The Hippo at the End of the Hall Read online

  He was good with maps, so much so that Mom often joked, “That boy’s got a compass in his head.” As far as he could tell, Dial Avenue ought to be the first road on the other side. He peered across the water, munching. On the opposite bank there was a row of old houses. Where those houses ended, a building site with half-built modern houses ran down toward the river. Beyond them he could see the edge of the weir and the disused footbridge that ran over it.

  In spite of his promise, Ben would have liked to inspect the weir more closely. It looked interesting, though from the bridge, very little except the spume from the waterfall was visible. His view was blocked by a wooded peninsula of land, which projected into the river between the building site and the weir. He had a feeling the museum lay among those trees.

  The leaden sky spat a fat raindrop onto his map. It spread like a hint right on the spot where he had guessed the museum would be. More rain; it was time to go if he wasn’t going to get soaked. As he pedaled, he wondered again, why had Mom not wanted him to visit the museum? Was she just scared of the weir, or did she know something about that afternoon with Dad?

  He had never asked her about that: partly because he had never dared, but also because it was a secret he wanted to keep to himself.

  He found Dial Avenue with little trouble and biked in the rain along a row of tall, dilapidated buildings built of small black bricks. Most had several doorbells, which meant that they were apartments. None of them looked like a museum. Halfway down the road, on the side nearest the river, the dwellings ended. Perhaps a grand crescent-shaped street had once stood there, but now, behind a fence, there was a building site where stationary bulldozers and diggers rested among unfinished boxy houses. These might have made a good hideout — although something about them seemed uneasy, as if they were crouching on the surface of the riverbank wondering whether to slither in.

  Beyond the mud and the tangled wasteland were the woods. Ben spotted a clock tower among those February-bare trees. He sped toward it and found a melancholy building that looked as though no one had visited it for a long time. Leaves were strewn on the driveway and had drifted onto the steps. Paint peeled from the woodwork. He pulled up at the front railing and gazed doubtfully at the dark windows and the sodden, cheese-colored facade. Was this it?

  A large furry bee appeared and bumbled around his head. Ben flapped his hands rather dramatically — he wasn’t a fan of bees. Yet, once the bee had drifted toward the double doors, he called after it in a gruff deep voice that was supposed to sound confident, “What are you doing out in the rain?”

  The bee didn’t reply — not that Ben had expected it to — but it landed on a small sign to the left of the doors. Ben got off his bike and ran up the steps to read it. This is what it said:

  So he had found it.

  But it wasn’t open on Sundays.

  And even if tomorrow was a third Monday, there wouldn’t be time to come after school. He’d have to hope Mom would let him come the following Saturday — if next Saturday was a second Saturday. How could he even know?

  Confused, he trudged back down the steps. The rain was turning torrential. And he was cold and deeply disappointed. And though he tried to be brave, the sides of his mouth kept dragging downward as if little weights were pulling at their corners. In fact, he felt as miserable as the sobbing sky.

  Across the road a café leaked light onto the flooding pavement. Above the steamed-up windows was a very welcoming sign with an image of a cake.

  Ben knew it wasn’t safe to ride home in this sort of rain. He fumbled in his bag. At the bottom he found a few coins stuck to a fluffy hard candy. Maybe he had enough for a muffin? He locked his bike to the railing, then crossed to the café.

  Inside, the café was warm and smelled of wet coats and coffee and freshly baked cake. Other damp customers were drinking and eating. Ben gazed like a hungry dog at the cakes beneath the glass. There were no price labels.

  “How much is a slice of that?” he asked, pointing to a honey-colored sponge cake topped with cherries.

  The waitress named more money than he had.

  Ben lost his nerve and pointed to a carton of orange juice he knew he could afford. “I’ll have that instead.”

  “To drink in here?” the waitress said, curling her lip as she picked up the sticky coins.

  Ben nodded glumly.

  “I’ll bring it to your table.”

  He slunk to a booth near the window so that he would know when the rain died down. Presently his unwanted juice arrived with an unwanted glass. The waitress turned with her tray and unloaded coffee and a hunk of oozing chocolate cake at the booth opposite, where a thick-necked man in an over-tight coat had his nose buried in some papers. Ben’s eyes tracked the cake. The man was a clumsy eater. Crumbs spilled down his front as he munched. His thick lips looked almost too big for his mouth, and his teeth were pointed and crowded as if he possessed more than the usual number.

  The door opened, creating a draft.

  The man rose with chocolate frosting smeared on his chin and waved to the woman who entered. The woman was tall and thin and beige, from her pointy shoes to the top of her smooth, round head. Even her umbrella was beige. Her large crocodile handbag was beige; her cat’s-eye glasses were beige; her smile was beige; everything was beige, except her nails, which were painted a nasty shade of purple. And Ben recognized her. She was the director of that new Discovery Museum — he’d seen her picture on its website. He decided that in real life she looked even more like a tall, sinuous insect.

  Her protruding eyes darted nervously around the café. “You’re sure it’s wise to talk now?” she murmured.

  “Don’t worry,” the man said, waving her to his table. “It’s very private here.” He paused to wink. “Glad you could make it early. I’d like to go over a couple of things before we head across the street to the old lady. I didn’t want to use the phone. You never know . . .”

  “ . . . who’s listening in?” the woman finished for him.

  The man nodded.

  Ben was curious. Mom mentioned an old lady at the museum, he thought. And he pricked up his ears.

  A plate of the honey-colored cherry cake arrived for the insect woman. She took a polite bite, then left it while she pulled a folder from her bag. Ben could smell the cake.

  The woman said, “How an old lady runs a museum on her own, I can’t imagine. Are you sure you’ve never seen any other staff?”

  The man slurped his coffee. “Never,” he said. “No idea how she does it; she must be ancient.”

  The woman squeezed lemon into her tea. “She does seem to have been there forever — I’ve looked into it very carefully — and there really doesn’t seem to be anyone waiting to take over after she goes. The museum’s always belonged to the Gee family, and she’s the last of them. There’s no record of any surviving heirs.”

  The man nodded. “Actually there was a relative, a cousin of some sort, but he drowned several years ago. And for some reason there are no trustees either. In fact, there’s no evidence that anyone else is interested in the place — it’s a ridiculous way to run a museum.”

  The insect woman picked up her cake as if to take a bite but returned it to the plate untasted. “Surely she’ll sell?” she said. “It must be such a struggle to keep the place open at her age.”

  “It’s hardly ever open.”

  “Do you think the city council will step in and save it?”

  “They might have, but you know yourself they haven’t had any funds since the flood last year. Any extra cash for this area would go to fixing up the weir. It’s a mess — could even be dangerous.”

  “Well, she can’t go on running a museum forever.”

  “You’d think not,” said the man with a bitter laugh, “but I’ve been trying to get her to sell me the place for years. I could build a lot of houses on that land.”

  So that’s it, thought Ben in disgust. He’s a property developer, maybe like the one who wants to buy
Mom’s shop.

  “Well, hopefully, we’ll persuade her to sell,” said the woman. Her pale thin tongue flicked briefly over her top lip. “But what’s your plan if she still refuses?”

  And with those words, their conversation changed. They began to speak lower. Their heads drew closer, and the looks that passed between them grew secret and unpleasant.

  “I don’t have much time left,” hissed the woman, clasping her hands. Two purple talons rested under her pointed chin. “The funding will go elsewhere if I don’t move fast. Have you thought of some way to . . . well . . . to persuade the old lady that she needs to sell quickly?”

  The man was very still.

  She leaned forward. “The museum’s in a terrible state. I’d’ve thought a little bad luck — like . . . maybe an infestation of vermin — might close her down for good.”

  The man rubbed his nose. “You talking rats? Or insects?”

  “Well . . . something along those lines.” She glanced at the cake and then slipped her hands into the opposite sleeves of her jacket. (Ben thought this made her look like a praying mantis.)

  “A flood would finish things faster,” the man grunted.

  “But that could damage the exhibits.” The woman pursed her neat little mouth. “Unless, of course, it were only a small flood . . . The best of the collection is well above ground level. A small flood might be safe enough. It would ruin the building, though . . . wouldn’t it? Mold and rot, filth from the river, overflowing sewers — the cleanup would be expensive, don’t you think?”

  “Bound to be,” the man said with a smirk. “Old buildings like that cost a pile to fix up — and flooding is a possibility this winter. That weir’s not been maintained properly. I’ve been keeping an eye on it because we’re still working on the land next door.”

  “I realize that.” The woman withdrew one hand from her sleeve, and two purple nails tap-tap-tap-tapped on the table the way a spider might tap on a web. “So . . . you think a flood might be . . . arranged?”

  The man rubbed his stumpy neck thoughtfully. “Accidents do happen. . . . Burst water main, maybe . . . ? Or at this time of year, with the river this high, if something fell into the weir and blocked it . . . that might cause a lot of trouble.”

  There was a heavy pause.

  “Might it?” Her pale eyes stared fixedly.

  The man sniffed.

  She regarded him with a predatory gaze. “I have to have it.”

  The man gave one sharp nod. “I understand.”

  Now the woman leaned back. “Well,” she said briskly, “with luck that won’t be necessary. I have a very enticing proposal for her here.” She passed the folder to the man. “I think we’re worrying about nothing. At her age I suspect it would be a huge relief to sell. She could retire very comfortably on what we’re offering.”

  “And who could resist you?” The man’s jowls wobbled into a sharky smile. “If anyone can charm the old lady, you can.”

  The woman laughed like a cracking mirror. “You’re very confident.”

  “I am now that you’re on board. And I’ve got friends who can push this through once she’s signed on the line.”

  “I’ll bet you have.”

  He paused to look at his flashy watch. “Look, we’re not due there for another twenty-five minutes. Time for another cup while I have a last look through the corrections . . . and you haven’t eaten your cake. Do you mind if I . . . ?”

  “Go ahead,” she said, pushing her plate toward him.

  Ben’s heart thudded. These people were planning to flood the museum — on purpose!

  He had to tell someone.

  But who should he tell?

  The police?

  Would they believe him?

  Would they believe a boy instead of this important-seeming beige insect lady? He knew that they wouldn’t. They would say he hadn’t understood what he’d heard. Or they’d say he shouldn’t eavesdrop on grown-ups.

  So would Mom.

  There was only one thing he could do. He must warn the old lady himself.

  The waitress reappeared. Ben slipped out behind her broad back, hoping he wouldn’t be noticed. The insect woman glanced up sharply as he left.

  “It’s just a kid,” Ben heard the man say.

  Ben splashed back up the museum steps and knocked on the great wooden doors. Then he glanced over his shoulder, half expecting to see the insect woman watching him through the café window.

  She wasn’t watching.

  But nobody answered the door.

  He knocked again, more urgently this time.

  The doors remained shut, solid and forbidding, and he saw that the lintel was festooned with cobwebs as if the doorway had been undisturbed for a while.

  Or else they were spun by tropical super-spiders, he worried. Ben didn’t like insects. He especially didn’t like insects that stung, yet here came another of those bees that shouldn’t have been out in February at all. The bee flew over his head and bumped against the crack between the doors.

  Another bee joined it.

  Then a third.

  This was too many bees for Ben. When he turned, he saw more bees dancing in the rain above the steps behind him. The bees at the door flew to join them. They seemed unusually dark and fat. They seemed to be blocking his way — or that is what he thought as he retreated in panic until his back was pressed hard against the doors, and when he couldn’t go any farther backward, he begged the building desperately, “Please let me in!”

  He didn’t really expect the doors to open. But all of a sudden they swung inward. He was leaning so hard against them that he stumbled and almost fell. Then, while he was catching his balance, the door slammed:

  BANG!

  And Ben had a sense of leaving the world behind.

  He was in a dark lobby, surrounded by the mechanical creaking and ticking of an orchestra of clocks of every shape and size.

  Who had let him in?

  He saw nobody, yet the back of his neck prickled, and he had a sense of something that might have been green — if there had been light to see it by — something small, that scuttled down the door and fled across the flagstones.

  And gradually, as he grew accustomed to the dark, he saw that in addition to the clockfaces that lined the walls, there were eyes gleaming back at him.

  They were the tawny eyes of hawks, the red eyes of waterfowl, the smaller bead-black eyes of songbirds. Perched on top of each clock was a bird, and all those birds faced the door, and what with the eyes, and the clockfaces, and the flagstones, and the faraway shadowy ceiling, Ben felt as if he had interrupted a private church ceremony.

  “They’re only stuffed birds,” he told himself.

  His voice in that stone room sounded louder than he had meant it to. A small owl that was perched on top of an elaborate casement clock appeared to stare down at him with disapproval — in fact, if a glare could be loud, this owl’s glare would have been deafening.

  Ignore it, thought Ben. It’s only a stuffed owl.

  He turned from the owl to face a wicked-looking shoebill that stood before the empty ticket booth. The booth was unlit, unoccupied. Beyond it, the museum curved to the right. All that was visible immediately ahead was an oil painting of a family group in old-fashioned clothes. The grown-ups in the painting looked rather somber, but there was a girl with tawny hair who sat in the center, wearing the sort of secret smile that could brighten any room. That smile seemed to welcome him in. Encouraged, he took a couple of steps. That was when he felt an odd tingle through his shoe and immediately the casement clock with the owl on top began to chime.

  Ben jumped.

  The clock struck the hour seven times. Yet the hands on the painted face indicated that it was 3:55. The clock shouldn’t have been striking at all.

  It’s an old clock, Ben said to calm himself. There’s just something wrong with it.

  Then it occurred to him that the chime and the buzz he had felt in his foot had seemed instant
aneous. Could the chime be a signal, like a doorbell announcing his presence?

  This seemed unlikely. Yet when he raised his foot, he saw a flat brass button embedded in the flagstone. He figured that standing on this button might make the clock chime. It seemed foolish to test this theory by stepping on the button again. Yet he did it anyway. And the clock repeated its chime.

  Silver echoes floated through the building.

  “Now someone will come,” he muttered.

  He remembered the invitation and tugged it from his pocket. This time he noticed that the owl in the picture was not unlike the one on the casement clock. He looked back at the real owl. He had a feeling that it had moved — its head looked straighter.

  “Don’t be silly,” he told himself, and strode over to examine the painting. He wanted to look at the girl instead of the scowling owl.

  As he drew closer, he saw that the picture was full of animals too. He noticed that one of the young men had a chameleon on his shoulder, and even a stern old lady had a mouse in her pocket — or it could perhaps have been a shrew, like the one on the ticket; it was hard to tell. Ben wondered how it would feel to be part of a big family with so many animals.

  “Lucky,” he murmured wistfully. “I wonder who they were.”

  A brass plaque on the wall below held the answer. It was engraved with these words:

  “Well, I’m a visitor,” announced Ben, “and I’ve got an invitation.”

  One of the other young men in the painting had an owl perched behind him. It looked rather like that same owl again. Ben turned to the real owl and flapped his invitation at it. The gesture felt foolish even as he did it, so he hurried to the adjoining room, glad that no one had seen him.

  Next door, the wall held glass cabinets full of more birds. Most were posed among faded models of their natural habitats. Some were hunting. Some were nesting. Some were eating. All of them seemed watchful.