The man in the wheelchair ignored him and rolled to the center of the room. The woman closed the door, dropped the Gladstone, then moved to stand close behind him, cradling her shotgun. They regarded one another in the piercing silence.

“Just the two, after all?” the man finally asked. He spoke with a tense French accent.

The woman nodded, then turned to Alex: “Here.” She indicated a place at her side. Moving stiffly, Alex did as instructed, then stiffened more as she lifted her gun and rested the barrel gently against his forehead.

“Now,” she said, addressing Alex’s grandfather, “very slowly, remove your coat, jacket, and waistcoat and throw them to the floor there. Then empty your trouser pockets and pull the lining out.”

For a moment, Alex’s grandfather hesitated. His eyes glinted coldly as he regarded the shotgun threatening Alex. Then, with a shrug, he obeyed. Both coat and jacket hit the floorboards with heavy thuds. Turning out his trouser pockets produced coins, a folded handkerchief, a compass, and a set of keys on a small, luminous green keyring shaped like the head of Frankenstein’s monster.

He held this last up with great seriousness for their inspection and squeezed it, producing a pattern of absurd rubber-toy squeaks that caught the dogs’ interest. Then he tossed the keys on top of the pile.

The woman lowered her gun and swiftly patted Alex down. He stopped breathing as she took the toy robot from his pocket, but she only frowned at it, then him, before throwing it on top of his grandfather’s coat.

The man wheeled to face Alex’s grandfather. “Where are the others?” he snarled.

“Ah . . .” The old man shared a puzzled glance with Alex. “Not quite with you, old bean. Where’s wh—”

“The others who tried to get into this house last night. The others who came prowling through my gardens a few nights before that. The man who was with you when you attacked us in the offices of Harry Morecambe—the tall man, who gave me this.” Whipping back his blanket, he revealed his left thigh, wrapped in a padded bandage through which a fresh bloodstain seeped.

“Oh, I see,” Alex’s grandfather said. “That was you at Harry’s the other night. Didn’t recognize you without your devilishly stylish masks. But I think we might have our wires crossed. You’ve made a mistake: yes, Harry is with us. But the others, we’re not with them—”

“So what were you doing at Morecambe’s place together, then?” the woman interrupted.

“Well, I could ask you the same thing.”

“I think you’ll find this gives me first go.” She smiled, waggling her gun. “And what was Morecambe doing here with them the other night? Beyond prowling around the grounds looking to break in. Like you were again today.”