The Mystery of Mr. Nice

HARCOURT, INC.
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Copyright © 2000 by Bruce Hale

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Hale, Bruce.
The mystery of Mr. Nice: from the tattered casebook
of Chet Gecko, private eye/Bruce Hale.—1st ed.
p. cm.
"A Chet Gecko Mystery."
Summary: When the principal of his school begins
acting nice to him, Chet Gecko realizes that he is an
imposter and so sets out to find the real one.
[1. Geckos—Fiction. 2. Lizards—Fiction.
3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Mystery and detective stories.]
I. Title.
PZ7.H1295My 2000
[Fic]—dc21 99-50914
ISBN 0-15-202271-6

Text set in Bembo
Display type set in Elroy
Designed by Ivan Holmes

First edition
ACEGHFDB

Printed in the United States of America

For my brother, the one and only Matteo Grande

Nobody appreciates great artists when they're still alive.

Take that Vincent van Gogh guy, for example. He chopped off his ear because nobody liked his art. That must have hurt. Both the lack of respect and the ear chopping, I mean.

But I know how he felt.

How do I know? I'm another unsung artist.

True, most folks know me as the best lizard detective at Emerson Hicky Elementary, but it's not all knuckles and know-how with Chet Gecko. I've also got my artistic side.

And if it wasn't for my art, I might never have stumbled over the clue that started me on this case.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not going to quit detective work and chop off my ear anytime soon. (Geckos don't have ears.) But I wouldn't mind a little more respect for my talents.

After all, who do you think put the
art
in
smart aleck?

It was a hot, slow day. History class crept by like a slug on ice. Mr. Ratnose stood at the blackboard, trying to make some history of his own as Most Boring Teacher Ever. Half the class was asleep, and the other half was trying to look like they weren't.

Me, I was watching Mr. Ratnose's long whiskers droop like the seat of a kindergartner's pj's.

Suddenly, inspiration struck.

I whipped out a sheet of paper and a pen. Behind the cover of my open history book, I began a truly great cartoon. It started with Mr. Ratnose, and for the sake of Art, I made his nose four times the size it usually is.

And that's pretty big.

Then I pooched out his lips. With great detail, I drew in Marge Supial, the school nurse, puckering up for the mother of all kisses.

Before I'd even finished, I heard a smothered giggle. I glanced over at Bo Newt.

"Eeew, wombat kisses!" he whispered.

He giggled some more. Shirley Chameleon scooted her desk closer, trying to see what all the fuss was about.

"
Shhh,
" I said. An artist must have silence. I bent to my work. I had just labeled the characters in my latest masterpiece, when IT fell on me.

The teacher's shadow.

"What do you call
this?
" said Mr. Ratnose.

"Um ... art gecko?" I said.

"And who is that supposed to be?" He pointed a clawed finger at the big-nosed rat.

Duh. It was obviously him. But I couldn't say that.

"Um, it's an Afro-Cubist rendering of a rare lumpenhuffer in a Post Toasties—influenced style," I said. That's the kind of stuff I read in my parents' art books at home. No fooling.

"It looks like me kissing a wombat," said Mr. Ratnose. He bared his long front teeth.

The kids sitting near me were trying so hard not to crack up, they were snorting like pigs at a mud festival. Bo Newt's eyes bulged like two pumped-up grapefruit. He clapped a hand over his mouth.

My lip twitched into a semi-smirk. I couldn't help it.

"You think that's funny?" said Mr. Ratnose.

"No, I think it's art," I said.

My public agreed. I could tell because smothered laughter was turning their faces as purple as a grape-stomper's socks.

Mr. Ratnose frowned. His ears quivered. "Well, I think it's awful," he said, grabbing my drawing. "It shows a lack of respect."

Everybody's an art critic.

Mr. Ratnose scribbled on his pink pad. He tore off the sheet and thrust it at me. Then he ripped my sketch in half.

Ouch.
That hurt. But every great artist suffers insults in his time. I knew that future art lovers would recognize my genius.

"Chet Gecko," said Mr. Ratnose, "go straight to the principal's office, and take this—this
thing.
" He pointed at my mangled artwork. "Mr. Zero will deal with you!"

He stalked back to the front of the room, hairless tail dragging behind him.

I sighed and got up to go. An artist's life is not an easy one. That's why I usually stick with detecting. People might make fun of my detective work, but they can't tear it up.

As I walked down the aisle, a bird's voice chirped, "Mr. Ratnose, Chet's not taking the drawing with him."

I glanced over at her. Cassandra the Stool Pigeon. It figured.

I went back and picked up my drawing, then trudged out the door and down the hall.

Some days are like that. They begin with a punch to the gut or a mud pie in the kisser. You figure when a day starts like that, things can't get much worse.

But then, somehow or other, they do.

Visiting Principal Zero's office is about as much fun as going to a hungry shark's birthday party. You never know whether you're a guest or the dessert.

Principal Zero and I had tangled in the past. He was the fattest of fat cats with the meanest of tempers. Big Fat Zero, the kids called him—but never to his face.

Principal Zero was the kind of guy who would stuff your mouth full of tardy slips, then paddle your behind for mumbling. He liked art about as much as Mr. Ratnose did.

I was doomed.

As I approached the principal's office, my heart beat like a hyperactive octopus with a drum set. I wasn't nervous, exactly. I just liked having some skin left on my tuckus.

His secretary, a crow named Maggie with a voice like sandpaper, sat polishing her beak at her desk. I stopped to talk.

"Hey, brown eyes," I said. "How's tricks?"

"Stuff the sweet talk," she said. "You're in trouble, or you wouldn't be here."

"Right as rain," I said. Can't fool a secretary. "Is your boss in?"

Maggie ruffled her feathers. "Just your luck; he is."

I looked around the waiting room. Strange. Where a line of smart alecks usually sat waiting for justice, empty chairs greeted me.

Principal Zero must have his punishment on speed dial,
I thought.

"Go right in," said Maggie.

That crazy octopus in my chest played another drum solo. This time, he did a rim shot on my stomach.

I took a deep breath and stepped inside. Behind a broad black desk sat Principal Zero, the source of all discipline at Emerson Hicky Elementary. I knew I was about to get mine.

Principal Zero's claws flexed, and his tail twitched. His wide smile was as full of poison as a cobra's toothbrush. "Yes?" he said.

I laid my pink slip and torn drawing side by side on his desk. He looked from one to the other. I studied the desktop.

"Nice artwork, Mr.... Gecko," he said.

I looked up again.

Principal Zero was giving himself a dignified tongue bath. "It has a wonderful sense of color, and the style is quite—how should I put this?—quite mature," he said.

I blinked. He was serious.

"Lovely use of dark and light," said Principal Zero. He picked up the pink slip. "Now, what seems to be the problem?"

"Well, Mr. Ratnose didn't ... um ... like my drawing."

"How strange," he said. "Perhaps his taste in art is not so refined. I'd love a piece like this for my collection. Could you bear to part with it?"

That's when I knew.

Either my principal had lost his mind, or someone had kidnapped the real Mr. Zero.

Surprise froze my tongue like a mayfly on a Popsicle. I couldn't believe what was happening.

"So, may I keep this wonderful drawing?" asked Principal Zero again.

"Uh ... sure," I said. "It's yours."

He glanced down at the pink slip.

"Thank you ... Chet." Mr. Zero's smile was as sincere as a bully's apology. "Be sure to stop in anytime. I'm always glad to see an artist of your amazing talents."

I nodded and stumbled from the room, breathless and bewildered. I shut his door and leaned against it. Maggie Crow was riffling through a file drawer with her beak.

I cleared my throat. "Notice anything strange about your boss?"

"No stranger than usual," she said.

"But he didn't punish me."

Maggie turned and cocked her head. "Maybe you caught him in a good mood. Don't push your luck, buddy-boy. Get out while the getting's good."

I beat feet. My mind was racing like a kid after an ice-cream truck. Something truly weird was going on here.

And I was just the gecko to find out what it was.

At recess, I plopped down under a scrofulous tree to think. Questions chased each other like third graders playing a game of cooties. I was so distracted, I barely tasted my Pillbug Crunch candy bar.

If that really
was
Principal Zero, why was he acting so ... well,
nice?
If that wasn't my principal, who was it, and why was he pretending?

And what the heck was a hypotenuse, anyway? (I hadn't read my math homework again.)