“What’s going on back there?” Mrs. Jackson asked.
“Sorry, Mrs. Jackson,” Debbie Jean answered primly. “The tarantula I brought for my science report got loose. I guess it scared Sean.” She grinned at Sean as she calmly reached over to his desk, picked up the tarantula, and placed it back inside a mesh-screened carrier.
Sean felt his face grow hot. “I wasn’t scared of that dumb old tarantula,” he insisted.
“You sure sounded scared,” Debbie Jean snickered.
“Never mind,” Mrs. Jackson said. “The tarantula took Sean by surprise, and he reacted the way any of us would have.” Mrs. Jackson made a face. “Including me.”
Sean liked Mrs. Jackson. Her smile made her black eyes sparkle, and she always knew the right things to say.
“Suppose we close our history books and let Debbie Jean give her science report now,” Mrs. Jackson said. “We’ve got just enough time before class is dismissed.”
In spite of being mad at Debbie Jean, Sean was fascinated by her report. At one point during her presentation he even stopped wishing that the tarantula would eat her notes and then munch on Debbie Jean for dessert. What she said about tarantulas was entertaining and interesting. And Sean knew that, as usual, she’d probably get an A.
Debbie Jean was smart. She could also tell good jokes and was a better pitcher than most of the kids on the fourth-grade baseball team, including Sean. But to him the sickening thing about Debbie Jean was that she always had to be right about everything. Just once, Sean wished Debbie Jean could be wrong about something.
Mrs. Jackson glanced at the clock, then made an announcement to the class.
“I’m pleased that all of you remembered to turn in your permission slips for our field trip to the museum tomorrow,” she said.
The field trip! Sean realized that he had forgotten to tell Brian about his class’s upcoming trip to the museum! He’d have another chance to look around the museum for clues without anyone on the museum staff becoming suspicious. But what kind of clues? Sean wondered.
“The museum’s curator will be telling us the stories behind some of the paintings in their exhibit of American primitive art,” said Mrs. Jackson, “so be sure to bring notebooks and pencils. After the trip I’ll expect each of you to write a report about what you saw and learned.”
A few kids groaned, but the bell rang and Mrs. Jackson dismissed the class for the day.
Sean grabbed his books, stuffed them into his backpack, and ran all the way to the museum, where Brian was waiting for him.
“I have a plan,” Brian said as soon as Sean came up the steps.
Sean smiled. Brian always came up with some kind of a plan.
“We’re going to start with a search of the first exhibit room on the right—the early weapons room. We’ll check out as many of the exhibit rooms as we can. If we keep our eyes open, maybe we’ll see something that might look suspicious, or strange, or out of place.”
“But Mrs. Gomez said the police already searched the museum last night,” Sean said.
“That’s true,” Brian said. “But we might discover something the police missed.”
Brian and Sean entered the museum.
“Look,” whispered Sean. “The museum guard is watching us. Do you think he knows what we’re doing?”
“Don’t worry about him,” Brian said. “The minute grown-ups see kids hanging around, they start worrying that they’re going to break stuff or make noise. It’ll never occur to the guard that we’re investigating a crime.”
Sean froze, however, when he saw the guard heading toward them.
“Uh-oh,” he whispered to Brian.
“You’ll have to check those backpacks and jackets, boys,” the guard said. Then he walked away.
Brian looked at Sean. “See, I told you.”
Brian and Sean checked their bags and jackets and entered the large main room of the museum, where the special exhibits were displayed.
A series of movable screens were arranged in a square in the center of the room and were hung with paintings belonging to the exhibit of American primitive art. Only a few people were viewing the exhibit. At this late afternoon hour there weren’t many museum visitors.
On a far wall Brian saw a poster that announced the dates of the coming exhibit from the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
“C'mon,” Brian said, and he and Sean entered the early weapons room, in which were displayed weapons dating back to the Civil War and the frontier days of the American West.
Brian immediately began examining the undersides of the glass display cases, checking to see if the stolen sketches could be hidden either underneath or inside them.
“Hey, come here, Bri!” Sean called out. “Look at this cane that’s in two pieces. The handle has a short sword that can be hidden inside the cane.”
Sean pressed his face closer to the glass.
“Neat,” he said. He turned to Brian. “Someone could just pull on the carved top of the cane and zap! Out comes the sword! Wow! If I had a sword like this one, I’d go like wham and zap and whoosh!”
“We’re supposed to be looking for hiding places,” Brian said. “Remember?”
But Sean’s attention was focused on the sword. He dashed between the cases, fighting with an imaginary enemy.
“Cut it out,” Brian warned him. “You’re making so much racket the guard will be in here to see what you’re doing.”
“He can’t come in here because he’d have to leave his post,” Sean said.
Suddenly a deep voice spoke from behind them.
“Hey, you kids!” the guard said sternly. “Keep it down.”
“I thought he wasn’t supposed to leave his post,” Sean whispered to Brian after the guard walked away.
“The museum’s not that large,” Brian said. “The guard’s able to keep an eye on everything.” Brian scowled at Sean. “So stop acting up!” Sometimes, Brian was thinking, younger brothers can be such a pain.
The boys began searching the room, but with no luck.
“We might as well move on to the California history room,” Brian said finally. “We didn’t find what we were looking for in here.”
As they entered the main gallery, Sean spotted some illustrated pamphlets on a table. He picked one up and read through it. It was about the pieces in the American primitive art collection. Sean put the pamphlet down. He’d find out more than he wanted to know about all that stuff tomorrow during the field trip. Then he had an idea. A big grin came over his face.
He folded the pamphlet and stuck it in the pocket of his jeans. If all went well, he told himself, he had a plan that would drive Debbie Jean Parker crazy.
Brian had already finished exploring the California history room by the time Sean caught up to him.
“I can’t find any hiding places in here,” Brian told Sean. “We’ll try the Egyptian room next.”
Sean froze. The Egyptian room! He had almost forgotten about it.
“Let’s not,” Sean said, hesitating. But he followed Brian anyway. At the entrance to the Egyptian room, his gaze was drawn across the room to the jackal-faced statue of Anubis that loomed over the glass case in which the mummy lay entombed. Sean shivered with fright. What if Sam really was right? What if the legend of Anubis wasn’t just a silly story?
“Bri, why don’t we look through the art galleries on the other side of the museum?” Sean suggested.
“Because we’re here and not there,” Brian insisted impatiently.
No other visitors were in the Egyptian room, and the few people who had been viewing the exhibit in the main room had drifted off to the art galleries.
Sean inched closer to Brian.
“This is the same as the other two rooms we were in,” he whispered. “There’s nothing but cases full of things and pictures of Egyptian tombs and stuff hanging on the walls. No place to hide anything. Let’s get out of here.”
But Brian was staring at the statue of Anubis. “Shhh,” he said. �
��Did you hear anything?”
“Don’t do that, Bri!” whined Sean. He was about to punch his brother’s arm but stopped as he saw a look of alarm creep across Brian’s face.
“Shhh!” Brian said. A distinct scraping sound was coming from the statue. “It moved,” Brian whispered.
The scraping grew louder, and suddenly the statue slowly turned so that it was looking right at them!
“Look out!” Sean yelled. “It’s coming after us!”
CHAPTER FOUR
A FACE POPPED UP at the side of the statue.
“Hello, boys,” the man said. He was dressed in gray overalls and carried a large rag in his front pocket.
He must be the custodian, Harvey Marshall, Brian thought. Brian walked up to him and smiled.
“What are you doing, sir?” he asked. He tried to appear interested. Brian had learned from his investigations that adults usually weren’t much interested in what kids had to say or what they thought about anything, but they could easily be coaxed into talking about themselves. In doing so, sometimes they would accidentally let slip an important bit of information.
Harvey Marshall smiled back and wiped the rag across his sweaty forehead.
“It’s the darndest thing,” he said, peering at the statue.
“What?” asked Brian.
Harvey Marshall shook his head. “I can’t figure it out, but somehow this statue is not in the same spot it was yesterday.”
Sean suddenly pricked up his ears.
“You mean it moved?” he asked Mr. Marshall. His eyes had grown wide with alarm.
“Doesn’t seem likely, does it?” Mr. Marshall said. Then he nodded his head. “But I’m sure of it. The statue moved.” He pointed to the floor. “See for yourself.”
Brian knelt down and examined the tiles next to the base of the statue. They were slightly darker and less worn than the others.
“He’s right,” Brian told Sean excitedly.
Brian stood up. “I wonder how it could have moved,” he said.
Sean already had a pretty good idea. He was thinking about Sam Miyako and the legend of Anubis.
Just then Brian tapped lightly on the side of the statue.
“Hey!” said Mr. Marshall suddenly to Brian. “That’s a work of art. Don’t go banging on it.”
“Sorry,” said Brian. He turned to Sean. “The statue’s too light to be solid,” he whispered. “It must be hollow.”
“So?” said Sean.
Brian smiled and turned back to Mr. Marshall. “Is there a way of getting into the statue?” he asked.
“Don’t ask me,” Mr. Marshall said.
“No secret panels?” Sean asked.
Mr. Marshall chuckled. “If you’re thinking of hidden treasure from the tombs, then you’ve been watching too many adventure movies.”
“Where’d the statue come from?” Sean asked.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Marshall answered. “It’s been here as long as I have.”
Sean cleared his throat twice before he could ask, “Somebody told me that the statue walks at night. Is that true?”
“So I’ve heard,” Mr. Marshall said.
Sean gave a start and moved closer to Brian. “You mean the story is true?”
“Of course the story isn’t true,” said Brian, scoffing. “Isn’t that right?” he asked Mr. Marshall.
“I've never seen the statue walk, if that’s what you’re asking,” he answered. “And I’m not going to. You’ll never catch me here in the museum at night.”
Mr. Marshall shoved the statue back into place, then wiped it clean with his rag.
“Don’t that beat all?” he murmured suddenly, looking at the rag in his hand.
“What?” Brian asked.
“This stain,” Mr. Marshall said. “It looks like blood, but it couldn’t be.”
Brian immediately dropped to his knees and carefully studied the base of the statue.
“Look,” Brian said. “I must have missed it before, but there’s another small stain, here on the metal near the wood stand.” He jumped to his feet. “Mr. Marshall, let’s see if we can lift the statue off the stand.”
Mr. Marshall shook his head. “No thanks.”
“But what if this is blood?” Brian asked.
“It isn’t any of my concern if it is or if it isn’t. My job is only to keep it clean. Anyway, I never should have said it looked like blood and got you kids all riled up. More than likely, that stain is just polish. Now why don’t you kids run along and let me get back to work.”
Brian was about to ask some more questions when Sean took him by the arm.
“Bri,” said Sean as he led his brother toward the exit, “I really want to see the Asian art!”
“In a minute,” Brian said.
“No, Brian. Right now!”
“What’s the matter with you?” Brian asked once they were out of earshot of the Egyptian room. “You know how Dad works. Private investigators are supposed to stay cool, not jump around yelling about wanting to see Asian art.”
“Oh yeah?” countered Sean. “I wasn’t jumping, and I wasn’t yelling. I just wanted to get out of that room!”
Sean took a big breath. “Bri,” he said, “what if that really was blood on the statue? Maybe the statue does walk at night. The blood we found might be from its latest victim!”
“If you’ll be quiet a second, I’ll tell you what I think.” Brian lowered his voice. “The statue could be the thief’s hiding place.”
“Are you sure?” Sean asked.
“No, I’m not,” Brian said. “But it makes sense. The statue is hollow. If the thief expected Mrs. Gomez to call the police as soon as she discovered the theft of the sketches, he’d also expect that the employees’ houses would be searched, too. The statue is fastened to the stand with only four screws that wouldn’t be hard to remove. It’s a really good place to hide the art.”
“Do you think the stolen sketches could be in the statue now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Should we tell Dad?” asked Sean.
Brian frowned as he thought. “If we do, he might find the sketches, but he wouldn’t find out who put them there. If we’re lucky, we might discover the thief.”
“How?” Sean asked.
“The metal at the bottom of the statue has some rough edges. My guess is that the thief cut his hand on them. That would explain the blood.”
“That means the thief’s probably going around with a bandage on his hand,” Sean said. He smiled. “This is so easy. All we need to do is check all the suspects’ hands.”
“I don’t think it’s going to be that easy,” Brian told him. “We may not get a chance to see their hands. Mr. Marshall is a suspect. Did you see his hands?”
“No, because he was wearing work gloves.”
At that moment Mr. Marshall came out of the Egyptian room and headed for the storeroom. As he walked he tugged off his gloves.
“Look,” Sean said. “No bandage.”
“Right,” said Brian.
“Can we check some of the other employees to see if they have bandages on their hands?” Sean asked.
“Sure,” Brian said, “but let’s see if we can get a set of fingerprints from the statue first. If Dad gets prints from the employees, we might find a set that matches.”
Back inside the Egyptian room, Sean pulled a small bottle of finely ground charcoal powder and a soft brush from his pocket. As part of his investigator’s kit, Brian also carried a small flashlight, a pair of tweezers, and envelopes to collect evidence in. Sometimes he carried a tape recorder that was smaller than a wallet.
Brian carefully brushed the lower part of the statue with powder, then clicked on his flashlight. He ran the beam slowly over the powder.
“Darn,” said Brian finally. “The thief must have wiped the statue clean. There aren’t any fingerprints.”
“How about trying a little higher?” Sean asked. “I can see some fingerprints right here.”
>
“Where we were holding it,” Brian said. “Those prints are yours and mine.”
“If the thief wiped away his prints, then why didn’t he wipe away the blood?” Sean asked.
“He probably would have if he’d seen it,” Brian said. “Sometimes you can get a cut that bleeds and not notice it for a while. That might be what happened.”
“Now what?” Sean asked.
“Let’s go to the business offices and see if we can get a look at the other suspects,” Brian said.
“They don’t let visitors in. Remember?” Sean said.
Brian tucked away his brush and the bottle of powder.
“We’re friends of Mrs. Gomez's,” Brian said. “We can drop by to say hello to her.” He and Sean walked down the hallway and opened the door that led into the museum’s business offices.
A thin, gray-haired woman, with silver-rimmed glasses resting halfway down her long nose, looked up from behind a reception desk and glared at them.
She must be Hilda Brown, Mrs. Gomez’s secretary, Brian thought.
“Hi,” he said. “We’re Brian and Sean Quinn. We’d like to see Mrs. Gomez.” Brian sneaked a quick glance around the office. There were doors to four offices. Three were closed.
“Children are not allowed back here,” Ms. Brown said curtly. She pointed to the door. “Please leave. Immediately.”
Sean let out a low whistle as he saw the bandage wrapped around the palm of Hilda Brown’s right hand.
“Mrs. Gomez is a good friend of our parents’,” Brian told her. “I think she’d want to see us.”
“Mrs. Gomez is very busy,” Ms. Brown said.
Sean nodded toward her bandage. “How’d you hurt your hand?” he asked.
“My cat,” she said, looking sharply at Sean. “She nipped me.”
“That’s too bad,” Sean said. Of course, he thought to himself, if he were Hilda Brown’s cat, he might feel like biting her, too.
Just then a deep voice called out from behind the only open office door.
“Hilda, could you come in here and discuss these invoices?”
Ms. Brown rose from her chair, still scowling at Brian and Sean. “Stay right here until I get back,” she snapped. “I’ll decide then whether or not Mrs. Gomez will have time to see you.”
The Statue Walks at Night Page 2