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Reginald, eyeing the journals on top of a cabinet against the office’s wall, casually walked over, picked up the topmost one, and pretended to read it. The wall was thin enough to hear what was being said.
“You’ve no doubt heard what happened?” Mr. Royce asked Jonathon.
“I have.”
“You realize what dire straits we’re in?”
Reginald leaned in closer. In charge of the books, he knew every penny the company spent and what would happen to their investors if they didn’t recover that car and start turning a profit. They’d go bankrupt, his uncle, the Viscount—who’d invested everything—right along with them. Jonathon’s response, though, was covered by the return of Mr. Rolls, who nearly ran into Reginald as he came back from seeing the officer out.
“Pardon,” Mr. Rolls said, stepping past him. He started to open the door, paused, looking over at Reginald, and at the other young men, sitting at their desks, their attention focused on what was happening in the office. “I daresay, we’re all frightfully worried over this setback. But we’ll get past it. In the meantime, let’s all get back to our tasks, shall we?”
The young men nodded, as did Reginald, and their employer gave a worried smile, then entered the office. “This is disastrous,” he said, pushing the door closed. It didn’t latch tight. “We have to find that engine.”
“Why would anyone bother?” Mr. Royce asked. “The blasted coachwork wasn’t even finished.”
“Why do you think?” Rolls replied. “Sending spies sniffing around, trying to best us. Whoever it was, they stole it because they couldn’t build anything close to what we have.”
“Problem is, it’s still in the prototype stage. If they get it out there before we do, we lose it all. Every investor we have will pull out.”
“Good point. What if we lose the patent?” Rolls said. “We have to get that car back before the Olympia Motor Show.”
“The policeman suggested we hire a detective.”
Mr. Rolls made a scoffing noise. “Not sure we want that to get out to our investors. Can’t even keep track of our own products before they find their way into the hands of our competitors.”
Jonathon Payton started to speak, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and started again, saying, “What about those parts we sent out to be machined? If we could get them back in time, we might have a chance to finish that other forty-fifty.”
“Brilliant idea,” Royce said. “They’ve got to be ready by now. Give them a ring, Payton. If they’re ready, see if they can’t get them on the next train. We might just save this company after all.”
One week later . . .
Just before sunrise, ten-year-old Toby Edwards and his nine-year-old brother, Chip, picked their way down the street, avoiding the low spots where the rain flowed down from the previous day’s storm. They stopped at the entrance to the alley. “Wait here,” Toby said, moving his brother into the shadows. “I’ll be back soon.”
“Why can’t I go? I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”
“Just wait. If anything happens, run back.”
The boy nodded, and Toby moved off. The last time he’d stolen something from the bakery, he’d nearly gotten caught after stepping in a deep puddle. The water had soaked through the worn soles of his boots, squeaking with every step he took. A customer was the one who’d heard, calling out to the baker that a thief had broken in, then chasing after him.
He wasn’t about to make that mistake again.
Worried the baker might catch him again, he’d stayed away for several days, until hunger drove him out once more. This time when he reached the back of the shop, he wiggled his toes, grateful that they were dry. He glanced back, could just make out his brother in the dark. Satisfied he was waiting as he should, Toby moved in.
The waiting was the hardest part. He breathed in the scent of fresh-baked bread drifting into the alley. Every morning, the baker opened the back door a crack, just enough to let his gray tabby in and out. The door was locked tight, and Toby wondered, after nearly getting caught, if the man had realized it left him ripe for theft. Every minute that slipped by, Toby despaired. About to turn away, he heard the door open. The cat slipped out, its tiny paws silent on the wet cobblestones as it walked toward him, then rubbed its whiskered face against Toby’s patched trousers.
When the cat meowed loudly, Toby crouched beside it, petting the feline’s head, feeling it purr against his fingertips. “Hush, you,” he whispered, watching the door.
Finally, he heard the faint tinkle from the bell that hung on the shop’s front door, followed by the baker’s deep voice greeting whoever it was that had walked in. Usually it was the servants from the big manor houses that ventured out this early, those who didn’t bake their own bread.
Toby edged over, listening, before slipping through the door. He was immediately enveloped in heat, wishing he could find a spot under the table to spend the night where he wouldn’t be seen. To be that warm while he slept . . .
Right now, food was more important. Suddenly he stopped, his heart sinking. The basket the baker had always left on the table with the burned and broken loaves wasn’t there.
The table was empty.
His eyes flew to the door that led to the front of the shop, just able to make out the perfect loaves stacked in baskets on the counter.
For a moment, he wondered how hard it would be to race out there, grab one, and keep running.
