A Map of Days (Miss Peregrine's Peculiar Children, #4)(44)

“Not as such,” I said. “Look, there’s nothing to worry about and there’s no need to go into too many details. I’m not here to dig up bodies from your past. I just need to get in touch with the one called H. You spent time with him. You work here, in the inner sanctum . . .” I tumbled my hands, a gesture meant to imply the connection. “You’re my best bet.”

He sighed, and I saw him relax a little. He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against one of the shelves. “They didn’t leave me their business card, or anything,” he said, “and even if they had, that was a long time ago.”

“I was hoping there might be something in your files,” I said. “The ymbrynes must have had some way to get in touch with them.”

“So why don’t you ask the ymbrynes?”

Now he was getting a little too comfortable. “I’m trying to be discreet. But if I have to, I’ll be sure and let them know it was Lester Noble, Jr., who referred me to them.”

He frowned. “Okay, then,” he said tersely. “Let me see what I have.” He turned and walked down a wall, running his index finger along the folders as he went. He pulled a file folder from a shelf. Flipped through its contents, mumbling to himself. Then crossed to another wall and another shelf, and pulled two more folders. Shook his head, tucked them under his arm, and moved on. After a few minutes, he came to me with his hand held out. In his palm was an old matchbook.

“What’s this?” I said.

“That’s all there is.”

I took the matchbook. It was wrinkled at the edges, like it had spent a lot of time in someone’s pocket. The outside cover was blank. On the inside was an advertisement for a Chinese restaurant, an address, some random-looking numbers and letters, and a penciled note that read, Burn after reading. Clearly, someone had ignored those instructions.

“Now, then.” Lester snatched his photo from me. “I’d say that’s an even trade, seeing as I could get fired for just letting you into this room, much less letting you walk out with that.”

“It’s just an old matchbook,” I said. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“That’s for you to figure out.” He went to the door, opened it, and waited for me to leave. “Now, do me a favor, mate,” he said, his British accent returning, “and forget we ever met.”



* * *



? ? ?

I crossed the Acre in such a rush, and with such focused intensity, that even those people who recognized me didn’t have the nerve to stop me. I came to Bentham’s house, ran up the stairs and down the long Panloopticon hall to the door marked A. PEREGRINE AND WARDS ONLY, dove in, and a moment later was spat onto the grass of my backyard. I stood dazed for a moment in the warm night, listening to the crickets and frogs harmonize, as TV light flickered from the windows of my living room.

Miss Peregrine wasn’t perched on the roof anymore. No one had seen me return. I still had some time to myself. I crossed the yard to the dock, walked to the end of it, and sat. It was the only place I could think of where I’d be assured some privacy, and if anyone came to check on me, I’d hear their approach.





I took out my phone and the matchbook, and set to figuring out how it could be used to reach H. A few minutes of thumb-typed research yielded this: The odd-looking string of letters and numbers below the address was a phone number, albeit an un-dialable one, in an alphanumeric style that had fallen out of use in the 1960s.

I did a search for the name of the restaurant advertised on the matchbook. A lucky break: It was still in business. I looked up its modern phone number, and called it.

I heard a series of clicks, like the call was being routed through some foreign exchange. Then it began to ring, maybe ten, twelve times, until a gruff male voice finally answered.

“Yeah.”

“I’m calling for H. This is—”

The line went dead. He’d hung up on me!

I called back. This time he picked up after two rings.

“You got the wrong number.”

“This is Jacob Portman.”

There was a pause. He didn’t hang up.

“I’m Abe Portman’s grandson.”

“So you say.”

My heart sped up. The number was still good. I was talking to someone who knew my grandfather. Maybe H himself.

“I can prove it.”

“Let’s say I believe you,” the man said. “Which maybe I do, maybe I don’t. What does Jacob Portman want?”

“A job.”

“Try the want ads.”

“A job doing what you do.”

“Crossword puzzles?”

“What?”

“I’m retired, son.”

“What you used to do, then. You and Abe and the others.”

“And what do you know about that?” His tone was suddenly defensive.

“I know a lot. I read Abe’s mission logs.”

There was a metallic squeak and then a grunt, like H had just risen from a chair.

“And?”

“And I want to help. I know there are still hollowgast out there. Maybe not a lot of them, but even one could cause serious trouble. And there’s plenty to do besides that.”