Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer [52]
“We are tough. I’ll show you just how tough when I get back.”
Root’s voice interrupted the posturing. “You won’t be showing anyone anything, convict, except perhaps where the toilet is in your cell. Now, what do you see?”
Mulch looked at the room again through his ion-sensitive eye. Each camera was emitting a faint beam, like the last evening sun rays. The rays pooled on a portrait of Artemis Fowl, Senior.
“Not behind the picture. Oh, please.”
Mulch placed his ear against the picture glass. Nothing electrical. Not alarmed, then. Just to be sure, he sniffed the frame’s edge. No plastic or copper. Wood, steel, and glass. Some lead in the paint. He curled a nail behind the frame and pulled. The picture came away smoothly, hinged on the side. And behind it—a safe.
“It’s a safe,” said Foaly.
“I know that, you idiot. I’m trying to concentrate here! If you want to help, tell me the combination.”
“No problem. Oh, by the way, there’s another little shock coming. Maybe the big baby would like to suck his thumb for comfort.”
“Foaly. I’m going to . . . Owww!”
“There. That’s the X ray on.”
Mulch squinted at the safe. It was incredible. He could see right into the works. Tumblers and catches stood out in shadowy relief. He blew on his hairy fingers and twisted the combination dial. In seconds the safe lay open before him.
“Oh,” he said, disappointed.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. Just human currency. Nothing of value.”
“Leave it,” ordered Root. “Try another room. Get going.”
Mulch nodded. Another room. Before his time ran out. But something was niggling at him. If this guy was so clever, why did he put the safe behind a painting? Such a cliché. Totally against form. No. Something wasn’t right here. They were being duped somehow.
Mulch closed the safe, swinging the portrait back into position. It swung smoothly, weightless on the hinges. Weightless. He swung the picture out again. And back in.
“Convict. What are you doing?”
“Shut up, Julius! I mean, quiet a moment, Commander.”
Mulch squinted at the frame’s profile. A bit thicker than normal. Quite a bit thicker. Even taking the box frame into account. Two inches. He ran a nail down the heavy cartridge backing and stripped it away to reveal . . .
“Another safe.”
A smaller one. Custom-made, obviously.
“Foaly. I can’t see through this.”
“Lead-lined. You’re on your own, burglar boy. Do what you do best.”
“Typical,” muttered Mulch, flattening his ear to the cold steel.
He twirled the dial experimentally. Nice action. The clicks were muted by the lead; he would have to concentrate. The upside was that something this thin could have only three tumblers at the most.
Mulch held his breath and twisted the dial, one cog at a time. To the normal ear, even with amplification, the clicks would have seemed uniform. But to Mulch, each cog had a distinctive signature and when a ratchet caught, it was so loud as to be deafening.
“One,” he breathed.
“Hurry it up, convict. Your time is running out.”
“You interrupted to tell me that? I can see now how you made commander, Julius.”
“Convict, I’m going to . . .”
But it was no use. Mulch had removed his earpiece, slipping it into his pocket. Now he could devote his full attention to the task at hand.
“Two.”
There was noise outside. In the hall. Someone was coming. About the size of an elephant by the sound of it. No doubt this was the man mountain that had made mincemeat of the Retrieval Squad.
Mulch blinked a bead of sweat from his eye.
Concentrate. Concentrate. The cogs clicked by. Millimeter by millimeter. Nothing was catching. The floor seemed to be hopping gently, though he could be imagining it.
Click, click. Come on. Come on. His fingers were slick with perspiration, the dial slipping between them. Mulch wiped them on his jerkin.
“Now, baby, come on. Talk to me.”
Click. Thunk.
“Yes!”
Mulch twisted the handle. Nothing. Still an obstruction. He ran a fingertip over the metal face. There. A small irregularity. A micro keyhole. Too small for your average lock pick. Time for a little trick he’d learned in prison. Quickly