One Of Our Dinosaurs Is Missing (8 page)

“Our plan worked . . . er, your plan. Pi Wun Tun’s efforts in the hall of the fake dragon brought immediate results. The museum authorities have begun their repainting, and the nanny-ladies have started phase two of their operation.”

“Excellent. Excellent.” Lui Ho rubbed his steam- slippery hands together. “So we act tonight?”

“No, tomorrow, if all goes well.”

“Good,” smiled Lui Ho. “See that nothing disturbs them at their work. Nothing, absolutely nothing, must go wrong with their plan.” He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out his red book. He flicked the pages.

Fat Choy sighed quietly. He wondered if, today, he was going to learn that he had too few toes.

Lui Ho cleared his throat and began to read. “Thousands upon thousands of martyrs have heroically laid down their lives for the people; let us hold their banner high and march ahead along the path crimson with their..

He was interrupted by a splashing, scuffling sound. An effluent-smeared figure staggered in through the mist, dripping eerily, its thigh-boots overflowing. It clutched a wriggling heap of mud in its arms. “Eee-ee- ee-ee,” it cried delightedly.

“A devil,” gasped Fat Choy, hiding his head under his damp blanket.

Lui Ho squinted through his moist spectacles. “Nicky Po.”

“I’ve caught one . . . I’ve caught one,” shouted the slime-covered apparition. “Tonight we will all have the most delectable and exotic repast.”

“Holy dung beetles,” moaned Lui Ho in horror. “Not another sewer alligator!”

The sharply dressed young salesman at Happy Harry’s Used Car Lot and Rebuild Emporium flicked a minuscule speck of tobacco ash from the lapel of his shiny mohair, and peered through the one-way inspection window. Two women, children’s nurses, he guessed, from their white uniforms and lace-up shoes, were wandering around the truck section. They stopped in front of a yellow, seven-ton, long-wheelbase Dodge. He couldn’t believe it. Hardly anyone bought yellow, seven-ton, long-wheelbase Dodges in the condition of that one, especially nannies.

The short, odd-looking one, with the funny glasses and twitching nose, shook her head. The salesman split a match with his thumbnail and began picking his teeth. He saw her indicate a refrigerator truck further down the line. He bit on his piece of wood. Nurses didn’t buy refrigerator trucks, either.

He kicked open the shaky door of the timber shack that served as Happy Harry’s office, and strolled over to the two women.

“The automobiles are over there, lady.” He pointed to the battered rows of hasty repaints that were rusting away discreetly on the other side of the lot. “We got heaps of bargains, repossessions, insurance jobs, low mileage autos--last you--” he eyed the two women-- “last you a lifetime.”

“We want a vehicle for carrying things,” said the one with the pince-nez. “Not small things, but things a bit bigger than you.” She eyed the salesman. “Quite a few things, quite a bit bigger than you, my good man.”

The salesman immediately thought of “Arsenic and Old Lace.”

“You want a hearse?”

“Goodness, of course not,” snapped the other woman, in a Scots accent. “We’re not carrying dead bodies.”

“Well, not actually dead bodies,” added the older nurse. “But it has to be quite a big vehicle. And frightfully reliable, too.”

“I got a good one here,” said the salesman, pointing to a battered green Ford. “Almost brand new inside. Just wants a slight clean-up. A rare model. Only done twenty thousand miles.” He thought for a moment. “One careful operator... a doctor.”

Emily’s brows furrowed. “Then the gentleman must have been a witch doctor. It looks as though it was driven here from darkest Africa. How about that one?” She nodded toward a deep blue Chevrolet that looked like a furniture removal van. It had a split and dented fender but otherwise seemed fairly clean. “How much?”

“Three hundred dollars, lady,” said the salesman. “Best truck in the lot. Perfect working condition. It’s a steal. Broke the guy’s heart to get rid of it. He owned a pet shop. Only used it to carry animals and birds. Came in yesterday.”

“Start the motor,” said Emily, sternly.

The salesman reached in and twisted the key. To his relief, the batteries spun the engine to life. He stepped back.

“First-rate,” he said. “Good starter, excellent runner.” He looked at the two women. “It carries our usual seven-day guarantee.”

“We’ll take it,” said Hettie. “Show our friend here how it works.

“How it works?” asked the salesman.

“Yes. How does it start? And which is the gear lever?”

“You sure you ladies want a truck?”

“We’ll pay cash,” said Hettie.

“How’s that?”

“Cash, man, cash!” repeated Hettie, opening her handbag. She pulled out a roll of notes. The salesman bit his lip. He couldn’t remember the last customer of Happy Harry’s who’d even had fifty dollars in bills.

“You’ll never regret buying this truck, ladies. I’ll take you round the block, personally. Make sure you know how it handles.”

Minutes later, the truck was back outside Happy Harry’s Lot. Emily sat at the huge wheel, joyfully revving the engine, while inside the shack-like office, the salesman was collecting three hundred dollars from Hettie and handing her the vehicle documents in exchange.

The deal completed, they emerged together through the door.

“Well, good luck, ladies,” called the salesman, as Hettie settled herself next to Emily. “Don’t forget what I told you--keep her on a tight leash. She’s a mile- eater, that one.” He grinned as the old nanny trod down on the clutch pedal and crashed into gear. The wheels hopped. Then the truck bounded away.

“We’re a wee bittie nervous,” confessed Hettie.

“Nervous? Nervous? Nonsense, woman. I’m perfectly competent at driving, now.”

“Not about the driving, the bairns.” Hettie shuffled herself more comfortably on the passenger seat. “We’re just nervous leaving them with Melissa and Susanne. We dinnae feel they’ve got enough experience to manage so many.”

“They will have by the end of the week,” promised Emily. “We’re all going to have to share each other’s children. What better way could they learn?”

“That reminds us,” said Hettie. “Last night we had an odd telephone call. A strange voice--very deep for a woman’s. Said they were the Comrade Nanny-Ladies’ Replacement Bureau. It’s some service we haven’t heard of before. Charitable ... doesn’t cost anything. Whenever a nanny needs extra time off, they send a specially-trained nurse as replacement. They said days or nights, for as long as necessary. And it’s free.”

“Thoroughly untrustworthy, I should think,” said Emily.

“Och, of course,” nodded Hettie. “As if we’d leave a child of ours with strangers.”

Emily was enjoying herself. The truck was big and powerful. She liked sitting high above the other traffic, and she began to understand how bus and lorry drivers felt, on their thrones, when they leant out of their cabs and cursed and swore at the other road users.

She glanced at the speedometer. It showed eighteen miles an hour. The transmission was howling for a gear-change. But by the time she’d remembered the correct procedure, had pressed down the clutch pedal and sought the second gear position, the truck’s speed had fallen to five miles an hour. Then it jerked, and stalled.

“Why have we stopped?” asked Hettie.

“Adjustments,” replied Emily, fiddling with the gear lever, and then repositioning her pince-nez.

She remembered the salesman’s instructions, pulled the gear stick into neutral, turned the ignition key and started all over again. This time she changed gear successfully. Three times! There was the sound of a siren alongside them. A motorcycle patrolman waved.

“He recognizes us,” said Emily.

Hettie sniffed and wriggled her shoulders primly. “We don’t think we recognize him.”

The speedcop shouted something at them. He swerved his machine in front of the truck, missing them by inches, then slowed down.

“That was dangerous,” said Emily. “Do you think he wants to talk to us?”

The Harley Davidson stopped ahead of them. Emily struggled with the gear lever and the brakes. The truck kangarooed to a stop half an inch from the motorcycle’s polished rear fender.

The speedcop turned a slightly darker shade of crimson and pulled out his notebook as he walked round to the driver’s window.

“Okay, bud,” he began, then noticed the two women.

“Oh, God ... Dames. Dames driving trucks!” He went forward and pulled open the cab door.

“Okay, ladies ..

The two women peered down. The cop looked them over.

“Now what’s a coupla nice old nurses like you doing driving around like drag-racers?”

They were silent.

“I know,” continued the cop. “You was on the way to the hospital. Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’re Dr. Kildare and you’re late for an operation. Well . .he paused and began writing in his book. “Well, I gotta message for you . . . sort of a prescription.” He licked the end of his pencil and continued writing. “Gotya licence?”

“Er... no...” said Emily. “Sorry, constable.”

“Whadja mean, constable? I’m a cop. You dames foreigners?”

“Most certainly not, laddie,” replied Hettie, fiercely. “you’re foreign, we’re British.”

“Yes British,” added Emily. “This lady is a royal nanny. You should be more polite.”

“A royal what?” asked the patrolman.

“Nanny--a governess,” said Emily.

“An Embassy official?”

“Royal governess,” repeated Emily. She polished her pince-nez on a handkerchief and perched them back on her twitching nose.

“We teach manners, my man,” said Hettie.

“You claiming diplomatic immunity?” The cop vaguely remembered something unpleasant happening to a friend who’d stopped another foreign driver who turned out to be a Danish prince. He shut his notebook with a slap.

“You got a passport, then? Alien’s Registration Card?”

“They’re at home,” said Emily.

“No identification, eh? No proof of diplomatic immunity?”

“Identification? Proof?” growled Hettie. “We’re ladies. And British. Surely, our word’s good enough?”

“I gotta have identification,” muttered the patrolman. He fished in his breast pocket, and pulled out his warrant card. “Something like this.”

Hettie took the card and examined the photograph, then compared it with the patrolman’s face. “Very interesting, laddie.” She handed it back to him. “All right then, officer. You can go now. And behave yourself.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said the cop, automatically. He pushed his warrant card back into his pocket and began to walk to his machine. Then, he hesitated, thought for a second and turned back. “Hey, I’m supposed to be the one who says that.”

“Says what?” asked Emily, as she twisted the ignition key.

“You can go now,” he repeated.

“Why, thank you, officer. Good day,” said Emily. The truck rumbled to life. She smashed it into gear. The scarlet-faced patrolman just managed to drag his motorcycle from her path. He started to pull his whistle from his pocket, then stopped. He pushed back his helmet.

“Aw, hell, what’s the use?”

For the next hour Emily drove the truck around the city. Then, when she felt completely familiar with what she considered to be its eccentricities, she spoke again.

“Right. Let’s go and collect the stuff from my place.”

Emily’s stuff was two heavy suitcases. They loaded them into the truck and drove to the museum.

“What are we going to do now?” asked Hettie.

“Put the suitcases in with the dinosaur, of course.” They parked the truck in the driveway of the Hayden Planetarium and lugged the suitcases round to the museum. Emily led the way to the dinosaur hall. She peered inside. The painters were working on the scaffolding at the far end.

“Watch where I go,” she whispered. “Then follow me. Make sure no one sees you.”

The Scots nanny watched as Emily, her suitcase under her arm, scurried towards the dinosaur. She lifted the edge of the canvas that covered it and burrowed her way underneath. Hettie followed a second later. They met in the darkness.

“Smells funny,” said Hettie. “Like auld cemeteries.”

“Imagination,” whispered Emily.

“Really, like damp vaults.”

“Hush, woman. The only smells in here are from the dust and the canvas. Talk quietly or we’ll be heard.”

A painter was singing. His voice echoed round the square, almost windowless walls of the Early Dinosaur Hall. Emily pulled a torch from her pocket and shone it around the large tent made by the canvas.

“If I keep it low, it won’t be seen.”

The inside of the dinosaur tent brought back memories. It was a garden party marquee. Thunderclouds made it dark. It smelt of crushed grass and ale. The guests crowded together out of the fain. A sixteen- year-old Emily Biddle carried her first infant charge. In the twilight, a masculine hand slid over her rump and squeezed her bottom. She stamped down, hard, backward. An hour later, when guests were being introduced to the bishop, she was surprised to see the local vicar limping badly.

Emily jerked herself back to the present. The torchlight shone on the twelve foot high spine of the dinosaur that formed the ridge of the tent. The canvas draped down, and was supported, a few yards away, by two smaller dinosaurs, which held the tarpaulin walls on either side of the brontosaurus. There was plenty of room to walk around. Emily moved the two suitcases close against the foreleg of the monster.

Emily removed her pince-nez, polished them carefully with a paper tissue, and jammed them back on the end of her nose. She tilted her head backward and probed the darkness of the canvas roof with her torch- beam.

“You were right, Hettie, my dear,” she said at last. “It really won’t make much difference to the shape of the tent if we do take the bones off the frame.” She tapped the metalwork supporting the fossilized skeleton. ”Yes,” she mused. “From the outside it’ll look almost the same.”

“Sa-a-nta Lucia,” sang the painter. Even the dampening effect of the canvas between him and the nannies couldn’t disguise his undisciplined voice. Hettie shuddered, and glanced at her watch.