Goldwhiskers

  ‘Not a “she”, my dear – a “what”,’ Julius informed her. ‘AMI stands for “Artificial Mouse Intelligence”. Your beau has built a computer. He’s been keeping it under wraps at my orders.’

  Z gave a low whistle. ‘A computer! That’s incredible!’

  ‘And never fear, we’re not holding out on our closest allies,’ Julius assured him. ‘We’ll be sending you the specifications shortly. Bunsen just wanted to work the bugs out first.’

  Bunsen reappeared, towing his new invention. He fastened on the extra-strength helmet and clambered on to the keyboard. ‘I’m not very good at this yet,’ he said timidly. ‘In fact, I’m all paws. Not like you, Glory.’

  Before she became a field agent, Glory was a trained computer gymnast. She’d been plucked from the typing pool by Julius, who knew talent when he spotted it.

  They all watched silently as Bunsen hopped slowly from one key to the next. ‘I’m Googling “gold” and “whisker” and “London”,’ he shouted, breathing hard. ‘You never know – maybe we’ll find something.’

  He halted, panting, and stared at AMI’s screen. ‘Let’s see…hmm…didn’t turn up much. There’s “Golden Girls and White Whiskers” –’

  Squeak waved her paw dismissively. ‘That’s some silly play at a theatre in the West End. I overheard the concierge at the Savoy talking about it. A lot of the elderly guests have booked tickets.’

  Bunsen peered at his computer again. ‘How about “Goldilocks and Granny’s Whiskers”? No, wait. That’s a hair salon.’ He drooped slightly and slanted a glance at Glory. ‘Guess this wasn’t such a good idea.’

  ‘Don’t give up now, Bunsen,’ Glory encouraged. ‘Keep looking.’

  Her beau shrugged and scanned the screen, muttering under his breath as he dismissed one entry after another. Finally, he gave a slight hop to click on one of the links. ‘Now this is odd,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ said Sir Edmund.

  ‘D. G. Whiskers, Esquire, just placed an order at the Savoy for afternoon tea. The hamper is due to be delivered to his office in about an hour.’

  ‘What’s so odd about that?’ demanded the head of MICE-6.

  Bunsen shrugged again. ‘The address is 80 Strand.’

  ‘That’s right next to the Savoy!’ said Squeak.

  ‘Exactly,’ Bunsen replied. ‘The hotel where Oz and DB are staying. It just seems like an odd coincidence, that’s all.’

  Sir Edmund stroked his tail thoughtfully. ‘It’s a long shot.’

  ‘But worth a look, perhaps,’ said Julius. ‘Mr Burner has a hunch, and I’ve learned in this business that sometimes it’s best to go with one’s hunches.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ agreed Sir Edmund. ‘“Always trust your gut,” my great-grandfather used to say.’

  The mice were quiet for a long moment. Finally, Glory spoke up.

  ‘I hear the Savoy has changed its menu,’ she said. ‘This year’s Christmas Eve tea features scones with a side of spy mice. I’m going in.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 1600 HOURS

  ‘I do not believe I am hearing this,’ said DB. ‘Roquefort Dupont is here? In London?’

  Oz couldn’t believe it either. ‘But I thought – we all thought –’

  ‘I know,’ said Squeak. ‘But it’s true. The rats survived.’

  The three of them were in DB’s room at the hotel suite. Oz and DB had been kept under close guard since their return from Scotland Yard. Although they had been released for lack of evidence, a dark cloud of suspicion hung over them. After the ransom note bearing Lavinia Levinson’s fingerprints was received, the number of policemen watching them had doubled. Two officers were posted in the suite’s living room. Two more stood outside the door in the hallway. And down in the Savoy’s elegant lobby, there were no fewer than six plain-clothes officers on duty. Scotland Yard was taking no chances.

  Squeak was perched on Oz’s knee, filling them in. ‘The Mayflower balloon went down in the North Sea,’ she explained. ‘The rats got lucky – a Norwegian fishing trawler picked it up. They stowed aboard, and now Stilton Piccadilly is back in town. He brought Dupont with him. Looks like they’re working with another rat, an odd chap who paints his whiskers gold. We’re pretty sure he’s been kidnapping orphan mice and training them as jewel thieves.’

  Oz’s mind was reeling. Dupont in London? A rat with golden whiskers who had a clutch of orphan mice – jewel thieves, no less – in his thrall? ‘Let me get this straight. Are you telling me you think that mouselings stole the Crown Jewels?’

  Squeak nodded.

  ‘And Dupont and the others made it look like we did it?’

  ‘Glory’s following a lead right now,’ said Squeak. ‘She and Bubble may have an answer for us soon.’

  ‘It’s revenge, isn’t it?’ said Oz unhappily. ‘This is Dupont’s way of getting even for what happened at Thanksgiving.’

  Squeak nodded again. ‘Rats don’t like to be crossed.’

  ‘I suppose this would account for me feeling something brush past my ankles at the Tower last night,’ said Oz. ‘Remember, DB?’

  DB jumped up off her chair. ‘Even if it’s true, who’s ever going to believe that a bunch of stupid rodents – excuse me, Squeak – were smart enough to snatch the Crown Jewels?’ She shook her head, and her braids wagged sadly. ‘We’re going down, Oz. We’ll probably end up in a dungeon somewhere.’

  ‘Do they still stick people in dungeons?’ cried Oz in alarm.

  DB shrugged. ‘They probably make exceptions for people who steal crown jewels,’ she said gloomily.

  Squeak looked over at the clock beside the bed. ‘I have to go, kids. I promised Sir Edmund I’d be back at headquarters in an hour. Busy day.’ She scooted down Oz’s trouser leg and picked up her skateboard.

  ‘Wait, Squeak!’ Oz pleaded, prodding anxiously at his glasses. ‘Scotland Yard took my CD player! I have no way of getting in touch if something happens at the concert tonight. If there even is a concert tonight,’ he added gloomily.

  What with the ongoing investigation, it still hadn’t been decided whether the Christmas Eve extravaganza at the Royal Opera House would proceed as planned.

  DB crouched down on the carpet, placing herself at eye level with the British spy mouse. ‘What are we going to do about Priscilla Winterbottom? She’s got something nasty up her sleeve – we just know it!’

  Squeak sighed. ‘I’ll keep a close watch on the news. If the concert isn’t cancelled, I’ll try and stop by the opera house,’ she said. ‘But I can’t promise anything. Sir Edmund may have other plans, and orders are orders.’ She mustered a smile. ‘But don’t worry. You’ll think of something.’

  Oz slumped in his chair. They were on their own, then. Facing the worst shark in shark history. Not to mention Scotland Yard. DB was right – it was only a matter of time before they were all arrested.

  Things couldn’t possibly get any worse.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DAY TWO – TUESDAY 1600 HOURS

  ‘Mind the gap,’ squawked the large pigeon. He was perched on the roof of the imposing grey stone building that housed Churchill’s wartime bunker and MICE-6.

  Glory, who was about to climb aboard, paused. She looked around in bewilderment. ‘What gap?’

  ‘Don’t listen to Old Bart,’ said Bubble. ‘Just a habit he picked up in his youth. He was raised at Victoria station, you see.’

  Glory didn’t see at all, but she nodded anyway. Placing her paw in the paper-clip stirrup, she climbed aboard the pigeon’s back. Bubble clambered up behind her.

  ‘Old Bart’s a bit feather-brained,’ he explained. ‘He probably should have been sent to a retirement roost ages ago, but the pilots have a soft spot for him. Plus, he’s strong. They mostly use him for transport these days. He’s the only pigeon on staff strong enough to carry the two of us and our gear.’

  MICE-6 was short-pawed and short-winged, as Sir Edmund had ordered every surveill
ance pilot aloft and every field agent out on to the streets in the hunt for Roquefort Dupont, Stilton Piccadilly and the rat with the golden whiskers.

  With a flap of his wings, Old Bart took off. He circled Parliament Square, gaining altitude, then headed north-east for the Strand and their teatime rendezvous at the office of D. G. Whiskers, Esquire. The sun was slanting low in the sky now, and the wind was cold. Glory shivered and nestled down further into the big pigeon’s feathers. Behind her, she could feel Bubble do the same.

  Despite the cold and the wind, Glory couldn’t resist poking her head out over the pigeon’s wing and staring down at the city. At the rate her holiday was going, this short flight might be the closest thing she got to a tour of London. Below, the Thames gleamed dully in the late afternoon light.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Bubble a short time later, as Old Bart swooshed past the clock on the side of number 80 Strand. ‘Largest clock face in London, by the way.’

  ‘Really?’ said Glory, surprised. ‘Not Big Ben?’

  Bubble shook his head. ‘Big Ben is more famous, but this one is bigger. And, technically, Big Ben is the bell in the tower, not the clock.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Glory as their pigeon alighted on the roof. She made a mental note to tell Bunsen. He’d want to know that.

  ‘Mind the gap,’ said Old Bart again as Glory and Bubble slid down off his back.

  ‘We always do,’ replied Bubble politely. He tapped the bird’s tail feathers. ‘Don’t wander off, now; we’ll be back shortly.’

  ‘Mind the gap,’ repeated Old Bart automatically, bobbing his head.

  Glory stooped down and opened her backpack. Beside her, Bubble did the same. They pulled out their Silver Skateboards and jammed on their bottle-cap helmets. Glory’s pulse began to quicken, just as it did before every mission. Bunsen had not been happy with her volunteering for this particular one.

  ‘Not again!’ he’d cried, right over the Video Scrambler for everyone to hear. ‘Glory, are you completely nuts?’

  But Glory had stuck to her guns. She was used to Bunsen’s fussing. If her beau had his way, she’d be wrapped in cotton wool and kept in a safe. Besides, it made sense. She was the most experienced member of the team. She’d gone paw to paw with Dupont twice before. And if this D. G. Whiskers, Esquire turned out to be the rat they were looking for, it was only fair to everyone involved that the mouse with the most experience be there in the front line.

  Squeak had lobbied hard to be included. ‘I know that building like the back of my paw,’ she’d argued. ‘My cousin is an editor for Tiny Tails – you know, the Publishing Guild? Those books for mouselings? Her office is under the sixth floor.’

  In the end, Sir Edmund had chosen Bubble instead. ‘I need you to debrief the children,’ he’d told a disappointed Squeak.

  Glory looked over at Bubble. He gave a sharp nod, and the two of them zoomed off across the roof. The British spy mouse ollied up with his skateboard into a ventilation shaft. Glory followed, and in a flash they were carving their way down the metal ductwork into the heart of the building.

  ‘This is it!’ called Bubble, spinning to a halt by a grate overlooking a long hallway. The mice tucked their lolly-stick boards into their backpacks and peeped out cautiously.

  ‘There’s his office, right across from us!’ said Glory, spotting the glass door with D. G. WHISKERS, ESQUIRE etched on it.

  Bubble poked his head through the grating and craned his neck towards the lift. He checked the time on the face of the foraged wristwatch he had strapped across his chest for the mission. ‘Delivery boy should be along any time now. Shall we jump for it?’

  Glory nodded. ‘We’ll need a diversion, though,’ she warned.

  ‘I’ve got just the thing,’ replied Bubble, rummaging in his backpack. ‘Z sent it along – thought it might come in handy.’ He pulled out what looked like a large rubber spider on a string.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Glory.

  ‘A large rubber spider on a string.’

  ‘I can see that, for Pete’s sake. But what does it do?’

  ‘Scares humans,’ said Bubble.

  ‘So it explodes?’

  Bubble shook his head.

  ‘Smoke bomb?’ ventured Glory.

  ‘Much more low-tech than that, I’m afraid,’ Bubble replied. ‘But effective, nevertheless. You’ll see.’ He tied one end of the string to the grating and crouched down, clutching the spider in his paws. Glory crouched down beside him. A minute later there was a loud DING, and they heard the lift doors slide open.

  ‘Here he comes,’ whispered Glory.

  The Savoy’s delivery boy sauntered down the hallway, whistling a Christmas carol. His eyes lit up when he spotted the envelope containing his tip by the panel in the wall. As he passed the ventilation grate, Bubble gave a mighty heave and launched the spider towards him. It landed on the delivery boy’s shoulder. The boy shrieked, nearly dropping the tea hamper that he was carrying. He swatted at the rubber spider in a panic. This simply sent it swinging away again and then back at him, like a small black insect boomerang.

  Glory and Bubble waited until one of the human’s wild gyrations brought the basket under the grating. Then they made a leap for it.

  ‘Agents in place,’ Bubble whispered a moment later into the tiny microphone clipped to his grey fur, as they ducked under the basket’s lid.

  ‘Smells wonderful,’ whispered Glory, sniffing the tea hamper’s contents.

  ‘The Savoy does a splendid tea,’ agreed Bubble. ‘My grandmother took me there once for my birthday.’ He inspected the treats. ‘Let’s see, we’ve got scones with Devonshire cream and strawberry jam, cucumber sandwiches, petit fours, shortbread, and strawberries dipped in chocolate. Oh, and tiny Christmas puddings – how festive! And a Thermos filled, I presume, with piping-hot tea.’

  Glory was suddenly starving. Her stomach growled. Had she eaten lunch? She couldn’t remember. It had been an intensely busy day. The hamper gave a thump as the delivery boy set it on the floor and rang the buzzer above.

  Bubble tapped his transmitter, frowning. ‘This doesn’t seem to be working,’ he whispered. ‘I’m not getting anything back from MICE-6.’

  ‘Shall we proceed as planned?’ asked Glory. ‘I’d hate to bail out when we’re this close.’

  ‘Sir Edmund won’t like it,’ said Bubble. ‘He’s a stickler for protocol, and protocol says to scratch a mission if communication is disabled. But I agree with you, Glory.’ He tapped his tiny microphone again. ‘Maybe the malfunction is just temporary,’ he said hopefully. ‘HQ will probably come back on line any second now.’

  Glory glanced around. ‘We’d better take cover in the meantime. We’ll have to split up – there isn’t much room in here.’

  Bubble pointed to a napkin at the bottom of the basket. ‘You take that,’ he said. ‘It’s the safest spot. Rats aren’t much for napkins.’

  Glory’s stomach growled again. She shook her head and scampered over instead to a pile of scones on a china plate. ‘Napkin’s all yours, Bubble,’ she said, taking a bite from a pastry at the bottom of the stack. ‘I’m going to hollow out this baby. Not even Roquefort Dupont himself could eat all these scones.’

  As her British colleague wiggled out of view, Glory took another bite. Suddenly, the tea hamper lurched forward and rose into the air. Glory toppled over, nearly landing in the dish of Devonshire cream.

  ‘Whoa!’ she cried softly. ‘Where are we going?’

  Bubble poked his nose out from under the napkin and peered through the tea hamper’s woven side. ‘I have no idea,’ he reported. ‘We’re in an office, but apparently we’re headed for the ceiling.’ He withdrew again, and Glory burrowed further into her scone hiding place, munching as fast as she could.

  A moment later the basket gave another thud as it settled on the floor.

  ‘Ah, teatime,’ said a voice. A deep, melodious voice.

  Glory nestled further into the heart of her scone, whisking
her tail safely out of view. The voice must belong to D. G. Whiskers, Esquire, but she couldn’t tell by listening whether he was a rat or a human. Was this a wild goose chase? What if D. G. Whiskers was just some weird businessman who liked to have tea in his attic? But, then again, what if he was the rat with the golden whiskers? Her pulse began to quicken. She’d scoffed at Bunsen’s concern for her, but maybe her sweetheart was right. Maybe she was foolish to keep volunteering for these missions. What else could she have done, though? Oz and DB’s freedom was at stake. Surely rescuing one’s friends was worth any risk, even a run-in with rats.

  Above her, the lid to the basket creaked open.

  ‘So what’s on the menu today, Goldwhiskers?’

  Glory’s heart nearly stopped. Bunsen’s hunch was right. There was no mistaking that voice. Roquefort Dupont’s distinctive growl sounded like bolts in a blender.

  ‘Oh, look – wee Christmas puddings!’ said Stilton Piccadilly. ‘I haven’t had those since –’

  ‘Since we went on that holiday outing as ratlings? Dumpster diving behind our fair city’s hotels?’ reminisced the deep, melodious voice.

  So D. G. Whiskers, Esquire – aka Goldwhiskers – is definitely a rat, then, thought Glory.

  ‘I ordered them as a special treat,’ continued Goldwhiskers. ‘For old times’ sake, eh, Stilton? And to celebrate Operation SMASH. Which stands for what, mouselings?’

  ‘Stop Mice and Stop Humans!’ Glory heard a host of little voices pipe in unison.

  ‘And how are we going to accomplish that?’

  ‘Incriminate, exterminate!’ chorused the mouselings.

  Exterminate? thought Glory in a panic. Incriminate was well under way, what with Oz and DB under suspicion, but exterminate? Were the rats planning more than just a jewellery heist, then? MICE-6 had to be told about this new development right away! But how, without a transmitter?

  ‘Exactly,’ said Goldwhiskers to the orphans. ‘Well done. Master is pleased with you. Master has food for you.’

  ‘Master, giver of all that is good!’ chanted the mouselings, and Glory heard a scrabbling of tiny paws as the orphans scampered closer to the basket.