Goldwhiskers (15 page)

He turned to the keypad and tapped in the phone number for the Spy Mice Agency, then pressed the button for speaker mode. The sound of the phone ringing thousands of miles away in Washington filled the lab. Then the screen flickered, and Julius's face appeared.

‘Morning, Glory!' he boomed.

Glory rolled her eyes. That was Fumble's old line. She thought she'd heard the last of it, but apparently not. She spotted Bunsen standing behind her boss and waved. He waved back shyly.

Sir Edmund harrumphed and stepped in front of her. ‘We have a situation here, Julius,' he reported. He held up the gold whisker and explained the circumstances surrounding its recovery.

‘So you think this gold-whiskered rat is kidnapping street urchins?' said Julius. ‘And is likely the one responsible for the theft?'

Sir Edmund nodded.

Julius stroked the end of his tail thoughtfully. ‘But why would he make it look like Oz and DB took the Crown Jewels?'

The door to the laboratory flew open and Miss Honeyberry scurried in. She was clutching a sheaf of photos. ‘We found something,' she said breathlessly, handing them to her boss. ‘Aerial shots of the Tower from yesterday. Look.'

She plucked one of the photos from the stack and passed it to Sir Edmund. Glory, Bubble and Squeak crowded round to get a closer look.

‘It was taken yesterday afternoon, just before
closing,' said Miss Honeyberry. ‘Pilot thought it was just the sun reflecting in a puddle.' She tapped the photo with her paw. ‘There, down at the base of Traitors' Gate.'

Four furry little heads drew together as the spy mice examined the photo. ‘Can you ask them to enlarge this?' asked Sir Edmund.

Miss Honeyberry passed him another photo. ‘I already did.' The four heads drew together again.

‘It's them,' said Squeak. ‘I'd stake my skateboard on it.'

‘As would I,' agreed Bubble.

‘I'd know that ugly snout anywhere,' said Glory grimly. She looked up at the camera. ‘Julius, it's Dupont. He's in London. With Stilton Piccadilly. They're here in this picture with the rat with the golden whiskers. The three of them are working together.'

There was a long silence.

‘That explains it, then,' said Julius. ‘Revenge, rat-style.'

Sir Edmund nodded soberly. ‘It would seem so.'

‘We have to find them!' cried Glory. ‘We have to get the Crown Jewels back, or Oz and DB will go to jail!'

‘They haven't been anywhere near Piccadilly's
lair,' said Bubble. ‘We've had it under surveillance twenty-four seven since he disappeared last month.'

‘True,' said Sir Edmund.

‘I have an idea,' said Bunsen, ducking out of view.

‘Where's he going?' said Sir Edmund as the lab mouse disappeared offscreen.

‘I believe he means to check with AMI,' Julius replied.

‘Amy?' Glory said, trying not to sound jealous. ‘Who's she?'

‘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.'

‘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.

‘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.