A Trail of Trickery

by Adam Frost

  “And now we’re going to prove it to your actors,” said Wily.

  “Splendid,” said Roderick.

  “But we’ll need their help,” Wily added. “They’re going to put on the greatest ghost story ever.”

  “Marvellous,” said Roderick. “What’s it called?”

  “The Haunting of Bartholomew Bat,” said Wily. “Vladimir Vole will be the ghost of Bartholomew’s father. Gloria Gerbil will be the ghost of his wife. We’ll also need some actors to play Bartholomew’s dead friends. Bring along lots of make-up and stage lighting.”

  He gave Roderick the rest of the details and then hung up. Next he put on a giant curly wig and stuck a twirly moustache to his top lip. He called the Hapgood Hotels head office. Arlene Aardvark appeared on screen.

  “I weesh to speek to Bartholomew Bat and only heem,” Wily said in a thick French accent.

  “Mr Bat is asleep,” Arlene said. “It’s the middle of the night for him.”

  “This deal could earn heem millions of Eenglish pounds,” Wily said.

  Arlene disappeared and thirty seconds later, Bartholomew appeared in a night cap.

  “OK, who are you and what’s this about?” Bartholomew yawned.

  For a couple of seconds, Wily stared at Bartholomew. He was finally face to face with his adversary. Like most fruit bats, Bartholomew had large brown eyes that flickered red from certain angles.

  “Non!” Wily exclaimed. “I explain notheeng through a screen. We meet. I ’ave a graveyard next to the Thames. St John’s in Limehouse. You know eet? Well, I want to sell eet.”

  Bartholomew’s large eyes narrowed in suspicion. “This is a con,” he said.

  “Fine. You don’t want eet, I sell it to Merrygreen Hotels instead.”

  This seemed to work. Bartholomew gritted his teeth in distaste.

  “So,” Wily went on, “meet me at my graveyard at seven o’clock tonight and bring ’alf a million pounds. Or don’t. Ees your decision.”

  Wily hung up and yanked off his wig and moustache. He was certain he’d said enough to make Bartholomew come. Yes, the bat would be suspicious. Yes, he’d probably bring a friend or two with him. But he’d be curious about this French stranger and he wouldn’t want to lose out on the deal of the century.

  “Bring along every video camera you have,” Wily said to Albert. “This is going to be a night to remember.”

  It was six o’clock in the evening and the sun was setting over St John’s graveyard on the banks of the River Thames.

  Wily was standing next to a crypt surrounded by the cast of Escape from Spooky Manor. They were all made up as ghosts, zombies and skeletons.

  Roderick Rabbit stepped forwards. “So, darlings – you understand what’s about to happen?”

  “We’re going to frighten the animal that tried to frighten us!” Vladimir Vole exclaimed.

  “We’re going to show him how REAL actors put on a horror show,” said Gloria Gerbil.

  Roderick grinned and a tear welled up in his eye. “That’s right. Now, I’m NOT going to cry. But I’m so proud of you all.”

  All the actors hugged each other.

  Wily cleared his throat. “Ahem, we’d better take up our positions. He’ll be here soon.”

  “Of course, Mr Fox. Two minutes till curtain up!”

  The actors all scattered: some hid behind gravestones, some in bushes.

  Wily tapped the binoculars app on his spyphone and glanced around the cemetery. He spotted Albert in a tree, setting up one of his cameras. Then – there at the entrance – he saw Bartholomew Bat and Arlene Aardvark.

  Wily turned on his headset. Albert had placed microphones everywhere, so Wily could hear.

  “So, do you think this is genuine, sir?” Arlene said.

  “I’m not sure,” said Bartholomew, “but if it is, we could make a fortune. Putting a giant hotel on this graveyard would be stupendous. Right on the banks of the river.”

  “You don’t suspect that fox detective of being involved?”

  “Oh, I suspect him all right,” said Bartholomew. “But I’m pretty sure my cousin Vlad took care of him in Romania.”

  Wily made a hooting noise, like an owl. This was Roderick’s cue to start the show.

  Vladimir Vole emerged from a tomb in front of Bartholomew Bat. He was dressed as Bartholomew’s father, complete with large cape and whiskers.

  “Bartholomew,” he wailed. “What have you done…?”

  “F-father?” gibbered Bartholomew Bat, taking a step backwards.

  Arlene grabbed Bartholomew’s arm.

  “I prided myself on running an honest business,” said Vladimir, “but YOU. Scaring animals out of their wits. Then buying their property cheap.”

  “B-but I wanted you to be proud of me,” said Bartholomew, “by making the business successful.”

  “I don’t want THAT kind of success,” hissed Vladimir. “I’m ashamed of you.”

  Using a remote control, Vladimir activated a state-of-the-art smoke machine that was hidden in a bush next to him. Plumes of smoke emerged. Then Vladimir appeared to vanish.

  Bartholomew seemed to snap out of it. “What am I thinking?” He ran into the tomb but there was nobody there.

  “I’m sure that was an actor,” he said. “I’ve used tricks like that myself.”

  Arlene was looking scared. “Are you s-sure that w-wasn’t a ghost? And what did he m-mean? You b-buying up property cheap?”

  “Lies,” said Bartholomew. “That wasn’t my father’s ghost, I’m sure of it. Come on, we need to leave.”

  But as he walked back towards the exit, his path was blocked by Gloria Gerbil dressed as the ghost of Bartholomew’s wife.

  “M-Muriel,” muttered Bartholomew. But this time, he looked angry rather than scared. He ran up to Gloria and tried to grab her, growling, “This is a trick.”

  But his hand passed through air. It was a hologram of Gloria beamed into the air by a carefully placed projector. She was actually standing behind a tree right next to the hologram.

  “You used to be a good man, a kind man,” Gloria said. “What has made you so cruel?”

  “I-I try n-not to be cruel,” Bartholomew stammered, as if he were in a trance, “it’s not like I hurt anyone. I just scare them. Then buy their land.”

  “You’d better come with me,” Gloria moaned, stretching out her arms.

  Now Bartholomew was properly scared. He murmured to Arlene, “Run.”

  Arlene didn’t need to be told twice. She vanished, sprinting out of the graveyard, screaming. Bartholomew tried to fly off, but he was too frightened – his wings wouldn’t flap. Then he tried to run at the ghost and push it away, but of course he just fell straight through it.

  “Come with me now,” Gloria continued.

  Bartholomew finally managed to flap his wings and took off. But as he rose from the ground, he saw ghosts pouring from every grave – old friends, old family members and old enemies. They groaned and held up their arms towards him.

  Bartholomew stopped flapping and dropped to the ground like a stone.

  Wily took off his headset and put a white veil over his face. He moved towards where Bartholomew was standing, frozen stiff with fear. He threw smoke pellets in front of him and stood in the centre of a swirl of mist.

  “I’m the ghost of Wily Fox,” Wily said. “Your cousin killed me in the forests of Romania. And I am here for REVENGE.”

  This was the last straw for Bartholomew. He spread his wings and took off as fast as he could. But he wasn’t alone. Nine ghosts were flying behind him, shrieking and groaning. This was Roderick’s final trick. He had brought along jet packs from a production of Peter Pan. The rest of the cast were zooming towards Bartholomew, stretching out their hands.

  Wily ran down to the river where Sybil and Julius were waiting in a PSSST speedboat.

  “You got my message then?” Wily said, hopping on board.

  “Yep,” Sybil said.

  “Try and keep the boat un
der him,” said Wily, “he could drop at any moment.”

  In the sky above them, Bartholomew was flapping frantically, bouncing off buildings and bridges like a pinball. First, he hit Tower Bridge, then he veered towards the Tower of London. He bumped into Traitor’s Gate, then took off again, speeding towards London Bridge. He hit the Shard and then flapped back towards St Paul’s, where he smashed off the dome. All the time, the actors dressed as ghouls were just behind him, wailing.

  Finally Bartholomew flew across the Thames in a daze, trying to get as high as he could, before whacking into the tall chimney of the Tate Modern and tumbling down towards the river, where Wily and the PSSST speedboat were waiting to catch him.

  “Julius, Sybil, take a bow,” said Wily – as Bartholomew landed at his feet with a thump.

  Wily was standing in his office, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. This is because he was being hugged by Roderick Rabbit.

  “OK, you can stop now,” Wily said.

  “Tonight’s performance has SOLD OUT!” Roderick said, continuing to hug Wily. “My play is going to be a SMASH!”

  “Just doing my job,” Wily said, finally deciding to lift Roderick’s arms from round his waist.

  “And I’m sure this was your doing, too,” Roderick said, handing Wily a newspaper.

  Wily took the newspaper and read.

  There were thrilling scenes over the Thames last night as PSSST agents chased and captured vile villain, Bartholomew Bat.

  The bat had pretended to be a ghost and haunted the Griffin Theatre during a recent run of Escape from Spooky Manor. The brilliant play is now back in business.

  The bat’s goal was to scare everyone away from the building. Then the nocturnal ne’er-do-well planned to buy the land cheap and put up one of his high-class hotels.

  There was a full breakdown of the case.

  “I guess you gave Pete Pigeon an exclusive,” said Roderick with a grin.

  “Well … I fed him a few crumbs,” Wily said.

  “So why aren’t you mentioned in the article?” Roderick asked. “Don’t you want to hog the limelight for once?”

  Wily shrugged. “It’s better if I stay out of sight. In the shadows.”

  “You know what you remind me of?”

  “What’s that?” Wily said.

  Roderick smiled. “A ghost.”

  It was nine o’clock in the morning and the Wily Fox Detective Agency was open for business. Already there was a long queue of animals waiting outside – sheep, mice, owls, ocelots, ostriches and more.

  Inside, Wily was sitting at his desk, polishing his favourite magnifying glass with his bushy tail. He glanced up at the clock, put his magnifying glass in a drawer and pressed a button on the desk.

  “Send in the first client, Mrs Mongoose,” he said into a small microphone.

  “Certainly, Mr Fox,” replied a crackly voice.

  “I hope something good turns up today,” Wily murmured to himself. “If I hear another case of a squirrel who can’t find his nuts, I’ll—”

  At that moment, there was a loud scream followed by an enormous…

  Wily leaped to his feet and sprinted across the office.

  Outside in reception, it was chaos. There was smoke everywhere and animals were scrambling up the walls, leaping out of windows and sprinting down the stairs.

  Mrs Mongoose was flapping her arms, shouting, “Please leave the building in an orderly fashion.”

  Wily was about to dash downstairs when the smoke parted, the screaming stopped and a slinky silhouette came slowly into the room.

  The detective rubbed his eyes and blinked twice. The silhouette became an elegant young poodle with large brown eyes and soft black fur. She had a red beret perched on one side of her head.

  “Fireworks can come in very handy,” she purred in a French accent, waving an empty box of bangers. “I hope you don’t mind me – how you say – pushing in,” she added.

  Wily gave a half-smile. “No problem. That was quite a neat trick. I might use it myself some time.”

  “Dogs like to do tricks,” said the poodle. “Perhaps I will teach you some others. But for now, the show is over.”

  She walked through the empty reception, smiling at a surprised-looking Mrs Mongoose, and passed into Wily’s office.

  “It’s OK, Mrs Mongoose,” Wily said. “I’ll take it from here.” He sat down at his desk and the poodle started to speak.

  “My name is Suzie La Pooch. I own one of the greatest art galleries in Paris. Inside there are some of the most famous paintings in the world. See for yourself…”

  “Fascinating, Mademoiselle, but I am a detective, not an art critic,” Wily said, snapping the catalogue shut. “Why should this interest me?”

  “Because I have fallen in love with the wrong painting,” said Suzie.

  Wily blinked. “OK…”

  “Two weeks ago, I bought a painting from a gallery owned by a brown bear from Russia called Dimitri Gottabottomitch. The picture was small, a bit strange-looking, but I LOVED it. A day later, I got a phone call.”

  “From who?” Wily asked.

  “It was Dimitri. He said the gallery assistant had made a mistake. The painting wasn’t for sale. He wanted it back.”

  “So – let me guess – you refused?”

  “Of course I did. I’d fallen in love. I offered him more money – ten times what I’d paid – but he kept saying it wasn’t for sale. Then he called me rude names. Well, that did it. Nobody is rude to Suzie La Pooch. I hung up.”

  “That’s odd behaviour for a businessman,” Wily muttered. “Refusing ten times the asking price.”

  “Yesterday, this arrived,” said Suzie. She handed Wily a note:

  Wily looked at the handwriting. Then he smelled the paper. He thought he recognized the scent – there was brown bear, but also something else…

  “I must admit, this note unsettled me,” Suzie said. “I closed my gallery to the public. Locked the door. Turned on the alarms. Flew straight to London and came here.”

  Wily looked up. “I assume giving the painting back is not an option.”

  Suzie shook her head. “First, he is rude. Now, he is making threats. I may be a poodle on the outside, but inside I am pure Rottweiler.”

  “And you don’t want to contact the police?”

  “What if they take Dimitri’s side? Tell me to give the painting back,” said Suzie. “Besides, police officers are not very clever. I want to keep the painting and I want to know why Dimitri wants it back so badly. It seems that there’s something rather strange behind it all.”

  “True,” said Wily. “OK, I’ll take the case. Return to your gallery at once and I’ll follow on. You may have locks and alarms, but Dimitri will have crowbars and drills. We need to make the place a fortress. Then we’ll work out why the painting is so special.”

  “Merci, Monsieur Fox,” said Suzie, “I knew I could count on you. See you in Paris this afternoon.”

  The poodle picked up her catalogue and walked out.

  Wily pressed another button on his desk. The speaker crackled. “Did you get all that, Albert?” he asked.

  A squeaky voice replied, “Of course.”

  “Good,” said Wily. “I’m on my way down.”

  He walked over to a bookcase and pulled out a copy of Fantastic Mr Fox. The bookcase slid across to reveal a fireman’s pole that was at least a mile long.

  Wily put on a pair of gloves and thigh pads that were hanging on the wall. Then he leaped on to the pole and started to hurtle downwards. After a couple of minutes, Wily gripped with the thigh pads to slow his pace. He landed with a soft pouf on a crash mat in the middle of an underground laboratory.

  “Morning, Albert,” said Wily. “What have you got for me today?”

  A small mole with huge glasses emerged from the shadows.

  “So, I hear you’re going to Paris…” He yanked a piece of rope that was under his arm, and a curtain whipped aside to reveal a moped.


  “This is called a Vespa,” he said. “Everyone there has one. However, yours is slightly different.” The mole pulled a lever on the side of the bike and a gigantic rocket slid out of the back.

  “It can fly,” Albert said proudly.

  He pulled another lever and a large corkscrew popped out of the front. “And it digs tunnels.”

  He pointed at a third lever. “And if you pull that, it turns into a submarine.”

  “Wow,” said Wily. “Anything else?”

  “Actually, there is,” said Albert. “If you whistle, it will come to you. Within a distance of a hundred metres. And if you tap that screen, you can talk to me at any time.”

  Wily smiled. “Does it serve coffee, too?”

  “Er, actually, no,” Albert apologized. “I didn’t, er, think about that…”

  “I’m only joking, Albert,” said Wily. “It’s brilliant!” He climbed on. “Now, show me how this rocket works. I have to be in Paris by midday.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Adam Frost writes children’s books full of jokes, animals, amazing gadgets – and ideally all three! When he was young, his favourite book was Roald Dahl’s Fantastic Mr Fox, so writing about fantastic foxes all day is pretty much his dream job. His previous books include Ralph the Magic Rabbit and Danny Danger and the Cosmic Remote.

  www.adam-frost.com

  ABOUT THE ILLUSTRATOR

  Emily Fox is an Illustrator living in Bristol. She graduated from Falmouth University in 2013 and has been freelancing ever since. Emily loves to draw fun characters, mostly in her favourite blue pencil crayon.