Free The Most Frightening Story Ever Told by Philip Kerr Page B

Rapscallion started to shake his head again, and, inspired, Billy thought of an example of a customer Mr. Rapscallion could hardly disagree was small and stupid.
    “What if the customer was Wilson Dirtbag?” he asked, giving the name of one of the bad children who had painted the mummy pink in the Curse of the Pharaohs room. And then some others: “Or Kate Ramsbottom? Or Lloyd Sputum? What if they were the customers? Are they always right?”
    Mr. Rapscallion didn’t have an answer for Billy.
    “How much do I owe you?” asked Mr. Stoker.
    “One hundred and twenty-one dollars,” said Billy. The rest of the boy’s mind was still occupied with the foolish notion that the customer is always right even when he’s wrong. And that was probably why he was standing immediately behind the Brown Bomber when he hit the cash register’s one-hundred-dollar key.
    The drawer exploded out of the machine like a team of horses in a chariot race and almost took Billy’s young head off.
    “Yikes!” he said, finding himself on the floor. And, looking up, he saw Mr. Stoker peering over the counter to see if he was injured.
    “Are you all right, young fellow me lad?” asked Mr. Stoker.
    “Yes,” said Billy, picking himself up. “I think so.” He let out a nervous breath. “Phew! That was close.”
    “Close? Close? It looked like yon drawer went straight through you,” said Mr. Stoker. “So it did.”
    “I guess I ducked just in time.” Billy grinned sheepishly.
    “It’s a miracle, so it is. You ask me, you’re very lucky to be alive.”
    “I don’t think it was that bad.”
    “That fool Rapscallion needs to get a proper cash register. Sure, this one belongs in a police museum. Take my word. It could have killed you, son, and no mistake.”
    “Mr. Rapscallion did warn me,” said Billy. “About the cash register.”
    “You might need this.” Mr. Stoker handed Billy his business card. “In case you should wish to sue your employer. I’m a lawyer, you know.”
    “Sue?” Billy shrugged. “Why would I want to sue?”
    “Nervous shock,” suggested Mr. Stoker. “Or a possible whiplash injury from having to duck that drawer so quickly. My advice would be to see a doctor and have yourself checked out, as soon as possible. Just in case you sustained some kind of injury you don’t yet know about.”
    “I’ve seen enough doctors to last me a lifetime,” said Billy. “Besides, Mr. Rapscallion’s not my employer. He’s my friend.”
    Mr. Stoker nodded. “Well then, we’ll say no more about it, eh?”
    “Yes, that would be best,” said Billy. “Honestly, I’m fine.”
    And when the sale was concluded, Mr. Stoker left the shop.
    Ten minutes later Mr. Rapscallion returned from the bank.
    “Sell any books?”
    “Yes, I sold…a few,” said Billy, and recited the three titles that had been sold to Miss Danvers and Mr. Stoker.
    “Excellent,” said Mr. Rapscallion.
    “Your daughter dropped by,” added Billy.
    “Oh yeah?” Mr. Rapscallion tried to look indifferent. “What did she want? Money, I guess. It certainly couldn’t have been that she came in here because she wanted to buy a book.”
    “She didn’t say what she wanted,” said Billy.
    “That figures.”
    “I liked her. She was…pretty.”
    “You think?”
    “Definitely.”
    “Did anything else happen while I was out?”
    “No.” Billy grinned. “Nothing at all.”

Before very long, Mr. Rapscallion was frequently relying on Billy to mind the store while he went to the bank or to get a latte from the coffee shop. Sometimes he got one for Billy, too.
    One day, the mailwoman, whose name was Janine Delafons, delivered a rather formal-looking envelope on which, in very fine handwriting of the kind for which you really need a good fountain pen, was Mr. Rapscallion’s full name and address:
    REXFORD ERASMUS RAPSCALLION THE T HIRD
    C/O THE HAUNTED HOUSE OF BOOKS
    65 HIGH STREET , HITCHCOCK , MA 01779
    “I wouldn’t have ever guessed that