The Black Room by Gillian Cross Page B

awkward, uncomfortable look, as though it had been crammed into a leftover plot of land. It faced straight down the street, blocking off the end, and the highway embankment loomed close behind it, topped by high fences to close off the traffic.
    Tall cypress hedges ran down each side of the little front garden, continuing past the house and on into the back, and the house sat in a dark gap between two streetlamps. All its curtains were drawn, and there was only one dim light showing, in the window over the front door.
    â€œBet that’s the house,” said Tom.
    â€œYou’re only guessing,” Robert said.
    He began to walk down the street, stopping at each house to check its number. But he needn’t have bothered. Tom was right. When they’d counted carefully, all down the road, number fourteen turned out to be the odd house at the end.
    â€œI’ll knock on the door,” Robert said. “And pretend I found the bag, lying around somewhere. You’d better keep out of sight, in case he recognizes you.” He marched up the path and rang the doorbell.
    Tom stepped back, so that the cypress hedge on the left of the garden shielded him. Now that it was almost dark, the hedge hid him completely, but he could peer through the branches and see the house, with Robert at the front door.
    Behind the blank, curtained windows, everything was very still. Robert rang the bell again. Tom saw a sudden brightness as one of the upstairs curtains twitched. Then the front door opened.
    It was the man. He didn’t say anything. He just stood in the doorway, waiting.
    Robert cleared his throat. “Mr. Armstrong?”
    The man bent his head, acknowledging the name.
    Robert held out the sports bag. Tom couldn’t quite catch what Robert said, but he was obviously explaining how he’d found it. Whatever he said, it didn’t make any visible impression on Mr. Armstrong. He stood there, listening impassively, and then held out his hand for the bag. It looked as if he might take it and shut the door in Robert’s face without saying anything at all.
    But Robert wasn’t going to be put off so easily. “There’s one other thing,” he said, raising his voice and keeping a tight hold on the bag. “Can you tell me—?”
    The man in the doorway stiffened and drew back. It was only a slight movement. Robert probably hadn’t noticed it at all. But Tom saw it, watching from behind the hedge. Mr. Armstrong looked... offended.
    â€œIt’s not anything important,” Robert said in a false, cheerful voice. “It’s just that I couldn’t help noticing this plait, and I wondered how it was made. I’m really interested in crafts like that, but I can’t figure it out.”
    Mr. Armstrong’s eyes narrowed, and he spoke for the first time, opening his mouth just wide enough to let out the words. “I don’t know anything about it.”
    Robert tried again. “I know it’s not important. But I’d love to find out about it. Who made it? Was it your daughter?”
    â€œI haven’t got a daughter,” Mr. Armstrong said. His voice and his face were completely expressionless. “But I have got work to do. Thank you for bringing this back.”
    His hand shot toward the bag. He snatched it out of Robert’s hands and shut the door in his face. For a second, Robert was obviously too startled to react at all. Then he reached up and rang the doorbell again.
    Nothing happened.
    He rang again, holding his thumb on the bell. After a few seconds, the door flew open again, and Mr. Armstrong reappeared.
    â€œThere’s no reward,” he said coldly. “Now go away. If I see you again, I shall have to call the police. Good night.”
    The door shut again, and Robert trailed back down the path looking angry and frustrated. Tom came out from behind the hedge to meet him.
    â€œI told you he was a horrible man,” he