“Peter! What are you doing? Have they let you out?”

“Not likely,” he said, stuffing another handful of pie into his face. “I escaped!”

“What!”

“I pinched the key from Constable Winkelburg’s belt and got out,” he said. “You should have seen Ma’s face!”

I saw it then, as she came in with a tray of dirty glasses. I’d never seen anyone look so unhappy, poor soul—anxious and jumpy, as if all the policemen in Switzerland were galloping toward her at this very minute, whiskers bristling, ready to bear her off and hang her as an accomplice. And Peter just sat there feeding himself, looking as pleased as a dog with a new trick. Great smirking lump.

He couldn’t understand for the life of him why we were cross.

“They’ll never bother with me,” he said defensively.

“ ’Course they will!” said Ma. “You’re a wanted man, now, my lad! There’ll be a price on your head and a poster on the wall of the police station. You’ll be an outlaw—you’ll have to flee the country! If only you’d waited there for another week—”

“And missed the shooting contest, aye,” he said. “Sit there like a blooming pansy in a pot and listen to ’em shooting—not likely. I’ll get out and take me chance. Anyway, like I said, they’ll be too busy to bother with me. There’s a famous criminal on his way!”

“How do you know?” I said. I had only an hour; I was trying to make some pastry, and I pushed him away from the table.

“I listened to the sergeant,” he said. “There was a message from the authorities in Geneva, and Sergeant Snitsch had to read it out to Constable Winkelburg. It’s a feller called Brilliantini, an Italian. He’s been in jail in Geneva, and he got out by some trick or other, and all the police forces are being warned to keep an eye open for him.”

“He could be going anywhere,” said Ma. “Why expect him to turn up here? Oh, I wish you’d stayed in that cell….”

“No, Sergeant Snitsch reckons he must be heading this way, ’cause of all the money that’s going to be around when the shooting contest’s on. He’s a swindler, see, this Brilliantini, a confidence trickster. Old Sergeant Snitsch reckons he’s going to catch him and get promoted—and Constable Winkelburg’s quaking with terror in case he has to arrest him….” Peter shouted with laughter, and I slapped him with a wet dishcloth. Everyone knew that laugh, and if they heard it in the bar, word would get around in no time and he’d be back in jail. With handcuffs on, this time, and a heavier sentence.

“What are you going to do?” I said to him. “You can’t stay here.”

“ ’Course I can!”