Casper Candlewacks in the Claws of Crime!. Ivan Brett

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СКАЧАТЬ joined the back, sighing longingly with flowery business cards clutched to their chests.

      The mayor bellowed, “Come here, you scoundrels! This is no time for flowers.”

      “Ooh, are they selling flowers?” said Mrs Trimble, who owned twenty-six cats (all called Tiddles). She put on her spectacles and trotted off to join the queue.

      Mayor Rattsbulge had had enough. “Fine,” he barked. “Nobody’s getting the cash reward…”

      At the words ‘cash reward’, the villagers’ idiotic ears pricked up. They dropped whatever they were holding (such as babies, packed lunches or priceless Ming vases) and bounded towards the mayor like squirrels to a nut buffet, barging Casper and Lamp to the back of the crowd with well-placed elbows or teeth. Instantly the square was packed with penniless, greedy idiots, and the flower shop was empty.

      “That’s better,” said Mayor Rattsbulge, taking a chomp of the Scotch egg that he’d put in his top pocket for emergencies.

      “Oh, no, she’s here,” groaned Lamp, pointing to Casper’s right where a skinny little girl with long brown hair and a hawk nose approached them, hand in hand with her pointy mother.

      Casper winced. “Anemonie Blight.”

      In a recent poll, Anemonie Blight was voted the most evil girl in the cosmos (pushing the previous winner, Empress Vandraga ‘Slayer of Children’ into second place). Made from a pint of pure hate and a sprinkling of malice, then oven-baked in the furnaces of hell, Anemonie was only happy once she’d made somebody cry. Two weeks ago she’d burst Teresa Louncher’s eardrum in a game of Rock, Paper, Nuclear Explosion. Last time Anemonie had seen Casper, she punched him so hard that even Lamp got a nosebleed.

      “She’s coming this way,” quavered Lamp, visibly shaking.

      Casper crossed his fingers and closed his eyes. Anemonie was close – not more than five metres away now. He held his breath, prepared for the pain and waited, and waited, and… oddly, nothing happened. Casper dared to open an eye. Anemonie had walked straight past them, head down, hands deep in the pockets of her sickly pink jumpsuit.

      Casper nudged Lamp, who had been cowering behind his hands. “She’s gone,” he said.

      Lamp chewed his lip. “Why didn’t she hit me?”

      “I know. That’s not like her at all.”

      Casper watched as Anemonie stopped next to her pointy mother at a spot right at the back of the square and observed the scene from afar.

      “Now, now,” drawled Mayor Rattsbulge, “give me your attention or I’ll raise taxes.”

      The villagers hung on to the mayor’s every word like nits on a hippie’s beard.

      “Somebody…” Mayor Rattsbulge’s bottom lip quivered, so he hid it behind a mouthful of Scotch egg. “Somebody…” – Scotch egg now swallowed – “has assaulted Betty Woons and stolen the bejewelled sword of Sir Gossamer de Glaze.”

      Those who hadn’t already heard the news shrieked. Those who had already heard the news nodded knowingly, saying, “Haven’t you heard?” and, “Horrible news,” and made shrugging gestures.

      “Now Betty doesn’t remember a thing because the thief hit her quite hard on the head…”

      Betty Woons grinned at the crowd and then slapped the top of her head with her withered hand, tutting loudly.

      “…and nobody else witnessed the crime at all. In fact, the only clue we have is this.” He felt around in his Scotch egg pocket and plucked out a wiry black cat’s whisker.

      The crowd gasped.

      “Yes, we worried this day would come, and I fear it has. He’s here. This whisker is the calling card of none other than the French cat burglar Le Chat!”

      As those terrible words of Le Chat spread through the crowd like a snotty cold, jaws dropped in horror, eyes sprang with tears and mothers clutched on to their children like wriggly teddy bears. They’d all heard about him, they’d all been warned about him, but not once did they think he’d actually strike in Corne-on-the-Kobb.

      “Now, few people have seen him in the flesh, but we believe him to look something like this.” Mayor Rattsbulge held aloft a large poster featuring a photograph of a regular black cat, with the words WANTED – dead or alive (preferably dead) hastily scribbled along the top in big black letters, and *Artist’s impression at the bottom.

      Audrey Snugglepuss gasped. “I’ve seen him.”

      Mrs Trimble went very pale. “But that’s… that’s Tiddles.”

      The crowd screamed and pointed at Mrs Trimble. One person threw a shoe.

      “Calm down,” bellowed Mayor Rattsbulge. “Nobody’s blaming Tiddles.”

      The crowd stopped screaming.

      Mrs Trimble sobbed, reached into her bag and dried her eyes on a newborn kitten.

      The mayor straightened his mayoral gown (which he’d made himself by stapling together three rolls of red carpet material) and continued. “Now, the roads out of the village were guarded last night, and they have been ever since. This has given me valuable time to think about how to catch this scoundrel, and you’ll be pleased to know I’ve got a plan!”

      Casper, who had been watching Anemonie Blight and her mother, noticed them become distinctly twitchier as the meeting progressed. Anemonie kept rubbing her wrists, and her mother couldn’t stand still.

      “It’s a foolproof plan if I may say so myself, both original and unpredictable. It’s taken me nearly all day and three whole pies to think of it, but here it is…” He did a drum roll on Mitch McMassive’s bald head. “You find Le Chat for me!”

      “Hurray!” cheered the villagers, applauding their mayor’s genius plan most wholeheartedly.

      “Whoever can catch Le Chat and retrieve the sword will be rewarded with…” Mayor Rattsbulge pulled a wad of crumpled banknotes out of his pocket and hastily counted them. “One… two… two… five…” Losing count, he shrugged and shouted, “Twenty-thousand pounds.”

      The crowd went, “Ooooooh!”

      “And…” The mayor rooted around in another pocket, producing something brown and sticky. “…The rest of this pie.”

      The crowd went, “Aaaaaah!”

      Sandy Landscape rolled up his sleeves. “Cor, imagine that – twenty grand. I’m gonner gold-plate my wellies.”

      “I’m going to gold-plate my house,” said Audrey Snugglepuss.

      “I’m going to gold-plate my cats,” said Mrs Trimble.

      “’Ere, can I have half o’ that money now if I promise to find the sword?” shouted Sandy.

      “No chance.” СКАЧАТЬ