The Malted Falcon

by Bruce Hale

  Blond isn’t a natural color for marmots. I suspected Bert and Lady Clairol were on a first-name basis.

  Craning my neck, I looked him in the face. “Chet Gecko . . . and company,” I said, jerking my thumb toward Natalie and the Newt Brothers.

  “Make it schnappy,” said Bert. “Ve’re playing ball.” He stepped onto the grass.

  “Now, Chet?” whispered Bo.

  “Not yet,” I muttered.

  I sized up Bert. With a lug this big, might as well try the easy way first.

  “We have a friendly word of advice,” I said, “about your choice of girlfriends.”

  Bert frowned. “You mean Sally or Lili?”

  Sally or Lili? No wonder Dot thought he was a bad influence.

  “Neither one,” said Natalie. “We mean little Miss Maytricks.”

  “Who is dot?”

  “Ah,” I said, “you know her sister.”

  “Whose sister?” said Bert.

  I folded my arms. Fine. If he wanted to play dumb, so could Chet Gecko.

  “Never mind the acting,” I said. “Just give back the valentine you got from Dot’s sister.”

  “Vhich sister?”

  “Dot’s sister,” I said.

  Bert’s forehead wrinkled. “You keep saying dot sister, but you don’t say vhich sister.”

  Tony Newt stepped forward. “Want us to whomp him, Chet?”

  I clenched my jaw. “Not . . . yet.” Addressing the thick marmot, I said, “Listen, pal. Are you gonna give us Courtney Maytricks’s valentine, or are we gonna make you?”

  Bert’s massive fists landed on his hips. He bent down and snarled. “Make me? You und vhat army?”

  That did it. “This army!” I said, waving the Newt Brothers forward.

  “Hi-yeeeeaahhh!” they shouted.

  Bo and Tony flew through the air like bargain-hungry moms at a clearance sale. Natalie and I charged forward.

  Violence is a private eye’s last resort. But it does get a suspect’s attention.

  “Yaaah!” yelled Bert. He staggered under the impact like a soap opera queen at cancellation time. Bert twisted to and fro, but couldn’t shake us.

  “Don’t pretend you—unh—don’t know Dot Maytricks and her—oof—sister, Courtney,” I grunted.

  “Who’s—aargh—pretending?” said Bert, a bonehead to the end.

  At last, Natalie hit him behind the knees, and we all went down—thud!

  A shadow fell across the tangle of private eyes and meatheads.

  “Chester Gecko?” rumbled an unmistakable voice.

  It’s never good news when they call me by my full name.

  I squinted up at the foul-tempered fat cat called Principal Zero. We were in for it now.

  Our white-furred boss man smiled, fangs twinkling. “Is this your handiwork?”

  I nodded.

  “Well done,” said the massive cat.

  Natalie and I exchanged a glance.

  Bert said, “But—”

  “Someone told me this hooligan was responsible for our unexpected fire drill today,” said Mr. Zero, pinching one of Bert’s ears. “And now he’s going to get what’s coming to him.”

  That was principal-speak for the spanking machine will wail today.

  We climbed off the unlucky marmot. But as I watched him get up, I realized we were no closer to helping Dot.

  I tried one last time. “Come on, I know you know Dot Maytricks. Green frog, huge red eyes, wears a floppy hat and shades. She wants her sister’s valentine.”

  Principal Zero grabbed one of Bert’s arms and Vice Principal Shrewer the other. As they marched him off, Bert twisted to look back.

  “I don’t know about ze shades and hat,” he said. “But dot sounds like my girlfriend, Lili Padd.”

  I frowned.

  “Und she doesn’t have a sister.”

  Kids parted before Principal Zero and his captive. They rubbernecked as Bert went off to get his. Everyone loves to watch a wreck.

  “What do you know?” said Natalie. “I knew that frog looked familiar.”

  “Huh?” I asked.

  “Lili Padd is in my class.”

  My tail twitched. “Class or no class, it’s time we had a little talk with the forked-tongued Miss Padd.”

  “But, Chet, frogs don’t have forked tongues.”

  “This one does,” I said.

  4

  Let Sleeping Frogs Lie

  Lunchtime was drawing short—as short as my temper. We had just enough time to grill Dot, or Lili, or whatever her lying little name was, before it ended.

  I thanked Tony and Bo Newt for their help, and Natalie and I took off. (Actually, she took off; I had to hoof it.)

  While Natalie searched for our client from above, I trotted down the halls with eyeballs peeled. I checked the gym. No frog. The sandbox. No frog.

  She was as hard to find as a bully’s conscience.

  Suddenly, the hall loudspeaker crackled. “Paging Chet Gecko, hotshot private eye. Your fly is undone.”

  I started to glance down, then stopped. Natalie clung to a nearby branch.

  “Ha, ha,” I said. “Any fly that gets near me will be undone.”

  “I found her, Chet,” she said.

  “Lead on, MacBird.”

  At the edge of the playground, a frog sat on a wall, sulking. Natalie and I arrived. She jumped.

  “Okay, sister,” I said. “What gives?”

  Dot or Lili or whoever tried on an innocent look. “Why, what do you mean?” she asked.

  I crossed my arms. “Nobody makes a monkey out of this gecko. Why did you lie to me?”

  The frog hung her head and took off her shades. “I was afraid,” she said.

  “You’ll have to do better than that,” said Natalie, frowning.

  Lili/Dot hopped up and began to pace. I was getting tired of not knowing what to call her.

  “Where do I start?” she said.

  “With your name,” I said. “Lili, right? Not Dot or Daisy or Humpty-Dumpty?”

  “It’s Lili,” she said.

  “And you don’t have a sister, do you?” asked Natalie.

  “Nope.”

  Natalie raised her eyebrows at me. Progress at last.

  “So, why the dodge?” I asked.

  Lili fiddled with her sunglasses. “I didn’t want word to get around.”

  “What word?” said Natalie.

  “About the love note,” said Lili.

  “What love note?” I said.

  This was like pulling teeth. And frogs don’t have teeth.

  I rubbed my neck instead of throttling hers and took a deep breath. “Okay. Pretend we have no clue what’s going on.” (Which was pretty close to the truth.) “Explain it in small words.”

  Lili looked up, round eyed. “I, um, gave Bert a valentine.”

  “So?” said Natalie. “Girls do that around Valentine’s Day.”

  “But I changed my mind,” said Lili, “when I found out he already has a girlfriend. I want my card back. He won’t give it to me.”

  I scratched my head. “So why all the song and dance about a fake sister?”

  The frog turned away. “Kids talk. If they knew about my valentine, I’d be a school joke.”

  I felt for her. Poor kid.

  “You lied to us,” said Natalie.

  Lili put the shades back on and leaned toward me. “Sorry,” she said. “I wanted you to scare Bert. I thought maybe if a big, strong gecko like you shook him up, he’d return it.”

  Natalie and I exchanged a glance. I’d met some screwy dames in my day, but Lili put the nit in nitwit.

  “Will you still help me?” asked the frog, with a tremor in her voice.

  “Give us a minute,” I said. I pulled Natalie out of earshot. “What do you think?”

  “I think she’s flakier than my mom’s garden-slug turnovers,” said Natalie.

  “Still,” I said, “she’s already paid our retainer.”

  “Yeah . .
.”

  “And she does need help.”

  Natalie snorted. “Sure, mental help.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. The smartest thing would be to drop Lili like a red-hot fire ant. Which is why I said . . .

  “Let’s give her a second chance.”

  Natalie batted her eyes. “Whatever you say, you big, strong gecko,” she said, in a dead-on impression of our client.

  “Don’t you start.”

  We walked back to Lili.

  “Okay,” I said, “we’ll help you get the card back.”

  She grabbed my arm. “Oh, thank you, Chet. Thank you.”

  I freed myself before the cooties could get under my skin.

  “But no lies,” said Natalie. “Or else. So, what does the envelope look like?”

  “It’s pink,” said the frog. “And on the outside, it says Lili + Bert.”

  Yuck. I wouldn’t touch a valentine on a bet. Natalie was going to carry this one when we found it.

  “If we can get it back, we will,” I said.

  “Yippee!” cried Lili.

  Yippee, indeed. The more I knew about this case, the less I liked it.

  Our client had told us more stories than Mother Goose on a midwinter’s night. And I sensed that other surprises were in store. But still, I stuck with it.

  That’s dedication for you. Or dim-wittedness, I forget which.

  5

  Hiccup or Ship Out

  Sometimes, a private eye has to tell a fib or bend the rules to solve a case. That’s regrettable. And it’s something you can’t do well unless you keep in practice.

  Fortunately, I practice often.

  It was quiet reading time. Mr. Ratnose kept an eye on the class while he graded papers with the other—a trick only a teacher (or a chameleon) can master. Silence covered the room, thicker than the peanut butter in a peanut-butter-and-june-bug sandwich.

  Keeping my eyes on my book, I let out a loud “hic!”

  Mr. Ratnose glanced up. I could feel his gaze.

  “Hic, hic!” I covered my mouth and looked around.

  “Chet Gecko?” said Mr. Ratnose.

  “Yes—hic—teacher?”

  “Is something the matter?” His whiskers bristled with suspicion.

  “I’ve—hic—got the—hic—hiccups.”

  Mr. Ratnose surveyed the room. My classmates were watching.

  “Well, why don’t you go get a drink of water?” he said.

  “O—hic—kay, teacher.”

  That was almost too easy.

  Once outside, I made for Maureen DeBree’s office. Ms. DeBree was Emerson Hicky’s head custodian, a spic-and-span mongoose with a grudge against grime.

  Ms. DeBree would have what I needed—not only the master key for all lockers, but a list of who had each one. I smiled. Bert Umber’s locker would soon be an open book—er, locker.

  Bap-bap-bap!

  I rapped on her office door. It swung open.

  “Well, if it ain’t the private eyeball himself,” she rasped. “Whassup?”

  Her office reeked of ammonia and lemons. I gave it the once-over, noticing the framed Mr. Clean photo, the labeled keys hanging neatly in a row.

  “I need some information.”

  “What, I look like a public library?”

  “More like a bookmobile,” I said. “Ms. DeBree, I’m after some stolen goods that might be stashed in a locker. Do you have a list of the locker assignments?”

  Ms. DeBree eyed me. “Yeah.”

  I gave her my Jumbo Sincere-o smile. “Can I . . . take a peek at it?”

  The mongoose swished her bushy tail and chewed on a Q-tip swab. “Mmm, I don’t know . . . ,” she said.

  “Pleeeease.” I gave her Bambi eyes, which usually works on my mom.

  The head custodian cocked her head, considering. I sweetened the pot.

  “I’ll bring you some home-baked mealworm cookies.”

  “Hokey-dokey,” she said.

  Ms. DeBree pulled a file from her desk drawer. She paused.

  “I dunno if this is a bona-fried, legal thing,” she said, “so I’m gonna leave this file on my desk and go check for stray rubbish. If your eyeballs, accidental-like, read the file . . .”

  “No one will know.”

  Maureen DeBree put a finger to her lips. “Strictly shush-shush,” she said, and strolled out the door.

  I sprang to the desk and flipped open the folder. Running my finger along names, I muttered, “Let’s see . . . Uvula . . . Urkle . . . Umber!”

  Bingo: Locker 337. My eyes strayed to the rack. A shiny brass key hung under the label, MASTER KEY—LOCKERS.

  Hmm. She’d probably say no if I asked to borrow it, but what if I just borrowed it without asking?

  A footstep scuffed just outside the door.

  Za-thwip!

  Without thinking, I shot out my tongue and snagged the key—just in time.

  “Funny t’ing,” said Ms. DeBree, stepping into the office. “No trash in the hall.”

  I kept my mouth shut while she closed the folder and refiled it. The brass tasted bitter on my tongue.

  The mongoose looked up. “You finished?” she asked.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I said, moving toward the door.

  “Got whatcha needed?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  She waved. “Laters.”

  “Mmm-kay.” I zipped out the door and down the hall.

  Ptah! Safely away, I spat the key into my palm. Yuck. What I really needed was a Sowbug Twinkie to chase away the aftertaste. . . .

  But duty came first. I strolled past banks of lockers, looking for Bert’s. Ah, good ol’ number 337—right by the drinking fountain.

  I glanced both ways. A dirt-brown prairie dog scurried around the corner, spotted me, then darted back into a classroom. The coast was clear.

  One quick turn of the key, and the mysteries of Bert’s locker lay revealed.

  A chewed-up baseball sat atop a pile of random junk. I found old book reports, stinky sneakers, a school photo of Lili Padd, more papers, and a half-eaten Lice Krispies bar.

  Hmmm.

  Munching on the candy, I sorted through the stack. Near the bottom was—well, well—an envelope covered with pink hearts. I wolfed down the rest of the treat and, holding the envelope by an edge, carefully opened it with a pencil.

  When I turned it upside down, out fell . . . a valentine card. Its front featured a hairy creature with hearts all around it.

  I peeked inside.

  Friends like you are fur-ever! it read. Be mine, valentine! The card was signed, Love, Sal.

  Eew. Mushy stuff.

  Wait a minute. Love, Sal? I searched the locker again. No more valentines.

  Piling everything back into place and closing the locker, I felt a funny pressure in my gullet.

  “Hic!”

  I went to the drinking fountain and slurped some water.

  “Hic!”

  I held my breath as long as I could and let it out.

  “Hic!”

  Great. Just great.

  I gave up and headed back to class. Mr. Ratnose was going to just love this.

  6

  Freddie Nostrils

  Ah, recess. Recess is the chocolate center of a Centipede Joy candy bar. Recess is school’s way of letting kids blow off steam so they don’t drive their teachers loco. (Too bad it never works.)

  Afternoon recess found me huddling with Natalie over our next move. I told her what I’d found in Bert’s locker.

  Natalie groomed her feathers. “Shouldn’t we check on his girlfriend Sally?” she said. “Maybe she swiped Lili’s valentine.”

  “My money’s still on Bert. But you’re right; let’s split up and track her down. First, get her full name.”

  Natalie saluted. “See ya later, investigator.”

  The clock was ticking. I hotfooted it for the upper-graders’ playground.

  Rounding a runculous tree, I jumped like a stuck frog when I found myself face-
to-face with a dirt-brown prairie dog.

  He bowed slightly. “Mr. Chet Gecko?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Freddie Nostrils.”

  “Big whoop,” I said. “Look, Slim, I’m in a hurry. No time for autographs.”

  I made to slip around him. Freddie blocked my path. I sized him up.

  He would never make the Rodent Hall of Fame. Freddie’s bulging eyes flanked a nose that looked like it’d blow off with a stiff sneeze. His overbite concealed a chin so weak, the nose could’ve beat it up.

  Freddie’s skinny body twitched like a silkworm in a light socket. He looked familiar, but if we’d met before, I’d thankfully forgotten.

  “Make your pitch or make tracks,” I said. “I’m a gecko with places to go.”

  Freddie Nostrils wrung his hands and offered up the most insincere smile I’ve seen outside of a parent-teacher conference.

  “I would like to, er, talk to you about a matter of mutual interest,” he said in a voice oilier than greaseball soup. “It concerns the Malted Falcon.”

  I snorted. “The moldy falcon? Who’s that, some birdie’s funky old grandma?”

  The prairie dog sniffed. “Not moldy, malted,” he said. “You mean you don’t know?”

  I shook my head. “What’s the Malted Falcon?”

  “Er, think of the biggest dessert you can,” said Freddie Nostrils.

  “You don’t know Chet Gecko,” I said. “I can think of a pretty big dessert.”

  And I did. With pleasure.

  Watching me, the prairie dog smirked. “Now triple it.”

  My eyes grew wide, picturing mountains of chunky weevil ice cream topped with snowcapped peaks of whipped cream. Candied grasshoppers did lazy backstrokes in lakes of fudge.

  I think I started to drool.

  “Er, Mr. Gecko?” he said. “Still with me?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Excellent. Now, imagine having this dessert once a week . . . for a full year.”

  I blinked. “That’s heaven.”

  Freddie leaned toward me. “No, it’s not,” he said. “That’s the Malted Falcon.”