The Fangs of the Dragon (12 page)

3. The stuff that was disturbed.
Strangely similar in each case – household papers, stuff in drawers, and computers in particular. That simply
had
to be significant!

ITEM 2
– one really weird connection:

In two cases out of the six, the relevant mum was seen by somebody to be at home at a time when she claimed to be out. Maggie Hamilton’s mum and Liz Wyndham’s mum were both spotted
by neighbours.

Now, if that had happened in
one
case, I’d have put it down to a simple mistake. Someone got their times wrong. But it happened
twice
, and it happened twice within this very
specific, already coincidence-packed group of six. Now
that’s
weird!

ITEM 3
– Harry Lovecraft now had a perfect alibi:

Thursday mornings, he was at school.

Hmm . . .

On my way back to class, my hay fever a bit better now that I’d been away from fresh air for a while, I got a full report from Muddy on what that low-down rat Harry
Lovecraft had been up to during break. The report was pretty much exactly what I was expecting.

‘He’s been talking to various kids in the year below us,’ whispered Muddy, as everyone filed back into the classroom, ‘and several in the year below that as
well.’

‘Good work,’ I whispered.

‘There was a lot of chit-chat about giant frogs, or something, I didn’t really follow that bit. But I think that was just a cover. What he was trying to find out was personal
details. What their parents do for a living, what area their house is in, that kind of thing.’

‘Excellent work,’ I whispered. ‘I suppose these kids didn’t suspect him of anything?’

‘No,’ whispered Muddy. ‘They think they’ve got some great new mate. He keeps claiming he can get a discount on these frog-whatsernames.’

‘Brilliant work,’ I whispered. ‘How did you get all this information? Careful listening and deduction?’

‘No, I went up to them and asked.’

‘You
what
?’ I cried. Several of our classmates turned in our direction. ‘I told you to be casual and subtle!’

‘You told me not to use my spy gear!’ protested Muddy. ‘I had the
Whitehouse Listen-O-Phone 2000
with me in my bag, but oooh nooo, not allowed. I haven’t got
super-powered hearing, you know! I can’t eavesdrop from the other end of the playground!’

‘Harry’s going to know we’re investigating him now,’ I hissed.

‘Tut tut,’ said a voice behind us, a voice that was slimier than a snail’s handshake. That low-down rat Harry Lovecraft swanned past us, grinning his sickly grin. ‘Tut
tut, Smart; is one of your trained poodles not doing its tricks correctly?’

Muddy made a remark about tricks and trained poodles that can’t be repeated in these pages. From the other side of the classroom, Mrs Penzler clacked a ruler on her desk for attention.

‘Is there a problem? Saxby Smart? George Whitehouse?’

‘Sorry!’ I cried.

B
EFORE THE END OF THE SCHOOL DAY
, I asked the six affected pupils in Miss Bennett’s class the specific question that my
notes had suggested. The following morning, I had six specific answers.

Maggie Hamilton:
‘She left at ten, drove to the Post Office, then she was at something called Monsieur Jacques’s De-Stress Session from half ten to half eleven. Then she drove
into town for lunch with my gran, then home at one o’clock.’

Patrick Atwood:
‘At quarter past ten she walked to her weekly de-stress session, which is run by some French bloke from Dragonfang Gym. Then after that she did some shopping at
SuperSave, then came home.’

Sarah Hardy:
‘After leaving home she popped into the dentist’s to make an appointment, then she was at Monsieur Jacques’s class until half eleven, then straight
back.’

Thomas Waters:
‘She says the only place she went was to her regular de-stress class. I said to her “De-stress? Distress, more like,” because she’s so wound-up
you’d think she was clockwork. And she said to me “Stop being a cheeky little so-and-so and lay the table”. . .’ etc., etc.

Liz Wyndham:
‘Mum went to the doctor’s for 9.45. After that, she went to a weekly thing Dragonfang Gym organise. Then back home at midday.’

John Wurtzel:
‘She’s got it all in her diary, apparently. Quarter past ten, leaves the house to go to her stress-free meeting, or something like that. Then back home and she
was in her studio the rest of the day.’

‘Bingo,’ I said quietly to myself, smiling a huge smile. Then I stopped smiling and said ‘Uh-oh!’, not at all quietly.

Today was Tuesday. On Thursday there would be another of this Monsieur Jacques’s classes. During which, someone, somewhere, was going to get a visit . . .

I had two days to track down the intruder!

Think, think, think! Find out whose mums would be attending Thursday’s class. That would give me all the addresses where the intruder might strike next. But how could I know which address
would be next on the intruder’s list?

There was only one way to proceed: to get as much info as possible on this Monsieur Jacques and Dragonfang Gym. In the main hall at lunchtime, while everyone was chewing on cardboard-like pie
crust and trying to hide their uneaten peas from the dinner ladies, I talked to my friend Izzy. As those who’ve examined my earlier case files will know, Isobel Moustique is St Egbert’s
number one classroom genius, and quite possibly the girliest girl on the face of the earth. I told her the story so far as I struggled to cut into my piece of pie.

‘So,’ I said, gritting my teeth as I leaned as heavily as I dared on my knife and fork, ‘I need all the background info you can give me on both the gym and the French
guy.’

‘No problem,’ she said. ‘This Monsieur Jacques person has only been in the health and fitness business a few months, but he’s already built up quite a large list of
clients. He holds all his classes in people’s homes – yoga, weight training, relaxation, the usual thing. Each member of the class takes it in turn to host a session. He’s not
been going very long, as I said, but he’s already planning to close Dragonfang Gym at the end of the year. Apparently, he and his wife are moving to Africa to do charity work.’

‘You’re amazing,’ I gasped, open-mouthed. ‘I simply name a subject, and you know all about it! Incredible!’

‘Nnnnot really,’ said Izzy, pulling a you-poor-dumb-fool face. ‘My mum’s just signed up for one of their classes.’

‘Ah,’ I said quickly, ‘yes, I thought so, of course.’ I shovelled some peas on to my fork. They fell off.

‘And before you ask,’ said Izzy, ‘no, my mum’s class is not on a Thursday morning. It’s tonight, at six.’

‘That’s perfect,’ I said. ‘Could she get me in there? I want to observe this Monsieur Jacques at close hand.’

‘I don’t think they normally have kids at these sessions,’ said Izzy, ‘but I’m sure we can think of something.’

I chewed my way through a particularly tough section of pastry. ‘Aren’t you having the pie?’ I said.

She gave my plate one of her arch, feline looks. ‘As if,’ she said. She unzipped her pink sandwich bag and took out a pot of home-made pasta salad and a fork.

H
AVE YOU EVER NOTICED HOW
the members of some families seem almost identical, while the members of other families seem about
as alike as a pot of jam and the Empire State Building?

Izzy’s mum was as unlike her daughter as it was possible for two people to be, without major genetic re-sequencing. Whereas Isobel was all glitzy trousers and chunky rings, her mother was
sombre and businesslike.

At six o’clock that evening, as we stood together on the doorstep of number 29, Mercia Way, Izzy’s mum looked ready to march into a high-powered, top-level executive meeting and
start firing people. And that’s not an easy look to achieve in a tracksuit. I still had my school uniform on.

The door was opened by the owner of the house, Mrs Ferguson. It was her turn to host this week’s session.

‘Hallo, hallo,’ she twittered, ushering us inside. ‘Lovely to see you, Caroline. Who’s this with you?’

I’d given Izzy’s mum my carefully thought-out cover story. I was to be Matt, her adopted nephew. I was to be staying with her while my house was repaired following a gas explosion. I
was to be accompanying her this evening due to the traumatic after-effects of having my house blown up.

‘This,’ said Izzy’s mum, ‘is my daughter’s friend Saxby. He’s just tagging along.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Mrs Ferguson. ‘The more the merrier; do come along in, Monsieur Jacques has arrived and we’re ready to start.’

As we walked to the living room, I nudged Izzy’s mum in the ribs.

‘What about my carefully thought-out cover story?’ I whispered.

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Izzy’s mum. ‘Half the people here will know you from school. What on earth do you need a cover story for?’

‘It’s more detective-y,’ I grumbled.

Assembled in the living room were a dozen other women in tracksuits. Standing in front of them was a man with a hairdo shaped like a headless duck, and a moustache that set a whole new standard
for the phrase ‘thin and weedy’. He wore bright yellow trousers, and a polo-neck pullover with
Dragonfang
printed across the chest. A gold badge with a dragon logo on it was
pinned above the lettering.

So this was Monsieur Jacques. Immediately, his face seemed vaguely familiar to me.

‘Good evening, everyone,’ he cried, clapping politely for quiet. (For the full effect here, you need to read his words in a French accent as thick as week-old gravy.) ‘To
business!
Voilà!
We ’ave ze beginning exercise! Aaaaand . . .’

Everyone lined up and started sticking their legs out at weird angles. I nudged Izzy’s mum again.

‘I forgot to ask,’ I whispered. ‘Which class is this, exactly? Advanced Relaxation? Meditation For Beginners?’

‘Ballet-robics,’ said Izzy’s mum. ‘Come on, get those arms moving.’

Thumpy music started up on the CD player. If my heart had sunk any lower, I’d have been standing on it. ‘Great,’ I muttered to myself.

I reminded myself that I was here to make careful observations. I was troubled by the fact that Monsieur Jacques seemed strangely familiar. And I was even more troubled by his accent. Something,
as Monsieur Jacques would probably say, smelled of ze fish.

‘That’s it,
mes amis
!’ cried Monsieur Jacques. ‘Kick and twirl! And one, two, three, one, two, three! That is good, Mrs Ferguson! Also good, Mrs
Moustique!’

After a few minutes, he shut up a bit and started patrolling each of his pupils, tapping out the rhythm of the music with his fingers. I took the chance to ask him some deceptively innocent
questions. The first of these questions was based on a snippet of historical knowledge I’d learned during the case of
The Treasure of Dead Man’s Lane
. . .

‘This is a really brilliant class, Monsieur Jacques,’ I said, above the music’s beat. ‘Absolutely outstanding.’

He glanced at me as if I was something he’d recently picked from his nose. ‘
Merci
,’ he said. ‘Aaaand one, two —’

‘Why did you call your gym Dragonfang?’ I said. ‘Why not something more French; maybe something historical like “Waterloo”. You know, to commemorate
Napoleon’s victory?’

He tapped at his gold dragon badge. ‘Yes, of course I considered “Waterloo”, but I am ze, as you say, fan of ze martial arts movies. My favourite, it eez
Dragon Warrior Goes
Nuts in Shanghai
. You know it?’

‘
Oui!
Or, as it translates into French,
Le Penzler de Bennett Izzy de la Muddi
, yeh?’

‘
Oui
, exactly,’ he said. ‘Now then, come along, one, two —’

‘But I hear you’re closing the gym soon?’ I said, putting on my best sorrowful-puppy-dog expression.

‘Yes,’ said Monsieur Jacques, ‘ze Mrs wife and I, we do ze work for ze charity in Africa; we ’elp orphans build ze shelters for endangered species in ze Brazilian
rainforest. Soon we sell up and move there.’ He clapped his hands and raised his voice. ‘In time with ze music! Good! Lovely work, everyone! Three, four, five . . .’

I knew it! The guy was a total phoney, no more French than my Auntie Pat. And I doubted he could even point to Africa on a map showing nothing but Africa, with Africa marked in red, and a sign
saying
Africa, This Way
printed on it!

Did you spot his three mistakes?