The Malted Falcon Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Frontispiece

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  Fire Drilled

  Croak-and-Dagger

  Strong-armin’ a Marmot

  Let Sleeping Frogs Lie

  Hiccup or Ship Out

  Freddie Nostrils

  It’s All Geek to Me

  Surly in the Morning

  Me and My Shadows

  Dustup with a Dunderhead

  Out of the Frying Pan, into the Liar

  Skip to My Loser

  Never Been Tryst

  Ticket or Leave It

  Tea for Tuatara

  Big Business

  Bird to the Wise

  Sample Chapter from TROUBLE IS MY BEESWAX

  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 © 2003 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., 2003.

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

  Hale, Bruce.

  The malted falcon: from the tattered casebook

  of Chet Gecko, private eye/by Bruce Hale.

  p. cm.

  “A Chet Gecko Mystery.”

  Summary: Chet Gecko and his partner Natalie try to find a missing valentine and the winning ticket to a fantastic dessert.

  [1. Geckos—Fiction. 2. Animals—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Valentines—Fiction. 5. Desserts—Fiction. 6. Humorous stories. 7. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title. II. Series: Hale, Bruce. Chet Gecko mystery.

  PZ7.H1295Mal 2003

  [Fic]—dc21 2002011593

  ISBN 978-0-15-216706-6 hardcover

  ISBN 978-0-15-216712-7 paperback

  eISBN 978-0-547-54184-6

  v2.0216

  To my cool cousins, the Gibbs kids

  A private message from the private eye . . .

  I love a mystery—any kind of mystery. Like, if the plural of tooth is teeth, why isn’t the plural of booth beeth? If ignorance is bliss, why aren’t more folks happy? And, if you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, why can’t you pick your friend’s nose?

  Naturally, you’d expect an appetite for mystery in a private eye. That’s me—Chet Gecko, finest lizard detective at Emerson Hicky Elementary. (Of course, that’s just my opinion, but it’s one I value very highly.)

  The only thing I like (almost) as much as mysteries is sweets. Millipede marshmallow bars, fungus-weevil milk shakes, and vanilla Earwig Supreme send me every time. My idea of a balanced diet is a cookie in each hand.

  So you’d think that a case involving sweet treats would make me as happy as a dung beetle in dinosaur poop. But you’d be wrong.

  When the ooey-gooey hand of Fate dropped this one case in my lap, it was all I could do to stomach it. My investigation revealed that not all dames are made of sugar and spice and everything nice. And that, given the right motivation, some kids are capable of anything.

  But in the end, I didn’t let it put me off my appetite. After all, whoever said you can’t have your case and eat it, too, never met Chet Gecko.

  1

  Fire Drilled

  When my morning began with a lumpy bully, a fire drill, a mysterious stranger, and a cootie attack—all by recess—I knew it would be one of those days. A day when you wish you’d strangled your alarm clock. A day when you wish you’d perfected that fake cough and stayed home sick.

  Unless you’re a detective, that is. We eat trouble for breakfast, with a side order of danger, hold the mayo.

  The whole thing started with the plop of a pop quiz onto my desk.

  Mr. Ratnose’s quizzes are scarier than a broccoli-and-liverwurst smoothie. Especially when you haven’t done the homework.

  I stared at the sheet. The questions made about as much sense as training wheels on a Tyrannosaurus rex. Cold sweat trickled down my cheek.

  Only one thing could save me. . . .

  Ring-ah, ring-ah, ring-ah!

  The fire bell.

  A smile curled my lips. Saved by the drill.

  Mr. Ratnose’s pointy kisser wore a puzzled frown, but he gave us our marching orders.

  “Single file, everyone,” he said. “Line up.”

  We formed a line and trooped out the door. Just my luck, Shirley Chameleon cut right in front of me.

  “Oh, hi, Chet,” she said, as we walked down the hall.

  “Shirley.”

  She had big green peepers and a long, curled tail. If I went for dames, I might have thought she was pretty cute.

  But this gecko doesn’t go for dames.

  “It’s . . . um, would you . . . er,” Shirley mumbled.

  “Spit it out, sister,” I said.

  She turned a delicate pink. “Would you be my valentine?” asked Shirley.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Really?” she said.

  “Yup,” I said. “When monkeys fly out of my nostrils.”

  Shirley’s face fell like a kindergartner’s home-baked cake. “Chet Gecko, you are so mean!” She rushed off, taking her cooties with her.

  I sighed.

  Just ahead of me, Bitty Chu, a goody-good gopher, turned in place. She gave me a dirty look.

  I gave her a dirtier one. She turned back around. What makes dames so ding-y around Valentine’s Day?

  By this time, we had reached the playground. Lines of kids covered the grass like army-ant sauce on a sundae. Natalie’s class stood by ours, but my mockingbird pal was out of earshot.

  Teachers huddled at the front of the line, swapping complaints. We weren’t going anywhere, so I checked out Natalie’s class.

  Like my own, it was packed with mugs, mopes, and misfits. I recognized Wyatt Burp, a bullfrog who could belch like an opera star, and Paige Turner, a spoiled titmouse in a cashmere sweater.

  Paige waved at Bitty Chu. They stepped across the gap between the lines and began whispering. All I caught was something about a “moldy falcon.”

  Secrets fascinate me. I drifted toward the gossiping pair. Then I bumped into what felt like a tree trunk.

  “Hey!” said the tree. I glanced up. A tall, spiky reptile with enough peaks on his back for a small mountain range was glaring down at me.

  “I’m allergic to hay,” I said. “Can we make it clover?” (Not one of my best quips, but why waste the good stuff on a stranger?)

  “You bumped me, mate,” he rumbled. “Apologize.”

  “All right. Sorry you got in my way.”

  The lumpy-looking mug snarled. “Wise guy, eh?”

  I smirked. “Not really. I’m a C-plus student.”

  “I oughta teach you a lesson,” he said, clenching his fists. The big guy eyeballed Paige and Bitty, who’d turned to watch.

  “Fine.” I put my hands on my hips. “You can start by teaching me what kind of wacko reptile you are.”

  The creature’s eyes narrowed. The spikes on his head got spikier.

  “What dipstick doesn’t know a tuatara when he sees one?” he said.

  I drew myself up. “The kind who’s never seen a too-ra-loo-ra before, that’s who. Dipstick yourself.”

  We stood toe-to-toe, locked in a sneer-a-thon.

  Soft wing tips br
ushed my arm. “Chet?”

  It was my partner, Natalie Attired. A mockingbird with impeccable fashion sense, she was sharper than a vice principal’s tongue. Just then, she wore a worried frown across her beak.

  When she tugged, I stepped back.

  “Ah, you’ve met our exchange student,” she said. “Little Gino, Chet Gecko.”

  The tuatara bared his teeth. “And he’ll be flat gecko if he keeps buggin’ me.”

  Before I could make a snappy comeback, the school bell rang all clear.

  “Come along, class,” called Mr. Ratnose. “Let’s move out.”

  I nodded at Little Gino.

  “Next time, mate,” he said with a sneer.

  “Promise?” I asked.

  As I turned to march back to the room, I reflected. It’s a good thing I don’t have much to do with Natalie’s class, I thought. You couldn’t pay me to hang out with those weirdos.

  But just like the kid who took a pop quiz blindfolded, little did I know how wrong I was.

  2

  Croak-and-Dagger

  After the morning’s excitement, recess was as welcome as a Pillbug Crunch bar in a bag of celery sticks. I made tracks for the playground.

  The swings were swamped, and Natalie was elsewhere, so I settled for a game of catch with Bo Newt.

  We fell into an easy rhythm: toss, run after the ball; toss, catch; toss, run after the ball. I was fetching one of Bo’s wilder throws from the krangleberry trees, when something went . . .

  “Pssst!”

  “Really, Bo!” I said. “Beans for breakfast?”

  “What?” called my salamander buddy.

  Hmm. He hadn’t made the sound.

  “Pssst!”

  I looked down at the ball. Could a softball spring a leak?

  “Hey,” came a whisper. “Over here.”

  Oh. Behind a bush, a shadowy figure lurked.

  I stepped closer.

  “Close enough,” it whispered.

  Peering through the branches, I could just make out a frog in a floppy hat and sunglasses.

  “Okay,” I said. “Why the pssst?”

  “I need to talk,” the frog whispered.

  “So talk.”

  “With you. Alone.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. Bo was waiting. I checked out the stranger, who had sounded suspiciously like a girl.

  “Come on, Chet,” said Bo. “What’s the holdup?”

  “How do I know this isn’t some kind of Valentine’s trick?” I asked the frog.

  It shifted impatiently. “You don’t. But I want to hire you.”

  I hesitated.

  “For double your usual fee,” said the amphibian.

  I picked up the ball and tossed it to Bo. For double my fee, I’d risk the cooties.

  “See ya later,” I said to my pal. “Duty calls.”

  As I plunged into the bushes, Bo shouted, “Hey, Chet. If you gotta do your duty, why not use the bathroom?”

  The frog led me to the prickly heart of the thicket. Thorns scratched my legs. Branches slapped my face. The smell of overripe krangleberries—a cross between grandma’s perfume and wet doggie odor—filled my nose.

  At last, Secret Frog and I crouched face-to-face.

  “Why all the croak-and-dagger stuff?” I asked.

  The frog tugged the hat lower on her head (and it was a her). She briefly lowered her shades. Her eyes shone large and luminous.

  “I’m in danger,” she said huskily. “If a certain someone saw me talking to you, I—I don’t know what would happen.”

  “What kind of trouble are you in?”

  The frog’s webbed foot grabbed a branch for support. “Sister trouble.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe I should explain,” she said.

  “Naw. I love talking in circles.”

  She offered a shy smile. “I’m Dot,” she said. “Dot Maytricks.”

  “Chet Gecko,” I said. “But you knew that.”

  “Chet, my sister is the one with the problem.”

  Seemed to me, Dot had a problem, too: getting to the point.

  “And her problem is . . . ?” I asked.

  Dot’s wide mouth drew tight. “It’s embarrassing,” she said.

  “So are my math grades, but you don’t see me crying.” I shifted my feet for comfort. “Look, I graduate in a couple of years. Are you gonna spill, or what?”

  The frog looked down, took a quick breath, and spilled her guts.

  “My sister, Courtney, is in love.”

  Yuck. I knew this case had something to do with cooties.

  “Bully for her,” I said.

  “The problem is,” said Dot, “she’s in love with the wrong kind of guy.”

  “What, a teacher?”

  She shook her head. “Worse. A roughneck.”

  I took a shot in the dark. “And you’re sweet on the same roughneck? Hey, I’m not Dear Scabby. I don’t do love advice.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “Please,” she said. “I’m not in love with him. Courtney gave him a valentine and I want it back.”

  “For the chocolate?”

  “No, to save her reputation.”

  My legs were starting to cramp from crouching. Any more of this, and I’d walk like a duck the rest of my life.

  “Did you ask him nicely?” I said.

  “Pretty please with sugar on top,” she said.

  “And?”

  “No luck.”

  I tried to straighten and bonked into a branch.

  “What do you—ow!—want me to do, get it back?”

  “Would you?” she said. Dot rested her hand on my arm. “I’m sure if someone strong like you tells him to, he’ll give it up.”

  I plucked her hand off. “It’s worth a try,” I said. “Who’s the mug?”

  “A fifth grader. Bert Umber.”

  “Sounds like a colorful character.”

  “You could say that.”

  “I just did. Slip me four quarters, sister, and Chet Gecko is on the case!”

  Dot rummaged in her bag. She dropped the silver into my palm. Then she gave me the lowdown on Bert Umber—his habits, his haunts, and his weaknesses (which were few).

  “Now, can we leave these bushes before I start sprouting berries?” I said.

  She held up a webbed hand. “Wait!”

  “What?”

  “We can’t leave together; Bert might see.”

  I nodded. “Good thinking. I’ll go first.”

  “Chet!” said Dot. “I thought you were a gentle-lizard.”

  “Who told you that?”

  She lowered her shades enough to bat her big reddish peepers at me.

  “All right, all right,” I said. “Froggies first.”

  Dot crept through the bushes. I waited a bit, then followed.

  By the time I stepped out of the greenery, Natalie was waiting. “Hey, Chet,” she said. “Here’s a joke for you: How do crazy people go through the forest?”

  I looked at her. Nothing short of burning tail feathers could stop Natalie from delivering her punch line. I shrugged.

  “They take the psycho path!” she squawked.

  I rolled my eyes and brushed leaves from my coat.

  “So, what’s with all the bushwhacking?” she asked. “You beating the bushes for clients?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Just leaf it to me.”

  She winced. “Wood you knock it off? Tell me: Any luck?”

  I couldn’t think of any more shrubbery puns, so I jingled the coins in my fist.

  “Twice our fee for half the work,” I said. I pointed to Dot’s retreating figure. “And that’s our client.”

  Natalie watched the frog and frowned. “Hmm. She looks sorta familiar.”

  “You know her?”

  “Hard to tell,” said Natalie. “All you reptiles look alike to me.”

  “She’s amphibian.”

  Natalie shook her head. “Amphibian, vegetarian . . . doesn’t matter
what she eats. I can’t tell her from the next green-skinned critter.”

  I marveled at my mockingbird partner. They say a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, but they never say what the heck you’re gonna do with a bird in your hand.

  3

  Strong-armin’ a Marmot

  Lunchtime may not come before detection in the dictionary, but it does in my book. I put our new case on ice until I’d sampled the cafeteria’s delights. (The boll-weevil crumb cake was especially tasty.)

  Fed, full, and fit as a fiddle, I dropped the lunch tray on the dirty stack. My hat was stained, my T-shirt was ripe, my coat was rumpled. I was everything the grade-school private eye should be.

  And I didn’t care who knew it.

  Natalie and I were headed for a showdown with Bert Umber.

  But first, we needed some backup. You know the old saying: Better to be safe than . . . smooshed by a fifth grader. (Or something like that.)

  Tony and Bo Newt were tussling behind the library with a massive badger from the football team. Bo ducked under the badger’s swing.

  “We’re going to talk some sense into a fifth grader,” said Natalie. “Want to help?”

  Tony tripped the football player, and Bo bounced off the guy’s belly like it was a fuzzy trampoline. “Count us in,” he said.

  According to Dot, Bert Umber usually played basketball at lunch. On the way to the courts, I laid out our strategy.

  “Remember,” I said. “Don’t start anything unless he won’t listen to reason.”

  “Got it,” said Tony.

  We reached the basketball courts. Sweaty kids crowded the asphalt, throwing elbows, taking wild shots, and shaking up their lunch. Everyone looked bigger than me.

  “How do we tell which one’s Bert?” asked Natalie.

  I turned to a sleepy-looking rabbit lounging on the grass.

  “’Scuse me, bub,” I said. “Where’s Bert Umber?”

  “Hah?” he asked. “Burp Dumper?”

  “Bert Umber!” I repeated, louder.

  “Ya?” a deep voice rumbled behind me. “Who vants him?”

  Checking over one shoulder, I found myself eye to eye with a furry elbow. Up, up, up I looked. He was a slick marmot with the usual assortment of muscles under a glossy blond pelt.