Goldwhiskers Read Free Page B

at Dupont expectantly. As Big Cheese, he was in charge of this sort of thing. Never one to miss an opportunity to pass the buck, however, Dupont swung round and glared at Ridder Stortinget. ‘This is your neighbourhood, right? Where do we eat?’
    The Norwegian rat jerked his snout away from the harbour. ‘My lair is close,’ he replied. ‘Come, I show you.’
    Stortinget scuttled away in the early morning darkness, and the herd of rats scuttled after him. Stilton Piccadilly, Brie and Roquefort Dupont – still dragging the pitiful heap of fur that was Fumble – brought up the rear.
    When they reached the underground station where the Norwegian rat had his headquarters, the GRR quickly scattered in search of food and transportation home.
    â€˜In a few hours I will be in Paris,’ gloated Brie. ‘A bubble bath first, and then fresh croissants,
oui
?’ She gave a contented sigh and glanced over at Dupont. ‘Won’t you change your mind and come with me,
mon cousin
?’
    â€˜Some other time,’ said Dupont. ‘I have to get back to DC.’ Roquefort Dupont was worried about his turf. He’d been gone for nearly a month now, and he was all too aware of what havoc his underlings could be wreaking in his absence. Gnaw, for instance, one of his senior aides-de-camp, had tried to take over once before, and Dupont wouldn’t put it past the one-eared slimeball to try again.
    Brie leaned over and kissed both of Dupont’s furry cheeks. ‘
Au revoir
, zen,’ she whispered silkily. ‘Until we meet again. Perhaps you will consider holding ze next Roundtable meeting in Paris? April would be
très bien
. Nothing is lovelier zan springtime in ze City of Lights.’
    Tossing a wink at Stilton Piccadilly, who blushed an unattractive shade of crimson, Brie sashayed offinto the underground station’s shadows. Dupont tugged on Fumble’s lead. ‘Let’s go.’
    â€˜Wait,’ ordered Stilton Piccadilly.
    Dupont halted. He eyed the British rat suspiciously. Piccadilly pointed to a bundle of newspapers. ‘Look,’ he said.
    The GRR’s extended voyage to Europe had reaped them one benefit. Bored to distraction on the trawler, the rats had discovered a stack of international newspapers and finally allowed Dupont – with Fumble’s help – to teach them to read.
    â€˜The London
Times
, eh?’ said Dupont, squinting at the masthead. He scanned the front page. “World-Famous Opera Star to Sing in London on Christmas Eve”!’ he read aloud. His tail began to whip back and forth as he inspected the photo beneath the headline. ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’
    Piccadilly nodded.
    With his razor-sharp teeth, Dupont snipped the twine that bound the papers. He dragged the top copy into the shadows and nosed through the pages in search of the rest of the article. ‘“Lavinia Levinson arrives in London today, accompanied by her family,”’ Dupont muttered. Stilton Piccadilly read along over his shoulder. ‘“The diva will sing aprogramme of seasonal favourites at the Royal Opera House on Christmas Eve. An exclusive reception will follow. In attendance will be members of the royal family, along with a glittering gathering of film stars and other celebrities.”’
    Dupont gave another sharp tug on Fumble’s lead. The mouse flinched. ‘Yessir?’ he mumbled, rising on to his paws.
    With all of his henchrodents far away in Washington DC, the Sewer Lord had needed a replacement underling. Fumble, a former employee of the Spy Mice Agency who had turned traitor, was now Roquefort Dupont’s personal slave.
    Dupont tapped the paper with his scaly tail. ‘What does that mean exactly, “accompanied by her family”?’ he demanded.
    Fumble shrugged. ‘Husband and son.’
    â€˜You sure about that?’
    â€˜Oz is an only child,’ explained the