The Heist at Niagara Falls

by Sir Steve Stevenson

  Dash, who was fascinated by UFOlogy and the paranormal, perked up at the mention of the top secret military base in the Nevada desert that was rumored to study alien spacecraft. He grabbed the copy of Off the Map Tours from the dashboard.

  “Area Fifty-one? That’s awesome!” Dash exclaimed, flipping through it. But when he found Scarlett’s article, his enthusiasm tumbled down like a house of cards. “But . . . but . . . the headline says the UFO research is a hoax!” he said, disappointed. “Do you really believe that?”

  Scarlett laughed. “You bet your boots! Sometimes I do special reports that expose urban legends. Do you really think there are alligators in New York’s sewers? That a spaceship really crashed in Roswell, New Mexico, and the Mayans created the Nazca lines to communicate with alien life-forms?”

  “I not only think so, I’m sure of it!”

  “My dear cousin, the truth is always based on facts and logical explanations!”

  These words sent Agatha into rapturous laughter. Not only did she and Scarlett look alike, they thought alike as well!

  Dash crossed his arms. “What about crop circles?” he snorted stubbornly. “Are they a hoax, too?”

  He didn’t receive a response. Something else had grabbed everyone’s attention—a thunderous sound, growing ever more deafening.

  “What’s happening?” Agatha sounded alarmed.

  “Maybe the engine is broken,” Chandler hypothesized.

  Agatha rolled down her window, shaking her head. “No, it’s coming from outside! It sounds like an earthquake!”

  The three Londoners stared at Scarlett, who continued to drive calmly alongside the river. “Almost there, kids!” she said with a smile, pointing to the left.

  An island separated the water into two parts, and then the fast-moving current suddenly dropped off.

  Niagara Falls!

  The thundering sound was the roar of the water pouring down from a dizzying height and sending up an immense cloud of mist.

  “These are the American Falls, almost one hundred feet high, and that smaller one’s nicknamed ‘Bridal Veil Falls,’” Scarlett explained. “But the Canadian Falls, which are also called ‘Horseshoe Falls,’ are twice as wide and nearly three times as high!”

  They sat with their eyes glued to the view, bewitched by the incredible beauty.

  “Look at that rainbow!” Dash shouted.

  “Magnificent!” agreed Agatha.

  Watson jumped onto Chandler’s lap and scratched against the window, as if he were trying to catch the shimmering bands of color and swirling mists.

  They crossed the Rainbow Bridge, an imposing structure connecting both sides of the Niagara River.

  At the far end was a roadblock with the maple leaf Canadian flag flying above it. Showing their British passports, they passed through customs without a hitch. The two cousins watched a boatload of tourists head into the misty spray beneath the Horseshoe Falls. They looked like fleas in a hurricane.

  “Kids?” Scarlett urged them. “Where are we going?”

  Agatha pulled herself away just long enough to give Scarlett the address of the Overlook Hotel, then turned back to admire the spectacular falls.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Helga Hofstetter’s Suite

  “I’m Agent DM14, from Eye International,” Dash repeated to the security guard. “I’m conducting an investigation, and I can bring in whatever assistants I choose!”

  The man was built like a bison and had planted himself in the doorway of the Overlook Hotel with a grim expression. Even after Dash had shown him his credentials on the EyeNet, he had not moved an inch. “No journalists on the premises. Boss’s orders,” he insisted. “That magazine woman stays outside!”

  What was going on?

  Why couldn’t they enter the lobby?

  It all started with one simple gesture . . .

  As they went through the hotel’s impressive front doors, Scarlett had pulled her journalist ID card out of her pocket, flashing it at the security guard. She did this out of habit, unaware of the security directives the hotel manager had issued.

  It was nearly 12:30. Almost exactly a whole day had passed since the theft from Helga Hofstetter’s imperial suite, and Agatha was impatient to get inside and see what went on during that crucial hour.

  Scarlett grabbed her hand and pulled her aside. “Did I hear that right? Dash is a . . . detective?” she whispered, incredulous.

  “Undercover,” Agatha whispered back. “It seems strange to me sometimes, too.”

  “So where does the singer come in? And Chandler’s fan club?”

  Agatha searched for the right words. “I had to invent a story because we’re on a secret mission,” she apologized. “But there is a singer. Helga Hofstetter, the famous soprano, called Dash’s detective academy to report, um . . .” She paused for a moment to glance at the door. Dash was stamping his feet at the impassive security guard, while Chandler tried to calm him down. “At this point, I guess it’s pointless to keep hiding the truth.”

  “I’m all ears,” whispered Scarlett, ever more curious.

  Agatha leaned against the support railing of the balcony that ran around the outside of the hotel and gave her a detailed account of the stolen jewels.

  “You kids are amazing!” said Scarlett, delighted. “You’re total Misterys. I should have guessed you weren’t here for the view. Can I help with the investigation?”

  “You’re welcome to, but how?”

  “I can collect information from around the neighborhood,” Scarlett proposed. “I’m an investigative journalist, after all. If I find any witnesses, I know how to make them sing!”

  Agatha gave her a radiant smile. “Great idea! Let’s get started!”

  They agreed on the questions that Scarlett should ask and established when they would meet up. Scarlett got to work, and Agatha started toward Dash to let him know what they had organized.

  Just as she got to the door, a young FedEx courier hurried out of the hotel, balancing a mountain of envelopes and parcels like a tightrope walker. He slammed right into Agatha with a loud bang, knocking her over.

  “Excuse me, miss, I didn’t see you!” the young man apologized, scrambling to pick up his scattered packages. Agatha helped him gather the envelopes before anything blew into the swirling waters at the edge of the promenade. Dash and Chandler pitched in, and she quickly filled them in on her arrangement with Scarlett.

  Moments later, the buffalo of a security guard let out a dissatisfied grunt and allowed the three Londoners to enter the lobby.

  They went straight to the reception desk and asked for Madame Helga Hofstetter.

  “With whom do I have the honor of speaking?” asked an eccentrically dressed gentleman who had just crossed the lobby. He wore a gray double-breasted suit with red buttons, a lemon-yellow cravat, and had a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee.

  “My name is Rex Cornwell,” he continued with a hint of a bow. “I am the owner and manager of the Overlook Hotel.”

  “I’m Agent DM14 of Eye International,” Dash introduced himself with a combative glare. “Is there some problem with me and my trusted assistants?”

  Mr. Cornwell stared dubiously at Watson’s nose peeping out from Chandler’s arms.

  “No, detective, you’re most welcome here,” he said with strained courtesy. “Madame Hofstetter is anxiously waiting for you.”

  “Excellent. Please accompany us to her room,” replied Dash.

  Agatha had never seen her cousin act with such determination. He was like a sheriff from an old Western. Maybe it was the boots.

  They entered the panoramic elevator, where Chandler combed and re-combed his hair in front of the mirror. Mr. Cornwell escorted them to the singer’s door and gave it three delicate knocks.

  A flutelike voice trilled from within. “Who is
it?”

  “Madame, the agents you requested have arrived,” announced the manager.

  “At last! I shall be there in a second.”

  They heard heavy footfalls approach the reinforced door. It swung open with a creak that made Mr. Cornwell frown.

  “Come in, my dear ones,” crooned Helga Hofstetter, wrapped in a massive silk robe. “I was busy with my curlers and a seaweed wrap. I must look dreadful!”

  Chandler stepped forward and gave her a kiss on the hand. “You look as lovely as always, madame,” he said gallantly.

  “Such a gentleman!” she replied, pleased. “Give me a few moments!” She swept into her bedroom with thudding steps.

  Dash could barely restrain a smirk. The famous soprano was the same size and shape as the security bison.

  They sat on the sofa, taking in the luxurious surroundings. There were floral cushions and gold damask curtains, with tasteful, expensive furnishings. Mr. Cornwell proudly explained that the imperial suite was the jewel in the hotel’s crown, attracting the wealthiest and most discerning clients.

  While Dash and Chandler listened politely, Agatha began to wander around the room, looking for clues. She had no idea what she might find, but the thief must have left some trace of his presence. She stopped in front of the safe, which looked like a heavy steel cube, noticing that it lacked the usual mechanical dial. In its place was an electronic lock.

  “Can you tell me a bit about this model?” she asked Mr. Cornwell.

  Once again, he began to boast of the state-of-the-art features of his hotel. The safes were resistant to fire and could only be opened by inserting an infallible magnetic card. The code on the card was changed every morning at reception to prevent duplication.

  “You call that security?” Agatha sniffed. “All you need is one plastic card to open the safe with no effort at all!”

  The manager jumped to his feet. “What are you insinuating?” he cried. “It’s the most advanced system on the market. The cards are recoded daily by two employees, who are carefully screened. If the card is stolen or lost, the sole responsibility lies with the client!”

  Agatha refused to let his bluster intimidate her. “You use an electronic system to unlock the rooms as well?”

  “Of course!”

  “So our thief stole the magnetic card that unlocks the door, and the one that opens the safe,” Agatha observed with a wry smile. “And during Madame Hofstetter’s performance, he was able to take the jewels with the two swipes.”

  Mr. Cornwell trembled with rage. “I knew we should call the police,” he said to himself. “These idiots are making a fool of me!”

  “I beg to differ. Miss Agatha has hit the nail on the head!” said Helga Hofstetter, reappearing in a day dress of flowing blue silk. “I did well to call Eye International. I turned to them not only because they are a superb detective academy, but because I detest any form of intrusion in my private life.”

  “Where were the magnetic cards?” Agatha asked her.

  “In a drawer in my dressing room,” replied the soprano. “I thought they’d be safe there.”

  "And they were missing after the show?" Agatha asked.

  "Yes," Madame Hofstetter answered. "When I got back they were sitting on top of the empty safe."

  She sighed, then crossed the room slowly. She sank down onto the couch in a theatrical pose, closing her eyes as though she were about to faint.

  Chandler poured a glass of cold water from the minibar and gave it to her. “Don’t you feel well, madame?”

  “It’s merely a light faint,” said Madame Hofstetter in a quavering voice. “You can’t imagine how fond I was of those jewels.”

  The butler tried to reassure her with soothing words.

  While they waited for the singer to recover, Agatha and Dash went out onto the balcony to consult. The roar of the falls drowned out all other sounds.

  “The key to the mystery is to find out who sneaked into her dressing room,” Agatha asserted. “Bring up the hotel plans on your EyeNet.”

  Dash clicked on a map and zoomed in on a small basement room. “The dressing room is under the stage, at the end of the corridor.”

  “Are these windows?”

  “They look more like air vents,” he guessed. “The dressing room is below ground level. So that’s a dead end.”

  Agatha gazed at the falls, stroking her nose.

  “Are you having one of your brilliant ideas?” joked Dash. “I think we should go have a look at that dressing room . . .”

  “That won’t be necessary!”

  Agatha strode back into the singer’s suite and took a seat next to a huge spray of red roses left by an admirer. “Well, then,” she said with a smile. “Let me tell you exactly what happened!”

  Faced with such confidence, Madame Hofstetter and Mr. Cornwell had to agree.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Mouse Who Loved Opera

  Agatha stunned everyone with her dazzling deductions. “The thief was one of your admirers, Madame Hofstetter,” she asserted. “If memory serves me correctly, opera fans often give bunches of flowers and other gifts to artists backstage, am I right?”

  Startled, the singer looked at Chandler. “You think the thief is one of my fans?” she stammered.

  “We believe so,” Agatha replied. “I need you to try to remember exactly what happened in the thirty minutes before and after the show.”

  Mr. Cornwell banged his fist on the table. “That’s enough!” he exclaimed. “I cannot allow you to treat my guest in this way! Can’t you see she’s in shock?”

  “Do you want us to find the thief or not?” Dash demanded.

  The manager tugged at his mustache. “Of course I do, but this child is only confusing things! How could she possibly know that the thief is one of Madame Hofstetter’s fans? Where is she getting these extraordinary ideas?”

  Agatha folded her hands and leaned forward. “I’m sure of it, because you are a scrupulous manager with an efficient security team!”

  “Don’t flatter me,” he said, sniffing. “Get to the point!”

  Agatha glanced at Watson, who was strutting around on the cushions. She took a deep breath and continued. “Listen closely. The performance began at twelve thirty and finished an hour later. All of your staff members were on duty. The audience, of whom there were more than a hundred, was seated for Madame Hofstetter’s performance—”

  “So?” Cornwell interrupted her. “What are you getting at?”

  “Simple. Am I wrong, or were there a pair of security guards outside her dressing room?”

  He threw up his arms in surrender. “I don’t know how, but she guessed,” he snorted. “Two of my very best staff were there!”

  Agatha turned to the singer, who was following the discussion intently. “Nobody entered your dressing room during the concert, madame,” she informed her. “So logic tells me that the magnetic cards were stolen earlier, by someone who passed himself off as a fan . . .”

  Helga Hofstetter’s eyes shone brightly, like headlights in the night. Giving herself a quick round of applause, she got up and flounced around the room as she reenacted the scene. She was so lost in thought that she nearly stepped on Watson’s tail. “I recall that as I finished checking my makeup, four or five fans came backstage,” she said. “They brought me a huge bunch of roses, a box of chocolates, a bottle of champagne . . .”

  “Would you be able to recognize them?” asked Chandler.

  She shook her head, embarrassed. “To be honest, I smiled and signed autographs, but I barely looked at their faces!”

  “Well then, we’re just chasing our tails,” moaned Dash, disappointed.

  “Wait!” cried Madame Hofstetter, touching her cheek. “There was a gentleman who kept insisting I sing him an aria from La Bohème and just wouldn’t go away!” />
  “I remember him, too,” added Mr. Cornwell. “The show was about to start and I had to practically throw him out of the dressing room!”

  “Can you describe him?” Agatha pressed. “Did he have any distinguishing features? Hair, beard, clothes, build?”

  “He was a small man, very excited, and so nervous that he dropped his coat . . .”

  Dash snapped his fingers. “I’m sure that’s our thief!” he exclaimed. “He distracted you for long enough to grab the magnetic cards out of your drawer!”

  A shiver of excitement shot through the hotel room. Agatha’s intuition had produced a good lead, and everyone pitched in ideas. Helga Hofstetter was able to conjure up some more details about her nervous admirer, and the manager seemed to relax, undoing the buttons on his double-breasted jacket.

  Since Madame Hofstetter had not eaten a bite since she discovered the theft, Mr. Cornwell offered to order some delicacies from room service. “Would you prefer beefsteak tartare or seared tuna?” he asked, covering the mouthpiece of the intercom with his hand. Before they could answer, his face turned purple. “What?” he shouted. “A . . . a mouse . . . in my hotel?”

  Everyone turned to follow his gaze and saw Watson curled up on top of the safe, holding something furry between his teeth.

  Agatha sprinted over to him. “False alarm.” She laughed, removing a scrap of gray fur from her cat’s mouth. “This must have come off one of Madame Hofstetter’s coats . . .”

  “I don’t own any furs,” the singer replied bluntly. “In fact, I have participated in important campaigns against killing for fur!”

  Agatha rolled the scrap between her fingers.

  Where had it come from? Watson had been roaming all over the room, but he had discovered his prey near the safe . . .

  She returned to the table and showed everyone the strip of grayish-brown fur. “I seem to recall that the Canadian native mammals are moose, bear, and beaver,” she said pensively. “Could this be beaver fur?”