by F. C. Shaw
Neither did Herr Zilch.
Now that Rollie knew what exactly Watson’s Case was he also knew he could not let the mole find it and hand it off to Zilch. Surely Zilch was after these secrets.
Again Rollie was faced with the dilemma of where to hide Watson’s Case. He still could not come up with a hiding spot. He laid the stack of papers back inside the case. Then he lifted them out again.
Suddenly he got an idea.
* * * *
“There was another Dancing Men code in the newspaper this morning,” Rollie told Cecily later that morning at breakfast.
“What did the message say?” Cecily whispered in between bites of her toast.
Rollie leaned in. “It said today in park.”
“What does that mean?”
“Not sure, but it doesn’t really matter since we have a footprint that could expose the mole.”
“Do you think it’s Rupert? Do you remember how big his feet are?”
Rollie shook his head. “I need to look at his shoes, but I haven’t seen him all morning.” He sipped his tea. “I’m starting to think it’s not Rupert.”
“How come?”
Rollie glanced around to check that no one was paying attention to them. Again they had distanced themselves from the other students eating breakfast. Eliot sulked, feeling hurt that they had not sat with him and Tibby. Wesley did not seem to notice as he swapped weekend news with Todd and Jimmy.
Rollie cleared his throat. “Rupert delivered the newspapers, but he did not read them.”
“If he was the mole, he would have checked the Daily Telegraph.”
Rollie nodded. “He barely glanced at them. Guess who was the first person to go to the teacher’s lounge. Miss Gram. I heard her high-heels come down the hallway.”
“No! I checked my notes on Herr Zilch’s secretary. I wrote that she was tall and thin. She stood as tall as Herr Zilch.”
“And he’s almost as tall as my dad.”
“And Lady Gram is the shortest adult here at school.” Cecily gave a nod of finality.
“Fine, she’s not Herr Zilch’s secretary in disguise. That doesn’t mean she’s completely innocent though. She could still be the mole. Why was she up so early?”
“She’s an early riser.”
“Four-thirty is really early. The mole would have to get to the lounge and read the message before anyone else went in there. Cecily, I have to face the evidence that Rupert may not be the mole. You have to face the evidence that Miss Gram might be.”
“We don’t have all the evidence. I need to see the footprint.”
“Will you recognize it?”
“I might. I am a good observer, after all. Was there anything unique about it?”
“There was a large star on the heel.” Rollie took a bite of toast.
Cecily choked on her tea and stared wide-eyed at Rollie. “Did you say a star?”
“Yeah. Do you recognize it?”
In a small voice, she answered, “I do.”
“Whose is it?”
“I don’t want to say until I’ve seen it for sure. I must be one hundred percent positive because it’s a huge accusation. Trust me.”
Rollie saw worry in her green eyes. “I trust you. At recess I’ll show you.”
“Good. In the meantime, prepare yourself for a shock if I’m right.”
Breakfast ended, ushering the students to classes. On route, Rollie and Wesley bumped into each other.
“Rugby drills at recess?” Wesley checked.
“Sorry, I’ve got to do something.”
“Maybe after school I can get you started on some fencing lessons,” offered Wesley.
“That would be great!”
Rollie and Cecily, joined by a pouting Eliot and a chipper Tibby, entered Ms. Yardsly’s class. They got to work on the Dancing Men code Ms. Yardsly had drawn on the blackboard. She led the class in code-cracking exercises for the first half of the hour. The last half was spent listening to a heated discussion among a group of students who claimed to have discovered an evil scheme. They were certain that all the bus stop timetables in London were really encoded warnings of coming Nazi attacks. The whole time Rollie fidgeted in suspense, running through possible mole suspects. Whose footprint was tattling in the secret passage? Rupert’s? Miss Gram’s? Or someone else he had overlooked?
The minutes dragged by, but eventually ten o’clock struck. While the other children scampered upstairs to the roof for recess, Rollie and Cecily loitered on the third floor, which was the least populated at that time. When the hall was clear, Rollie pushed in a corner and led Cecily into the secret passage. They blinked their eyes to adjust to the dim light from the flickering light bulb overhead. Finding no footprints in the ashes, they hurried through the passage, stopping on each floor to spin the combination locks and open the doors. They flew down two flights of stairs to the first floor. Rollie pointed to the clear footprint.
Cecily studied it closely, and groaned. “I’m right. I know whose footprint this is. This evidence confirms my suspicion.”
“Tell me. I’m ready.”
“Well, judging by the size, it’s not quite an adult’s.”
“Does that matter? You know who it is.”
“It does matter because there are two people who have stars on their heels. One’s an adult and one’s a kid. The shoes are Converse.”
Rollie stared at her, forcing his brain to deduce the truth, but not wanting to.
“Rollie,” Cecily whispered sadly, “the mole is Wesley.”
The Wrong Mole
“Rollie, did you hear me?”
He nodded, unable to find his voice, unwilling to fully grasp the verdict. He felt confused, betrayed, and hurt. Confused about who he thought Wesley was and who Wesley turned out to be. Betrayed by someone who had convinced him of their friendship and hurt over that betrayal. He had felt this same emotional storm before when he had once thought Mr. Chad was the library thief. Again someone he admired blindsided him.
Wesley worked for Herr Zilch.
“You’re sure?” he asked again.
“I’m sure. The print is too small to be Mr. Chad’s. We all know Wesley’s the only other person who wears Converse around here.”
Rollie fought to keep his emotions at bay, not wanting to break in front of Cecily. Now was not the time for remorse; now was the time for action.
“Why did you suspect Wesley?” he asked her.
“Things he said about Professor Enches made me suspicious, but I had no evidence.”
“Well, now we do.”
“What do we do, Rollie?”
He straightened up. “We tell Headmaster our suspicion and question Wesley.”
Cecily squeezed his arm. “Should we tell him now?”
Rollie swallowed. “We have to. Listen, you go tell Yardsly and I’ll go find Wesley. Hopefully I can persuade him to go see Headmaster and I’ll meet you in the office in a few minutes.”
Neither uttered another word. They cautiously leaned into the entrance corner and crawled out into the hall. Cecily went to Yardsly’s office while Rollie headed upstairs to the roof, hoping to catch Wesley before recess ended. When he arrived, he scanned the crowds of students, but could not see Wesley anywhere. He spotted Todd and Jimmy and ran to meet them.
“Have you seen Wesley?” Rollie asked.
“He took off to do an errand, I think,” Todd said.
“Oh no,” muttered Rollie.
“Something wrong?” asked Todd, wiping mud from his cheek.
Without answering, Rollie took off, dodging classmates as he headed back inside. On the fourth floor he barreled through the passage opening, and flew down to the third floor. There he picked his way in between the stacks of trunks and boxes. He leaned down and—
Gone!
Watson’s Case was gone.
Wesley had been in the secret passage already. But where was he now?
Suddenly the message in the newspaper made sense: today in park. Zilch was meeting Wesley in the park today, which meant he could already be leaving the Academy for the park. If so, there were just minutes to catch him.
Still panting, Rollie stumbled through the trunks and boxes and emerged out into the hall again. He took off back downstairs, half leaping and half falling. He passed by the headmaster’s office, barely catching Cecily’s voice as she reported to Yardsly.
Not bothering to stop and tell them what he was up to, he stormed out the front door. The chilly autumn breeze nipped at his nose and ruffled his hair. He dodged through the bustle of people commuting on the sidewalk, and looked up the street towards Regent’s Park. He saw no sign of his friend. Wesley could already be in the park. Before heading there, Rollie’s instincts told him to check one more place Wesley could be. He turned and bolted down the sidewalk.
An elderly woman caught his arm. “Slow down there, young man! It’s highly irregular to run through a crowd. Life is not a rugby match!”
“Please let me go!”
“How dare you order about your elders!”
Rollie wiggled free and raced around the red brick building to the alley. It was deserted save for the garbage cans and stacks of dated newspapers. He found the passage door and pulled on it. He pried it open enough to squeeze inside the secret passage, and hurried through it. Suddenly he skidded to a stop and listened.
Someone was coming toward him.
The Steep Cost of Secrets
“Wesley?”
“Rollie! What are you doing here?”
“You’re the mole.”
Wesley stared at him, his brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
“You’re Herr Zilch’s mole.”
Wesley shook his head firmly. “You have it back-wards. I’m helping Professor Enches investigate Headmaster. He’s Herr Zilch’s mole.”
Rollie swallowed, but the lump in his throat would not go down.
“Headmaster is keeping secrets that could destroy the Academy,” Wesley continued.
Secrets.
Rollie knew Yardsly was keeping secrets. He had sworn Rollie to secrecy about the case and had kept everyone else in the dark . . . to protect them . . . so he said . . . but what if . . .
“You’re wrong,” Rollie persisted against his own doubts. “Enches was Herr Zilch’s accomplice.”
“Impossible. Professor Enches recruited me in August to investigate Headmaster. He asked me to continue his work while he’s away doing research. He told me to find this box. It holds secrets about Yardsly.”
Rollie knew what was in that box, and he knew it was not full of secrets about Yardsly.
“No, Wesley, Enches lied to you. He’s not away doing research—he’s dead.”
“You’re wrong—”
“I exposed him!” Rollie shouted. “Scotland Yard took him away and sentenced him to prison for burglary. Yardsly told me he poisoned himself and died.”
“You shouldn’t trust Yardsly! He’s been using Rupert to exchange messages with Herr Zilch’s agent.”
The man in the park! Was Yardsly really using Rupert? Was Yardsly using Rollie for evil, too?
Rollie felt doubt creep in again. But then he remembered Auntie Ei. She trusted Yardsly, and that was enough. “No, Enches was Herr Zilch’s agent. I’m telling the truth!”
“How do I know that? You apparently keep secrets from me, too.” A wave of hurt flickered over Wesley’s face.
“I was sworn to keep secrets, just like you were.” As Rollie said those words, they cut deep through his heart. He felt the full weight of his position—and he felt trapped. The only remedy was to combat it head on.
“No more secrets, Wesley.”
The pain left Wesley’s face. “Too late! Stand aside.”
Rollie planted his feet. “I can’t let you escape. You must give me that box.”
Wesley stepped forward, his steely gaze met Rollie. “I can’t. Don’t make me hurt you.”
Rollie frowned. He had hoped it would not come to this. He desperately wanted to let Wesley pass, to let someone else stop him. But that was not what Holmes would have done. Holmes would have put aside his selfishness and fought for justice. Right now the greater good was saving Sherlock Academy of Fine Sleuths.
And it was Rollie’s job. “I agreed to protect the school at all costs.”
“So did I, Rollie. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I won’t make this easy for you.”
The boys locked gazes, neither budging an inch. Rollie clenched his jaw.
“I may have kept secrets from you,” Rollie said in a final attempt, “but I was always honest about one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“I’m your friend, Wesley.”
Wesley’s eyes flashed. “Then let me pass!”
“No!”
Wesley lunged, knocking Rollie back with his square shoulder. Rollie staggered backward, but remained standing. He hugged his throbbing side, and kept his ground.
“Move!” Wesley screamed.
Rollie shook his head and braced himself for a second shove. Wesley hit harder this time, but could not move past his peer. Rollie coughed and doubled over. He was not sure which hurt more—his ribs or his feelings.
It did not matter—he knew he could not hold out forever. If he could just grab the case, he could make a run for the exit. Gingerly, he tried to straighten up, but it hurt too much. He closed his eyes and felt the next blow.
Thwack!
Wesley slammed him against the wall. Rollie felt his body slide down the cold brick. He heard receding footsteps echo through the passage and out the alley door.
He could not move.
He could not breathe.
But he could feel. He felt the hard wall brace his back, and a cold sweat break upon his brow, and pain shoot through this middle. And he felt an overwhelming guilt burden his heart.
He failed.
He could not stop Wesley.
He failed.
He could not save his school from the diabolical plans of Herr Zilch.
He failed.
He could not be Sherlock Holmes.
He failed.
Rollie gasped for air, his lungs tight as if he had been underwater far too long. His knees weakened and he slid to the ground.
He knew he could not sit there numb forever, but he wished it was that simple. His duty was to report to Yardsly, confess his failure, and lend a hand in repairing the damage. Wesley would give Watson’s Case to Herr Zilch. Worst of all, Wesley would tell Zilch about Rollie’s involvement, and Zilch would come after his friends and family.
And it would be all Rollie’s fault.
He should never have gotten involved this time. He should have just told Headmaster Yardsly no-thank-you to this case, and went about his business. Then everyone would be safe, and he would not be a failure. Zilch was right—this was a dangerous game. Zilch was right.
Zilch was right?
Rollie’s eyes snapped open. He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out Zilch’s note. He had not realized how crumpled the paper had gotten, how the ink had smudged and nearly faded. He could hardly read the threat now. It did not even matter anymore. He tore the note into tiny pieces and scattered them away. He could not let Zilch be right, nor could he allow Zilch to win this round.
Rollie scrambled to his feet with a moan, and stumbled to the alley door, which Wesley had left open. He hurried around to the front and sprinted up the sidewalk to Regent’s Park. He was not sure exactly where Wesley was meeting Zilch, or even where to start looking, for the park was a sprawling space of green lawns, flower gardens
, and gravel walking paths. Rollie brightened when he spotted Wesley sitting on a park bench up a deserted gravel path.
“Wesley, I beg you, don’t give Zilch the case,” panted Rollie as he approached Wesley.
Wesley looked at him in surprise and jumped to his feet. “I wouldn’t give Zilch the case. Enches and I are working against him.”
“How many times do I have to tell you!” yelled Rollie in frustration. “Enches is dead!”
“No he’s not!” argued Wesley. “Look!”
Rollie looked beyond Wesley up the path, and nearly fell down in disbelief.
There stood Professor Ichabod P. Enches, looking perfectly alive and well. His white hair and mustache were groomed, and he smoked casually on his pipe. His hands were in the pockets of a long tan trench coat that he wore over his tweed suit. He nodded in greeting.
Wesley started toward him.
“Wait!” Rollie shouted after him. “Don’t! He’s working for Zilch.”
Wesley stopped to glare at Rollie. “I don’t believe anything you say. You were wrong about Enches being dead. Get your facts right.”
Rollie was confused. Had Yardsly lied when he said Enches was dead? How had Enches escaped prison, and why had no one told Rollie? Something didn’t add up.
Right now there was no time to ponder Enches’ strange appearance. Wesley was almost to the professor.
Rollie chased after Wesley, and tried to pull Watson’s Case from his grasp.
“Let go!” Wesley yanked on the case, but Rollie held tightly.
“I say there, Rollin, leave him alone!” Professor Enches commanded in his deep voice. He put his pipe in his coat pocket, and hurried over to break up the boys. He grabbed Rollie’s wrist in his gloved hand.
Rollie looked up at Enches, then down at his gloved hands.
Gloves.
The missing puzzle pieces fell into place, and Rollie felt a sinking feeling of dread.
“Wesley, run,” he said, trying to keep his voice from faltering.
“Don’t tell me—” Wesley started to argue.
“This isn’t Enches.” Rollie swallowed, and met the man’s eyes. “You’re Zilch!”