by Mac Barnett
Dana glared. He’d gotten kidnapped on Steve’s last adventure, and apparently it was still a sore subject with him. “I don’t want to be a Bailey Brother or an Ernest Plumly. I want to be a Dana Villalon, and I want to have a bowl of cereal and then go to sleep.”
“So an Ernest Plumly, then,” Steve said under his breath. Then he added, “Dana, the people I’m looking for are dangerous. I’ll need a friend out there.”
Dana shook Steve’s hand.
Steve smiled. “Welcome to the Brixton Brothers Detective Agency, chum!”
CHAPTER XVII
THE INVESTIGATION BEGINS
THE BAILEY BROTHERS’ DETECTIVE HANDBOOK tells gumshoes how to start an investigation off right:
You can’t fight crime on an empty stomach! If Shawn and Kevin are heading out to do fieldwork, their mom always packs them a nourishing picnic lunch! (And she always packs extra for the Baileys’ chubby chum, Ernest Plumly.) Their basket’s packed with turkey sandwiches, coleslaw, two pies (one apple, one banana cream), a batch of cookies, a few generous slices of chocolate cake, and a Thermos full of fresh lemonade. You know, brain food!
Steve’s mom had stopped packing his lunch in the fifth grade, and anyway, this morning she was still asleep, so Steve dumped a whole box of Fruit Roll-Ups and four pudding cups into his backpack.
He ran up to his room and grabbed his notebook, magnifying glass, flashlight, and the Guinness Book of World Records. Right now the secret compartment held a bunch of secret stuff, including one thousand dollars cash, a fifth of the money Fairview had given him on Sunday. (The rest was in a business savings account at the Ocean Park Credit Union.) He put everything in his backpack. Then he took a black permanent marker and crossed out the name his mom had written on the green fabric—he couldn’t have “Steve Brixton” written on his stuff if he was going undercover. He put on his pack and tightened the straps.
Steve was ready to start sleuthing.
Dana knocked on the front door at seven forty-five. “Where do we start?” he asked.
“The Bailey Brothers always say, ‘Start with a little spadework.’”
“I have no idea what that means.”
“You know, digging up everything we can about the missing person. Friends, enemies, connections with criminal gangs or foreign countries unfriendly to the United States.”
“But we don’t know anyone who even knows MacArthur Bart.”
“That’s why we have to break into MacArthur Bart’s hotel room,” Steve said. “Come inside. We need to put on our disguises.”
CHAPTER XVIII
SPADEWORK
THE BAILEY BROTHERS’ DETECTIVE HANDBOOK says:
The key to sneaking around where you don’t belong is to act like you actually belong there. Think of developing a convincing backstory! For instance, in Bailey Brothers #13: The Secret Behind the Fun House Mirror, when Shawn Bailey goes undercover as a carnie, he makes up an appropriate nickname (Rock Salt) and invents a story about why he wears a beard (to cover a scar from a tragic bumper car accident). When he tells his tale to gangs at the state fair, they accept him as one of their own!
“Keep it natural,” Steve whispered to Dana as he pushed the door open at the Sea Spray Waterfront Hotel. Steve and Dana were dressed as resort guests: They were wearing Hawaiian shirts and brightly colored board shorts. Steve had a camera around his neck (the camera didn’t work, but nobody needed to know that). Dana had a straw hat on his head and a beach ball under his arm. “I’ll take the lead,” Steve whispered. The two boys sauntered up to the front desk. Steve wanted to whistle a carefree tune but settled for humming instead.
The woman working today had a bright pink face and a brass name tag that said LINDA, MANAGER.
“Good morning,” she said pleasantly.
“Good morning, Linda,” said Steve. “I’m Sam and this is Otis. We’re brothers, out here on a trip with our dad. We checked in yesterday, with Lewis, I believe.”
“Okay …,” said Linda.
“Boy, we’re sure enjoying this California weather,” said Steve. “It’s a different world in Ohio, where we’re from.”
The manager nodded slowly.
“Tell me,” Steve said. “Do you guys have a doorman working at the hotel?”
“No,” said Linda. “Why?”
Just like he’d suspected! But there was no time to celebrate his discovery—he had to keep up his identity. “Just curious,” said Steve. “When our dad took us on another vacation to Hawaii we stayed at a hotel with a doorman.”
“Oh,” said Linda. “All right.”
Dana spoke up. “When we went to Hawaii, we visited Maui.” Nice! Dana was deep undercover.
“Well,” said Steve, “we’d better get to our room. Our dad’s waiting for us. He’s an engineer on the railroad, so he expects everyone to be punctual.”
“Sounds good,” said the manager.
Steve and Dana walked past the desk and turned the corner into a long hallway lined with doors.
“That was perfect!” said Steve. “Our story was airtight.”
Steve and Dana high-fived.
Just then, a pale old couple wearing huge wraparound sunglasses came walking in the opposite direction. Steve and Dana smiled and kept walking.
“How will we know which room is Bart’s?” Dana asked.
“I’ve thought of that,” said Steve. “Yesterday the guy at the front told me that MacArthur Bart has been ordering caviar, salmon, and cheese for every meal. But since he’s been kidnapped, the food’s been sitting outside his room.”
Steve stopped next to a silver plate, covered with a silver dome, that was sitting on the carpet in the hall. “All we have to do is find the plate that has Bart’s meal, and we’ve got it. Voilà!” He bent down and whisked the shiny cover off the plate. Underneath were a few nibbled pizza crusts, a bowl of soggy lettuce, two dirty champagne flutes, and an empty green bottle.
“That’s disgusting,” Dana said.
“Yeah.”
Steve and Dana strolled down the hotel’s nearly endless corridors, peeking under covers at the platters underneath. They found half a croissant; a piece of French toast, soggy with syrup; the bones of some sort of fish (which made Steve gag violently); a glass smeared red with cocktail sauce and holding two white shrimp; pieces of eggshell and a tiny silver pedestal; a single asparagus shoot that looked like a fat-knuckled finger in brown sauce; a vegetal mash that smelled like gorgonzola cheese; a bunch of grapes and a sausage patty; and a plate of six Kobe beef sliders, cold but untouched. They climbed a flight of concrete stairs up to the second floor, walked nonchalantly past a maid and her cart, and continued down another a hallway. There, on the only tray in the corridor, they discovered a bowl of glistening black caviar, a pink fillet of salmon, and a plate of pale and fragrant cheeses.
“We’re here!” said Steve.
Dana popped a piece of cheese into his mouth. “That’s good,” he said, chewing. “How are we going to get inside?”
CHAPTER XIX
BREAKING AND ENTERING
THE BAILEY BROTHERS’ DETECTIVE HANDBOOK has a useful chapter called “Picking Locks”:
Picking locks is a breeze! It’s also sometimes against the law! But if your heart is good and your intentions are noble, like Shawn and Kevin’s, you’ve got nothing to worry about. Just:
1. take a credit card
2. insert it here
3. wiggle it around
4. and you’re in!
Steve took out his Velcro wallet, opened it as quietly as he could (which was not very quietly), and took out his detective’s license. It was a little bit flimsy.
“Do you have a credit card?” Steve asked Dana.
“Seriously?” asked Dana.
“Wait here,” said Steve.
He sprinted softly back down the hall, his footsteps muffled by the carpet’s deep pile. When he got to the end, he froze, got down on the ground, and peered around the corner (it’s always best to be
above or below eye level when you’re sneaking around).
There, twenty feet down the hallway, was the maid’s cart, parked outside a room. Maybe there was something flat and thin on there. He tiptoed down the hall and ducked behind the cart. The door to the room was propped open, and Steve could hear the sound of flapping sheets as the maid made the bed.
Steve rummaged around the cart, looking for something he could pick a lock with. A toothbrush handle would be too thick. The needle from a sewing kit wouldn’t be thick enough. He put a bottle of lavender bubble bath in his pocket, but not because it would help him break into Bart’s room—it was a gift for his mom.
From inside the room came the soft thudding of pillows being fluffed. Steve didn’t have much time. He snuck around to the front of the cart, where, next to a set of keys and a half-full bottle of Diet Coke, sat a white plastic card with “Sea Spray Waterfront Hotel” written on it in cursive. Steve couldn’t believe his luck. He slipped the card in his pocket—just as the maid walked out of the room with an armful of bed linens. She stopped suddenly and eyed Steve suspiciously.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Oh, I, uh, was looking for an extra washcloth.”
The maid smiled, but not warmly, and took a washcloth off her cart. “Here,” she said, her hand outstretched. “Next time just ask. Things go missing off these carts.”
Steve nodded quickly and hurried down the hall.
When he turned the corner, Dana was lifting a spoonful of caviar to his mouth.
“How is it?” Steve asked.
“Salty,” said Dana. “But good.”
“You know those are fish eggs, right?”
“Delicious fish eggs.”
Steve shook his head. “Look what I found.” He reached into his pocket, removed the card, and flashed it in front of Dana’s face.
Steve kneeled down with the handbook opened next to him on the floor and slid the card into the crack between the door and the jamb, just above the lock, then started wiggling the card back and forth.
Nothing happened.
“Why isn’t this working?” Steve muttered to himself.
“Where’d you get that card?” Dana asked through a mouthful of caviar.
“I took it off the maid’s cart.”
“But, Steve—”
“I know, I know. It’s stealing. But my heart is good and my intentions are noble!” He sawed away at the card.
“Steve—”
“The handbook says it will work. I just need to keep wiggling.” The card warped and bent and almost broke, but still nothing happened.
“Steve, stop!” Dana whispered fiercely.
Steve stopped.
“That’s the maid’s key card,” said Dana. “It opens all the doors in the hotel.”
“Hey, not everyone gets to go on a trip with their parents every summer and stay in hotels with fancy key cards,” Steve said.
“Key cards aren’t really that fancy.”
“Whatever. I have a lock to pick.”
Steve was still for a few seconds, then he slowly withdrew the card. Right in front of his face, next to the handle, was a brass card slot with three little lights on it. He put the card in the slot and quickly removed it. A green light flashed and a lock clicked. Steve tried the handle. The door opened.
“We’re in!” said Steve.
Dana smoothed the divot he’d made in the caviar, wiped the spoon on his shorts and put it back on the tray, and replaced the silver dome. Steve took a deep breath. The boys walked through the door, unsure what they’d find on the other side.
CHAPTER XX
THE MISSING MAN’S ROOM
THE CURTAINS WERE DRAWN and glowed at their edges. Otherwise the room was dark.
“My mom says that’s the sign of a nice hotel room—when the curtains block out the light even in the daytime. MacArthur Bart’s got nice taste,” Dana said.
“Of course he does,” said Steve. “He’s the greatest writer of all time.”
Usually Dana rolled his eyes when Steve said that, which annoyed Steve and usually led to an argument. If Dana rolled his eyes this time, it was too dark to see.
Steve walked over to the drapes, yanked them open, and let the late-morning sunlight fill the room.
Everything was neat and tidy. Steve had half expected upended furniture and dresser drawers strewn across the floor. Instead there was a typewriter on a desk and an empty suitcase on the floor. Three suits hung in the closet: one blue, one tan, one brown. There were socks in one drawer, underwear in another.
Dana dropped his beach ball and took off his hat and backpack. Steve put the camera down on the dresser.
“Look for anything that might tell us something about Bart’s disappearance,” Steve said. “A letter from someone, a plane ticket to South America, a personal check for a large amount of money. Or a business card,” Steve added. “We don’t even know where MacArthur Bart lives.”
Dana was peering under the bed, using Steve’s flashlight. “I think there’s a battery under here,” he said.
That wasn’t very exciting.
“Never mind. It’s just roll of mints.”
That was even less exciting.
“Actually, it’s antacids.”
This search was going poorly.
They searched everywhere—every drawer, every suit pocket, every hard-to-reach corner—for some kind of clue that would tell them anything about what had happened to MacArthur Bart. When they were done, they searched again.
Nothing.
Steve sat down on the edge of the bed. Dana offered him an antacid. He ate it. Then he sighed.
“We don’t know anything more about MacArthur Bart now than we did this morning.”
Dana was looking out the window. “They have a nice pool here. Maybe we should go swimming.”
It wasn’t a bad idea—the Bailey Brothers often stopped sleuthing to take a dip—and Steve was about to agree when he noticed a small white notepad on the bedside table. He’d seen it earlier, but—of course!—how had he forgotten? Steve stood up suddenly.
“Dana, give me a pencil.”
Dana reached into his backpack and hurried over with a bright yellow pencil in his hand. Steve snatched it from him and sat back down. The Bailey Brothers had used this trick to crack two different cases—The Symbol of the Wheezing Jaguar and The Mystery of the Third Twin. Now it was Steve’s turn. He grabbed the pencil sideways in his fist and rubbed it back and forth against the page.
Dana was peering over Steve’s shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“If MacArthur Bart wrote something on this pad of paper, his pen would have left grooves on the next sheet. This is an old detective’s trick to reveal what he wrote.”
There, in the middle of a cloud of gray, emerged a string of white numbers.
“What is it?”
“Part of a phone number. Probably the last number MacArthur Bart called. This could be a big lead.”
“That’s the area code for San Francisco. My grandparents used to live there,” said Dana.
“San Francisco …,” said Steve, chewing on his thumbnail.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of loud footsteps coming up the hall and stopping outside the door. Steve and Dana froze and listened hard. There was some rustling, and then the sound of a key card being inserted in the lock. Someone was coming inside!
CHAPTER XXI
A DEADLY MISTAKE
STEVE AND DANA RAN TO THE BATHROOM and softly shut the door. Three seconds more and they would have been discovered. Steve heard two men enter the hotel room and begin to talk. Their voices were deep and muffled, and Steve couldn’t make out a word they were saying. But he knew a baddie when he heard one, and these were definitely two baddies.
Moving slowly, deliberately, silently, Steve picked up a glass from the bathroom counter—two were sitting upside down on little paper doilies—and he nodded at Dana to do the same. Steve placed the mouth of the glass
against the door and the conversation in the other room became audible. Dana copied him.
“… hate stakeouts.”
“It’s part of the job, Henry. It’s part of the job.”
Henry! One guy’s name was Henry.
“They have a nice pool here. Maybe we should go swimming.”
“Wrong. The boss says we’re supposed to wait here for that Brixton kid.”
Steve’s eyes widened. Dana’s did too.
“How do we know he’s going to come here?”
“The boss was sure he’d show up.”
“Great. So we wait. All I’m saying is this is not why I joined up with the Bee Syndicate.”
The Bee Syndicate! These must be the kidnappers. Steve wanted to write this stuff down, but he was afraid getting his notebook out would make too much noise. The guy named Henry kept talking.
“Hey,” said Henry. “Is that your backpack?”
Steve looked over at Dana. He was not wearing his backpack. Dana apologized with his eyes.
Suddenly the men in the other room got very quiet.
Steve pressed his ear hard against the glass in his hand, straining to hear anything. There was silence, and then, suddenly, the sound of a closet door being opened very fast. They were searching the room. Steve knew where they would look next. There was only one other place someone could hide, and he and Dana were hiding in it.
Steve and Dana eavesdropped on the two brutes.
Steve scanned the bathroom for something he could use as a weapon. All he could see were towels. Lots of towels. Towels in shapes and sizes he didn’t even recognize. Varieties of towel extending far beyond the Big Three of hand towel, bath towel, and washcloth. Who could possibly use all these towels?
Steve reached into his pocket.
The door flew open.
CHAPTER XXII
A TERRIBLE STRUGGLE