Collector of Secrets by Richard Goodfellow

all?”
    “If you’d stop wandering around and focus on this room, we could find the satchel and leave.”
    “I can’t pick locks like you.”
    “That’s why I brought a metal bar for you. And try not to make so much noise—at least not with your mouth.”
    “Give me the bag. If I have to do this much work, I’m taking anything that looks valuable.”
    “I don’t care. Just do something.”
     
    C rouched in terror, Max listened to the screech of twisting metal as cabinets were wrenched open, their contents tossed carelessly to the floor.
    Beads of sweat formed on Max’s forehead, and he wiped them away. Any chance of recovering the passport was gone now. No building security meant there wouldn’t be a rescue. He needed to find help.
    Peering out of the kitchen, he could see that the door to the office was wide open. Flickering light escaped from the dimly lit room. It would be risky to attempt passing the open entry on the way to the stairs. Max grabbed the kitchen door and prayed it wouldn’t squeak. Slowly, he pulled it to the point of closing. He needed time to think. Remaining motionless for what seemed like an eternity, he fished out his pocket watch, squinting to see the face. It was twenty minutes after midnight.
    Thunder cracked in the distance and raindrops began tapping against the window.
    The two voices in the office grew animated. It seemed they’d found what they were looking for. Summoning all his courage, Max decided his only chance was a quick retreat. Waiting would mean they could corner him in the kitchen. Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the door and edged into the corridor. His muscles tensed as he got set to run.
    Then, from nowhere, a disembodied head poked out of the dark stairwell and looked straight at him. Max felt his racing heart tearing a hole in his chest. He pulled back and dropped to the floor. The figure of a crouching man skulked into the twilight of the hallway. A baseball bat rested on his sinewy shoulder. In the thin light, the grim face was unmistakable. The owner of the Plum Tree had awakened from a booze-soaked sleep, and he was pissed off.
    The restaurateur inched toward the kitchen before he stopped and his head flicked to the left, appearing to listen. Seconds dragged by while he remained coiled in place. Then, without warning, he charged into the office. His screaming battle cry soon joined with other voices in a chorus of angry shouting.
    Awestruck, Max watched as the owner was immediately driven back into the hallway, entwined with a lunging thief. Both men hammered into the wall before toppling into a heap on the floor. The second thief leaped from the office doorway and joined in the scuffle, which became a sea of swinging arms and kicking legs.
    Max knew he had to move fast. Reaching up, his shaking hand groped the wall until it felt the familiar round picture frame. A quarter turn, and the hidden doorway popped open. Without rising, he slithered into the adjacent office. He could hear the owner still swinging viciously as the action moved down the hallway to the kitchen. The secret doorway pressed closed just in time, shuddering with the weight of a violent body blow.
    The leather chair was next to him and he pressed against it for support, his heart beating wildly. Other than the dim glow of the desk lamp, the only light entering the room was through the partially open blinds. Directly in front of him, leaning against the edge of the end table, lay the thieves’ daypack. But it didn’t make any sense. Why rob the place with such a small bag?
    This is Mr. Murayama’s whole life. I can’t let them get away with it.
    The owner’s screams of pain rang out. The sound of shattering bone galvanized Max, and in one swift movement, he leaped to his feet and grabbed the daypack. Managing to get it over one shoulder, he flew into the hall. The polished floor was smooth, and his feet slipped under him. Slamming into the stairwell door, he looked up and caught a