by Mac Barnett
“You see, I’d become accustomed to a certain lifestyle—nice food, exotic travel, et cetera, et cetera. You boys probably wouldn’t understand.”
Steve hated it when people said that.
“And though the Bailey Brothers books were successful, wildly successful, I’d need to keep writing them if I wanted to keep the lifestyle up. But like I said, I had bits and pieces of a story but couldn’t finish a book.
“And that’s when I had an idea. As a mystery writer I was rather uniquely skilled at devising clever crimes. Why not start committing some? Crimes for which I could never be caught.
“After years of creative despair I was inspired. My first idea was my most brilliant: I destroyed all records of my existence. That was a lot easier to do back then; a simple fire in a courthouse basement and you could make all traces of your identity vanish. Then I leaked the story about MacArthur Bart’s never existing to the newspapers. The name was simply a pseudonym, the story went, used by ghostwriters who wrote the Bailey Brothers mysteries for a hundred dollars a book. I hired a bunch of cons to pose as ghostwriters—they also became the muscle in my organization.
“Of course, my publisher tried—and still tries—to keep the fact that I don’t exist quiet. Kids like to think there’s a real MacArthur Bart. But anyone who does a little digging finds out that I don’t exist. And how can the police catch a man who doesn’t exist?”
“So you’re the one who tattooed the Bailey Brothers stories on the ghostwriters’ arms,” Steve said.
“Yes,” said Bart. “I thought it would be important that my writers actually be able to write, just in case cops or reporters came snooping around. So I had them memorize a page of an abandoned Bailey Brothers story. But it turns out hardened criminals aren’t necessarily great memorizers, and they ended up cheating and writing the lines down on their arms every day. That seemed inefficient. So: the tattoos.”
“Wait. What about all the other books? Have you been ghostwriting celebrity autobiographies in your spare time?”
Bart laughed. “No. The thugs write those. Have you ever read a pop star’s memoir? They all read like they were written by goons.”
“You’re crazy,” Dana said.
“No,” said Bart. “Just cautious. And that’s why I’ve never been caught. I successfully perpetrated grand robberies and wild swindles. My ghostwriters and I have done everything. Smuggling, counterfeiting, stealing paintings and jewels. I have a weakness for rare and valuable treasures. And then I received your letter a while back, the one with the newspaper clipping about your little detective agency.”
Steve felt furious. The Brixton Brothers Detective Agency was not little.
Bart laughed. “Yes, that was the first valuable letter you sent me. On the back of that clipping was a little squib about Fairview and his marvelous diamond. And I knew it had to be mine.”
Dana interrupted. “What’s a squib?”
Bart looked annoyed. “It’s a short article.”
“Oh. Why didn’t you just say that?”
“Because ‘squib’ sounds better.”
Steve had to admit “squib” had a ring to it.
“Anyway, I tried to steal it. You foiled me. And when you wrote me and told me you were keeping the diamond, I saw my chance to get it back. So I wrote you that letter.”
“And when my crime lab was vandalized—you were looking for the diamond.”
“Yes,” said Bart. “The plan was to kidnap you that first day at the hotel. Then you would meet me, we would escape together, I would earn your trust, and you would tell me where the diamond was. But you proved harder to capture than I thought.”
Steve smiled briefly, then stopped.
“But your guys tried to kill us at the hotel!” Dana said. “They shot at us. How could Steve tell you where the diamond was if he was dead?”
“They weren’t shooting at Steve. They were shooting at you, Dana.”
Dana’s face flushed.
“Don’t feel bad,” said Bart. “I’ll get rid of both of you once Steve gives me the diamond.”
“So that’s it?” Dana said. “You’re going to kill a couple of kids? You are a coward!”
Bart looked up and stared and Dana with his one eye. “But you two don’t want to be treated like kids. You want to be treated like detectives.”
“That’s just Steve,” Dana said. “I want to be a veterinarian.”
MacArthur Bart ignored him. “And detectives always seek the truth. And the truth is, if the world were fair and good and safe for innocent men, women, and children, then there wouldn’t be any need for detectives. But enough,” said Bart, jabbing the gun in Steve’s face. “Hand over the diamond.”
“Why should he, if you’re just going to kill us?” Dana said.
Bart sounded impatient. “Because if he gives me the diamond, I’ll leave your families alone.”
Steve reached into his backpack and pulled out the Guinness Book of World Records.
Bart looked confused. “Your secret book-box? We looked in there.”
Steve said nothing. He opened the box and pulled out his detective’s notebook. He undid the elastic band that held it shut and flipped to the back. There was a tiny secret compartment in the notebook, too.
Steve handed the notebook to Bart. “Here’s the diamond,” he said. “Although if you were any good, you would have found it yourself.”
Bart didn’t seem to hear Steve. He was mesmerized. “The Nichols Diamond,” he said, holding it up to his eye. It gleamed red and pale in the moonlight. “It’s beautiful,” said Bart. Bart was about to say something else, but Steve punched him in the solar plexus.
CHAPTER XLVI
THROUGH THE FOREST
BART DOUBLED OVER and held his stomach with both hands. Dana dove for the ground.
“He dropped the diamond!” Dana said. Steve looked over at Bart. He’d also dropped the gun.
Bart fell to his knees and started feeling frantically around in the dirt. Dana was crawling around too.
“Leave the diamond!” Steve said. “Run!”
Steve and Dana took off through the trees.
“Bart said the road was this way,” Steve said, huffing as he ran.
“Do you think he was telling the truth?” Dana asked between breaths.
“Why would he lie?” Steve said. “He was still trying to earn our trust.”
Branches cracked beneath their feet as they sped along the forest floor.
“What’s that?” Dana said. “Up ahead.”
Through the trees Steve could see flashing lights. The boys kept running and emerged into a clearing. A few hundred yards away, police cars and tan jeeps were parked on the road, their lights flashing. Flares burned orange on the highway.
“This is where we were kidnapped!” Dana said.
“Police!” came a shout across the clearing.
Great. It was Rick.
And Detective Taylor, plus a guy who looked like a park ranger but carried a gun, all running toward them.
Suddenly the field was all motion and noise. Lights flooded the meadow.
Detective Taylor was leading Steve back to a police cruiser and having him sit in the backseat with Dana. The ranger was talking into his radio, and the radio hissed and crackled back. Three ghostwriters—Antrim and the doorman and Henry, too—were lined up on the pavement, evenly spaced, their hands behind their backs. Rick was saying something about needing more handcuffs. Detective Taylor was reading the ghostwriters their rights, like cops on TV.
There were more rangers, and two policemen in tall black boots. And then came men and women with flashlights and yellow-lettered parkas carrying boxes and plastic bags. “This is unbelievable,” Steve heard one say.
“It’s like Christmas,” said another.
Detective Taylor brought over some granola bars, which Steve and Dana ate eagerly. She crouched down next to them.
“How’d you find us?” asked Dana.
“Park pol
ice found Rick’s truck hidden by a gray sedan, over behind a rock not too far away.”
“Told you there wasn’t a secret road,” Dana said.
Detective Taylor continued, “We searched the area, and I found a hidden path with fresh footprints that led down to this cave.”
“A secret road!” said Steve.
“She said ‘hidden path,’” said Dana.
“Anyway,” said Detective Taylor, “you guys were right. This Antrim guy wasn’t running a literary organization at all—he just confessed to masterminding a crime ring. And those ghostwriters are all part of his gang. You boys did good. What I want to know is how you knew there was something going on with the B. Syndicate.”
Steve knew if he told her everything he’d just learned about MacArthur Bart, she wouldn’t believe him. Some cases were for the police, and some were for private detectives.
“A hunch,” Steve said.
Another car pulled up. A door opened, and then Steve’s mom and Dana’s parents were there, and they screamed when they saw the boys. Steve and Dana were overwhelmed by hugs and questions.
“I’m so happy you’re all right,” said Steve’s mom.
Steve smiled. “I thought you’d be mad and I’d be in huge trouble.”
“I am, and you are,” said Steve’s mom, and hugged him again. She was crying.
Somewhere, behind them, in the forest, MacArthur Bart was free. But Steve didn’t turn around. The moon was disappearing, and the ocean was faintly glowing.
CHAPTER XLVII
CASE CLOSED
STEVE BRIXTON was probably the only private detective in the history of the United States to be personally thanked by the mayor of San Francisco and get grounded by his mother at the same time. Now it was four in the morning, and Steve and Dana were up in Steve’s room in Ocean Park. Their parents were downstairs, having a serious conversation in quiet tones.
Steve sat on his bed. Dana sat on his floor. This was probably the last time they’d be spending together outside of school for a while.
“That’s it,” Steve said. “I retire.”
“Seriously?” Dana asked.
“Yes, seriously. Everything I know about being a detective is from a bunch of books written by a criminal.”
“But he wrote those books before he went bad,” Dana said.
Steve shook his head. “Anyway, when did you start caring about sleuthing?”
“I don’t,” said Dana. “It just sucks that Bart probably got away with the diamond.”
“He didn’t,” said Steve.
“Yeah, maybe not. He does only have one eye. We should go back up to that forest and look for it. I bet I could find the spot.”
Steve smiled. “No, he never got the diamond. That was a Jolly Rancher.”
Dana rolled over onto his back and stared up at Steve. “What?”
“Yep. I figured it all out before Bart pulled the gun on us, while we were running up that tunnel in the cave.”
“How?”
“You know I do my best thinking on the move.”
Dana rolled his eyes. “But how did you figure it out?”
“Handwriting analysis. It’s a classic detective’s tool.” Steve pulled the threatening note out of his typewriter. “See these t’s? They’re the same t’s as the ones on the ghostwriters’ tattoos. I noticed that in the cave. And the whole time we were running, I was wondering who could have written this note and tattooed the ghostwriters. It couldn’t have been Antrim. His note in my book had a different t. And then I had a hunch. Bart. I didn’t want it to be true. But I had to know. So before I pulled out The Treasure on the Chinese Junk, I unwrapped a Jolly Rancher and hid it in my notebook. When I saw Bart’s inscription, I knew my suspicions were right. So I told him I had the diamond.”
“Why?”
“To bring things to a head. Villains never think clearly when there’s loot around.”
Dana was shaking his head. Steve smiled triumphantly. All this talk of candy was making him hungry. He pulled a Jolly Rancher out of his backpack.
“That’s amazing,” Dana said. He was sitting up straight now. “Wait—where were you hiding the actual diamond?”
“Oh, I wrapped it up in a another Jolly Rancher wrapper.”
“Nice!” Dana mulled that over, then suddenly went ashen. “Steve. If you wrapped up the diamond as a Jolly Rancher, then there’s a chance you unwrapped the actual diamond and gave it back to Bart.”
Dana was right. It was possible.
Steve spit. The candy landed on the floor.
“Cherry?” Dana asked.
“Diamond,” said Steve.
“Ace!” said Dana.
Steve rolled over and looked at the ceiling. That’s it, he thought. I’m done. I’ll never solve another case.
But Steve would solve another case, and soon, and that case would be called It Happened on a Train.
