Inspector Rumblepants and the Case of the Golden Haggis (2 page)

He could hear a patrol guard coming, so he leaped with cat-like speed into a closet to hide. After the guard had passed, he came out and continued to slink along quietly in the maze of passageways until at last he came to a place with no windows and very thick walls. He knew where he was—in the dank dungeon at the bottom of the castle. He hid behind a barrel. A group of soldiers guarded a room at the far end of the chamber, and that room was his goal.

The room was the best-protected chamber in all of Scotland. The brave soldiers were huge—barrel-chested, with legs and arms like tree trunks. They stood alert, armed with razor-sharp swords, outside a giant metal door. The only key for the door was on a chain hung around the neck of the Captain of the Guard, who was sleeping high above in the Guard House.

Inside the protected room was the Golden Haggis of Scotland! It was the legendary symbol of Scottish royalty, passed down through hundreds of generations of Scotland's greatest kings.

The Thief was happy to be so close to what he wanted to steal. From beneath his cloak, he drew out a strange device. It had a mass of twisting brass tubes, ending in a nozzle like that of a fire hose. Strapped to the top of the contraption was a glass bottle filled with a sloshing, orange liquid. The bottle was connected to the device by a thick, rubber tube. A priming pump was attached to one side of the device; with it, he quietly pumped some of the fluid into the device. After this task was done, he aimed the device carefully from where he was hiding. When he pressed a button on the device, blobs of liquid flew from the contraption like arrows through the air. Dark, lumpy orange stains appeared on the shiny armor of one of the Scottish soldiers. The guard looked down in surprise, his large, bushy red eyebrows raised. He quickly drew his sharp sword with a swishing sound.

The other three soldiers within the chamber also pulled out their swords in unison, with a lightning-fast motion. Their weapons were drawn and ready, but they did not know the source of the attack. As they waited, more lumpy orange spots appeared on their armored chests and clothing. Blood pounded in their veins as they peered from beneath their eyebrows, looking for the attacker. Slowly, their faces turned green. One by one, they dropped their swords, which clattered on the granite floor. They clutched their loudly gurgling stomachs.

“Excuse me!” cried one of the soldiers in surprise, staggering for the bathroom, trying to move as fast as he could, his legs taking very small steps. He was soon followed by the other soldiers, who were trying to muffle smelly burps and great gusts of windy farts. The echoes of their running feet and flatulence quickly faded, until only the faint sound of distant groans could be heard through the corridors. The door to the chamber now stood completely unguarded.

Then a creepy giggle came from a passageway. From the shadowy corridor, the Thief trotted quickly, his cape billowing behind him. He pulled from his pocket a thin lock pick. He expertly slid the pick in the keyhole and turned it this way and that, his ear pressed against the big door. After a few moments, he heard a faint click that meant he had succeeded in picking the lock, and the huge door swung open with a creak.

With a final glance back into the now-empty corridor, he slipped inside the room.

Chapter 2

Old Scotland Yard

O
ld Scotland Yard had a unique unit called the Special and Confusing Crime Division. The finest police in all of Great Britain worked in this unit. In this division, the most demanding and difficult cases were solved by the cleverest of detectives. Its headquarters were housed in a large, old, red-brick building next to the clock tower of Big Ben in the center of Old London Town. Hundreds of police officers with funny, cone-shaped helmets bustled through narrow corridors that were crowded with filing cabinets and piles of teetering paper reports.

Occasionally a villain, handcuffed and ready to be interviewed, was escorted by burly police officers through the sea of dark-blue uniforms with shiny brass buttons. Detectives dressed in tweed and wool suits could be seen moving with great purpose, puffing on pipes, as they went about solving mysterious and complex crimes. Some carried bundles of paperwork, their tweed jackets covered in white fingerprinting dust. There were faint sounds, muffled by grime-covered windows and the cooing of countless pigeons, of horses clattering down the streets and the laughter of street urchins.

As the summer's afternoon faded into evening, long streams of golden light illuminated the otherwise gloomy corridors and offices.

“Rumblepants, Widebottom!” roared Chief Inspector Grumpibugger, the head of the Special and Confusing Crime Division, from his battered office door.

Grumpibugger had thrown his coat on the back of his chair and stood with his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His large, hairy arms were folded across his crumpled white shirt. From one side of his mouth hung an unlit wooden pipe, which he chewed on angrily as he stood waiting at his office door.

“Coming, Chief,” came a voice from the back of the crowded office. Sergeant Simon Widebottom was a stout policeman whose enormous chest and arms filled every inch of his uniform, almost causing the buttons to pop off. He appeared from behind a long file cabinet, holding a thick pile of paper. Written on the front page, in crayon, were the words “Another Unsolved Case.”

He moved swiftly past small groups of typing secretaries and busy police officers toward the office of Chief Inspector Grumpibugger. The inspector was in his office, sitting in his creaking chair with his feet up on his desk. He was rereading the report that he had just received by express carrier pigeon from Scotland.

“Where's Inspector Rumblepants this afternoon, Sergeant?” asked the Chief Inspector in a gruff voice, looking up from the report paper.

The Sergeant respectfully saluted with his left hand and smiled, “With his mother today, Chief. It is her birthday.”

The Inspector waved the report paper in his hand, saying, “I have a top-secret report from the Scottish Police Division.

They say that the Golden Haggis was stolen from Stirling Castle last night,” grunted Grumpibugger, taking his feet from the desk and leaning forward so that no one outside his office could hear him.

Sergeant Widebottom looked puzzled. “Golden Haggis?” he asked, scratching his head in confusion.

“Shh, it's a secret!” scowled Grumpibugger, putting his finger to his lips and gesturing for Sergeant Widebottom to close the office door.

“I'm not too sure what it is either,” he admitted, raising his voice slightly when the door was closed. “However, it's apparently very important to those Scottish folks, and it's been stolen. The report says they are quite upset about it.” He handed the report to Sergeant Widebottom and continued, “Inspector Sherlock Holmes and Mr. Watson are on holiday this week in Spain. That successful fellow from the Fast Armed Response Team, Inspector Nailard, is giving a speech at a spy convention. So the case goes to you and Inspector Rumblepants. You will be traveling on the late-night express train to Dundee. Then you will go by stagecoach to the town of Stirling, to help the Scottish police investigate the matter before the national newspapers find out and cause an uproar.”

The inspector pointed at the report. “Get Inspector Rumblepants and come back here within the hour. Remember, this matter is top secret. No one must know. Absolutely no one!” He chewed on his pipe for a moment and then looked up, saying gruffly, “And I want that report back once you have both read it. I promised that Nailard fellow that I'd let him look at it when he's back from the spy convention.”

“Can I tell Inspector Rumblepants about the Haggis?” whispered Sergeant Widebottom, folding the report and tucking it inside his helmet for safekeeping.

“Well of course. But absolutely no one else,” answered the Chief Inspector.

“What about the Scottish police who will be helping us, Sir?” Widebottom queried. “Can I tell them about it?”

“Clearly you can tell them, because they know about the Haggis. They were the ones who sent the report about it to us,” groaned Chief Inspector Grumpibugger, shaking his head.

“What about those soldiers guarding the Haggis?” asked the Sergeant. “Can we tell them that it has been stolen?” He pulled out his notebook and a pencil to write down all the Inspector's answers.

“Of course,” said the Chief Inspector, getting frustrated. “You would think the guards would have noticed that the Haggis is not there anymore.” The Inspector shrugged. “Just use your common sense,” he barked. (“What little there is of it,” he muttered quietly to himself, looking exasperated.) “Now get Rumblepants, and ask my secretary to bring in some of my extra-strong headache pills and a glass of water.”

Sergeant Widebottom's police carriage flew through the crowded streets of London, its two horses pulling it with all their might. Foamy sweat sprayed from their flanks. As he drove on wildly, the horses' noses flared out on the hot summer afternoon. The swift carriage caused pedestrians to panic and scatter as the carriage toppled apple carts and vegetable stalls in the marketplace. It roared past the debris, with sparks flying from the metal carriage wheels. Sergeant Widebottom cracked his whip with a huge grin across his face as he entered Piccadilly Street, his horn honking and whistle blowing. The carriage finally skidded to a halt with a shriek of the brakes outside of 52 Pickle Gherkin Street, the home of Inspector Rumblepants's mother.

Sergeant Widebottom leapt from the driver's seat without even bothering, in his excitement, to tie the horses to the hitching post. He ran to the door of the small house. After much banging of the gnome doorknocker by Widebottom, a little, grey-haired woman appeared, wearing an old cardigan with several holes in it and covered in biscuit crumbs.

She smiled sweetly up at Sergeant Widebottom. “Hello, young Simon,” she asked in a creaky voice. “Are you looking for little Alex?” She squinted at him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles.

Sergeant Widebottom held his helmet in his hands, and he tried to look official and important. “Top-secret police business, Mrs. Rumblepants,” said Sergeant Widebottom, saluting. “The Inspector is needed at Old Scotland Yard immediately for a confidential case that I am forbidden to tell anyone about!”

“Yes, come in dear. I have some tea and a fresh cake I've just baked,” she said, turning slowly and hobbling down the narrow corridor to the front parlor to pour some tea for the Sergeant. “Come along dear, take the weight off your feet for a little while,” she crooned. “You must be tired after chasing criminals down streets the entire day, blowing your whistle all the time,” she said kindly as they went toward the parlor.

“We really have to leave right away, Mrs. Rumblepants,” he informed her as she walked to the kitchen. “We have a top-secret mission involving the stolen Golden Haggis of Scotland. Oops! Just forget I told you that, Mrs. Rumblepants,” said Sergeant Widebottom worriedly, scratching his head.

“What was that, dear? My hearing is not very good anymore, and I can't find my ear trumpet,” said Mrs. Rumblepants from the kitchen. The sound of clinking china and her soft humming drew Sergeant Widebottom into the parlor. The cake was huge, it looked delicious, and it smelled fabulous. His hungry stomach rumbled noisily.

“Well, just for a few minutes, then, Mrs. Rumblepants, before we head for Scotland,” said Sergeant Widebottom, accepting a china plate with a big piece of cake on it and cup of steaming tea. He placed his police helmet on the coffee table and sat down in a large, comfy armchair.

“Where is the Inspector, Mrs. Rumblepants?” asked Sergeant Widebottom, taking a large bite of the cake.

“In the garden, dear. I'll get him for you. You just relax from all that tiring police business,” she said soothingly, smiling at the Sergeant.

He nodded pleasantly.

“There's plenty more cake, once you've finished that piece. A growing boy like you needs to eat,” she said sweetly, picking up her walking cane and banging it loudly on a small window that overlooked her tiny garden.