Peter And The Secret Of Rundoon Part 3

"I'll have a good view of the ocean, that's why," said Peter, grinning.

James, abandoning the fly, turned to Peter. "You wouldn't," he said.

"Yes, I would," said Peter. "I'm tired of staying in the village."

"We all are," said James. "But you promised Fighting Prawn thata"

"I nodded," interrupted Peter. "A nod isn't a promise. Fighting Prawn doesn't have to know I went out therea"that is, unless I find the Scorpions. And then he'll be glad I went out."

"But what about the poison arrows?" said James. "Fighting Prawn saida"

"They can't hit me if they can't see me," said Peter.

"When do you plan to go?" said James.

"Tonight," said Peter. "Keep it a secret, all right?"

"All right," said James reluctantly. "But I don't think it's a good idea."

"I'll be careful," said Peter, grinning. "Aren't I always careful?"

"No," said James.

CHAPTER 8.

THE FIRE GOES OUT.

A QUARTER MILE INLAND FROM the western sh.o.r.e of Mollusk Island rose a ramshackle wall of palm-tree trunks, sharpened to knife points at the top and lashed together to form a respectable fort. At one corner, a live palm towered over the fort with a platform built atop it, creating a lookout. Upon that platform sat a deeply tanned man clothed in what would barely pa.s.s for rags, with few teeth in his mouth and hair down to his shoulders. Eagle Eye Pottsa"so called because he could spot a lizard scratching itself three-quarters of a mile awaya"spent a good deal of time in the lookout tree, watching for signs of trouble.

But right now he was troubled by something he didn't see. He'd been thinking hard for the better part of a half hour, trying to figure out what it was. Suddenly it came to him.

"No smoke," Eagle Eye muttered. Then he shouted it: "Smee! There's no smoke!"

Below, in the shade of the fort wall, a very round man with a very round, red face jerked awake from his catnap and wiped some drool from his stubbly chin. This was Smee, the captain's first mate at sea and his lackey on land.

"What?" he shouted up to Eagle Eye.

"There's no smoke!" repeated Eagle Eye.

"Smoke?" shouted Smee. "Where?"

"No! There's NO smoke," shouted Eagle Eye.

"Where is there no smoke?" shouted Smee, confused.

"Anywhere!" said Eagle Eye.

Smee thought about that for a moment, then suddenly understood. He rose and scurried to the captain's hut, a makes.h.i.+ft affair of stick walls and a palm-frond roof.

"Cap'n!" he said, tapping tentatively on what pa.s.sed for the door.

"Get in here, Smee!" answered a gruff voice.

Smee stepped into the hut, which was occupied by a tall, gaunt man with long, tangled, black hair and a sharp steel hook where his left hand had once been. He was called Captain Hook by his men, though he had once been known as Black Stache, the most feared pirate on the seven seas. A prodigious display of facial hair sprouted beneath his nose, greased and curved on the ends and stretching nearly ten inches in length when fully extended. His focus at the moment was his long feet, and in particular his thick, yellow toenails, which curved around his toes like claws. He was rubbing the nail on his big toe with a piece of lava rock, attempting to grind it down.

"Cap'n, sir," Smee said. "Eagle Eyea"

"It ain't no good, Smee," interrupted Hook, not looking up. "Either the nail is too hard or the rock too soft, but it don't answer. Get down on your knees there, and give us a bite."

"A bite?"

"My toenail, you idjit."

"But, Cap'na"

"Now!"

Smee shuddered, edged forward, and went down on one knee. He stared at the grotesque yellowed fang that protruded from the captain's dirty big toe.

"But, Cap'na"

"Just give it a nip there on the side. I can tear it off after that."

Smee closed his eyes, held his breath, and did as he was told. He had five teeth and only two that met. He pressed these together, bit down hard, and heard a click. His mouth tasted likeahe couldn't think about it.

"Splendid!" said Hook, examining and then peeling the excess nail away from his toe. "Fine job, Smee."

Smee spat onto the sand floor and said, "Cap'n, Eagle Eye says there's no smoke comin' from the native side."

"What?" said Hook, looking up from his toenail.

"The natives has put out their fires."

"But they never put out their fires," said Hook.

"That's the point, I believe, sir."

"Shut up, Smee!" snarled Hook. "I know that's the point." He pondered for a moment, then said, "Send out a scouting party. I want six men who can work the jungle quiet as snakes. They're to cross the mountain to the other sidea""

"Buta""

"Don't *but'me, Smee. To the other side. Get as close as they can and find out what them savages is up to. No good, is what I'm guessing. Planning some kind of trap, some raid on yours truly."

"Buta""

"Shut up, idjit."

"Aye, Cap'n," said Smee, turning to leave.

"And before you go, Smeea"

Smee turned around to see the captain wiggling his toe talons in the air.

"Nine to go," said Hook.

CHAPTER 9.

A MYSTERIOUS GENTLEMAN.

ENVELOPED IN THE b.u.mpity-b.u.mp and clickity-clack of the train car they'd boarded in Paddington Station, Molly and George made the hour's journey to Oxford, looking at the scenery and sipping tea. It was a beautiful, sunlit day with only the occasional puff of cloud dotting the rich blue sky.

They pa.s.sed thatch-roofed farmhouses, green fields surrounded by stone walls, horses and cows, dogs and ducks. Occasionally one of them would attempt conversation, but it was awkward; both were nervous about being away from home on their own, and all too aware of being together, boy and girl.

As they neared Oxford, George, after a long gaze out the window, turned to Molly and said, "I don't want to be negative, but I don't see how we'll ever find out who placed these personal notices. There are far too many for anyone to remember a particular one, especially given that the last one your father mentioned ran in the paper more than twelve years ago."

"There was a name in the ad: a Mr. Starr."

"But even soa" George complained.

Molly lowered her voice. "And we have a date. Father said the last notice for Mr. Starr was placed twelve years ago, just before I was born. So we can start looking at the newspapers right around then."

George nodded. "I suppose that's a start," he said.

"Yes," said Molly. "It's better than nothing." She hesitated, blushed, then added, "I'm ever so grateful you've come along."

It was George's turn to blush. "I wouldn't miss it," he said.

After that they spoke little until they arrived in Oxford, where they took a cab to the Oxford Observer, which occupied a ma.s.sive stone building on High Street. The lobby, smelling of ink and glue, was busy with people bustling this way and that.

A receptionist directed Molly and George to the Archives Department, on the third floor. They climbed the stairs and found themselves in a large, musty room that looked like a sort of library, with bank after bank of racks filled with newspapers hanging from wooden rods. Molly filled out a request slip and gave it to a clerk, who disappeared among the racks and returned ten minutes later with several weeks' worth of newspapers. The clerk pa.s.sed these across the counter to Molly and George, who took them to one of the long wooden tables where several other people sat poring over old editions of the Observer.

Molly and George began paging through the twelve-year-old newspapers, starting with the one published on Molly's birthday, then working back. It was slow goinga"scanning page after page, reading dozens upon dozens of notices printed in small, cramped type. At the end of an hour they had gone through three issues and found nothing, and Molly was beginning to worry that their trip had been a waste of time.

And then, on the thirteenth page of the issue printed four days before her birthday, she saw it.

"There!" she whispered, gripping George's arm with one hand and pointing with the other at a two-line notice on the bottom of the page: Mr. Starr: Expect your package Friday the 18th.

(DS5G3a"10/2) "Capital!" exclaimed George. "But what are those letters and numbers?"

They put this question to the Archives Department clerk, who explained that the letters and numbers were a billing reference used by the Accounts Department. The date that followed represented the first day the notice had been posted; it had run for over two weeks before the current issue. Molly wrote down the billing reference and the date of the notice, and, following the clerk's directions, she and George went down to the Accounts Department, which was on the floor below ground level.

They found themselves in a dimly lit hallway, which they followed to a door marked ACCOUNTS. George knocked, and they were called inside by an ancient-looking man wearing thick gla.s.ses and seated behind a cluttered desk piled high with ledger books. A plaque on the desk read: MR. RINGWOOD.

"May I help you?" His voice sounded dry and fragile, like the paper in his old ledger books.

"Yes," said George. "We're interested inathat is to say, we're trying to find outaThat is, we'd like to knowa"

Molly, rolling her eyes, interrupted. "Someone placed a personal notice some years ago in your newspaper. It mentioned a package and a man's namea"Mr. Starr. That's my, ah, father, andawella"

Molly ran out of steam. Ringwood sat patiently, waiting.

"Her father has taken ill, I'm sorry to say," said George. "This person who placed the ad, heahea"

George looked at Molly for help.

"I believe he may be my father's brother," she said. "A long-lost brother, that is. My uncle. I'm hoping you might have his address, as it's quite important we locate him. Our business with him involves my family's estate."

Ringwood sighed, then carefully placed his pen in its holder and slipped a wooden disk over his inkwell. He gestured at the shelves behind him, which were filled with hundreds of fat ledger books like the ones on his desk.

"Young lady," he said, speaking slowly and carefully, as though afraid his words would break. "The Observer has printed a great many personal notices. Could you be a bit more specific as to when your unclea"

"Yes, of course," said Molly, hastily pulling out a piece of paper. "I have the date of the notice and the billing reference."

"Well," said Ringwood. "That's another thing altogether." He took the piece of paper in shaking hands and peered at it through his thick lenses. Then he slowly stood and turned to consult his ledger-lined shelves. He dragged a ladder that moved on rollers to a certain spot, and with some difficulty, climbed up several steps. He withdrew a leather binder, climbed down, and returned to his desk. There he began to turn the pages far too slowly for the impatient Molly, who was intensely aware of the need to get back to London before nightfall.

Finally, Ringwood found the page he wanted. He ran a bony finger down a column of writing.

"Ah, yes," he said. "Here it is."

George and Molly waited. Ringwood read the ledger entry, then looked up at Molly and frowned.

"Interesting," he said.

"What?" said Molly. "Do you know him?"

"As it happens, I did," said Ringwood. "I wasn't a personal friend of the gentleman, but he was a customer here for a number of years. Put in a notice only every few years, but it always ran several weeks. And he had aamemorable way about him."

"You speak of him in the past tense," Molly said softly.

"Yes, miss. Sadly, I do."

"What happened?" said George.

"Bit of a mystery, actually," said Ringwood, eyeing Molly. "The gentleman and his wife went missing underaodd circ.u.mstances. They simply disappeared. Vanished. The police searched for weeks on end, but they were never seen again, at least not here in Oxfords.h.i.+re. It was on the front page of this very newspaper for days. Weeks."

"What kind of odd circ.u.mstances?" George asked.