Dial M for Mongoose Read online

  Dial M For Mongoose

  Bruce Hale

  * * *

  HARCOURT

  HOUGHTON MIFFLIN HARCOURT

  Boston • New York • 2009

  * * *

  Copyright © 2009 by Bruce Hale

  All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce

  selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin

  Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York,

  New York 10003.

  Harcourt is an imprint of

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.hmhbooks.com

  Text set in Bembo

  Display type set in Elroy

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hale, Bruce.

  Dial M for mongoose / by Bruce Hale.

  p. cm.—(A Chet Gecko mystery)

  Summary: Fourth-grade detective Chet Gecko and his

  associate Natalie Attired investigate a series of mishaps that

  all seem to point to the school janitor.

  [1. Geckos—Fiction. 2. Animals—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4.

  Janitors—Fiction. 5. Humorous stories. 6. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H1295Di 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  ISBN 978-0-15-205494-6

  2009008398

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  MP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  * * *

  To MJ Wong, a true-blue Gecko supporter.

  * * *

  * * *

  A private message from the private eye...

  I wonder about things. Like, if corn oil comes from corn, where does baby oil come from? If people from Poland are called Poles, why aren't people from Holland called Holes? And why is it that writers write, but fingers don't fing?

  That's what detectives do. We wonder. (Others wonder how I manage to stay in school, but that's a subject for another time.) I'm Chet Gecko, finest lizard detective at Emerson Hicky Elementary and two-time former yo-yo champion.

  Mr. Ratnose wishes I was even half as curious about schoolwork as I am about my cases. But you can't have everything. (And if you could, where would you put it?)

  Lately, I've been wondering more than usual. Especially about this: How well do you really know the folks you know?

  My investigations often show me the seamy underbelly of school life, but this case threw me for a loop. Folks I thought were the salt of the earth turned out to be the scum of the pond. And low-down punks turned out to be nice guys.

  It's enough to make a gecko give up detecting and start knitting doilies. (Just kidding. I can't knit.)

  But it took everything I had to tough out this case. Through fear and fire and thefts, I kept digging for the truth like a mole tunneling to Mumbai.

  And why? Loyalty, pure and simple.

  Someone was trying to put my mongoose janitor pal Maureen DeBree on ice. And a true-blue PI doesn't take that kind of monkey business lying down. (Standing up, maybe.)

  Against all odds, I followed the tangled trail of clues to a conclusion that was nuttier than a squirrel's sundae and riskier than a playdate in a piranha's swimming pool.

  But in the course of my investigation, one thing rang true: When you want your floors waxed, dial M for mongoose. But when you want danger, deception, and mysteries unraveled, dial G for Gecko.

  1. The Big Stink

  You can't avoid it. No matter what, at some point in every school day, during that long, long stretch between lunch and freedom, time stands still. The great wheel grinds to a halt, the universe holds its breath, and the birds forget to sing.

  Everything stops.

  Except Mr. Ratnose's mouth.

  That drones on and on and on, explaining the layers of the earth's crust, the eight parts of a plant, the ten types of clouds, the workings of friction, the wonders of the water cycle, the principle of gravity, and the true, exact meaning of the phrase, "bored out of your ever-lovin' skull."

  This stretch of frozen time is also known as "science lesson."

  Nothing against science, but I'd rather investigate the mysteries of a case than the mysteries of molecules any day.

  Halfway through this one particular science lesson, I glanced at the clock. Sure enough, the minute hand hadn't budged for at least an Ice Age.

  Would this day never end?

  Then, from the nonstop blah-blah-blah at the front of the room, two words penetrated. The sound of my name.

  "Chet Gecko?" said Mr. Ratnose. "That's the twelfth time you've checked the clock in the last minute. Is there somewhere else you'd rather be?"

  Such an easy straight line.

  I muttered, "Um, at the dentist, running from rhinos, shopping for underwear ... Did you want the full list?"

  Mr. Ratnose scowled. His response felt like an old line from an even older movie. "Go to the attitude adjustment corner," he said wearily. "Maybe that will teach you some manners."

  "Maybe," muttered my friend Bo Newt, "but I doubt it."

  "How's that?" said Mr. Ratnose.

  I sighed. "Uh, I said I'm on it." Past the desks of stupefied students I shuffled, back to the dusty corner and its pink plastic chair.

  "You'd better be, mister," said Mr. Ratnose. "Parents Night is Friday, and I'm telling your parents everything." But even his warning had a kind of been-there, done-that feel to it.

  I slumped into the chair, facing a poster of Rodney Rodent in a rocket that read YOUR ATTITUDE DETERMINES YOUR ALTITUDE.

  If Rodney was right, I was on the fast track to Lower Nowheresville. I hadn't had a new case in weeks, my wallet was flatter than a tapeworm's tummy—heck, I even had time to do all my homework. (Not that I actually did it.)

  If this kept up, I'd turn from Chet Gecko, Private Eye, to Chet Gecko, Regular Guy. I was hungry for something, anything, to break the boredom.

  But I wasn't ready for the Big Stink.

  I sat quietly, practicing my thumb twiddling—forward twiddle, reverse twiddle, fast, medium, and slow—when the whiff of a funky stench tickled my nose. Craning my neck, I searched for a culprit in the back row.

  No shifting in seats. No telltale fake innocence. All my classmates looked like bored little angels.

  The stench grew stronger. I fanned the air in front of my face. "Whew."

  A giggle erupted from somewhere close at hand.

  "He who smelt it, dealt it," whispered Rick Shaw, a nerdy hedgehog.

  The giggling grew louder. Now several of the back-row kids had turned around to stare and point.

  I shook my head. "Wasn't me."

  "Sure," said Rick. "We believe you."

  Then the funky stench cranked up another couple of notches, from cheese-cutting to paint-peeling. It seemed like it was coming from the direction of the wall. Poor wall.

  "Oh, man." I stood and backed away.

  Mr. Ratnose's lecture droned on. But by this time, the odor had tiptoed on its little stink-footed feet throughout the class. More and more kids were turning and searching for its source.

  Finally, even Mr. Ratnose noticed me. "Chet Gecko, why did you leave your seat?"

  "Smells like he blasted himself out of it," said Waldo the furball. "Hur, hur."

  "It wasn't me!" I repeated.

  Now the class laughed uncontrollably. Some of the nearer kids got up and scooted back.

  Mr. Ratnose put a fist on his hip. "Settle down, class."

  I covered my nose. "I think it's coming from over near the vent."

  "What is?" Mr. Ratnose asked. Then the stench wave hit him. "Oh. Sweet Norwegian pie! What is that?"

  Somewhere along in here, the class finally realized this stench w
as way beyond anything one kid could have caused. More and more of my classmates were on their feet, moving back from the heating vent.

  I joined them.

  "Oh, baby," cried Bo Newt.

  "That stinks!" said Shirley Chameleon.

  "Hoo-eee!" said Waldo.

  How can I describe the intense odor? It was the pharaoh of funkiness, the sheik of stenchiness, the grand high pooh-bah of putrid. In the ranks of rank smells, it would be head honcho of the whole dang enchilada.

  And all I wanted was to leave it behind. (No pun intended.) Luckily, Mr. Ratnose agreed.

  "Class!" He coughed and waved his hand. "Out—kaff kaff!—side!"

  We were way ahead of him. By the time he finished speaking, everyone had jammed into line and was pushing through the doorway. Out in the hall, other classes milled around, eyes watering, noses covered.

  It wasn't just our stink. Every classroom in the school was emptying out.

  "Terrible!" cried Bitty Chu, teacher's pet. "Think of all the class time we're missing." She held her nose.

  "Wonderful," I said, breathing deeply. "A fresh mystery—koff!—at last."

  2. The Mark of Zero

  I was champing at the bit to start investigating the Big Stink. But Mr. Ratnose had other ideas.

  "Everyone stick together," he said. "To the playground!"

  Other teachers must have had the same thought. We all tramped out onto the grass in cheerful, well-organized chaos, like an anthill on a field trip.

  I took advantage of the confusion to locate my partner, Natalie Attired.

  Along with the rest of her class, she was following her teacher, a tough turtle named Ms. Amanda Reckonwith.

  "What's the word, mockingbird?" I called.

  She turned and raised an eyebrow. "You mean, what's the stink, rat fink?"

  "Exactly," I said."That's what I want to know."

  Natalie was a sharp-looking mockingbird with an even sharper tongue. Some say she put the smart in smart aleck. I'd go a step further. With her common sense and puzzle-solving skills, I'd say she put the wise in wisecracker.

  "This smell reminds me of something," she said. "Something that's brown and sounds like a bell."

  "What's that?" I asked.

  "Dung!" She cackled.

  Cancel that wise comment.

  Taking her by a wing, I said, "Let's go find Principal Zero."

  She planted her feet and stared at me like someone who had just brought a bug-eyed alien to the Spring Fair. "You're actually looking for trouble?"

  "No, for a case. Maybe he'll hire us to find out who stinkbombed the school."

  "Class," barked Ms. Reckonwith. "No talking!"

  When she cracked the whip, the students clammed up in a hummingbird's heartbeat.

  Natalie glanced at her teacher. "Maybe later," she whispered.

  I shoved off. My class was still milling about. Time to make my move.

  Mr. Zero stood at the edge of the grass, talking with two teachers. He was a hefty pussycat with a wacky taste in ties and a reputation for chewing out his students' patooties like so many packs of bubble gum.

  His reputation was well deserved.

  "Heya, boss man," I said. "How's tricks?"

  His amber eyes frisked me, while his tail lashed gently from side to side. "Gecko," said Mr. Zero. Somehow, coming from his mouth, it sounded more like "Yuck-o."

  "Need some help getting to the bottom of this stench?" I asked.

  "When I need help, I'll ask for it," he rumbled. "And not from some fourth-grade, two-bit gumshoe."

  I put a hand to my chest. "That smarts, chief. After all we've been through? At least give me a shot at it."

  The corner of his mouth lifted, revealing an ivory fang. "As it happens, Ms. Shrewer is already on the job. And here she comes now."

  Vice Principal Shrewer trudged up the hallway, taking off a gas mask. She was a hard-bitten shrew with an expression as sour as stinkbug-and-vinegar yogurt.

  "Well?" said the big cat. "What was it?"

  "Carelessness, pure and simple," said Ms. Shrewer.

  "How do you mean?" I asked.

  Both administrators turned to eyeball me. "Is this any of your business?" said Mr. Zero.

  "No," I said."But a gecko could make it his business."

  The principal pointed a sharp claw. "A gecko could also go out of business."

  I shrugged. "There's no business like ... no business."

  They resumed their conversation.

  "Anyway, I searched the boiler room and found a jumbo jar of ammonia by the heating vent," said the shrew.

  "Ammonia?" I said. "But—"

  A look from Mr. Zero silenced me. "Ammonia alone wouldn't cause that smell," he said.

  "No," Ms. Shrewer agreed. "But it looked like someone had accidentally dropped some match heads into the jar. That's what caused the odor."

  Match heads in ammonia? A classic stinkbomb. That wasn't an accident; that was planned.

  Mr. Zero stroked his whiskers. "Any idea which someone is responsible?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" said the shrew. "Who else uses ammonia around here? Maureen DeBree."

  "Ms.DeBree?" I said. "But she'd never—"

  "Gecko," Principal Zero snapped. "Zip it and ship it."

  I bit my lip. Something was rotten, and it wasn't just the funky smells drifting across campus. I wanted to snoop some more, but the big cat had spoken.

  "Later, administrator," I said.

  Mr. Zero growled, deep in his throat.

  "I mean, administrator, sir." I beat a hasty retreat.

  As I headed across the playground, thoughts chased through my head like overheated penguins after an ice-cream truck.

  Maureen DeBree was our neat-freak janitor, a big-hearted mongoose with a thing for Mr. Clean. She'd helped me out of many a jam—like the time she'd saved me from a pair of king cobras who had a serious attitude problem.

  I knew our janitor. And I knew that she'd be more likely to fly off to Neptune with a nene goose than to set off a stinkbomb.

  As I rejoined my class, Ms. DeBree reached Principal Zero's side. Even a blind gecko could tell he was giving her a tongue-lashing for the ages.

  The mongoose protested. She waved her hands about, and her face looked like Hurricane Agnes on a bad day.

  Clearly, Ms. DeBree hadn't done the deed. But who had? And why?

  After all the times the janitor had saved my bacon, my mission was clear. It was time for me to return the favor.

  Later, I'd wish that I'd thought twice before jumping into Ms. DeBree's mess.

  But later, of course, would be too late.

  3. Loosey Mongoosey

  The rest of that day's lessons were as pointless as a plucked porcupine. We camped on the grass and pretended to pay attention, while the janitor and her assistant rounded up enough electric fans to de-stinkify the vents and the classrooms.

  By the time they'd finished, school had ended.

  Natalie and I hung around until our fellow students cleared out, then we hoofed it over to Maureen DeBree's office.

  Banging and rattling echoed from halfway down the hall. It grew louder as we approached her room.

  Was the janitor in trouble?

  "Marggin' argle barg snarfn bargin'!" Someone inside was cursing a blue streak. (Either that, or they were speaking Lithuanian backwards.)

  Natalie and I burst through the open doorway.

  "Are you all right?" I cried.

  Ms. DeBree sat on the floor, surrounded by what looked like all the cleaning products in the known world—jars and canisters, bottles and brushes, sprays and scrubbers, and some items I had never even seen before.

  "Uh, Ms. DeBree?" said Natalie.

  "Aha!" cried the mongoose, plucking a canister from the pile. "Just as I deflected: The buggers stole my ammonia."

  "How's that?" I asked.

  "See?" said the janitor, holding up the stinkbomb jar next to her own bottle. "Mine has the gold seal on the label. I
always get the extra-strength kine." She took a deep whiff of the open jar and closed her eyes. "Ahhh. The best."

  Natalie and I exchanged a glance. Word around the school yard was that Maureen DeBree took her cleaning products seriously. I didn't know she took them this seriously.

  "So you're not responsible for that stinkbomb," I said.

  "That's what I'm tryin' for tell you," said the mongoose. "Some punk kids did 'em. But I don't know how they broke in here and stole my stuff."

  I whipped a business card from my pocket. Fancy lettering arched over crossed swords, a skull, and two bundles of dynamite.

  The cards were a gift from an admirer. An admirer, coincidentally, with the same name as me.

  Handing it to the janitor, I said, "Maybe we can help."

  "Nice dynamite," she said. "But I don't need no help."

  "Why not?" asked Natalie. "Principal Zero looked pretty mad."

  The mongoose waved a paw. "It's all a case of forsaken identity. He'll cool down. No sweat."

  "No sweat?" I said. "He accused you of accidentally stinkbombing your own school. You cleared the air. Don't you want us to clear your name?"

  "Nah," said Ms. DeBree. "When I show the boss these bottles, he'll change his tune."

  This wasn't going quite as I'd planned. She was supposed to hire us to investigate. She was supposed to end my boredom.

  "Please?" I said.

  The mongoose chuckled and showed us to the door. "Thanks, but no thanks, Mr. Private Eyeball. Go run along and detect something else, 'kay?"

  "The only thing he's got to detect are the answers to his homework problems," said Natalie.

  "Don't remind me, birdie," I said.

  We shuffled off down the hall. But I had a funny feeling that this case was only just getting started.

  Or maybe it was just the aftereffect of the bean-and-beetle burritos I'd had at lunch. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

  The next day, Ma Gecko hustled me and my deeply annoying little sister, Pinky, off to school well before classes started. Normally I don't do early mornings. But Ma Gecko had a convincing way of making her case. ("Get your tail in gear or lose it," I believe were her exact words.)