Who Could That Be at This Hour?. Lemony Snicket

      

      EGMONT

      Who Could That Be at This Hour?

       First published in Great Britain 2012

       by Egmont UK Limited

       The Yellow Building

       1 Nicholas Road

       London W11 4AN

      Text copyright © 2012 Lemony Snicket

       Art copyright © 2012 Seth

      ALL THE WRONG QUESTIONS: Who Could That Be at This Hour?

       by Lemony Snicket reprinted by arrangement with Charlotte Sheedy Literary Agency.

      Art by Seth reprinted by arrangement with Little, Brown and Company Hachette Book Group / 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.

       The moral rights of the author and artist have been asserted.

      ISBN: 978 1 4052 5621 6

      eISBN: 978 1 7803 1365 8

       www.egmont.co.uk

      A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

      All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

      TO: Walleye

      FROM: LS

      FILE UNDER: Stain’d-by-the-Sea,

      accounts of; theft, investigations of; Hangfire; hawsers; ink; double-crossings; et cetera

      1/4

      cc: VFDhq

      Contents

       Cover

       Title page

       Copyright

       Dedication

       CHAPTER ONE

       CHAPTER TWO

       CHAPTER THREE

       CHAPTER FOUR

       CHAPTER FIVE

       CHAPTER SIX

       CHAPTER SEVEN

       CHAPTER EIGHT

       CHAPTER NINE

       CHAPTER TEN

       CHAPTER ELEVEN

       CHAPTER TWELVE

       CHAPTER THIRTEEN

       Author biography

       CHAPTER ONE

      There was a town, and there was a girl, and there was a theft. I was living in the town, and I was hired to investigate the theft, and I thought the girl had nothing to do with it. I was almost thirteen and I was wrong. I was wrong about all of it. I should have asked the question “Why would someone say something was stolen when it was never theirs to begin with?” Instead, I asked the wrong question—four wrong questions, more or less. This is the account of the first.

      The Hemlock Tearoom and Stationery Shop is the sort of place where the floors always feel dirty, even when they are clean. They were not clean on the day in question. The food at the Hemlock is too awful to eat, particularly the eggs, which are probably the worst eggs in the entire city, including those on exhibit at the Museum of Bad Breakfast, where visitors can learn just how badly eggs can be prepared. The Hemlock sells paper and pens that are damaged and useless, but the tea is drinkable, and the place is located across the street from the train station, so it is an acceptable place to sit with one’s parents before boarding a train for a new life. I was wearing the suit I’d been given as a graduation present. It had hung in my closet for weeks, like an empty person. I felt glum and thirsty. When the tea arrived, for a moment the steam was all I could see. I’d said good-bye to someone very quickly and was wishing I’d taken longer. I told myself that it didn’t matter and that certainly it was no time to frown around town. You have work to do, Snicket, I told myself. There is no time for moping.

      You’ll see her soon enough in any case, I thought, incorrectly.

      Then the steam cleared, and I looked at the people who were with me. It is curious to look at one’s family and try to imagine how they look to strangers. I saw a large-shouldered man in a brown, linty suit that looked like it made him uncomfortable, and a woman drumming her fingernails on the table, over and over, the sound like a tiny horse’s galloping. She happened to have a flower in her hair. They were both smiling, particularly the man.

      “You have plenty of time before your train, son,” he said. “Would you like to order something to eat? Eggs?”

      “No, thank you,” I said.

      “We’re both so proud of our little boy,” said the woman, who perhaps would have looked nervous to someone who was looking closely at her. Or perhaps not. She stopped drumming her fingers on the table and ran them through my hair. Soon I would need a haircut. “You must be all a-tingle with excitement.”

      “I guess so,” I said, but I did not feel a-tingle. I did not feel a-anything.

      “Put your napkin in your lap,” she told me.

      “I did.”

      “Well, then, drink your tea,” she said, and another woman came into the Hemlock. She did not look at me or my family or anywhere at all. She brushed by my table, very tall, with a very great deal of very wild hair. Her shoes