anyone that didn’t mean there wasn’t anyone hiding in the trees or brush. Or th
at every birdcall was made by a bird.
The men who lived in the park had their ways of moving through the woods without a sound and communicating with one another. Joe had learned about the signs they used the first time he’d hopped a train outside of Buffalo. The hoboes didn’t care that he was running away from the Mush Hole or that he’d hit the principal. They were all running from something they weren’t proud of. They taught Joe the language of hobo signs—symbols scratched in the paint of a fence or carved into trees that told a man which houses to ask for a handout and which to avoid, where it was safe to make camp, where there was a policeman or train guard who had it out for tramps. Following the signs had felt a little like walking in the woods with his Tóta, the way she would show him where a deer had lain down in the grass, where the ruffed grouse burrowed into the snow for warmth, and where to find the best berries in summer. It had made him feel like if he could just get home, he might someday learn his own language again.
He heard a rustling noise coming from the bushes near the tall stone spear that rose out of the trees. Kiku had told him that it was called Cleopatra’s Needle, although it didn’t look anything like the needle his Tóta used to mend his clothes. There were figures carved into it that looked like the pictures on the big stone coffins in the Egyptian wing of the museum. At the top was a row of birds wearing some kind of hats. Joe could almost figure out what the signs meant, but then he heard the rustle again and a stomping noise that reminded him of how the grouse sounded when they beat their wings to attract a mate in spring.
Thump . . . thump . . . thump . . .
Suddenly he remembered that this was where the name of his home came from—Akwesasne—the land where the ruffed grouse drums. The word unlocked a part of Joe’s brain where other words waited: niáwenhkó:wa, which was how you thanked someone and Katsi´tsienhá:wi, which meant “she is carrying flowers” and was his Tóta’s Mohawk name. He remembered how he used to say, “Konorónkhwa, Tóta” as he went off to bed. It meant “I love you.” And she would answer, “Konorónkhwa . . .” and then she would say his full name. Joe whispered “Konorónkhwa, Tóta” at the memory. He could almost hear his grandmother answering and saying his name when someone jumped out of the bush and yelled, “Boo!”