Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3 When it came to hotels, bigger didn't always mean better — but their room at the Franz Josef was barely a closet. On the other hand, it was affordable, and Nellie pronounced it clean. "I still say we should have stayed at the Hotel Wiener," Dan complained. "It's pronounced Vee-ner," Nellie corrected. "And it means anyone who lives in Vienna — like Bostonians are from Boston." "It's still funny," Dan insisted. "I'm going to go over there and see if I can get one of their signs for my collection." "We don't have time for that," Amy barked, setting Saladin down. The cat immediately began exploring the room, as if he thought there might be fresh snapper hidden somewhere. "We made it to Vienna, but we still have no idea what to do."

Dan unzipped Nellie's duffel and removed his laptop computer. "You can stare at musical notes until your eyes bug out," he said, plugging in the 220 adapter and powering up. "If the answer's anywhere, it's online." Amy was disgusted. "You think you can Google the solution to all the world's problems." "No, but I can Google Mozart." His eyes widened. "Wow — thirty-six million hits! Look at this one — Mozart, the most famous Wiener of all time. I'll bet the Oscar Mayer people would give them an argument about that." "I'm pretty sure it's my job to tell you to grow up," Nellie said absently, gazing out the window. "You know, Vienna is a really beautiful city. Look at the architecture — I'll bet some of those buildings date back to the thirteenth century!" Amy pointed. "I think that's the tower of St. Stephen's cathedral. It must be as tall as an office building back in the US!" Everywhere, gargoyles and elaborate carvings decorated stone facades, and gold leaf accents gleamed in the sunlight. Beyond the nearest

rooftops, a wide boulevard, the Ringstrasse, carried traffic and pedestrians to and fro. Dan noticed none of this, entirely focused on his web surfing. "Look, Amy. I copied all that dumb music over for nothing. The whole thing's on the Internet. What was that piece called again?" Amy rushed to his side and peered over his shoulder. "KV 617 — it was one of the last things Mozart wrote before he died … there it is!" Dan scanned the sheet music, his brow furrowing. "Yeah, this is it — sort of. It's the same until here—" He pointed. "But then—" Amy took out the napkin from the train and held it next to the screen. "It's different?" "Not really," Dan mused. "See? It starts up again over here. But these three lines are missing from the Internet version. Weird, huh? It's almost like the website left something out." "Or," breathed Amy, eyes dancing, "Mozart added three lines to the music he sent Ben Franklin in Paris! Dan — we could be looking at a secret message between two of the most famous

people in history! These extra lines are the clue!" Dan was unimpressed. "What difference does that make? We still don't know what it's supposed to mean." Amy sighed anxiously. Her brother was immature and annoying. But perhaps his most unpleasant feature was the fact that he was usually right. Mozarthaus, at Domgasse 5, was a museum/library dedicated to the famous composer. Located in Mozart's only preserved Vienna home, it was a popular tourist attraction. Even at nine o'clock in the morning, visitors were queued up halfway down the block, waiting to get in. Dan was dismayed. "It's Mozart, not Disneyland! What are all these people doing here?" His sister rolled her eyes. "This is the actual apartment Mozart lived in. Maybe even the bed where he slept. The chair he sat in. The inkwell he used to write some of the greatest music ever

composed." Dan made a face. "I'm standing in line to see a house full of old furniture?" "Yes, you are," she said firmly. "Until we understand the meaning of that clue, our job is to learn as much about Mozart as we possibly can. Who knows when we'll see something that might tell us what we're looking for?" "In a chair?" Dan said dubiously. "Maybe. Look — we know the Holts are on our trail, and I'll bet the rest of the competition can't be too far behind them. They're older than us, smarter than us, and richer than us. We can't let up for a second." It took forty minutes before they actually made it inside the door. Dan hadn't appreciated the wait, but now he was ready to admit that it had been the most interesting part of the tour. Shoulder to shoulder with obnoxious sightseers and fawning music lovers, they shuffled through the great composer's apartment, following a trail of velvet ropes. One Australian tourist became so emotional in the presence of the Maestro that he

actually wept. "Don't cry, buddy. It'll be over soon," Dan murmured under his breath. Now if he could only make himself believe it. The Cahill kids were told not to touch anything in at least six different languages. Every security guard in the building took one look at Dan and immediately knew he was capable of trashing the place. With every ooh and aah from the Mozart-loving crowd, Dan's shoulders sagged a little lower. Amy was just as miserable, but for a different reason. Not knowing what you were looking for made a search all but impossible. She examined every expanse of white wall for coded markings until her head pounded and her eyes threatened to pop out of their sockets. But it soon became apparent that Mozarthaus was exactly what it seemed — a two-hundred-plus-year-old apartment that had been turned into a museum. What did we expect to find? she reflected glumly. A neon sign — Attention Cahills: Clue behind mirror? Nothing in life came that easily.