Goldwhiskers
Page 5
‘And where exactly do you get this cold, hard cash?’ scoffed Piccadilly.
A crafty look settled over Goldwhiskers’s snout. ‘I have my ways.’ There was a knock at the door of the office below. ‘That will be lunch,’ he said. ‘Silence again, everyone! Dodge?’ He motioned to his valet, who leaped on to another button on the table beside him, this one for the intercom. ‘May I help you?’ she said politely into the speaker.
‘Delivery for D. G. Whiskers, Esquire,’ came the reply.
‘Place it on the floor to the right of the door, please,’ instructed Dodge. ‘You’ll find an envelope there waiting for you.’
‘Right. Ta, luv.’
Goldwhiskers flicked his tail towards a screen that hung on the wall opposite from them. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said. ‘My latest toy. Cost me a pretty penny.’
Dupont and Piccadilly watched as Dodge leaped on to yet another button, activating the surveillance camera. An image flashed onscreen: the office door and the hallway beyond. A human delivery boy placed a large box on the floor, collected the payment envelope that had been placed there for him, and walked briskly away.
Goldwhiskers grinned at his visitors. ‘See? This is what money can do for a rat with vision. Everything I could possibly want, delivered right to my doorstep.’
‘Don’t they get suspicious?’ asked Dupont, fascinated in spite of himself.
‘The humans?’ Goldwhiskers shook his head. ‘Suspicious of a businessman who’s a bit of a recluse? Who’s a bit eccentric? Come now, surely even an ignorant Yank like yourself must know that London is full of eccentrics. What’s one more? Especially one who tips as well as I do.’
The mangy hackles on the back of Dupont’s thick neck bristled angrily at the insult, but before he could reply, Goldwhiskers cracked his tail. ‘Fetch, mouselings!’ he ordered, and the orphans sprang into action. A dozen or so leaped into the empty basket; the rest lined up along the rope and lowered it through the trapdoor to the office below.
‘Watch and learn, chaps – watch and learn,’ said Goldwhiskers to his visitors proudly. ‘You can’t lead the high life without an entourage.’ He eyed Fumble pointedly, then smirked at Dupont. ‘And one pathetic mouse doesn’t count.’
Goldwhiskers turned back to his mouselings. ‘That’s right,’ he said soothingly. ‘Your obedience makes Master so happy. And you mouselings like to make Master happy, don’t you? When Master is happy, everyone is happy. Master gives food. Master gives warmth. Master gives all good things.’
‘We thank you kindly, Master, giver of all that is good,’ chanted the mice in automatic reponse.
As Roquefort Dupont listened, he pictured himself seated in a big red leather chair back in his lair at Dupont Circle. He pictured himself with mice to do his bidding and humans at his beck and call. A smile creased his hideous snout. He liked what he saw.
‘Money can do this, you say?’ he demanded. ‘Cold, hard cash?’
Goldwhiskers nodded, and Dupont chewed on his thin rat lip thoughtfully.
‘Where would mouselings be without Master?’ Goldwhiskers continued. ‘On the street! No one wants useless orphans. No one but Master. And what happens to lazy, disobedient mouselings?’ The big rat’s voice rose sharply, and the orphans quailed. ‘That’s right! The oubliette!’
‘The oobly-what?’ whispered Dupont.
Piccadilly shrugged. ‘Not a clue.’
‘“Oubliette”,’ Fumble replied listlessly from behind them. ‘It comes from French. It means “forgotten place”. He’s talking about a dungeon.’
‘Which reminds me,’ added Goldwhiskers. ‘Where’s Farthing? An extra slice of cheese for whoever brings me my naughty pet!’
The mice who weren’t pulling on the dumb waiter’s rope scattered in search of the youngest orphan. A tiny squeak of alarm was heard in the shadows as someone nabbed him, and Farthing was duly dragged back to the red leather chair.
Goldwhiskers glared down at him. ‘Haven’t I warned you about my carpet?’
Farthing popped his tail into his mouth and sucked on it anxiously.
‘Don’t you want to stay here, close to Master, where Master can feed you and take care of you and keep you safe?’
Farthing nodded, his bright little eyes wide with fear.
‘Then why do you keep PUDDLING ON MY CARPET?’ roared Goldwhiskers. ‘Master has no choice but to put you back in the oubliette until you learn some manners!’
‘I need an oubliette,’ said Dupont enviously as the tiny orphan was seized and dragged away. He yanked on Fumble’s lead, and the mouse toppled nose-first on to the floor. ‘Remind me to build one when I get back to Washington.’
‘Yes, boss,’ said Fumble tonelessly.
Behind them, the basket swayed up through the trapdoor, piled with packages and mice. Goldwhiskers rubbed his paws together with greedy glee. ‘Smoked salmon, crackers, an assortment of cheeses and, for the main course, wild-mushroom pie. Oh, and, for dessert, fresh raspberries and whipped cream.’
Roquefort Dupont’s stomach growled loudly.
‘Fresh raspberries? In December?’ Piccadilly was incredulous.
‘I ordered them online this morning. You can get anything at Fortnum and Mason’s,’ Goldwhiskers explained. ‘All it takes is money.’
‘Quite the racket you’ve got going here,’ said Dupont with grudging admiration.
‘One does one’s best,’ Goldwhiskers replied modestly.
‘So, will you help us, Double G?’ asked Piccadilly.
Goldwhiskers frowned. ‘What’s in it for me, chaps? I assume you haven’t any cash to offer.’
Piccadilly scratched a filthy ear, considering. ‘How about membership in the GRR?’
‘Your silly little club?’ Goldwhiskers laughed scornfully, and Dupont’s hackles rose again. ‘I have no interest in petty rodent politics. Let’s take a look and see what else you might have to offer me.’ He clapped his paws. Dodge sprang to attention. ‘Laptop, please,’ ordered the big rat. Dodge gave a sharp whistle, and the mouselings crowded round a rolling table, angling it in front of the red leather chair.
Dupont and Piccadilly watched in astonished silence as Goldwhiskers reached out his tail and tapped rapidly on the keyboard. Dupont felt another swelling of inferiority, followed quickly by envy, then fury.
‘Let’s see what Mr Google has to say about our visitors,’ said Goldwhiskers, talking softly to himself as he typed. ‘Ah, here we are. Christmas Eve gala at the Royal Opera House, followed by an exclusive reception. That much we know already. Wait, here’s a news update from Reuters. Looks like they arrived at Heathrow safe and sound and checked into the Savoy. How convenient – they’re right next door.’
‘Just give us a time and a place, and we’ll take it from there,’ said Stilton Piccadilly.
Goldwhiskers eyed him. ‘You will, will you? Trust me, you’ll need much more than just a time and a place.’ He inspected the computer screen again. ‘Hmmm. Grand tour of London planned today for the accompanying family – now, that could be interesting.’ Something else caught his eye, and the big rat straightened up in his chair. ‘What’s this? Dinner and dancing tonight at the Tower of London? Now that is definitely interesting.’ He gave his two guests a sly glance. ‘Perhaps we might work together after all.’
‘What time is all this stuff – the tour and that dinner?’ said Dupont, a trifle belligerently. He was losing control here. It was bad enough being on unfamiliar turf and having to hand over the reins to Stilton Piccadilly. Now Goldwhiskers was taking over. Roquefort Dupont’s tail began to thrash back and forth.
Goldwhiskers ignored him. He tapped on the keyboard again. ‘We’ll need their itinerary. Just need to…hack into…the Savoy’s…records. Right, here we go.’ He clapped his paws together again. ‘Twist! Where’s Twist?’
The throng of mice parted as Twist stepped forward. Goldwhiskers leaned down from his throne-like chair and placed a large paw on the mouseling’s thin shoulder.
The mouseling nodded and started to go.
‘Oh, and Twist?’
Twist paused, looking back at the big rat expectantly.
‘Keep an eye out for sparklies,’ said Goldwhiskers. ‘No use letting a good opportunity go to waste. The mother is a diva. She knows she’s meeting royalty. She’ll have brought along her best.’
Twist nodded obediently and melted into the shadows.
‘Sparklies?’ said Roquefort Dupont. ‘What the heck are sparklies?’
‘All in good time, my American friend,’ Goldwhiskers replied. ‘All in good time.’ He nodded at Dodge, who leaped on to the back of his chair and tied a crisp white linen napkin round his thick grey neck. ‘First things first. Smoked salmon, anyone?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
DAY ONE – MONDAY 1015 HOURS
‘But I don’t want to see the Changing of the Guard!’ whined Priscilla Winterbottom. Their limousine was parked in front of the Royal Opera House. The two sopranos were standing beside it. ‘I’ve been to Buckingham Palace a million times before!’
Prudence Winterbottom poked her head back into the vehicle. ‘Now, Priss,’ she chided, ‘remember what I told you. You are the hostess today, and good hostesses wear cheery faces in public! Buckingham Palace is a high treat for our American guests.’
Priscilla shot a resentful look at her American guests.
‘Please?’ coaxed her mother. She thrust a wad of cash into Priscilla’s hand. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Buy yourself something nice at Harrods afterwards. The driver is going to drop you all there for lunch. Won’t that be fun? A little shopping? Ice cream and treats at the Chocolate Bar? A ride on the Egyptian escalator?’
Priscilla was not to be jollied out of her ill temper. She flounced in her seat, giving Nigel Henshaw a spiteful jab with her elbow as she did so.
‘Ouch!’ cried Nigel, recoiling.
‘Don’t be such a baby,’ snapped Priscilla. ‘It was an accident.’
She glared at her mother. Her mother glared back. Ferret senior and ferret junior squaring off for a fight, thought Oz. He nurtured this little fantasy for a moment, imagining a limousine full of flashing fangs as the mother-daughter duo scrapped and tussled in the back seat.
Lavinia Levinson tugged on her colleague’s arm. ‘Come along, Prudence,’ she said. ‘They’re expecting us in rehearsal. Luigi will sort it all out.’
With a defeated sigh, the British soprano withdrew. Ignoring Priscilla, who was still glowering, Oz’s mother leaned in through the window, gave Oz and his father each a kiss on the cheek, and smiled at DB and Nigel. ‘Have fun, kids!’
As the limousine drove off, Priscilla Winterbottom glared at Nigel Henshaw, who hugged his arms round himself and stared at the floor. Oz and DB gawked at the city through the windows.
No wonder James Bond chose to live here, thought Oz as they passed Trafalgar Square and St James’s Park. London was beautiful. Maybe he’d live here too when he was a grown-up spy. Lost in this pleasant daydream, he nearly jumped out of his seat when Priscilla kicked him in the shin.
‘This is all your fault!’ she snarled. ‘If it wasn’t for you and your stupid mother, I wouldn’t be here.’
Oz stared at her, casting about frantically for a comeback and coming up empty-handed as usual. DB was much better at this sort of thing. He usually thought of snappy things to say about three days later, when it was far too late to matter. ‘Leave my mother out of it,’ he mumbled finally, prodding at his glasses. Pathetic, he thought, even as the words left his mouth. Oz wished desperately that James Bond were here. Agent 007 would know exactly how to deal with Priscilla Winterbottom.
Priscilla’s junior ferret lips stretched out in a sneer. Her junior ferret eyes narrowed. Beside her, Nigel Henshaw scooted as far away as he could. He’d obviously seen that look before, Oz realized. So had he, unfortunately. It was a shark look. Cold. Calculating. Searching for weak spots. Sadly, he had many to choose from.
‘You want to know something else about your mother?’ Priscilla said, softly so that the adults in the front seat wouldn’t overhear. ‘She’s fatter than mine, and her voice is nowhere near as good. I heard Mr Henshaw say so. Didn’t he, Nigel?’
Nigel looked around desperately for rescue, but Oz’s father and the limousine driver were still deep in conversation. Priscilla Winterbottom reached out and grabbed the boy’s scrawny arm. She gave it a sharp twist. He winced and cried out. ‘I said, “Didn’t he, Nigel?”’
Nigel’s pale blue eyes flicked quickly towards Oz in wordless appeal. He nodded unhappily, and Priscilla released him.
DB leaned forward. ‘You know, if I had a name like Priscilla Winterbottom, I’d be keeping my stupid mouth closed,’ she warned.
Priscilla flushed an angry red. She glared at DB, then threw a calculating glance towards the front seat. Poking her lower lip out, she squinched up her eyes and wailed suddenly, ‘Mr Levinson! They’re making fun of my name!’
Oz’s father turned round in his seat. Priscilla took a hankie out of her pocket and wiped at her eyes dramatically. ‘Wa-aa-aah!’ she wailed again, louder this time, peeking over the edge of fabric to see if her phony tears were having the desired effect.
They were. Luigi Levinson frowned. ‘Oz, DB, I’m ashamed of you,’ he scolded. ‘Picking on poor Priscilla! When you’ve only just met. You know better, the pair of you. What would your mother think, Oz?’
‘But –’ Oz started to protest.
‘He didn’t – I didn’t –’ stammered DB.
Oz’s father shook his head. ‘I don’t want to hear another word from either of you,’ he said. ‘Not until you apologize to Priscilla.’
He stared at them sombrely from beneath his shaggy black eyebrows. Oz’s face flushed. He glanced over at DB, who was squirming in her seat at the injustice. Behind her hankie, Priscilla smirked.
‘I’m waiting,’ said Luigi Levinson, drumming his fingers impatiently on the seat back.
‘Sorry, Priscilla,’ mumbled Oz finally.
‘Me too,’ muttered DB.
‘There, that’s better,’ said Oz’s father. ‘You children behave yourselves now.’ And with that, he turned back to the limousine driver.
A smug smile played across Priscilla Winterbottom’s lips. Oz and DB exchanged a wary glance. Priscilla gave new meaning to the term ‘shark’. Most of the sharks they knew avoided getting grown-ups involved like the plague. But they were in altogether different waters with Priscilla. They’d have to navigate their way very carefully.
Priscilla’s foot shot out, and she kicked Oz in the shin again. He flinched. ‘My mother is definitely a better singer than yours,’ she whispered, baiting him.
Oz shrugged, defeated. If he said anything at all, she’d just tell his father another lie and get him into more trouble.
‘Why don’t we let the audience be the judge of that at the concert tomorrow night?’ suggested DB.
Priscilla eyed her suspiciously. ‘Fine,’ she said finally. ‘You might be in for a surprise, though. Right, Nigel?’ Her hand shot out and she pinched the younger boy on the leg. Hard. Nigel whimpered and nodded.
The limousine came to a halt in front of Buckingham Palace. The back door opened, and Luigi Levinson reached in with a bear-like arm and plucked Priscilla from her seat. ‘Feeling better, my little sugarplum?’ he asked. She nodded tremulously. Dabbing at the corner of one eye with her hankie, she smiled triumphantly over her shoulder at Oz and DB.
‘Good. Come along, then, all of you,’ said Oz’s father, herding Nigel out as well. ‘They’ll be starting the ceremony soon, and we want to get a good spot.’
Oz and DB followed, exchanging an uneasy glance.
‘She’s awful,’ said DB.
‘Horrible,’ agreed Oz. ‘Worse than Jordan and Tank.’
‘And she’s up to something,�
�� added DB.
‘I know,’ said Oz unhappily. The question was, what? Oz sighed. He hoped Glory’s holiday was off to a better start than his.
CHAPTER NINE
DAY ONE – MONDAY 1115 HOURS
Glory’s holiday was not off to a better start, unfortunately.
‘Come on then, lad, out with it,’ said Inspector Applewood, the sturdy brown fieldmouse from Scotland Yard with whom she had been paired.
The grubby mouseling seated across the table from them gave his runny nose a furtive swipe. ‘I told you already – I don’t know nuffing, guv,’ he whined.
Glory sighed. It had been like this all morning. Not an orphan in London knew a thing about the disappearances. Inspector Applewood hadn’t even been able to get them to tell him their names. Glory had tried too, but it was clear that the detective resented her presence, and she had quickly given up. Scotland Yard had not been at all happy to have agents from MICE-6 foisted upon their investigation.
Inspector Applewood closed his notebook. ‘Right then, lad, you can go,’ he told the street urchin. He turned to Glory. ‘See?’ he said. ‘Told you. It’s cats, plain and simple. We don’t need an investigation. And we don’t need any help from MICE-6. You might as well leave now too.’
Glory was sorely tempted to do so. She glanced out the window as a Pigeon Air taxi swooped by. On its back she spotted a pair of tourist mice. They snapped pictures of Scotland Yard and then flew on. That’s what she should be doing right now too – touring London, not interviewing stubborn mouselings.
‘Wait,’ she said, as the orphan hopped off his perch and started to leave. Glory reached into her backpack and pulled out the remains of breakfast. She pushed the napkin-wrapped object towards the mouseling, who sniffed it hopefully.