Why Is This Night Different From All Other Nights? by Lemony Snicket
“The only thing in that compartment,” I said, “is a skeleton key.”
“A skeleton key?” Kellar repeated incredulously. “She has my mother’s skeleton key, and you still believe she isn’t helping Hangfire?”
“I believe Hangfire would kill Ellington Feint if he could,” I said with a shiver, “and Ellington knows it.”
“And the beast?” Moxie asked. “Where’s the statue, Snicket?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted, “but I promised Hangfire I’d bring it to him in the Officers’ Lounge.”
“When?” Cleo asked.
I looked around at all my associates and gave them a rueful smile, and “rueful” is a word which here means “not smiley.” “Now,” I said.
Jake shook his head. “This is a kettle of fish,” he said, “and I don’t mean the delicious kind.”
Moxie was paging through another pile of notes. I spotted the word “aquarium,” which is a difficult word to type. “Not fish,” she said. “Tadpoles. Isn’t that right, Snicket? Those tadpoles you saw when you were following Nurse Dander?”
I gave her a small shrug. “There’s a lot I don’t know about the natural world,” I said. “Hangfire told me a ghastly story about the skeletons of birds in the Clusterous Forest.”
I gestured at the dark view, and Ornette stepped to the window and put her hand on the glass. “I’ve never been this far,” she said, “not since they built this part of the railway line.”
Moxie followed her gaze. “From the seafloor, you can’t see the light of the lighthouse at all,” she said.
“In the dark, you can’t see any of the inkwells,” Cleo said.
Then there was a rustle against the window of the compartment, and for a startling moment something pressed against the glass like it was trying to get in. The thing looked like a tiny tentacle, wet and sticky, and it left a faint, gleamy trail on the window when it disappeared. All of us jumped in surprise and then tried to look like we hadn’t jumped in surprise, but Jake was the loudest at it.
“Egad!” Jake said. “What is that?”
Cleo put her hand on her sweetheart, with the same calm affection she always used with him. “It’s seaweed,” she said. “We must be on the edge of the Clusterous Forest.”
I tried not to think of Ellington, and all of these strange tendrils bristling by as she hung on the railing. Tendrils are the smaller parts of plants, but they were large enough to make me shiver. I looked again at the little folded cup Ornette had made me.
“What is this?” I asked her.
Ornette frowned. “You know what it is,” she said. “It’s a cup.”
“The cup is made from those black boxes of laudanum,” I said, “and the saucer’s made from one of your business cards. But what’s the steam?”
“It’s the same stuff we found around Wade Academy,” Kellar said.
Ornette nodded. “And the same stuff you used on your hayride with Ellington.”
“It’s not hay,” Cleo said, “and it’s not seaweed, or bark. This is what we’ve been working on, Snicket, quietly, without telling you or anyone else.”
“There’s a whole other mystery on this train,” Jake said, “besides the death of Dashiell Qwerty.”
Moxie was paging through her notes. “It’s the story of the stolen aquarium equipment,” she said, “and all those honeydew melons. Now that we’ve compared notes, we figured something out, and we think it’s important.”
“Is it the story of the drained sea and the statue outside the library?” I asked. “The story of Stain’d-by-the-Sea and the Inhumane Society?”
“Maybe it’s the story of a little boy who finally got some sense knocked into him,” said a wheezy voice from the doorway, and I turned to see the masked and unpleasant figure of Stew Mitchum. “Put your mask on, Snicket. You’re coming with me.”
“I don’t have to come with you,” I said firmly, “and I certainly don’t have to put on my mask. The masks are just ancient superstition, and you’re just as useless.”
Stew stepped into the room. “Remember the beating I gave you in the alley?” he said, as if reminding me of a summer vacation instead of an incident described in a book I’m sure is of no interest to you.
Moxie stepped between us. “Last time my associate was in an alley,” she told Stew, “he was alone.”
Stew sneered. “Does little Lemon Snickerdoodle need a girl to protect him?”
“No,” Moxie told Stew calmly. “But you might. We know what you did, Stew Mitchum. You’re a murderer and you’re going to jail for a long time.”
“I’m no murderer,” Stew said, “and I have three witnesses who proved it.”
“Let’s fetch those witnesses,” Ornette said. “We have some more questions for them.”
“And we’ll fetch the authorities,” Cleo said.
“You mean my parents,” Stew said.
“We mean the law,” Jake said.
Stew gestured to the seaweed sliding against the window. “My parents are only the law from the outskirts of Stain’d-by-the-Sea in the hinterlands to the boundary of the Clusterous Forest. We’ve passed that boundary now. We’re in lawless territory, bookworms.”
“The law’s not the only authority on this train,” I said.
Moxie clicked shut her typewriter case. “I’ll get Gifford and Ghede,” she said.
“I’ll go with you,” Kellar said, but I shook my head.
“Go find your sister,” I told him. “She’s safe, Kellar. She’s in disguise, in a compartment just a few doors down.”
Kellar’s eyes widened, but his mouth couldn’t decide whether or not to smile. “How did she get here?”
“With help from Sally Murphy,” I said.
“You’re lying,” Stew growled. “Sally Murphy worked for us, until Hangfire took care of her.”
“She’s done with the Inhumane Society,” I said. “She helped Lizzie escape Stain’d-by-the-Sea with some costumes and a thistle from Polly Partial. It’s the performance of a lifetime, and so far she’s doing a pretty good job of it. I only figured it was Lizzie when she said something I’ve only heard from Kellar. It must be a family expression, Haines. You’d better hurry up.”
“I’m hurryupping,” Kellar said hurryuppily, and he hurryupped out of the compartment without a word. The rest of my associates followed, leaving me alone in the compartment with Qwerty’s murderer. “You have an appointment with Hangfire,” he said. “Are you ready?”
I stole a look at the cardboard beasts, weighting down the stacks of notes. It was all those gimcracks were good for now.
I told him I was ready.
He led me down the corridor to the prison cars’ sliding doors, which were propped open with an object he put into my hand.
“Wear this.”
“The masks are just old superstition, Stew. I told you that.”
“Hangfire has respect for the old superstitions,” Stew said. “Put it on.”
I put it on, breathing and buzzing. “It’s a shame you have to use an old superstition to prop open the doors,” I said. “A boy like you should have a good skeleton key.”
Stew growled a little and pushed me through the doors. The corridor was empty, although the seaweed was slithering against these windows too, so my way to the prison car felt crowded and spooky. Stew’s footsteps were loud behind me. I walked past the closed doors of both cells, which was a mistake, and stopped at the door of the Officers’ Lounge. The lettering still irritated me. Stew stepped to the door, and with a gesture like a bad actor, threw the door open, so hard that it banged against its little doorstop and threw itself back at us. It was not a graceful entrance, but the person staring back at me was not someone who cared about grace.
The Officers’ Lounge was a shabby place, with windows showing off the dark landscape, a desk littered with official papers that were probably as dull as they looked, and one lonely lightbulb trying to illuminate the whole place. It wasn’t up to the job, and in an u
“Good evening,” I said finally.
“It certainly is a good evening for us,” Stew said, his sneer wheezy through the mask. “We’ve won, Snicket. Tonight we will finally be victorious over this rotten town. When you hand over the statue, Stain’d-by-the-Sea will be completely under the power of the Inhumane Society and the secrets we’re cooking up at Wade Academy.”
“There’s nothing at Wade Academy,” I said, “but a few dazed children and the remains of a top-drawer school. Hangfire’s tricked you, Stew. He tricked everyone with a story of a mythical monster he’s been keeping in a pond. With a little caviar sprinkled here and there, a few hungry tadpoles splashing in fishbowls, a heap of stolen melons, and an octopus or two scuffling in and out of a fire pond, you can have people believing anything.”
“What I believe,” Stew said, “is that you’re going to give us the Bombinating Beast. I’ll unlock Cell Two once I have the statue in my hands.”
“Unlock it with what?” I said. “Ellington Feint has the only skeleton key around, and now she’s used it to hide herself from the Inhumane Society.”
“We’ll find her soon enough,” Stew said. “There aren’t too many places to hide on board a train.”
“That’s true,” I said, answering Stew but looking Hangfire right in the mask. Who else could it be, I thought, but it was too late. “It wasn’t too difficult to find Lizzie Haines. Kellar is reuniting with his sister as we speak.”
The figure rose from the chair and gasped a gasp that sounded wrong. Stew sputtered something, but the figure was already unmasking. The train lurched around a corner, and the rustle of seaweed ran along the walls and the ceiling as I blinked at what I saw.
I must have looked foolish, standing there gaping, so I suppose I can excuse Stew for his nasty giggle. I wasn’t listening to him anyway. I was listening to the figure in the corner as she gasped again. I was wrong. Dread grew inside me, like a wild creature growing and thriving in some sinister place. Stew Mitchum was right. My brave words meant nothing, and there wasn’t enough ink in the world to write down how very wrong I was. I’d been solving the wrong mystery. It was not Hangfire standing in the corner. He had found someone to do his bidding, someone who had lent a skeleton key first to my chaperone and then to Ellington Feint, in the hope that her daughter would be returned to her. The mask fell to the floor, and there stood Sharon Haines, another heartbroken parent, looking startled and sad.
“Where’s Lizzie?” she asked me, and then turned to Stew. “You promised that if I boarded the train and pretended to be Hangfire, she would be set free. Where’s Lizzie? Where is she?”
It was a good question, but it was wrong. The right question was “Where’s Hangfire?” and I hurried out of the room to answer it.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I ran down the prison car. The seaweed was whispering at the windows, and the train lurched back and forth like it was as scared as I was. Dear Kit, since we were separated I’ve hardly done one single thing right. I miss you and I miss my brother and I miss my parents. Terrible things have happened while I was unsupervised. I thought I was a brave volunteer solving a case, but I am nothing more than a rat in a trap, a boy lost in a faraway land. Please come find me. I am unmasked and breathless, standing in the doorway of Cell One for the last time.
It was the cell where Dashiell Qwerty had been murdered, and where Ellington Feint had bargained her way to freedom. It was the cell where I’d hidden her away, but Ellington Feint wasn’t hiding anymore. She was no longer strapped to the outside railing of The Thistle of the Valley, but had climbed back through the window and was standing on the little table, holding tightly to her green bag and still wearing her mask. She had not freed herself. She’d had the help of the masked man in the gray suit who was helping her now. They’d helped each other before. He had fired a dart, and she had lain on the floor pretending to be dead, in order to trick someone. I thought I’d tricked Hangfire, but now I saw, as he reached out a gloved hand so she could step down and join him, that I was wrong. He had tricked me. They both had.
“Stop!” I cried. Their masks turned to face me as I stepped through the doorway, like two strange creatures interrupted in their native habitat.
“Snicket,” both of them said in muffled, wheezy unison.
“Feint,” I replied, and took one step closer to Ellington, but as I looked at her I could not think of a thing to say. I’d told her so many times that she shouldn’t help Hangfire. I’d said she couldn’t stand with the Inhumane Society and move their treacherous plot further along. Again and again I had said these things, and again and again Ellington had said she agreed with me. But it was a trick, I realized. She’d just wanted to push me in the right direction, and now it was too late.
“It’s too late,” she said.
“No,” I said.
Hangfire helped Ellington to the ground. “The girl is right,” he told me. “It is too late. You did your best, but it’s all over for the people of Stain’d-by-the-Sea.”
“It’s too late for you,” I said, as fiercely as I could, which was fiercer than I felt. “It’s the end of the line, Hangfire. You and your organization will be arrested and stopped.”
“No one will arrest me,” Hangfire said, with a shake of his mask. “We’re outside the boundaries of the law now, and at last I can find the justice I’m looking for.”
“Destroying a town is not justice,” I said. “Stealing is not justice. Kidnapping and arson aren’t justice. And murder isn’t justice!”
Ellington climbed down off the table, just as she’d climbed up the ladder the first night we’d met. She had saved me then. It was my turn. “If my father is returned to me,” she said, “that’s the justice I’m looking for. I can’t stand with you, Snicket. You promised to help me, but you’ve brought me no closer to my father.”
“Maybe you don’t want to see him again,” I said. “Maybe there are more important things.”
She shook her head, and looked down at her hand. The photograph of her father was there, crumpled and slightly worn. “It’s all I have,” she said quietly.
“No,” Hangfire said, and took a step closer to her. Tendrils of seaweed murmured at the broken window, and the villain’s voice sounded just as wild and sinister, scarcely audible over the clatter of the train. “You have something else—something else you’ve promised me for too long. Now hand it over.”
“She’s already handed it over,” said a voice from the doorway. My associates had arrived. Ornette was first through the door, her cap backward on her head and her hands balled up into fists. Cleo followed, with the folded cup in one hand and the hand of her sweetheart in the other. But it was Moxie who had spoken, and she stood in front of Hangfire with her typewriter in one hand and a statue in the other. “Ellington gave it to me,” she told him. “That’s why I sent you the message, Hangfire. I’m still prepared to exchange it.”
“You fold together a flimsy decoy,” Hangfire said scornfully, “and try to play me like a clarinet, but you’ll collapse when you stand against me. All of you Stain’d citizens are the same. Your mother, Mallahan, was a journalist searching for the truth, but she didn’t have the courage to face what she found. Your parents, Hix, are too scared to come back to town, even to fetch their son. The Knight family drained the sea, and then went down the drain themselves. I could go on and on. The Losts. The Bellerophons. Doctors and actors, nurses and naturalists. Everyone was utterly worthless, and then along came a little girl who could perform all the trickery I needed.”
Hangfire turned his mask to Ellington, and Ellington took off her mask and faced him directly. “Where’s my father?” she asked him, and
“Don’t make a bargain with a villain,” I told her, as Hangfire stepped even closer.
“Give me the statue,” Hangfire said, in a voice as whispery and frightening as the seaweed outside, “and you’ll be side by side with your father before you know it.”
Ellington looked at Hangfire, and she looked at me, and then she opened the bag and removed the small panel, then reached farther in and removed another panel. Underneath the secret compartment was a secret compartment, a trick hiding another trick. I stepped closer, and looked back at the doorway. It wasn’t just my associates anymore. I saw Sharon Haines, and Sally Murphy. I saw Lizzie Haines, still in her bearded disguise, and I saw Gifford and Ghede, still masked. I saw Stew Mitchum, and his parents standing nervously behind him, and I saw the three librarians taking careful note of everything that was happening.
I looked at Ellington, and Ellington backed away. Hangfire held out his hands to her, and Ellington’s green eyes blinked at me one last time before she looked away and put a dark, dark object into the villain’s gloves. It was about the size of a bottle of milk, but pitch black, with two small holes for the eyes and a few slits representing tiny, sharp teeth. At its base was another slit, patched with a piece of paper, and there were tiny scales here and there on its sides. It looked a bit like a sea horse, and a bit like a shark. It looked quite a bit like a nightmare. It was a statue of the Bombinating Beast, the dark figure of old myths and superstitions, and now it was in Hangfire’s hands at last. The villain gazed down at it and I heard a low, wild sound come from his throat, a hungry and desperate wheeze, like some wild animal within him was finally free and loose. Maybe you’re happy now, Hangfire, I thought. Maybe you’re as peaceful as you were before all this began.
Hangfire caressed the Bombinating Beast like it was his own flesh and blood, and then held it up like a weapon or a flag. He turned to face the crowd by the door, in a showy gesture I remembered from my schooling. There is always a show-off or two, in every classroom. Often it is the teacher, and when the teacher is showing off it is often the best time to do something sneaky.