The Hamster of the Baskervilles Read online

  The Hamster of the Baskervilles

  Bruce Hale

  * * *

  HARCOURT, INC.

  Orlando • Austin • New York • San Diego • Toronto • London

  * * *

  Copyright © 2002 by Bruce Hale

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

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  or any information storage and retrieval system, without

  permission in writing from the publisher.

  Requests for permission to make copies of any part of the

  work should be mailed to the following address:

  Permissions Department, Harcourt, Inc.,

  6277 Sea Harbor Drive, Orlando, Florida 32887-6777.

  www.HarcourtBooks.com

  First Harcourt paperback edition 2003

  First published 2002

  The Library of Congress has cataloged

  the hardcover edition as follows:

  Hale, Bruce.

  The hamster of the Baskervilles: from the tattered

  casebook of Chet Gecko, private eye/Bruce Hale,

  p. cm.

  "A Chet Gecko Mystery."

  Summary: Something is trashing the classrooms at

  Emerson Hicky Elementary School, and fourth-grade

  private eye Chet Gecko sets out to find the creature

  that's responsible.

  [1. Geckos—Fiction. 2. Animals—Fiction.

  3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Mystery and detective stories.

  5. Humorous stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H1295Ham 2002

  [Fic]—dc21 2001003845

  ISBN 0-15-202503-0

  ISBN 0-15-202509-X pb

  Text set in Bembo

  Display type set in Elroy

  Designed by Ivan Holmes

  E G H F

  Printed in the United States of America

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  This one's for Ma Hale

  * * *

  * * *

  A private message from the private eye...

  Science. Ben Franklin couldn't juice it up, Madame Curie couldn't cure it, so let's tell the truth: Science is a snooze. In fact, the only science I like is the sweet science of detection.

  Detection is my business. But you probably guessed that, if you know I'm Chet Gecko—the best lizard detective at Emerson Hicky Elementary. Unfortunately, my school doesn't give classes in private eyeing.

  But it does have science—five days a week. Yuck.

  What I know about science, you could just about fit into the Grand Canyon (and still have enough room left over for the entire population of China, a medium-sized brontosaurus, and a tuba).

  Despite his best efforts, here's all I've learned from Mr. Ratnose's class:

  —Some people can tell what time it is by looking at the sun, but I've never been able to make out the numbers.

  —Rain is saved up in cloud banks.

  —And germs come from Germany, while viruses come from Vireland.

  But all my fourth-grade education couldn't prepare me for one case that started with science and headed off into the supernatural. Normally, I don't believe in that stuff My idea of voodoo is Mom's mosquito-swirl ice-cream sundaes.

  But when you're face-to-face with something from a late-night movie and you can't change the channel, you've got to ask yourself the important question: If it doesn't act super and it doesn't look natural, why do they call it supernatural?

  1. A Heck of a Wreck

  Some Mondays drag in like a wet dog, dripping puddles of gloom and trailing a funky stink. (Actually, at my school most Mondays are like that.)

  But this Monday opened with a bang, like a fat frog fired from a circus cannon. And, like that frog, it turned into an ugly mess quicker than you can say ribbet-ribbet-splat.

  No clue tipped me off as I trotted through the gates of Emerson Hicky Elementary mere minutes before the morning bell. One more tardy slip and I'd win a one-way trip to detention with the Beast of Room 3—not my idea of a dream vacation.

  I dodged and darted down the halls past other stragglers, trying to beat the clock.

  A sleepy second grader wandered into my path. Dazed as a meerkat on a merry-go-round, she stumbled along toward her classroom.

  Za-yoomp!

  I planted my hands on her shoulders and vaulted over the little shrew easy as slurping a gypsy-moth milk shake. My feet pounded onward.

  Rounding the last corner, I was running full tilt—only seconds to go!

  Old Man Ratnose's classroom loomed ahead. I bounced off the bright-orange door and skidded for my seat just as the bell went rrriinnnng!

  And I would've made it, too, if not for Bitty Chu, the gopher.

  Whomp!

  Like a crazy cue ball, I hit her at top speed, ricocheted into Waldo the furball, and sprawled across Shirley Chameleon's desk. Private eye in the corner pocket.

  Shirley blinked down at me with one eye, while the other scanned the room. Chameleons—what you gonna do? I saluted her.

  "Hey, green eyes," I said suavely, "did you get the answer to that second homework problem?"

  Shirley snorted and tossed her head.

  "What's up, buttercup?" I said. "You've gone all yellow around the edges."

  And she had. One thing about chameleons, there's never a dull-colored moment.

  "Use your private eye, wise guy," she said.

  Since when would Shirley skip a chance to flirt like the cootie machine she was? Something was rotten in the state of Ratnose.

  I raised my head and checked out my fourth-grade classroom.

  My jaw dropped. I didn't pick it up.

  Mr. Ratnose's room was a mess. No—more than a mess, it was the Cadillac of cruddiness, the Titanic of trash, the Grand Canyon of chaos. If that mess were a monument, it'd be the Statue of Litterty.

  Desks lay tumbled around the room like blocks in a cranky preschooler's playpen. Half-eaten papers covered the floor. Deep gashes raked the walls. A handful of seeds was scattered by the door. The seeds of destruction, maybe?

  Most of my classmates stood gaping, saucer-eyed in amazement.

  Bitty Chu tearfully fingered a wad of shredded paper. "Somebody's been munching on my math quiz."

  Waldo the furball ran a finger along his toppled chair. "Somebody's been slobbering on my seat."

  I noticed a jagged cut on the wall had mutilated my latest masterpiece, a safety poster. Somebody'd

  been slashing up my artwork—and I guessed it wasn't Goldilocks.

  What twisted hoodlum was responsible?

  Mr. Ratnose stood knee-deep in the mess. His eyes were round as doughnuts, with a dollop of bitter chocolate in the middle. He sputtered like a deranged sprinkler head. Finally he choked out, "Who ... is ... responsible ... for this?"

  Nobody moved, nobody spoke.

  "Who wrecked my classroom?" he asked.

  Bo Newt nudged me. "Whoever it was, he had monster feet," he whispered. "I'd hate to have to shop for his tennies."

  I looked at the muddy footprints. Bo was right. Whoever had made those tracks would wear shoes big enough for the football team to float down-stream in.

  "Who spoke?" said Mr. Ratnose. "Chet Gecko? Do you know something?"

  With you as a teacher? ran through my mind. But for once, I passed up an easy joke. "No, Mr. Ratnose."

  I tried to rise up on my elbows and tumbled off the desk. Retrieving my hat (and my body) from the floor, I got to my feet.

  Mr. Ratnose's whiskers quivered like an overstrung banjo. He paced up the aisle to me, wringing his paws. "You're some kind of detect
ive," he muttered. "Can't you find out who did this?"

  I tilted my hat back and gazed up at him. "I'm some kind of detective, all right—the kind that likes to get paid. If I track down this goon, what's in it for me? Can I get out of doing my science project?"

  "No," said Mr. Ratnose.

  "Can I get free lunches for a month?"

  "Not likely," said Mr. Ratnose.

  "Can I—"

  "How about two get-out-of-detention-free cards and a box of jelly doughnuts?"

  "Done," I said. "Mr. Ratnose, I'm your gecko."

  2. Intestines and Questions

  We hit the cafeteria to watch a science film while Maureen DeBree and her janitors tidied up the mess in our room. My class flopped down at the scarred brown tables and stared blankly at the silver screen.

  The movie was a classic: The Splendor of Your Lower Intestines. But I'd seen it before. After a few minutes, I sidled up to Mr. Ratnose, who was standing in the back, nibbling on an earwig eclair.

  He bared his front teeth and put the pastry box behind his back. "Nothing for you until you catch that vandal," he said. My teacher, the mind reader.

  "You insult me," I said.

  "Not often enough," he replied.

  I leaned back on my tail and crossed my arms. "Hey, we could sit here and swap insults all day. But if I'm gonna catch that hoodlum, I need a lead. Tell me..."

  "Fire away," he said.

  "Got any enemies at school?"

  Mr. Ratnose's ears twitched. "Enemies—me? I'm a model teacher."

  Yeah, I thought, a model of Attila the Hun. But I didn't say it.

  Instead I asked, "Any former students who might hold a grudge?"

  Mr. Ratnose stroked his whiskers. "Can't think of any," he said. "All my students love and respect me."

  Boy, was he dreaming.

  "Oh, wait," said Mr. Ratnose. He scratched a pink ear. "A few years back, I did flunk Erik Nidd. He wasn't too pleased, I recall."

  "That's a long wait for a guy with a short memory. Anything else?"

  He shook his head. "It must've been a bunch of hepped-up juvenile delinquents."

  "I'll check it out," I said. "Do you—"

  "Aren't you going to write all this down?" said Mr. Ratnose.

  "No need." I tapped my head. "Photographic memory."

  Mr. Ratnose raised an eyebrow. "Must've run out of film in math class," he drawled.

  I coughed. This interview was going nowhere faster than a coyote in concrete booties. Time for one last question. "Who else has keys to your room, other than the janitors?"

  "Oh, let's see," he said. "There's Principal Zero and the assistant principal. But that won't help."

  I frowned. "Why not?"

  "The door wasn't unlocked—it was ripped open."

  "What?"

  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.

  3. Meanwhile, Back at Tarantula

  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?"