Neverwhere

thought his heart would pound its way through his chest. A large black car went by. The British Museum was on the other side of some high, black-painted railings. Discreet concealed lights illuminated the outside of the high white Victorian building, the huge pillars of the facade, the steps up to the front door. This was the repository of so many of the world’s treasures, looted and found and rescued and donated over hundreds of years.
They reached a gate in the railings. Door grabbed it with both hands and pushed against it. Nothing happened. «Can’t you make it open?» asked Richard.
«What does it look like I’m trying to do?» she snapped back, an unfamiliar edge to her voice. A few hundred feet down the pavement, at the main gate, large cars were drawing up, couples in smart clothes were climbing out, walking along the drive toward the museum.
«Down there,» said Richard. «The main gate.»
Door nodded. She looked behind them. «Those two don’t seem to be following us,» she said. They hurried toward the main gate.
«Are you all right?» asked Richard. «What happened just then?»
Door hunched deep into her leather jacket. She was looking paler than usual, which was extremely pale indeed, and there were dark semicircles beneath her eyes. «I’m tired,» she said, flatly. «Opened too many doors today. Takes a lot out of me, each time. I need a little time to recover. Something to eat, and I’ll be fine.»
There was a guard on the gate, minutely examining the engraved invitations that each of the well-shaven men in dinner jackets and the fragrant women in evening dresses needed to present, then ticking their names off on a list, before allowing them through. A uniformed policeman beside him surveyed the guests implacably. Richard and Door walked through the gate, and no one glanced at them twice. There was a line of people standing on the stone steps that led up to the museum doors, and Richard and Door joined the line. A white-haired man, accompanied by a woman bravely wearing a mink coat, joined the line immediately and neatly behind them. A thought struck Richard. «Can they see us?» he asked.
Door turned to the gentleman behind them in the line. She stared up at him. «Hello,» she said.
The man looked around, a puzzled expression on his face, as if he was unsure what had attracted his attention. Then he caught sight of Door, standing just in front of him. «Hello . . . ?» he said.
«I’m Door,» she told him. «This is Richard.»
«Oh . . . » said the man. Then he fumbled in an inner pocket, pulled out a cigar case, and forgot all about them. «There. See?» said Door.
«I think so,» he replied. They said nothing for some time, as the line moved slowly toward the single open glass door at the museum’s main entrance. Door looked at the writing on her scroll, as if she needed to reassure herself of something. Then Richard said, «A traitor?»
«They were just winding us up,» said Door. «Trying to upset us.»
«Doing a bloody good job of it, too,» said Richard. And they walked through the open door, and then they were in the British Museum.
Mr. Vandemar was hungry, so they walked back through Trafalgar Square.
«Scare her,» muttered Mr. Croup, disgustedly. «Scare her. That we should be brought to this.»
Mr. Vandemar had found half a shrimp and lettuce sandwich in a garbage can, and was gently tearing it into small pieces, which he was tossing down onto the flagstones in front of him, attracting a small flock of hungry late-night pigeons. «Should have followed my idea,» said Mr. Vandemar. «Would have scared her lots more if I’d pulled his head off while she wasn’t looking, then put my hand up through his throat and wiggled my fingers about. They always scream,» he confided, «when the eyeballs fall out.» He demonstrated with his right hand.
Mr. Croup was having none of it. «Why get so squeamish at this stage in the game?» he asked.
«I’m not squeamish, Mister Croup,» said Mr. Vandemar. «I like it when the eyeballs fall out. Peepers and tarriwags.» More gray pigeons strutted over to peck at the fragments of bread and shrimp, and to disregard the lettuce.
«Not you,» said Mr. Croup. «The boss. Kill her, kidnap her, scare her. Why doesn’t he make up his mind?»
Mr. Vandemar ran out of the sandwich he had been using as bait, and now he made a dash into the crowd of pigeons, who took to the wing with some clacking noises and the occasional grumbling coo. «Well caught, Mister Vandemar,» said Mr. Croup, approvingly. Mr. Vandemar was holding a surprised and upset pigeon, which grumbled and fidgeted in his grasp and pecked ineffectively at his fingers.
Mr. Croup sighed, dramatically. «Well, anyway. We’ve certainly put the cat amongst the pigeons