The Case of the Missing Dinosaur Egg (11 page)

Half way along the passageway, he shoved open a door with
Gymnasium
written in big black letters across the front. I blinked.
Gymnasium
? Surely I hadn’t risked my life riding in the back of that rusty ute, only to end up spying on a guy while he lifted weights and did push-ups?

“Yo, Fingers! What ya know, man?” My target’s voice, greasy as his hair, floated through the inch of space between the door and the doorway.

I pressed one eyeball to the opening. The room was fitted out like a real gym. Bench presses, weights, bikes, treadmills—the lot. Two men the size of hippos were lifting weights near the door. Their sweat smelt like rotten potatoes. Their grunts sounded like they were having trouble going to the toilet.

I could tell which one was Fingers—one hand had none—fingers that is. The other guy had a head the size and color of a side of lamb. Meathead I guess.

“Boss is lookin’ for you, Arty,” grunted Fingers lifting an iron bar that probably weighed as much as a horse.

“Boss says you’ve been a naughty boy,” added the other guy.

I did a double take. Meathead’s body, ogre-like and covered with tattoos and black hair could have belonged to an ape or a wrestler, but his voice sounded high and squeaky like a little kid.

Greasy-Hair, or should I say, Arty, fiddled with the lock on a door at the back of the room. He turned around, an evil grin on his face. “That makes three of us, doesn’t it?”

“Boss not happy,” continued Meathead’s babyish voice. “Says he’s found stuff out about you.”

“Yeah?” growled Arty opening the door of the back room and slipping inside. “Probably heard about all the guys I killed back in Tasmania.”

I’d traveled in the back of the ute with a killer?

Fingers grunted and dropped his weights on the floor. Luckily the floor was cement so the weights just groaned and bounced instead of disappearing through a great big hole in the wood.

He shambled across to the bench-press. “Watchadoin’ in there, Arty? Ya know the boss don’t like anyone in his office.”

“I’m just checking on something he wants me to ship off tomorrow. Interesting export. There could be a bit of money in it for us.”

I’d heard enough. These three were dastardly crooks—smugglers. And they were using an honest company as cover.

As I tried to close the door quietly, it slipped from my fingers. To my ears the resulting click sounded as loud as a gunshot. I held my breath. Squeezed my eyes shut. Had they heard the noise? Were Fingers and Meathead getting ready to crash through the door without opening it, drag me inside the gym and practice kick-boxing with my head? Was Greasy-Hair planning to pull off his first murder in South Australia?

I opened my eyes. Snatched a look up and down the passageway. No voices. No crashing doors. No murderous yells. Okay, should I tell the boss what I’d heard or get out of here pronto and go find a policeman?

As I tiptoed along the grey cement passageway I heard a woman’s voice speaking from behind one of the closed doors.

“Yes, sir,” the lilting voice said. “Arthur Goodenough is in the gym. I saw him go past. Would you like him paged?”

“No, Marcia. Leave him to me. Just inform all employees the gym is closed for the remainder of the day. No-one—I repeat
no-one
is to use the gym today.” The man’s voice was smooth, authoritative. Must be the boss. When he came out, I’d let him know about the crooks.

I squared my shoulders and stood waiting for the owner of the authoritative voice to push through the doorway. Wouldn’t he be surprised to learn Greasy-Hair and his two muscle bound mates were smugglers? Probably give me a reward.

Suddenly, without warning, someone—or something—slammed into me from behind. The wind thumped from my chest. I lost my footing and stumbled forward. But before I could scream, a large rough hand clamped over my mouth. Strong, digging-in fingers grabbed me by the arm and dragged me toward the nearest doorway. I kicked out, my toes crunching against the wooden door as it closed behind us. Ignoring the pain, I kept kicking backwards until the toe of one riding boot came up hard against my attacker’s shin.

Bullseye!

The strong smell of garlic and a low
Ooof
came from behind me. Was I in the clutches of a kidnapper? A murderer? Heart racing and gasping for air, I inched my head backwards until I found myself staring into the furious eyes of Greasy-Hair…Arty Goodenough. His scowl could have turned milk sour and he looked like he was itching to turn me into fish bait.

SIXTEEN

“Who the hell are you, kid?” Greasy-Hair growled. “And what were you doing listening outside the gym door?”

The room we were in was not much bigger than a closet and smelt of disinfectant, musty mops and dust. Probably a cleaner’s store-room. If only I could wriggle out from under his bulldog grip, I could yell for help. Failing that, I might be able to reach forward with my leg and kick the door to attract someone’s attention.

I squirmed and kicked out, but his hand, digging into my cheekbones, pressed down even harder. Swearing under his breath he pulled me further into the room until his back was pressed up against the wall.

“Shhh!” he hissed. “Not a sound or we’ll
both
be dead meat.”

Like I believed that.

“Were you following me, kid? Or did Fingers put you up to this?” he asked, each whispered word a tickle of spit in my ear.

I grunted and rolled my eyes. Under his hand, my breathing was growing ragged and my nose and eyes were watering. If he wanted answers, we’d either have to talk in eye-rolls or he’d have to give me some breathing space. I tried to snag a deep breath and couldn’t. What if my nose blocked up altogether and I couldn’t breathe at all?

He must have seen the panic in my eyes because his hand loosened a little. “Look, kid. I’m the good guy. I’m a policeman working under-cover to investigate an egg smuggling ring.”

Yeah. Right. And I’m a fairy princess!

Once again he must have read my thoughts because he snatched his police badge and card from inside the top of his boot and shoved it under my nose.

“Now, if I take my hand away from your mouth will you promise not to make a sound? They’re bad guys out there and wouldn’t think twice about doing away with a nosy kid as well as a cop.”

I nodded. Cop or killer—I needed air.

The rough authoritative voice I’d heard before drifted under the door. “I’ll be in the gym for quite a while, Marcia. No phone calls. No disturbances. And if you hear any screams or strange noises—ignore them. Understand?”

“Of course, Mr. Simpson.”

“That’s the boss.” Arty screwed up his face—made him look like he’d bitten into a wormy apple and swallowed the worm. “If he finds us—we’re toast.”

Seconds after the footsteps passed our door, Arty dug his hand into an inside pocket of his coat then turned to me. I felt a lump rising in my throat, tasted fear in my mouth as my eyes fixed on the black handled revolver in his hand.

“It’s okay, kid. Don’t be scared,” he soothed, squeezing my shoulder. “This is just insurance—in case I have no other way of getting you out safely.”

He inched the door open a crack, snuck a quick look outside, then closed it again. “Can’t escape that way. Marcia’s standing outside her office flirting with the foreman.” He turned to me, eyebrows dragging downwards. “You didn’t tell me who you are and how the hell you got here.”

“I’m Chiana—I’m a sort of friend of your grandfather. I caught a ride here in the back of his ute.”

He looked confused. “Why?”

“Why?” I repeated slowly. Good question. With killers on the outside of the door and a guy with a gun standing beside me, I couldn’t work out why either. “I—well…I thought you and your grandfather were egg thieves.”

“Egg thieves?”

“Remember—you bumped into me at the museum just before the dinosaur egg went missing. And what about the professor? He has all those weird eggs in his shed, so I thought—”

“Grandpa and his obsession with that dinosaur egg,” Arty broke in. “It belongs to him, you know. His father, my great-grandfather, Cyril Goodenough, discovered the fossil while digging in the Adelaide hills and donated it to the State museum. Of course, when Grandpa heard the egg had been stolen, he went ballistic. And when he found out Eric Simpson, the boss of this company, intended smuggling his precious
Therizinosaur
to a client in Japan, he insisted I get the egg back.” Arty ran his hand through his hair. “Now—between you and him—you’ve messed up the entire police operation.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know—”

A noise that sounded like a door being ripped off its hinges or two rhinos wrestling sounded outside the door. “Search every room! Tear everything apart! That traitor, Goodenough, can’t have gone far.”

“Yeah, boss. No worries. I told Arty you wouldn’t like him bein’ in your office. Didn’t know he was nicking the egg though.”

“Shut up, you moron, and go get him. Sugar says she saw him talking to some big knob detective yesterday and they were acting real friendly like. He’s either a cop or a grass. I’ll get Gonzo to make a nice pair of cement boots in Arty’s size then we’ll drop him in the river and see how far he can swim.”

Arty, his face a mask, moved over to the cleaner’s cupboard and pulled open the door.

“Get in here, kid,” he whispered. “And stay there until this is over. They don’t know you’re here.”

“But what about you?”

I could hear heavy footsteps getting closer. Another door slamming. Muffled grunts and more loud swearing.

“Don’t worry about me, kid. Just do exactly as I say.” He thrust a small parcel into my hand. “This is the dinosaur egg. Give it to Grandpa then ring the police. Ask for Detective Inspector John Gilman. Got it? John Gilman. He knows all about the operation. Tell him where I am and what’s happened.”

“But—”

“God, you’re as stubborn as that cantankerous old man out in the car. Stay hidden in the cupboard. Then, when they take me away, get yourself out of the warehouse and follow my orders. Can you do that for me, Chiana?”

I put on my ready-for-anything P.I. face and stepped inside the cupboard. “You got it,” I assured him as he closed the door behind me.

Two seconds later I heard an ear-splitting crash, a loud
Oof,
lots of yelling, then something or someone being dragged from the room.

SEVENTEEN

Fifty one. Fifty two. Fifty three
.

Counting in my head stopped me from breathing too loudly. Or screaming. Hand covering my mouth, I stared at the deep scratch marks on the inside of the scarred cupboard door, traced the shape of what looked like a skull and cross-bones with the tip of one finger.

Fifty four. Fifty five. Fifty six.

The smell of disinfectant was making me gag. Any minute now I’d chuck up all over the cleaner’s mops and polishing rags.

Fifty seven. Fifty eight. Fifty nine
.

A cold shiver sent goose-bumps galumphing down my arms. Noah was right. I should have waited for back-up. I was twelve years old—scared—close to vomiting. Who did I think I was? Rebecca Turnbull—twenty five, tough, and street-smart? Oh yeah—and a complete fragment of my imagination.

Once again, my heart did a leap-frog inside my chest. What if Meathead and Fingers were waiting on the other side of the cupboard door? What if they were waiting to bat a home run with my head when I poked it out?

Sixty.

Hardly daring to breathe, I inched open the cupboard door a chink and scanned the room with one wary eye.

Empty—except for the faint smell of garlic and what looked like splatters of blood on the grey tiled floor.

Arty’s blood?

I didn’t want to think about it. All I wanted to do was run.

After a quick glance along the passageway, I forced my legs to move slowly, one step at a time, into the main warehouse. The front door seemed a trillion miles away. I wanted to bolt toward it but knew I had to play it cool, not draw attention to myself. At every sudden sound or movement I jumped like a scared rabbit but no-one even glanced up as I walked by. The workers were as busy as ants stocking up for a long cold winter.

Six more steps and I’d be safe. Five…four…

“Hey, kid!”

I almost leapt through the roof. Two strides from the doorway a guy with a foreman-tag on the front of his grey coat put his hand on my shoulder. Was this Gonzo? Was this the guy who measured shoe sizes? Made cement boots for a living?

“You’ve no mind to be in her,” Gonzo/foreman said through his stained yellow teeth. “Didn’t you read the sign on the door? This is for workers only. If you want to place an order for your Dad or pick up brochures for a school project go around to the front office.”

“O-oh, s-sorry, mister,” I stuttered, shaking in relief.

Geez
. This P.I. business was way too scary. There was a cop in the gymnasium being fitted with cement boots. I had a mega-million year old dinosaur egg in my pocket that the bad-guys would kill me for. And I’d gone and left my mobile phone in the cleaning-cupboard. I remember taking it out of my pocket, switching it to vibrate and then burying it under some towels in case the sudden noise gave away my hiding place.

Still shaking, I staggered outside, grabbed a gulp of fresh air and looked anxiously up and down the street. Where was the professor? Of course, Arty had told his grandpa to leave if he wasn’t back in fifteen minutes. Although it felt like I’d been inside the warehouse for a year, my watch showed it was only half an hour.

With a nervous glance over my shoulder I pulled the collar of my jacket up and hurried along the street. No professor meant there was no car to make a getaway. No mobile phone meant I couldn’t ring the police as Arty had ordered.

Things were looking black.

As I slipped around the corner of the warehouse, I could hear this totally awful singing. The song was about a dog called Shep and the singer had to shoot the dog because it was getting old. Totally sad and weird. But the good part—the music was coming from the professor’s car. Yay! Never before had I been so pleased to see Professor Goodenough or his beat up old ute. Against his grandson’s orders, he’d stayed close by, just driven around the corner to wait.