by Dave Keane
As my pounding thighs carry me up the polished stairs of the mayor’s mansion, I know I’ve run five city blocks in less than four minutes—it must be a record! But more importantly, I’m feeling more determined than ever to ride the final drop of this roller-coaster ride to the bitter end.
I’m about to take the slim prayer I have of solving this case for every cent it’s worth.
• Chapter 16 •
You Can’t Fight City Hall
Mayor Robert P. Fliggle lives in a swanky mayor’s residence that itself could be called a museum.
I must admit, I’m impressed.
And disgusted. Our school’s science lab has only five microscopes—three are broken and the other two don’t work! Meanwhile, our mayor lives like a fat cat in bird heaven.
After I’ve been pacing around like a caged shark for five long minutes, an aide ushers me down the hall to the mayor’s home office. I notice that all the art hanging on the walls looks pricey. It appears as if Baskerville’s mayor is something of an art lover himself, so getting his cooperation may not be so hard after all.
In my head, I try to calculate how many microscopes one of these paintings would buy. I reach a grand total: plenty.
I’m turned loose in the mayor’s office.
Mayor Fliggle is on the phone, leaning back in his chair, boots up on his desk. Although he certainly looks fat and happy, he seems smaller in person than he looks on TV. I imagine that’s common with politicians.
He holds his hand over the phone. “Your zipper’s down, son.”
“I know,” I say, irritated at my impossible situation.
He looks confused for half a second. “Trying to start a new fashion trend, eh?” He says this with a rumbling chuckle and a shake of his head. “Nice shirt, too.” He pulls his hand from the phone. “Twenty-three five,” he says into the phone, and gives me a thumbs-up sign.
“I’m here about my art teacher’s painting. It was stolen from the museum last night.”
The mayor picks up a slip of paper off his desk. “It says here you needed an emergency meeting because you have three million dollars you’d like to donate to my next campaign.”
“I did?” I croak. “Oh! No, that’s just my sister. I mean, that was her idea. I’m here about the stolen painting.”
The mayor seems puzzled by the sudden change in his agenda.
“Yes! A shame! A scandal!” he says to me, staring at the note again. “Twenty-four,” he says into the phone. “The newspaper keeps calling me for a comment,” he says to me, or to someone on the phone—it’s getting hard to tell.
“Did you notice anything unusual when you were in the museum yesterday?” I ask, feeling my chances fading by the second.
“Who are you again?” he says, giving me a sideways glance.
“I’ve been hired to recover my art teacher’s painting,” I say.
“Are you putting me on?” he says, forcing a smile. “Is this a joke? A prank? Is there someone out in the hall?”
“I’m no prank, although many people think I’m a joke,” I say, instantly kicking myself for saying something so lame. I’m not even sure what I mean by it. I wish my mouth would just keep its mouth shut!
“But there is someone out in the hall!”
It’s Hailey. She’s out in the hall. Finally, she’s announced herself before sneaking up on me. Miracles really do happen.
“Sherlock, I need to talk to you!” she hisses from the hallway, refusing to enter the room.
“Just a minute,” I hiss back.
“Twenty-five five,” the mayor says into the phone, not sure if the drama that’s playing out in front of him is a comedy or a tragedy.
“Right now!” Hailey whispers urgently. “You need to hear what I have to say.”
“Great! I’ll pick it up tomorrow,” the mayor says. “Send me a bill.”
“Me?” I say, confused.
“No, not you,” he says. “Look, I’m not even sure who you are!”
“It’s complicated,” I say, backing out of the room. “Um, hold on, Mister Mayor, er…Your Honor…I’ve got to talk to my little sister for a second.”
“Is she the one with the three million dollars?” he asks, throwing his arms up in the air with confusion.
“Lance called,” Hailey whispers in my ear. “The mayor’s name is Robert.”
“You’re interrupting me to tell me who I’m talking to?” I growl between clenched teeth. “I know that already!”
“Granted, you have an uncanny grasp of the completely obvious, Sherlock,” she says, grabbing me by the shoulders. “But do you know the mayor’s nickname?”
“How should I know? Is it Fat Cat? Mayor Big Booty?”
“I heard that!” the mayor calls out from behind his desk.
“People named Robert are often called Bob,” Hailey whispers. “And sometimes they’re called Bobby.”
“And?”
“Remember Mrs. Bagby’s boyfriend?” she says, pulling the photo from my back pocket and pointing to the hairy guy with Mrs. Bagby.
“So they have the same name!” I exclaim. “That doesn’t mean anything. It could just be—”
“I called Mrs. Bagby,” Hailey interrupts, waving the cell phone in my face. “She confirmed that the mayor was her boyfriend, the one in the picture, when the artist gave her that painting. They broke up not long after that. She hasn’t spoken two words to the mayor since then. It didn’t end well.”
“But that doesn’t mean he stole the painting,” I argue, trying to see the mayor in the bearded guy in the photo.
“That’s not all,” Hailey says, checking the hallway for anybody who may be listening. “Lance also told me who the museum’s chairman is….”
My eyes open wide. A tingle creeps over my scalp like a tarantula on roller skates. I’m hearing bells and whistles and sirens in my head. “The mayor?” I croak.
Hailey nods. “That means something, right? The mayor was the one telling the curator to get rid of us and sweep this mess under the rug.”
“Why didn’t Mrs. Bagby say anything about the mayor?”
“She didn’t know he was mixed up in this,” she says.
Like a key sliding into a lock, the tumblers in my head click into place. I feel like a drowning man who just got hit on the head with a lifeline. A ray of hope breaks through the darkness inside my skull. I run for the light.
“It means something, all right,” I say slowly. “It means we need to go now.”
“Go?” Hailey shrieks. “Go where? We’ve got the mayor right where we want him. Let’s go in there and squeeze him like a kitchen sponge!”
“Mayor Fliggle, this meeting is over!” I announce, and start pulling Hailey back down the hall.
“What about the donation?” the mayor hollers from his office. “I don’t need all three million at once!”
I now know that Mayor Fliggle knows all about Mrs. Bagby and her treasured masterpiece. As the museum chairman, the mayor is also aware of all of the ins and outs of the museum. He even appears to like nice paintings. But does that mean he stole Man with a Cat?
I’m the only one who can crack this case, but I’m still only half cracked at this point! And once the auction is over, my instincts tell me my chances of solving this mystery will be, too.
It’s clear that the next few minutes will either whisk me directly into a glorious hero’s welcome or smack dab into an extra-thick brick wall.
• Chapter 17 •
Rolling Code Eleven
When we explode out of the front door of the mayor’s mansion, I don’t see my grandma’s car anywhere. She’s probably circling the block, so she’ll swing by again sometime around sunrise.
I consider trying to sprint across town to the museum but don’t want to leave Hailey in the dust—she may be smart, but she runs like ten pots and pans tied together with kite string.
Then I see Officer Lestrade sitting in his cruiser at the curb! That’s two miracles in a row! T
hey say these things happen in threes!
I grip Hailey under my arm and carry her like a football as fast as I can to the police cruiser. It must look like I’ve just stolen a very short scarecrow.
“I can’t breathe, you nutcase,” she wheezes, trying to pry my arm loose.
I throw open the rear door of the police cruiser and toss Hailey inside like a sack of turnips. I dive in after her.
We bump our heads so hard I see stars and fairy dust everywhere.
“You two scared the wits out of me!” Officer Lestrade hollers.
“Quick, get us to the museum as fast as you can!” I demand, as the stars turn into floating walnuts.
“What? Why?” Officer Lestrade yelps, surely taken aback by my wild eyes.
“I’m half cracked,” I wail, smashing my nose on the bulletproof glass while smearing a streak of slobber on it for good measure.
For a split second, I can’t remember who I am or why I’ve been arrested.
Hailey smashes her nose on the glass next to mine. “Roll code eleven, Officer Lestrade. We’ve only got minutes. Sherlock knows where the painting is!”
“HE DOES?” Officer Lestrade shouts.
“I DO?” I wail directly into Hailey’s face.
“YOU MEAN YOU DON’T?” Hailey shouts back.
But there isn’t time for me to answer. Officer Lestrade throws the cruiser into such a sudden and powerful U-turn that I think for a moment that the world has come to an end.
Hailey comes flying at me. The force of the turn is so great that the weight of Hailey’s body squeezes what little air I have from my lungs. I think one of her fingers is in my eye, or it’s one of mine—I can’t tell in all the confusion.
I can hear the shrill squeal of tires grabbing the street.
Because of the blow to my head, I can hear bells and sirens again—No, that’s the cruiser’s siren and the cell phone ringing.
“I CANT FIND THE PHONE!” Hailey shrieks, searching with her hands for the phone.
The engine roars. The siren wails. The lights flash. The cars part in front of us. I could get used to this!
“WHERE’S THE PAINTING?” Officer Lestrade thunders.
“IT’S NOT THAT SIMPLE!” I shout through the glass.
“CAN I CALL YOU BACK WITH AN UPDATE IN TEN MINUTES, MRS. BAGBY?” Hailey pleads into the phone.
“WHAT? YOU ONLY HAVE AN INKLING?” Hailey screams at me.
“SOMETHING LIKE THAT!” I shout back.
“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT AN INKLING IS, DO YOU?”
“NOT EXACTLY!”
“I CAN GET IN TROUBLE FOR USING MY SIREN WITHOUT A LEGITIMATE REASON!”
“OH, THIS IS LEGITIMATE, ALL RIGHT!” I thunder, although I don’t have the foggiest idea what the word “legitimate” means.
As we weave in and out of traffic, my old friend carsickness stops by for a visit. My stomach inflates with nauseousness. My throat tightens up. My neck is stiff and sweaty. I thank my lucky stars I haven’t eaten lately—that’s not much for a third miracle, but I’ll take it.
It’s all I can do to ask Hailey to call Clem.
The traffic thins out as we approach the museum, and Officer Lestrade turns off the siren but keeps his lights flashing.
“Clem, it’s me!” Hailey finally says into the phone. “Is it over? What?” She turns to me. “They’re still bidding on the last painting. What do you want me to ask him?”
“Ask him if the mayor bought anything,” I gasp, clutching my belly.
She does.
“No, the mayor hasn’t bid on anything, as far as he knows. But he says that there are lots of anonymous bidders on the phone.” Hailey can read my face better than Miss Piffle. “‘Anonymous’ means you don’t know who they are.”
“Oh,” I say, the wheels spinning wildly in my head, desperate for anything to grab on to. I think of something. “Ask him if a painting sold for exactly twenty-five five. That’s the last number the mayor said on the phone in his office. That could have been a winning bid, as in twenty-five thousand five hundred dollars.”
“WHO CARES IF HE BOUGHT A PAINTING!”
“JUST ASK HIM!”
She asks, and I wait. The seconds drag on. I quietly hope the “not eating in the last few hours” thing wasn’t my last miracle. I need another one.
“Okay, thanks, Clem,” Hailey says, and snaps the phone shut. “Clem says a big red painting called Untitled Number 14 just sold for exactly twenty-five thousand five hundred dollars to an unknown bidder on the phone.”
“That must be the worst name for a painting ever,” I cry, just as Officer Lestrade whips the cruiser to the curb in front of the museum.
“Why’s that interesting?” Hailey croaks. “How’s that help?”
“I gotta go,” I say.
When Office Lestrade finally opens my door, I explode out of the car and race up the steps to the museum.
“WAIT!” they both call after me. But I don’t have time for small talk.
I’m about to make a fool of myself, or save the day. The odds are not in my favor. But I’m always willing to bet it all on a long shot.
• Chapter 18 •
Madman on the Loose!
When I burst into the crowded auction room and stumble up the middle aisle, the entire crowd jumps to its feet and lets out a gasp of alarm, as if a werewolf with bloody fangs has crashed their party.
“Where’s Untitled Number 14?” I gasp between rapid breaths.
The well-dressed crowd just stares at me, not believing what they’re seeing.
“Isn’t he a little old for an Inspector Wink-Wink shirt?” somebody whispers.
“And why is his zipper down?” someone else adds.
“Does anyone have a net?” a man calls out nervously.
At the front of the room I see Stone Head. He’s standing at the microphone at the front of the room. He’s holding a large wooden hammer, probably for just such an occasion.
“Do I look that bad?” I ask the man who asked for the net. He nods uncertainly.
“Maybe he just got hit by a car,” a woman says, pointing. “His eyes look like glazed donuts.”
“They do?” I croak.
Stone Head pushes his way through the crowd. “This is most unusual! Sherlock, isn’t it?” He starts circling me. He’s got a wooden hammer, and I’ve got nothing but a broken zipper. “We’re here to help you,” he says.
I’ve seen enough movies to know that when someone says this, it means you’re about to be pounced on and beaten like a rented mule.
So I make a run for it.
The next minute is complete chaos.
The crowd shrieks. Chairs are overturned. Several men join the chase. But none of them has my kind of speed.
I sprint around the outside of the room. The paintings whiz by my face. I glance at the name on each sticker under each painting as it flies by: Flight of Fancy. Somber Night. Eternal Embrace.
Where the heck is Untitled Number 14?
I’m forced to zigzag through several men who try to catch me in their coats like I’m some kind of runaway chimp. They’ve obviously never seen a chimp as fast as me.
Then I see it. Untitled Number 14! I stop short and grab the huge painting’s frame to help me regain my balance. The immense painting swings wildly on the wall with a loud scraping sound.
The crowd lets out a cry.
“Is there a zookeeper in the house?” somebody shouts.
Realizing that a mob is closing in fast, I lift the painting away from the wall, reach up with my free hand, and unhook Man with a Cat from its hiding place behind Untitled Number 14, where it hangs on its own hook. I hold up all twelve-by-twenty-two inches for everyone to see.
The crowd surrounding me gasps at the painting’s unexpected appearance.
But nobody looks as surprised, or as pleased, as Stone Head. From the emotion that registers on his rocklike features, I know that he had nothing to do with this “vanishing” masterpiece.
> “You found it,” Stone Head says, breaking into what must be a rare smile. “You really did it.”
“And he has a photo that proves it’s a true Artie McGuffin masterpiece,” Hailey says, squeezing into the circle of bodies.
“But who hid it behind there?” Stone Head asks, his eyes burning.
I hesitate, unsure about how much I should reveal. The thought of speaking in front of this many people makes me dizzy. My mouth feels like it’s full of sand. My legs feel like noodles. I’d faint right now if I knew how.
“Great work, Sherlock,” I hear Officer Lestrade’s voice call out from somewhere in the back of the room.
Somebody starts clapping. And soon the room explodes with nervous laughter, applause, and calls of “Bravo!”
As I hand the painting over to Stone Head, I know it will surely be the night’s most popular auction item.
It’s a moment that would make even Sherlock Holmes jealous.
• Chapter 19 •
Backroom Deal
“What happened in there?” Hailey asks.
“I squeezed him like a kitchen sponge,” I laugh.
We’re standing outside the doors of the mayor’s mansion. I’ve just completed a tense follow-up meeting with Mayor Fliggle. I wave down to Officer Lestrade, who’s waiting at the curb in his cruiser.
“Why don’t we have Officer Lestrade arrest the mayor right now?” Hailey asks.
“Well, technically the mayor didn’t steal anything,” I sigh. “He just moved something out of sight. It never left the room. He probably planned to move it out of the building secretly when he picked up Untitled Number 14.”
“He admitted he moved the painting?”
“Not until I asked to see the heels of his boots,” I say, smiling. “There were a half dozen perfectly round dents in the heel of his right boot, which I’m sure match the size of the nail holding the missing hook. He moved the hook, then used his boot as a hammer.”