Public Enemy Number Two Read Free

Australia?” he asked over the chocolate mousse.
    “Nothing much,” I said.
    “Did Mum send you any money?”
    “No. But she’s going to send me some underpants.”
    “Underpants!” Tim shook his head. “That’s an affront.”
    “Actually it’s a Y-front.” I finished my pudding and threw down the spoon. “All right, Tim,” I said. “What’s all this about the Purple Peacock?”
    “I’ve got to find it,” Tim explained. “It’s missing.”
    “From a zoo?”
    “From a museum.” Tim smiled. “It’s not a bird. It’s a vase.”
    He pushed the plates to one side and took out a notebook. His eyes had narrowed and his mouth was stretched tightly. This was the way he looked when he was trying to be a private detective. I don’t know who he thought he was kidding. Not this kid anyway.
    “It’s a Ming vase,” he went on. “Twelve inches high, blue and white, with a purple peacock enameled on the side.” He flipped the notebook open. “It’s fifteenth century. Made for the Emperor Cheng Hua.”
    “Cheng who?” I asked.
    “No. Cheng Hua.” He leaned back in his chair, spilling Coke down his shirt. “It’s worth a mint—and I’m not talking Certs. There’s only one vase like it in the world. It’s worth thousands. For the last seventy years it’s been on display in the British Museum. Then, a week ago, they sent it to be cleaned. Only it never got there. It went into the van at nine thirty-five A.M. exactly.”
    “And when the van arrived . . .”
    “The van never arrived. It vanished, too. The driver stopped at a gas station in Camden. He went in to pay for the gas. When he got back to the pump, the van was gone.”
    “With the vase inside.”
    “That’s right.”
    “So why hasn’t the museum gone to the police?” I asked. “Why come to you?”
    “They’re too embarrassed to go to the police, Nick. I mean, that Ming was priceless. The museum wants it. But they don’t want a scandal.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “I’m the right man for the job. If they want to find their priceless vase, I’ll crack it.”
    “You probably will,” I said.
    Tim poured himself another Coke.
    “How much did they pay you?” I asked.
    The smile returned to his face. “Two hundred in advance,” he said. “Plus fifty a day in expenses.”
    “Fifty bucks!”
    Tim shrugged. “I have expensive expenses.”
    “That’s great.” Even as I said it, my mind was ticking over. But I wasn’t thinking about vases.
    There was about to be a school trip to Woburn Abbey, the stately home and wildlife park. Now, I’m not exactly into stately homes—old suits of armor and dry, dusty paintings by dry, dusty painters—but the park sounded like fun, hurling stale doughnuts at the lions and getting a few laughs from the giraffes. The only problem was, we were expected to contribute to the cost: three dollars a head. I’d already missed out on Hampton Court and the Greenwich Observatory and the class was beginning to look on me as a charity case. They’d even passed a hat around for me. Not that I needed a hat, but it’s the thought that counts.
    “Tim,” I muttered.
    “Yes?”
    “Since you’ve got a bit of cash now, do you think you could lend me a fiver?”
    “A fiver?”
    “You know . . . for Woburn Abbey. The school trip . . .”
    He considered for a moment. “All right,” he sighed. “But you do the washing-up.”
    He threw a crumpled five-dollar bill onto the table. I snatched it up. It had been so long since I’d seen a five-dollar bill, I’d even forgotten what color it was.
    “Thanks a bunch,” I said, wishing he had given me a whole bunch. I tucked the fiver into my shirt pocket. “So when do you start looking for the Purple Peacock?” I asked.
    “Tomorrow.” Tim lifted his glass. “I reckon I’ll go back to the gas station in Camden. Find the pump assistant.”
    “And then?”
    “I’ll pump her.”
    He threw back the Coke in one. I think it was meant to be a dramatic