The Curse of the Pharaoh #1
Page 1
GROSSET & DUNLAP
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Original Title: Agatha Mistery: L’enigma del faraone
Text by Sir Steve Stevenson
Original cover and illustrations by Stefano Turconi
English language edition copyright © 2013 Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Original edition published by Istituto Geografico De Agostini S.p.A., Italy, 2010. © 2010 Atlantyca Dreamfarm s.r.l., Italy
International Rights – Atlantyca S.p.A. – via Leopardi 8, 20123 Milano,
Italia foreignrights@atlantyca.it – www.atlantyca.com
Published in 2013 by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN: 978-0-698-14387-6
FIRST MISSION
Agents
Agatha
Twelve years old, an aspiring mystery writer; has a formidable memory
Dash
Student at the prestigious private school, Eye International Detective Academy
Chandler
Butler and former boxer with impeccable British style
Watson
Obnoxious Siberian cat with the nose of a bloodhound
Aunt Patricia
Lives in a lavish Luxor villa…and breeds camels!
DESTINATION
Egypt: Valley of the Kings
OBJECTIVE
To discover who stole an ancient artifact from an archaeological dig in the Valley of the Kings—where the sun sets and the pharaohs have slept in their tombs for thousands of years. And beware of Tutankhamen’s curse.
Table of Contents
Prelude: The Investigation Begins…
Chapter One: Those Eccentric Misterys
Chapter Two: Destination Luxor
Chapter Three: Queen of the Lemons
Chapter Four: Under Surveillance
Chapter Five: Tomb 66
Chapter Six: The Pharaoh’s Curse
Chapter Seven: Everything’s Backward in Egypt
Chapter Eight: Cactus Power
Epilogue: Mystery Solved…
The penthouse sat high atop of Baker Palace, fifteen floors above street level. Its roof was covered with state-of-the-art solar panels, and if you stood on the wraparound terrace and peered in through the tinted-glass windows, the first thing you’d see was a mass of high-tech electronics—monitors, Wi-Fi antennas, and routers—surrounded by pizza boxes, fast-food bags, and dirty socks.
The only person at home was a lanky fourteen-year-old boy, sprawled out snoring on the couch with his dark hair flopped over his face. He had left his seven computers on all night long, downloading data from around the world. His face was lit up by LED lights flashing like fireflies in the darkened room.
Outside the penthouse London, England, was already bathed in a milky haze. It had been a sweltering summer, too hot for tourists, and the Thames River looked like a strip of shiny tar.
Not far from Baker Palace, the famous Big Ben clock tower chimes struck six times. The low notes rattled the walls, but Dashiell Mistery slept like a rock.
Dash was not a morning person. He liked lazing around the penthouse all day and never started his homework till late at night, usually with the music cranked. His report cards said it all: Dash was getting straight As in Surveillance Technologies, but he was flunking everything else.
“Instead of going to that crazy detective school, why don’t you study engineering?” his mother would beg on the rare occasions when they had a real conversation. “The Mistery family could use a few people with practical skills.” Dash shrugged and said, “Don’t forget Grandpa Ellery, Mom. He’s at CERN in Geneva studying subatomic particles. That’s pretty hardcore.” And the conversation would end with his mom sighing, “He’s a nuclear physicist, not a normal engineer. All you Mistery men have to do something different!”
Dash secretly liked being known as a “Mistery man.” After her divorce, his mother never missed a chance to label the Mistery family a pack of oddballs. First and foremost was her ex-husband, Edgar Allan Mistery, a champion curler. (Curling is an Olympic sport played with brooms and polished rocks on an ice rink; it isn’t exactly mainstream.) Every one of Edgar’s relatives was part of her roll call of hopeless eccentrics.
6:15 a.m.: Second wake-up attempt. The words RED ALERT flashed on a monitor screen, accompanied by the theme from Star Trek, and a metallic voice that kept repeating, “Man the lifeboats!”
This time around, Dash’s forehead was targeted by a laser-tag strobe light. The room looked like the bridge of an alien spaceship.
But it was no use: Dash just rolled over and buried his head in the pillow. Within seconds, he was out like a light.
6:30 a.m.: Final attempt. First the phone rang several times. Then the automatic blinds rolled up, buzzing, while a wall of speakers blasted the latest hit.
A neighbor banged on the door, yelling, “This isn’t a nightclub, you slacker!”
Still nothing.
Finally at precisely 6:36 a.m., in the middle of all the deafening chaos, there was a tiny blip. It came from a titanium gadget, shaped like a cell phone, which hung from a charger cord over the couch.
That faint blip rang in Dash’s ears like a volley of gunfire. Without getting up, he reached out, grabbed the gadget, and pressed a few buttons.
A dreadful message flashed onto the screen.
The second that Dash read it, his eyes bulged. “Today?” he yelled. “There’s absolutely no way!”
He jumped to his feet. This was a total disaster. He grabbed various remotes, clicking off the alarms, ringtones, and speakers. “There’s no time to sort all this out. I have to…I have to…what do I have to do?!” he exclaimed.
He perched on the arm of a chair, quickly booting up his seven computers, which came to life with a flash of white light. “I’ll email Agatha!” he said aloud. “But will she read it in time?” He checked the gadget again, with a grimace. “No, better not. If they hack into my email, it’s all over.”
Where did he put that cordless phone? He found it under a burger wrapper. Feverishly he scrolled through his contacts, “Adam, Adrian…Agatha! Got it!”
He started to text her, but stopped. What i
f they’d put a bug on his phone? They were experts at stuff like that!
“Okay, don’t panic, Dash,” he whispered. “Concentrate. What’s the best way to get a message to Agatha without anyone listening in?” He ran a hand through his floppy hair and made a decision.
Dash stepped onto the terrace, unlatched the door to his aviary, and grabbed his trusty carrier pigeon. “Time to put you to work, buddy. The Mistery Cousins need you!”
As the pigeon soared over the suburbs of London, the patchwork of roofs and yards gave way to a wide swath of green: three acres of flowering meadows, fountains, lily ponds, botanical gardens, and quiet, leafy lanes.
Smack in the middle of the park was a Victorian mansion with a lavender roof: the Mistery Estate, home of twelve-year-old Agatha Mistery and her parents.
Agatha was taking a morning stroll in her slippers and bathrobe, dodging the rotating jets of the sprinkler system. The scent of freshly mowed grass tickled her nose—her small, upturned nose, a Mistery family trait.
She carried a cup of steaming tea, which she savored in tiny sips. It was top-quality Shui-Hsien, with a scent like honey and a fruity aftertaste. In a word: superb.
She followed the path to a gazebo, where she sat on a purple swing, resting her teacup next to a pile of letters. Mostly junk mail, bills, and silly postcards from friends on vacation. Agatha didn’t bother to read them.
Then she noticed a package on the table. It was covered with stamps, postmarks, and labels from several countries.
What could it be?
“Chandler?” called Agatha.
The Mistery Estate’s trusty butler peered out from behind a hydrangea bush, armed with a pair of gardening shears. He was pruning stray twigs, dressed in an extra-large black tuxedo that seemed more suited to a gala event than a garden. An ancient straw hat perched on top of his head.
“Good morning, Miss Agatha.” Chandler waved his shears and gave her what passed for a smile, a very faint crack in the great slab of his face. A former professional boxer, he was known for his stony expression.
“What’s this?” asked Agatha, picking up the mysterious package. “Where did it come from?”
“From the Andes, Miss Agatha.”
“Then it’s from Mom and Daddy!”
Agatha crossed her legs and started unwrapping the package, carefully noting the sequence of stamps. “This first one is the postmark of Laguna Negra in Peru,” she said aloud. “They’re there right now, at thirteen thousand feet above sea level!”
“Just so, Miss.”
“And then the post office in Ica, the Andean province,” she said, concentrating. “Then Lima, the capital of Peru, then…that’s strange! Do you see that?”
“Do I see what, Miss Agatha?”
“This stamp, right under the air-mail sticker.” Agatha chewed her lip. “It says Mexico City.”
Chandler nodded.
“And finally the last stage: from Mexico City to London, endorsed at Heathrow Airport!” She took the last sip of her Shui-Hsien, then pulled her trusty notebook from her pocket and opened it to a blank page. She clicked open her favorite pen, but the ink had gone dry. Frowning, she scribbled a bit, leaving dents in the paper. “Have you got a pen?” she asked Chandler.
Agatha never missed a chance to take notes on an interesting detail. Like every member of the Mistery family, she had her heart set on an eccentric career.
She wanted to be a mystery writer.
And not just any mystery writer: the best in the world! To train her prodigious memory, she took notes constantly, read encyclopedia entries for fun, and traveled to every corner of the planet whenever she got the chance. She prided herself on her attention to detail.
“A pen?” she asked again.
The butler stood looking at her.
“Is something wrong, Chandler?”
He pulled a gold pen from his tuxedo jacket and passed it to her with a little cough. “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he said, “but don’t you plan to open your birthday present, Miss Agatha?”
“Of course, silly me!” She ripped off the tape and opened the cardboard box. Inside was a second box, labeled HANDLE WITH CARE. EXTREME CARE!
Chandler handed over his gardening gloves. He was accustomed to Mistery family surprises. Even so, his eyes nearly popped out of his head when Angela lifted out…
“A cactus?!” he blurted.
The girl’s cheeks were flushed. “Not just any cactus!” she exclaimed, in seventh heaven. “A very rare specimen!”
It looked like a squat green gourd bristling with thorns. There was also a small birthday card with a picture of llamas.
Darling Agatha,
Daddy and I are thrilled to have found you the last existing potted Indionigro petrificus in the world. You can plant it in Lot 42. Add a pinch of sand, don’t overwater, and be sure to wear gardening gloves—the spines contain a dangerous, paralyzing toxin that causes apparent death (but just for a few hours!).
Big hugs and kisses,
Mom
“A paralyzing toxin! That rocks!” Agatha was overjoyed.
She said a hasty good-bye to the butler and ran to the greenhouse, cactus in hand.
The sun beat down on the structure, which looked like a giant Victorian birdhouse with its white wrought-iron frame and glass panels. Inside, it was stiflingly hot, at least twenty degrees warmer than the hot summer air outside. The air was still, with a fragrance of moondrops and century plant blossoms. Agatha looked around. There were cacti of every size and shape, some round as billiard balls, others tall and lean, their arms raised like gawky scarecrows.
It was a scene straight out of a Wild West movie.
Agatha squinted at the small metal numbers on the planting trays. “Lot 37…Lot 38…here it is, Lot 42!”
Next to a cluster of prickly pears was a bare square of sandy soil, ready for planting. Agatha carefully set down her petrificus and went to a nearby hutch for a trowel. On impulse, she also grabbed a guidebook on South American succulents and a second on poisons and antidotes.
You never could tell.
Chandler’s gardening gloves were so huge it was hard to hold on to the trowel. Laughing, she tightened the elastic around both wrists, but they still looked like boxing gloves on her small hands.
Agatha stood stock-still for a moment, staring at the petrificus and starting to work out the plot of a book featuring an “apparent death.” Maybe a murderer who staged his own funeral, then returned in secret to take revenge on somebody…
“Ahem,” Chandler cleared his throat. Agatha spun around. For a huge man, his approach was incredibly quiet. “There would seem to be a slight problem.”
“A problem, Chandler? What sort of a problem?”
“It relates to young Dashiell, Miss.”
“Dash?! What does he want?”
“I believe it would be best if you come take a look, Miss Agatha.”
With a deep sigh, Agatha pulled off her gloves and followed him out of the greenhouse, stopping under a chestnut tree.
Perched on a branch was a homing pigeon, shuffling nervously. He had good reason.
Watson, Agatha’s Siberian cat, was half hidden in the ferns, licking his whiskers.
“Watson! Come here!” Agatha called out.
The cat gave the pigeon a look that said, “Later for you, bud.” Then he wound himself around Agatha’s legs, purring.
Agatha wasn’t impressed. She climbed up the tree and grabbed hold of the pigeon. Untying the tin cylinder from its leg so Dash would know she’d received his message, she launched the bird into the air, where it flew away with a flurry of wings.
Inside the cylinder was a rolled piece of paper. Agatha was used to surprises, but this was a doozy:
AGENT DM14 DEPARTING FOR EGYPT 10:45, HEATHROW AIRPORT. TICKETS BOOKED. WILL SHARE DETAILS ON PLANE!
Still in the tree, Agatha looked at her watch. It was just after seven.
“Pack our bags, Chandler!” she shou
ted, “We’re leaving immediately!”
Chandler didn’t blink. “What sort of climate should we expect, Miss?”
Agatha thought for a split second. “Hot and dry, like the greenhouse. Linen and cotton shirts, cargo shorts…”
“As you wish, Miss Agatha.”
The butler disappeared into the Mistery Estate, trailed by a hungry Watson.
Agatha shimmied back down the tree trunk and followed them in, going straight to her room. On one wall was a giant family tree, a map of the world notated with the home address, occupation, and relationship of every known member of the Mistery family.
She put her finger on Egypt and found a distant aunt living in Luxor. “Patricia Mistery!” she exclaimed. “Camel breeder!”
Satisfied, she picked up the phone and told Aunt Patricia they were on their way.
Half an hour later, she and Chandler climbed into the limo. Agatha wore khakis and desert boots, and Chandler had on a Hawaiian shirt the size of a pup tent. He carried two overstuffed suitcases. Agatha carried a gift box containing the toxic petrificus (it might come in handy) and Watson’s carrier. As soon as the limo peeled out, she unlatched it, and the Siberian cat curled up on her lap.
They were off! There was only one problem: Would Dash be on time?
Agatha’s parents were allergic to all normal methods of transportation. They liked parasails, hang gliders, and hot-air balloons for wafting around the English countryside, and when they went overseas, they preferred to travel by donkey cart, broken-down jeep, or vintage steamboat.
“We Misterys are adventurers!” her father would chuckle. “A jumbo jet? Ha! Doesn’t have half the charm of an ocean liner like the Titanic!”
Agatha rolled her eyes. “Dad, the Titanic was sunk by an iceberg,” she would remind him. He’d take a few puffs on his pipe and change the subject.
Agatha loved adventure as much as the next Mistery, but the convenience of modern transportation was a definite plus.