Peter Nimble and His Fantastic Eyes Read online

  Peter considered the man’s words as he loaded his burgle-sack. The boy found himself half wishing such magical places really did exist—they would certainly be more appealing than his port town. But of course they weren’t real, he reminded himself; it was all just fairy-tale nonsense.

  “Nonsense, you say?” the Haberdasher’s voice broke in “Perhaps I can convince you otherwise?”

  Peter stopped mid-nick. It almost sounded as though the man had just addressed him directly. “But of course, lad!” the voice said.

  The boy slid his fingers out of the constable’s back pocket as he felt the eyes of the crowd turn on him. “M-m-me, sir?” he said, pulling the flap over the mouth of his burgle-sack.

  “Who else? I wonder if I might steal you away for a moment?”

  Peter did not move.

  The Haberdasher changed his tack, addressing the man beside Peter. “Oh, constable?” he said. “Would you clear a path so the lad can pick his way through?”

  Peter’s throat went dry. He listened as the burly lawman waddled past him, nudging people aside with his baton. “You heard the fellow,” he said in a commanding voice. “Let the boy pass.” Everyone waited for Peter to step forward.

  “Don’t be shy, lad!” the Haberdasher chuckled. “It would be criminal to leave us all hanging.” The man obviously knew what Peter had been up to and was threatening to expose him for his crimes. Peter had no choice: taking care to look harmless and clumsy, he groped his way to the front of the crowd.

  The Haberdasher grabbed his hand, enthusiastically shaking it. “Nice to have you on board!” He turned back to the audience. “And now I have a special demonstration for you lucky folk!”

  Peter tried to get a sense of his surroundings. To his right was the Haberdasher, who smelled of wet wool mixed with a tinge of regret. Immediately behind him was the man’s carriage, pulled by a pair of . . . no, not horses. Peter had robbed a sea circus when he was seven, and since then had retained an excellent nose for exotic animals. But what were these strange creatures?

  “Keep clear of the zebras, lad. They kick!” The crowd laughed at the good-hearted warning.

  Peter, however, was far from laughing. It was almost as if this man could read his mind. But that was impossible.

  “Hardly,” the man whispered, leaning close. “It only takes a bit of practice.”

  Peter backed away from the stranger, bumping straight into his wooden carriage. As he steadied himself, his fingers landed on something cold, metal, and familiar.

  A lock.

  Peter’s pulse quickened. If there was one thing he loved most about his job, it was picking locks. He considered every lock to be a personal challenge. By definition, locks are designed to tell you what you can’t do. You can’t have the food inside this trunk. You can’t escape this cellar. You can’t learn what’s inside this carriage. Each lock jailed a treasure that demanded to be liberated, and Peter was always happy to oblige.

  The boy ran his fingers over the dead bolt, which was slick with rain. It was tempered steel, the sort of material used for guarding only the most valuable secrets. He slid his hands farther along the door, feeling for the hinge, but instead he came across a thick hasp that connected to another lock. And another. And another. The entire carriage was covered with locks of every shape and size. He smiled to himself—this was suddenly getting much more interesting.

  While Peter cased the carriage, the Haberdasher spoke to the crowd. “The time has finally come for me to reveal a hat more amazing than all my others combined! One made especially for you!” The people leaned forward in eager anticipation. “Now, we all know the chief problem of living in a port town—the smell! How can one hope to maintain dignity in a place that forever reeks of fish?” There was a general murmur of agreement from the people as they sniffed the air in disdain.

  “Well, reek no more!” The Haberdasher produced a stack of flimsy leather skullcaps. “These caps, tanned and stretched in the purest air of the Cloudlands, are guaranteed to remove all unsavory scents from their wearers.” The crowd broke out in astonishment. “Impossible, you say? To prove my claim, I present to you an expert judge . . . one who lives by his nose alone.”

  Peter, who had been secretly studying the carriage locks with his fingers, lowered his hands as he once again felt the crowd’s attention fall on him. The Haberdasher took the boy’s shoulder. “Everybody knows that blind people have a keen olfactory sense, able to detect even the faintest of odors. That is precisely why I have called this young urchin to assist in my next demonstration.” He gently guided Peter back into the crowd. “If you would, lad, I’ll ask you to smell the constable here.”

  Peter stood motionless in front of the lawman, who shifted his weight awkwardly from foot to foot. “Go ahead, have a good sniff,” the Haberdasher said to the boy. “What does he smell like?”

  Peter could tell that the man was looking for an honest report, and the truth was none too pleasant. “He smells like fish, sir?”

  The Haberdasher gasped, clearly pleased. “Fish, you say?! What else?”

  Peter sniffed again. “And stale beer?”

  “And?”

  Peter could not resist. “And . . . belly wind!” The crowd burst into laughter at the red-faced constable.

  “A toxic blend, indeed!” the Haberdasher said.

  “Now, see here!” the lawman blustered. “Keep on like that, and I’ll arrest you both!” Before he could object further, the Haberdasher offered the constable a leather cap.

  “Would you be so kind as to place one of these miraculous hats on your head?”

  The officer, still blushing, removed his helmet and set the cap on his bald crown. He offered the crowd an embarrassed smile.

  The Haberdasher turned back to Peter. “And what about now, lad?”

  Peter hesitated, his nose inches away from the constable’s sweating belly. The man smelled exactly the same. But being a clever boy, Peter understood at once what the Haberdasher wanted him to say. He didn’t trust the man, but something deep inside him—his burglar’s instinct—told him to play along.

  “And what does he smell like now?” the Haberdasher repeated, his voice slightly more urgent.

  Peter sniffed loudly and gasped. “Where’d he go?!” He stumbled forward, groping the air in mock confusion. “The constable was here a moment ago . . . but now his smell has completely vanished!”

  The onlookers cheered with delight. “There you have it!” the Haberdasher said, bowing. “What more proof do you need?” Hands from the crowd hurled coins at the man in order to get one of his marvelous caps.

  As the people pushed close, shoving and shouting, Peter felt torn. He could easily sneak away right now with what he’d already stolen. It would be more than enough to appease Mr. Seamus. On the other hand, he was also keen to find out what secret treasure lay inside that carriage. While it was true that Peter did not exactly relish stealing from ordinary people, the prospect of stealing from the Haberdasher seemed entirely acceptable. After all, wouldn’t he be helping a scoundrel get his just desserts? Peter decided it might be worth his while to linger a bit longer. “Need any help, sir?” he said to the man.

  “How very thoughtful!” The Haberdasher thrust an empty purse into the boy’s hands. The bag was not canvas but thick velvet; its drawstring was laced with fine thread and tiny jewels. “Help me collect money from these fine customers. And while you’re at it,” he leaned close, tapping the burgle-sack at Peter’s side, “kindly return your pickings to the pockets they came from. A boy could get hanged for such things.” He pushed Peter into the group. “I’ll make sure it’s worth your while!”

  Peter wandered through the crowd, collecting coins from eager customers. Every time he passed someone whose wallet he’d stolen, the boy replaced it before the victim could notice anything was amiss. He continued in this manner until his burgle-sack was empty and the Haberdasher’s purse was full. The smell was intoxicating, almost too much to bear, but he k
new better than to touch even a single coin. If this strange Haberdasher could truly read thoughts, he’d catch the boy in a second. Peter would just have to be patient until an opportunity presented itself.

  When the townspeople finally dispersed—all of them wearing cheap leather caps and sniffing themselves—the Haberdasher returned to Peter’s side. “That was some fine acting earlier. We made out like bandits, you and I. What is your name?”

  “Alistair,” answered Peter, who had learned by now never to trust strangers.

  “Is it?” The man took the purse from Peter’s hands. “Well, Alistair, I couldn’t help but notice your interest in my fine carriage. A pity you can’t see it, hmm?”

  “It seems a fine carriage indeed,” Peter said, trying to sound as pathetic and blind as possible. “I can smell the fresh paint.”

  “Smell anything else?”

  “No, sir.”

  The Haberdasher lifted one coattail and removed a large brass key ring from his belt. He began opening the dozen padlocks securing his carriage door. “One never can be too careful. The riches in this carriage could change a fellow’s lot for good. Still, I’ve yet to meet a thief who could best these bolts.” Peter smiled to himself as he listened to the click, click of latches springing loose. His favorite sound.

  When the Haberdasher finished the last lock, he opened his carriage and leaned inside. The moment the door swung past Peter’s nose, his pulse quickened. He had spent ten years learning the scents of silver, ivory, and gems—but none of those smelled half so valuable as whatever was inside that carriage. While the man stashed his takings, Peter put his senses to work, absorbing every detail he could about the carriage: how large the cabin, how firm the floor, how great the plunder.

  Once finished, the Haberdasher closed the carriage door and refastened all of the locks. “Safe and sound,” he said, dusting his hands. “And don’t think I forgot about you! Here’s something for your trouble.”

  He tossed out a small coin, which Peter caught midair. The man gave an impressed whistle. “Those are some reflexes you have there. With a touch like that, who needs eyes?”

  Peter turned the coin over in his fingers. It was made of heavy metal and had a hole cut into its center. “I’d give my hands up in a heartbeat, if it meant I could see,” he said.

  “Yes, I’m sure you would,” the Haberdasher murmured softly. For a moment, Peter heard something tighten in the man’s throat before he coughed and clapped his palms together. “Listen, Alistair, I’m dying for a drink. Would you mind watching my carriage whilst I slake my thirst in the tavern? The contents are very special, and I wouldn’t want the wrong person to get his hands on them.”

  Peter could not believe it was going to be this easy. “Well, I suppose I could . . .”

  “Splendid! I knew I could trust you!” he called, already on his way.

  When the Haberdasher reached the porch of the alehouse, he turned back, regarding the boy from a distance. “It was an honor to work with you, Peter Nimble. I pray we meet again soon!” And so saying, he tipped his cap(s) and disappeared through the door.

  It took the better part of an hour for Peter to pick the locks on the Haberdasher’s carriage. When he did finally manage to break inside, he found the purse just as the Haberdasher had left it. It was spilling over with coins—enough money to satisfy Mr. Seamus for a month.

  But then something else caught his attention. As he reached for the jewel-encrusted bag, his arm brushed against a plain, wooden box, no bigger than a loaf of bread. There was no filigree or ornament adorning the lid, only a small brass lock. Peter touched the keyhole, and a quiver shot through his whole body. He knew that this was the thing he had smelled before, something more rare than all the riches that surrounded it. Unlike the cheap hats, this box really did seem to have come from another world—someplace beyond the borders of the map.

  Peter hesitated. He only had room in his burgle-sack for one thing, which meant he would have to choose. A purse full of riches or a box full of . . . mystery. Before he could be detected, Peter took the box and slipped back into the rain.

  Ten minutes later, the boy had snuck past a sleeping Killer and was tiptoeing down the cellar stairs as fast as he could. It was almost sunset now, and he didn’t have much time before Mr. Seamus would send him back out to work the houses. He was exhausted, but exhilarated, too. Peter knelt in a corner of the basement and removed the wooden box from his bag. He smiled, breathing in the rich, musty odor. It was a sweet, intoxicating smell, like nothing he had ever encountered before. With every step on his journey home, the scent had grown more overwhelming. Now he could hardly bear it.

  Peter cast an ear to the stairs, making sure he was alone. If he was lucky, he might be able to pocket some of the contents before turning the rest over to Mr. Seamus. He flexed his index finger and slid the tip into the keyhole. Click. The lock opened. He raised the lid and felt inside.

  The box contained six eggs.

  Peter frowned, confused, and again ran his hands over the smooth shells. The treasure was nowhere to be found, only these ordinary hen’s eggs. He scratched his neck. After opening the lid, the peculiar smell had only become stronger; the treasure had to be in there somewhere. He felt around the box, searching for a seam or signs of a false bottom.

  Peter took one of the eggs between his fingers and brought it to his nose. It smelled valuable—even more valuable than gold. But how could that be? He rubbed the smooth shell against his cheek. “What are you hiding in there?” he whispered.

  “Worm!” Mr. Seamus appeared at the door. He lumbered down the stairs with Killer at his side. “Them vegetables you swiped is soggy!” he said, spitting. He was clutching half a squash in his hand; the other half dangled from his disgusting mouth.

  “It was raining!” Peter said as he closed the box and rose to his feet. “Everything gets soggy in the rain!”

  “That’s no excuse!” Mr. Seamus flung the squash at Peter’s head. The boy could easily have dodged the attack, but he had learned long ago that self-defense only made Mr. Seamus angrier. It struck his ear with a soppy splat.

  “That’s not why I came down here.” Mr. Seamus clopped down the stairs, sucking his fingers clean. “I heard there was a good crowd out by port today—I want my pickings.”

  “There were too many servants. All I could get was this,” the boy said, offering up the coin with the hole in the center.

  You must remember that Peter was standing in the dankest corner of a very dark cellar, and it was for that reason that Mr. Seamus was unable to see the Haberdasher’s box with its six special eggs. Killer, however—whose sense of smell was almost as good as Peter’s—caught on at once. He leapt forward and snapped at the boy’s feet.

  “Sounds like Killer disagrees,” Mr. Seamus said, stepping closer. “What’s that you’re hiding?”

  “Nothing, it’s—”

  But it was too late; the dog had got hold of the wooden box and dragged it to his master’s feet. Mr. Seamus squatted down to inspect the goods. “That’s a good boy,” he said, letting Killer lick the leftovers from his chin. “Holding out on me, eh, worm? Let’s have a look.” He opened the lid and greedily dug through the box, searching for whatever treasure was inside.

  “Is that it?” he said in disgust. “Just a bunch of ruddy eggs?”

  “Forgive me! I thought it was filled with valuables, but I didn’t open it till I got home.”

  “Why on earth not, you stupid brat?” Mr. Seamus tossed one egg high into the air and caught it again. “At least they’ll make me a better supper than those vegetables. Come on, Killer.”

  Peter listened as Mr. Seamus started back up the stairs with the box of eggs under one arm. “Wait!” he cried desperately. “They’re . . . rotten! All of them!” He didn’t quite understand how or why, but he knew he could not lose that box.

  The man stopped and sniffed the contents. “You sure? Smell fine to me.”

  “You know my nose. I can smell ri
ches; I can smell lies; I can smell a person’s age. Those eggs are rotten straight through.” Peter made a gagging sound, pretending to sound ill. “Even from here, I can barely breathe!” His heart was pounding—he could not lose that box. “Please forgive me. I promise I’ll bring something better next time.”

  “Right you will,” Mr. Seamus said. “And as punishment, you’ll have to smell ’em a bit longer!” He tossed the box to the cellar floor. “And I expect you to steal extra tonight to make up for wasting my time. Otherwise, it’ll be a lot more than eggs that I break!”

  “Yes, sir! Thank you for your kindness!”

  Mr. Seamus grunted, slamming the dead bolts into place as he and Killer shuffled back into the kitchen. When Peter was certain he was alone again, he steadied his nerves and crawled to the box. He lifted up the lid, afraid of the yolky mess that might be waiting for him—but the six eggs were unharmed. He took one in his fingers and gently shook it next to his ear. The yolk swished around inside the shell. He wondered if something would be hatching from them—perhaps a rare bird? Or perhaps it was the richest yolk in the world, fit for a king’s omelet?

  Thinking about omelets made Peter hungry. Little boys, as you know, eat more than ordinary people—or at least they are supposed to. Peter, however, was kept on a strict diet of fish heads and onion peels by Mr. Seamus, who claimed that hunger built character. The boy shook the egg a little harder. Fit for a king? Licking his lips, he cracked the egg open and let the yolk slide down his throat.

  Peter gagged on the firm, round object. Something was wrong. He coughed and spit it back into the broken eggshell. This was no ordinary egg yolk. Peter touched its surface, and as he did, a great warmth came over his whole person. He felt the overwhelming urge to learn if the same strange thing was inside all the eggs. Carefully taking each egg in his fingers, he cracked them into perfect halves. He poured each yolk into its bottom shell and set it back into the cushioned floor of the box. Peter held his head over them, waiting for a miracle.