Violet and the Hidden Treasure

by Harriet Whitehorn

  ‘It is a criminal matter if the bird is stolen,’ PC Green pointed out curtly.

  ‘Do you have a search warrant for this bird?’

  ‘No,’ PC Green admitted.

  ‘Well, I suggest you return with one and then we can discuss the matter further. So until then, good day – and may I wish you all a very happy Easter. Roger the doorman will show you out.’

  ‘Bother!’ exclaimed Violet, as they stood in huddle on the pavement. ’What shall we do now?’

  Before anyone could answer, PC Green’s radio started talking to him, and he went off to have a conversation with it.

  Rose was looking very worried indeed. ‘I know it’s really important to find the Maharani but I really have to go to the theatre now or I’ll miss the performance,’ she said. ‘Sorry,’ she added.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Art. ‘That’s a great excuse to get rid of him.’ Art gestured towards PC Green.

  Violet and Rose looked at Art quizzically.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong, he’s nice. But he isn’t going to be any help getting back the Maharani – it’ll take him days to get a search warrant. We need to sort it out ourselves.’

  The girls nodded in agreement as PC Green finished his radio conversation.

  ‘Bad news, chaps,’ he announced. ‘The sergeant needs me urgently on a high-level job – something about the Lady Mayoress’s cat being stuck up a tree. Bit of an emergency. So I’d better head off. I need to get that search warrant anyway – I wonder how I do that? It must be in my How to be a Police Officer manual . . .’ he mused.

  ‘Oh, PC Green,’ Rose began, looking at him pleadingly, ‘please could you drop me at the theatre on the way? I’m so worried about being late.’

  PC Green said, ‘No problem Rose. Why don’t I take all of you?’

  Violet sprang into action. ‘I think I’ll walk actually – I feel a bit sick. I ate loads of Easter eggs,’ she explained, clutching her tummy.

  ‘Me too,’ Art swiftly added, making sick noises.

  PC Green looked horrified. He certainly didn’t want anyone throwing up in his squad car, but then again, he wasn’t quite sure he should be leaving Art and Violet on their own.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right walking to the theatre?’

  Both nodded at him with absolute confidence.

  ‘I know where it is – it’s just down that street and then you turn right and you’re there.’ Violet pointed.

  ‘It’s really near,’ Art added reassuringly. ‘And we’ll go straight there.’

  ‘Okey-dokey. And then I’ll sort out a search warrant as soon as I find out how to get one. See you later, chaps.’

  After PC Green and Rose had gone, Violet gazed up at the huge hotel. ‘There must be hundreds of rooms. How will we ever find her?’

  It seemed hopeless.

  ‘Violet! Look!’ Art said, pointing behind her.

  Violet turned around and gasped. There was a hotel bell boy, clutching a large tin of Fortnum and Mason fruit and nut mix, walking in the main entrance.

  ‘I don’t believe it! We have to follow him!’ Violet cried.

  ‘No, wait,’ said Art. ‘We’ll never get past reception.’ Art thought hard. ‘We need to create distraction or something. Or look, maybe this is a chance . . . ’

  An immense Mercedes drew up in front of the hotel and the doorman scurried up to it, opening doors and directing luggage to be brought out of the boot. Violet and Art’s mouths dropped as an incredibly famous American actor got out of the car, along with his incredibly famous actress wife and their two children, a boy and a girl about the same age as Art and Violet.

  ‘Follow them!’ Art hissed and the pair slipped through the doors just behind the actor and his family, keeping their heads down and pretending they were part of the same group.

  Once inside the lobby, they dived behind a heavily laden luggage trolley. Art poked his head above to look for the bell boy with the Fortnum and Mason tin.

  ‘He’s just getting in the lift,’ Art said and the pair dashed across the busy lobby and into the lift before anyone could stop them.

  ‘Which floor please?’ asked the bell boy politely.

  Violet scanned the buttons. The one for the twelfth floor was lit up.

  ‘Floor twelve, please,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think you’re right, Miss. There are only two penthouses up there, and I don’t believe you are staying in either of those.’

  ‘Silly me, my mistake. Eleven, please,’ Violet replied quickly, and he pressed the button for her.

  Whoosh! The lift car sped upwards and then – ping! – they arrived at the eleventh floor. Art and Violet walked out nonchalantly, and then as soon as the lift doors shut behind them, they dashed for the stairs, sprinting up them two at a time.

  They made it up to the next floor just in time to see the back of the bell boy disappearing down a corridor, tin held aloft. They were about to dash after him when – ping! – the lift door opened again.

  ‘Drat!’ Art exclaimed, and they dived into a doorway so as not to be seen. And they were just in time, because who should appear out of the lift but the very famous actor and his family, accompanied by Derek, the grumpy concierge from the lobby.

  ‘We are so extremely honoured that you have chosen to stay with us at Hardy’s. I do hope everything is up to your absolute satisfaction, but if it’s not please tell me immediately and we will do our utmost to change it. No request is too big or too small to trouble us . . . ’ He continued to suck up to them furiously as he opened a door along the same corridor that the bell boy had disappeared.

  ‘The Royal Suite,’ he announced with a flourish, and led the family inside.

  Taking their chance, Violet and Art began to tiptoe down the corridor, but just as they did, the door to the Royal Suite began to open! Luckily, the opposite side of the corridor was lined with large windows, each draped with elaborate curtains, and the two children quickly dived behind one of them.

  Derek reappeared in the corridor, still sucking up desperately. ‘Of course, no problem at all, my ultimate pleasure is to serve. I will have the theatre tickets sent up immediately and then a car will call for you shortly. A light snack beforehand? The kitchens will prepare something delicious. Vintage champagne? Of course, it will be on the house. Very, very, very good, madam.’ And he shut the door with a ridiculous bow.

  Art and Violet listened carefully, waiting for him to call the lift and return downstairs. Then they heard another set of footsteps. It must be the bell boy, Violet decided.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Derek asked the person, who did turn out to be the bell boy.

  ‘I suppose so. No tip though, and that parrot looks very miserable. The woman was really shouting at it when I knocked on the door.’

  Violet had to stop herself from letting out a loud gasp. So Angel did have the Maharani! Violet felt fury rising up in her.

  Meanwhile, the concierge and bell boy were still chatting as the two of them waited for the lift.

  ‘I do hope the squawking doesn’t trouble our extremely special guests in the Royal Suite.’

  ‘I did tell her who was staying next door and she was very impressed.’

  ‘Good. Maybe that will make her keep the noise down. I’ll speak to her about it myself later too; I also need to have a word with her about the enormous bill she’s run up.’

  Ping! The lift arrived and the men’s voices became fainter as the doors closed on them.

  When Art and Violet were sure that the concierge and the bell boy had gone, they came out from behind the curtains.

  ‘I can’t believe I fell for all her bluff about being a changed person,’ Violet said to Art.

  ‘Don’t feel bad – we all believed her,’ Art said, as they looked towards the door at the end of the corridor. They could hear the muffled sounds of the Maharani squawking, and Angel shouting at her. It made Violet feel horrible.

  ‘Art, we must hurry,’ Violet urged, and they st
arted down the hallway again.

  ‘But how are we going to get into the room?’ Art asked. ‘Angel isn’t just going to let you walk in and take the Maharani.’

  He was right – they needed a plan! Violet looked around the corridor desperately trying to think. Then she spotted a door labelled: Housekeeping Cupboard.

  ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she announced, opening the door. Inside was a trolley, piled high with supplies and a spare maid’s uniform was hanging up on the back of the door. Violet pulled on the uniform over her clothes. It nearly reached her ankles, so she tried to hoik it up using the belt. Then she pulled a cap on over her hair and picked up a pair of spectacles that were sitting on the cleaning trolley, putting those on too.

  ‘What do you think?’ Violet asked Art.

  He looked doubtful. ‘I think she’s going to recognise you.’

  ‘But I have to try!’ Violet said, feeling irritated with Art’s lack of enthusiasm. ‘Have you got a better idea?’

  ‘Perhaps, but I need to think it through.’

  ‘There’s no time,’ said Violet, bossily. ‘We need to save the Maharani. I’m going to try this.’ And she marched down the hallway, wheeling the trolley in front of her.

  She knocked on Angel’s door.

  ‘Housekeeping!’ she cried in as deep a voice as she could manage, which she combined with a strange French-meets-German-with-a bit-of-Russian accent.

  The door flew open and there stood Angel, dressed in a tight, bright-pink outfit covered in sparkly stones. She looked to be in a very bad temper.

  ‘Not now, I’m busy,’ she said. Then she squinted at Violet, adding, ‘I have no problem with child labour, but aren’t you a little young to be a maid?’

  ‘No, not at all, I am sixteen, just rather small for my age,’ Violet replied, in her strange voice.

  Angel looked at her again, more closely this time. A small smile appeared in the corner of her mouth. ‘Actually, I’ve changed my mind. Why don’t you come in and do your cleaning now?’

  Excellent, Violet thought, wheeling her trolley into the room. Angel shut the door behind her. The room was a terrible mess of shopping bags, clothes and trays of half-eaten food. And in the middle of it, sitting pathetically huddled on top of a chair was the Maharani. The bird looked up to see Violet and gave a squawk of delight. Violet shook her head and looked away, hoping she would understand.

  ‘It’s okay, Violet,’ said Angel, making her jump. ‘You don’t have to pretend you don’t know the Maharani. In fact I am delighted to see you, as the wretched bird won’t speak for me at all, but I’m sure you can make her talk if you really try. Time is running out and I really need that fortune.’

  ‘How did you know . . . ?’ Violet began, but then she caught sight of herself in the mirror and thought how could Angel not have recognised me? Art had been too polite; it was a terrible disguise.

  ‘You know I can’t make the Maharani talk,’ she said to Angel. ‘She hasn’t spoken since the Maharajah died. She’s too upset. You might as well let us go now.’

  ‘Let you go? Do you think I’m mad? You will make that bird talk, Violet, and you are not leaving this room until you do.’

  Meanwhile, outside the room, Art was now stuck back behind the curtain. A steady stream of people were bringing trays of drinks and snacks, deliveries of flowers and free clothes to the film stars. Would it never end? Art wondered. He was getting worried about Violet. She and the Maharani should have been out of there by now. What could have happened?

  Finally, Art heard Derek talking to the famous actors again.

  ‘Your car has arrived, so if you will all follow me, I will escort you to the rear entrance, where it is waiting. There are rather a large number of paparazzi at the front door, who I thought you might want to avoid.’

  The actor thanked Derek, and Art heard them all leave the room, the two children squabbling away.

  ‘Now, now, Brett Junior, Nicoletta, stop fighting,’ came the smooth, world-famous voice of their mother, as they walked towards the lift.

  Ping! And then silence once again reigned in the corridor.

  Art peeked out from behind the curtains and, when he was sure he was alone, he went and pressed his ear against the door to Angel’s room. He could hear muffled voices, but couldn’t make out what was happening. He looked through the keyhole . . . and saw a bad sight: Violet standing next to the Maharani, crying, while the bird looked miserable too.

  Angel’s shrill voice rang out: ‘You will never see your mother and father again unless that bird talks!’

  Fury and purpose filled Art as he worked out a rescue plan in his head, that (if he did say so himself) was really rather brilliant. He ran back to the film stars’ door, pulling his trusty piece of wire from his pocket, and got to work.

  A mere three minutes and thirty-five seconds later, there was a knock on Angel’s door.

  Angel irritably opened it. In the doorway stood a very smartly dressed boy, with slicked back hair and a suit on.

  ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am,’ the boy said, in a perfect American accent, ‘my name is Brett Junior Hanson. I don’t know if you are aware, but my family is staying next door.’

  Angel’s heart gave a little leap. That was why he looked vaguely familiar to her; she must have seen his photo in one of the celebrity magazines she was always reading. How incredibly exciting! she thought, and gave him her widest smile. ‘Yes, I had heard,’ she replied.

  ‘Well, I am so sorry to bother you, but I have locked myself out of the room – and rather than go all the way downstairs, I wondered if I could just nip across from your roof terrace. Our terraces interconnect and I know the French doors are open on my side.’

  Angel practically purred, she was so delighted to help.

  ‘Of course! Come in, come in,’ she said ushering him across the room, all the while trying to shield Violet from sight.

  But the boy stopped in front of Violet and the Maharani.

  ‘Hi, I’m Brett Junior,’ he said, holding his hand out to Violet.

  ‘Hi,’ said Violet, trying not giggle. Because, as you may have realised, this wasn’t Brett Junior, it was Art in disguise! And a much better disguise than Violet’s costume. She shook hands with him and found he had passed her a scrap of paper. ‘What a great bird!’ he said, while Violet, her back to Angel, surreptitiously opened up the message.

  ‘Come this way, Brett Junior. I’ll show you the terrace,’ gushed Angel.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ Brett Junior/Art gushed back. ‘Hey, I’m guessing that with your looks you’re a Bollywood movie star? My father is just Bollywood crazy at the moment. Do you think that you could introduce him to some of the right people? I’m sure he would be really grateful . . . Hey, isn’t it just the most amazing view from out here? Please could you tell me what that building over there is?’ he babbled whilst manoeuvring Angel so her back was to the room.

  Violet wasted no time. She ran over to the door and opened it. The Maharani needed no more than a glimpse of freedom to spur her on. They both sped off into the corridor – but unfortunately Angel turned around at that moment and saw their escape.

  ‘NO!’ she cried, tottering after the pair.

  ‘Oh, my lord, is your parrot escaping?’ Art cried. ‘Let me assist you in getting her back.’

  Violet ran down the corridor towards the stairs, the Maharani swooping above her, dodging the light fittings. Ping went the lift and Derek stepped out. He looked puzzled at the sight of Violet and the Maharani dashing past him and into the stairwell. A moment later Art and Angel appeared.

  ‘Ah, madam,’ he said. ‘There is the small matter of your bill. I have it here.’

  ‘Not now!’ panted Angel. ‘Besides, I won’t be able to pay it unless I catch that dratted bird!’

  ‘In that case, madam, let me help you! I suggest we take the lift and head them off. The first floor will probably be the best place.’

  They all jumped in and he hit the button marked �
�One’.

  ‘I’m sorry – I’m not sure we have been introduced?’ Derek said turning to Art.

  Angel answered for him, girly and starstruck again. ‘This is Brett Junior, from the suite next door.’

  Derek looked at Art carefully. Ping went the lift, as it arrived at the first floor.

  ‘I think we both know that’s not true,’ he said to Art. ‘In fact, didn’t I see you earlier in reception with the young lady who has now kidnapped the cockatoo?’

  ‘You’re right,’ Art agreed, and as the doors opened he dashed out of the lift towards the stairs. Angel lunged for him but was too late. Sprinting into the stairwell, he nearly bumped straight into Violet and the squawking Maharani.

  ‘Hurry! They’re right behind us!’ Art yelled, pulling her down the stairs to the next floor.

  They rushed down to the ground floor and charged into the lobby, practically careering into a crowd of tourists as they made for the main doors. But alas, at that moment the concierge and Angel appeared out of the lift, blocking their route.

  ‘Come on, this way!’ Art cried, heading in the opposite direction.

  They ran through some double doors and found themselves in the dining room. It was an enormous and enormously grand room, with paintings of fat goddesses all over the walls, a fountain in the middle, and leafy palm trees in vast pots. Waiters in tails walked sedately around holding silver platters aloft, and the dinner guests, all dressed up in their finest gowns and suits, spoke in hushed voices while a string quartet gently played in the corner.

  As you can imagine, Violet, Art and the Maharani’s arrival did not go down too well. They slalomed between the tables and the waiters, with the Maharani ducking and swooping, accompanied by a universal spluttering from the dinner guests.

  ‘I say, is that a parrot?’