The Pearl of Bengal

by Sir Steve Stevenson

  The message clicked off.

  “Interesting,” said Agatha.

  “You mean terrifying,” said Dash, who looked very pale.

  The girl clicked open the file containing the recorded phone call. The audio signal was very bad, and they had to replay it several times to understand some parts.

  “Someone’s inside the house…KSSSHH KSSSHH…They’ve picked the lock, I hear feet on the stairs…KSSSHH KSSSHH…They’re coming toward my door, I know what they’re after—the pearl! The pearl! KSSSHH KSSSHH…If anything happens to me, tell my dear friend…KSSSHH KSSSHH…Deshpande!…BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP…

  Agatha’s eyes glowed with excitement. “First off, we need to discover whose voice that is. Then we can start reconstructing exactly what happened. You agree, Dash?”

  White-faced, Dash rubbed his temples as if he’d just gotten the world’s biggest headache.

  The only nonstop to Kolkata was a red-eye from Heathrow at 10:00 p.m. The Mistery cousins were glad to have plenty of prep time.

  They split up the tasks. Chandler booked their flights and took care of all the travel details, Dash pored over the files his school had attached, and Agatha went to the Mistery Estate’s huge library to investigate India.

  “If memory serves,” she told Dash, “one of our relatives wrote an article about Bengal tigers for National Geographic.”

  “Did you pull that out of one of your famous memory drawers?” Dash smirked. He was always cracking jokes about Agatha’s amazing memory. He paused for a moment, then stuttered, “Wait! What? Did you just say…tigers?!”

  “I did,” she said calmly. “The Sundarbans region has the largest population of man-eaters in the whole world!”

  Dash shook his head and turned back to his file. “As if that obnoxious cat weren’t bad enough, now we’re dealing with man-eating tigers!” he groaned.

  Like her parents, Agatha preferred old-fashioned technologies. While Dash surfed the net with his EyeNet, she rolled a ladder around the high shelves of the oak-paneled library, pulling down a dozen leather-bound volumes on the history and religions of India. Even at first glance, it looked like a very complicated subject.

  Next, she searched for the issue of National Geographic with the photo spread on Bengal tigers. “I was right!” she told Dash. “His name is Rudyard Mistery! He’s a nature photographer, and a very brave one, from the looks of these close-ups.”

  “Oh great,” said her cousin. He didn’t sound happy.

  Agatha studied a shot of a snarling male tiger’s face. “Looks like he used an extreme telephoto lens, like the one in Rear Window.”

  She and Dash went to look at the Mistery family tree, a gigantic world map marked with residences, occupations, and family relationships of every known member of the Mistery clan. “Here he is, Uncle Rudyard,” she exclaimed. “Oh, and what good luck—he lives in Kolkata!”

  She picked up the phone and dialed his number. “I hope he’s working in his darkroom. It’s a four-and-a-half-hour time difference,” she noted. “I hope he can give us a hand!”

  From the other end of the line, a hearty voice boomed, “Mistery Photo, hello there. Who’s calling from London?” It was Uncle Rudyard.

  The conversation went for a good half an hour. By the time Rudyard finally hung up, Agatha’s ears were smoking. “That uncle of ours can talk a blue streak,” she told Dash, slightly breathless. “But he’s already gotten ‘an old chum’ to set up a visitors’ permit for Sundarbans National Park. And he has a peculiar request.”

  “Of course he does, he’s a Mistery! What is it this time?”

  “He asked if any of us can fly a plane.”

  Just then, Chandler entered the room with his usual discretion. “If I can be of service, Miss Agatha, many years ago I took flying lessons.”

  “Excellent, Chandler,” she replied. “Add your aviation equipment to our luggage.”

  The butler didn’t bat an eye. “As you wish, Miss,” he said. “Dinner is served.”

  They went to the ancestral dining room and sat at a long Louis XIV table, set with the Mistery family’s best china. Chandler had even set out the silver cutlery and linen napkins with the family monogram.

  He served the cousins a perfectly cooked sole meunière, which they wolfed down in no time. Dash took seconds of everything, and thirds of the roasted potatoes.

  “What did you learn from the files, Dash?” asked Agatha, digging a spoon into her chocolate mousse.

  “There was a theft,” mumbled Dash with his mouth full.

  “The pearl in the phone message?”

  Dash nodded. “Not just any pearl. The world-famous Pearl of Bengal.”

  Agatha touched the tip of her nose. “Hmm, I read something about that…A Hindu temple half buried in the jungle, with an ancient statue of the goddess Kali…” She paused for a moment. “Kali was holding the pearl in the palm of her hand, am I right?”

  Dash was no longer astonished by Agatha’s amazing mnemonic talents. “You opened the right drawer, cousin. The village is called Chotoka. It’s on the delta of the Ganges River. Very remote,” he added. “The website called it ‘inaccessible.’”

  “Anything else?” she pressed.

  “On the night of the theft, the old custodian, Amitav Chandra, disappeared. He was the only one who knew which ten of a hundred keys opened the doors to the sanctuary of the goddess Kali. It was his voice we heard on the recording.”

  “Abduction or murder?”

  “Nobody knows yet,” Dash replied, sounding uncertain. “There are no police in Sundarbans National Park, only the forest guard, led by Captain Deshpande.”

  “The ‘dear friend’ in the message?”

  “Exactly.” Dash nodded as he laid out photographs he had downloaded.

  Agatha and Chandler stared in silence at the wild mangrove jungle surrounding the temple. Chotoka village seemed to be swallowed by bright green foliage. There were no roads around it, only some winding dirt paths and wide waterways navigated by fishermen in small wooden boats. Fortunately among the thatched huts was a large bungalow with a hand-painted sign reading TIGER HOTEL.

  “Uncle Rudyard suggested we stay there,” Agatha murmured to her cousin. “Back to our case. Who are the suspects?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” spluttered Dash, holding a grape halfway to his mouth. “That’s all there was in the file. We’ve got nothing to go on!”

  Agatha glanced at the clock and took the situation in hand. “To recap, twenty-four hours ago, a rare pearl of incalculable value was stolen from a Hindu temple.”

  She picked up a photo of the precious pearl. It was a perfect sphere, nearly black, with silvery highlights.

  “Just before the theft occurred, the custodian, Amitav Chandra, called Eye International from his home,” she said, closing her eyelids. “Someone broke into his home, forced open the door of the temple, stole the Bengal Pearl, and then…”

  “…killed Mr. Chandra?” Dash guessed, sounding worried.

  “We don’t know that,” said Agatha, laying her hands on the table. “We only know that he’s disappeared into thin air. But in his phone call, Chandra said to contact Deshpande, the captain of the forest guard. This Captain Deshpande should be able to give us more information about suspects once we arrive in the village,” she concluded.

  At that moment, Chandler started clearing dessert.

  Agatha stopped him. “Leave that, Chandler,” she told him. “Dash will finish it. Go pack some sunscreen and mosquito repellent. We’re going to need it!”

  “Of course, Miss Agatha.” The butler nodded.

  Minutes later, they were in a limousine speeding to Heathrow Airport.

  Dash had told his parents that he’d be staying at Agatha’s for a few days to prepare for an important and difficult exam, which was almost the truth. To save time, he had not gone back to his penthouse. He’d stick with the clothes he was wearing. In place of the hair gel he usually used on his floppy dark hair, h
e’d tried olive oil.

  “Oh, the mosquitoes are going to love you,” laughed Agatha as they boarded the Air India jet. As always, she had Watson’s traveling case in one hand.

  “Don’t mock my style,” said Dash, taking a seat by the window and burrowing under a blanket. Before they even took off, he was out like a light.

  For the first hour, Agatha read guidebooks about Kolkata and Sundarbans National Park. Then she, too, fell into a deep sleep, with Watson curled up in her lap.

  Chandler didn’t even close his eyes. The seats were too narrow for him to make himself comfortable, so he passed his time poring over a dog-eared flight instruction manual, making notes with a highlighter pen.

  They landed in Kolkata the following morning. Agatha was as fresh as a daisy, while Dash had dark circles under his eyes. He couldn’t stop yawning.

  “One of these days you’ll make it into the Guinness Book of World Records,” Agatha teased him cheerfully as they rode the escalator to the baggage claim. “World champion sleeper!”

  Dash gave his millionth yawn in reply. “It’s changing time zones that destroys me,” he moaned.

  “Right.” Agatha smirked. “Four and a half hours’ difference isn’t that much.”

  “It’s the extra half hour!”

  They picked up their luggage in no time. Chandler showed their passports to the customs officials, and they emerged into the airport’s central atrium.

  It was like a miniature city, crowded and bustling with color. Glittering displays of designer cosmetics sat next to narrow stands selling orange and pink silks, silver bracelets, and beaded necklaces. Women of all shapes and sizes walked past, wrapped in brightly patterned saris. Some of the men wore traditional white or brown clothing and turbans, while others wore business suits.

  In the midst of the crowded bazaar, they spotted a young Indian with bulging calf muscles waving a sign that said RASHID’S RICKSHAW—FASTEST IN KOLKATA!

  “The only thing missing is a snake charmer,” joked Dash.

  “See, that’s where you’re wrong,” a cheerful voice boomed behind him. “I can charm anything, even a cobra.”

  They turned to see a broad-shouldered man with unruly blond hair, a ruddy tan, and a welcoming grin. He looked about thirty years old, and in spite of a little potbelly, he looked very fit. In his beige shorts, tan shirt, and hiking boots, he was the very image of an adventurer.

  “Welcome to India, the most exciting place on the planet!” exclaimed Rudyard Mistery.

  After vigorously shaking Chandler’s hand, hugging his niece and nephew, and cracking a few jokes about Dash’s olive-oiled hair, Uncle Rudyard reached into his camera bag for an aviator cap and goggles. “Okay, which one of you knows how to pilot a plane?” he asked without preamble. Apparently he couldn’t wait to get back to the wilds of Bengal.

  “I, er, failed my pilot’s license three times,” Chandler began, rubbing his jaw. “But I know how to steer with a joystick and check the altimeter…”

  “Excellent! Good man!” Uncle Rudyard said, thumping his shoulder. “They won’t let us take off without a backup pilot!”

  The butler solemnly put on the aviator cap, tinted goggles, and an oversize brown leather jacket he’d brought with him from London.

  “You’re a vision, big man!” Rudyard Mistery grinned. “Who’s going to argue with that?”

  Agatha laughed heartily, but Dash looked uncertain.

  “Don’t you think this uncle of ours is being a bit optimistic?” he whispered in his cousin’s ear as they walked to the hangar where their private plane was waiting. “Chandler did say he failed three times.”

  “Uncle Rudyard’s terrific! A real force of nature,” Agatha said, glowing.

  Dash rolled his eyes. Apparently Rudyard could charm cousins as well as snakes.

  Suitcases in hand, they went out through a side door and walked across the hot tarmac, passing a small fleet of maintenance vehicles unloading luggage from planes. Uncle Rudyard stopped next to a hangar to greet a few grease-stained mechanics in Hindi and English. Then he pointed to the flight inspector’s office.

  “Come on, big man!” he invited Chandler. “Let’s go convince them you’re an RAF ace!”

  A few minutes passed. Agatha reached down to stroke Watson’s paw, which the cat had stuck out through the mesh of his carrier.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll let you out soon!” she consoled him.

  “Fine with me if you don’t,” grumbled Dash. “I’d almost forgotten that lousy beast!”

  As Agatha glared, the others emerged from the office, flashing thumbs-ups.

  As soon as Uncle Rudyard gestured proudly toward his plane, the children understood why he needed a backup pilot.

  It was a gigantic yellow Canadair with bright red stripes, almost entirely covered in stickers. It was sixty feet long with a ninety-foot wingspan, an amphibious beast capable of landing on a jungle runway or body of water with equal ease.

  “That’s my honey. She used to be a water bomber for fighting wildfires, but I had her refitted for photo expeditions,” explained Rudyard Mistery proudly. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “What a spectacular plane!” Agatha cried. “Mom and Dad would adore it. They’re nuts about vintage aircraft!”

  Chandler just stared at the plane, sweating profusely in his leather jacket.

  They climbed into the Canadair’s roomy cabin and immediately noted that it was furnished like a hiker’s cabin. There was a hammock, a gas stove, food supplies (mostly rice and canned tuna), bottled water, fishing rods, tripods, and waterproof camera equipment.

  “I don’t just shoot tigers, you know,” their uncle explained, showing them his scuba gear. “The Irrawaddy dolphins migrate back to the Ganges from the Bay of Bengal at this time of year. I want to get some underwater shots.”

  “What’s in those colored vials?” asked Dash.

  “Snake serum.”

  “You mean, to treat snakebites?”

  Rudyard shook his head. “To attract snakes so I can shoot close-ups.”

  Dash’s eyes got big. “P-p-poisonous snakes?”

  “Deadly.” Rudyard grinned.

  Dash’s knees started to shake. They shook even more when Uncle Rudyard and Chandler strapped themselves into the copilot seats, and the seaplane’s propellers began to spin.

  It was the worst takeoff the boy could remember.

  The Canadair swung back and forth, lurching wildly from left to right, thumping and creaking. Dash grabbed hold of a large metal handle, while Agatha calmly gazed out the window.

  When they finally reached cruising altitude in the clear skies above Kolkata, Uncle Rudyard entrusted the stick to the butler. “Put her on a bearing of one twenty south,” he shouted in incomprehensible pilot jargon. “I’m going to go chat with the youngsters.”

  Nervous as he was, Chandler kept his eye on the control panel, obeying him to the letter.

  “Now, Agatha. What can you tell me about your investigation?” asked Uncle Rudyard as he relaxed in his hammock. Watson jumped onto his belly, where he was welcomed with plenty of cuddles.

  “It’s a tough one,” replied the girl, tugging on her cousin’s sleeve. “Dash can fill you in.” She tugged harder. “Right, Agent DM14?”

  “Uh, me?”

  “You’re the detective!” Agatha grinned. “Go on, lazy, tell him!”

  She knew there was only one way to calm down her cousin. In fact, as he recapped the details of their mission, he started to loosen up, bit by bit. At one point, he pulled out his EyeNet to show Rudyard the pictures of Chotoka, the Temple of Kali, and the magnificent missing black pearl.

  “What an amazing doohickey!” Rudyard Mistery enthused. “Go back a few frames. Can you zoom in?”

  Dash zoomed in on the image of Deshpande, captain of the forest guard.

  Rudyard nodded. “I know him. He was mauled by a tiger last year. He was an expert at tracking down poachers, but he hasn’t been the same since that bi
te on the leg.”

  “Mr. Chandra told us to contact him,” Agatha said. “Uncle, what can you tell us about the villagers of Chotoka?”

  Rudyard Mistery shrugged. “They’re mostly fishermen and rice farmers, except for the priests in the Temple of Kali, the pilgrims who worship there, and a few ecotourists who come for the wildlife,” he replied. “The villagers live simple lives, but they’re crazy about movies, cell phones, and the Internet! Don’t you find that an odd contradiction?”

  The children nodded. Uncle Rudyard had a way of putting everyone at ease. Suddenly he jumped up from the hammock and shouted, “Doing all right there, big man? You can begin the descent. We’re almost there!”

  Dash and Agatha grinned.

  “Look out the window,” said Rudyard, pointing to the enormous green delta of the Ganges River. “They call the Sundarbans ‘land of tides,’ where land and water mingle together in little islands that are continually being born and disappearing.”

  The scenery was breathtakingly beautiful. Even Dash gazed down at it, speechless.

  “Fortunately, the monsoon season’s over. We wouldn’t have been able to land my plane in those storms,” said their uncle. “And the village streets would be soaked.”

  Leaving both cousins to stare at the view, he rejoined Chandler in the cockpit. “Hand her over to me,” he announced happily. “Prepare for a landing!”

  As Chandler got up to sit in the passenger seat, he felt something rubbery, like a bicycle tire. Then it moved. Whipping off his goggles, he stared at the control panel as a large, coppery snake slithered underneath it.

  Chandler jumped up so fast he hit his head on the ceiling. “I fear we have a big problem!” he shouted, maintaining his sense of formality. “There’s a snake on the plane!”