The Fangs of the Dragon Read online

  ‘Yes,’ said Ed.

  ‘And tucked inside one of them, was his carefully made forgery. He only intended to get a close look at your comic. He knew you’d never allow him to borrow it, or anything like that. But when the doorbell went, and he was left alone in that room, he spotted the opportunity of a lifetime. Purely by luck, his forgery was to hand, and he made a snap decision. While you were gone, just for a few seconds, he swapped the real comic for his fake. He gambled that when you came back in, you’d put the comic in the safe straight away, without examining it closely. And that’s exactly what you did. You assumed that was your comic back in its plastic case. It wasn’t. Rippa slipped the real Tomb of Death in amongst his catalogues, and he walked out with it, right under your nose.’

  ‘But he must have known I’d spot the forgery eventually,’ said Ed.

  ‘Oh, eventually, yes,’ I said. ‘But he knew you never, ever normally took that comic out of the safe, let alone out of its protective case. It might have stayed in there for months, or even years, before being discovered. I said to you when I examined the safe that only a pretty stupid and desperate thief would try to snatch that comic, but I was wrong. Rippa took huge risks, but he wasn’t daft.

  ‘Think about it. If you, months or even years later, discovered the fake, and even if you linked the fake to Rippa, what actual evidence would you have? None. Even if you told the world, and ruined Rippa’s reputation for good, he’d hardly mind, would he? He’d have sold the real comic and be living off a mountain of cash.

  ‘He took a risk, and it appeared to pay off. The only problem was, he now had a genuine Tomb of Death and needed to get rid of it. He needed money to finance his trip to America, so he started selling off stock from his shop. He’s been selling loads and buying little, to make sure he had enough money to make the earliest trip to America he could. Today. And once he’d sold the comic . . .’

  ‘. . . No evidence again,’ said Ed, grinding his teeth. ‘Unless I spent a fortune following the comic around America and tracking its sale.’

  ‘Right,’ I said.

  Ed flicked the indicator and the car sped towards the exit off the motorway. By the little clock that was Blutacked to the dashboard, the time was 3.22 p.m.

  It was 3.27 p.m. when we raced into the car park opposite the main entrance to the airport. Charlie and I hurried over to the terminal building while Ed hunted through the rubbish in the car’s glove compartment for some change to pay for parking.

  3.28 p.m. The glass doors slid aside and Charlie and I stepped into a swirling river of people, trolleys and baggage. Tugging at Charlie’s sleeve to get him to follow me, I headed straight for the enormous Departures screen, hanging above a nearby coffee stall.

  3.29 p.m. ‘Let’s see, let’s see,’ I muttered. ‘Look for LAX. That’s Los Angeles. No, wait, that’s arrivals. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, LAX, LAX, LAX . . . I can’t see it. Wait, the screen’s changing . . .’

  Charlie poked his head into view. ‘There’s one flight to LA today; passengers have just been called to the departure lounge, over there, Gate 22B.’

  I glanced back and forth between him and the screen. ‘That’s genius. How did you work that out?’

  ‘I asked that air stewardess over there.’

  ‘Ah, right,’ I said, nodding a thank you to a woman in a ghastly green uniform.

  3.30 p.m.

  We sped up a short staircase and across a wide area covered in shiny floor tiles and bolted-down seats. The departure lounge was directly ahead of us. Passengers were lining up at a row of scanners, ready to have their bags checked.

  And there was Rippa! He was facing away from us, a holdall in one hand and a pack of sandwiches in the other. He was almost at the front of the queue.

  ‘He hasn’t seen us,’ said Charlie.

  ‘But if he gets past those scanners, he’s gone!’ I said. ‘Airport security means we won’t be able to follow him any further!’

  We hurried towards him, worried in case we drew attention to ourselves. If he spotted us now, all he’d have to do is leave the queue and lose himself in the crowd.

  ‘Whatever you do,’ I whispered, ‘don’t run. Don’t cause anyone in that queue to look round.’

  Suddenly, Ed overtook us, running like his bum was on fire, heading directly for Rippa. Charlie and I both pulled yeeargh-faces.

  But it was almost too late. Rippa was at the head of the queue. In a few seconds, he’d be through the scanners. Even at full speed, Ed wouldn’t reach him in time!

  ‘How can we stop him?’ wailed Charlie.

  For a split second, my mind went blank. But then I had a brilliant idea.

  ‘Oi!’ I shouted, at the top of my voice. ‘Oi! Tarquin!’

  The sound echoed off the flickering screens and the shiny floor. As one, every last person in sight turned to stare at me. Rippa, with a face like a mad bull, spun on his heels. Without a moment’s thought, he flung his pack of sandwiches directly at me, his mouth pulled into a wedge-shaped sneer. The sandwiches bounced and skidded to a halt at my feet.

  ‘So it’s true,’ I said. ‘He really does throw things at people who call him that.’

  Rippa’s pause gave Ed just enough time to reach him. Rippa almost made a run for it, but Ed took a firm hold of his arm and dragged him out of the queue.

  ‘Open it, please,’ said Ed, pointing to Rippa’s holdall.

  With his free hand, and a grunting sigh, Rippa unzipped the holdall. Nestled inside, between some scrunched-up T-shirts and a spare pair of jeans, was a cardboard folder. Inside the folder was Issue 1 of The Tomb of Death.

  ‘How did you know?’ grunted Rippa.

  ‘I didn’t,’ said Ed. He pointed to me. ‘He did.’

  ‘And who are you?’ sniffed Rippa, looking me up and down. ‘Sherlock bloomin’ Holmes?’

  ‘No,’ I said with a smile. ‘My name is Saxby Smart.’

  On the way home, Charlie expected to get one giant, economy-sized telling-off from his brother, but it seemed that Ed was a changed man. ‘I shouldn’t have been so tough on you over the jam, Charlie,’ he said, as the car chugged back into town. ‘If I’d been less crabby, you might have come straight to me in the first place. Sorry.’

  ‘Does that mean I can read your collection?’ said Charlie excitedly.

  Ed said nothing for a while. ‘Dunno,’ he mumbled eventually. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Once I was home, I retreated to my shed. I made some notes on the case, and then I settled back in my Thinking Chair. There was a slight ripping sound from the arm. I sighed, and finally had to admit to myself that even a simple repair job like that was beyond me. I’d call my friend Muddy in the morning, I decided. Get a professional in.

  Case closed.

  CASE FILE FIVE:

  THE TREASURE OF DEAD MAN’S LANE

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  ‘OOOH DEAR,’ SAID MUDDY. ‘Ooooh dear, oh dear, oh dear. Oooooooh dear.’

  ‘Yeh, OK,’ I said grumpily. ‘Can you fix it?’

  Muddy examined the rip in the arm of my Thinking Chair, prodding it with a grimy finger. ‘Ooooh dear. Yup, that’s fixable. Should have called me in earlier, though, Saxby. You’ve let this develop into quite a nasty little tear.’

  ‘I can do without the lecture, thanks,’ I said. ‘I did try to fix it myself, you know.’

  ‘Yeh, I can tell,’ muttered Muddy, doing a bit more prodding. ‘What a botch-up. Sticky tape, was it?’

  ‘Just get on with it,’ I grumbled. ‘Stop enjoying yourself.’

  My great friend George ‘Muddy’ Whitehouse is a genius when it comes to practical and mechanical things. He goes around looking like he’s been dragged through an assortment of puddles and ditches, but there’s nobody at St Egbert’s School who’s more skilled at mending stuff. In less than ten minutes, there was a neatly glued patch on the arm of my Thinking Chair.

  ‘Leave it for an hour or two before you sit in it,’ said Muddy, packing up his
toolbox.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You know how important my Thinking Chair is. Do you want to stay for lunch?’

  ‘Can’t,’ said Muddy, with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. ‘I’m going over to The Horror House. I’m getting a guided tour this afternoon.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ I gasped. ‘How? Tellmetellmetellme!’ Obviously, I couldn’t see my own eyes at that moment, but I’m pretty certain they had a gleam of excitement in them too.

  The Horror House was something of a local legend. If any building ever deserved a nickname, it was number 13, Deadman Lane. Imagine a spooky old house in a movie. Then imagine it much spookier than that. Then add a bit more spookiness for extra effect, and you still wouldn’t be anywhere close to how utterly creepy this place looked.

  It was a large, looming house, with huge bay windows to either side of a squat-shaped front door, from which protruded an ornate, stone-columned porch. There were two upper floors, each with a series of tall, narrow windows that gave an impression of gappy teeth. The roof was sharply angled, topped with a ridge of crested tiles, and a couple of dormers poked out of it, which looked like narrowed eyes above the skull-like grin of the windows below.

  Nobody had lived at 13, Deadman Lane for years. The place was boarded up, set back from the road behind a high fence of corrugated metal sheeting. People started calling it The Horror House because of its weird looks, and because it was an ideal reference point if you wanted to give someone directions to the shopping mall (‘You go straight past The Horror House and it’s left at the traffic lights.’).

  ‘But how are you even getting in there?’ I said. ‘It’s all locked and barred.’

  ‘Not since Monday, it’s not,’ said Muddy, grinning. ‘Jack’s parents have bought it.’

  ‘Jack Wilson in our class?’ I said. ‘He kept that quiet.’

  ‘He didn’t even know himself until Monday. His mum and dad didn’t know if they’d get the money for it. They’re going to do it up, and turn it into a hotel. Jack says his dad says they’re up to their eyeballs in debt until they can renovate the whole place. The electrics haven’t been updated since 1955, and it’s still got a heating system dated 1937. A broken heating system, of course.’

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘I take it they’re getting started straight away?’

  ‘Those heating pipes got taken out on Tuesday,’ said Muddy. ‘Pity. I’d love to get my hands on a bit of vintage machinery like that. They’ve been ripping stuff out every day. Which is lucky, really, because otherwise they wouldn’t have found the secret parchment.’

  ‘Secret parchment?’ I said, intrigued.

  ‘Oh, Jack says his dad says it’s not a real one. But it sounds like fun, all the same. It claims there’s treasure hidden somewhere in that house.’

  I steered Muddy out of the shed and into the house. ‘I want to hear more about this mysterious parchment,’ I said. ‘You’ve changed your mind, you’re staying for lunch after all.’

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  AS MUDDY AND I SAT at the kitchen table, scoffing our beans on toast, he told me about the parchment.

  ‘Jack and his dad found it the other day,’ said Muddy, piling up beans on his fork. ‘They were ripping out some old wooden wall panels in one of the upstairs rooms. This panelling had been put in when the house was built, about two hundred years ago, you can tell by looking at the wall behind, apparently. But the damp had recently got to it, and it was past saving. Anyway, they were stacking up all these big pieces of wood, and Jack suddenly noticed a sheet of paper, wedged into a sort of slot at the back of one of the panels.’

  ‘A sort of slot?’ I said.

  ‘Jack’s dad took a look at it,’ said Muddy. ‘There was a removable section in that panel, quite low down, behind a spot they’d removed a radiator from. A kind of hidden storage box, no bigger than a school lunch box. They’d never have found it without removing all those panels from the wall.’

  ‘And this parchment is a treasure map?’

  ‘Yes. Well, it’s not so much a map, more a description of where the treasure is. Although apparently this description doesn’t make much sense. Anyway, Jack says his dad says it’s not as old as it looks. He reckons it was probably put there by the orphans.’

  ‘Orphans?’ I said, chewing at a triangle of toast.

  ‘During World War Two, the house was a shelter for kids who’d been orphaned by the bombing. Loads and loads of people have lived in that house over the years. It’s only recently that it’s been empty and run down.’

  ‘And these orphans made this parchment?’ I said.

  ‘That’s the theory. It’s just the sort of thing a bunch of kids would do, isn’t it. They come to live in a spooky old house, and they start making up games about hidden treasure and so forth. This piece of paper must have been left over from their games.’

  ‘And how did they find that hidden compartment?’

  Muddy shrugged. ‘Just came across it one day, I guess. Then left their treasure map in there by mistake, maybe. Of course, it might not have been the orphans at all. Could have been kids from the 1960s, or the 1970s or something. The house was still lived in until 1987. Anyway, Jack says his dad says it was most probably the orphans.’

  I thought carefully for a minute or two. No, Jack’s dad was definitely wrong. Perhaps he was distracted by the huge job he’d taken on, but there was an obvious logical flaw in his theory. From what Muddy had told me so far, I knew that the parchment had to be nearly a century old, at the very least. And I knew that the orphans couldn’t possibly have put it there: it was a question of historical events . . .

  Have you spotted it?

  Muddy had told me that the heating system was dated 1937. He’d also told me that it had only been removed on Tuesday, the secret compartment being behind where a radiator had been fixed. Which meant that during the whole of World War Two, 1939–1945, the orphans couldn’t have got to the compartment. In fact, nobody could have got to that compartment since 1937, so the parchment had to be at least that old, and possibly much older.

  I decided there and then that learning dates in history lessons at school was a useful thing to do after all!

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s take a look at that piece of paper. I think it could be perfectly genuine.’

  ‘Hang on,’ called Muddy, as I sped off, ‘I haven’t finished my beans yet!’

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  ‘NOW THAT IS SPOOKY,’ I whispered.

  ‘It’s like it’s looking back at you,’ Muddy replied.

  The Horror House stood like a huge, crouching goblin. It was set back from the road, and surrounded by a snarling, overgrown garden. Behind it, we could see the tops of the trees in the wooded area that led down to the local canal. (That wood was equally gloomy, and had an equally sinister nickname: The Hangman’s Lair. I solved a very puzzling mystery there once. I might write up my notes on that case one day.)

  Number 13 stood well away from the other houses in Deadman Lane, as if it was being snotty and didn’t want to talk to its neighbours. The tall sheets of corrugated metal that had fenced the house for as long as I could remember had all been torn down. They were stacked in a huge heap amid the tangle of thistles and thorns that nipped at us as Muddy and I walked up the cracked path to the front door.

  Jack Wilson greeted us like an excited puppy. The human equivalent of an excited puppy, I mean. He didn’t lick our faces. Or have a tail to wag. Or bark. But you get the idea. Jack was a round, bouncy boy, with a face that always looked as if he’d just got some really good news. He ushered us inside a large, shadowy hallway.

  ‘Wooooww,’ gasped Muddy, taking it all in.

  ‘So this is The Horror House,’ I said, gazing up at the high ceiling.

  ‘It’s revooooolting,’ breathed Muddy, eyeing the cracked plaster and the peeling paint and the damp shreds of wallpaper clinging in miserable patches above the high skirting boards.

  ‘Yeh,
it’s not too good at the moment,’ agreed Jack. ‘Still, if it was beautifully decorated we’d have been calling it The Lovely House all these years, wouldn’t we? Mind out for that floorboard, Saxby, it’s rotten. Mum put her foot straight through it yesterday. I laughed till I cried.’

  Sounds of heavy-duty machinery were echoing from somewhere upstairs. We picked our way carefully up the wide, curved staircase and waited on the landing until the loud sawing noises stopped and the cloud of dust that was drifting out of one of the bedrooms subsided.

  Jack’s dad appeared through the dust haze, wielding a huge circular saw. The saw’s battered power cable hung from his other hand like a lasso. From the heels of his boots to the bald patch on his head, he was caked in a mixture of sawdust, white emulsion paint and more sawdust.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, grinning. ‘Watch where you step.’

  ‘The rotten floorboards?’ said Muddy.

  ‘No, our rotten cat. Dirty little so-and-so,’ said Jack’s dad. ‘He sees a pile of sawdust and thinks it’s a litter tray. S’cuse me, I’ve got to knock out some old plaster before Jack’s mum gets back from the builder’s merchant. Then I’ve got the man from the Planning Department coming. Then I’ve got to find the broom I left around here somewhere.’

  ‘Yeh, the floor could do with a good sweep,’ said Jack.

  ‘No, I was going to whack the cat with it,’ muttered Jack’s dad. ‘Dirty little so-and-so.’

  We left Jack’s dad to work his way through his To Do list. The sound of a sledgehammer breaking stuff apart followed us along the hallway. As Jack showed us into a large, dusty room overlooking the road, Muddy told him about our earlier discussion.