One Of Our Dinosaurs Is Missing

by David Forrest

  “Just look at my face.” Melissa was examining herself in a small mirror. “My makeup’s going on like concrete.”

  “At leatht Mith Hettie lets you wear thome,” said Susanne.

  Emily shone her torch around for the last time. She could see no signs that might give them away. The plinth, apart from the little piles of nuts and bolts removed from the bones, was exactly as it had been before--minus its showpiece, of course.

  When they heard the chatter of visitors, Hettie looked out. She watched a party of schoolchildren being led down the passage at the entrance to the hall. After they had passed, she crawled out of the canvas tunnel and studied the painters putting the finishing touches to the paintwork at the other end of the room. Then, on hands and knees, she scuttled over to the corridor. There, she stood, took off her once-white gloves and poked them into her bag. She loitered nonchalantly, and waited until the others joined her.

  “Split up, now,” she said. “Go out through the main entrance, one at a time. Dinnae hurry. Just stroll.” She paused and scrutinized Susanne.

  “Lassie, you didnae wash very well--your neck’s filthy. No time now. Off you go. Meet you all by the lorry in ten minutes.”

  She left the museum by the tall doorway, overlooking the steps where the 25th Earl had died. For a moment, she stood at the top, and gazed at them, sadly. Poor wee Maister Quincey, she thought

  “Cooeee,” called a voice. Hettie looked down toward the road. Una stood, waving at her. Hettie hurried down.

  “Look,” said Una, her nose wrinkling as she stifled a sneeze. She pointed at a man picketing the front of the museum. He carried a large sign declaring--”Bring Back Prohibition.”

  “I think I recognize him,” she told Hettie. “The guard. You know, the one Tarzan frightened. But I suppose I could be quaite mistaken.”

  “Wheesht! Come away, lassie,” grunted Hettie. But she had a second look, and she wasn’t so sure Una was wrong. She led the way round to the planetarium car park, where the others were waiting. “My God,” she exclaimed, looking at the wheels with their weight-flattened tires. “All we need now is a puncture.”

  The nannies climbed into the lorry and squeezed themselves on top of the packed bones.

  “Hurrah, hurrah,” said Emily, triumphantly, and with a rumble and a smash of the straining transmission, she drove them away toward the entrance to Central Park.

  “What about the pelvis?” Hettie asked her.

  “You and I will get it this afternoon,” replied Emily. “Is there room in here?”

  “It’ll just fit.”

  Considering it was autumn, the end of a particularly fine summer, the British nannies sitting in Central Park that afternoon looked pale. Una stretched. There was little contrast between her face and her neat white uniform.

  “I’m quaite shattered, dearies,” she yawned. “And quaite glad that it’s nearly all over.”

  “Jutht the dinosaur pel ..began Susanne. The words were cut short by Hettie putting her finger to her lips. “Oh, yeth. Thorry, I forgot.”

  “If you and Miss Emily want to go and get the, er, Sassenach thing, we’ll look after the children,” said Una.

  “Do they need anything special?” asked Melissa. “Give mine the ‘Old Soldier’ treatment if it squalls,”

  said Hettie. “Sing ‘Old Soldiers Never Die,’ and whop its behind in time to the music. Dinnae spoil it. And dinnae give it anything to eat.” She looked at Susanne. “Especially ice cream.”

  “Just treat mine like any baby,” said Emily. “We’ll be back as soon as we can.”

  They collected the truck from the parking lot near Emily’s apartment, and drove it back to the museum. On the way, Emily stopped, reached under the dashboard and produced a brown paper bag.

  “Disguise,” she smiled at Hettie. “Dust coats. Put one on. And these.”

  “Why do we need all this rubbish?” asked Hettie, eyeing the black wig, and the over-large sunglasses.

  “YOU’RE going in to ask them for the package. And I’M driving the getaway vehicle. If something goes wrong, just rush out and jump in. I’ll keep the engine running.”

  “Right,” said Hettie, but she wasn’t really assured.

  They drove on to the museum. Emily backed the Chewy, cautiously, down the sloping pathway to the loading ramp.

  “Good luck,” she told Hettie.

  The stout Scots nanny straightened her blue nylon coat, pulled her stomach in and squared her shoulders. The fluffy black wig embarrassed her. She was glad she could hide behind the sunglasses. Tightening her lips, she marched imperiously inside.

  “My good man,” she snapped at the gateman. “We believe you have a parcel for us. Smithsonian Institute.”

  “Got any credentials, lady?” asked the gateman.

  “Credentials, dinnae be impertinent.” She scowled at him. “Have you, or have you not, got our package?” Her broad Scots accent made him nervous.

  “I, er,” he stammered.

  “Come along, come along. We dinnae have all day to waste.”

  “It’s here,” surrendered the man. He pointed to the pelvis in its sacking overcoat, resting by the entrance.

  “Help us get it in the van, then,” snarled Hettie. “Don’t expect us to carry it ourselves, do you?”

  “Er, no lady.” The man poked his head through a hatch in an internal door. “Hey, Chuck, Wilbur. Give me a lift, will you? Got a heavy package.”

  With a great heaving and grunting, the final part of the dinosaur was loaded onto the sacks covering the bones in the back of the Chevrolet, and then driven out of the museum grounds.

  Upstairs in the Early Dinosaur Hall, the painting gang chief climbed down off the scaffolding and surveyed his men’s work. He wiped his hands on a piece of rag, then reported to the museum director’s office.

  “You can have your hall back, boss. We’ve finished. Maybe you’d give the okay before we clean up?”

  Together they made their way back to the hall. The director stood at the entrance and admired the work.

  “Fine,” he said. “Looks good. You can take off the sheets.”

  The gang chief waved to his men. They grabbed hold of one side of the canvas sheet and pulled it, folding up the surplus as it slid towards them over the tops of the exhibits.

  The head of the small stegosaurus dinosaur became visible. The sheet dropped free and began to rise over the familiar hump of the brontosaurus in the middle of the plinth. The canvas fell to the ground, revealing the naked iron framework.

  The gang chiefs mouth opened.

  “Fine paint job, Harry,” said the director. “Makes the place look roomier.” He swiveled around to get a fuller view of the blue-wash ceiling.

  “Er . . . boss . . .” the gang chief began, glancing at the bare frame.

  “Just dandy,” interrupted the museum director. “Right, get the place tidied up.” He turned and strolled thoughtfully back to his office.

  He sat at his desk, drumming his fingers on the polished ammonite fossil he used as a paperweight. The drumming fingers grew slower, until finally they stopped. He stared at them. Then he buzzed his secretary. She stuck her head round the edge of his office door.

  “Ring through to Palaeontology,” he said. “Ask Bill if he’s got the bront down for renovation . . . I’m going back down to the hall. Come and tell me what he says.”

  The director paced, nervously, back to the Early Dinosaur Hall. The painters were carrying out their ladders. The director stood by the door and stared at the empty space in the centre of the plinth.

  His secretary padded up to him. “They said they haven’t got the brontosaurus for renovation, sir.” Then she followed his gaze.

  “Oh, gee ...” exclaimed the secretary.

  “Precisely!” said the museum director.

  SIX

  Fat Choy sniffed gently through his blue and swollen nose, and pulled on the wide steering wheel. “When I was a boy,” he said, “I used to ride as high as
this on a farm bullock cart.” He released the wheel with one hand and fingered his sore face. “Tell me, Comrade Leader, why does every other espionage group in America have their own fast car, except us?”

  “Cunning planning of mine,” replied Lui Ho. “A different type of vehicle for every tailing job. It is better for disguise.”

  Sam Ling looked up towards the roof of the driving cab. “Very original thinking on your part, Comrade Leader.” For once, he was glad he had nothing to do with the idea. “To think of using an obsolete fire engine is devious to the extreme.”

  Lui Ho smiled. “This way we get priority on the roads. All give way to us.” He sighed at the thought of his own genius. “Keep close to the nanny-ladies, Fat Choy,” he ordered. “Unwittingly they are leading us to the secret hiding place they have prepared for the fake dragon. It will be a simple matter for us to appropriate it later.”

  Fat Choy grunted. The nannies’ truck was several vehicles ahead, wedged in the lines of home-going traffic heading down East 59th Street and towards the Queensboro Bridge. Fat Choy ignored a red traffic light, forced two elderly nuns to scamper for sanctuary on a road island, and played chicken with other traffic in his anxiety to close in on his quarry. There was the sharp yowl of a police siren behind them.

  Fat Choy glanced nervously into his rear-view mirror. “Comrade Leader, I do not question your superior knowledge when you say I have priority on the road. But I hasten to point out that there is a motorcycle policeman following us ... overtaking us.”

  The speedcop pulled alongside the window and signalled, frantically. They could hear his voice, high- pitched above the engine noise. “Follow me,” he screamed. “Quick--it’s this way. A bad one.”

  “A fire,” groaned Fat Choy. “Just what we need. What do I do now, Comrade Leader?”

  Lui Ho looked sideways at Sam Ling. His deputy’s face was bland. “Pull out, oh leech-brain,” Lui Ho sighed. “Pull out and follow him.” He reached behind the seat and pulled out a fire chief’s helmet.

  “Down here, I thought,” said Emily, pointing over the side of the bridge. “Down on Welfare Island, near the hospital. There are plenty of disused buildings around there. No one’ll ever think of searching them. And we won’t be given a second look if we go in our uniforms.”

  “Good thinking,” complimented Hettie. “Oops, look out.”

  Emily swerved the truck as a fire engine, led by a siren-screeching speedcop, passed them. “We go down here,” she said, as they reached the large elevator that lowers traffic down to the level of the island. She edged the vehicle off the busy highway and on to the platform. It clattered to life, and dropped slowly down through the steel girdering. It stopped at island level. The roadway split, the best surface turning towards the modem hospital blocks, the cracked path disappearing in the direction of the old, now unused buildings. Emily followed the old road.

  There was a rough parking space near the tree- camouflaged derelict buildings. She stopped the truck in the shadows, and the nannies climbed down.

  They explored the buildings. Those nearest the bridge showed signs of occasional occupation. It was also clear that hobos had slept there. The corridors were bare, and dust was thick everywhere. Cracked plaster gaped on the walls and paint leaned away from the woodwork.

  Hettie found a building which still had the main door closed. She pushed it. It gave a little. She kicked it open. Inside, it smelt of rotting lumber, damp, and the river. “Here,” she called. “It’s the ideal place.”

  The cop braked his motorcycle to a skidding halt in front of the United Nations Building. A crowd blocked Roosevelt Drive, watching smoke billowing, in noxious spurts, from the window of a second floor office. The patrolman jerked his machine on to its stand and ran back to the fire engine as it rattled to a stop behind him.

  “Okay, Chief, it’s all yours,” he yelled.

  “Sit tight,” hissed Lui Ho to his men. “With a small amount of discreet obstruction the whole corrupt edifice will be destroyed.”

  “Hey, come on,” called the cop. “What’s keeping ya?”

  “We can’t go in there, we’re not members,” replied Fat Choy, eyeing the smoking building.

  Sam Ling punched him in the ribs. “That sort of stupid remark could get us all arrested,” he snarled. He turned to Lui Ho. “Comrade Leader, much as I, too, would enjoy the destruction of the United Nations’ headquarters, this is neither the time nor the manner.” He looked towards the crowd. “And these people seem to be expecting us to do something--fast. I don’t suppose you got any instructions with this fire-quencher when you hired it?”

  Lui Ho scrutinized the spectators. Sam Ling was right. They were losing their patience. He shook his head. “No instructions. Has anyone seen New York firemen working?”

  Pi Wun Tun leaned over from the back seat. “I saw a fire ship working once, when some big liner came into New York Harbour. It just squirted streams of water up into the air, and everyone there cheered and clapped.”

  “The very answer!” exclaimed Fat Choy. “Perhaps we should entertain this audience by climbing on to the cab roof and pissing like an ornamental fountain.”

  Sam Ling snorted. “We’d better get out. At once,” he said. “I suggest we unroll the hoses, for a start. Nicky Po, you’d better see if you can find some water, just in case our tank is empty.”

  They scrambled out. Nicky Po jammed his helmet on to his head and ran straight into the open door of the vehicle. He sat down, heavily stunned. Sam Ling hauled him back to his feet and tore off the hat. Nicky Po’s crossed eyes blinked. Sam Ling reversed the headgear so that the long brim covered Nicky Po’s neck, then he thumped it back on. “Toad’s spawn,” he shouted. “Hurry up and find that water.” Nicky Po staggered away.

  “Look busy,” Sam Ling ordered the remaining spies. Pi Wun Tun rushed off and reappeared with an oxygen breathing mask. He tied it over his face and mumbled something. “What’s wrong?” demanded Sam Ling.

  “Can’t breathe in it,” puffed Pi Wun Tun. Sam Ling reached into the fire engine and dragged out a narrow pipe attached to a pressure-cylinder.

  “Couple this on,” he suggested hopefully. Pi Wun Tun stuffed the end of the pipe into the hose of the breathing mask, then nodded. Sam Ling opened the tap on the pressure-cylinder. There was a gurgling sound behind him. He turned back towards Pi Wun Tun. The glass face-piece slowly filled with fire extinguisher foam ... white bubbles streamed from the valves at the sides. Pi Wun Tun struggled and snatched off the mask, retching and spluttering like an asthmatic Oriental Santa Claus.

  Fat Choy ignored his friend’s plight and grabbed the two-inch diameter brass nozzle of a hose, coiled round a reel at the back of the fire engine.

  He ran, for two hundred feet, drawing the hose in a straight line behind him.

  “Good man,” shouted Sam Ling. “That’ll be enough. Now bring it back.”

  Fat Choy returned, panting, the sweep of hose following him like a tired snake. He stopped thirty feet short of the engine.

  “Don’t fart about,” bellowed Sam Ling. “I said bring it here.”

  “I can’t,” protested Fat Choy. “It doesn’t reach.” “Of course it reaches--it started here.” Sam Ling hit himself on his forehead with the palm of his hand. Fat Choy tugged at the hose again. “Overgrown mealworm,” roared Sam Ling. “Go and unwind it from round that lamp post, then bring it back.”

  Fat Choy rushed off again, following the route of the hose.

  A stout figure, in overlarge fireman’s boots, clumped in front of Sam Ling and saluted. Its helmet, also too large, rocked from side to side. “You know that round canvas thing rolled up in the back of the truck? It says on it that it’s a jump sheet,” said Chou-Tan, his hat nodding as he spoke. “I have unrolled it and laid it neatly on the ground below the smoking window.” “Splendid originality of thought,” replied Sam Ling, his moustache smiling.

  “Shall I now go and tell the occupants of the building to jump?”

>   “By all means tell them,” said Sam Ling, glancing at the sheet laid on the concrete sidewalk. “But I doubt if you’ll be able to persuade anyone.”

  Chou-Tan hurried away.

  “I’ve got some,” puffed a familiar voice. Sam Ling recognized Nicky Po’s legs, buckled beneath the weight of a brimming drinking-water dispenser, complete with plastic cups. “There’s plenty of it. Enough for everyone to fill their bladders.”

  “Put it down, lunatic,” screamed Sam Ling. “Go and help Fat Choy with the hose.” He turned to Lui Ho. “Perhaps, Comrade Leader, when our delinquent colleagues are ready, you will be so kind as to turn the switch marked ‘pump’ which I saw on the dashboard?” Lui Ho nodded.

  A loud thud, and a jeer from the crowd, attracted Sam Ling’s attention. He looked towards the building. Chou-Tan lay face-down on the jump sheet, in a disturbed cloud of dust. Sam Ling hurried over and prodded the still figure. It raised itself on its elbows and shook its head vaguely.

  “You tripped?” asked Sam Ling.

  “No, I jumped,” replied Chou-Tan, with a wan smile. “There was no one up on the second floor to persuade, and it seemed the quickest way down. I don’t think much of it as a lifesaving idea, the padding’s not thick enough.”

  “Chairman Mao protect me,” groaned Sam Ling.

  “We are prepared,” called Fat Choy. He and Nicky Po held the nozzle between them and pointed it towards the smoking window. The watching crowd went silent with anticipation.

  “Switch on,” shouted Sam Ling. Fat Choy and Nicky Po braced themselves against the expected pressure of water. The pump engine started with a mechanical screech and a series of rattles. The hose, where it joined the engine, began to swell. Sam Ling watched the bulge begin to move along the pipe. “Stand by,” he shouted. The swelling approached the nozzle of the pipe, then hesitated. The crowd murmured.

  A rat poked its head out of the nozzle, its whiskers quivering. It looked right, then left, then sprang out and ran into the building. It was followed by a second rat, then a third, fourth and fifth.