by Georgia Byng
“What, and get recognized again?” said Molly sharply. “Who knows who’ll be down at the pool? If Cell really is who Lucy says he is, he’ll maybe have spies about. We can’t risk it.”
Rocky breathed out exasperatedly. “I suppose you’re right.” He picked up a photograph of Cell and began to draw a beak and wings on him.
In the distance the hotel parrot squawked, “Have a nice day, have a nice day.”
Molly closed the curtains against the sun, and picking up the hotel’s video-rental menu, she resigned herself to a day of watching movies.
Eleven
At ten that night, Molly left Mrs. Trinklebury sipping a pink drink and eating pretzels in the hotel lobby, where she was blissfully happy to be overhearing Hollywood gossip about the Academy Awards. She was completely ignorant as to where Molly, Rocky, Petula, and Nockman were really going.
Outside, they made their way to the bus stop across the street from the hotel’s driveway. Molly and Rocky were wearing canvas hats to help hide their faces. Nockman was dressed in a black turtleneck and black trousers. He was carrying a small canvas bag that Molly supposed had tools in it.
“You look, erm, professional,” said Molly.
“Sank you,” said Nockman.
“It’s his cat-burglar look,” Rocky whispered in her ear. “I hope it’s not too professional looking. We don’t want to look suspicious. I’ll take the tools.”
Petula sniffed the air. For some reason it was full of the scents of lots of dogs very nearby. She looked around and saw behind her a huge cutout of a dog’s face. Below it were the words BELLA’S POODLE SALON AND DOG HOTEL. Although the writing didn’t make sense to Petula, the smells did. Her nose sensed a Labrador, a Yorkshire terrier, a bulldog, and some sort of oriental-smelling dog. There were other dog breeds she didn’t recognize at all. On top of all their scents were shampoo smells, perfumes, and the aromas of essential oils. The place was obviously a dog beauty parlor. Petula hoped that after they’d done whatever was making Molly nervous, she’d get to go there for a wash and blow-dry.
“Arrooof!” she barked at Molly, to show her what she’d found. But Molly hardly heard her. Scary thoughts were rolling around and around her brain like snakes on roller skates.
Perhaps, she thought, Primo Cell had other hypnotists working in the building—big thugs who worked all night as security guards. What would she and Rocky say if they were caught? How would they explain Nockman, who would be standing there all dopey and hypnotized? To Molly it felt as scary as diving off a boat into the sea where lots of sharks swam.
“Do you think he works late?” she asked Rocky nervously.
“Nah,” Rocky replied. “He likes to go out at night with all his famous pals. His hypnotized celebrities, I mean. You can bet he’ll be in a fancy restaurant somewhere.”
The blue-and-white sixty-seven bus shook them from their worries by stopping with an air-expelling sigh. They climbed aboard, and fed the meter with tokens they’d bought at the hotel. Molly was glad it was practically empty.
The bus chugged westward. On both sides of the streets were interesting buildings. The Cowboy’s Retreat was a log cabin fronted with flashing neon lights. The Emerald Crown was a hotel shaped like a wedding cake with a carpet that rolled down to the road like a green beach meeting a tarmac sea. They passed another GANDOLLI FOR PRESIDENT poster. It was next to a giant lizard-shaped billboard above a record store. The purple Groovy Lizzening reptile was wearing sunglasses and earphones and looked much more cool than the cheesy cowboy-hatted politician. Crowds of people swarmed around the entrance to a music venue called Whiskey-A-Go-Go. A slat board on the side of it showed who was performing tonight.
“Wow, I’d like to go there,” said Rocky.
Molly was looking at a person sitting under a lit-up sign that read STAR MAPS FOR SALE HERE.
“What are star maps?” she asked the bus driver.
“They’re maps that have all the streets in Beverly Hills and Hollywood on them, and they’re marked to show you where all the stars live,” he told her, repositioning one of his ornamental cactuses on the dashboard.
“What?” said Molly. “You mean the maps show you exactly how you can get to the stars’ houses?”
“Yeah, of course. You can see what the outside of their homes look like, but you can’t go near ‘em. They got security and guards—otherwise fans would be crawlin’ over their grounds.”
Molly was amazed. “Are we in Beverly Hills now?”
“Yeah. See the way the curb is kept so pretty with all the flowers? And up those streets there, it’s even more pretty. They got palm-tree avenues an’ lawns, an’ if you go way up into the hills, you get the real big mansions. But now we’re heading toward one of the business districts.” The bus shot past a big pink building called the Beverly Hills Hotel.
“It would cost me two weeks’ salary just to stay one night there in their cheapest room,” said the driver.
Soon they were in Westwood.
“Nice meetin’ ya,” the driver said.
With a squirting-air sound, the doors of the bus closed. And as if relieved to have farted, the bus went meandering down the road. Molly, Rocky, Petula, and Nockman stood on a wide sidewalk near the entrance to a smaller street called Orchid Avenue. Halfway down it, big and reflective, its walls made of dark-blue glass, was the Cell Center, Primo Cell’s building. Molly recognized it at once. Its flat roof was crowned by a giant golden emblem—a huge disk that looked as if two black claws were turning and swirling around a golden plate. Molly shivered.
A small park with lemon trees lay opposite. Trying to look as unnoticeable as possible, Molly and Rocky led Nockman and Petula over to a bench. Petula began to investigate smells. It was a good spot from which to watch the entrance to Cell’s fortress.
“That symbol on top looks like claws grabbing a coin,” said Rocky.
“Or black flames devouring a golden world,” suggested Molly.
“Or black eyelashes around the golden pupil of an eye. But if you don’t know about Cell, then it just looks like a strange design.”
“You don’t think Cell is hanging about in there, do you?” asked Molly.
“There’s only one way of finding out.”
Twelve
The investigative party made its way up the mosaic path to the night-lit entrance of Cell’s building. Under her feet, Molly noticed, was the black-and-white image of a magpie picked out in tiles. Nockman followed, waddling like a penguin.
The black glass door opened as they walked toward it, and a burly security guard with short, spiky hair stared at them ominously, his eyes hooded by forestlike eyebrows.
“Can I help?” he asked, in a voice that suggested he would prefer to strangle them.
“Yes, please,” Molly replied politely, but inside she was smoldering. She never liked rude grown-ups. Who did this hyena man think he was? Confidently, she raised her green eyes to his.
Molly’s hypnotic power was leagues ahead of any normal hypnotist’s. In a few seconds she could absorb the atmosphere that surrounded a person and judge where his weaknesses were. She could feel how much hypnotic pressure he would need before he gave in. As she eyeballed the security guard, the fusion gauge inside her, like a thermometer and an oven timer in one, told her that old Spiky-hair was well and truly cooked. He stood with an expression of awe on his face, as if he’d just seen a goddess.
“Are you alone here?” Molly asked.
“Yes.”
Molly glanced around for closed-circuit cameras and spotted two. “Who looks at the film on the cameras?” she asked. “Is someone looking at them now?”
“No.” The guard shook his head. “The film—goes into—a memory bank and—is looked at only—if there is a problem. Like a robbery—or a break-in. I have a—panic button—that alerts the—police. They then call the com—pany where the film—can be viewed.”
“On no account are you to press that button tonight.”
“N
o, ma’am.”
“Okay. You must take us up to Primo Cell’s office immediately. Are you expecting anyone in tonight?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you ever get unannounced visitors? Does Mr. Cell ever—pop in?”
“Sometimes, ma’am.”
“Do you know where he is tonight?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Well, I think you’d better show us up.”
After a ride in a silver-walled elevator, Molly, Petula, Rocky, and Nockman found themselves walking along a blue stone passage into a circular rotunda. There the marble walls bore the same image of the clawlike motif. At a black door, the night watchman punched a code number into an electronic lock. The door opened softly, and they were inside Cell’s office.
The room was bathed in a denim-blue light—the street lighting that filtered through the blue glass windows.
“You may return to your desk,” said Molly. “When you are out of our sight, you will forget that we are here and that you are hypnotized. You will behave as normally as you can. If Mr. Cell arrives, you must call up to this room—without him hearing—and tell us he’s here. We’ll let ourselves out. What’s the number for the door?”
“Zero—nine—six—zero.”
“Good. You can go now.” The guard left.
“Okay, let’s get down to business,” said Molly. “Where does he lock things up?”
She cast her eyes around the modern room. There was a floor-to-ceiling window at one end overlooking the little park. On one wall hung a huge oil painting of a beautiful magpie, sitting in a nest full of shiny things—coins, jewelry, precious golden objects, and a big, icy diamond. The opposite wall was lined with bookshelves. The floor was striped black and white. A black-lacquer art-deco desk stood in front of the window. On it were two white elephant tusks set on silver bases, pointing to the ceiling.
“How disgusting,” said Rocky. “I’d rather be shot myself than have an elephant tusk as an ornament.” Then he looked at the floor, and his mouth dropped open. He crouched down and stroked it. “The carpet is wall-to-wall zebra skin. A zebra-fur carpet!” Rocky was too appalled to be able to say what he felt about this. Petula sniffed the floor. It smelled like horse.
Feeling like a fish in the blue, waterlike light, Molly threw him a pair of Bubblealot rubber gloves.
“Here,” she said. “Put these on. We mustn’t leave fingerprints.” Wearing her own pair of gloves, she crossed the room to Primo Cell’s desk and began opening drawers.
Rocky checked the bookcase for a hidden safe.
Nockman stood silently by, waiting for instructions.
In a bottom drawer Molly came across some documents that showed what businesses Primo had recently bought. More papers listed the money his companies had made. The biggest ones were Primospeed, Compucell, and Cell Oil, but even the smaller ones—In the Groove, Vitawell, Shlick Shlack, Fashion House, and Mightie Lighties—were massively successful. Molly had never seen such big numbers as those that blinked out from Primo Cell’s bank statements. But these numbers weren’t what they were looking for.
Then, as Molly was about to scoop up what looked like an address book, she felt something soft under her fingers. She pulled it out. In her hand was a small black mink glove. It would have fitted Molly perfectly.
“Rocky, look at this. Is it …?”
She looked in the drawer to find the glove’s partner.
“Why would Primo Cell have a child’s fur glove in his desk?” she whispered hoarsely.
Rocky was about to open his mouth when they heard voices in the hallway outside.
Thirteen
Molly quickly pulled Nockman behind the desk and pushed him under it. They all sank breathlessly out of sight, like two minnows and a sea slug diving behind a rock.
“You will be as quiet as … as a dead person,” Molly whispered frantically.
Nockman immediately rolled up his eyes and stuck out his tongue.
“It can’t be Primo Cell,” hissed Rocky, “or the watchman would have called up.”
The electronic lock bleeped four times.
“Petula!” Molly gasped. Petula was examining the mane of the zebra skin in the corner of the room. It smelled of some hot, faraway place. She spat out the stone she was sucking to have a good sniff.
The door to the room opened and a woman’s voice, suddenly loud, said, “Sumpshus toilet paper’s going well.”
Molly prayed desperately that Petula would come over quickly, before the lights were turned on.
“It’s been helped by the campaign with that boxer …” said the woman.
“King Moose,” prompted a man’s voice.
“Yeah, by King Moose saying that it’s tough enough for him to use.”
The lights then blazed. Molly was so scared, she thought she might faint. The vein in her throat was pumping so hard that her neck hurt. If the pair, whoever they were, came too far toward the window, they would see her, Rocky, and Nockman squashed under the desk. As for Petula, she was an alarm bell just waiting to ring.
The people were standing by the magpie picture.
“Have you seen the commercial?” asked the man.
“King Moose having a boxing match with an animated toilet roll, and losing? Yes, it made me laugh.”
“And you don’t do that too often, Sally.”
“No need to be cutting, Sinclair. You’re not a bundle of fun yourself.”
“The job sobers me up.”
“Maybe you should put more comedy on your channels,” suggested Sally.
“There’s lots of comedy,” said Sinclair. “I just don’t have time to watch it. Our father works me too hard. Now can we hurry up? Surely you know where the file is; you’re in here every day.”
All was silent except for the noise of shifting box files as Sally searched. Molly was rigid with nerves. Rocky stared at the floor, trying to be as still as a piece of furniture, hoping that he’d left everything in order.
“This is it,” said Sally’s voice. “It’s a small company that makes watches. It’s called Timezze. Dad’s letting me handle the project on my own. He thinks we should be able to pump Timezze up until every other person in America wears one of them. I’m going to try my hardest to make it happen. I’ll get that Tony Wam to promote them. ‘A kung fu kick has to be right ON TIME’. It’ll be that kind of ad campaign. I can’t wait to tell Primo.”
“You’re very eager to please.”
“That’s all right for you to say, Teacher’s Pet.”
“Let’s not start that argument again. So what do you want me to do?”
“Give the watches some free advertising time on Iceberg TV, of course,” said Sally. “Here, you take these copies.” Molly froze as the man’s steps neared the other side of the desk. Suddenly he said, “I don’t believe it. That dog’s gotten in here again.”
Petula looked up from her corner behind the door.
“What dog?”
“This dog, this pug—look. They told me a dog got into the building yesterday, and look, it’s back again. How did it get in?”
Molly opened her mouth wide, but no noise came out.
“Poor little thing—I wonder how long it’s been here. Here, sweetie.” Molly heard Petula shuffling up to the strange woman. She was always a sucker for having her tummy tickled.
“Aw, look at it, the darling. Shall I tickle your tumtum? I suppose it wants to audition for one of your dog-food ads, Sinclair.” Sally laughed. “Aw, she’s so sweet. Look at her li’l nose. Oh, you gotta give her a job, Sinclair!”
“I’ll call her in for the dog-biscuit commercial next week,” said Sinclair, chuckling.
“Shall I take her home?”
Molly bit her lip.
“No, Sally. The dog lives around here. Get a grip. We’ll just drop her outside on the way out.” With that, the lights in the room went off. “Come on, puggy,” said Sinclair with a whistle.
“She doesn’t want to come. She wants
to sign a contract first,” laughed Sally.
Go on. Go ON, thought Molly.
Sally must have picked Petula up then, because the next thing they knew, the door had closed and the conversation between Sinclair and Sally faded.
Molly and Rocky waited for several minutes before daring to crawl out of their hiding place. Molly found her legs were shaking. Until she’d been trapped behind the desk, she hadn’t properly realized the seriousness of the situation they were in. They lay on their stomachs and peered out of the window. Soon they saw the heads of Sinclair and Sally emerge from the office. The dark-haired woman put Petula down, then laughed and pointed as Petula walked straight up to the door of the building again. Petula did look like some sort of budding acting dog who couldn’t take no for an answer. Sinclair irritatedly beckoned for the woman to get into the sports car parked at the curb. With a noisy rev of its engine, they were gone.
“Brrrrr.” Molly shivered. “Let’s get on with this. We’ve gotta get out of here.”
She bent down to Nockman. “You can be alive now, but nice and quiet please.” Nockman clambered out. “There must be somewhere else here where Cell keeps his secret stuff,” said Molly.
“Unless he keeps it all at home.”
Molly looked up at the picture of the magpie.
Moments later Nockman was balancing on a velvet chair and, wearing Bubblealot gloves, was lifting the picture off the wall. There, like a second sunken picture, was a microwave-oven-sized safe. In the center of it was a copper-colored dial with little numbers etched around it.
“Bing—o,” said Nockman, knocking his head against the safe enthusiastically.
“Can you open it?” asked Molly.
“Sure—sing,” declared Nockman. “Zis is a Glock and Guttman, 1965. A beauty. I’fe opened sree of zeese before. Zay are—like rich old—ladies—difficult to charm, but worse it.”
“Worth it?”
“Yes, worse it.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Trinklebury would be happy to hear you say that,” said Molly, thinking how close to the surface of his skin were his old criminal ways. Nockman looked ashamed.
