The Forgotten Map (31 page)

‘Easy, Whisker,' he said in a firm teacher's voice. ‘You can have the map in due course – if it's genuine. A false map can be a very dangerous thing.'

Whisker took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves. He knew Mr Tribble was right. But it was hard to be patient when the map was so close.

‘Do you have somewhere private we can look at this, Selma?' Mr Tribble asked.

‘Of course,' the squirrel answered. ‘You can use the change rooms in the front corner. I'll be behind the counter if you need me.'

Whisker threw open the curtain of a change cubicle and Mr Tribble stepped inside.

‘Let's see what we've got,' Mr Tribble muttered, removing the lid of the cylinder.

He carefully slid out a yellowed paper scroll and Whisker stared in awe, ignoring the sound of voices from the street outside. Mr Tribble unrolled a small corner of the scroll and peered at it through smudged glasses. A smile crept across his face.

He rolled the corner up again.

‘Well?' Whisker asked.

‘It's genuine,' Mr Tribble announced.

Whisker was confused. ‘How can you be sure? You barely glanced at it …'

Mr Tribble thrust the scroll into Whisker's arms.

‘I'm positive,' he stated. ‘This is the map Rat Bait promised you.'

Whisker looked down at the scroll and felt his excitement growing.
This is it,
he told himself,
I'm holding the actual Forgotten Map.

He began to unroll the map, savouring every moment. He'd only glimpsed a few lines of text when Mr Tribble caught his attention.

‘LISTEN!' Mr Tribble hissed wildly.

Whisker lowered the map. The voices outside had grown louder and were now mixed with growls, sniffs, and the terrifying scuttle of crabs – hundreds of crabs. Whisker dared not move, he dared not look. But he listened.

A deep voice raised itself above the chaos.

‘ATTENTION!'

There was silence.

The deep voice continued, ‘Fellow crustaceans and honorary hounds of our battalion, I have summoned you here under terrible circumstances.'

There was a gasp from the crowd.

‘I have just been informed that a terrible crime has been committed against your brothers on Prison Island.'

There was another gasp from the crowd.

‘It seems that a new enemy has arisen this very night and has single-handedly turned our fine prison into a smoking, smouldering ruin.'

‘NO!' cried the crowd.

‘YES!' boomed the voice. ‘But, my friends, it gets worse. This terrible creature has released one of our most despicable, our most notorious, our most deadly prisoners …'

‘Seven-legged Sven?' piped a small voice.

‘Err … no,' said the deep voice. ‘Sven is still chained up in the dungeon. I'm referring to none other than the wicked weasel whose shop of sin I stand before – Madam Pearl!'

‘Save us all!' shrieked the crowd.

The deep voice waited for the crowd to be silent. ‘It is my understanding that Madam Pearl and her criminal counterpart may attempt to return to this very street. If they do, they must not escape again. Is that understood?'

‘Yes, Colonel,' roared the crowd.

‘But who is he?' mumbled the small voice.

‘Who's who?'

‘The one who's not the weasel.'

‘Ah, yes,' the deep voice sighed. ‘We are fortunate to have an accurate description of him. He is none other than… the Hooded Mouse Bandit!'

‘Ooh, Arr!' gasped the crowd.

The deep voice went on, ‘Our sniffer hounds have detected a fresh scent of male mouse in this area. Your orders are to block off the street, seal the sewer entrances and search every building and rooftop, starting with Pearl's Antiques. Arrest on suspicion any male that looks like a mouse, rat, hamster or skinny guinea pig. Is that clear?'

‘Yes, Colonel,' chanted the crowd.

The frantic scuttling resumed and, for the first time in his life, Whisker wished he was a cat.

A Tight Squeeze

Whisker's heart beat faster than a drum in a dance hall.

‘W-w-what are we going to do?' Mr Tribble stammered in terror. ‘The crabs will r-r-rip us to p-p-pieces.'

Whisker took a deep breath and tried to slow his pounding heart. He'd encountered a stampede of crabs before and on that occasion he'd escaped. Two words sprang to mind. He poked his head from the change room and whispered to Selma, ‘Do you have a
back door
?'

Selma shook her head. ‘No. I'm afraid our shop backs onto the solid wall of the pie factory.'

‘What about a cellar?' Whisker said frantically.

Selma shook her head again. ‘Maybe in another shop?'

Of course,
Whisker thought.
Pearl has a cellar … and a secret passage … and it's right across the road.

He peeked through a gap in a curtain to see how bad things looked outside – they looked terrible.

Three hundred crabs pushed, shoved and clawed their way through the narrow entrance into Madam Pearl's shop. Whisker's one chance of escape was no chance at all. In minutes, the crabs would swarm into the Portside Boutique, arrest Whisker and Mr Tribble and seize the map.

I need more options,
Whisker thought in desperation.

He stared through the window, searching for a memory.

Focus on the circus,
he told himself.
There must be a daring stunt or a clever trick of illusion you can use.

Nothing.

Look again. What can you see?

Crabs scrambling through a doorway …

Try harder!

The circus audience scrambling into the tent …

And?

A gentleman in a top hat and lady in a fine frock – and they look so honest the doorman doesn't even ask for their tickets …

With a sudden realisation, Whisker jumped back from the window and bounded over to Selma.

‘Selma,' he cried. ‘I need something else. And I need it fast.'

‘Do you have another password?' she asked.

‘No,' Whisker said. ‘What I need is …'

He whispered his request in her ear.

‘Of course,' she smiled, ‘if you can pay for it.'

Whisker patted his empty pockets and wished he hadn't dropped the suitcase, or the coin purse.

‘Please,' he begged. ‘It's a life or death situation.'

‘I'm sorry,' Selma sighed. ‘I'd love to help but I'm just the manager and I have rules to follow. I'd lose my job if the owner found out.'

‘But she's …' Whisker began, but stopped himself.

‘She's what?' Selma asked, her eyes narrowing. ‘Do you know her?'

Whisker hung his head. ‘No. Never mind.'

‘I'll tell you what,' Selma said sympathetically. ‘If you don't have any money, I'll accept something else of value.'

Whisker's paw instantly moved to his neck. He felt the shape of a gold anchor under his coat. He didn't want to lose it, but he knew he had it for a reason.

This was the reason.

He reached for the strap at the back of his neck, but before he could untie it, Mr Tribble placed something small and silver on the counter.

‘Take my pocket pen,' he said. ‘It's only a mouse's size, but it's solid silver and perfect for drawing maps and … writing receipts.'

Whisker gave Mr Tribble a look of gratitude. Selma picked up the pen and studied it closely.

‘It's ever so pretty,' she considered, ‘for a miniature pen.'

Whisker's paw moved back to his pendant.

‘Will the pen pay for everything?' he asked anxiously.

Selma lowered the pen and fluttered her large eyelashes. ‘Why, of course it will. It's the summer sale.'

Two ladies stepped from the doorway of the Portside Boutique. The elder was a mouse wearing an ankle-length lilac frock with a matching bonnet, a purple satin shawl and flat heeled silver sandals. The younger was a rat, and wore a short floral frock, a pastel pink traveller's coat, gold high heels and an anchor pendant bracelet. Both ladies carried small matching handbags overflowing with tissues.

‘This perfume is driving me crazy,' Mr Tribble wheezed, holding back a sneeze. ‘My eyes are watering, my mascara is running and I can't see anything without my glasses.'

‘Calm down, Gran,' Whisker pleaded. ‘The perfume isn't for you, remember? Just dry your eyes, hold onto my arm, and you'll be fine.'

Mr Tribble sighed. ‘At least I'm not wearing your ridiculous high heels. I don't know how you can walk in a straight line.'

Whisker looked down at his gold stilettos and tried to keep his balance. He'd never felt so tall or so awkward. He lifted his head and adjusted the pink ribbon over his fringe as a swarm of crabs scuttled from an open doorway. An important looking crab yelled, ‘All clear,' before disappearing into the Portside Boutique with a horde of crabs.

Several crabs, however, did not enter the shop. They turned and approached Whisker and Mr Tribble. A sniffer hound trotted behind them. Whisker batted his fake eyelashes and tried to strike a flattering pose.

‘Good evening, Officers,' he squeaked.

‘Evening, Miss,' a Sergeant replied. ‘It's a bit late to be roaming the streets, don't you think?'

‘Um … well … you see, officer …' Whisker stammered, as a gentle gust of breeze swept past him.

Before Whisker had time to invent a story, the sniffer hound dropped to the ground clutching at his nose howling, ‘AWOO! AWOO! It burns! It burns!'

‘What's wrong with the mangy mutt?' the Sergeant grumbled.

‘Dat smell,' whined the hound. ‘I can't stand dat ‘orrible smell. Get ‘em away from me or me precious nose'll be ruined.'

The rest of the crabs shook their claws in panic.

‘We can't lose another sniffer hound, Sergeant,' the smallest crab cried. ‘Our last one collapsed in the scented candle store.'

‘Humph!' the Sergeant snorted. ‘Very well, you're free to go, ladies. But next time leave that stinking perfume at home.'

‘Of course, Officer,' Whisker squealed. ‘Thank you, Officer.'

Wasting no time, he grabbed Mr Tribble's arm and clip-clopped across the street in his heels.

‘That was easy,' Mr Tribble mumbled.

Whisker pouted his lips. ‘Thanks to an entire floor of perfume!'

They had almost reached Pearl's shop when a voice boomed behind them.

‘HOLD IT RIGHT THERE!'

Whisker froze. It was the voice of the Colonel.

‘What is the meaning of this, Sergeant?' the Colonel fumed. ‘Have you forgotten your orders?'

‘No, Colonel,' the Sergeant replied.

‘So how do you explain those two rodents?'

The Sergeant didn't answer.

Whisker felt his tail tremble, his feet tremble and the entire left side of Mr Tribble tremble. Their cover was blown. He considered making a dash for the deserted doorway of Pearl's Antiques, but high heels, fake eyelashes and a short-sighted companion were not a good running combination.

‘LADIES!' the Colonel thundered.

Whisker slowly turned around.

‘Yes, Colonel,' he replied in his highest voice.

The Colonel looked him up and down and spoke in a stern voice, ‘I'm afraid I can't let you go.'

‘Ooh,' Mr Tribble moaned.

Whisker elbowed him in the ribs and pulled a fake smile.

‘As you are aware,' the Colonel said, ‘the honourable Governor has introduced new public safety laws to protect citizens from low-life thugs who roam the streets at night.'

Whisker gave him a confused nod and hoped the Colonel wasn't referring to him.

The Colonel continued, ‘It is every soldier's duty to escort unaccompanied ladies to their place of residence after 9 pm each evening. I sincerely apologise for the behaviour of my Sergeant for failing to provide such a service.'