by Bruce Hale
In the classroom, he was a no-show. Probably off somewhere doing interviews and signing autographs. It must be nice to be a famous detective.
I blew out a sigh.
Class time passed in the usual way—as if we were strapped to the back of a stupefied snail. By late recess, I could’ve sworn that I’d aged two years.
Forging onto the playground, I vowed to take one last shot at interrogating Bland. Maybe this time we could shake some straight answers out of the guy.
But deep inside, I was afraid that his answers would make me look more like a loser detective than I already did.
Roaming the school yard, Natalie and I asked after the penguin.
“Haven’t seen him,” said a teacher on yard duty.
“Oh, you know James? He’s the dreamiest,” said a cheerleader.
“Heard you two had a feud,” said Jackdaw Ripper. “Very cool.”
But nobody knew where he was. We were about to throw in the towel, when fate intervened, in the shape of the school’s most feared fat cat.
Just past the library building, a huge figure loomed from the shadows.
“Hold it right there, Gecko.”
It was Mr. Zero, the titanic tomcat who ruled Emerson Hicky with a fist of iron. The kids called him Big Fat Zero. But never to his face—not if they valued their hide.
“Whatever Mr. Ratnose said about the aquarium, it’s not true,” I said.
Principal Zero smoothed his whiskers. “This isn’t about Mr. Ratnose,” he purred. “But I’ll be sure to check with him later.”
Dang. I’d forgotten the first rule of dealing with the principal: Never volunteer information.
“Chet Gecko, it has come to my attention that you have a rivalry with this penguin private eye, James Bland.”
“Rivalry?” I said. “Ridiculous.”
The big cat’s tail twitched. “You called him a fish-slurping bozo.”
“Me? Never.”
“It’s on tape,” snapped Mr. Zero.
“Oh, that,” I said. I examined my palms for smudges.
“Gecko, I wonder if you’d accompany me to your locker,” said the cat.
“Funny,” I said, “but I’ve never wondered that.”
He growled, a low rumble like an avalanche on Mount Kilimanjaro.
“Shall we go?” I said.
Our principal led the way. Kids cleared back like you could catch a week of detention just by meeting his eyes.
“Not that I don’t cherish these get-togethers, but what’s up, boss man?”
Mr. Zero glanced over his shoulder at me. “Eh?”
“Why this sudden interest in my locker?” I said. “Collecting stale sandwiches and forgotten homework?”
His eyebrows drew together. “We’ll see.”
Natalie elbowed me. I clammed up. Even I knew enough not to push it when the big cat was in this kind of mood.
We stopped in front of my locker.
“Open it,” said Mr. Zero.
“Okeydokey,” I said, twisting the combination lock. “But you’re going to be disappointed. Nothing but snips and snails and centipede tails . . .”
The tumblers clicked, and I opened the locker. “See?”
Natalie gasped. Mr. Zero’s ears flattened to his skull.
I turned to look.
Atop my pile of random junk sat James Bland’s blue bowler.
“Huh,” I said. “How did that get here?”
The principal smiled his someone’s-gonna-get-it smile. “That’s what the police will want to know.”
“The police?!” said Natalie.
“Why would they want to talk to me?” I asked.
“Because James Bland has disappeared,” said Mr. Zero. “And you’re their number-one suspect.”
8
Grilling Me Softly
The big tomcat left me to stew in the waiting room while he called the cops.
“But I didn’t do anything,” I told his secretary, Mrs. Crow.
“That’s what they all say, dearie,” she rasped.
I leaned forward. “This time I really didn’t.”
“Uh-huh.” She sorted through some file folders.
So much for tea and sympathy.
Before long, a pair of blue-uniformed dogs padded into the administration building. They stopped at Mrs. Crow’s desk.
“Officers Frick and Frack,” said the golden-furred one.
“About the missing kid,” said the spotted dog.
Mrs. Crow nodded at the principal’s office. “In there, boys.”
With a slit-eyed stare, the cops marched past. The odor of canned dog food, damp fur, and intimidation rolled off of them in a funk.
Thirty seconds later, a voice snarled, “Gecko!”
“The principal will see you now,” said Mrs. Crow.
I stood and wiped my sweaty palms on my T-shirt.
“Any last words?” said the secretary.
“Don’t tell ’em it ended like this,” I said. “Tell ’em I said something.”
Then I trudged into the crime-and-punishment headquarters of the school: Principal Zero’s office.
The scarred black desk squatted dead ahead like a wounded water buffalo. Mr. Zero glowered from behind it. The boys in blue filled his guest chairs.
I stood before the desk and eyed the bowler on top of it. My future at Emerson Hicky was balanced on a knife’s edge, and I wasn’t much of a gymnast.
“Never,” said the principal, “in all my years at this school—never have I had to call the police on a student.”
A response didn’t seem expected, so I didn’t make any.
The cat scowled. “And yet, your behavior leaves me no choice.”
Silence was working for me. I did some more of it.
“You’d better tell these officers everything you know about James Bland,” said Mr. Zero. “And it better be the truth, because I can sniff out a lie quicker than you can snatch the last cookie off the plate.”
My eyes flicked to his colossal gut. The ol’ tomcat had been doing a bit of cookie snatching himself. But this didn’t seem like the time to mention it.
“Well, Gecko?” said Officer Frick.
I kept on saying nothing. If these two badge bandits were trying to railroad Chet Gecko, they’d get no help from me.
“Cat got your tongue?” said Officer Frack.
No, but he had another part of my anatomy in a sling.
“Speak up,” growled the principal.
“Okay,” I said at last. “I didn’t do it.”
“Tell us,” said golden-haired Frick.
“Everything,” said spotty Frack.
I cleared my throat. “This new kid shows up yesterday, says he’s a PI. Ginger Vitus hires him to find her sister. He finds her. Case closed.”
“Not quite.” Frack twisted the desk lamp so it shone in my face.
I squinted and shaded my eyes. “What’s with the light show?”
“You were jealous, weren’t you?” said Frick, rising to pace behind me.
“No way,” I said.
Principal Zero sniffed twice. “Smells like a fib brewing.”
“Okay,” I said. “Maybe I was, a little. This smooth-talking mug showed up, grabbed my business, and solved my case.”
“You argued,” said Frack.
“I argue with lots of people,” I said. “Is that a crime?”
“Not yet,” said Mr. Zero. “But a principal can always hope.”
The golden-haired dog leaned over me. His breath smelled like he’d been drinking his water from someplace other than the fountain, if you get my drift.
“You lost your temper,” said Frick. “You kidnapped your rival.”
“I didn’t!”
“Crime of passion,” said Frack. “Oldest story in the book.”
“Then get a new book,” I said.
Officer Frick turned to Principal Zero. “Is he lying?”
The hefty cat padded over and took a long whiff. He
paused. “No,” he said. “But my nose isn’t a hundred percent accurate.”
Frick rested a paw on my shoulder. “Gecko, we got motive, opportunity, and”—he nodded at the bowler—“physical evidence.”
“It don’t look good,” said Frack. His tail wagged.
I glanced from one hard face to another. “Someone planted that hat in my locker. They disappeared Bland, and now they’re trying to pin it on me.”
“Who would do that?” said Officer Frick.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Give me till tomorrow to find out.”
The principal and the cops exchanged looks. Something passed between them in their secret Authority Figure language.
My tail curled.
“You got until noon tomorrow,” said Frack.
“Can we make it three o’clock?” I said. “I’ve got schoolwork.”
Frack held up a paw. “Don’t push it.”
“Three o’clock,” said Frick. “And if you can’t prove you were framed, you’ll be a guest of our lovely juvenile detention facility.”
With urgency in my step, I made for the door. “I’ll get right on it.”
“Gecko,” rumbled Mr. Zero. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Turning back, I said, “Um, thanks for the chance to clear my name?”
He shook his head and pointed a claw at the wall clock. “Class now, detection later.”
I sighed. Tough is the life of a grade-school detective.
9
Eat, Think, and Be Scary
As Mr. Ratnose droned through our lessons, my mind toiled harder than a hamster inside a fifty-foot Ferris wheel. But not on schoolwork.
I mulled over possible suspects, but didn’t get very far. I wondered where Bland was, but couldn’t puzzle that out, either.
An annoying whine interrupted my thinking. It was my teacher’s voice.
“Are you with us, Mr. Gecko?”
“Huh?” I said, looking around.
“I asked you, how do clouds get formed?” said Mr. Ratnose.
I scratched my nose. “Beats me. But the clouds know how to do it, and that’s the important thing.”
The class laughed, Mr. Ratnose groaned, and I went back to brooding.
After the last bell rang, I hunted up Natalie and told her the latest.
“We’ve got until three o’clock tomorrow?” she said as we tromped down the hall. “That’s not much time.”
“You’re telling me,” I said.
“So what do we know so far?”
I cracked my knuckles. “I know one thing. This job needs our best brainstorming. And that means . . .”
“Snacks?” said Natalie.
“And plenty of ’em. Let’s hit my home office.”
Fifteen minutes later, we slipped through the tall grass of the backyard into my own private think tank. The home office sits behind the bamboo, cleverly disguised as a refrigerator box.
Gotta keep those bad guys guessing.
Natalie and I unloaded an armful of potato-bug crisps, gypsy moth brownies, deep-fried dragonfly livers, and sow-bug soda.
That was for me. She had an apple.
Halfway through the snacks, my brain started firing on all cylinders.
“Okay, let’s think who could’ve made James Bland disappear,” I said, munching a brownie.
“Well, a celebrity stalker, for starters,” said Natalie.
“Mmm, or maybe an enemy who followed him from his old school.”
She cocked her head. “But why would his old enemy frame you?”
“Good point.” I mused while rummaging in the potato-bug crisps. “Aha!”
“You got the suspect?” asked Natalie.
I drew my hand from the bag. “Nope, the prize—a decoder ring.”
“Get serious, Chet.”
Suddenly, it hit me. “Hey, I know who made the penguin vanish.”
“Who?”
“Bland himself.”
Natalie rapped on my head. “Hello,” she said. “Anybody home? Why would James make himself disappear?”
I upended the bag into my mouth and swallowed the last of the crisps. “Because he wanted to get back at me.”
“But he found Connie,” said Natalie. “He’s got the upper hand. You should be wanting to get back at him.”
“Oh, yeah.”
Natalie rose and paced the length of the box. “No, I’m betting it’s Connie’s kidnappers. The cases are connected somehow.”
“So if we find out who snatched the sparrow—”
“We’ll know who pinched the penguin,” Natalie said.
I looked at her openmouthed in admiration. “Birdie, you’re pretty sharp,” I said. “Remind me to start paying you more.”
“But Chet, you don’t pay me anything.”
“Then it should be easy to pay you more, shouldn’t it?”
Since Charles de Gull and his gang were still our top suspects, we scooted back to the school to catch him at soccer practice. With the big game only a day away, he was probably sweating it up on the field.
I never get tired of being right.
Sure enough, our ragtag team was chasing a black-and-white ball while Coach Stroganoff bellowed. Natalie and I sneaked under the bleachers to spy.
A whistle blew.
One of the team’s star forwards, a lithe ferret, trotted off the field for instructions. Charles de Gull and Zibo watched from the bench with a sneer.
“Way to hustle, Mindy!” said Coach Stroganoff. While he ran down the next play, a scary-looking rabbit ambled forward.
“Let’s go!” barked the ferret. The bunny hopped to it, wiping off Mindy’s sweat, giving her a drink, and spraying her face.
I looked closer. Frankenbunny?
“Check her out,” I said to Natalie.
“I’d rather not,” she said.
“It’s that horrible hopper who was hanging out with Ginger.”
“So? Maybe she likes soccer, too.”
When the bunny had finished pampering her, Mindy rejoined the field.
De Gull spoke up. “So, mon coach,” he said, “for ze beeg game, you put me on ze starting team, yes?”
The big groundhog swiveled his head. “I put you on the starting team, no,” he growled. “When you play better, you can start.”
A heavy storm front blew in across the seagull’s face. He muttered to Zibo.
Coach blew his whistle, and play resumed.
I elbowed Natalie. “We’re missing something here. It doesn’t add up.”
“Neither does your math homework, but that never stopped you before.”
“What’s the deal? We’ve detected lots of school spirit, but no kidnappers.”
“Patience,” said Natalie, grooming her wing feathers.
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one facing time in the hoosegow.”
“Hoosegow?” she said. “Chet, where do you get these words?”
I shrugged. “Same place I get all my best detective ideas: late-night movies.”
Practicing patience didn’t come easy for a gecko of action like me. The only excitement occurred five minutes later, when Mindy shuffled off the field.
“What’s up?” said the coach. “We’ve got another half hour.”
Mindy made a face. “I know, Coach, but . . . well, I just don’t feel like it.”
“Oh, really?” asked the groundhog. “What do you feel like?”
“Um, doing my science homework. Can I go now?”
Coach Stroganoff’s face flushed. “NO, you can’t go! Get back out there!”
The ferret dragged onto the grass. Her play was erratic. When a ball knocked Mindy down, the coach finally pulled her out and substituted de Gull.
I straightened a crick in my neck. “Natalie, this stakeout is strictly for sports fans. We’re not getting the goods on whoever snatched Bland.”
“I guess not,” she said, face falling. “I was so sure we’d find some clues.”
C
limbing out from under the bleachers, I said, “Time for Plan B: We search the school, see if we can get lucky and maybe find us some penguin tracks.”
Unfortunately, my luck had taken a three-week vacation to Timbuktu (along with my grades). Our hunt was a total washout. We faced facts and gave up.
There are only so many places you can hide a chubby penguin. And James Bland was in exactly none of them.
As we shuffled home, Natalie asked, “What now, Mr. PI?”
“I’m running out of options. It pains me to say it, but there’s only one thing left to do.”
“What’s that?”
“Household chores,” I said. “See you tomorrow, birdie.”
10
Countdown to Lockup
The next day began with my back to the wall. Seven hours to locate a penguin, or I’d learn just how pretty I’d look in jail stripes. I needed a lead, a clue—heck, even a miracle would do.
But all I found were dead ends.
Natalie and I tried to dig up Connie Vitus to grill her again. But the sparrow was home with the flu.
I questioned Elise Navidad on the penguin’s whereabouts, but the reporter laughed me out of her studio. It seemed my reputation had only gotten worse.
All through the day, the clock ticked mercilessly, counting down my hours of freedom. Come three o’clock, I’d be washed up at Emerson Hicky.
And we’re not talking laundry day.
At lunch, Principal Zero passed me on the playground. He lifted an eyebrow as if to ask, Any results?
I shook my head—No luck.
He held up three fingers. Three more hours.
It’s a scary thing when you can read your principal’s mind.
School spirit bubbled all around me. My classmates were pumped about the big soccer game. But I couldn’t muster enough zip to blow up a soggy balloon.
I was kaput, fini, down the drain, yesterday’s news. I would have turned myself in early, but I didn’t want to miss my last recess as a free gecko.
Somehow, my unknown foe had succeeded where some of the worst crooks had failed. I was out of business.