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to sleep in an oven for
three months while monitoring a suspect.’
    ‘An oven! But how did she stretch out?’
    ‘She couldn’t, but discomfort is the name of the game when dealing with evildoers,’
Scarlet said happily. ‘I aspire to be her one day.’
    ‘You should start practicing by sleeping in the oven at Bee Street. Might get warm
if we try to cook in it, though.’
    Their hotel room was on the first floor. As Mr Doyle had said, the facilities were
basic, but clean. The walls were cream-coloured and the doors led to small balconies
that overlooked the street.
    ‘This will do,’ Mr Doyle said, looking about. ‘Yes, this will do quite nicely.’ He
ordered meals for everyone, which arrived minutes later. ‘This is Pa Amb Tomàquet .
A local specialty.’
    ‘Really?’ Jack said. ‘It looks like squashed tomato on bread.’
    ‘It is .’
    Jack tasted it and decided it was delicious. Later, as he lay in bed, he listened
to the city. There were still sounds seeping in from outside: people singing, a man
and a woman having an argument, someone playing a mournful tune on a guitar.
    Jack woke the next morning to Mr Doyle knocking on his door. ‘Are you coming, my
boy? We’re breakfasting at a local café before continuing our search for Mr Tockly.’
    As soon as they hit the streets, Jack sneezed. ‘I thought Spain was supposed to be
hot,’ he said, grateful he was wearing his green coat.
    ‘It warms up later in the year,’ Mr Doyle said.
    They found a tiny café, tucked away from the main road. Small square tables jutted
up against timber-panelled walls. Marble columns ran from floor to ceiling. Drinks
and food were served from a bar to one side.
    Churros , a type of long donut, arrived on triangular plates. They were also delicious.
Mr Doyle chose to drink coffee instead of his usual cup of tea. ‘This is café con
leche ,’ he said. ‘It contains a shot of espresso coffee and is topped with hot milk.’
    Jack and Scarlet stuck to hot chocolate.
    Mr Doyle spoke impeccable Spanish. He knew twelve languages, and was also learning
Swahili and Inuit. He chatted to the waitress as if he was a local.
    Though it was still early, the narrow Barcelona streets were crowded. Jack wondered
if the city ever slept. Horse-drawn carts were everywhere. Men wore simple pants
and overhanging shirts of earthen colours. Shawls were common among the women. What
Jack didn’t see much of were steamcars.
    ‘Many people are still living like their ancestors,’ Mr Doyle said.
    ‘It doesn’t seem very efficient,’ Scarlet said. ‘And the city doesn’t even have a
metrotower.’
    ‘Must every place be at the cutting edge of technology?’
    After breakfast, Mr Doyle produced a map. ‘Joe Tockly’s last known address was in
the suburb of Horta, a short distance from here,’ he said. ‘I suggest we take a steamcab,
if we can find one.’
    But there were no cabs on the street, so they ended up catching a bus. As the vehicle
ambled through uneven streets, Jack watched the scenery flash by. Every building
was an apartment block, most a dozen storeys high, painted cream, orange or burnt-red.
    But Gaudi’s influence was everywhere—none of the walls were straight, and they were
all stippled to look like skin or scales. Many resembled tortoise shells, others
had a harlequin design, with brightly coloured diamonds that ran from the street
to the rooftops. Even the windows were irregular: some square, others round, oval
or kidney-shaped—or some variation in between. Roofs were blue, red, orange or gold.
Drainpipes had even been made to look like scaly snakes.
    Then there were strange objects that seemed to serve no purpose at all. Huge brass
bubbles covered some walls, others were ribbed with patterns that looked like seaweed.
Among all this were mosaics of lizards, birds, elephants and tigers, some of them
bleeding, freeform, from walls to streets.
    ‘I feel like I’m hallucinating,’ Jack said.
    ‘It’s quite an