The Mystery of Mr. Nice (5 page)

"Been here long?"

"Not long," he said.

"Where were you before this?"

"Upstate."

"Have you taught class before?"

"Yeah," he said.

Mr. Squint talked like it cost him a dollar for each word. It'd break my piggybank to get a whole speech out of him.

"What did you teach?"

"Boxing," he said. "Why?"

"That's my business," I said.

Mr. Squint stood and flexed. His armor plates bristled.

"I could make your business my business," he said.

"You wouldn't like it," I said. "The pay stinks."

Mr. Squint took a step, and his armored tail knocked a coffee cup off the desk. He bent and reached for it. Suddenly I knew all I needed to know about Mr. Clint Squint.

"Well, it's been swell," I said. "We're off to class."

"Welcome again," said Natalie, "to our happy little home."

"Scat!" he said. We scatted.

Outside the building, Natalie glanced back.

"Why did we leave so fast?" she said.

"Did you see that tattoo on his arm when he
picked up that coffee mug? It had a knife stuck through a heart, and above it, it said
PEN STATE
."

"So?" she said. "What's Pen State? A writing program?"

"The state prison. Our Mr. Squint is a professional crook."

We still had ten minutes until school started. Natalie and I headed for the third-grade classroom to check out Popper, the new kid. As we turned the corner, Natalie slowed.

"So, if Mr. Squint's a criminal, what does that have to do with Principal Zero?" she said.

I scratched my chin. "I don't know. But he's probably up to his no-neck in this plot. I'll bet you dollars to doughnuts that Guido the janitor is a crook, too."

"'Dollars to doughnuts'?" said Natalie. She shook her head. "Chet, you say the strangest things."

The doors to the third-grade classroom were locked tighter than a frog's nostril. No lights showed inside.

"Shucks," I said. "Nobody here."

A couple of mice waited outside the door. They were playing the kind of deep and sophisticated game that young rodents love. When one made the other blink, he'd sock his classmate's arm about ten times.

It wasn't chess, but it passed the time.

"Hey," said Natalie. "You kids know where we can find Popper?"

"Poppies?" said the smaller one. A regular Einstein.

"No, dummy," said the bigger one. "They mean Popper, the new kid."

"Oh yeah," said Mouse Einstein. "She likes to hang out at the jungle gym."

He turned to his friend.

"Hey,
'hang out
at the jungle gym.' I made a funny!"

They giggled like a couple of bunnies on a sugar rush. We left them to polish their stand-up comedy act and headed for the playground.

"Chet, that reminds me," said Natalie. "Why was the tuna so sad when he lost his wife?"

I hunched my shoulders. "I have a feeling you're going to tell me," I said.

"He lobster and couldn't flounder! Ha, ha!" Natalie cackled and ruffled her tail feathers.

I groaned.

"Come on, wise up," I said. "Here's the jungle gym, and I bet that's Popper."

Just ahead of us, a brightly striped tree frog was climbing the bars. She wasn't very small—just small enough to fit into a book bag with room left over for books. And she wasn't very energetic—just bouncing around the jungle gym like alien popcorn in a warp-speed popper.

Maybe that's how she got her name. Duh.

"Hey, short stuff," I said. "Are you the one they call Popper?"

"Yup, yup, yup, that's me!" she squeaked.

"We'd like to talk to you," said Natalie.

Popper turned a triple back flip off the highest bar and landed at our feet. She kept vibrating even after she hit the ground.

"Hey, hey, what's up?" she said.

"I'm Chet and this is Natalie. We want to welcome you to our school."

"Hi, hi, hi," said Popper. "You guys are so cool. Better, much better, than the kids at my last school."

Her double-talk was giving me a double headache. Popper twitched and jiggled and quivered like an electric eel in a light socket. If we spent much more time with her, I thought I'd take a socket her myself.

Mornings are not my best time.

"Where were you before this?" I asked.

"Oh, here and there, here and there." She jittered and hopped. "Rotley Elementary, Doofus Junior School, Our Lady of Perpetual Confusion. I move, I move around a lot."

"I hadn't noticed," I said.

"Have you ever been upstate?" asked Natalie.

"Nope, nope, nope. Don't think so."

"Do you know Mr. Squint or Principal Zero?" I said. "And how about a guy named Guido?"

"Nope, nada, zip," she said. "Three strikes, three strikes—that means you're out!"

I gritted my teeth and clenched my fist. Natalie's wing feathers brushed my arm.

"Popper," she said gently, "do you know anything about a vocational school?"

"Hey, hey, hey!" said Popper. "I love vacations, love those vacations."

Natalie sighed. I snarled. The bell rang. No telling what I would've done if it hadn't.

"Bye-bye, you guys, bye-bye!" said Popper. She rocketed off the playground in a green-and-yellow blur.

"Do you really think she's a crook, too?" said Natalie.

I unclenched my jaw. "She's guilty of first-degree babbling and assault with intent to annoy. But those aren't crimes, last time I checked."

"Too bad."

Natalie and I split for class. Popper was a dead end, deader than leftovers from a bullfrog's breakfast. That left Ms. Darkwing, and then we'd be fresh out of leads.

Somehow we had to uncover the plot, find our real principal, and stop the crooks—all before the PTA meeting that evening.

But first, I had an even bigger challenge to tackle. A mean science quiz.

And I hadn't read the homework.

At recess I zipped over to Natalie's classroom. We had fifteen minutes to get the scoop on Ms. Darkwing. The Welcome Wagon gag was wearing thin, so I chose a new angle.

"Okay, Natalie," I said, "this time we're reporters for the school newspaper."

"That's news to me," she said.

I sighed. "Come on, let's interview our next suspect."

But when we poked our heads into Ms. Darkwing's classroom, nobody was there. She must have had playground duty.

"We missed her," said Natalie. "What now?"

My eyes roamed the room and settled on the desk. "We snoop."

Ms. Darkwing's desk was so neat, it was scarier than a piggyback ride on a porcupine. All the pencils were sharpened to the same length. All the test papers lined up perfectly.

Spooky.

I squirmed in loathing and slid open a drawer. Natalie peeked over my shoulder.

In flawless order lay a ruler, a lock-picking kit, some brass knuckles, and a stack of papers under a black beanbag-looking thingy with a handle. Natalie picked it up and tapped it on her palm.

"Ow!" she said. "That's some mean beanbag. It wouldn't make much of a beanie creature."

"That's no beanbag, that's a sap."

"No need to get personal. You can be a little ditzy yourself, sometimes."

I gritted my teeth. "Not you, beak-face,
that—
it's a sap."

"A what?"

"A sap." I took it from her and dropped it into my pocket while I sorted through the papers underneath. "Bad guys use them to knock people out."

Natalie raised her eyebrows. "Where do you learn all this stuff, Chet?"

"A detective never reveals his sources," I said. "Hello, what's this?"

I pulled out a sheet of paper. On it, neatly typed, was a familiar list:

Pocket picking
Robbery
Grand theft auto
Spelling
Advanced lying
Assault and battery

It was the same list I'd found in Principal Zero's trash. But it had a tidy new heading on it:
Sixth Grade Class Schedule.

"The plot thickens," said Natalie.

"If it gets any thicker, they'll have to add water."

A sound by the door made us look up.

She was tough and leathery, lean and gray. Her wings ended in claws. Her pug nose looked like it smelled something bad.

And that something was us.

"What are you doing in my desk?" she snarled.

It was Ms. Darkwing. The old bat.

My tail twitched. "Uh, looking for background information," I said. "We're from the school newspaper."

Ms. Darkwing frowned. She scuttled up to the desk faster than I thought an old bat could move.
Riiip!
She snatched the paper from my hands.

"Give me that," she said. "What have you seen?"

"Not much," I said. "We just got here."

"Yeah," said Natalie. "We thought you'd make a great story for the newspaper."

Ms. Darkwing rapped Natalie on the beak with a twisted claw.

"You've got a regular nose for news, eh?" she sneered at us. "Well, you won't get any from me, you snoopy kids."

We backed up a couple steps. She followed.

"Aw, please tell us about yourself," I said. "All your fans want to know how you keep your claws so sharp and your desk so neat."

"Let 'em guess," she said. "And as for you, I think I'll tell the principal about you."

"Mr. Zero?" said Natalie. "Do you know him well?"

"Well enough," she said. "And we're going to go see him right now."

Ms. Darkwing stretched her claws toward us. I backed up and bumped into Natalie. My pocket thumped heavily against my leg.

"You think Principal Zero will take your word over ours?" I said, reaching into my pocket. "Don't be such a sap!"

I tossed the weapon at her face. Ms. Darkwing swatted it away and stumbled back, off balance.

"Run, Natalie!"

We shot through the doorway like a spitwad through a straw. Natalie flapped and I dashed. We didn't stop until we'd reached the shelter of the gym.

"That was close," said Natalie.

"Too close ... for comfort," I said, panting. "But at least ... we know who's ... in on this plot."

"We know a lot more than that, Chet. Didn't you see that list?"

"Yeah, it was a lot ... easier to read this time. Mr. Zero's handwriting ... is the worst."

Natalie sighed. "Don't you get it? That list tells us what they're up to."

"Oh yeah?" I said. "And what's that?"

"Think about what we've learned," said Natalie. Her tail feathers bobbed as she paced. "Number one, someone kidnapped Principal Zero and substituted a phony."

I picked it up. "Number two, the principal is looking for students who don't think crime is wrong."

"Number three, we saw plans for a vocational school and class schedules."

I frowned. Math has never been my best subject. "And numbers one plus two plus three equal?..." I said.

"Come on, Chet! That bogus Principal Zero and his gang are turning Emerson Hicky into a school for crooks!"

The bell rang, ending recess. It rattled my brain, but not as much as Natalie's idea had.

"Emerson Hicky, a school for crooks?" I said. "But how can that be?"