The Case of the Elevator Duck

by Polly Berrien Berends

  Originally published by Random House in 1973. First Stepping Stone edition, 1989.

  Text copyright © 1973 by Polly Berrien Berends, copyright renewed 2001 by Polly Berrien Berends. Illustrations copyright © 1989 by Diane Allison. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Random House Children’s Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  www.randomhouse.com/kids

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Berends, Polly Berrien. The case of the elevator duck / by Polly Berrien Berends ; illustrated by Diane Allison.

  p. cm. — (A Stepping stone book)

  SUMMARY: Chronicles the adventures of an eleven-year-old detective that result from finding a duck in the elevator of his apartment building.

  eISBN: 978-0-307-80869-1

  [1. City and town life—Fiction.] I. Allison, Diane Worfolk, ill. II. Title.

  PZ7.B4482Cas 1989 [Fic]—dc19 88-23971

  RANDOM HOUSE and colophon are registered trademarks and A STEPPING STONE BOOK and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  v3.1

  With special thanks to E.F. and S.A.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  1. A Duck Out of Water

  2. Webfooted Friend

  3. Ruffled Feathers

  4. Dead Duck?

  5. Hatching a Plan

  6. Sitting Ducks

  7. Just Ducky

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Other Books by This Author

  1

  A Duck Out of Water

  On weekends and evenings and vacations I am a detective. I do not wear a disguise. I do not need disguises because I am only eleven years old. Nobody suspects an eleven-year-old boy of being a detective. My name is Gilbert. I live in a housing project. I live in 12H.

  Someday I am going to be a full-time detective. So for now I practice every chance I get. For instance, I make it my business to ride the elevator. This is the best way to keep track of who comes and goes. In our building everyone comes and goes by the elevators—except sometimes the people on the second floor use the fire stairs.

  Two days ago at 8:15 A.M. I step into an Up elevator. I ride alone to the top floor—the 25th. I do not get off. The elevator goes down. It stops at nearly every floor. As usual at 8:15 the elevator is jammed by the time we reach the 17th floor. There is a lot of pushing and grunting. I think I will be crushed to death by this fat lady in front of me. But I do not say anything. Probably she is thinking she will be crushed by the man in front of her. Besides I think we will all die anyway from this other man’s stinking cigar.

  Finally the elevator reaches the lobby and everyone gets off. Everyone except me. Now is when I head back to 12H for breakfast. I make my move. As the lady in front of me gets off I step to the front of the elevator and press close to the wall where the self-service buttons are. I wait nervously for the doors to close. I do not like anyone to notice that I stay on the elevator. I do not want people getting wise to me.

  The doors close. No one has seen me. I push the 12 button and get ready to relax. Then it happens. I get this feeling. I know that I am not alone. Slowly I turn my head to one side. I look out of the corner of one eye. I am right. I am not alone. There is a duck in the elevator with me. A white duck with orange feet.

  Ducks are not allowed in our building. No Pets of Any Sort are allowed in the projects. So if anyone gets on this elevator now and sees me and this duck together, I am going to be in bad trouble. It is not easy to get into the projects—especially a low-income project like ours. The rent is low and they’ve got plenty of water and heat and all. You have to show need before you can even get on the waiting list. We waited two years before our number came up.

  “No way!” I say to the duck. “I am not going to get us kicked out of here for no duck no how.”

  I look away. If anybody does get onto the elevator, he will not see me paying any attention to any duck.

  But the elevator goes straight to 12 without stopping. The doors open and I dash out. I am safe. I will go and have my breakfast in peace, and the elevator will carry the duck to some other floor.

  And then what? Who will find that duck next? What if it’s the Housing Inspector? What if it’s somebody that likes to eat duck?

  I turn around and look into the elevator. The duck is just standing there on these ridiculous orange feet—looking at me.

  As the doors start to close, the dumb duck quacks. I can’t stand it. I stick my arms through the closing doors just in time. The doors open. I grab the duck and charge down the hall. Ducks are not my usual line of work. But I don’t have anything against them either. And I just don’t like the idea of anyone cooking a duck that has looked me straight in the eye and quacked.

  “O.K., Easter,” I say, “I’ll take your case.”

  2

  Webfooted Friend

  I call him Easter because I figure he is probably some kid’s leftover Easter present. Easter was a long time ago, but that’s the only time we ever get ducks coming into our neighborhood. At Easter there are always a lot of guys around selling baby ducks and chicks and bunnies from the country. They go for a couple of dollars, and most of them get sold to aunts and uncles who like to make kids smile but who will not be around to see what happens next. What happens next is that after a few days most of the animals die. And the children cry. But by the next Easter nobody remembers that.

  It is almost September. Next week I will go back to school. I figure Easter the duck must be special if he has managed to stay alive in the city all the way from Easter to September.

  Maybe one reason he is still alive is because he is good at keeping quiet. When I get into 12H I put him into the laundry hamper until I can have a talk with my mother. I peek through the air holes in the side of the hamper. The duck just sits there peeking back at me, not making any noise at all. Maybe he is stupid or maybe it’s just that he isn’t a quacker. My mother says that I am still waters that run deep. I guess she means I think a lot even though I don’t say much. Maybe Easter is like that.

  Probably Easter is still alive because somebody who really loves him has been taking good care of him. I think it is important to find that somebody.

  I explain all this to my mother at breakfast. I tell her how Easter quacked me straight in the eye. But she does not like the idea of a duck in our apartment one bit.

  “We wait two years to get into the projects,” she says, “and now you bring home a duck. A duck! If the housing police catch us with a duck in our apartment, we will all be out on the street. No, Gilbert, I won’t have it!”

  I take my mother’s hand and lead her into the bathroom. I lift up the lid of the hamper.

  “Look, Mama,” I say.

  We both look. Easter is still sitting there—real quiet—on my striped pajamas. He tips his head to one side and looks up at Mama. Maybe this is the only way a duck can look up, but it is still a pretty cute thing to do.

  Mama puts the lid back down on the hamper and steers me by the head back to the kitchen.

  “If your father were here—” she says, and I know then that I’m home free. My father isn’t here. He’s in the merchant marines and he won’t be home again until the end of next month.

  Mama gives me three days to find Easter’s owner. I tell her I think she is a pretty cool lady. She is.

  3

  Ruffled Feathers

  After breakfast Mama and I move Easter into the b
athtub. We do not know anything about ducks, but we give him some water and some rolled oats. He takes a little of both. Then he makes a mess in the bottom of the tub and starts cleaning himself with his bill. I guess he feels at home. While I am cleaning up the tub he comes over and pushes my arm. What do you know—he’s even friendly!

  I would like to stay and play with him, but three days is not very long and I better get busy. Easter pulls out one of his wing feathers. I pick it up and start thinking.

  First I ask myself what are the facts. I am pretty sure Easter is a lost duck and not a ducknapped one. After all, nobody would go to all the trouble of stealing a duck and then leave it in the elevator.

  No, I am pretty sure Easter just walked into that elevator himself. I also think he is a project duck. Even Easter could not have walked through our neighborhood and stayed alive. The dogs would have gotten him. Or the cats. Or the kids. So Easter must be a lost project duck, who happened to wander out of somebody’s apartment and into the elevator. Maybe he was following his owner.

  I also know that whoever lost Easter loves and misses him very much. Anyone who would dare to hide a duck in the projects would have to be either crazy or in love with the duck. I mean, who wants to get kicked out on account of a duck? This thought reminds me I better get busy.

  The doorbell rings. I answer and it’s—bonk, bonk—Dennis Herter. Dennis says “hey” all the time, and just like now he is always bouncing a basketball and sort of nodding his head in a cool way.

  “You wanna shoot a few, Gilbert?” he says. “Hey, you wanna?”

  “No, man,” I say. “I’d like to, but I can’t today. I’m on a case.”

  “On a case, hey?” says Dennis. “Sure, sure. Big detective.”

  He shuffles off down the hall, bouncing his ball. Bonk, bonk, bonk. Dennis always talks tough and like he couldn’t care less. Actually we are very good friends.

  It is nearly noon when I walk out of 12H. I am still carrying Easter’s wing feather and I still do not have any idea of where to look for his owner. I cannot put a note on the bulletin board in the laundry room because nobody in the projects, including me, is going to admit to having anything to do with a duck. I also can’t just go from door to door asking because you never know who is going to report you to the Housing Inspector. Besides, there are too many apartments for me to check in three days.

  At 12:15 I step into the Down elevator. This is what I always do at noon—just to see who comes and goes. Besides, since I haven’t a better plan, I think it is best to start looking for Easter’s owner at the scene of the crime—where I found him, I mean.

  At this time of day the elevator is usually empty going down and full going up. Today is no different. It is on the way down that I get two ideas.

  My first idea is that I will look for familiar faces from this morning’s run. Easter did not ring for the elevator by himself, so he must have gotten on with somebody else. Maybe that somebody saw him get on? I am not too hopeful about this idea.

  Then suddenly this really cool idea pops into my head. It’s about Easter’s wing feather. I take off my belt and put it around my head. Then I stick the feather into the back of the belt. To most people I will just look like any other kid playing Indian. But to Easter’s owner I hope I will look like somebody with one of Easter’s feathers.

  As usual at lunchtime the Up elevator is full of women who have been grocery shopping or who only work half days. I do not see anyone from the 8:15 run. They are mostly nine-to-five workers who don’t come home until around 6:00. Nobody pays any attention to me and my duck feather.

  I spend most of the afternoon wandering around the building, hoping that the right person will see me in my duck feather and ask about Easter. At 3:35 P.M. I even try hitting my hand over my mouth and yelling “woo-woo-woo” at the top of my lungs in the laundry room. But all that happens is that this skinny lady tells me, “Look, kid, if you want to play Indians go out on the playground where you belong.”

  I follow the skinny lady’s suggestion and try my woo-woo-woo approach on the playground. This time I am noticed all right, but all that happens is some little kids start yelling “woo-woo-woo,” too, and “bang-bang-you’re-dead.” They just want to play cowboys and Indians.

  By this time I am fairly discouraged so I decide to go along with the game for a while. I think I am too old to be playing cowboys and Indians but that this is as good a way as any to advertise Easter’s feather.

  I have just been shot and am comfortably playing dead by the sandbox, thinking that it’s too bad to outgrow things, when the worst happens. I hear this bonk, bonk, bonk sound next to my ear. I open my eyes and it’s Dennis Herter standing over me, shaking his head.

  “On a case, hey?” he says. “Too busy to shoot baskets? Too young is more like it.”

  “Yeah! No kidding!” I say. “I’m working now. This is all part of my plan.”

  I can see he doesn’t believe me, but I don’t try to argue. I mean, what’s the point?

  At 5:00 P.M. I am still playing cowboys and Indians. About this time people start picking up kids from the Day Care Center. All these little kids who have working mothers go by on their way home. I think for a minute that this one sad-eyed little kid is watching me. Maybe he is looking at my duck feather? I go over to him hopefully, but he just runs along after his big sister.

  It’s about time for me to head back to the elevators. Pretty soon the nine-to-five workers will be coming home, including the ones that were with Easter and me in the elevator this morning.

  This time I do not get on the elevator. There are two elevators. I do not want to be up in one while the somebody who got on with Easter this morning goes up in the other. I stay in the lobby until 6:30 P.M. I recognize five faces from this morning. This proves that all my detective practice is working. Of the five people I recognize, I manage to speak to four about Easter. Well, I don’t exactly mention Easter. I just ask if they noticed anything unusual in the elevator this morning. Or if they lost anything. They didn’t. At least the four people I speak to didn’t.

  By 6:30 the lobby is empty. A few people are still coming in, but I give up and decide to go home for supper. I push the button for the elevator. When it comes, there is this same sad-eyed kid in it. I hold the door for him to get off, but he just stands there.

  I say, “Don’t you want to get off?”

  But he keeps standing there. Well, I figure he is just a little kid who likes to ride elevators. I can understand that. I sort of dig them myself. So I push the 12 button and head for home. All the way up this kid keeps looking at me. He doesn’t say anything. Once he sort of smiles, but mostly he just keeps looking at me out of the saddest eyes you ever saw. Even after I get off at 12 I keep seeing those sad eyes in my mind.

  Nothing much more happens that day. I fool around with Easter in the bathroom, but I don’t do any more detective work. It’s not that I’m lazy. It’s just that I don’t have any more ideas. I have two more nights and two more days left to find Easter’s owner. But I don’t have any more ideas.

  I ask my mother what will happen if I don’t find Easter’s owner. She says we will have to take him to an animal shelter. I know what that means. The End. Nobody in this city is going to adopt a full-grown duck, so the shelter will put him to sleep. Forever.

  4

  Dead Duck?

  Things go just as badly the next morning, and I am feeling cross and tired when I come home for lunch. I open the door and see my mother looking scared. In the living room are two men. One is a housing policeman. I can tell by his uniform. The other is the Housing Inspector. He is carrying a clipboard.

  Now I know what is wrong with Mama. Once in a while the Housing Inspector goes through the apartments in the projects. He is supposed to make sure that everything is clean and that no rules are being broken. He checks that you don’t have extra people living with you. No air conditioners. No Pets of Any Sort. Anything like that is called an Infraction of the Housing Regu
lations and you can get kicked out of the projects for it. Right now it is our turn to be inspected. And right now we have a white-feathered, orange-footed infraction named Easter in our bathtub! Not cool!

  “You don’t mind if we just have a quick look around, do you?” the Housing Inspector is saying.

  “Well,” says Mama.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  I make it to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. Easter quacks hello and I cough loud and hard to cover up. I take Easter’s rolled oats and water and put them in the linen closet. Easter I put into the hamper.

  Next I flush the toilet. While the toilet is making its flushing noise, I run water in the bathtub and wash Easter’s latest messes down the drain.

  “Now, be quiet,” I whisper into the hamper.

  Then I walk back into the living room—real slow—whistling a little.

  Mama keeps our apartment cleaner than anybody’s, so the Housing Inspector does not look very hard. Just the same my heart is pounding like mad when he sticks his head into our bathroom. I mean, just suppose Easter decides to quack hello to him!

  But good old Easter doesn’t say anything. Pretty soon the Housing Inspector and the policeman go away.

  I am in the middle of rescuing Easter from the hamper when Mama comes in and starts giving me her mad look. One night about two months ago two big guys shook me upside down to see if I had any money in my pockets and then gave me a black eye because I didn’t. Mama is looking at me now the same way she did when she saw my black eye. Actually it’s a scared look. I know she isn’t really mad.

  “I’m sorry, Mama,” I tell her.

  She tells me she’s sorry, too. She says she knows she gave me three days to find Easter’s owner, but she has changed her mind. It is too dangerous to keep a duck around. She doesn’t know what we would do if we got thrown out of the projects. Neither do I. She says if I don’t find Easter’s owner by tomorrow morning, we will have to take him to the animal shelter.