The Phantom of Manhattan by Frederick Forsyth

board and a host of well-wishers. The boy strips off the ribbon and the paper to reveal a box. This he opens and pulls out a toy. I have nothing else to do, so I watch. It’s an odd toy for a boy of twelve going on thirteen. A baseball mitt I could understand, but a toy monkey?
    And a very strange monkey at that. It is sitting on a chair and its arms are in front, the hands holding a pair of cymbals. Then I get it: it’s mechanical with a wind-up key in the back. Also, it turns out it’s a sort of music-box, because the boy winds up the key and the monkey starts to play. The arms move back and forward as if it were beating the cymbals together, while from inside it comes a tinkly tune. No problem recognizing it: ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’.
    Now the kid starts to take an interest, holding it up and staring at it from all angles to try and see how it works. When it winds down, he cranks it up and the music starts again. After a while he begins to explore the back of the animal, lifting away a patch of fabric to reveal a sort of panel. Then he comes over to me, very polite, speaking English. ‘Do you have a penknife, mon-sewer?’ he asks. Of course I do. Pencils have to be kept sharp in our game. So I lend him my knife. But instead of cutting the animal open he uses it like a screwdriver to remove four small screws from the back. Now he is looking straight at the mechanism inside. This seems to me a good way of breaking the toy. But this kid is very bright and just wants to find out how the thing works. Me, I have trouble understanding a can-opener.
    ‘Very interesting,’ he says, showing me what is inside, which looks like a mess of wheels, rods, bells, springs and dials. ‘You see, the turning of the key tightens a coil-spring like that of a watch but much bigger and stronger.’ ‘Really,’ I say, just wishing he would close it back up and play ‘Yankee Doodle’ until Mama is ready. But no.
    ‘The power of the unreleased spring is transmitted by a system of rod-gears to a turntable here at the base. On the table there is a disc with various small studs on its upper surface.’
    ‘Well, that’s great,’ says I. ‘Now why not put it back together again?’ But he goes on, forehead furrowed in thought as he works it all out. This kid probably understands motor-car engines. ‘When the studded disc turns, each stud nudges a presprung vertical rod, which is then released and springs back into place, tapping one of these bells as it does so. The bells all have a different pitch, so in the right sequence they make music. Have you ever seen musical bells, M’sieur?’
    Yes. I have seen musical bells. Two or three guys stand in a line behind a long trestle with different bells on it. They pick up a bell, ring it once and put it down. If they get the sequence right, they can play music. ‘It’s the same theory,’ says Pierre.
    ‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ says I. ‘Now why not put it back together again?’ But, no, he wants to explore some more. In a few seconds he has extracted the playing disc and holds it up. About the size of a silver dollar, with small knobs all over the surface. He turns it over. More knobs. ‘See, it must play two tunes, one for each side of the master disc.’ By now I am convinced this monkey will never play again.
    But he puts the disc back, other way up, pokes around with the blade of the knife to make sure everything is touching that should be touching and closes it back up. Then he winds it up again, puts it on the table and stands back. The monkey starts to wave its arms and play more music. This time a tune I do not know. But someone does.
    There is a kind of scream from the bedroom and suddenly the singer lady is in the doorway, in a lace dressing-gown, hair tumbling down her back, looking a million dollars except for the expression on her face which is like someone who has just seen a very large and fearsome ghost. She stares at the still-playing monkey, rushes across the room,