Free Magician's Fire by Simon Nicholson Page A

toward the aspidistra. Perfectly timed , he thought, and then he saw something and realized he was much, much too late.
    A bulky figure was striding across the lobby. A dark cape swept down to his shoes; a dark hat tipped over his face. The figure stopped and looked straight at Harry, who was still several feet away from the plant.
    It was Boris Zell.

Chapter 10
    Those cruel eyes glittered. A lip flexed, and above it, the oiled mustache curled. On the dark cape, the snake-and-sword brooch gleamed. Worst of all, as Harry skidded toward the aspidistra, the telegram rustled in his pocket, evidence of Boris Zell’s utterly ruthless plan.
    Ruthless regarding Herbie , Harry thought. And probably just as bad for anyone who tried to help him.
    â€œYou! You were there…” Those piercing eyes narrowed. “Last night at the theater…I saw you!”
    The face darkened. Nostrils flared. Harry decided not to hang around. Besides, the bustling hotel manager had just slammed out of his office and was pointing a finger straight at Harry.
    â€œHe’s been in my office! Gone through the post and everything! Stolen something too, I’d say. Catch him quick!”
    Harry dived past Zell. He tried to reach the revolving doors but found himself staring at the doorman, who was marching back in. Harry struck off across the lobby instead, but everywhere he looked, porters, clerks, and even some of the guests were running toward him. He threw himself through a pair of double doors. His boots pounded down a corridor, voices bellowing behind him.
    â€œStop him!”
    â€œThief!”
    His boots pounded on, and his heart pounded even faster. On he raced, toward more double doors. He risked a glance behind him—his pursuers were getting closer. He slammed through the doors. Darting to the left, he burst into a stairwell and raced up three flights of stairs, his pursuers’ cries spiraling up after him.
    â€œWe’ve got him now!”
    â€œBlock off the other staircase!”
    â€œHe can’t keep going up forever!”
    More doors. Another corridor, on the hotel’s third floor. Windows ran along one side of it, and as Harry flashed past them, he turned his neck so that he could study their shiny brass fastenings. Down by his side, his fingers fluttered, rehearsing the lightning-quick action he would need. Up ahead, he saw that the corridor turned . It might work. It just might … Racing around the corner, he glanced back. He could hear his pursuers’ stampeding boots, but they hadn’t reached the corner, not yet. His arm flung toward a window, his fingers threw open the fastening at lightning speed, and…
    He climbed out through the open window and shimmied along the sill. Harry reached the end and, grabbing a drainpipe, pushed the window shut behind him with his left boot. On one leg, he balanced at the sill’s end, out of view. Although the sound was muffled by the glass, he heard his pursuers’ boots thud past.
    â€œFaster! He’s only a boy!”
    â€œCatch him!”
    The Hotel Crosby Disappearing Act . As far as the hotel porters were concerned, he would have completely vanished, leaving no evidence at all. Who would be keen eyed enough to notice that the latch of a single window wasn’t fastened? But the trick’s not done yet. Balancing at the edge of a third-floor windowsill, he knew it was only a matter of time before someone looked up and spotted him. He needed to get down, and staring at the street below, he saw a way.
    He waited, watching, calculating the right moment. Then he let go of the drainpipe, stepped off the sill, and plummeted thirty feet into a garbage cart trundling along the street.
    Harry crashed deep into the garbage. Potato peelings, soggy newspaper, and the remains of meals slithered around him. Gagging, he gripped the edge of the cart and swung himself out onto the cobblestones, trying to ignore the slime leaking out of his shoes