by Eve Titus
“Perhaps.” Basil rubbed his slim paws together eagerly. “Our next step is to find him.”
“If he’s even in Paris, that is,” I put in.
“I haven’t a doubt he is here.” Basil sounded impatient. “Alain, may I interview the rest of your staff?”
“Of course.” The chef waved a hand at the kitchen. “Everyone is busy preparing for the cook-off—as you know, it is due to commence in less than two days’ time—but I’m sure they can answer a few questions.”
With that, Basil set to work, beginning with the three young cooks we’d already met. None but Henri had seen hide nor hair of Ratigan, though Pierre mentioned a younger mouse he’d caught lurking on two separate occasions just outside the school earlier in the week.
“We get a few like that every year, though,” the cook added with a shrug. “Most likely a local ruffian. They like to make a contest of trying to sniff out the latest new cheese recipes before the cook-off begins.”
“Yes,” Alain put in, for he was listening to this exchange while stirring a bubbling pot of fondue nearby. “That’s why Ratigan thought I might require his dastardly services.”
“Indeed.” Pen in paw, Basil scribbled a note. “My instinct tells me that Ratigan is, indeed, our culprit. But describe this young ruffian to me—just in case.”
Pierre scratched his whiskers. “It was two or three nights ago when I last saw him, sir,” he said. “Wasn’t much to notice about him, aside from a nick in one ear. Made him look like trouble, like someone who’d been in his share of fights.”
“Thank you.” After scrawling a few more words, Basil snapped his notepad shut and moved on.
For the next hour, I listened while he interviewed cooks, students, and dishwashers. A few of the mice seemed curious about his purpose, though most were so busy they barely paused to blurt out their responses.
We were talking to a stout dishwasher near a crate of cured meats when Alain reappeared, leading a procession of mice.
“Ah, Basil, Dawson,” Alain exclaimed. “It’s my honor to introduce you to some of our esteemed visiting chefs—Chef Topo from Italy, Chef Klein who hails from the Black Forest of Germany, and Chef Nezumi from far-off Japan.”
All three mice bowed deeply, offering greetings in their own languages. “Has my shipment of Fontina from the Aosta Valley arrived yet, Rongeur?” Chef Topo asked in accented English.
“Let’s check, shall we?” Alain gestured for the three visitors to precede him out of the room. As he prepared to follow, he paused beside Basil and me. “Any developments, mes amis?” he whispered.
“I’m still working on it,” Basil told him. “I remain convinced that Ratigan is the mouse we seek. Now all I need do is prove it—and bring him to justice.”
Alain looked concerned. “Please hurry,” he said. “Now that the visiting chefs have begun to arrive, it is more urgent than ever to put this trouble to rest before something terrible happens!”
With that, he nodded to us and hurried off.
5
NO TIME TO SPARE
“YOU HEARD THE MOUSE, DAWSON,” Basil said as I stared after Alain and his guests, feeling concerned. “There is no time to waste! Solve this case we must.”
“But how?” I followed him across the cellar. “We’re no closer to locating Ratigan—if indeed he is our culprit. I must say, Basil, for a mouse so devoted to scientific sleuthing, you appear to be relying quite a bit on hunches and conjecture.”
“Not at all, my dear doctor. It’s a matter of logic.” Basil tapped his head. “Besides, I plan to leave no stone unturned and no theory uninvestigated. It’s too late to venture out into the city in search of Ratigan tonight in any case.”
“So what shall we do? Just wait and worry?” I wondered.
Basil shook his head. “As part of preparations for the cook-off, Alain has posted guards at every entrance to prevent curious mice from sneaking in. Let’s find them and see if they’ve observed anything suspicious while at their posts.”
We set out to do just that. By then the hour was indeed growing late. When we poked our noses outside, Paris had been transformed into a true City of Light, illuminated by gas lamps on the smaller streets and buildings and newfangled electric streetlights elsewhere, giving the entire city a festive look. But we had little time for enjoying the views.
“Of course I’ve seen mice idling about,” said one of the guards, a burly fellow nearly the size of a small rat, in response to Basil’s question. “Every mouse in Paris would love a peek inside those kitchens, eh?”
“I suppose that’s true,” Basil said. “But has anyone aroused your suspicions? Loitered excessively, or seemed ill intentioned?”
“Hmm.” The guard rubbed his chin. “I don’t think so; then again, my post is quite public.” He waved a paw at the bustling boulevard before us. “You might want to check in with Victor; he’s guarding the cellar window in the back corner where no one ever goes. It’s close to the kitchens, too.”
“Thank you, good sir.” Basil bowed briefly, then turned and hurried off. I had to scurry to keep up.
We rounded the edge of the building into an alley. I kept a careful lookout, as it seemed just the type of place where cats might dawdle. But I spotted no ferocious felines; instead, a fast-moving mouse caught my eye.
“Ahoy—you there!” I cried, springing forward to intercept him.
“Dawson, what the dickens are you . . . ? Ahh!” Basil nodded, catching on to my actions—for the mouse whose arm I’d just grabbed had a nick in his ear!
“What’s your name, lad?” Basil demanded. Then he said something in French—presumably the same question.
The young mouse glared at us, his dark eyes beady and cool. “I can speak English,” he spat out. “And who wants to know?”
Basil drew himself up to his full, and rather impressive, height. “Basil of Baker Street, if you please,” he declared.
The young mouse’s eyes widened. “The Basil of Baker Street?”
“The one and only. Now tell me your name and your reason for being here, or I’ll have the authorities ask the next questions.”
“Theo.” The youngster seemed a bit cowed by Basil’s stern manner. “And I was just passing through.”
“Passing through—or causing trouble?” I leaned toward him. “Someone saw you lurking about here earlier in the week. Why?”
“No reason. I live near here, that’s all.” Theo shrugged and shoved his paws into the pockets of his thin, patched trousers. “This here alley’s a shortcut.” He glanced around, then leaned closer. “But if you want someone suspicious, take a look at her.”
He nodded past us. I spun around just in time to see a slender young female mouse disappearing around the corner. “What, that young girl?” I said.
“Oui. I’ve seen her here many times.” Theo shrugged again. “If you ask me, she seems awfully sneaky.”
With that, he rushed away before we could stop him. Basil stood for a moment, looking thoughtful.
“Do you think we should track down that lass?” I asked him.
He glanced the way she’d gone, then shook his head. “We’ll never find her with that kind of head start,” he declared. “Besides, we should remain focused on our prime suspect, and that remains Ratigan. Now come, Dawson—the hour grows late, and we have much work yet to do.”
6
WAKING UP IN PARIS
AFTER A LATE EVENING OF interviews, Alain’s assistants showed Basil and me to our rooms. Mine was located near the kitchen and smelled pleasantly of woodsmoke and cheese; within moments I was lost in slumber.
Very early the next morning, I opened my eyes to an impatient knock on the door. It was Basil, of course.
“Rise and shine, Dawson!” he called. “The city awaits!”
I yawned and stretched. “Coming, Basil,” I mumbled, already reaching for my clothes.
When I emerged, the cooking school was already a hive of activity. I sniffed the air, detecting t
he delectable smell of breakfast. But Basil merely shoved a dry bit of baguette into my paw and called for me to follow.
“We’re in Paris, at an actual cooking school, for goodness’ sake,” I complained as we emerged through the grate on the sidewalk. “Couldn’t we at least take ten minutes for a proper breakfast?”
He ignored the question. “Today we search for Ratigan,” he announced, striding off down the street. “If he’s in Paris, we’ll find him.”
“Basil!” I shouted. “Look out!”
Basil was always single-minded when in search of the truth, and that morning was no exception. He’d just stepped directly under the nose of a hairy spotted dog tied to a lamppost! In the blink of an eye, the beast had my dear friend trapped beneath one furry forefoot. “Paws off, you slavering beast!” Basil cried.
I scurried forward, unsure what to do. Before I could decide, something small and gray flashed past. It was another mouse!
“Que c’est laid!” she sang out, dancing around the dog just out of reach. “Un chien moche!”
I had no idea what she was saying. But the creature pricked its ears, clearly watching her. The strange mouse let out a whistle, then reached out and poked the dog with the umbrella she was carrying.
That gave me the opening I needed. I dashed forward, heart pounding with fear, and stomped upon the beast’s paw. When it yelped and pulled back in surprise, Basil was able to wiggle free. The dog leaped after us but came up short at the end of its leash, whining with frustration.
“Too bad, my smelly friend,” Basil taunted it, seeming unruffled by his close call. “I’ve been captured by far more fearsome creatures than you and lived to tell the tale!”
Meanwhile, I spotted the mouse who had helped us hurrying off. “Wait!” I called after her. “Thank you, Miss . . . ?”
She turned, eyes darting from me to Basil and back again. “You can call me Adeline,” she said in a soft voice with a strong French accent. “And you’re welcome. That dog is always causing trouble around here.”
Basil bowed to her. “You have my gratitude, mademoiselle,” he said. Then he peered at her. “Hang on—haven’t I seen you before?”
I gasped, realizing he was right. “That was you last night in the alley!” I cried. “A fellow we were talking to pointed you out to us.”
“Indeed.” Basil looked alert. “What is your interest in the cooking school, Miss Adeline?”
“The school?” she said, backing away. “Why, none at all. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I have to go. . . .”
With that, she disappeared into the hurly-burly of the street. “Shall we go after her, Basil?” I asked. “That mouse Theo thinks she could be up to no good.”
“We’ll never catch her now.” Basil stared after young Adeline. “Besides, I’m dubious about what possible motive a young girl like that could have to cause such trouble. No, we can find her later if my current theory is disproven.”
“I’ve been considering motives,” I said as I fell into step beside him, skirting well out of the tied dog’s way as we passed. “I know you believe Ratigan is out for revenge. But why would he go about it like this—sending secret notes and such? It doesn’t really seem like him, does it?”
“Perhaps not,” Basil said. “But Ratigan is a master criminal with many tricks up his felonious sleeves. In any case, we can ask his motives once we find him—so let’s get on with it!”
7
A BREAK IN THE CASE
BASIL AND I SPENT THE next several hours scouring Paris for any news of Ratigan. We interviewed countless mice, most of whom had no idea of the famous criminal’s whereabouts. But a few claimed to have seen a mouse matching Ratigan’s description lurking around Paris over the past week. And finally, an elderly mouse named Marcel told us what we needed to know.
“I know exactly where that villain is staying,” he said in a quavering but steadfast voice. “Saw him entering myself.”
“Pray tell us where, good sir,” Basil said.
The old mouse cocked his head. “You sure you want to find him?” he demanded. “That one is trouble, that’s all he is.”
“We know,” I said. “That’s why we want to find him. Basil has captured Ratigan more often than any other detective or police officer in the world!”
Marcel looked suitably impressed at that. “Is this the famous Basil of Baker Street? I’d know you by your sterling reputation, of course! The most masterful detective in mousedom. Well then, s’il vous plaît, be on your way to capture him yet again!” he exclaimed. “He’s staying at the Opera de Paris—the most expensive building in the city, and according to some, the most magnificent.”
“Leave it to Ratigan to stay in such a place,” I said. “Where is this wondrous building, sir?”
The old gentlemouse gave us directions, and with that we were off again. When we reached the Opera, we saw that it was indeed an impressive building—and a large one.
“How are we to find one mouse in all of that?” I wondered.
As usual, Basil was filled with confidence. He waited until no humans were nearby and then scurried right in through the front door, which stood open to capture the breeze. I followed him into a grand entryway with marble and gold everywhere. The place was enormous!
“I think every mouse in the world could fit in here, with room for more!” I exclaimed, tipping my head back to look up, up, up at the ornate ceiling.
For his part, Basil hardly seemed to notice the impressive surroundings. “There!” he said, pointing to a baseboard near the staircase.
I followed his gaze and saw what his sharp eyes had spotted—a small mousehole nearly hidden in shadow. We dashed through it and followed a long, twisting corridor until we found ourselves in a busy and most elegant mouse hotel tucked between the walls.
A bellhop spotted us and hurried over. “How may I be of service, monsieurs?” he asked with a deep bow. “We’re nearly fully booked—everyone is already arriving for the International Cheese Cook-Off, you see. But I might be able to find a couple more rooms.”
“No need for that, my good mouse,” Basil said. “We seek only information. Do you have a guest staying here by the name of Professor Ratigan?”
“Ratigan?” The bellhop looked alarmed. “Mon Dieu, I certainly hope not! That mouse is infamous the world over for his terrible crimes!”
“Yes, that’s why we’re looking for him,” I said. “We’re afraid he’s trying to tamper with the Cheese Cook-Off.”
“Oh dear!” The bellhop looked more horrified than ever. “Well, what does this Ratigan look like?”
As Basil described Ratigan, I watched the comings and goings in the hotel lobby. Suddenly I spied a tall mouse hurrying up the staircase. He was disguised in a long cape, but I would recognize that stooped figure anywhere!
“There he is!” I whispered urgently, grabbing Basil by the sleeve. “Ratigan—he’s headed upstairs.”
Luckily the scoundrel hadn’t noticed us. We were able to follow him upstairs, where he disappeared into a room.
“Now what?” I wondered. “We can’t exactly knock on the door and ask him if he sent those notes, can we?”
Basil paid no attention to me. He was fiddling in the voluminous pockets of his coat. Finally he pulled out a small folding mirror.
“What are you going to do with that?” I asked.
“Watch and see, my dear doctor,” Basil said. Without further explanation, he crouched down and slid the mirror partway beneath the door, facing upward. In that way, we could see in the reflective surface a little bit of what was happening in the room!
“What a clever trick!” I exclaimed softly, watching as the slightly blurry figure of Ratigan sat at a desk scribbling busily in some kind of journal or notebook.
But my voice must have been louder than intended, for Ratigan suddenly looked sharply in our direction.
“Dawson, hush!” Basil hissed. “Oh, never mind—run!”
8
NEW PL
ANS AND NEW PROBLEMS
WE ESCAPED WITHOUT BEING SEEN and returned to the cooking school, which was quite close by. There we found Alain in the kitchen overseeing the creation of a variety of dishes, all of them smelling heavenly. As soon as he saw us enter, the chef immediately chased away all the workers except for his three trusted assistants: Pierre, Henri, and Gustave.
“But the special cheese soufflé—it’s nearly ready,” protested an anxious-looking cook with crooked whiskers. “You’ll need to taste it before we can proceed with the full recipe, Chef.”
“That can wait a moment, Raymond. Now go.” Alain shooed the junior cook out of the room.
At the same time, Pierre was waving us to our usual spots at the chef ’s table, while Gustave and Henri provided us with steaming cups of strong coffee.
“There,” Alain said as the door shut behind the last of the others. “Now—what have you found? Am I going to have to cancel the cook-off?”
“Not on your life,” Basil said. “We’ve just returned from the Opera de Paris. . . .”
With my help, he went on to tell Alain all that had happened.
“So Ratigan is indeed in Paris, eh?” the chef said after we’d finished our tale. “And you think he sent those notes, Basil? If so, how shall we prove it?”
“I’ve already thought about that,” Basil said. “And you’re right—though I’m sure Ratigan is behind those threats, we will indeed need proof.”
“But how?” I asked.
“Elementary, my dear Dawson.” Basil smiled. “We need to get our paws on a pawwriting sample.”
“A pawwriting sample?” I echoed. “Why?”
“To compare to those notes, of course! If Ratigan is behind the threats, I’m quite sure he wrote those notes himself. He’s a perfectionist and prefers always to be in control—he would never leave such an important task to an underling.”
