She shifted the lorry into gear and drove a little way along the coast to where the road petered out.
Atticus peeked through the window of the lorry. Fort Sconi was directly opposite. It loomed out of the sea, solid and forbidding. There weren’t many windows. Atticus supposed it was to stop the invaders from getting in back in the olden days. It stopped anyone getting out as well, including Inspector Cheddar, he thought gloomily. The only window Atticus could see was a narrow slit about halfway up the building. It was clad in iron bars.
Beep! Beep! Beep!
‘Atticus’s painting is definitely in there,’ Mrs Tucker said. She picked up her mobile phone. ‘I’ll phone the Commissioner for a search warrant. Then we’ll find the painting and arrest the lot of them.’
The warrant came through within minutes. Mrs Tucker printed it off and tucked it into her bra.
‘Let’s go and find Herman,’ she said.
Callie and Michael jumped out of the lorry with Atticus, closely followed by Mrs Tucker and Mrs Cheddar. They scrambled down the bank to the sea. At the bottom of the bank was a jetty. Moored up beside it was a fishing boat with writing on the side: The Jolly Jellyfish.
The Jolly Jellyfish was the name of Mr Tucker’s boat. Mr Tucker popped his head out of the cabin. ‘Come on, youze lot. Me and Bones is ready for action.’
They jumped on board. Mr Tucker handed round life jackets for everyone – there was even a cat-sized one for Atticus – then he started the engine.
Zoom! The Jolly Jellyfish zipped away from the jetty towards the fort. ‘Here, kids, take the wheel,’ Mr Tucker said. ‘Me and Bones will go and put another bottle of shaaarrrrk faaarrrt in the tank.’ Shark fart was Mr Tucker’s favourite fuel. It made the boat go very fast.
Callie and Michael took turns to steer while Mrs Cheddar checked with the binoculars to make sure they weren’t being watched. Mrs Tucker handed round fish-paste sandwiches she’d brought with her in her basket. Atticus chewed his gratefully – sailing was hungry work even if you weren’t doing anything.
The closer they got to the fort, the scarier it looked. The walls were grey and splattered with bird poo. Sharp rocks poked out of the sea around the base. The sea was choppy and white.
‘The landing point is on the other side,’ Mr Tucker said, returning with Bones. ‘We’s need to get into the channel. Or we’ll run aground.’ He took the wheel. The Jolly Jellyfish rounded the rocks. The little fishing boat pitched and rolled: the current was surprisingly strong. Atticus felt sick.
‘Look at the horizon, Atticus,’ Bones reminded him.
Atticus looked grimly out to sea.
Gradually the water became calmer as the boat entered the channel.
Putt. Putt. Putt. Putt. Putt.
Mr Tucker eased The Jolly Jellyfish into land.
The landing point was big enough for several large boats. A crane towered above it for lifting supplies. But it was empty apart from The Jolly Jellyfish. Atticus looked round. There was no sign of the villain’s getaway vessel he and Zeberdee had chased along the banks of the Thames: Klob must have hidden it somewhere.
Bones leapt out and tied the fishing boat to the moorings with a rope. The little group made their way up wide slippery steps to the front door of Fort Sconi.
The first thing that Atticus saw was a sign that said:
‘Remember what happened to Dad,’ Mrs Cheddar warned the kids. ‘Whatever you do, don’t get on the wrong side of that horrible pig. We don’t want anyone else ending up in the pickling tank.’
They had laughed about it at the time, Atticus remembered, in the car going back from Butteredsconi’s pickle factory. It didn’t seem very funny now. Everyone’s face was deadly serious.
BASH! BASH! BASH!
‘Open up!’ Mrs Tucker shouted.
The door opened with a slight creak. An old woman in a maid’s uniform peered through the gap. ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.
‘We have a warrant to search the premises,’ Mrs Tucker waved it in the maid’s face. ‘Stand aside.’
‘But Mr Butteredsconi vasn’t expecting anyone …’
‘Too bad!’
The maid looked on as they pushed their way in.
‘Where is he?’ Mrs Tucker demanded.
‘Upstairs, in the drawing room,’ the maid said.
Atticus followed Mrs Tucker up the elegant staircase. To Atticus’s surprise, the interior of Fort Sconi was absolutely gorgeous; if he hadn’t been on a police inquiry he would have stopped to admire all the wonderful decorations and paintings that hung from the walls. He could see why Ginger Biscuit and Zenia would want to work for Ricardo Butteredsconi: the pickle giant was obviously loaded.
Beep! BEEP! BEEP!
‘This is it,’ Mrs Tucker puffed as they reached the second floor drawing room. Mr Tucker limped up the stairs behind, cursing his wooden leg.
Mrs Tucker kicked the door open. They entered the room.
Ricardo Butteredsconi rolled off an exquisite silk sofa to greet them. So did Pork. Atticus’s eyes moved from one to the other. It was extraordinary how similar they looked, he thought.
‘Which one’s the pig?’ Mr Tucker whispered.
‘My guess is the one wearing the suit and tie is Butteredsconi,’ Mrs Tucker hissed, ‘and the one with parrot droppings on his head and strings of spaghetti dripping from his snout is Pork. Am I right, kids?’
Callie and Michael nodded.
Ricardo Butteredsconi gave a little bow. His chins wobbled. ‘What a lovely surprise,’ he said. ‘Do come in.’
‘To what do I owe the pleasure … Ms … er?’ Butteredsconi extended a meaty mitt to Mrs Tucker.
‘It’s Agent, not Ms,’ Mrs Tucker snapped. ‘Agent Whelk, MI6. This is my husband, Herman. You’ve already met the Cheddars.’
Butteredsconi’s piggy eyes fell on Mrs Cheddar, Callie and Michael. Then he saw Atticus. ‘Ah.’ Ricardo Butteredsconi smiled. ‘The worthy winner of our pickle-painting competition. I’ve been reading all about you. He pointed to a low table. A copy of Art for the Filthy Rich sat upon it. ‘I knew you were destined for greatness. I particularly liked your painting of the beach at Littleton-on-Sea.’
You didn’t just like it, Atticus thought. You nicked it.
‘What have you done with Dad?’ Callie shouted.
‘Dad?’ Ricardo Butteredsconi repeated. ‘You mean the Inspector who fell in the cabbage vat?’ He sighed. ‘I’m afraid he had very little appreciation of either art or pickle.’
‘He didn’t fall in the cabbage vat,’ Mrs Cheddar said stiffly, holding Michael and Callie’s hands. ‘Your pig pushed him deliberately.’
Pork grunted. He seemed pleased with himself.
‘Where is Dad?’ Michael shouted.
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Ricardo Butteredsconi replied coldly. ‘Do you, Pork?’
Pork shook his head. Slobber sprayed from his lips.
‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ Mrs Tucker fumed. ‘Inspector Cheddar was in the camp bed you had Klob and Biscuit steal from Tate Modern.’
‘Klob and Biscuit?’ Ricardo Butteredsconi turned to Pork. ‘I fear the dear lady is mad,’ he said, ‘like the poor doctor who used to live here.’
Pork snorted his agreement.
Atticus tensed. Calling Mrs Tucker mad was never going to be a good idea.
‘Look, fatso,’ Mrs Tucker rolled up her sleeves. ‘I’ve had just about enough of this.’ Atticus was interested to see that Mrs Tucker had a new tattoo on her forearm. She must have had it done at the pet spa. It said:
DON’T MESS WITH EDNA IF YOU WANT TO KEEP YOUR TEETH
It was probably good advice, he thought.
‘You are the criminal mastermind behind the recent international art thefts,’ she accused Butteredsconi. ‘Don’t deny it.’
‘Me? Steal art?’ Butteredsconi gasped. ‘But Agent Whelk, I love art: ask Atticus and these delightful children and their dear mother.’ He clasped his hands toget
her. ‘I told them of my passion when they visited my factory. I would never, ever, EVER do anything like that.’ Tears rolled down his pillowy cheeks. ‘I am deeply wounded that you would think such a thing.’
He was a good actor, Atticus had to admit. But the fact that Pork’s head was covered in Pam’s parrot poop was a dead giveaway. And there were other clues to show that the villains had been here. Half a pickled rat’s tail lay on the table; there was ginger fur on the shagpile carpet; the pickled fruit in the fruit bowl had been pecked; and beside a gleaming gold bucket and a pile of straw lay a few magpie feathers and a packet of Thumpers’ Scrubbit. Biscuit had been here; so had the magpies and Pam. And all the signs indicated that they had left in a hurry. They were probably hiding somewhere in the fort.
‘Spare us the waterworks, Butteredsconi,’ Mrs Tucker barked. ‘We know you’re in on the art crime. We know you found Klob and her gang in the megalodon. We know you’re paying them a lot of money to steal art for you. We know they bednapped Inspector Cheddar by mistake.’
Ricardo Butteredsconi blew his nose on a large silk handkerchief. He drew himself up so that he was almost as tall as he was wide. ‘Agent Whelk, you come into my home and make these terrible accusations against me.’ His expression changed to one of cunning. ‘But let me ask you a question: where is your proof?’
Mrs Tucker waved a gadget at him. ‘This is a tracking device,’ she said. ‘We placed a bug on the back of one of the paintings you ordered Klob to steal – the beach scene by Atticus. The tracking device has traced the picture to this room. The painting is here, in your fort. That’s our proof. Now get out of the way while we search for it.’
Atticus couldn’t help admiring Mrs Tucker. She didn’t seem at all fazed by Ricardo Butteredsconi. Atticus was, though. The pickle giant gave him the creeps. It wasn’t just the way the single strand of greasy hair oiled its way between his ears like a squashed slug, or even the way his nostril hair quivered like a batch of mould under a microscope: it was the fact that Ricardo Butteredsconi didn’t seem to care at all about the kids or Mrs Cheddar. He didn’t care that he was accused of being an international criminal mastermind. Worst of all, he didn’t care that he was holding Inspector Cheddar prisoner against his will.
Ricardo Butteredsconi wasn’t just weird, Atticus decided, he was downright dangerous.
Mrs Tucker advanced with the tracking device.
Beep! Beep! Beep! BEEEEEEEEEEEP!!
‘It’s in there.’ Mrs Tucker pointed at the pile of straw. ‘Search it, Herman!’
Mr Tucker hobbled forward. He dug into the straw with his hands.
‘There’s nothing here,’ Mr Tucker said.
‘It’s in there somewhere, Herman,’ Mrs Tucker said firmly. ‘Keep looking.’
‘All right, all right!’ Mr Tucker fumbled about. ‘Wait! I’s found something!’ He frowned. ‘But it ain’t a painting.’ He withdrew his hands. They were covered in pig slurry. Mr Tucker sniffed it. ‘That smells even stronger than shaarrrkk faaarrrrt,’ he said. ‘Mind if I take some with me to try in me engine?’ he asked Pork.
Pork grunted.
‘Thanks.’ Mr Tucker produced a container from somewhere in his trousers and started shovelling pig poop into it.
‘It seems that your tracker device must be faulty, Agent Whelk,’ Butteredsconi said lightly. ‘If I had stolen something as valuable as an Atticus Claw painting, I would hardly be likely to hide it in Pork’s lavatory, would I? Now, kindly leave, or I will telephone your superior and have you arrested for invading my home.’ Ricardo Butteredsconi had stopped crying. His face was stony and his voice cold.
Mrs Tucker was momentarily speechless.
Atticus decided to give it one last try. He approached Pork. ‘You ate the bug, Pork,’ he hissed, ‘so where’s the painting? And what have you done with Inspector Cheddar?’
Pork looked at him blearily. ‘Not telling,’ he grunted.
Mrs Tucker put her hands on her hips and faced the pickle giant. ‘I know you’ve got Atticus’s painting,’ she hissed, ‘and the rest of the stolen art; and Inspector Cheddar, for that matter. And you can bet your barnacles we’ll find them. And when we do,’ she shook her fist at him, ‘it will give me great pleasure to throw you and your pestilent pig in jail and put you both on a diet of bread and water.’
The maid let them out. ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘Don’t come again, vill you?’
The dejected group boarded The Jolly Jellyfish. Mr Tucker dropped Mrs Tucker off at the jetty to collect the lorry. Then they puttered back along the coast in silence to Littleton-on-Sea.
It was only when Atticus got back to number 2 Blossom Crescent with Mrs Cheddar and the kids that he realised they had been tricked again: the maid was none other than Zenia Klob in one of her many disguises.
Mimi came by after supper. She had been allowed to stay the night while Aysha took her baby to see her grandparents.
‘There’s nothing more you can do tonight, Atticus,’ she said, touching his paw. ‘Let’s get some sleep.’
The two cats padded upstairs to the children’s bedroom. Atticus curled up on the end of Michael’s bed and Mimi on the end of Callie’s.
‘We will find him, won’t we, Michael?’ Callie sniffed.
‘Of course we will,’ Michael replied fiercely.
The two children went to sleep.
Atticus felt restless. His instinct told him that Inspector Cheddar was in terrible danger. But Mimi was right. There was nothing more they could do that night. They would have to wait for the morning and see if Mrs Tucker could get another search warrant.
In the middle of the night, Atticus woke clutching his chewed ear. He had been dreaming about the ride at Butteredsconi’s pickle factory. In his dream, the ride didn’t end. He couldn’t get off the cart. He had to go round and round again. Each time his eyes stung more from the horrible smell of vinegar and spices, and his fur became more salty and matted until he could hardly move, so that eventually, when the giant teeth chomped down on the burger, they chomped down on him instead. Then the scene changed to the drawing room at Fort Sconi and it wasn’t a pair of giant plastic teeth chomping at him any more, it was a set of gleaming feline ones that belonged to Ginger Biscuit …
‘Are you all right?’ Mimi whispered.
‘Not really,’ Atticus admitted. ‘I was having a bad dream.’ He stretched. ‘I might go and get a drink of water.’ His mouth felt dry – as if he’d swallowed salt.
‘I’ll join you,’ Mimi purred.
Silently the two cats got off the end of children’s beds and padded into the kitchen.
Atticus lapped thirstily at his bowl of water. Then he sat back and wiped his whiskers. ‘That’s the second awful dream I’ve had recently,’ he mentioned.
‘What was the first one?’ Mimi asked.
Atticus shuddered. ‘I don’t want to think about it,’ he said.
‘Sometimes your dreams tell you things, Atticus,’ Mimi said gently. ‘Things that you can’t see when you’re awake.’
‘You mean it might be important?’
‘It might be,’ Mimi purred.
‘Well …’ Atticus thought back. ‘It was when I was in the limo coming back from the visit to the pickle factory,’ he recalled. ‘Butteredsconi had spent ages telling us about his pickled art collection and it freaked me out. I was trying to go to sleep but I couldn’t because all I could see in my head were huge jars full of pickled animals.’
‘Go on,’ Mimi prompted.
‘And then I must have dozed off,’ Atticus said, ‘because I had this awful nightmare that Inspector Cheddar was one of the animals in the pickle jars …’ He stopped abruptly. Suddenly he understood.
‘What is it, Atticus?’ Mimi asked.
‘I know why Butteredsconi is keeping Inspector Cheddar,’ Atticus gasped. He held his face in his paws. ‘How could I have been so blind?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The kids were joking in the car about Insp
ector Cheddar falling in the pickle tank,’ Atticus moaned. ‘Michael said something about him being like one of Butteredsconi’s pickled animals and then …’ He could hardly get the words out. ‘Callie said he might end up as part of Butteredsconi’s art collection.’
Mimi’s eyes were wide with horror. ‘No …’
Atticus gripped her paw. ‘That’s got to be it, Mimi. That’s the reason Butteredsconi is keeping Inspector Cheddar prisoner. He’s going to pickle him and add him to his art collection. It’s the reverse of Frankenstein! Instead of turning a corpse into a living human, he’s turning a living human into a corpse …’
Atticus started towards the cat flap. ‘We’ve got to get back to Fort Sconi before it’s too late!’
‘But how can we?’
Just then the doorbell rang.
‘Who’s that?’ Atticus wondered aloud. He hoped it wasn’t more bad news.
The two cats went into the hall.
‘Coming!’ Mrs Cheddar hurried downstairs in her dressing gown and opened the front door.
‘Mrs Tucker!’ she exclaimed.
Mrs Tucker was wearing her biker boots and helmet. Her face was set in a determined expression. ‘Get the kids,’ she said. ‘And the cats.’
‘But where are we going?’
‘Back to Sconi Point,’ Mrs Tucker said. ‘I want to have another look around that fort.’
‘But don’t we need another warrant?’ Mrs Cheddar said.
Mrs Tucker slammed on her helmet. ‘Not if we go in through the tunnel,’ she said.
Deep in the basement of Fort Sconi, Thug and Slasher were busy polishing a large metal table with two rags and a tin of Thumpers’ Traditional Slab Brite.
The surface of the table gleamed and twinkled in the bright electric light that flooded the white-tiled room. You might have thought this would please the magpies because normally, as you will recall, they loved shiny things. However, on this occasion it didn’t please them at all. This was partly because the metal table was too big to steal. However it was mainly on account of what the table was going to be used for.
Atticus Claw Learns to Draw Page 8
