The Mystery of Mr. Nice Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Frontispiece

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  Wombat Kisses

  Ground Zero

  Unprincipaled Behavior

  A Chirp Off the Old Block

  Everybody Was Kung-Food Fighting

  Hamster Is as Hamster Does

  Talking Trash with Ms. DeBree

  The Plot Sickens

  Armadillo Dallying

  A Froggy Day

  Like a Bat Out of Jell-O

  Hail, Hail, the Gangster’s Here

  Kitty Cornered

  F Is for Fake

  All Tied Up and No Place to Go

  Cops and Froggers

  Pandemonium at the PTA

  Knuckles’s Sandwich

  Sample Chapter from FAREWELL, MY LUNCHBAG

  Buy the Book

  Look for more mysteries from the Tattered Casebook of Chet Gecko

  Read More from the Chet Gecko Series

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2000 by Bruce Hale

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to [email protected] or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

  www.hmhco.com

  Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Harcourt, Inc., 2000.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Hale, Bruce.

  The mystery of Mr. Nice: from the tattered casebook of Chet Gecko, private eye/Bruce Hale.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  “A Chet Gecko Mystery.”

  Summary: When the principal of his school begins acting nice to him, Chet Gecko realizes that he is an imposter and so sets out to find the real one.

  [1. Geckos—Fiction. 2. Lizards—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H1295My 2000

  [Fic]—dc21 99-50914

  ISBN 978-0-15-202271-6 hardcover

  ISBN 978-0-15-202515-1 paperback

  eISBN 978-0-547-54272-0

  v2.0316

  For my brother, the one and only Matteo Grande

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  Nobody appreciates great artists when they’re still alive.

  Take that Vincent van Gogh guy, for example. He chopped off his ear because nobody liked his art. That must have hurt. Both the lack of respect and the ear chopping, I mean.

  But I know how he felt.

  How do I know? I’m another unsung artist.

  True, most folks know me as the best lizard detective at Emerson Hicky Elementary, but it’s not all knuckles and know-how with Chet Gecko. I’ve also got my artistic side.

  And if it wasn’t for my art, I might never have stumbled over the clue that started me on this case.

  Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to quit detective work and chop off my ear anytime soon. (Geckos don’t have ears.) But I wouldn’t mind a little more respect for my talents.

  After all, who do you think put the art in smart aleck?

  1

  Wombat Kisses

  It was a hot, slow day. History class crept by like a slug on ice. Mr. Ratnose stood at the blackboard, trying to make some history of his own as Most Boring Teacher Ever. Half the class was asleep, and the other half was trying to look like they weren’t.

  Me, I was watching Mr. Ratnose’s long whiskers droop like the seat of a kindergartner’s pj’s.

  Suddenly, inspiration struck.

  I whipped out a sheet of paper and a pen. Behind the cover of my open history book, I began a truly great cartoon. It started with Mr. Ratnose, and for the sake of Art, I made his nose four times the size it usually is.

  And that’s pretty big.

  Then I pooched out his lips. With great detail, I drew in Marge Supial, the school nurse, puckering up for the mother of all kisses.

  Before I’d even finished, I heard a smothered giggle. I glanced over at Bo Newt.

  “Eeew, wombat kisses!” he whispered.

  He giggled some more. Shirley Chameleon scooted her desk closer, trying to see what all the fuss was about.

  “Shhh,” I said. An artist must have silence. I bent to my work. I had just labeled the characters in my latest masterpiece, when IT fell on me.

  The teacher’s shadow.

  “What do you call this?” said Mr. Ratnose.

  “Um . . . art gecko?” I said.

  “And who is that supposed to be?” He pointed a clawed finger at the big-nosed rat.

  Duh. It was obviously him. But I couldn’t say that.

  “Um, it’s an Afro-Cubist rendering of a rare lumpenhuffer in a Post Toasties–influenced style,” I said. That’s the kind of stuff I read in my parents’ art books at home. No fooling.

  “It looks like me kissing a wombat,” said Mr. Ratnose. He bared his long front teeth.

  The kids sitting near me were trying so hard not to crack up, they were snorting like pigs at a mud festival. Bo Newt’s eyes bulged like two pumped-up grapefruit. He clapped a hand over his mouth.

  My lip twitched into a semi-smirk. I couldn’t help it.

  “You think that’s funny?” said Mr. Ratnose.

  “No, I think it’s art,” I said.

  My public agreed. I could tell because smothered laughter was turning their faces as purple as a grape-stomper’s socks.

  Mr. Ratnose frowned. His ears quivered. “Well, I think it’s awful,” he said, grabbing my drawing. “It shows a lack of respect.”

  Everybody’s an art critic.

  Mr. Ratnose scribbled on his pink pad. He tore off the sheet and thrust it at me. Then he ripped my sketch in half.

  Ouch. That hurt. But every great artist suffers insults in his time. I knew that future art lovers would recognize my genius.

  “Chet Gecko,” said Mr. Ratnose, “go straight to the principal’s office, and take this—this thing.” He pointed at my mangled artwork. “Mr. Zero will deal with you!”

  He stalked back to the front of the room, hairless tail dragging behind him.

  I sighed and got up to go. An artist’s life is not an easy one. That’s why I usually stick with detecting. People might make fun of my detective work, but they can’t tear it up.

  As I walked down the aisle, a bird’s voice chirped, “Mr. Ratnose, Chet’s not taking the drawing with him.”

  I glanced over at her. Cassandra the Stool Pigeon. It figured.

  I went back and picked up my drawing, then trudged out the door and down the hall.

  Some days are like that. They begin with a punch to the gut or a mud pie in the kisser. You figure when a day starts like that, things can’t get much worse.

  But then, somehow or other, they do.

  2

  Ground Zero

  Visiting Principal Zero’s office is about as much fun as going to a hungry shark’s birthday party. You never know whether you’re a guest or the dessert.

  Principal Zero and I had tangled in the past. He was the fattest of fat cats with the meanest of tempers. Big Fat Zero, the kids called him—but never to his face.

  Principal Zero was the kind of guy who would stuff your mouth full of tardy slips, then paddle your behind for mumbling. He liked art about as much as Mr. Ratnose did.

  I was doomed.

  As I approached the principal’s office, my heart beat like a hyperactive octopus with a drum set. I wasn’t nervous, exactly. I just liked having some skin left on my tuckus.

  His secretary, a crow na
med Maggie with a voice like sandpaper, sat polishing her beak at her desk. I stopped to talk.

  “Hey, brown eyes,” I said. “How’s tricks?”

  “Stuff the sweet talk,” she said. “You’re in trouble, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Right as rain,” I said. Can’t fool a secretary. “Is your boss in?”

  Maggie ruffled her feathers. “Just your luck; he is.”

  I looked around the waiting room. Strange. Where a line of smart alecks usually sat waiting for justice, empty chairs greeted me.

  Principal Zero must have his punishment on speed dial, I thought.

  “Go right in,” said Maggie.

  That crazy octopus in my chest played another drum solo. This time, he did a rim shot on my stomach.

  I took a deep breath and stepped inside. Behind a broad black desk sat Principal Zero, the source of all discipline at Emerson Hicky Elementary. I knew I was about to get mine.

  Principal Zero’s claws flexed, and his tail twitched. His wide smile was as full of poison as a cobra’s toothbrush. “Yes?” he said.

  I laid my pink slip and torn drawing side by side on his desk. He looked from one to the other. I studied the desktop.

  “Nice artwork, Mr. . . . Gecko,” he said.

  I looked up again.

  Principal Zero was giving himself a dignified tongue bath. “It has a wonderful sense of color, and the style is quite—how should I put this?—quite mature,” he said.

  I blinked. He was serious.

  “Lovely use of dark and light,” said Principal Zero. He picked up the pink slip. “Now, what seems to be the problem?”

  “Well, Mr. Ratnose didn’t . . . um . . . like my drawing.”

  “How strange,” he said. “Perhaps his taste in art is not so refined. I’d love a piece like this for my collection. Could you bear to part with it?”

  That’s when I knew.

  Either my principal had lost his mind, or someone had kidnapped the real Mr. Zero.

  3

  Unprincipaled Behavior

  Surprise froze my tongue like a mayfly on a Popsicle. I couldn’t believe what was happening.

  “So, may I keep this wonderful drawing?” asked Principal Zero again.

  “Uh . . . sure,” I said. “It’s yours.”

  He glanced down at the pink slip.

  “Thank you . . . Chet.” Mr. Zero’s smile was as sincere as a bully’s apology. “Be sure to stop in anytime. I’m always glad to see an artist of your amazing talents.”

  I nodded and stumbled from the room, breathless and bewildered. I shut his door and leaned against it. Maggie Crow was riffling through a file drawer with her beak.

  I cleared my throat. “Notice anything strange about your boss?”

  “No stranger than usual,” she said.

  “But he didn’t punish me.”

  Maggie turned and cocked her head. “Maybe you caught him in a good mood. Don’t push your luck, buddy-boy. Get out while the getting’s good.”

  I beat feet. My mind was racing like a kid after an ice-cream truck. Something truly weird was going on here.

  And I was just the gecko to find out what it was.

  At recess, I plopped down under a scrofulous tree to think. Questions chased each other like third graders playing a game of cooties. I was so distracted, I barely tasted my Pillbug Crunch candy bar.

  If that really was Principal Zero, why was he acting so . . . well, nice? If that wasn’t my principal, who was it, and why was he pretending?

  And what the heck was a hypotenuse, anyway? (I hadn’t read my math homework again.)

  I looked up. Across the playground, Rocky Rhode, the horned toad, was holding a first grader upside down until lunch money rained from his pockets. The old shakedown.

  I shook my head. That sixth-grade troublemaker was guilty of everything from stealing test answers to writing graffiti on a sleeping teacher. She was bad news with a capital B.

  Hmm. Maybe I could try the old shakedown on her. Rocky spent more time in the principal’s office than his secretary did. She might have a clue about why our principal was acting strange.

  I strolled across the grass as Rocky dropped the little shrew on his head. He staggered off, whimpering.

  “Hey, Rocky,” I said.

  She squinted up at me as she collected the fallen coins. “Hello, Gecko,” she sneered. “Looking for trouble?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I’ve got plenty. What I need is answers.”

  “Can you pay?”

  “I might.”

  Rocky looked both ways. No teachers nearby. “Which test did you want the answers to?” she said.

  She dug a fistful of papers from her book bag.

  I snatched one and scooted back. “No test answers for me,” I said. “I want a different kind of answer. And if I don’t get it, I’m going straight to the principal with this.”

  I expected her to take a stab at rearranging my face with her horned fists. I was wrong.

  “Hah!” she laughed. “That’s a good one! Principal Zero would probably give me a gold star.”

  My jaw hung open. “So you’ve noticed that he’s . . . different?”

  Rocky snorted. “Different? He changed like magic.”

  Magic?

  An idea came to me. That happens sometimes.

  “Rocky,” I said, “do you know if Principal Zero has ever been involved with voodoo?”

  “Who do?”

  “No, voodoo.”

  “Zero, voodoo? Sure, I do.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “And the answer is no. But something’s happened to him.”

  I sighed and handed back the test sheet. “Here, I don’t need this.”

  Rocky stuffed it back into her book bag, which was jammed with papers, stolen lunch money, and what looked like a very cramped kindergartner. I shoved my hands in my pockets and turned to go.

  “Hey, Gecko,” said Rocky. “I’ll give you one answer for free. You wanna know how different Zero is?”

  I turned to face her. “Yeah.”

  “Yesterday, Teach sent me to the principal’s office for swiping lunch money from someone’s desk. But all Zero said was, ‘Next time, don’t get caught.’”

  Rocky shrugged a spiky shoulder. “He told me he’d help me practice my technique. Now, that’s what I call a nice principal.”

  Things were worse than I thought. I had to act fast.

  “See ya around, Rocky.” I turned and started across the playground.

  “Hey, answer me something,” Rocky shouted after me. “Why don’t burglars make good actors? . . . Give up? Because they always try to steal the show!”

  I shook my head and walked on.

  She should know better. Comedy and crime just don’t mix.

  4

  A Chirp Off the Old Block

  I walked across the grass, working things over in my mind. My keen detective instincts told me something was seriously screwy.

  A shadow fell across me. I ducked.

  “Hey, Chet!”

  I looked up. It was only Natalie Attired, my partner. She floated down and made a neat two-point landing on a low branch. Mockingbirds have some serious moves.

  “I just heard a great joke,” she said. “What’s the difference between a teacher and a train?”

  “Huh?”

  “A teacher says, ‘Spit out your gum,’ and a train says, ‘Chew, chew, chew.’” She cackled. “Pretty good, eh?”

  “A riot,” I said.

  “What’s the matter, Chet? Got a bug stuck in your craw?”

  “Nope, a mystery.”

  I told her about my strange meeting with Principal Zero and what Rocky had said.

  “Yeah, so?” said Natalie. “Maybe he got a personality transplant—they dumped his, and put in the personality of someone nice.”

  She laughed.

  “You laugh,” I said, “but nobody could change that fast. And even if he could, why
would he start being nice to me? That’s not our principal in there.”

  “So?”

  I paced on the grass. “So, bird-brain, the principal is only the most powerful guy in the school. If someone has kidnapped Mr. Zero and substituted an impostor, that’s scary. Who knows what they might be planning?”

  We both fell silent. Natalie groomed her feathers thoughtfully.

  “But you don’t know for sure that someone switched principals on us,” she said. “He could just be in a good mood.”

  We looked at each other.

  “Nah,” we said together. Mr. Zero hadn’t had a good mood since the Titanic was just a dinghy.

  “I’ve got a nose for danger,” I said, “and I tell you something’s rotten here.”

  “You’ve got a nose for sweet snacks and deep-fried termites,” she said. “But you have been known to sniff out a mystery now and then . . . with my help.”

  “Hah! You’re lucky I let you help. Without me, you’d spend your time counting worms, doing homework—”

  “And getting better grades,” she said. “So, if we’re going to unravel the mystery of Mr. Nice, where do we start?”

  I munched my Pillbug Crunch bar. We chewed over some ideas.

  “We could try following him around,” I said. “He might do something to give himself away.”

  “But how will we get out of class?”

  Oh yeah. Class. It sure got in the way of detective work.

  “I know!” she said. “Let’s search his office. Maybe we can find a clue.”

  “Now you’re talking, tootsie!”

  “‘Tootsie’?”

  “Hey, that’s what they say in detective movies,” I said.

  We needed a plan. After all, Maggie Crow wouldn’t just let us waltz in and search her boss’s office. And Principal Zero (or whoever he was) probably wouldn’t roll out the welcome mat and serve us tea and cookies, either.

  We needed something to get them out of the office for a while. A diversion. Hmmm.