The Mysterious Cases of Mr. Pin Read Free Page B

Mr. Pin. “The thief baked a cake around the painting. The chocolate is the same as what I found on the wall of the museum.”
    Sure enough, when the police scraped away a bit of the frosting on the cake, they found a carefully wrapped painting. It was Picasso’s The Old Guitarist .
    Inside the squad car, Jones woke up and asked, “Isn’t that penguin full yet?” Mr. Pin wasn’t. He disappeared into the bakery, hot on the trail of more chocolate. O’Malley congratulated Maggie, who insisted it was Mr. Pin who should be thanked.
    Meanwhile, another police car arrived, and Smiling Sally jumped out carrying a large sack filled with cinnamon rolls.
    â€œThere you are,” she said, hugging Maggie. “I knew you’d be all right, but I’m sure you’re both very hungry. Where’s Mr. Pin? He probably needs one of my nice hot cinnamon rolls.”
    At that moment Mr. Pin, another case under his belt, wobbled out the bakery door. He looked for a moment at the steaming, sugary rolls and asked, “Could we save them for breakfast?”

MR. PIN and the Monroe Street Pigeon

1
    It was midnight. Chicago steamed. Mr. Pin’s wings stuck to the typewriter.
    It had been a hot summer at Smiling Sally’s diner. Mr. Pin, rock hopper penguin detective from the South Pole, was writing his memoirs. His friend Maggie was upstairs with her aunt Sally. Mr. Pin was downstairs, in his headquarters behind the kitchen.
    â€œThe sky was dark. The air was cold,” typed Mr. Pin, recalling his first mystery.
    Errrrrrk! Boards creaked in the diner. Mr. Pin looked up from his desk.
    Errrrrrk! They creaked again. It was time to investigate. Hopping off his typing crate, Mr. Pin opened the door.
    Creeeak. Thud . Someone had just gone out the back door!
    Crash! Mr. Pin stumbled into a cart of coffee cups. A light switched on.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” It was Maggie, barefoot, red hair flying in all directions.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Mr. Pin. “But someone was here, and he left a note.”

    Maggie picked it up. “Meet me at Buckingham Fountain before the race at noon tomorrow. I need help,” Maggie read.
    â€œSomeone’s in trouble,” said Mr. Pin. “Memoirs can wait.”

2
    Monroe Street shops charged the air with smells of smoked chicken, fresh popcorn, and carry-out sushi. Everyone said hello to Maggie and Mr. Pin as they walked toward Buckingham Fountain. Mr. Pin bought a Tribune and flipped to the city news.
    â€œAnother day of politics,” said Mr. Pin.
    Meanwhile, Maggie was looking at chocolate pigeons in the window of a chicken store.
    â€œWhy would a chicken shop sell chocolate pigeons?” said Mr. Pin.
    â€œI don’t know,” said Maggie. “And I wonder where Pete the chicken man is.”
    â€œHe’s missing,” said his wife Florrie, who had just come out of the store.
    â€œWho’s missing?” asked Mr. Pin, looking up from his papers.
    â€œThe chicken man,” said Maggie.
    â€œPete put the trash in a grocery cart and went outside to dump it. He hasn’t been back since,” said Florrie. “I’m beginning to get worried.”
    â€œWhat was he wearing?” asked Mr. Pin.
    â€œA big, baggy coat,” said Florrie.
    â€œWe’re on another case,” said Mr. Pin. “But we’ll keep an eye out for him.”
    â€œNow there are two cases to solve,” said Maggie as they continued east on Monroe. “The chicken man is missing and someone is in trouble at Buckingham Fountain.”
    There was little time to talk. Soon it would be noon and a ten-kilometer race was about to start in Grant Park.
    The city seared. Waves of heat curled from the sidewalk. Most penguins would die in this weather. But Mr. Pin was no ordinary penguin.
    The two detectives rushed past the Art Institute, the scene of another mystery. Someone had stolen a famous Picasso. But that