The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp (Alfred Kropp #1)(8)

“I have asked for it back,” Mr. Myers said. “I have even offered him money, all to no avail. I do not see that I have any recourse now but to seize it.”

“I say the old so-and-so has it coming,” Uncle Farrell said.

“I cannot do it myself, of course. And I understand I am putting your uncle’s very job in jeopardy. That is why I’m offering this bounty. Speaking of which . . .” He slid the leather case toward Uncle Farrell. “The down payment. I will pay the balance upon delivery of the sword.”

Uncle Farrell’s fingers were shaking as he undid the gold clasps. Inside were bundles of twenty-dollar bills.

“Oh, my sweet aunt Matilda!” Uncle Farrell whispered.

“Five hundred thousand dollars,” Mr. Myers said softly. “You may count it if you wish.”

“Oh, I trust you, Mr. Myers,” Uncle Farrell said. “You bet I do! Look at this, Alfred!”

But I wasn’t looking at the money. I was looking at the picture of the sword in its glass case. I had a hundred questions racing through my mind, but they were whirling so fast, I couldn’t get a grip on one.

Then Mr. Myers said, “As I told your uncle, Mr. Kropp, I need someone to retrieve the sword for me. A man of consummate skill and discretion. A man who is incorruptible, untouched by the temptations of evil men. I need someone who is indefatigable, Mr. Kropp. A man who will not give up or falter when all odds are against him. In short, I need someone who will lay down his life to recover a treasure that is beyond any value mortal men may place on it.”

“ ‘Lay down his life’?” I asked. “Uncle Farrell, he’s saying you might have to lay down your life.”

“He’s just trying to make a point, Alfred. Some people exaggerate to get across what they’re saying. You know, to get your attention. He doesn’t mean literally lay down your life. Right, Mr. Myers? Huh? Not literally lay down our lives.” Mr. Myers didn’t say anything. Uncle Farrell wet his big lips and said to me, “You should listen to Mr. Myers. You can learn a lot from a guy like him.”

Mr. Myers said, “I could turn to more . . . ruthless men for my purpose. I know such men, but I do not trust them. For the very quality that makes them ruthless makes them untrustworthy. I need someone I can trust. Someone who will not betray me.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place, Mr. Myers!” Uncle Farrell said. “You can trust us. You can consider your fancy sword as good as returned.”

“Excellent,” Mr. Myers said. “As I mentioned, time is of the essence. Samson leaves for Europe tonight and will return in two days.”

“We’re going in tonight,” Uncle Farrell said firmly. “Or tomorrow night. Tonight or tomorrow, either one, but maybe Al has homework, I don’t know.” He looked at me. “Anyway, very soon, one of the two nights. Tonight or tomorrow night, right, Al?”

“How do you know the sword’s in his office?” I asked Mr. Myers.

“I don’t know for certain, but I do know for certain it isn’t in his home.”

“We don’t need to know how you know that,” Uncle Farrell said. “Right, Alfred?”

“What happens if it isn’t there?” I asked. “Do we have to give back the five hundred thousand?”

“Hey,” Uncle Farrell said. “That’s a pretty good question!” He was clutching the satchel to his chest as if he were afraid Mr. Myers might reach over and yank it away.

“Of course you may keep it,” Mr. Myers said. “That money is for your trouble. The rest is for the sword.”

We had a big fight after Mr. Myers left. Despite the money sitting there on the sofa that was ours to keep whether we found the sword or not, I still felt really weird about doing this. It just felt wrong. Maybe Mr. Samson really did take the sword and hide it in his office, but that didn’t make stealing it back the right thing to do.

“It’s not like he’s asking us to knock somebody off or do something really evil. And it’s a million dollars, Alfred. We could do anything we wanted, live anywhere we wanted, have anything we wanted!”

It didn’t matter how many objections I raised. To Uncle Farrell, money trumped everything.

He even said, “You do what you want, Al, but maybe I need to rethink this whole arrangement of ours—I mean, maybe you’re too much for me to handle . . . Maybe I should send you back to the foster care . . .”

That ended the fight. He knew I didn’t want to go back to foster care.

4

The very next day my math teacher informed me I was flunking. That was bad enough, but not as bad as being assigned a tutor to save my grade, because my tutor turned out to be Amy Pouchard.

We met for thirty minutes after school, just me—Alfred Kropp—and Amy Pouchard, she of the long golden hair and dark eyes. Sitting right next to her I could smell her perfume.

“Where are you from?” she asked me in that twangy east Tennessee accent. “You talk funny.”

“Ohio,” I said.

“Are you a resource student?” Resource students were either mentally challenged or from a really bad background, or both. I guess some people would say I was both.

“No, I just suck at math.”

“Hey,” she said. “Kropp! You’re the guy who had his IQ tested!”