File Under: 13 Suspicious incidents

First published in Great Britain 2018

by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building

1 Nicholas Road

London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2018 Lemony Snicket

Art copyright © 2018 Seth

Illustrations published by arrangement with Little, Brown, and Company, New York, New York, USA. All rights reserved.

The moral rights of the author and artist have been asserted

First e-book edition 2018

Ebook ISBN 978 1 4052 7643 6

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Sub-file One: REPORTS.

INSIDE JOB.

PINCHED CREATURE.

RANSOM NOTE.

WALKIE-TALKIE.

BAD GANG.

SILVER SPOON.

VIOLENT BUTCHER.

TWELVE OR THIRTEEN.

MIDNIGHT DEMON.

THREE SUSPECTS.

VANISHED MESSAGE.

TROUBLESOME GHOST.

FIGURE IN FOG.

Sub-file B: CONCLUSIONS.

BLACK PAINT.

DEEP MINE.

DISHONEST SALESMAN.

BACKSEAT.

LOUD DOG.

QUIET STREET.

THROUGH THE WINDOW.

BENEATH THE STREET.

HOMEMADE FURNITURE.

SMALL COURTYARD.

TWENTY-FIVE GUESTS.

MISSING PETS.

SMALL SOUND.

LARGE MEAL.

CHALKED NAME.

OTHER NAME.

PANICKED FEET.

SAND AND SHORE.

VERY OBVIOUS.

POOR JOKE.

MESSAGE RECEIVED.

MESSAGE RECORDED.

TRAIN WRECK.

NERVOUS WRECK.

SHOUTED WORD.

LAST WORD.

Sub-file III: ALL THE WRONG QUESTIONS

Back series promotional page

ABOUT THE AUTHORS.

Please find enclosed herein thirteen (13) reports filed under “Suspicious Incidents” in our archives. The thirteen (13) reports have thirteen (13) conclusions which have been separated from their corresponding reports for security reasons. The reports are contained in sub-file One (1) and the conclusions in sub-file B (b) so that it is impossible for each report and conclusion to be in the same place at once. For your convenience, both sub-files are enclosed together in this bound volume.

The information contained herein is secret and important, meant only for members of our organization. If you are not a member of our organization, please put this down, as it is neither secret nor important and therefore will not interest you.

All misfiled information, by definition, is none of your business.

Sub-file One: REPORTS.

Inside Job. Pinched Creature. Ransom Note. Walkie-Talkie. Bad Gang. Silver Spoon. Violent Butcher. Twelve or Thirteen. Midnight Demon. Three Suspects. Vanished Message. Troublesome Ghost. Figure in Fog.

INSIDE JOB.

One morning I was arguing with the adult in charge of me. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what that is like, and it is one of the world’s great difficulties that this sort of argument goes on nearly every place on almost every morning between practically every child and some adult or other. Another one of the world’s great difficulties was S. Theodora Markson. During my time in Stain’d-by-the-Sea, Theodora was my chaperone and I was her apprentice. Being her apprentice meant that we shared a small room in a hotel called the Lost Arms. The room was too small to share with one of the world’s great difficulties, and this was probably why we were arguing.

“Lemony Snicket,” she was saying to me, “tell me exactly what being an apprentice means.”

“S. Theodora Markson,” I said, “tell me exactly what the S stands for in your name.”

“Snide answers aren’t proper,” she said. “They’re not sensible.”

“I know it,” I said, and I did. “Snide” is a word which here means “the kind of tone you use in an argument,” and “sensible” refers to the tone you are supposed to use instead.

“If you’re smart enough to know that,” Theodora said, snidely, “then tell me all about being an apprentice.”

“You and I are in a secret organization,” I began, but Theodora looked wildly around the room and shook her head at me. My chaperone’s hair was a crazed and woolly mess, so when she looked around the room and shook her head, it was like seeing something go wrong at a mop factory.

“Shush!” she hissed.

“Why shush?”

“You know why shush. You shouldn’t talk about our secret organization. You shouldn’t even say the words ‘secret organization’ out loud.”

“You’ve just said them twice.”

“It doesn’t count if I say it in order to tell you not to say it.”

“Well, what can I say instead?”

“You know what.”

“No, I don’t know what,” I said. “That’s why I asked you.”

“Say ‘you know what,’ ” Theodora said, “instead of ‘secret organization.’ That way you won’t have to say ‘secret organization’ out loud, which you should never do.”

“Except in order to tell me not to say it,” I reminded her, and went on with my answer. “You and I are in you know what, and being your apprentice means I’m learning all the methods and techniques used by you know what. There are sinister plots afoot in this town, and you and I should be working together to defeat them in the name of you know what.”

“Wrong,” Theodora said, with a stern hair-shake. “Being my apprentice means you do everything I say.”

“That’s not what I was told,” I said.

“Who told you?”

“You know who,” I said, just to be safe, “at you know what, you know where, when, and how.”

“You’re talking nonsense,” Theodora said. “Breakfast is ready. As your chaperone, I’m telling you to hand me two napkins.”

“As your apprentice,” I said, “I’m telling you we don’t have any.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter,” Theodora said, and I suppose she was right. My chaperone made us breakfast every morning on a metal plate provided by the Lost Arms. When you flicked a switch the plate got hot, and this morning Theodora had laid two slices of bread on it and then begun arguing with me. Now the bread was burned black on one side, like a shingle covered in tar, and the other side was soft and cold from sitting on the windowsill we used as a refrigerator. A napkin would not turn a half-burned, half-cold piece of bread into breakfast. A garbage bin would have been more helpful. I put the failed toast in my mouth anyway. Theodora didn’t think it was proper for her apprentice to talk with his mouth full, so it was the best way to avoid talking to her.

Over the sound of burned crusts against my teeth I heard a knock on the door, and Prosper Lost peeked in at us. He was the Lost Arms’ proprietor, a word which here means he stood around the lobby with a small smile and called it running the place. I called it a little creepy, although not to his face. “Lemony Snicket,” he said.

“You’re not Lemony Snicket,” Theodora said to him.

“There’s someone downstairs to see you,” Lost explained to me.

Theodora frowned at the proprietor. “Whoever’s waiting downstairs isn’t Lemony Snicket either,” she said. “Lemony Snicket is right here with crumbs on his shirt.”

“Someone is here to see Lemony Snicket,” Prosper Lost said, as clearly as he could.

“Thank you,” I told the proprietor, and excused myself.

“Whatever you’re doing,” Theodora called after me, “be quick about it. You have a very busy day, Snicket. You have to buy some napkins.”

My mouth wasn’t full, but I pretended it was so I didn’t have to answer as Prosper Lost led me down the stairs. “Who is it who wants to see me?” I asked him.

“A minor,” Lost replied.

“Do you mean a child, or someone who works in a mine?”

“Both,” Lost said, and sure enough, in the lobby was a girl about my age wearing a helmet with a light attached to it, the kind people wear when digging underground. The hat looked a little big on her head, and she took off some oversized work gloves so she could shake my hand.

“I’m Marguerite Gracq,” she said. “I spell it in the French way.”

“I’m Lemony Snicket,” I said. “I think my name is spelled the same in any language.”

“Around town they say you’re something of a detective.”

“Around town they’re wrong. I’m something else.”

“Well, I need some help.”

“What kind of help?”

“Pictures are falling down in my living room.”

“Sounds like you need a handyman.”

Marguerite shook her head. “They’re falling too neatly.”

“Maybe it’s just because I’ve had a lousy breakfast,” I told her, “but I’m not following you.”

“Follow me to my home,” Marguerite said, “and I’ll explain everything and poach you an egg, besides. I put a little vinegar in the poaching water, so my eggs turn out nice and fluffy.”

A fluffy poached egg is a good breakfast, and a good breakfast is better than a bad one, like a good book is better than having your toe chopped off. We walked out of the Lost Arms together and down the quiet street. Most of the streets in Stain’d-by-the-Sea were quiet. The town was emptying out.

“I know that most businesses in town have been failing,” I told Marguerite, with a nod at a boarded-up shop. “How’s mining going?”

“There’s just one small mine in Stain’d-by-the-Sea,” she said, “and it’s in my front yard. My father says we’ve gotten all the gold we’re going to get from it. He’s out of town for a few weeks finding us a better place to live. I’m staying here to close up the mine and make sure nothing happens to the gold.”

“He left you here all alone?”

Marguerite frowned and shook her head. “He hired a woman named Dagmar to watch over me. She doesn’t do much but sit and listen to the radio. I don’t like her.”

“What does she listen to?”

“Polkas.”

“No wonder you don’t like her.”

Marguerite smiled. “That’s not the only reason,” she said. “Dagmar doesn’t seem trustworthy. The paintings didn’t start falling until she arrived, and nobody else has been around. I keep thinking she’s after something, but nothing has been stolen.”

“Most untrustworthy people hanging around a gold mine are after the gold.”

“My father has been very careful about his stash,” she said. “When we bring gold up from the mine, he immediately takes it all to his workshop to melt it down. Then he hides it someplace in that room. Even I don’t know exactly where, and I have the only workshop key. My father gave it to me when he left town, and I keep it with me always.”

Marguerite reached into her overalls and drew out a skinny key on a thick cord around her neck.

“Have you ever let Dagmar use the key?” I asked. “She could have had a copy made.”

Marguerite shook her head. “I’m the only one who’s been in the workshop since my father left, and I can see that nothing has been touched. The problem’s not with the gold, Snicket. It’s with the pictures in my living room.”

We’d arrived at a small wooden house with a roof covered in moss, narrow windows wide open, and a large hole in the front yard with the top of a ladder jutting out from it. Various tools were scattered around the browning lawn. From the windows I could hear a particularly peppy polka. All polka music is peppy. There’s nothing wrong with feeling peppy, but a polka insists that everyone else has to be peppy too, even if they don’t feel like it.

Marguerite kicked off her boots and led me into a friendly-looking place. There was a large wooden staircase with piles of books here and there, and a carpet decorated with images of mythical beasts and smudges of dirt. Leafy plants hung in the windows, shedding leaves wherever I looked.

“I’m back, Dagmar,” Marguerite called upstairs. “I have a friend with me! I’m going to make him a poached egg!”

“Do whatever you want,” replied a cranky voice, over the sound of the polka. The music’s peppiness had clearly not spread to Dagmar.

“The kitchen’s right over here,” Marguerite said, “but if you don’t mind, I’d like to show you the living room first.”

“Of course,” I said, and she led me through an archway into a room as pleasant and rumpled as the rest of the house. The wooden floor was painted black, with the paint peeling off here and there, and the sofas and chairs were all bright yellow except where they were patched up with squares of other bright fabrics. There was a large reading lamp, made from another miner’s helmet, and on the walls were portraits of pale, thoughtful-looking people, with one portrait leaning against the wall underneath a blank space on the wall where it clearly belonged. One portrait, depicting a man with a bow tie and an elegant cane, had a large rip right across the middle, and Marguerite looked at it sadly. “Henry Parland was the first one to fall,” she said, “just a few minutes after Dagmar arrived. Luckily, it’s the only one that’s been damaged. Since then, it seems that one falls whenever I’m down in the mine. Paavo Cajander, Katri Vala, Eino Leino, Otto Manninen, and this morning Larin Paraske, who had already fallen, was found right as you see her, leaning on the wall like all the others.”

“Your father certainly likes Finnish poets,” I said.

“These portraits belonged to my mother,” Marguerite said. “They were precious to her, but they’re not particularly valuable.”

“And they haven’t particularly been taken,” I said.

“Nothing has,” Marguerite said, looking around the room. “I admit I’m suspicious of Dagmar, but I can’t say she’s committed any kind of crime. The paintings just keep falling and then we hang them back up.”

“You say they fall when you’re in the mine,” I said, glancing out the window at the hole in the yard, “but surely you can’t hear them fall from down there.”

“Dagmar tells me they’ve fallen,” Marguerite said, “or I notice myself when I come in for a snack.”

“And who puts them back up?”

“I do,” Marguerite said, with a note of pride in her voice. “I fetch a hammer and a nail from the workshop and do the job myself. And I do it right, Snicket. Don’t think it’s my fault they keep falling.”

“Maybe the first one fell,” I said, with a glance at the rip in Henry Parland, “but if the others were found leaning against the wall like this, they probably didn’t fall.”

“That’s how they were,” Marguerite said with a nod. “Leaning against the wall, nice and neat, with nothing damaged.”

“Do you leave the workshop door open while you rehang them?”

Marguerite gave me a sharp look. “Of course not. The gold is somewhere in that room, and it’s my responsibility to keep it locked up.”

I turned my eyes from the girl to Larin Paraske. The poet in the portrait looked back at me but offered nothing more than a thoughtful gaze and an unusual hat. I tilted the portrait and looked behind it at the cord stretched across so the painting would hang evenly from the nail. I looked at the blank space on the wall, and at the tiny hole in the dark wood. “Do you have a lot of nails in the workshop?” I asked.

“Jars and jars full,” Marguerite said. “My father uses these special black nails all around the house. They curve slightly, so they do less damage to the wall.”

“And what about the hammer?”

“It’s an ordinary enough hammer,” Marguerite said. “Do you want to see it?”

“I don’t need to,” I said. “I’m going upstairs to talk to Dagmar.”

“What are you going to ask her?”

“First,” I said, “I’ll ask her to turn off that blasted polka music. And then I’ll demand that she return all she’s stolen from your family, before we hand her over to the police.”

* * *

The conclusion to “Inside Job” is filed under “Black Paint,” here.

PINCHED CREATURE.

I was spending the afternoon with my associate Moxie Mallahan. Moxie was Stain’d-by-the-Sea’s only reporter, a job she had learned from her parents, who had run the town’s newspaper, The Stain’d Lighthouse. The newspaper was shut down, Mrs Mallahan had left town, Mr Mallahan was sleeping late, and Moxie and I were just hanging around the lighthouse, doing a little reading and talking over various incidents that had happened recently. “It’s been too long since we’ve done this,” Moxie said.

“Done what?”

“Had an uneventful time like this.”

Right on cue, the doorbell rang, as if to say enough was enough of uneventfulness, and when Moxie opened the door, there was an event. The event was a boy several years younger than I was and much more upset. He wore a white coat like a scientist and had two pairs of glasses, one over his eyes and the other perched on his head.

“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the boy said, “but you’re the closest neighbor and I need some help.”

“Oliver,” Moxie said. “I didn’t know your family was still in town.” She turned to me. “Oliver’s parents are the only veterinarians left in Stain’d-by-the-Sea. So few people have pets nowadays, I’d assumed the Doctors Sobol had closed up shop.”

“They have,” Oliver said, his eyes blinking nervously behind his glasses, “but I’m here for a few more months running the business until they come and fetch me.”

“Well, if you ever want company,” Moxie said, “hike up the hill and we’ll play some Parcheesi. This is my friend Lemony Snicket, by the way. He won’t play Parcheesi because he says it’s inane.”

“It is inane,” I said, “and inane is a word which here means pointless and dull.”

Oliver frowned, and I can’t say I blame him. If you are worried about something, it is not a good time to listen to people argue over games and vocabulary. He sat down glumly at the bottom of the stairs that spiraled up to the lighthouse’s lantern.

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” Moxie said. “We were prattling on while you have something on your mind.”

“I sure do,” Oliver said. “I’ve lost a newt.”

Moxie and I both looked at Oliver. If we’d looked at each other we might have laughed.

“It might sound silly,” Oliver said, “but this newt is very important.”

Moxie’s eyebrows went up underneath her hat. “What could be so important about a little lizard?”

“First of all,” Oliver said, “newts aren’t lizards. A lizard is a reptile, and a newt is an amphibian. Second of all, this newt is a very rare subspecies. I’ve lost an Amaranthine Newt, known for its bright yellow color and prevalent left-handedness. It was the only one in captivity and prized by herpetologists and southpaws all over the world.”

“Why do they call it the Amaranthine Newt, if it’s bright yellow?” I asked. “Amaranthine means purple, doesn’t it?”

“Its eggs are purple,” Oliver said. “My father took the eggs with him to his new job at Amphibians-A-Go-Go, an aquatic animal center and amusement park just outside the city. The newt and I are supposed to join them there soon. If I can’t find the newt, my father might lose his job.”

“Don’t fret, Oliver,” Moxie said, although I could see that Oliver just kept on fretting. “Snicket here has a knack for finding strange missing items. Isn’t that so, Snicket?”

“It’s sometimes so,” I said. “Oliver, why don’t you tell us how the newt slipped away?”

“I don’t think it slipped away,” Oliver said. “I think it was pinched.”

“Somebody stole it?” Moxie said. “That’s a serious accusation to make.” She sat down and opened a case sitting on the floor. Inside was a typewriter that Moxie Mallahan always kept nearby, and she started taking notes immediately on the clattering machine.

“I’m making it seriously,” Oliver said. “The Amaranthine Newt lives in a special tank on a desk in my examining room, so I can always keep an eye on it. It was there when I opened for business this morning.”

“And how many patients did you have today?” I asked.

“Just one,” Oliver said. “You were right about few people having pets, Moxie, but Polly Partial has two of the last cats in town, and one of them has a narcissistic disorder.”

“Polly Partial, the grocer?” Moxie asked, and met my eye. Neither of us was fond of the woman who ran Partial Foods, but lots of people nobody is fond of have sick cats.

“Her cat Paperbag has been a patient of my family’s for a very long time,” Oliver said. “I can’t imagine that his owner is a thief, but greed and newts can do strange things to people. I examined Paperbag and went to my desk to write out a prescription. Then I escorted Partial and Paperbag out and spent a few minutes in the backyard watering my father’s zinnias. The flowers match the trim on the office, as long as you keep them healthy, and I’d like to leave the place looking nice. When I went back into the office, the tank was empty.”

“Someone must have snuck in while you were gardening,” Moxie said.

Oliver shook his head. “I would have heard anyone else driving up the road.”

“They need not have arrived by automobile,” I said.

“To pinch my newt,” Oliver said, “they’d need a similar tank. You couldn’t fit one on a bicycle or a donkey. Polly Partial must have stolen the newt, but I don’t see how.”

“I don’t mean to be rude,” I said, “but can you really trust your eyes? I notice you have not one but two pairs of glasses.”

Oliver gave me a stern, lens-covered look. “My eyes aren’t perfect,” he said, “but with these glasses I can see perfectly well, and I keep the other pair on my head for reading.”

“You don’t have bifocals?” I asked, referring to eyeglasses that combine two lenses into one.

“There aren’t any optometrists left in town,” Moxie told me. “The closest eye doctor is way over in Paltryville, but she doesn’t have a very good reputation.”

“Did you use your reading glasses when you were with Paperbag?” I asked Oliver.

He nodded. “When I wrote out the prescription.”

“Well, I’m sure you saw clearly,” I said, “but I’m not sure I do. Shall we walk over to the Sobol office?”

Oliver said yes and so we did, Moxie carrying her typewriter and me trying to think. It was a warm, breezy day, with the wind carrying a salty smell from the seaweed of the Clusterous Forest, an eerie phenomenon that lay below the cliff we were on. But we walked the other way, down a road as bumpy and cracked as a vase falling down stairs. Soon enough, we could see the office of the Doctors Sobol, a faraway building with yellow and orange trim, but when we rounded a corner, something made us stop. There was a car, pulled over to the side of the road, and a man frowning at the car like it’d given him socks for his birthday.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

“Not in my opinion,” the man replied, and used his right hand to point at one of the car’s tires. It also looked a little sad. “I seem to have a flat.”

“There’s a garage about a half mile thataway,” Moxie said, pointing thataway with one finger.

“Thank you,” the man said. “I’m a doorknob salesman passing through town, and I’m late for an appointment. I guess I’d better walk on over to the garage. My car doesn’t have anything valuable in it, so I suppose it will be all right.”

I peeked through the window of his car. I couldn’t help it. I’ve been trained to do such things. There was nothing in it.

Oliver had other concerns. “You haven’t noticed a newt crawling around, have you?”

“Or a suspicious person?” Moxie added.

“What kind of person?” the man asked. “I saw a woman driving by in a beat-up grocery van. And what kind of lizard?”

Oliver sighed in annoyance. “It’s an Amaranthine Newt,” he said, “and that woman is probably a thief.”

“A newt will be hard to find,” said the stranger. “But I might look in a patch of zinnias I passed. It could blend in and hide there easily.”

“You’re thinking of a chameleon,” I said, “but you’re probably right that we won’t find the newt. We might as well help you instead.”

“What?” Oliver said, blinking in astonishment, and Moxie frowned.

“Do you have a spare tire in the trunk?” I continued, talking to the man.

The supposed salesman shook his head. “Nope.”

“That’s too bad,” I said, “but maybe you have something that would do in a pinch.”

“I don’t think so,” the man said quickly, in a pinched voice.

“In a pinch” is a phrase which here means “in a difficult situation,” and a pinched voice is a whiny and nervous one. But neither of these pinches was the pinch I was thinking of. “Open the trunk anyway,” I said, “so we can see the special newt tank you have hidden there.”

* * *

The conclusion to “Pinched Creature” is filed under “Dishonest Salesman,” here.

RANSOM NOTE.

Bouvard and Pecuchet Bellerophon, better known as Pip and Squeak, were the best cabdrivers in Stain’d-by-the-Sea, although to be fair, they were also the only cabdrivers I’d ever come across in town. The brothers weren’t really old enough to drive—or tall enough, for that matter—so Pip worked the steering wheel and Squeak worked the brakes, and in this way they got their customers around in the taxi belonging to their father, who they’d told me was very ill. The Bellerophon brothers were valuable associates of mine, so when they told me their mechanic needed help, I agreed to ride right over to Moray Wheels, a dirty and lonely-looking garage in what had once been a bustling district of town and now sat mostly empty.

“I know it doesn’t look like much,” Pip said as his brother brought the taxi to a halt, “but Jackie’s an excellent mechanic.”

“You can say that again,” Squeak said, in his high-pitched voice, but nobody did. We were busy watching an elderly man wander out onto the driveway with a limp and a sneer. He wobbled slightly as he walked and his fingers fluttered at his sides like he was counting to infinity on his fingers.

“That’s the mechanic?” I asked doubtfully, imagining those fingers trying to operate a wrench.

“That,” Pip said, with a shake of his head, “is the mechanic’s grandfather. Wednesdays he works at the bowling alley, but the rest of the time he sits around here eating molasses and bragging about his career as a race car driver. Jackie’s probably inside. Let’s go.”

Let’s go we did. The brothers led me in a curve around the old man and then into a garage that felt like a birthday party for mechanical parts, with tires and bumpers drinking gasoline punch, and stacks of tools and equipment nibbling on grease and talking together on the floor. There was no sign of Jackie or anyone else, but in the middle of the place was a car I recognized.

“What’s wrong with Cleo Knight’s Dilemma?” I asked. “Ms, Knight is an associate of mine, and her automobile has always been top-of-the-line. You wouldn’t believe some of the stunts that car has pulled.”

A figure rolled itself out from under the shiny automobile, and someone about my age sat up and nodded at all of us. “Even something top-of-the-line bottoms out once in a while,” the mechanic said. “She just needs a little tune-up, that’s all. Is this the guy, brothers?”

“This is the guy,” Squeak squeaked.

Jackie gave me a quick, frowny glance. “He doesn’t look so tough.”

“He’s plenty tough,” Pip said.

“I need someone very tough,” Jackie said.

“Do you need someone who can hear what you say, even when he’s standing right here?” I asked.

Jackie gave me an apologetic smile. “It’s nothing personal,” the mechanic said. “I just have some trouble on my hands.”

“Trouble is like grease,” I said, with a nod at Jackie’s jumpsuit. “If you have it on you, you’ll probably get it on everyone nearby.”

“Pip and Squeak said you’re good in a jam,” Jackie said.

“Depends on the jam,” I said.

“They say you’re brave.”

“Brave is what they call you until it doesn’t work,” I said. “Then they call you beaten. But you don’t want to hear my story. You want to tell me yours.”

Jackie sighed and sat down on a stack of tires. “My dog’s gone.”

Squeak gasped. “Not Lysistrata? She’s the best watchdog I’ve ever seen!”

“Loudest bark this side of the Mortmain Mountains,” Jackie said with pride, “but someone swiped her last night, and left this note for me taped to the Dilemma’s windshield.”

The mechanic took a sheet of paper out of a dirty pocket, and we all leaned in to see.

If you ever want to see your dog alive again, bring a complete set of Dugga Drills to 1300 Blotted Boulevard at midnight tonight. Be sensible. Come alone.

Yours sincerely,

The Person Who Kidnapped

Your Dog

“Dugga makes the best drills money can buy,” Jackie said, “but I’d give anything to have my dog back.”

“Who knows you have such valuable tools?” I asked.

The mechanic pointed to a corner, where there was a bright red case marked DUGGA. “Anyone who comes by,” Jackie said. “But what I can’t figure is how a stranger got my Lysistrata to come with them, and where they’re hiding her now. She’d be barking like crazy, but I rode around all morning and heard nothing.”

“Did you go by the Hairdryer Emporium?” Pip asked. “That’s probably the loudest place in Stain’d-by-the-Sea. The kidnapper could be hiding her there.”

“I’m not from around here,” I reminded the Bellerophons. “Who runs the Hairdryer Emporium?”

“Hal Hairdryer,” said Squeak. “You’ve probably seen him out in front of his brother’s place, Hairdryer’s Salamis. He has a funny hat and two very serious arms.”

“But that place closed up a couple of weeks ago,” Jackie said, and sighed. “If he’s the kidnapper, I don’t know where we’d find him.”

“Running a loud business isn’t reason enough to call him a kidnapper,” I said. “The best way to find out who took Lysistrata is to catch them red-handed when you bring them the ransom.”

“Will you come with me tonight, Snicket?” The mechanic gestured to a motorcycle waiting by the door. “I’ll put the drills in the saddlebag and pick you up at the Lost Arms around eleven. We’ll get there early and you can hide yourself. That way we can get my dog back and catch whoever did it.”

“Blotted Boulevard will sure be spooky at that hour,” Pip said, reminding me of a time we’d been out there together, chasing a villain named Hangfire. “We’ll come with you, too.”

“No,” Jackie said. “The kidnappers would notice your taxi. The note said to come alone.”

I looked at the note again. “Be sensible” was something my chaperone, Theodora, said all the time, but like the case of Dugga Drills, this was something plenty of people had noticed.

“You kids get outta here!” The voice came from the doorway, where Jackie’s grandfather was leaning with a jar of molasses in one hand, and, in the other, a jar of molasses. His voice was sticky and slurry, because his mouth was either full of molasses or empty of teeth, or both. “

They’re friends, Grampa,” Jackie said.

“They’re keeping you from your work,” the old man said, spitting a brown glop onto the floor. “That Knight girl’s going to get very impatient.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times,” Jackie said. “You’re not going to take over this job for me.”

“You could at least let me deliver it,” slurred the old man. “That car deserves to have a driver like me. After all, I competed in the Magritte Derby.”

“That was thirty-seven years ago,” Jackie said patiently, “and you came in thirty-eighth. I’ll deliver it myself, thank you.”

“You can’t drive a Dilemma. You don’t have the reflexes of a professional like me.”

“Your hands shake from too much sugar,” Jackie said, “and your ears ring constantly from the bowling alley.”

“I like ringing ears!” the old man cried.

It is better to dive into a shark tank than into a family argument. “We’d best get going,” I said. “See you later, Jackie.”

“Much obliged,” Jackie replied, which is a fancy way of saying “thank you,” and slid back under the equally fancy car.

It was not easy to persuade my chaperone to let me help Jackie get Lysistrata back, but I explained it to her in a whisper at about ten thirty that night, when Theodora had fallen asleep, and I took her silence to be words which here mean “Go ahead, Snicket. Sneak out without waking me, and take a motorcycle ride in the middle of the night.”

I gave Prosper Lost a wave as I headed out, and Jackie was waiting with an extra helmet and a grim expression.

“I took the long way here, just to see if I could hear my dog barking anyplace.”

“The kidnapper could have drugged her,” I said, thinking of Hangfire again.

The mechanic shuddered. “I just can’t imagine who would kidnap my dog, even to get a set of expensive drills as ransom.”

“They could have stolen those drills,” I said, “when they stole the dog.”

“Lysistrata would have barked at any intruder,” Jackie said, “and I would have awoken.”

It wasn’t a bad answer, but it wasn’t good enough, just like my list of suspects. Hangfire was associated with Blotted Boulevard. Hal Hairdryer ran a loud establishment suitable for hiding a loud dog. Theodora liked the word “sensible.” Not a bad list, but it didn’t feel good enough.

I probably do not need to tell you that young people should not be riding around on motorcycles, even if the driver is a skilled mechanic with an extra helmet, and even if there’s a sort of magical terror to feeling the night air rushing in your face and the engine whining underneath you. I hung on tight to Jackie’s shoulders and tried to decide if I was more scared than excited or more excited than scared. I decided it was a tie.

We arrived early at Blotted Boulevard, as planned, and stood for a moment together on the silent, empty block. I hid behind a pile of rubble that looked like it had once been a newsstand, and Jackie stood beneath a flickering streetlight and waited. I waited, too. We kept waiting and then we kept at it. Both of us waited for almost two hours. Even in my hiding place I felt like a target, or an animal soon to become prey. I don’t know what Jackie felt like, out there where anyone could see. But if anyone saw, nobody came forward. We spent two late hours waiting for nothing, and finally the mechanic came to fetch me.

“Nobody showed,” Jackie said.

“I thought nobody would,” I admitted, “but it didn’t hurt to be sure.”

“Well, you’re a good sport to help me,” Jackie said. “I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

I shook my head. “Let’s ride around for a while,” I said.

Jackie smiled. “You like a joyride?”

“Joyride” is a word for driving around just for fun, but I’d had enough excitement for one evening and said so. “But joyriding is the whole reason for your dog’s disappearance. I think the kidnapper’s had his fun by now, and I’m sure Lysistrata will be returned to you.”

* * *

The conclusion to “Ransom Note” is filed under “Loud Dog,” here.

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