Read Online The Red Necklace by Sally Gardner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sally Gardner
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fill Topolain’s place for the evening performance. He sat at his desk and opened the bottom drawer, where he found what he was looking for, a none-too-clean glass and a bottle of wine. He pulled out the cork and poured himself a drink. It tasted good. He closed his eyes, taking another sip.
He opened his eyes with a start. There, sitting in the chair before him, was someone he had never seen before, but who he knew at once was Count Kalliovski. It was as if the devil himself had appeared from nowhere.
The shock made him choke on his wine, spraying it over his desk. Desperately he tried to recover himself.
"Mort bleu, you gave me the fright of my life,” he gasped. Pulling out an overused handkerchief, he wiped his mouth and then the desk. “I didn’t hear you, monsieur!”
“Where are they?” demanded the count.
“Where are who?” said Monsieur Aulard, hurriedly refilling his glass.
The count’s hand in its black leather glove moved effortlessly toward the stem. With his fingers spread, he pinned the glass firmly to the table. “You know very well who I am after. The boy and the dwarf.”
“I know no such thing,” said Monsieur Aulard, trying to summon up much-needed indignation. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me where Topolain is.”
“Topolain is dead. I’ll wager you’ve been told as much by the dwarf. It was I who pulled the trigger. A most unfortunate accident, ” said the count with emphasis.
Sweat was beginning to form on Monsieur Aulard’s forehead. The room felt uncomfortably hot.
Kalliovski leaned forward and stared menacingly at him. “I need information.”
Monsieur Aulard felt an icy trickle of sweat creep down his back.
“You will tell me where they are hiding. I know you know where they are,” said the count, standing up.
“I assure you I do not. I haven’t seen them,” said Monsieur Aulard. Each word he spoke sounded shakier than the last.
“You have until the curtain goes up at seven to tell me,” said the count. “If you fail”—here he gave a mean, thin-lipped smile—“if you fail, I hope for your sake that you have made peace with your Maker.”
The door closed behind him as poor Monsieur Aulard waited to make sure that he had gone. Then, grabbing hold of the bottle, he drank what was left.
It was three o’clock and still snowing when Monsieur Aulard trudged up the stone stairs to the front door of his apartment. It swung alarmingly back and forth on its hinges.
“Hello,” called Monsieur Aulard, his heart beating so fast that he thought it might give out altogether. There was no answer.
“You been popular,” said his neighbor, a lady with a face like a ferret, sticking her head out of her front door. “A big man with a cloudy eye came looking for you and your friends.”
“What friends?” said Monsieur Aulard.
“The boy and that there dwarf. He said he knew them.”
Monsieur Aulard took out his wine-stained handkerchief and wiped the snow away from his face.
“He said he knew where to find you.”
Monsieur Aulard, dry-mouthed and terrified, pushed open the door. The apartment looked worse than it had this morning. His possessions had been thrown across the room, papers scattered, the table knocked over, and glasses smashed. Even his mattress had been pulled from the bed. Iago, his feathers all ruffled, was hiding in a cupboard. He looked wretched. Monsieur Aulard stroked the parrot’s head and put him back on his perch. Then he sat down in his armchair, and, feeling a piece of paper beneath him, pulled it out to see that it was a poster for the greatest show on earth, with Topolain and the People’s Pierrot, the first walking, talking, all-knowing automaton.
“I am ruined,” wept Monsieur Aulard. “The only time I have a success in my theater, it vanishes in a puff of smoke.”
Finally, exhaustion overcame him and he fell fast asleep. He woke with a start, changed, and made his way miserably back to the theater, terrified
He opened his eyes with a start. There, sitting in the chair before him, was someone he had never seen before, but who he knew at once was Count Kalliovski. It was as if the devil himself had appeared from nowhere.
The shock made him choke on his wine, spraying it over his desk. Desperately he tried to recover himself.
"Mort bleu, you gave me the fright of my life,” he gasped. Pulling out an overused handkerchief, he wiped his mouth and then the desk. “I didn’t hear you, monsieur!”
“Where are they?” demanded the count.
“Where are who?” said Monsieur Aulard, hurriedly refilling his glass.
The count’s hand in its black leather glove moved effortlessly toward the stem. With his fingers spread, he pinned the glass firmly to the table. “You know very well who I am after. The boy and the dwarf.”
“I know no such thing,” said Monsieur Aulard, trying to summon up much-needed indignation. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to tell me where Topolain is.”
“Topolain is dead. I’ll wager you’ve been told as much by the dwarf. It was I who pulled the trigger. A most unfortunate accident, ” said the count with emphasis.
Sweat was beginning to form on Monsieur Aulard’s forehead. The room felt uncomfortably hot.
Kalliovski leaned forward and stared menacingly at him. “I need information.”
Monsieur Aulard felt an icy trickle of sweat creep down his back.
“You will tell me where they are hiding. I know you know where they are,” said the count, standing up.
“I assure you I do not. I haven’t seen them,” said Monsieur Aulard. Each word he spoke sounded shakier than the last.
“You have until the curtain goes up at seven to tell me,” said the count. “If you fail”—here he gave a mean, thin-lipped smile—“if you fail, I hope for your sake that you have made peace with your Maker.”
The door closed behind him as poor Monsieur Aulard waited to make sure that he had gone. Then, grabbing hold of the bottle, he drank what was left.
It was three o’clock and still snowing when Monsieur Aulard trudged up the stone stairs to the front door of his apartment. It swung alarmingly back and forth on its hinges.
“Hello,” called Monsieur Aulard, his heart beating so fast that he thought it might give out altogether. There was no answer.
“You been popular,” said his neighbor, a lady with a face like a ferret, sticking her head out of her front door. “A big man with a cloudy eye came looking for you and your friends.”
“What friends?” said Monsieur Aulard.
“The boy and that there dwarf. He said he knew them.”
Monsieur Aulard took out his wine-stained handkerchief and wiped the snow away from his face.
“He said he knew where to find you.”
Monsieur Aulard, dry-mouthed and terrified, pushed open the door. The apartment looked worse than it had this morning. His possessions had been thrown across the room, papers scattered, the table knocked over, and glasses smashed. Even his mattress had been pulled from the bed. Iago, his feathers all ruffled, was hiding in a cupboard. He looked wretched. Monsieur Aulard stroked the parrot’s head and put him back on his perch. Then he sat down in his armchair, and, feeling a piece of paper beneath him, pulled it out to see that it was a poster for the greatest show on earth, with Topolain and the People’s Pierrot, the first walking, talking, all-knowing automaton.
“I am ruined,” wept Monsieur Aulard. “The only time I have a success in my theater, it vanishes in a puff of smoke.”
Finally, exhaustion overcame him and he fell fast asleep. He woke with a start, changed, and made his way miserably back to the theater, terrified
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