The Hamster of the Baskervilles (2 page)

Mr. Ratnose nudged me. "That's enough for now. Watch the movie. You can detect at recess."

I wandered back and slid into an open spot beside Bo Newt. Up on the screen, a cartoony Captain Lunch had almost completed his heroic journey through the digestive system. I barely noticed.

"How about that?" I muttered. "Ripped open."

"
Shh!
" said Bo. "I wanna watch the story, find out what happens."

"Aw, don't worry," I said. "It all comes out in the end."

After the movie, we tramped back to our room. It wouldn't win any beauty contests, but Maureen DeBree and her crew had righted the wreckage. The classroom looked no worse than my bedroom at home—but that's not saying much.

Unfortunately, the janitors had also cleaned up the clues. I made a mental note to talk to Ms. DeBree and strolled over to eyeball the gashed walls.

"Class, be seated," said Mr. Ratnose.

I kept walking.

"Chet Gecko?" said Mr. Ratnose. "Are you part of this class?"

Like I had a choice. "Guess so, teacher," I said.

Mr. Ratnose pointed at my chair. "Then sit down and join us."

For the next hour, instead of tackling the case, I had to grapple with grammar. Oh joy. English class can put anyone into a comma.

Then—
rrrring!
—at long last, recess. I straightened my hat and slid from my seat. Chet Gecko was on the prowl. First stop: the classroom wall.

Deep parallel slashes snaked down the woodlike lightning bolts.

I leaned close and sniffed deeply.

Aha!
Splinters up the nose.

As I picked out the splinters, I noticed they smelled like peanut butter. Or maybe that was my fingers. (Eating peanut-butter-and-cockroach muffins will do that to a guy.)

Each groove was two fingers wide and deep enough to swallow an eraser. Whatever had made the gashes—tool, tooth, or claw—it was wielded by
someone with a hefty grudge and some serious muscle. But why?

Maybe Mr. Ratnose's hunch about "juvenile delinquents" wasn't so far off base. Or maybe some sixth-grade mug had taken his revenge on my teacher for one too many detention slips.

Heading out onto the crowded playground, I kept an eye peeled for my partner, Natalie Attired. When you're taking a thug-country safari, you'd better have some backup.

Natalie was sitting on a bench with a joke book, cackling to herself. Aside from being a smart-aleck bird with a nose—er, beak—for trouble, she was a good dame in a tight spot: cool as a cucumber-and-ladybug sandwich.

"What's the word, mockingbird?" I said, walking up to her.

Natalie glanced up. "Chet, you gotta hear this one." In a voice like John Wayne's, she said, "A three-legged dog walked into a saloon in the Old West. He slid up to the bar, and do you know what he said, pardner?"

"I'm afraid you're going to tell me."

"He said, 'I'm lookin' for the man who shot my paw!'" Natalie leaned forward, wide-eyed. "Shot my paw! My
pa,
get it?"

I got it, but wished I hadn't.

"Hey, if you don't like that one, there's more..." Natalie paged through the book.

"Never mind," I said quickly. "No time for wisecracks when there's a case to crack."

My partner grinned. "Outstanding. Who's the client?"

"Mr. Ratnose."

She arched an eyebrow. "Hey, maybe he'll give you better grades if we solve the case."

"I couldn't pry better grades out of him with a pick and a crowbar."

"Well," said Natalie, "you
could
try doing your homework."

"And ruin my reputation?"

With a jaunty step, I led the way to the sixth graders' playground. It was a fresh case and a sunny day. It was good to be a detective, and I wanted to start the investigation right away—because crime waits for no gecko.

Erik Nidd was a bully's bully. His powerful tarantula body boasted eight thick limbs designed for shakedowns, punching, poking, and giving noogies. Just the sight of his fangs could make a first grader faint. And if that didn't work, Erik's B.O. could drop a horsefly at six paces.

Good thing he wasn't bright enough to power a night-light, or he would've
really
been dangerous.

Erik was easy to find at recess. We just followed the sound of whimpering. In a corner of the playground, the giant tarantula was dangling a blue-belly lizard by her tail.

"Please!" she cried. "I'll never do it again! Please let me go."

"Okeydokey," said Erik. He swung her around once, twice, three times—and let go.

The lizard soared like a superhero.
Thud!
She landed on her belly and scrambled away.

"Erik!" I called. "How's that lobotomy working out?"

He turned his many eyes on me. None of them held a friendly look.

"Whatchu want, peeper?" Erik sneered. "Flying lessons?"

"No," I said, "talk."

Erik crawled closer, if you can call it
crawling
when a tank-sized tarantula rumbles toward you. "Ya got nothin' to say that I wanna hear. Except maybe 'Here's my lunch money.' Haw, haw."

Natalie and I stepped back. When dealing with Erik, it's best to keep your distance—in the next county, if possible, but always out of reach.

"We want to talk about you and Mr. Ratnose," said Natalie.

"Ancient history," said Erik.

"My favorite subject," I lied. "I hear when you took his class, you and he weren't exactly best pals."

The giant tarantula made a gargling sound. I think it was a laugh. Two girls nearby decided to go play catch somewhere else.

"Ratnose and me, we don't exchange no Christmas cards," he said. "I had two years in his class, and it weren't no picnic."

Apparently, those two years hadn't taught him how much Mr. Ratnose hates double negatives.

I needled him some more. "How did you feel when he flunked you?"

Erik sidled closer. "I wanted to give him a big ol' smooch. Whaddaya think, ya moron? I hated his guts."

Erik's short fuse was burning down to the danger zone. Natalie and I exchanged a quick glance. We only had time for another question or two, at most.

Watching Erik closely, I said, "Someone trashed Mr. Ratnose's classroom over the weekend. Know anything about it?"

His many eyes went wide, and an evil grin split his face. "First I heard of it," he said. "But thanks, Gecko. Ya made my day."

One beefy tarantula arm reached out, whether to pat my shoulder or pick my pocket, I didn't know. But I wasn't waiting around to find out.

As I ducked, I noticed a dark blue tattoo on his shoulder—or where a shoulder would've been on a normal animal.

Natalie spotted it, too. "Nice tattoo," she said, backing up carefully. "Is it a sticker, or did your baby sister draw it?"

Erik snarled and scuttled straight at us. We scooted out of reach, then hightailed it for the safety of the classrooms.

He shouted after us, "Just watch yer step, ya ... ya ... big dum-dums!"

"Aw, you stole that line from Shakespeare," I shouted back.

When Natalie and I had put a portable classroom between us and the angry tarantula, I asked, "Well, what do you think?"

"I think I'm glad he's not a Mexican jumping spider," she said.

I put my hands on my hips. "His reaction, featherhead. Did you notice how he took the news about Mr. Ratnose's room?"

Natalie shrugged. "He won't be losing any sleep over it."

"But he didn't look guilty, he looked surprised."

"You're right," said Natalie. "So scratch one suspect. Now what?"

We stood in silence for a while. Two pigeons strutted past, heading for class.

I snapped my fingers. "Ah!"

"Thought of something?" asked Natalie.

"Yeah," I said. "I forgot to bring money for a snack. I hate when that happens."

"What about the case?"

"Oh, that. Simple: We visit the janitor and see
what trash she picked up from the classroom. Detective rule number two: When you hit a dead end, go back and check for clues."

Natalie cocked her head. "What's rule number one?"

"Always make sure you have a resourceful partner," I said.

She beamed. "I've got resources."

"Great," I said. "Can you loan me fifty cents for a snack?"

Before we could visit Maureen DeBree and go trash diving for clues, I had to dig my way through something even stinkier: history class.

A battered classroom hadn't stopped Mr. Ratnose. He stood at the blackboard, scribbling furiously and creating so much chalk dust he looked like a yellow tornado with a scabby tail.

As my teacher babbled on about the 100 Years' Bore (or maybe that was
war
—who knows?), I mulled over the case. A stray thought tickled my brain.

True, someone had trashed the classroom, but why did it have to be a cranky former student? Why not a cranky
current
student?

I surveyed my classmates. Frowns and bored looks hung on most faces, like a gallery of grumpitude. It could be any one of them, I thought. Even
me.

Actually, I had a pretty good alibi. I knew where I'd been all weekend (except when I passed out after drinking five root beer slushies). And I could probably cross other names off the list—too wimpy (like Waldo), too sweet (like Shirley), or too prissy (like Bitty Chu, teacher's pet).

I was just sizing up the bad boys when a familiar name came to me.

"Chet Gecko?" said Mr. Ratnose. "Perhaps you could enlighten us."

My head snapped back to the front. I searched the blackboard to see what he was talking about. He'd erased it. I glanced right and left at my classmates. No help there, either.

"The answer is ... um ... ancient crustaceans?"

"Do you know what we're talking about?" said Mr. Ratnose.

"I haven't a clue."

His pink ears quivered. "Let's hope you're a better detective than you are a student," he said.

I'll spare you the rest. Let's just say I don't recall much until lunch, which that day was truly memorable—cricket casserole smothered in razzleberry-aphid sauce.

Just as I was mopping up my tray with a slice of mealworm bread, Natalie strolled by.

"Where you been?" I asked.

"I loaned my lunch money to
someone
"—I coughed and looked away—"so I had to go dig up some worms."

Worms.
Yuck. I could never be a bird.

Natalie grinned. "Ready to get down to business, Mr. PI?"

"Ready as a rocket. Let's breeze."

We found Maureen DeBree roaming the playground armed with a light trash bag and a heavy frown. Emerson Hicky's head janitor, she was a lean mongoose with a serious thing for cleanliness. (Some said she had a serious thing for Mr. Clean, too, but that's another story.)

"Well, well, if it ain't the snoopers," said Ms. DeBree. "Hot on the entrail of some bad guy, eh?"

"Um, something like that," I said. "Ms. DeBree, we need your help."

"You and every playground in this school," she rasped. The janitor snagged a soda can and flipped it into the bag tied to her tail.

"We need to sort through the mess from Mr. Ratnose's room," said Natalie. "We're looking for clues."

"Oh, you wanna talk trash," she said. "Right this way."

As we walked, I prayed that she hadn't already emptied her bin into the smelly Dumpster. My hopes were punctured like a new balloon at a kindergartner's birthday bash.

"Dig in," said Maureen DeBree, pointing a fuzzy finger at the steaming heap. "Try that corner. It's fresher."

I held my nose. "Tell me, did you notice anything unusual when you cleaned the classroom?"

Maureen DeBree pulled a Q-tips swab from her utility belt and idly cleaned a furry ear. "Hmm," she said, "not so's I can dismember." She flicked the waxy swab into her trash bag.

"Oh, one thing," she said. "Whoever done it musta been hungry."

"Why's that?" I said.

"They munched a buncha sunflower seeds and left the shells behind. Slobs."

Natalie looked dreamy. I guess she thought seeds were even yummier than worms. But if you ask me, neither one is in the same league as chewy cockroach-nugget ice cream.

We thanked Ms. DeBree. She stalked off in search of evil litter, leaving Natalie and me to our Dumpster diving.

Ten minutes later, we were much stinkier, but still as clueless as when we'd started. We spotted my
classroom's rubbish, all right. But it would've taken Sherlock Holmes to find a clue in it.