The Statue Walks at Night (2 page)

“That would explain why only two pieces were stolen,” Mr. Quinn said. “Maggie, tell me about your employees.”

Mrs. Gomez sighed. “The theft must have taken place on either Saturday or Sunday. I can tell you where all the employees were at the time.”

As she spoke, Brian took notes as fast as he could. When she finished, he sighed with relief and rubbed his hand.

Mr. Quinn resumed questioning Mrs. Gomez. “Is there a possibility that the sketches haven't been removed from the museum yet?”

Mrs. Gomez looked confused. “Why would a thief hide the sketches
in
the museum?”

“It occurred to me,” Mr. Quinn explained, “that whoever took the sketches might have only temporarily hidden them.”

“The police already searched through the employees' desks,” Mrs. Gomez said, “and through all the file cabinets and in the storeroom, with no luck. They even searched behind the larger paintings hanging in the galleries. I can't imagine where the art could be hidden.”

Mr. Quinn nodded. “I'll need a complete list of the items in the collection, including a full description of each work of art and its estimated value,” Mr. Quinn said. “Also, I'll need a list of all your employees and their personnel files.”

Brian and Sean exchanged a knowing look. As usual, their father was going to begin his investigation with a computer search. The object of the search was to discover as much as he could about the museum employees. Then the information would be used to create profiles of possible suspects.

Computers were a useful tool, but as Brian and Sean knew, a computer search took time. And time was something they didn't have a lot of.

“Sean!” Brian whispered later, after his father had concluded his interview with Mrs. Gomez. “Come on upstairs. Quick! We need to talk.”

B
OTH BOYS WERE SEATED
cross-legged on Brian's bed, facing each other. Brian flipped open his notebook.

“Listen again to what Mrs. Gomez said about her employees and see if anything sounds strange to you,” he said. He began to read aloud from his notes.

“Hilda Brown, Mrs. Gomez's secretary, has been away from the museum since Saturday afternoon, taking care of her elderly mother, who's ill. She'll return tomorrow—Tuesday.”

“Nothing suspicious about that,” Sean said. Brian agreed.

“Dave Brandon, the museum's newest employee, had the weekend off. He went to San Francisco to talk to an art investor who is considering buying two paintings from a New York dealer and donating them to the museum.”

“Bri,” Sean said, “do you think Dave Brandon could really be trying to
sell
that dealer two sketches?”

“It's possible,” Brian said, and continued reading.

“Charles Wang is head of the museum's financial department. When the theft occurred, he supposedly was at home with the flu. James Vanstedder, Mrs. Gomez's assistant, hurt his right leg while waterskiing Saturday.”

“Didn't Mrs. Gomez say she telephoned him as soon as she discovered the theft this evening?” Sean asked.

“That's right,” Brian said. “He came into work today, even though he hobbled around, leaning on a cane.”

“Who's next?” Sean asked.

“Harvey Marshall,” Brian said, “the elderly custodian. He was around the entire weekend, but Mrs. Gomez insists that she trusts him completely.”

Brian flipped to the final entry in his notebook.

“Last on her list was George Potts, the security guard. Mrs. Gomez trusts him, too, because the only time George ever comes near the offices is when he walks his rounds each evening, making sure that everything is locked up securely and the alarms are in good order.”

“Only two of the people on that list were in the museum the whole time,” Sean said. “The custodian and the security guard.”

Brian thought for a moment. “We have to go over there,” he said.

“But Dad said he's going to check on the employees,” Sean reminded him.

“I know that,” Brian answered. “But that will take time. You and I can help Dad in the meantime by making a thorough search of the museum.”

“You mean,” Sean asked, “even the Egyptian room?”

Brian frowned. “C'mon, Sean,” he said. “Don't tell me you're still spooked about that dumb Anubis story.”

“Heck no,” Sean said. “I mean, not
really.
”

On display in the Egyptian room was a mummy with its finger bones poking through the rotted wrappings. The display gave Sean the creeps. But even worse, watching over that mummy was a large bronze statue of the ancient Egyptian protector of mummies, the jackal-faced Anubis.

Sam Miyako had convinced Sean that everyone knew that the statue of Anubis
arose and walked at night!

Sean had had nightmares about the statue ever since. Each time he dreamed that the statue came to life and walked slowly toward him. Sean always woke up yelling.

“All sorts of strange things happen in museums at night,” Sam had told Sean.

“It's just a silly legend,” Sean's father had explained. “The statue is made out of bronze. And bronze is an alloy of copper and tin—metals. Metals don't walk.” He then had gone on to describe for Sean in tedious detail the unique chemical properties of bronze, none of which Sean could understand.

His mother had tried a less scientific but no less logical approach with Sean.

“The story doesn't make sense when you think about it,” Mrs. Quinn had said. “No one's ever in the museum at night, which means that even if the statue tap-danced, no one would see it.”

Sean had to admit that his mother was right. The story
didn't
make sense. Now, however, even thinking about Anubis made Sean shiver. He thought of the darkened museum, and Anubis with its gleaming eyes, and him alone in the museum!

Sean groaned. He had been excited by this new case. But
now
he was wondering if it would really be such fun after all.

T
HE NEXT DAY IN
class at Redoaks Elementary School, Sean couldn't keep his mind on what he was reading or on what his teacher, Mrs. Jackson, was saying. He was too excited thinking about the museum and trying to imagine where the thief might have hidden the da Vinci sketches. For some reason, sitting in class, Sean wasn't as scared by the Anubis story. He was even looking forward to going to the museum.

In history class that afternoon, Sean noticed that something black and lumpy was crawling slowly across his desk. He held his breath. It was a large, hairy tarantula!

“Aaaah!” screamed Sean.

Across the aisle Debbie Jean Parker giggled. Some of the other kids seated near Sean began to laugh, too.

“What's going on back there?” Mrs. Jackson asked.

“Sorry, Mrs. Jackson,” Debbie Jean answered primly. “The tarantula I brought for my science report got loose. I guess it scared Sean.” She grinned at Sean as she calmly reached over to his desk, picked up the tarantula, and placed it back inside a mesh-screened carrier.

Sean felt his face grow hot. “I wasn't scared of that dumb old tarantula,” he insisted.

“You sure sounded scared,” Debbie Jean snickered.

“Never mind,” Mrs. Jackson said. “The tarantula took Sean by surprise, and he reacted the way any of us would have.” Mrs. Jackson made a face. “Including me.”

Sean liked Mrs. Jackson. Her smile made her black eyes sparkle, and she always knew the right things to say.

“Suppose we close our history books and let Debbie Jean give her science report now,” Mrs. Jackson said. “We've got just enough time before class is dismissed.”

In spite of being mad at Debbie Jean, Sean was fascinated by her report. At one point during her presentation he even stopped wishing that the tarantula would eat her notes and then munch on Debbie Jean for dessert. What she said about tarantulas was entertaining
and
interesting. And Sean knew that, as usual, she'd probably get an A.

Debbie Jean was smart. She could also tell good jokes and was a better pitcher than most of the kids on the fourth-grade baseball team, including Sean. But to him the sickening thing about Debbie Jean was that she always had to be right about everything. Just once, Sean wished Debbie Jean could be wrong about something.

Mrs. Jackson glanced at the clock, then made an announcement to the class.

“I'm pleased that all of you remembered to turn in your permission slips for our field trip to the museum tomorrow,” she said.

The field trip! Sean realized that he had forgotten to tell Brian about his class's upcoming trip to the museum! He'd have another chance to look around the museum for clues without anyone on the museum staff becoming suspicious. But what kind of clues? Sean wondered.

“The museum's curator will be telling us the stories behind some of the paintings in their exhibit of American primitive art,” said Mrs. Jackson, “so be sure to bring notebooks and pencils. After the trip I'll expect each of you to write a report about what you saw and learned.”

A few kids groaned, but the bell rang and Mrs. Jackson dismissed the class for the day.

Sean grabbed his books, stuffed them into his backpack, and ran all the way to the museum, where Brian was waiting for him.

“I have a plan,” Brian said as soon as Sean came up the steps.

Sean smiled. Brian always came up with some kind of a plan.

“We're going to start with a search of the first exhibit room on the right—the early weapons room. We'll check out as many of the exhibit rooms as we can. If we keep our eyes open, maybe we'll see something that might look suspicious, or strange, or out of place.”

“But Mrs. Gomez said the police already searched the museum last night,” Sean said.

“That's true,” Brian said. “But we might discover something the police missed.”

Brian and Sean entered the museum.

“Look,” whispered Sean. “The museum guard is watching us. Do you think he knows what we're doing?”

“Don't worry about him,” Brian said. “The minute grown-ups see kids hanging around, they start worrying that they're going to break stuff or make noise. It'll never occur to the guard that we're investigating a crime.”

Sean froze, however, when he saw the guard heading toward them.

“Uh-oh,” he whispered to Brian.

“You'll have to check those backpacks and jackets, boys,” the guard said. Then he walked away.

Brian looked at Sean. “See, I told you.”

Brian and Sean checked their bags and jackets and entered the large main room of the museum, where the special exhibits were displayed.

A series of movable screens were arranged in a square in the center of the room and were hung with paintings belonging to the exhibit of American primitive art. Only a few people were viewing the exhibit. At this late afternoon hour there weren't many museum visitors.

On a far wall Brian saw a poster that announced the dates of the coming exhibit from the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

“C'mon,” Brian said, and he and Sean entered the early weapons room, in which were displayed weapons dating back to the Civil War and the frontier days of the American West.

Brian immediately began examining the undersides of the glass display cases, checking to see if the stolen sketches could be hidden either underneath or inside them.

“Hey, come here, Bri!” Sean called out. “Look at this cane that's in two pieces. The handle has a short sword that can be hidden inside the cane.”

Sean pressed his face closer to the glass.

“Neat,” he said. He turned to Brian. “Someone could just pull on the carved top of the cane and
zap!
Out comes the sword! Wow! If I had a sword like this one, I'd go like
wham
and
zap
and
whoosh!
”

“We're supposed to be looking for hiding places,” Brian said. “Remember?”