Free The Great Gold Robbery by Jo Nesbø Page A

right next to Nilly’s ear, “Mama Crunch.”
    “Gulp!” Nilly said, quite involuntarily.
    “And I hope you’re not a sissy, Mr. Sherl, because it’s time to eat now. Got it?”
    Sherl looked around at the other three, who looked really terrified.
    “Uh . . . I wonder what we’re going to be eating, Mrs. Crunch?” Nilly said.
    Mama Crunch straightened up and laughed a laugh that sounded like someone trying to start a car when it’s minus twenty degrees outside.
    “Yes, I bet you do.”

The Truth About Monopolynesia
    NILLY AND THE Crunch Brothers were sitting around the dining table. It turned out the room had tilted a little to the northwest ever since a bomb had gone right through the
roof during World War II. The bomb hadn’t exploded, but it crushed the coffee table and had broken both lenses of Grandpa Crunch’s eyeglasses and his almost-full whiskey glass.
He’d nodded off on the sofa after a little afternoon looting. Not much had changed in the living room since then. Even the windows were still covered with the blackout curtains that had been
hung up to keep German soldiers from spotting any lights from the buildings to help them aim. Now the blackout curtains were to keep anyone from Scotland Yard or anyone else from looking in and
figuring out where the Crunch Brothers lived. The only light in the leaning living room came from the coal-burning stove.
    “Act like you like it,” Charlie whispered, stuffing a mouthful of food into his mouth and jabbing Nilly, who was sitting still, staring at the plate Mama Crunch had slapped down in
front of him and told him was bottom fish and toenail chips.
    “Uh, what’s the sauce?” Nilly asked, poking his fork into something gray and slimy that was covering the fish.

    “That’s called Grandfather’s Cough,” Charlie said, and then made a face as he took a bite. “But I don’t think grandfather’s actual sputum tastes
so—”
    “Shh!” Alfie said.
    They were listening to the sounds from the kitchen, where Mama Crunch was still boiling and sizzling away.
    “It was worse yesterday,” Charlie said. “We had hot dogs.”
    “Hot dogs?” Nilly asked. “Like in a bun?”
    “More like a heated-up bulldog with cauliflower and rickets. This tastes like—”
    They were interrupted by Betty leaning over and vomiting under the edge of the table.
    Alfie nodded toward Nilly’s plate. “There’s no way out, Sherl. It’s better for you to eat Grandfather’s Cough than to have to deal with”—he dropped his
voice to a whisper—“Mama.” He raised his voice again. “Believe me.”
    “I see,” Nilly said, staring at his plate. “Well, then I guess I’d better get it over with. . . .”
    “That’s it exactly,” Charlie said.
    “That’s what exactly?” Nilly asked.
    “Unfortunately, it’s not over with when we eat this up.”
    “It’s not? What happens after that?” Nilly asked.
    “The worst part,” Alfie said in a deep, funereal voice that made the water glasses rattle.
    “The Birmingham pudding,” the brothers all said in unison.
    “Shh,” Betty said. “She’s coming. . . .”
    The kitchen door opened, and Mama Crunch’s enormous body came in. She was marching straight toward Nilly.
    “What is this?” she wheezed, dragon stench pouring out of her enormous mouth.
    Nilly quickly stuffed his fork into his mouth.
    “I had to admire the way the food looked first, Mrs. Crunch,” Nilly said, chewing slowly. “Delightful bottom fish, Mrs. Crunch, melts on the tongue! And you simply
must
tell me how you got the toenail chips so crunchy and the Grandfather’s Cough so . . . uh, slimy.”
    “I mean, what is
this
?!” the woman whose name shall only be whispered screamed, slapping a wad of bills onto the table. “The baby carriage was full of Monopoly
money!”
    All chewing and plate clinking suddenly stopped. And everyone stared at Nilly.
    “Monopoly money?” Alfie hissed, squeezing one eye shut and slowly licking the