Beware the Fisj (13 page)

Mr. Sturgeon grasped the arms of his chair and sat bolt upright. “201,” he repeated. “2–0–1!
Walton!
”

“Pardon me, dear?” questioned his wife.

The Headmaster rose and began to pace nervously. “It has to be! That’s his voice! The flying fish! The pigs won’t stay! Walton!”

“William, you’re not making sense!” she protested.

He did not even hear her.

“But how?” he asked aloud. An awful picture began forming in his mind, a picture of Bruno Walton doing all the things Miss Scrimmage had accused the school of. She had raved about bombs, beatings, terrorist activities! What if she were right?

But that was ridiculous! How could she be right? Those pop cans — what did they have to do with it? What was Walton up to? Where would he get a flying bomb? What was the purpose of the big orchestra? Could he possibly be spending all that time at Scrimmage’s, as much time as the regular complaints from the Headmistress indicated? And where did they fit in, anyway? What about Miss Scrimmage’s tale of a member of his staff running about in his underwear? That couldn’t have happened! What was this fish patrol and all the talk about fighting to the bitter end? It all had no meaning. And, most perplexing of all, how could Walton insert himself on television that way, seemingly at will? The entire thing was absolutely impossible! Jumping to hysterical conclusions was Miss Scrimmage’s province. It wasn’t for the staid, sensible Headmaster of Macdonald Hall. And yet …

Before his wife’s astonished eyes, he rushed to the telephone and dialled a number.

“Hello, Flynn? Sturgeon here. I want you to send Bruno Walton over here immediately … No, to my home … At once, please … Thank you.”

* * *

“Have I done anything lately?” asked Bruno after Flynn had delivered the Headmaster’s message.

“What kind of a question is that?” demanded Boots nervously. “We’ve all done quite a lot lately!”

“No, I mean what have I done that The Fish would know about?” insisted Bruno, unperturbed.

“I’ve got a feeling that The Fish always knows what we’re doing, every minute of every day,” mourned Boots. “Bruno, what if he knows what’s been going on?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” said Bruno. “How could he know? I see I’m not going to get any sense out of you, so I guess I’ll have to go over there and ask The Fish himself.”

“Good luck,” murmured Boots, truly concerned.

Puzzled, Bruno jogged across the campus. He had never been ordered to the Headmaster’s home before. What was so urgent that it couldn’t wait for normal office hours? Oh well, he thought, employing one of his staunchest philosophies: never worry about what you can’t avoid, there’s only one way to find out. He approached the Headmaster’s door and rang the bell.

Mr. Sturgeon opened the door and fixed his visitor with the coldest of fishy stares.

“You sent for me, sir?”

“I did,” replied the Headmaster grimly. He looked into Bruno’s innocent, questioning eyes and was struck dumb. Even before the boy’s arrival, the Headmaster had not been sure of what he was going to say. Now he was even more uncertain. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous. How could he make such wild accusations to one of his students?

“Uh — sit down, Walton,” he said, ushering Bruno into the living room. His wife had retreated upstairs. He paused, desperately trying to think how to phrase what he wanted to say.

“Yes, sir?” Bruno prompted.

“Lately,” the Headmaster began slowly, “a lot of peculiar things have been happening. For instance, Miss Scrimmage’s school has allegedly been suffering some extraordinary kinds of harassment, ranging from flying bombs to constant terrorism. Also, someone has been interfering with local television broadcasting. This whole part of the county has been complaining of seeing a large fish and hearing a voice speaking of a fish patrol.”

Bruno turned a sickly shade of grey. His mouth moved, but no sound emerged.

“In a broadcast this evening,” the Headmaster went on, “reference was made to some things which might pertain to Macdonald Hall.” His voice took on a firm, commanding tone. “I have no proof, of course, and therefore I am not making any accusations. However, my main message is this: tomorrow morning, classes will be delayed. At nine o’clock sharp there will be a complete and thorough dormitory inspection of every room, made by me personally. I had better find everything in perfect order.”

“Yes, sir,” Bruno barely whispered.

“That will be all,” said Mr. Sturgeon, standing up. “You are dismissed.”

Bruno left the Headmaster’s residence and dashed across the campus like an Olympic sprinter. By the time he reached room 201 in Dormitory 2 he was breathless and even paler than before.

“Bruno, what’s wrong? What happened?” cried Boots anxiously.

“I’m going to kill Elmer Drimsdale!” panted Bruno, rushing over to the black box and ripping out wires at random. “Every time I’ve used this miserable tin-plated piece of garbage I’ve been on television! That dumb salmon poster and every word I’ve said! The Fish heard it all! All my fish jokes!
Everything!
”

Boots collapsed onto his bed. “Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes!” cried Bruno. “This thing has been broadcasting to the whole area! Wait till I get my hands on Elmer!”

“The Fish knows!” moaned Boots.

“The Fish suspects,” corrected Bruno, calming down. “Tomorrow morning there’s going to be a big dorm inspection. And by the time that inspection rolls around, this kamikaze camcorder and all the other junk in this room are going to be gone!”

“Everything?” asked Boots.

“Everything,” said Bruno grimly. “Miss Scrimmage has been complaining about all the stuff we’ve done. If The Fish makes the connection between her complaints and Elmer’s gear, there’ll be hot gazoobies all over the place! We have to get rid of everything, even the stuff we’ve had nothing to do with.”

“What about Elmer?” asked Boots. “Those things are all his. He’ll have a fit when he gets back.”

“Either he gets upset or we all get expelled,” said Bruno. “Take your choice.”

“What are we going to do with it?” demanded Boots, beginning to panic.

“We can bury it,” decided Bruno.

“That’s ridiculous!” howled Boots. “Do you think The Fish won’t notice a huge patch of turned-up earth?”

“We can bury it in the big sand pit by the road,” insisted Bruno, “the one we use for high-jump. The PIT system, it goes in the pit.”

“There’s so much stuff!” moaned Boots. “It would take us a month to bury all this!”

“That’s why we have to have help,” said Bruno. “We’ll recruit some guys. Right now.”

Both boys got up and headed for the door.

“I don’t believe it!” muttered Bruno, looking back at the black box. “I just don’t believe it!”

* * *

Featherstone paced his small room, frowning. The latest fish broadcast had stated that the flying fish had flown away. That was no help — he knew it already. The flying fish was sitting on his night table. “The pigs won’t stay” obviously referred to the unfortunate incident with the pigpen and the farmer who hadn’t believed him. There had been no reference to the meaning of the code letters M.H. The only new piece of information had been the introduction of the number 201. What it could mean, Featherstone had no idea.

His stomach rumbled and he remembered that he had missed dinner. The thought of another hamburger made him wince, and the diner across the road served nothing but sticky spaghetti, rubber sandwiches and concrete meat loaf. He had to have some variety. He picked up the telephone book and began to look in the Yellow Pages under “Restaurants.”

An ad for a local eating place caught his eye. “Mister Halibut Fish and Chips,” he read aloud. “201 Oak Road, Chutney.” He closed the book. A strange feeling was coming over him, a feeling that there was something familiar about what he had just read. “201 Oak Road,” he repeated, starting for the door.

He reached for the doorknob and froze. “201!” he exclaimed suddenly. “Mr. Halibut!
M.H
.
!
” He opened the door and dashed down Main Street, still running as he turned onto Oak Road. There it was, Mister Halibut, with a large neon fish bordered by red and green chaser lights on the sign over the door. Red and green. The same code colours as on the M.H. Flying Fish! Yes, he could feel it. This unassuming place must be of great importance to the Fish’s operation. And there was no mistake. The address was clearly marked as 201 Oak Road.

He opened the glass doors, walked in and stopped in his tracks. Seated at a corner table, his long nose buried in a basket of fish and chips, was the Fish himself — the man from room 14.

Featherstone’s heart began to pound. He had finally done it, finally penetrated the Fish’s iron curtain. Triumph over the Fish was very close now. He could smell victory!

His mind began to work furiously. He could not arrest the Fish now, where his agents would probably be close at hand. No, he must be a clever fisherman and lure the intended catch out to the local police station at the corner of Oak and Main.

Clasping his hands behind his back, Featherstone strolled among the tables, looking around nonchalantly and whistling. His eyes fell on the thin man and he feigned surprise.

“Oh, hi there,” he said genially. “I’ve noticed we’re staying at the same motel. Do you mind if I join you? My name’s Featherstone.”

The thin man was taken aback, but managed a friendly smile. “Certainly — sit down, sit down. My name is Hamilton.”

Featherstone ordered his dinner and the two men chatted politely while eating.

At last Hamilton stirred his coffee and leaned back in his chair. “Well, I must say that was very good fish.”

Featherstone was instantly alert. “Fish? Oh, yes, fish. Yes, very good indeed.” His eyes narrowed. “I find myself very fond of fish lately.”

“Me too,” replied Hamilton. “Fishing is my hobby.”

“Oh, fishing,” said Featherstone. “Catching fish.”

“Exactly,” agreed Hamilton.

The waitress arrived with the two checks.

“Well, I’ve certainly enjoyed having some company,” said Featherstone heartily. “Why don’t we walk along together?”

The two men paid their bills and strolled out onto the street, heading towards Main. As they neared the intersection, Featherstone pointed to the police station.

“Ah,” he said, “a police station. I’ll tell you what. As long as we’re both stuck in this dull town, we ought to go in and study their street map. Maybe we can find something interesting.”

Hamilton beamed radiantly. “That’s a great idea!” He’s taking the bait, thought Featherstone as the two men stepped inside the building. This is it!

Once inside, both men suddenly wheeled to face each other and chorused, “I arrest you in the name of the law!”

There was a bewildered silence, then, “You can’t arrest me!” cried Featherstone. “I’m arresting you! You’re the Fish!”

“
I’m
the Fish?
You’re
the Fish!” shouted Hamilton.

Featherstone whipped out his identification. “Sergeant Harold P. Featherstone, RCMP, Special Division.”

Hamilton also produced a badge. “Leon Hamilton, Ontario Provincial Police.”

“May I help you?” asked the desk sergeant.

“Stay out of this!” snapped Featherstone. “This is a police matter!” He turned to Hamilton. “You assaulted me in the dump!”

“I haven’t been near the dump!” Hamilton protested. “You broke into my room!”

“I had a warrant!” shouted Featherstone. “You — you
are so
the Fish! I’ve got your code book to prove it!”

“Code book? That’s not a code book, you jerk! I only bought it to try and identify the fish on TV!”

“You forced me off the road,” accused Featherstone. “Right when the flying bomb was coming down!”

“I didn’t force you off the road,” yelled Hamilton. “You drove off. You stopped your car in the middle of the road and I almost hit you!”

“Well, what about the drive-in?” howled Featherstone.

“It was a lousy picture!”

“You stole my pop can when I went to the snack bar!” Featherstone insisted.

“No, I didn’t!”

“But you were following me!”

“Well, of course I was following you!” bellowed Hamilton. “You’re the Fish!”

“You tried to kill me! Twice!” accused Featherstone.

“The way you operate, you’re lucky you don’t kill yourself!” Hamilton scoffed.

“All right, you guys —” protested the desk sergeant.

“You lured me out on that lonely road and had a bomb launched at me!”

“I don’t know any more about that bomb than you do!”

There was a moment of silence as the two men stared at each other in bewildered consternation. Featherstone, his face purple with rage, stood crouched, fists clenched. Hamilton towered over him, his knees bent, ready to spring. Finally Featherstone gingerly eased himself into a chair and held his head. His first big investigation lay in shambles. He had been so sure …

“You’re not the Fish,” he barely whispered.

“I’ve been telling you that,” sighed Hamilton, his calm quickly returning. “I thought you were.”

“Well,” said Featherstone very quietly, “I’m not the Fish and you’re not the Fish.” He stood up and punched the wall. “
Then who the heck is?!”

“Now, listen, you two,” said the desk sergeant, “I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about, but if you don’t pipe down I’m going to throw you both in the cooler.”

“We’re police officers,” said Hamilton, holding up his badge. Featherstone did likewise.

“So am I,” sighed the desk sergeant. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it.”

* * *

Shortly after midnight Bruno and Boots and six other boys began to carry all of Elmer’s experiments and devices out of Dormitory 2 to be buried in the large sand pit by the road. Wilbur Hackenschleimer and Pete Anderson had the hole already dug when they got there.

“Dump everything in,” ordered Bruno. “Boots, did you bring the salmon poster?”

“Yeah,” Boots replied, “and the whole stack of them he had in his dresser.”

“Good,” said Bruno. “If The Fish ever sees that …”

Into the hastily dug hole went the Positive Ion Transmission apparatus, some of which had had to be unbolted from the floor of room 201. Wires and cables followed. The entire contents of Elmer’s chemistry lab, including remnants of his infamous cure for the common cold, went next. Bottles shattered and chemicals spilled out, mixing together and seeping into the sand. On top of that they dumped the remains of Operation Flying Fish — the remote control console and the launcher. Several assorted pieces of machinery, a few unidentified full beakers and test tubes, and the many salmon posters topped the tangled, smelly mess.