Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7 Diaries were not Dan's thing — not even when they were in English and written by people he cared about. He kept his distance, trying to interest Saladin in a tin of tuna fish, while Nellie and Amy huddled over the leather-bound journal. Nellie was translating Maria Anna Mozart's flowery, old-fashioned script. "Anything good?" he called to them. "It's a tragedy," Amy replied. "Nannerl was one of the greatest musicians of her time. And yet very few people have even heard of her. She was a great genius — every bit as brilliant as her brother. But in those days, girls were just supposed to get married, and cook, and clean, and have babies." Dan looked disinterested. "I never heard of her brother, either — not until this contest. I mean, I've heard of Baby Mozart — you know, the video —"

Nellie scowled in his direction. "You'd still recognize a lot of his music. We're talking about some of the most famous melodies of all time. Even 'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star' — the music to that was written by Mozart." "You can only guess what Nannerl might have contributed if she'd been allowed to develop her talents," Amy added. "I don't care about music," countered Dan. "Did she contribute clues?" Amy shook her head. "There are no notes scribbled in the margins or anything like that." "There's a letter from her brother pasted in here," Nellie supplied, "but it seems like he's talking about the time he quit his job. He said he wanted to use his contract as toilet paper." "Really?" Dan was suddenly interested. "Mozart said that? Show me!" "It's in German, dweeb," his sister told him. "They have a word for toilet paper, too." "Yeah, but I didn't think a fancy guy like Mozart would know it." "Hold it!" Amy's voice was full of alarm. She

turned the next leaf, peering intently at the spine of the notebook. "There are pages missing here! At least two. Look!" The three examined the diary closely. Amy was right. The thief had been extra careful to disguise his crime — the missing material had been cut out with a very sharp blade. The excision was almost unnoticeable. "Do you think Jonah did it?" Dan breathed. "I doubt it," Amy replied. "Why would he bother to hide the diary in the chandelier if he'd already taken the important parts out of it?" "To throw us off the trail of the real stuff?" Dan suggested. "Maybe, but remember — this book is over two hundred years old. Those pages could have been removed any time between then and now. For all we know, Nannerl cut them out herself because she spilled ink on them." "No offense, you guys," Nellie put in, "but I've been around your family long enough to know this has Cahill written all over it. I've never seen such a bunch of backstabbers in my life."

"She's right," Dan said glumly. "Every time we think we're making progress on the thirty-nine clues, someone turns out to be a step ahead of us." "Calm down," Amy told him. "The real clue isn't the diary; it's the music. And we're the only ones who have that. Let's take it down to the lobby. I saw a piano there." They made a charming picture — the American girl at the piano and her younger brother at her side. It would have been nit-picking to notice that the sheet music was written on the back of a Eurail napkin, and that the girl played falteringly. "Good old Aunt Beatrice," Amy murmured to Dan. "She cut off my piano lessons so she could pinch a few more pennies." Aunt Beatrice was their grandmother's sister and their legal guardian. It was thanks to Aunt Beatrice that Amy and Dan were now fugitives from Social Services in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. "Play the new stuff," Dan suggested. "The part that isn't in the real song. Maybe a trapdoor will

open, or we'll call up the Cahill genie or something." She tried it, a light, airy melody, very different from the heavier classical piece around it. Suddenly, there was a woman standing beside the piano, lifting her voice in song. The lyrics were German, but it was obvious that the tune was familiar and brought the lady pleasure. "You know this song!" Amy exclaimed. "Is it by Mozart?" "Nein — not Mozart. It is an old Austrian folk song called 'Der Ort, wo ich geboren war.' This means in your language 'The Place Where I Was Born.' Thank you for playing it, my dear. I haven't heard it for many years." Amy grabbed Dan and hauled him to the privacy of a small alcove with a fireplace. "That's it! That's the clue!" "What? Some old song?" "It was a message between Mozart and Ben Franklin!" Dan was bug-eyed. "Okay, but what does it say?"

"It says 'come to the place where I was born.' Mozart was born in the town of Salzburg, in the Austrian Alps. And that's where we have to go." The rental car was an old Fiat that squeaked in every joint and didn't like going up Alps but didn't mind coasting down the other side of them. Part of this might have been Nellie's fault. She'd never driven a stick shift before. "That's just great for a trip into the mountains," Dan complained. "Hey — you want to get behind the wheel?" Nellie demanded, insulted. And Dan said yes so readily that she was sorry she'd asked. Saladin spent the entire three-hour drive carsick. But luckily, since the cat wasn't eating anything, he also had nothing to throw up. The trip would have been roomier and much more pleasant on the train. But their encounter with the Holts on the ride from Paris had soured them on travel by rail. On a public train, they were too easy to spot. They could be more anonymous in a car. With the latest lead in their