Atticus Claw Learns to Draw

by Jennifer Gray

  ‘I’m sure the Commissioner will get another tip-off from Interpol soon,’ Mrs Tucker said soothingly. ‘Now come and help me with these dishes.’

  Callie and Michael got down from the table.

  Mr Tucker remained seated. Atticus checked to see that Mrs Tucker’s back was turned, then he hopped up on the table and had a quick look for fishy morsels in Mr Tucker’s extra-bushy beard-jumper.

  ‘When I’s out in me boat catchin’ fish,’ Mr Tucker said thoughtfully, stroking Atticus between the ears, ‘I uses bait.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Herman?’ Mrs Tucker asked, crashing about with crockery.

  ‘Well, it’s like this, Edna …’ Mr Tucker removed Atticus with some difficulty from his beard-jumper and set him on the floor. Then he got to his foot and started tapping out a rhythm with his wooden leg.

  ‘Mr Tucker’s going to sing a sea shanty!’ Callie cried in delight.

  The children joined in, clapping. Bones did a little jig. Even Atticus found his whiskers twitching to the beat. He liked Mr Tucker’s sea shanties, although they could be a bit gruesome.

  Mr Tucker cleared his throat and began:

  Worms are great, and so is jelly,

  Pickle is the best – it’s nice and smelly,

  Lizards and flies and shrimps and socks,

  Stick ’em in the sea and watch ’em fish flock!

  Squished-up toad is nice and mucky,

  Most of ’em fish they like it yucky,

  They swarm round me boat: that’s when I hook ’em,

  Then I bash ’em hard on the head and cook ’em.

  ‘Very interesting, I’m sure, Herman,’ Mrs Tucker said. ‘But what’s it got to do with rescuing Inspector Cheddar?’

  ‘What I’s saying is that villains are like fish,’ Mr Tucker explained. ‘You need bait to catch ’em.’ He lit his pipe. A thick cloud of blue smoke filled the room. Everyone started coughing. ‘Only instead of using worrrrms,’ Mr Tucker said, ‘you use something else!’

  ‘Like what?’ Mrs Tucker was nonplussed.

  ‘Aaaarrrrt,’ said Mr Tucker. He sucked noisily on his pipe.

  Callie gave a whoop of delight. ‘That’s brilliant, Mr Tucker!’

  ‘But we don’t have any art.’ Mrs Tucker frowned.

  ‘We can get some, though.’ Michael grinned at his sister.

  Callie grinned back.

  ‘How?’ Mrs Tucker still didn’t get it.

  Atticus wasn’t sure if he did either. The sort of art Ricardo Butteredsconi wanted Klob and Biscuit to steal was very expensive. Atticus didn’t think they could afford any: you couldn’t exactly pay for it with sardines. And Mr and Mrs Tucker had just spent a lot of money on their cruise. He looked at the children, puzzled.

  ‘Atticus can paint it, of course!’ Callie laughed. ‘Ricardo Butteredsconi loves his pictures! He thinks Atticus is art’s NEXT BIG THING. He said so when we visited the pickle factory.’

  ‘Callie’s right, Mrs Tucker. If Atticus does more paintings Butteredsconi’s bound to want Klob and Biscuit to steal one for his collection,’ Michael added. ‘It’s obvious!’

  Of course! Atticus purred with pleasure. What with everything else that had happened recently, he’d forgotten that he was going to be art’s NEXT BIG THING. Now he had a chance to do more painting and help the Cheddars.

  Mrs Tucker punched the air. ‘Well done, Herman,’ she said. ‘That pet spa treatment obviously did you good.’ She planted a kiss on his hair extensions. ‘You may be as hairy as a catfish, but you do have very good ideas sometimes.’ She scooped up Atticus. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s get started. I’ll phone your mum and tell her what we’re going to do. We’ll arrange the exhibition here at Toffly Hall.’

  ‘What shall we call it?’ Callie asked. ‘It’s got to have a name.’

  ‘How about TOTALLY PAWSOME,’ Michael suggested.

  TOTALLY PAWSOME. Atticus thought he could live with that.

  That afternoon, Atticus got to work.

  Mrs Cheddar thought the exhibition was a marvellous idea and she asked Zeberdee Cronk along to help as well. Zeberdee said Atticus should use oil paint, which he brought with him in tubes. Oil paint, Atticus quickly discovered, was thick and sticky and smelly and took ages to dry. Luckily, Bones and the children were on hand to wipe Atticus’s paws with Thumpers’ Traditional Paint Remover to keep them clean.

  Zeberdee also brought something called canvas instead of paper for Atticus to paint on. Canvas was a kind of thick material – the sort that cats like to scratch to keep their claws sharp. It was a lot more difficult to cover with paw prints than paper so Atticus took to walking across it with all four paws drenched in different coloured paint, which he thought was very daring.

  Zeberdee and Mrs Cheddar said it looked fantastic.

  Then, by mistake, Atticus got his tail in a pot of yellow paint while Michael was cleaning his paws. He swished it to and fro to try and get it off and it went all over another canvas that he’d sat on accidentally and Zeberdee said that was good too – they should call it The Beach at Littleton-on-Sea, which is what they did. Atticus finished it off with a few blue splodges for the sea and a couple of brown ones for the beach huts where he usually met Mimi.

  With Zeberdee’s help, he even managed to hold a pencil in his paw and draw a few wobbly lines which was supposed to be a picture of him with the children. It wasn’t quite Picasso, but everyone said it was pretty amazing for a cat to be able to draw at all, so that went into the exhibition too.

  Then Zeberdee took some photos and wrote something on the computer which he said was going to be published in an art magazine so that the villains would know all about the exhibition.

  ‘That’s right, me boy, luuuurrrrre them in!’ Mr Tucker agreed.

  Mrs Tucker fed Atticus on fresh sardines to keep his strength up and Mr Tucker went out on his boat to fish for them. That night, instead of going back to number 2 Blossom Crescent with Callie and Michael, Atticus stayed at Toffly Hall with Bones so that he could paint more pictures in the morning. Bones, who was a very tidy cat, made his basket and plumped up the cushions on the sofa so he could lie on them if he preferred. She massaged his paws with the Thumpers’ Traditional Paw Cream that she’d got at the pet spa to stop his pads getting dried out.

  The next day, when everything was finally ready Mimi came to see him with her owner Aysha and Aysha’s baby. Zeberdee was hanging the last of the paintings on the wall. When the baby saw all the lovely colours she laughed and pointed with pleasure.

  ‘This is as colourful as my flower shop!’ Aysha said. ‘Well done, Atticus! Can you paint one for me?’

  Atticus purred to show that he would be happy to.

  ‘I’m so proud of you, Atticus!’ Mimi said.

  ‘Do you like them?’ Atticus asked. It was ages since he’d seen Mimi and being around her always made him feel a bit shy.

  ‘Of course I do!’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really!’ Mimi twined her tail around his.

  Atticus was pleased. But despite the fact that Mimi was there and everyone was spoiling him, for some reason Atticus didn’t feel very happy.

  ‘What’s up?’ Mimi asked. She always had an uncanny knack of knowing when something was wrong.

  ‘It’s Inspector Cheddar,’ Atticus said. ‘The kids don’t understand why Ricardo Butteredsconi is keeping him prisoner and neither do I.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because he’s worried Inspector Cheddar will lead the police to the stolen art,’ Mimi suggested.

  ‘I suppose so …’ Atticus said. ‘I don’t think it’s that, though. They could have let him go at the beginning, when they realised their mistake.’ He shook his head. ‘I have this awful feeling that Butteredsconi is keeping him for a different reason …’ He paused. ‘Something to do with art.’

  ‘Art?’ Mimi repeated. ‘But Inspector Cheddar doesn’t know anything about art.’

  ‘That’s why it’s so weird,’ Atticus sa
id. ‘And Butteredsconi – he’s weird too. He’s obsessed with pickled animals. The whole set-up is creepy.’ He told Mimi about the history of Sconi Point and the crazy ride in the tunnel under the sea.

  Mimi shivered when she heard the part about the mad doctor doing experiments on his patients.

  ‘He sounds like Frankenstein,’ she said.

  ‘That’s exactly what Michael said,’ Atticus remarked. He sighed. ‘This art business, Mimi, I don’t really understand it. I mean, why is a pickled animal or a camp bed art? I thought I was getting the hang of it with Zeberdee but I’m not so sure now. Why would someone pay a fortune for a picture of a person in mixed-up squares like a Rubik’s cube? Or a cat’s paw prints?’ He sighed. ‘Maybe if I understood that, I could work out what the villains want with Inspector Cheddar.’

  ‘What do you think art is, Atticus?’ Mimi asked him.

  Atticus groomed his whiskers. ‘I was hoping you were going to tell me that,’ he said cheekily.

  ‘No, I’m being serious,’ Mimi replied. ‘What do you think it is?’

  ‘Well,’ Atticus considered the question. ‘At first I thought it was paintings or statues. Then I realised that it could be all sorts of things, like pickled animals, or beds. Then Callie and Michael explained art doesn’t have to look like what it actually is – like Picasso, for instance. And then Zeberdee said it could have a meaning, like Plastic Ocean. And then I found out it could be interesting to look at, like the crack … Or fun to do, like my paw prints.’

  ‘Go on …’ Mimi encouraged him.

  ‘So I guess Michael and Callie were right: art is something that makes you see things a bit differently,’ he offered.

  ‘That’s brilliant!’ Mimi said. ‘I couldn’t have explained it better myself.’ She looked at him. ‘Does that help?’

  Atticus shook his head. ‘No.’ He managed a brief purr. ‘But thanks anyway.’ He squeezed Mimi’s paw. ‘I’m sure I’ll work it out.’

  ‘There!’ Zeberdee finished hanging the last picture.

  ‘I think we’re ready.’ Mrs Tucker came bustling up with the children. She looked around the exhibition and nodded. ‘Good work, everyone,’ she said.

  ‘Mrs Tucker has bugged all the paintings with tracking devices in case the villains give us the slip again,’ Michael told Atticus.

  ‘So we can trace them to Fort Sconi,’ Callie explained, ‘and rescue Dad.’

  That was a good idea, Atticus thought. He glanced at Mimi. He just hoped they wouldn’t be too late.

  Mrs Tucker gave the two cats a sardine to share. ‘Now all we’ve got to do is sit back and wait for them to take the bait.’

  ‘Totally Pawsome!’ Ginger Biscuit spat the words out as if they were a rat’s stomach. ‘Atticus Claw?! An artist?! That cat makes me want to puke.’

  He and the magpies were hiding in Zenia Klob’s squeaky wheelie bin outside the gates of Toffly Hall. Zenia was disguised as a rubbish collector. They had been sent by Ricardo Butteredsconi to steal Atticus’s new paintings. There was one in particular he wanted; the one entitled The Beach at Littleton-on-Sea.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Ginge …’ Slasher began. He was reading the latest edition of a glossy magazine called Art for the Filthy Rich. There was a photo of Atticus on the front cover, under the caption ‘Cat Art is the New Cool’. ‘Some of his stuff’s not bad.’

  ‘I didn’t know he could draw,’ Thug said conversationally.

  ‘He can’t.’ Biscuit snarled.

  Thug and Slasher traded looks. Thug winked at Slasher. Now was their chance to wind Biscuit up!

  ‘You sure about that, Ginge?’ Slasher said slowly, turning the pages and pretending to look at them carefully. ‘Says here he’s pretty good at it. What d’you reckon, Thug?’

  ‘Oh, yes, Slasher, my friend,’ Thug said importantly. ‘He’s totally pawsome, in my ’umble hop-inion.’

  ‘Totally awful, you mean,’ Ginger Biscuit growled.

  ‘Ah, come on, Ginge,’ Slasher nudged Thug. ‘Credit where credit’s due: you’ve got to admit it’s probably better than what you could do, at any rate.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ Ginger Biscuit retorted. ‘I just haven’t tried, that’s all.’

  ‘Sounds like sour grapes to me,’ Thug commented. ‘’Ere, Slash,’ he said, leaning over Slasher’s shoulder to look at the magazine, ‘that painting of Littleton-on-Sea what we’ve come to pinch … says here it’s worth two million smackers.’

  ‘Grrrr …’ Ginger Biscuit snarled.

  ‘Maybe you and Zenia should think of investing in one with all that money Butteredsconi’s paying you?’ Slasher suggested. ‘An original Claw. Nice thing to show your grandkids.’

  ‘Definitely,’ Thug agreed. ‘Look lovely in Gulag Cottage, that would. Every time you look at it you can think about how much dosh Claw’s raking in. And how famous he is.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Ginger Biscuit growled, pinning each magpie with a front paw. ‘He’ll be dead by then anyway.’ He dangled them upside down. ‘And if either of you dare tell me what a brilliant artist Atticus Claw is ever again, so will you.’ His pale eyes gleamed. ‘How about I have you stuffed and hung over the fireplace at Gulag Cottage instead so every time I look at you I can think about how much fun it was ripping your heads off with my teeth.’

  ‘Chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka!’ Thug and Slasher struggled and flapped.

  ‘Let them go,’ Jimmy Magpie said. ‘We’ve got a job to do.’

  Squeak … squeak … squeak … squeak.

  The wheelie bin was on the move.

  Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

  Zenia’s boots crunched on the gravel as she pushed it up the drive.

  ‘Remember the drill,’ Biscuit said, releasing the magpies reluctantly.

  Jimmy nodded. ‘We’ll remember the drill if you remember your promise,’ he said. ‘I want Claw flat once this is over. No excuses. Vroom. Squish, squash. Like the humans did to our magpie mates. Then you feed Pam to Pork and let us go. All right?’

  ‘All right,’ Ginger Biscuit grumbled.

  The bin came to a halt. The lid opened. Zenia’s ugly mug peered in. ‘Off you go, birdies,’ she said. ‘Time to peck the vires.’

  The magpies flew off.

  ‘Okay, Biscuit,’ Zenia said. ‘Atticus’s exhibition is in the ballroom. The painting Mr Butteredsconi vants is by the French doors: you know the vun.’

  ‘Grrrr …’ Yes, Ginger Biscuit knew the one. He’d had it rammed down his throat enough times by Butteredsconi after the mistake they’d made with the camp bed, although – surprisingly – Butteredsconi hadn’t been as cross about finding the bloke with green hair in it as Ginger Biscuit expected he would be. In fact, Butteredsconi and Zenia had a good old laugh about it afterwards. Ginger Biscuit didn’t know what they’d done with him; the bed was hidden somewhere at Fort Sconi with all the other stuff they’d snatched. And he didn’t care. What he wanted was revenge on Atticus – and sooner rather than later. The idea that Atticus was art’s NEXT BIG THING made him seethe with spite.

  Ginger Biscuit disappeared into the shrubbery. He wriggled his way through the bushes until he reached the French doors that led from the ballroom into the garden. He felt like smashing them with a brick instead of waiting for the magpies to disable the alarm and pick the lock with his claws. Actually, why the heck not? With any luck he’d ruin Atticus’s rotten painting in the process. He picked up the nearest rock.

  ‘Not so fast, my vindow-smashing mewster.’ Zenia squeezed in beside him. She plucked the rock from his paw. ‘Remember, Biscuit,’ she crooned, ‘revenge is sveeter ven served up pickled.’

  ‘Myaw?’ Ginger Biscuit was puzzled.

  ‘Be patient, my foul-tempered furry fury,’ Zenia said. ‘You vill have your revenge on Atticus. Mr Butteredsconi is a vicked villain, like us, don’t forget.’ She fed him a pickled rat’s tail from her coat sleeve. ‘Atticus’s paintings may be vorth a fortune, Biscuit, but you and I know this is a trick. Atticus and
Agent Velk vant to find the stolen vorks of art. And Inspector Cheddar, of course …’

  Inspector Cheddar? Ginger Biscuit nearly choked on his pickled rat’s tail. Surely she didn’t mean …

  ‘Yes, Biscuit, it vos Atticus’s bungling boss ve bednapped by mistake!’ she cackled. ‘Vot a laugh, eh?’

  ‘Myaw?’ Ginger Biscuit moaned. He hoped Zenia knew what she was doing. Stealing art was one thing. Bednapping a member of the fuzz was another. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life behind bars.

  ‘Don’t vorry, my precious predator,’ Zenia reassured him. ‘Ve are vun step ahead of Velk. Ve vill keep the Inspector under vraps until the heat’s off. He hasn’t got a clue vot’s going on; I’ve given him a dose of my super-strong sleeping potion. And Velk and Atticus can’t act vithout proof.’ She scratched Biscuit’s ears. ‘Besides, Ricardo has very special plans for him.’ She leaned down and whispered something to Biscuit.

  Ginger Biscuit’s pale blue eyes registered astonishment, then understanding, and finally cunning. A deep, satisfied purr reverberated across his body.

  Zenia was right.

  Revenge was best served up pickled.

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  Outside the gates of Butteredsconi’s Pickle Factory, Atticus was on watch with Callie and Michael. The three of them were holed up in a police surveillance vehicle with Mrs Tucker and Mrs Cheddar. The surveillance vehicle was disguised as a cabbage delivery lorry. So far the disguise seemed to be working: none of the workers had come out of the factory to ask any questions.

  Beep! Beep! Beep!

  ‘It’s coming from the fort,’ Mrs Tucker said. The beeping was being transmitted from the tracking device on the back of Atticus’s stolen painting to a computer in the lorry. The screen flashed with a little green dot. ‘It’s on the second floor. About five metres behind the window.’ The computer tracking system was very sophisticated: it could pinpoint the exact location of the bug.