The Teacher's Tales of Terror Read Online Free PDF Page B

of a mere criminal. This strange man was nothing more than a forger.
    ‘But do you see, my friend,’ he said. ‘If you tell people about this, then the panel will be seen as the forgery it is and taken out of the museum and I will be exposed as a trickster.’
    ‘Why tell me about it then?’ said Simon.
    ‘You are a clever boy,’ he replied. ‘You would have told someone and suspicions may have been raised.
    ‘But in truth, it feels good to tell someone. I was right. My work can pass as that of Duccio. I am his equal. And yet no one knows; no one but you, my young friend.’
    The forger put his hands together as if in prayer and looked at Simon beseechingly.
    ‘I beg you. I did not alter the Duccio for profit. No one has been harmed by the subterfuge. Can you find it in your heart to forget what you have seen? Will you give me your word that you will say nothing about these things?’
    ‘Of course, sir,’ he said. ‘What difference does it make to me? You can forge as many silly paintings as you like as far as I’m concerned.’
    The forger sighed with relief.
    ‘ Grazie . Grazie , my friend,’ he said. ‘Shall we shake on it?’
    ‘Very well,’ said Simon, holding out his hand.
    The forger took Simon’s hand and patted his arm with his other hand. Then he let his hand settle on Simon’s arm and gripped it tightly.
    ‘I truly wish I could trust your word,’ he said forlornly. ‘But I would be ruined if you did not keep it, you understand.’
    And with that he gave a terrific heave on Simon’s arm and Simon felt his feet leave the stone floor as his body sailed over the short wall of the parapet.
    He felt himself hang momentarily in the air. Time seemed to come to a halt and he floated in space, the whole city stretched out below him like a map.
    And then, with a horrible suddenness, the cobbled street seemed to hurtle upwards to meet his startled face.
     
    Mr Munro peered over the top of his book.
    ‘Please, sir,’ said a moon-faced boy near the back of the class, holding up his hand excitedly.
    ‘Yes?’ said Mr Munro.
    ‘I’m called Simon,’ he said.
    ‘How very interesting,’ said Mr Munro uninterestedly.
    He noticed some activity outside and walked to the window. Children were gathered together with their teacher for a group photograph. They had their backs to him and the photographer took the photograph just as Mr Munro looked out. He smiled at the thought of his face showing up at the window at the back of the picture.
    He turned back to the class to find another boy with his hand up.
    ‘Are you called Satan, perhaps?’ said Mr Munro.
    ‘No, sir,’ said the boy. ‘Richard, sir. My name’s Richard.’
    ‘And what can I do for you, Richard?’
    ‘Can we have another story, sir?’
    ‘ May we have another story,’ corrected Mr Munro. ‘But I really don’t think we will have the time.’
    A wave of moans and sighs rolled towards the front of the class and Mr Munro pursed his lips, allowing himself a smile. He looked at his pocket watch and nodded.
    ‘Perhaps just one more,’ said Mr Munro.
    The class cheered. Mr Munro raised his hands.
    ‘That is quite enough of that, thank you,’ he said.
    The cheering promptly came to a halt. Mr Munro flicked back and forth through his book for a while until he finally placed his long finger on a page and nodded to himself.
    ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘This one should do.’
    ‘What is this story about, sir?’ asked a girl at the front.
    ‘What long hair you have,’ said Mr Munro, ignoring her question.
    The girl did indeed have a mane of long black hair that fell almost to her waist.
    ‘Does your mother brush it for you?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ she said. ‘Every night. Otherwise it gets all tangled.’
    Mr Munro smiled and nodded.
    ‘I have a story about just such a mother and just such a lovely head of hair,’ said Mr Munro. ‘Would you like to hear it?’
    The girl was very enthusiastic in her nodding. The boys nearby were less