“Good day,” Theodora said to her.
“Who are you?” Polly Partial asked. She was standing next to a basket of honeydew melons. I do not like honeydew melons. I do not see the point of them.
“My name is S. Theodora Markson, and this is my apprentice,” Theodora said, and took the flyer from my hand. “We’re looking for this person.”
Polly Partial peered at the frowning girl. “That’s Cleo Knight,” she said, pointing to the words printed above the photograph.
“Yes, we know,” Theodora said. “I was wondering if you had seen her recently.”
“Hard to say,” Polly Partial said. “She looks like any other runaway girl, even if she is from a wealthy family. Is there a reward? With enough money, I could retire and devote myself to raising minks.”
The Knights had not said anything about a reward, but Theodora did not say anything about there not being one. “Only if you help us,” she said. “Have you seen this girl?”
The shopkeeper squinted at the flyer. “Yesterday morning,” she said, “about ten thirty. She hurried in here to buy that silly breakfast food she likes.” She led us down an aisle and pulled down a box for us to see. It was Schoenberg Cereal, the brand Zada and Zora had mentioned. TWELVE WHOLESOME GRAINS COMBINED IN A STRICT SEQUENCE, the label read. I could not imagine who would eat such a thing in a kitchen where fresh-baked cinnamon rolls could be had.
“The Knights are the only ones who buy it,” Polly Partial said, “although usually it’s one of those twin servants who does the shopping.”
“Did she say anything?” Theodora asked.
“She said thanks,” Polly said, “and then she said she was running away to join the circus.”
My chaperone scratched her hair. “The circus?”
“That’s what she said,” said Polly Partial.
“Aha!” Theodora cried.
“Then she walked outside and got into a taxicab and went off.”
“Aha!”
I didn’t see anything to aha! about, but I’ve never been an aha! sort of person. “What was she wearing?” I asked.
Theodora gave me an exasperated sigh. “What did I tell you about your interest in fashion?” she said. “A young man who asks too much about clothing will find himself the subject of unflattering rumors.”
“You can see for yourself what she was wearing,” Polly Partial said, and handed me back the flyer. “The Knight family always wears black and white, to honor the family business and the paper it’s scrawled on. I remember the hat surprised me. It wasn’t black and it wasn’t white. It looked French.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Ms. Partial,” Theodora said. “I’m sure the Knights will thank you.”
“Of course, everything looks French when you stop to think about it.”
“You’re a very reliable witness,” I couldn’t help saying, and Polly Partial looked at me like she had never seen me before.
“Off with you,” she said. “I have canned smelt to stack.”
We left the store and stood in the street. Overhead the clouds talked with the wind about whether or not it should rain again. “Well, I’d say the case is solved,” Theodora said, and her hair ruffled in agreement. “Dr. Flammarion was right. There is no crime. The Knight girl ran away from home. She drove into town, bought the supplies she needed, and took a taxi to join the circus. Do you have any questions?”
I had so many questions that they fought for a minute in my head over which one got to ask itself first. “Why didn’t she need more than cereal?” was the winner. “Why didn’t she leave a note?” was in second place, followed by “Why wouldn’t she run away in her car?”
Theodora waved her gloved hand at me like I was a bad smell. “Be sensible,” she said. “There is no indication of a crime. I’m going to write the report myself so I get full credit for solving the case.”
“We should investigate further,” I said.
“That’s what you said last time,” Theodora reminded me, putting on her helmet and opening the door of the roadster, “and the only thing you investigated was that silly girl. Girls and fashion, Snicket. You are too easily distracted.”
I felt myself blush. It is not a feeling I like. My ears get hot, and my face gets red, and it is no way to win an argument. “I’m going to walk back to the Lost Arms if you don’t mind,” I said. “It’s only a couple of blocks.”
“By all means,” Theodora said. “You’d only be a fifth wheel if you hung around our headquarters while I wrote my report. In fact, Snicket, why don’t you make yourself scarce until dinnertime?”
She shut the door of the roadster and drove off. I waited for the sound of the engine to fade, and then spent another minute looking once more at the Dilemma. I even put out a hand and rested my palm on one of the horns. “A fifth wheel” is an expression meaning someone who is of no help at all, the way a fifth wheel on an automobile doesn’t make it go any faster. It made no sense that Miss Knight would drive to Partial Foods and then take a taxi someplace else. She would never need a taxi at all, with an automobile like that. But she did. But she wouldn’t. But she did. Stop arguing with yourself, Snicket. You can’t win. I looked down at the ground and wished I’d looked there earlier. One of the tires of the Dilemma was deflated, so instead of looking round, it looked like an old potato. You couldn’t drive far like that. A Dilemma with a flat tire was a reminder that no matter how splendid and shiny the world might be, it could be spoiled by something you didn’t notice until the damage had been done.
I leaned down to get a closer look and found myself staring at a needle. It was the kind of needle doctors like to stick you with, and it was sticking out of the flattened tire.
“Hello,” I said to the needle.
The needle didn’t say anything, and neither did anybody else. I slipped the needle out of the tire. It didn’t smell like anything, but you wouldn’t have to inject a tire with laudanum. Flattening it would be enough. Carefully, so I wouldn’t get punctured, I put the needle in my pocket and stood up and looked this way and that. No one was around. Like most blocks in town, this block was nothing but boarded-up shops and homes and flyers with Cleo Knight staring back at me. But there was also someplace I’d been meaning to visit since my arrival in town. Why not now? I thought.
Hungry’s was a small and narrow place, and a large and wide woman was standing just inside the doors, polishing the counter with a rag. “Good afternoon,” she said.
I said the same thing.
“I’m hungry,” she said.
“Well, you’re probably in the right place.”
She gave me a frown and a menu. “No, I mean I’m Hungry. It’s my name. Hungry Hix. I own this place. Are you hungry?”
“No,” I said. “You are.”
“Don’t be a smart aleck,” Hungry said.
“But it cheers me up,” I said.
“Sit anywhere you want,” she said. “A waiter will be right with you.”
There were a few booths alongside one wall, but I always like sitting at the counter. There was a boy a few years older than I was, leaning against a sink full of dirty dishes with a book in his hand and shaggy red hair in his eyes. I had not heard of the book, but I liked the author.
“How’s that book?”
“Good,” he said, without looking up. “A guy named Johnny takes the wrong train and ends up in Constantinople in 1453. This guy’s books are always good.”
“That’s true,” I said, “but there’s a bunch of books that he didn’t really write. They put his name on them anyway. You have to check carefully to make sure you don’t get one of those.”
“Is that so?” he said, and put down the book and poured me a glass of water and shook my hand. “I’m Jake Hix,” he said. “I haven’t seen you in here before.”
“I’m Lemony Snicket and I’ve never been in here,” I said. “Are you Hungry’s son?”
“Hungry’s my aunt,” Jake said. “I work for her in exchange for room and boa
rd.”
“I know the feeling,” I said. “I’m an apprentice myself.”
“An apprentice what?”
“It’s a long story,” I said.
“I have time.”
“No you don’t,” Hungry grumbled, squeezing by Jake and swatting him with a towel. “Take his order and do the dishes.”
“Never mind her,” Jake said, when his aunt was out of earshot. “She’s cranky because business is bad. Few people come in here anymore. This town is draining like somebody pulled the plug. You’re the first paying customer we’ve had all day.”
“I don’t have any money,” I said.
Jake shrugged. “If you’re hungry, I’ll make you something,” he said. “It’s better than doing dishes. You like soup?”
Never say you’re hungry until you learn what they’re fixing. “I like good soup,” I said.
“Good soup it is,” Jake said with a smile. “With dumplings.”
Jake busied himself at the stove, and I put the flyer down on the counter. “Have you seen this person?” I asked.
Jake looked quickly at the photograph and then looked away. “Of course,” he said. “That’s the Knight girl. Those flyers are all over town.”
“I’m looking for her,” I said.
“Everybody is, it looks like.”
“You said few people come in here,” I told him. “Was she one of them?”
Jake turned away from me and chopped something very hard and very quickly before throwing it into a pan to sizzle. “I don’t talk about my customers,” he said.
“If she’s in trouble,” I said, “I can help.”
Jake turned around then and gave me a look like I was a fifth wheel after all. It didn’t look like he really meant it, but I still didn’t like getting it. “You?” he asked. “Some stranger who just wandered into the diner?”
“I’m not a stranger,” I said, and pointed to his book. “I read the same authors you do.”
Jake thought about this for a minute, and the food started to smell good. “Miss Knight was in here yesterday morning,” he said, “about ten thirty.”
“Ten thirty?” I asked. “Are you sure about that?”
“Sure I’m sure,” he said.
“Did she have breakfast?”
“Tea,” he said. “It helps her think.”
“Did she say anything?”
Jake gave me a curious look. “She said thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t know what you’ve heard, Snicket, but Miss Knight’s not a friend of mine. She’s just a customer.”
“What was she wearing?”
“The same as in the picture.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Then she got into a taxi.”
“A taxi?” Jake repeated with a laugh. “You really are a stranger. Cleo in a taxi! Miss Knight’s got a brand-new Dilemma that’s way better than any taxi.”
“There’s no need to insult us, Jake,” said a voice from the door.
Two boys had walked into Hungry’s, and they were two boys I knew. Their names were Bouvard Bellerophon and Pecuchet Bellerophon, which explains why everyone called them Pip and Squeak. They worked as taxi drivers when their father was sick, and it looked like he was sick today. I said hello and they said hello and Jake said hello and we figured out we all knew one another.
“I’m making Snicket here some soup,” Jake said. “You two want some?”
“Absolutely,” Pip said. “Business is slow today.”
“Then can you give me a ride after lunch?” I asked them.
“Sure,” said Squeak in the voice that matched his nickname. “We’re parked right outside. Going to see your friend again, in Handkerchief Heights?”
“She doesn’t live there anymore,” I said, not wanting to say Ellington’s name, “and I don’t know if I’d call her a friend, exactly.”
“That’s too bad,” Pip said. “She seemed nice enough to me.”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” I said. “How’s your father?”
“We’d rather not talk about that,” Squeak said.
“Well, then what should we talk about?”
“Books,” Jake said, and served up soup. After one bite I knew where I’d be eating for the duration. The dumplings had the flavor of paradise, and the broth spread through my veins like a secret that’s fun to keep. I wanted to tell the secret to my sister, who would have enjoyed the soup, but she was back in the city, doing the wrong things while I was asking the wrong questions, so I couldn’t share it with her. Pip and Squeak probably wanted to share the soup with their father, and I had a feeling as to whom Jake would like to share it with. But we didn’t talk about that. We talked about the author of the book he was reading. It felt good. I finished my soup and wiped my mouth and asked if there was anything else he could think of to tell me about Miss Cleo Knight. He said there wasn’t. He wasn’t telling me the truth, but I couldn’t get sore about it. I wasn’t telling everyone my business either. I stood up, and Pip and Squeak stood up, and we walked out of Hungry’s to the cab. Squeak got in and hunched down by the brake and gas pedals, and Pip arranged some books so he could sit on them and reach the steering wheel. I got in back, moving carefully so I wouldn’t get punctured by the needle in my pocket.
“Where are we going, Snicket?” Pip asked me.
“To the lighthouse,” I said, which reminded me of a book I’d been meaning to read. “I need a haircut.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The lighthouse at the edge of Stain’d-by-the-Sea probably seemed like a fifth wheel to most people who saw it. Once it had towered over a cliff overlooking the churning waters of the sea, but since the sea had been drained away there were only a few remaining inkwells and the great, spooky expanse of the Clusterous Forest under the lighthouse’s watch. No ships could sail there, so there was no need for them to be guided by a beam of light. Furthermore, the lighthouse had once been the headquarters for Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s only newspaper, The Stain’d Lighthouse, but nowadays there was not enough ink for the news and hardly any people to read it.
But the lighthouse was not a fifth wheel, as there was someone who lived there who was still a fine journalist, even though The Stain’d Lighthouse had shut down. Her name was Moxie Mallahan, and she was a friend of mine, although she didn’t look very friendly as she opened the door.
“What’s the news, Moxie?” I said.
She frowned at me in her usual brimmed hat which, today at least, also seemed to be frowning. “Lemony Snicket,” she said.
It’s rarely good when someone says your full name, except perhaps when it’s at the end of “I have a package for.” “I know I haven’t been around lately, Moxie,” I said.
“I was bored,” Moxie said. “You know there aren’t many people our age left in this town.”
“Don’t get sore,” I said. “I’ve found us something I’m sure you’ll find interesting.”
“If it’s something to do with that girl who took that statue,” Moxie said, “I’m not interested at all.”
Moxie had helped me out on my previous case and had seen Ellington Feint disappear with the Bombinating Beast. “This has nothing to do with her,” I said, without saying her name and without knowing I was wrong.
Moxie didn’t stop frowning, but she looked like she was thinking of stopping. “So?”
“I’m looking for the Knight girl.”
“You and everybody else in town,” Moxie said. “I’ve seen that poster up everywhere.”
“Theodora and I are on the case,” I said, “but I need your help.”
She looked at me and thought. Behind her I could see the typewriter, which folded up into its own case. Moxie always had her typewriter handy so that she might take notes on what was going on. I knew her curiosity about things that went on in town meant she would let me into her home, and I was right. Before I stepped inside, I called to the Bellerophon brothers and asked them if they’d mind waiting. They didn�
�t, as long as I’d give them another tip if they gave me another ride. I said sure. The tip I’d given them for the ride to the lighthouse was the tip about the author’s books that aren’t really written by the author. It was an old tip, as I had already given it to Jake Hix. But it was the only tip I had handy.
I followed Moxie into her kitchen. There was a pot of coffee bubbling away, so I knew her father was somewhere close by, but Moxie did not mention him, just sat me down at the table and put her typewriter between us.
“What’s going on with the case?” she asked. “Where is Cleo Knight? When did she go missing? Who have you talked to? How about some tea?”
“No, thank you,” I said, answering only the last question. “But I was hoping you could cut my hair. I haven’t seen a barbershop in town.”
“The last one closed,” she said, “but I’m not cutting your hair, Snicket, until you tell me what’s going on.”
“I’ll tell you,” I said, “while you cut my hair. A haircut can help solve this case. Get a bowl, will you?”
She gave me a skeptical look. Being skeptical is a good thing for a journalist, because it means you don’t completely trust anyone. I tried to give her an it’s-good-to-be-skeptical-but-please-don’t-be-skeptical-right-now look back. I don’t know if my look was understood, but she fetched a pair of scissors and a small bowl, which she placed upside down on my head. It is my great hope that this portion of the story, should it ever be published, is not illustrated, as a person looks like a fool with a bowl over his head. Moxie clicked the blades of the scissors together and started cutting, and I started my story.
When Did You See Her Last Page 3
