A Nose for Adventure

by Richard Scrimger

  “What happened when he tried to get it back?” I ask.

  – Sally bit him.

  The dog whines.

  – Yes, yes, says Norbert. But you think that about every thing.

  “What?” I ask.

  – Oh, nothing. She says it smelled funny. Don’t ask me. She thinks everything smells funny. She’s a dog, for heaven’s sake.

  The agent is asking Airs. Miller about Sally. “This messenger, now. There are a number of conflicting statements. Did you see the, um, creature?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A dog? Now, I saw a dog here myself. A family dog, I assume. Is she yours, ma’am?”

  “She’s … with my daughter.”

  “Several statements claim that the dog was speaking to you, ma’am. To you directly, I mean. Did you hear it?”

  Mrs. Miller clears her throat. “Oh, yes. Yes, I heard it plainly.”

  “Barking? Growling?”

  Mrs. Miller doesn’t say anything.

  I get an idea. “The sarcophagus,” I whisper to Frieda.

  She’s already rolling herself into the library. Sally looks up at me from the floor. Well, duh. Victor, Frieda, now Sally – everyone seems to look at me the same way.

  “Do you think this Horus thing is in the sarcophagus?” I ask Bird.

  “Shew-ah,” he says. “But I don’t want to fish it out.”

  We follow Frieda and Sally into the library.

  Special Agent Libby doesn’t have to do the dirty work himself, of course. Officer Culverhouse roots around in the sarcophagus. He uses tongs.

  “Got something else!” The officer holds up another small dirt-covered lump. It’s about as thick as my thumb, and not much longer. I’m all set to say yuck again, but on closer inspection I can see that it’s a small statue – about three thousand years older than the first dirt-covered lump he fished out.

  So that’s an Ushabti.

  “Careful,” says the special agent. It’s an automatic response. He sounds like your parents do when you’re walking near the edge of a cliff.

  Culverhouse places the Ushabti in a clear plastic bag, sticks a tag on it, and goes to wash his hands.

  Libby frowns down at Frieda. “You are a very smart young lady,” he says. “How did you know that was here?”

  “Norberto told her!” cries Mrs. Miller, clapping her hand over her mouth, like teenagers do on TV commercials when they’re worried about bad breath.

  “There there,” says the special agent. He takes her by the hand and leads her to a chair. “You’re all upset, ma’am. You should rest a bit. I’m afraid this has all been a shock to you.”

  Sally jumps up on her hind legs to sniff energetically at the bundle on the table. Libby pushes it away from her. “Down, boy,” he says.

  “It’s a girl dog,” says Frieda. “Her name is Sally.”

  “I thought it was Norberto,” he says.

  I can’t help noticing the way Mrs. Miller keeps staring at her daughter. When we first came into the house, she didn’t pay any attention to her at all. Now she’ll look away for a bit, then sneak a peek out of the corner of her eye.

  “What’s that smell?” says Culverhouse, when he comes back from washing his hands.

  Sally whines.

  “No, no,” says Culverhouse. “I got a dog at home; I know that smell. This is like tar.”

  “Oh, that.” Libby explains. “That’s creosote. The Ushabti would probably have been wrapped in waterproof paper for transport overseas. The smell lingers.”

  Waterproof paper. I find myself staring at Sally. She cocks her head on one side. I remember the scene in the alley – Norbert telling her to put it down, Sally. It stinks. I remember reaching down to pick up the paper and put it in my …

  – Pocket. Did I say that, or did Norbert? I reach into my pocket and pull out the piece of brown paper. It still stinks.

  “Where’d you get that?” asks Libby.

  I don’t know what to say.

  He stares at me. “Young man, we’re going to have a talk,” he says.

  The dog puts her head in Frieda’s lap. Mrs. Miller shudders.

  Events are moving too fast for me. I feel like I’m in a weird dream. In this dream I’m standing still, and everything else in the world is whirling past. I grasp at objects I recognize but my hand closes around smoke, or empty air, or something totally unexpected. I reach for a tennis racket and get a spoon. I hear a friend’s voice, but by the time I turn around I’m staring into the mouth of an angry lion. I try to take my father’s hand and find myself clutching a stone.

  What is happening to me? Why didn’t Dad meet me at the airport? How did I come to be mixed up with a rich girl, a talking dog, and a smelly package? Not to mention bad guys, with names like Earless and Slouchy and Hawkface – no, Hawkface is a god. What does it all mean?

  Maybe it is a weird dream. But it feels awfully real, and it’s lasting all day long.

  Anyway, when Special Agent Libby says hello and asks me how I am, I say the first thing that comes into my head. “Confused,” I say.

  We’re in the den. There’s a grand piano at one end of the room and a couch at the other. Family photographs smile down from the walls. Flowers hold their heads up straight and tall in vases. The agent and I are sitting side by side on the couch.

  “First trip to New York?” he asks. I nod. “Well, that explains it,” he says. “It’s a confusing town.”

  He rubs his face with his hand, kneading it hard, like pie crust. “I’m confused, and I’ve lived here all my life,” he says. “Take this afternoon. I’ve been working on Earless for the past six months. I’ve got a pipeline into his organization. I’ve been following this Ushabti every step of the way, waiting for it to come to Earless himself. I had everything I needed to get him this afternoon – and you saw what happened.”

  “Too bad,” I say.

  He shakes his head. “You don’t know the half of it. My people are searching through his gallery right now. I say ‘his,’ but there’s nothing there that links up to Earless. The gallery isn’t even in his name. I want him behind bars, and for that I need proof.”

  Of course, he also needs to have Earless himself, who is missing, but I don’t point this out. “Sorry,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Not your fault.”

  He’s an okay guy. He asks a bunch of easy questions in a really friendly tone of voice – where I live, how old I am, do I like baseball. I start to relax, maybe because he likes baseball too. “I went to last night’s game with the Blue Jays,” he says. “Got Williams’ autograph – for my son,” he adds. “He’s about your age.”

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Would you like to see it? It’s right here.” He reaches into his inside jacket pocket.

  Sally wanders into the room. I smile and beckon, but she jumps onto the couch next to the agent. He frowns. I don’t think he likes dogs.

  “Come here, Norb – I mean, Sally,” I say. “C’mere, girl.”

  – No, says Norbert.

  Startled by the strange squeaky voice, Libby jerks his hand out of his pocket. A photograph falls out, and lands on the glass-topped table right in front of me, as if placed by an unseen hand for my personal inspection. Nothing to do with baseball. This is a picture of Slouchy and Skinny sitting at a restaurant.

  “I… I…” I stare and swallow. My hand, as if acting on its own impulse, nothing to do with my brain at all, reaches towards the photograph. “Who are they?” I ask. My voice comes from a long way off. It sounds like someone else’s.

  Libby stares at the dog, shakes his head, and then comes back to me. “These jokers? They’re a couple of guys Earless uses here in New York. One of them works at La Guardia Airport. They’re related – cousins, I think. Why? Do you … do you mean you recognize them? You’ve seen them?”

  I nod.

  “It’s something to do with that piece of brown paper in your pocket, isn’t it?”

  I nod again.

&n
bsp; “Where and when did you see them?”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Come on, son.”

  I swallow. “This morning,” I say. “I saw them both this morning.”

  Oh, no. I’ve said it now. I’m scared, but I can’t take it back. The whole thing is going to come out. You can lie down and take deep breaths and fool yourself into thinking you’re not going to throw up, until the moment comes when you know you are. No good telling yourself it’s the right thing to do. No good telling yourself the police are the good guys.

  Seeing Slouchy in the picture brings all my fear to the surface. I’m scared of what he’ll do to me.

  Sally licks my hand, and trots out of the room.

  The story only takes a few minutes to tell. About halfway through, the special agent stops me, goes to the door, and calls Culverhouse. Then he has me start at the beginning and tell it again, with Culverhouse taking notes. After I’m done, they go over and over certain parts of it. Am I sure they said Earless will be happy to see him? What time was that? What exactly did they say? Am I sure?

  “I’m sure,” I say, “and there’s another person involved too. A woman.” I tell them about Veronica. The agent nods, but he doesn’t seem as interested in her. “She’s the attendant,” I say. “On the airplane.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says. He tells me to forget about her.

  Frieda and Bird are called into the room and asked to confirm my story. Sally comes too. Frieda strokes the dog absently. Mrs. Miller stands in the doorway while Frieda speaks. She’s staring at her daughter as if she’s seeing a whole new person. When Frieda gets to the part where the truck drives away with us in it, Culverhouse clucks his teeth sympathetically. Mrs. Miller turns away. Frieda scratches behind Sally’s ears.

  Libby wants to hear one more time about the bundle inside the wheelchair. “Andrews and Jones both knew about it?” he asks. Andrews is Slouchy’s real name. Jones is the skinny government guy, and he owns the Amphora Jones gallery – at least, his name is on the deed.

  “They both knew,” I say for the third time. “And Veronica unwrapped it. She wanted to take it to Earless herself, but the slouchy guy – Andrews – said no.”

  Libby nods to himself.

  “Later, Sally found part of the wrapping,” says Frieda. “Didn’t you, sweetie!”

  “And it smelled like creosote,” I say.

  The special agent is massaging his face again. He looks hopeful. I feel for him. I know how hard hope can be.

  Here’s a strange thing. After I talk to the C & E – that’s what Customs and Excise call themselves – I feel better. You’d think I’d be worried. I’ve broken a promise. I’ve told, after I said I wouldn’t. If Slouchy finds me, who knows what horrible thing he’ll do.

  Maybe I should feel scared. But I don’t. I don’t feel scared at all. I feel relieved. It’s like I’ve been walking around with a stomach-ache. Now that I’ve thrown up, I feel better.

  “I want to phone my dad,” I say.

  A half hour later I’m sitting in the kitchen with milk and cookies, listening for the phone. I’m hoping my dad will call back. His secretary said he would. I told her where I was, and gave her the Millers’ number, and she said my dad would be sure to call back. She said that – I’m sure he will – in a voice I’ve heard my mom use, meaning he should, but he might not get around to it.

  The secretary sounded surprised that I was in New York. “You sure you’re not calling from Canada?” she asks.

  Special Agent Libby is waiting for a call too. He’s pacing up and down the kitchen, folding phone in one hand, cookie in the other.

  Bleep!!

  A ring, but not the one I want. “Yes?” says Libby. Crumbs spray out of his mouth. He ignores them. “Where is she?” he asks. “Why hasn’t she called?” He stops moving and listens. “Say that again,” he says. A late lightning flash lights up the sky outside; the flash is reflected in his eyes. “That’s at La Guardia? Are you sure?”

  He takes a small pad of paper from his inside jacket pocket – not the pocket with the photographs; the other one – and writes down some numbers. “Got it,” he says. “Anything else?” He’s pressing the phone against his ear. Here’s the hope again, riding across his face like a hero on a white horse. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go. Clear it up the line. Use my authority. I want units in position in …” he looks at his watch “… in forty minutes. I’ll get there with the boy as soon as I can.”

  He comes over to where I’m sitting, and bends down so his eyes are on a level with mine.

  “I’m the boy, aren’t I?” I say. “The boy you were just talking about on the phone.”

  He nods. “Jones’ car is sitting in the airport parking lot. We need someone who saw it in the alley with the kidnappers’ truck.”

  “Me?”

  The special agent points to Bird. “He didn’t see the car. You did.”

  “So I’m the boy?”

  “You are the boy.”

  “Hey!” says Frieda.

  “What about me?” says Frieda.

  Libby puts away his telephone. He looks almost naked without it. “What about you, Miss Miller?” I’m the boy. She’s Miss Miller.

  “Why can’t I go?”

  “Do you want to go, um, dear?” asks Frieda’s mother. The last word sounds odd on her tongue, as though she isn’t used to it.

  “If Alan goes, I should go too. Two witnesses are better than one. I’m older than Alan, and I have a better memory.”

  Go instead of me, I think to myself. But I don’t say it.

  “But, Miss Miller, you’re … well, you’re …”

  “A girl?”

  “No. I mean, you are a girl, of course. But …” The agent is having trouble saying what he means.

  “Maybe you’d better let the man decide,” says Mrs. Miller.

  “He’s saying I can’t go because I’m a girl,” says Frieda.

  “No, no, that’s not it at all,” he hastens to say. “It’s … oh, dear.”

  She swivels her chair to face me. “Alan, what kind of car does the skinny guy drive?” she asks.

  I think back. “It’s medium-sized,” I say. “Not too big. And not … what’s the word?”

  “Small?” says Bird.

  “No no. Not all one color.”

  “Two-toned, yes,” says Frieda. “How many doors?”

  I open my mouth. “Doors?”

  She smiles sympathetically. She doesn’t want to make me look like an idiot. “Doors,” she says. “The things with hinges and handles that people use to get in and out of cars.”

  Maybe she doesn’t care what I look like, at that.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I only saw one.”

  Norbert snickers. I know it’s Norbert. So does Frieda. She puts her hand on the dog’s muzzle. “Shhh,” she whispers.

  The special agent is staring at me. I know that look. He’s disappointed. My math teacher looks that way all the time. “Sorry,” I say.

  “It’s a late-model Buick Regal hardtop,” she says crisply. “Two-toned in blue. Light blue body, dark blue top.”

  “I didn’t know you were interested in automobiles, dear,” says her mother.

  “Four doors,” she goes on. “And one of those pathetic tassels tied to the aerial.”

  Libby is still staring at me. “I remember the tassel,” I say.

  So Frieda gets to come to the airport too. With her is her mom, hesitant but determined. And Sally. The special agent doesn’t want to take the dog, but Frieda insists. “You’ll see,” she says. “There’s more to this dog than you think there is.”

  “That’s true,” says Mrs. Miller.

  “That’s true,” I say.

  – That is true, says Norbert.

  We’re all in the Millers’ front hall. Libby frowns, shakes his head, opens the door.

  “What about my dad?” I say. “He’s going to call here.” If he remembers. But I don’t say that. “I don’
t want to miss his call. I’ve missed him all day.”

  “Beatrice will tell him where you are,” says Frieda.

  Beatrice is standing next to me, holding the front door open. She pats my arm.

  “He was supposed to meet me at the airport this morning,” I say.

  “But the plane was early,” says Beatrice. “Don’t worry, little one. I will wait for your call. A boy should be with his padre.”

  We’re cramped in the unmarked C & E car. I’m in the front, between Special Agent Libby and Officer Culverhouse. Frieda and her mom and Sally are in the back. The storm is over, and the pavements are steaming in the misty sunshine. Everyone but me and Sally is wearing sunglasses. Frieda’s new pair look like her old ones. Mrs. Miller’s have pale yellow rims, to match her topcoat.

  Bird is in the back too. Driving past Central Park, the special agent asks him where he thinks he’s going.

  “Airport,” says Bird.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know yet,” says Bird.

  “Where’s your wagon?” Frieda asks.

  “Got what I need from it,” he says. He reaches into a capacious pocket and brings out a woven leather leash. “For you and your talkin’ dog. Happy Wishday.”

  “Oh, Bird. I can’t take it.”

  “You got to – it’s the law.”

  Frieda weighs it in her hand. “Then, thank you,” she says. “Thank you very much.”

  “Shew-ah.”

  “But how do you know that this is all you need?”

  “I just know.”

  There’s a hands-free phone in the car. A female voice on the other end of the phone wonders where we are and how long it will take us to get to La Guardia. Lieutenant Aylmer’s voice. “Ten minutes,” Libby tells her.

  The East River is behind us now. We’re in Queens. Culverhouse drives fast, headlights flashing. Cars ahead of us pull out of the way.

  “I’ll meet you at the west entrance,” says Lieutenant Aylmer. “They’ve blocked off a large section of the east side for a movie they’re shooting.”