The Malted Falcon

by Bruce Hale

  “I don’t understand.”

  The nervous rodent paced. “You know that candy shop at the mall . . .”

  “Sweet Thang?”

  I knew the joint. They’d tossed me out the month before when I drank an entire Humungoloid Shake single-mouthed and danced the magic chicken mambo on the countertop.

  Some shopkeepers don’t appreciate the fine arts.

  “Yes, er, Sweet Thang,” said Freddie, derailing my train of thought. “They have been giving out tickets to win the Malted Falcon whenever you buy a dessert. A, er, friend of mine in Ms. Reckonwith’s class got the winning ticket.”

  I swallowed my jealousy. “Lucky friend.”

  “Yes and no,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  Freddie’s buckteeth bared in a tight grin. “She, er, lost the ticket.”

  “Tough break,” I said. “But what’s all this got to do with me?”

  The prairie dog fixed me with a bug-eyed stare. “I would like to hire you to find the missing ticket.”

  I was tempted, but . . .“Sorry, I’ve already got a case.”

  Freddie stepped closer. “I will double your fee,” he said.

  Double my already-doubled fee would buy me another Humungoloid Shake or two (if I could get back into Sweet Thang). Mmm.

  “Freddie,” I said, “I’m your gecko.”

  “Excellent!”

  “When do I begin?”

  The prairie dog reached into his book bag. His paw emerged holding a wicked-looking rubber-band gun. Loaded.

  “How about right now?” said Freddie.

  “What?”

  He leveled the gun on me. “Hands up, please. We will start by searching you for the ticket.”

  7

  It’s All Geek to Me

  The Detective Handbook says when a client pulls a rubber-band gun, you’ve got three choices: jump him, die of embarrassment, or go along with it. I went along with it. Freddie’s twitchy trigger finger made me edgy.

  Besides, I didn’t have the winning ticket for the Malted Falcon. And I knew I’d pay Freddie back later, when he least expected it.

  We finished our little charade. Freddie apologized, paid me a hefty retainer fee, and I beat feet for the upper-graders’ playground. With a little luck, I could get a line on Bert’s girlfriend Sal, before the—

  Rrring!

  Drat. My luck was in the repair shop, along with my grade point average and my secret decoder ring. Recess ended. Detective work would have to wait.

  Shuffling back to class, I considered my caseload. On the one hand: Find a missing valentine. On the other hand: Recover the ticket to the most awesome dessert ever.

  Three guesses as to which case I liked best. (And the first two guesses don’t count.)

  Back in Mr. Ratnose’s room, I endured our twice-weekly music lesson from Zoomin’ Mayta, a hummingbird with a hyperactive sense of rhythm. If I had a musical bone in my body, Ms. Mayta hadn’t found it yet.

  When the last bell rang, I shot through the doorway like snot through a single-ply tissue. I caught Natalie at her classroom door. Amanda Reckonwith, her teacher, was chatting with a small pack of nerds inside while Natalie listened.

  “What do you know?” I asked, pulling my partner’s wing.

  “An excellent joke,” she said.

  “Oh joy.”

  Natalie’s eyes glittered. “Two Eskimos were paddling their kayak when they got cold. One lit a fire in the canoe, and down it sank. Know what that proves?”

  I braced myself. “What?”

  “That you can’t have your kayak and heat it, too!” she crowed.

  I bit my lip. Natalie’s puns can be deadlier than the aftereffects of bean-and-beetle burritos in a sleeping bag.

  She stopped laughing long enough to fill me in on Sally. “Her last name’s Monella,” she said. “But I couldn’t find her. We’ll have to grill her tomorrow.”

  “Never mind that; we’ve got a second case.”

  “A second case?”

  Natalie listened to the lowdown on Freddie Nostrils and the winning ticket for the Malted Falcon.

  She cocked her head. “Let me get this straight,” she said. “Freddie’s friend had the winning ticket in class today.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And somebody stole it.”

  “Yup.”

  She groomed a wing feather thoughtfully. “You know what I think?” asked Natalie.

  “That the cafeteria should serve inchworm salad every day?”

  “Besides that. The culprit’s got to be someone in my class.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Natalie frowned. “Who was Freddie’s friend, the one who lost the ticket?”

  “He didn’t say,” I said. “But he sure wants it bad.”

  Just then, the doorway to Ms. Reckonwith’s class filled with teacher’s pets bound for home. Natalie looked at me.

  “What are we waiting for?” she said.

  I waved at the four geeks walking out. “Hey there, sports fans,” I said. “Got a minute?”

  A bespectacled pigeon blinked. “No, my good lizard, but I can spare exactly sixty thousand milliseconds.”

  I rolled my eyes at Natalie.

  “Stop showing off, Henry,” she said. “He’s got a minute.”

  Hands on hips, I surveyed Natalie’s classmates. Besides Henry the pigeon, we’d collared a roly-poly wombat and two sleek skinks.

  “Any of you heard of the Malted Falcon?” I asked.

  Four hands went up.

  “One of your classmates got the winning ticket.”

  A chorus of oohs greeted that remark.

  “Who won?” asked the wombat.

  “We don’t know,” said Natalie. “But somebody else stole the ticket today.”

  “I suspect that Freddie character,” said Henry, looking down his beak. “He’s so deeply shifty.”

  Couldn’t argue with him there. But Freddie was the client, not the thief.

  “Did you notice anything odd in class today?” I asked.

  The four kids exchanged glances. “Well,” said the wombat, “Ms. Reckonwith wouldn’t let me clap the erasers . . .”

  “Um,” said a skink. “I think Randy was cheating on the math quiz.”

  I tapped my foot. Witnesses like these wouldn’t notice a brontosaurus in their cornflakes.

  The other skink screwed up her face. “We, um, didn’t get as much homework as I wanted.”

  Henry nodded. “Oh, yes, and Paige Turner went home in the middle of the day.”

  I sighed. “Was anyone snooping through someone else’s things?”

  All four shook their heads. I turned away.

  “Okay,” said Natalie. “You can go.”

  As they left, Henry the pigeon said, “I trust our recollections have been useful.”

  My smile was tighter than a rhino’s bikini. “You’ll never know how much, Henry boy.”

  I scoped out the school yard. Nearly everybody had gone, except for a couple of beefy muskrats hanging at the corner of the building. When they saw me looking, the pair began whistling and sauntered off.

  Hmm. Sounded like someone else was flunking Zoomin’ Mayta’s music lessons.

  Natalie and I peeked into her classroom. Nobody home but Amanda Reckonwith. I started through the door.

  Natalie stopped me. “Never bother Ms. Reckonwith when she’s grading papers,” she said. “Trust me.”

  We made for the school gate. The campus had that peaceful feeling it gets when nobody’s left but a few shell-shocked teachers and the kids in detention.

  “So,” I said, “no one to cross-examine.”

  “Nothing we can search,” said Natalie.

  I scratched my head. “What’s left?”

  Our eyes met. “Snack time at my house?” she asked.

  “Partner,” I said. “You’re singing my song.”

  8

  Surly in the Morning

  Grade-school privat
e eyes have it rough. For some reason, teachers won’t give time off to fight crime, so you have to use your free time—at recess, lunch, and after school.

  Sometimes you even have to snoop before school. Yuck.

  The way I see it, mornings were meant for sleeping, not sleuthing. But with two cases on my plate, I set the clock for the crack of dawn.

  The alarm blasted me out of a dream about the Malted Falcon. Good thing, too—I had eaten half of my pillow.

  I staggered into school to find my early-bird partner waiting by the flagpole, whistling a tune. She looked as cheery as a snotbug in a booger factory.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” she trilled.

  “Can the cheer,” I grunted. “Let’s snoop.”

  Natalie led the way to Bert Umber’s classroom. If Lili’s valentine wasn’t in his locker, it might be in his desk.

  As we walked, Natalie said, “You’ll never guess what I saw on TV last night.”

  “Let’s see . . . SpongeBird SquareBeak?”

  “Nope, it has to do with one of our cases.”

  I shrugged.

  “Give up?” she said. “The news report said that the winner of the Malted Falcon contest has to turn in the ticket by tonight.”

  “So if we don’t find out who took it by then . . .”

  “Bye-bye, big fat fees.”

  I shook my head. “Nothing like a deadline to focus the mind.”

  Up ahead, the windows of Bert’s room were already lit. Dang. We’d have to use trickery to get past his teacher. I peeked through a windowpane.

  Propped against a desk overflowing with papers sat Al LeGator, a portly crocodile with a pencil-thin mustache. (Don’t ask me how a reptile could grow one; I don’t want to know.) Scuttlebutt said he was an old softy, but Mr. LeGator was still a teacher and hard to fool.

  “How do we get him out of there?” I whispered to Natalie.

  She smirked. “Leave it to me.”

  In a voice like Principal Zero’s she called out, “Mr. LeGator! I need to see you right away.”

  Man, those mockingbirds sure can mock.

  “Eh?” The big crocodile lurched to his feet, peering about. “Mr. Zero? Where are you?”

  I glared at Natalie. She had forgotten to imitate a loudspeaker first.

  “Uh, I’m outside,” she said. “No time to waste. Come to my office, now!”

  Mr. LeGator waddled for the door—surprisingly fast for a bowlegged croc.

  I glanced around. Too late to seek cover.

  Fa-zip! I scuttled up the wall. In my line of work, it pays to be a lizard.

  Natalie flapped frantically, just clearing the roof by the time Al LeGator’s snout poked out the door. She threw her voice.

  “Step smartly!” Principal Zero’s words seemed to come from around the corner. “Haven’t got all day.”

  Bert’s teacher followed the voice, dragging his scaly tail behind him.

  I slipped down the wall and through the door.

  Mr. LeGator’s classroom looked like a trash bomb had exploded. Junk overflowed the wastebaskets, old drawings were pinned three deep to the walls, and the stink of stale milk filled the air.

  Using all my skills and the sweet science of detection, I located Bert’s desk. I flipped up the top and dug inside. It was worse than his locker.

  Stacks of homework assignments that had never gone home. Toy soldiers, trading cards, and—one layer deeper—an emergency stash of barbecue-flavored grubworms.

  Rats. Stale.

  What a mess. Too bad I’d left my earthmover in my other jacket.

  I searched quickly. Who knew how long Natalie could mislead Al LeGator?

  Scuff, scuff scuff.

  Not long, apparently. Footsteps shuffled outside. I closed the desktop and leaped away from Bert’s desk. Casually leaning against the wall, I smiled at . . .

  Bert?

  The marmot dragged into class. His face was puffier than a blowfish with the mumps. One eye was swollen almost shut. Fur was missing from his hide.

  “Wow,” I said. “What happened?”

  He squinted at me. “Oh, I, uh . . . ran into a pole,” he said.

  “Looks like the pole won.”

  Bert mumbled something and limped toward his desk.

  “Who did this to you?” I asked.

  “Uh, nobotty. It vas . . . my fault.”

  Bert was a better basketball player than he was a liar. But I had no time to grill him further. A bulky figure filled the doorway.

  “Well, hello,” rumbled Al LeGator. “And what are you up to, pray tell?”

  Bert hung his head. “I vas just—”

  “Not you,” said the potbellied crocodile, waddling into the room. “You.” His heavy-lidded eyes fixed me with a friendly stare.

  My tail curled.

  “Me?” I edged around the desks. “I was, er, curious about fifth grade.”

  Mr. LeGator turned to watch me. “And?”

  I flashed a quick grin. “Think I’ll stay in fourth. We have a better dental plan, and the snacks are to die for.”

  “Hmm.” The crocodile stroked his mustache.

  At the door, I tipped my hat. “As the tree said to the bush, it’s time for me to leaf.” I made tracks.

  Down the hall, Natalie was waiting.

  “Sorry I couldn’t keep him longer,” she said. “Did you learn anything?”

  “Yeah. Bert’s hiding something, and it’s not his charm and good taste.”

  “Why do they lie?” said Natalie. “We always find out.”

  “Beats me, birdie. Beats me.”

  9

  Me and My Shadows

  Math class is the zit on the nose of my school day. I’ve never liked it. Still, Mr. Ratnose’s drone made for a pleasant background noise as I pondered my cases.

  Who had beaten up Bert? Did it have to do with Lili’s valentine? And how the heck were we going to interview all of Natalie’s classmates and find the Malted Falcon ticket by tonight?

  “Chet Gecko?” said Mr. Ratnose.

  “Yes, teacher.”

  The answer is . . . ?

  “Uh, can I get back to you?”

  Mr. Ratnose pulled on his whiskers. “Honestly! Why do you always daydream during math class?”

  “I wasn’t daydreaming,” I said. “I was having an out-of-body experience.”

  My teacher snorted and moved on to the next victim.

  When recess rolled around, I trotted to Natalie’s classroom. We’d planned to spend the time interviewing her classmates.

  Luck was with me. As I slipped into the classroom, the snapping turtle, Ms. Reckonwith, was just closing her book.

  “That’s all for now,” she said. “You may all go to recess—quietly.”

  Her students closed their books like good little boys and girls and got ready to go. They really toed the line in Reckonwith’s class.

  I strolled up to Natalie. “Let’s get hopping.”

  “Like a pan full of popcorn,” she said.

  We asked several kids to wait a minute. For my first interview subject, I chose a sharp-faced dove in the back row.

  “Hi, I’m Natalie’s friend, Chet. We’re working on a case.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she said.

  “Yeah,” I said. “And I was just wondering . . .”

  My gaze wandered to Lili Padd, who was standing by the door. She shot me a big-eyed look. Of course, being a frog, most of her looks were big-eyed.

  Lili mouthed, “Let’s talk at lunch.” I nodded.

  “Wondering what?” said the dove.

  “Hmm?” I asked.

  She gathered up her books. “What were you wondering? Recess doesn’t last forever.”

  “Uh, wondering if you saw anything suspicious . . .”

  Someone bumped me—hard. I caught the dove’s desk to keep from falling.

  “Oops,” said Little Gino, the oversized tuatara. “Did I hurt you, mate?”

  It was déjà vu, all over again. “No
t as much as that lobotomy must’ve hurt you,” I said.

  But before Little Gino and I could continue our tough-guy dance, Ms. Reckonwith called him to the front of the room.

  “When?” asked the dove.

  “What?” I said.

  She sighed. “When did I see something suspicious?”

  “You saw something suspicious?”

  The dove shook her head. “You were asking me, remember?”

  “Oh, right!” I leaned forward. “Yesterday, someone stole . . .”

  Something tugged at my sleeve.

  I turned, clenching a fist. “Would you just—”

  Freddie Nostrils held up his paws. “No need for alarm, Mr. Gecko,” he said. “I merely wanted to request a, er, lunch meeting to discuss my case.”

  “Oh.” I blinked. “Okay.”

  Freddie joined the other kids trooping out the door.

  “What?” It was the dove again.

  “What what ?”

  “You haven’t even asked me a question yet,” she said. “What kind of detective are you?”

  I scratched my head. “Sister, I’ve been wondering that myself.”

  Without further fuss, I interviewed the dove and a couple of other kids. By then, everyone else had hit the playground, except the teacher.

  “Any luck?” I asked Natalie.

  “Not yet,” she said. “But we’ve got about six more kids to go.”

  “A-hem!” A sound like a buzz saw clearing its throat grabbed my attention.

  Amanda Reckonwith sent a steely gaze through her spectacles. “Still here?” she said. “Isn’t there somewhere else you have to be?”

  “Um, yes, ma’am,” said Natalie.

  “Then be there!” Ms. Reckonwith snapped. Of course, you expect that from a snapping turtle.

  We traipsed out the door to continue our interviews. As we headed for the playground, I scanned the halls for Natalie’s classmates. No stragglers remained. Just a couple of big muskrats leaning on a wall, looking our way.

  Big muskrats?

  I muttered, “Don’t look now, but we’re being followed.”

  “Where?”

  “Two hefty rodents, off the port bow.”

  She sneaked a quick glance. “Why are they after us?”