Beware the Fisj Read online

  “Of course I know,” he replied. “But now they belong to Miss Scrimmage — all forty thousand of them. And you missed it!”

  “Sit down,” she suggested. “A nice cup of tea will bring you down to earth.”

  “Actually, there’s only one thing that disturbs me,” remarked Mr. Sturgeon. “Two things, really.” He frowned. “How did our boys amass forty thousand soft-drink containers? And more important, what in the world were they going to do with them?”

  Chapter 9

  Euclid is Putrid

  Bruno Walton crawled out of bed late on Sunday morning and went listlessly over to Elmer’s PIT system. He flicked the On button.

  * * *

  The head of Mighty Mouse disappeared from Sergeant Featherstone’s TV set, to be replaced by the familiar fish. Thanks to a certain somebody, the audio crackled, Operation Popcan was a complete and total disaster with absolutely no redeeming features. A great feeling of elation surged through Featherstone. All the misery and discomfort had been worth it. He had foiled Operation Popcan!

  The voice went on. The Fish Patrol has decided that activities cannot go on unless this certain somebody is out of the way. Be warned. The Fish will have revenge!

  Featherstone was stunned. They were planning to dispose of him! He rushed into the bathroom to dictate his report.

  * * *

  “Bruno, why do you keep doing that?” asked Boots, who had also slept in that morning. “You know no one can hear it.”

  “It’s an outlet for my frustrations,” said Bruno. “Miss Scrimmage is driving me crazy.”

  “How are you going to get her out of the way?” asked Boots. “You can’t murder her.”

  “Much as I’d like to,” muttered Bruno. He wandered to the window and lifted the blind. “Will you look at that!”

  A long line of girls stretched from Dormitory 3 all the way across the road to Miss Scrimmage’s. At the door of the dormitory stood the Headmistress herself, supervising the removal of the pop cans and casting an occasional fuming look at Mr. Sturgeon who had established himself in a lawn chair and was watching the proceedings with great interest.

  Boots came to the window. “There go our pop cans,” he observed with mixed emotions.

  Bruno nodded sadly. “But we’re not dead yet. There are lots of ways to get publicity.”

  The door opened and Elmer Drimsdale climbed in over Boots’s bed and made his way around the equipment to his newest device. “Good morning,” he said. “I was just down the hall getting some things I need from Larry’s radio. Since Sidney broke it anyway, Larry said I could have the parts.”

  “Great,” said Bruno. “Get to work. But first, tell us what you want us to do with your plants and stuff.”

  Elmer whipped out a sheaf of papers a centimetre thick. “I’ve prepared a booklet outlining your duties,” he said, handing the papers to Boots.

  Bruno and Boots sat down to read their instructions as Elmer commenced tinkering on his remote-control machine.

  Bruno looked up helplessly. “Elmer, how am I supposed to tell the difference between Aspidistra 7 and Boston Fern 3?”

  “The fern has serrated leaves,” explained Elmer, “while the aspidistra’s leaves are green and white striped. Besides, the names and numbers are marked on the pots.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll do the ants,” offered Boots. “Ants are my specialty.”

  The three boys set out to complete their respective tasks.

  * * *

  Sergeant Harold P. Featherstone, Junior, watched and waited. It was after noon when the tall thin man with the long nose came out of room 14, got into his car and drove away. Silently Featherstone crept out of his room and stepped over to the next door. From his belt he produced a long, narrow object which he inserted carefully into the lock, moving it painstakingly. Five minutes passed. The click which his training had told him to expect was not forthcoming. He jiggled for another few minutes, reflecting that the entire population of Chutney had by then had enough time to spot him crouched before the door of room 14. Frustrated, he stood up and kicked the wall. There was a click and the door swung wide. Removing the lock-pick, he dashed inside and shut the door.

  Room 14 was exactly like room 13, small and drab. The bed had not yet been made, and there was a towel lying on the floor. Some of the man’s clothes were draped over a chair. The wastebasket held nothing but three apple cores and a plum pit. In the suitcase was more clothing and a book. Featherstone quivered with excitement. The book was a well-thumbed paperback entitled Fish of the World.

  “A code book!” he exclaimed aloud. He had always believed that the Fish was sending coded messages to his underlings through the public television channels, and the existence of this book seemed to prove it.

  He was about to examine it when the sound of a car outside caught his attention. He stuffed the book into his hip pocket and ran into the bathroom, where the window looked out on the bushy area back of the motel. He heard the key in the lock as he climbed up onto the sink and hoisted himself through the window, kicking the screen out as he went.

  Splat! He fell flat on his face in mud. As he scrambled up, he sank to his ankles in the slime. He could hear the man moving about in the room. He had to get out of there fast, and there was only one way. He pulled his feet out of the mud, leaving his shoes behind, and ran around the building to the safety of his own room.

  In room 14, the tall man walked into his bathroom. The window was wide open, the screen gone. Hoisting himself up, he looked out the window. In the mud below lay his screen, and beside it, the full-length imprint of a body. Stuck in the mud was a pair of shoes.

  The man frowned. His room had been searched.

  * * *

  At the dinner table that night the conversation was very pessimistic. The boys were tired and hostile. Macdonald Hall’s austerity program was still in full force, and nowhere was it more apparent than in the dining hall. The food did nothing to lighten the general mood.

  “We need another plan,” said Bruno.

  “I haven’t recovered yet from your last plan,” snapped Wilbur. “I spent the night in the town dump rooting in garbage for nothing! It’ll be a frosty Friday in July before I do anything else you tell me to!”

  As if on cue, every boy within earshot began complaining.

  “All that work for nothing!”

  “My back was killing me!”

  “It cost me ten bucks bus fare!”

  “I tell you there was a guy at the dump!”

  “I almost got arrested for loitering!”

  “Give me back that fig! It’s mine!”

  “I stepped on a cat in that alley!”

  The general uproar was interrupted by Larry Wilson who came tearing into the dining hall as if he’d seen a ghost. “Bruno! Bruno, we’ve got trouble!”

  “So what else is new?” said Wilbur sourly.

  Larry ignored him and flopped into a chair. “I just heard at the office — on Saturday at two o’clock, when The Fish and most of the staff are in town for the Board meeting, a big real estate developer is coming out here to look at the land! He wants to buy Macdonald Hall and tear down everything to build condos!”

  “We can’t let him do that!” exclaimed Pete. Other voices chorused his horrified reaction.

  Bruno stood up. “Well, it’s started, hasn’t it? It’s the beginning of the end.” He looked reproachfully at Wilbur and the others. “And you guys have the nerve to complain! I wasn’t trying to make you miserable! I was trying to save the Hall!” He pounded the table. “But it’s not too late! We may have lost a battle, but the war’s not over yet! Where would we be if Champlain had packed up and left because it got too cold here? Where would we be if Alexander Graham Bell had given up after the first wrong number?”

  Bruno’s face was red. All eyes were on him. “So we’ve had a little setback! Good men don’t lie down and die because of one failure! If Macdonald Hall was worth the effort Friday night, it’s w
orth the effort now! By being out all night, our guys beat the system, and we can beat this developer too! We’re going to convince him that this is the last place anybody would want to build condos! We’ll chase him right back where he came from, and then some! We can defeat our enemies! We can overcome anything if we work at it! I know we can!”

  Out of breath, he sat down amid thunderous applause from all present. Boys were standing on their chairs and chanting, “Can do! Can do!” In a far corner of the room, someone was leading a chorus of “We Shall Overcome.” Arms reached out to pat Bruno on the back.

  Even Boots, who was not usually susceptible to Bruno’s dramatics, was overcome. “That was great, Bruno!” he exclaimed fervently. “How are we going to get rid of the developer?”

  “Don’t undermine my moment of glory,” whispered Bruno under cover of the general din. “I’ll think of something later.”

  Boots opened his mouth to protest, but a group of boys grabbed Bruno, hoisted him to their shoulders and left the dining hall to carry him around the campus in a snake dance. A cheering crowd followed.

  “He has no plan!” said Boots to thin air.

  “I know,” said Wilbur. “But he’ll come up with something. And it’ll land us all in the soup. But after a speech like that, what can we do?”

  “Jump on the bandwagon like everybody else,” grinned Boots.

  * * *

  Sergeant Featherstone pored over the book he had confiscated from room 14. He worked painstakingly, page by page, hoping to come upon some marking or any clue at all to the code in use. Suddenly he came to a page with a check mark on the top corner, directly above a drawing that looked exactly like the fish image appearing on the area TV screens. His heart began to pound with excitement, and he started to read:

  The Pacific Salmon. In the North Pacific Ocean there is a family of salmon that belongs to the genus Oncorhynchus. The best known and most valuable of this species is the King salmon (Oncorhynchus tshawytscha). This fish generally grows to 1.4 metres in length. It is considered a great delicacy when served with chutney relish.

  Featherstone almost dropped the book in his excitement. “1.4 metres” — room 14! “Chutney relish” could only mean the township of Chutney and maybe … the Chutney Motel! This was the headquarters of the Fish organization. As for the “King salmon,” that was obvious. The tall thin man with the long nose was no agent! He was the Fish himself!

  Sergeant Featherstone breathed deeply. He was just one perilous step away from cracking the Fish conspiracy!

  * * *

  On Wednesday after classes, Bruno, Boots and Elmer were in their room trying to find space to do their homework.

  “Bruno, how can you just sit there?” exclaimed Boots suddenly. “You got everybody all riled up and you don’t even have a plan to get rid of that developer! What are we going to do?”

  “I’ll think of something,” replied Bruno confidently.

  They lapsed into studious silence for five minutes. Music from across the road wafted in through the open window.

  “Pretty good,” murmured Boots absently.

  “What?” asked Bruno.

  “Scrimmage’s band. They’re pretty good, don’t you think?”

  “Mmmm,” nodded Bruno, his head buried in a math book.

  “They’re a little loud,” commented Elmer. “After all, we do have to work here.”

  Bruno’s head snapped to attention. “What? What? What? Say that again?”

  “I said they’re pretty good,” said Boots.

  “But a little loud,” added Elmer.

  Bruno’s face took on a thoughtful expression. “But what if they were very bad? And very loud? Who would want to live across the street from that? Who would even want to build here?”

  “Bruno, what are you saying?” asked Boots suspiciously.

  With a joyful laugh Bruno tossed his math book into a pile of laundry. “I’m saying that by Saturday, with our help, of course, Miss Scrimmage’s band is going to get a lot bigger, a lot louder and a lot worse! That developer is going to head for the hills when he sees — and hears — what’s across the road from his condo building-to-be! Or not-to-be!”

  “That is the question,” muttered Boots. “And the answer is trouble. Bruno, we’ll get expelled!”

  “Nobody will see us,” returned Bruno. “The Board meeting, remember?”

  “What about Miss Scrimmage?” ventured Elmer timidly.

  “Don’t worry about her,” scoffed Bruno. “By the time she figures out what’s going on, the developer will be long gone.”

  “We’ll have to set it up with the girls,” said Boots. “Don’t tell me we’re going to Scrimmage’s again tonight!”

  “Are you kidding?” demanded Bruno. “That place is a death trap! Now, let’s see, where can we get a telephone?”

  “Are you crazy?” cried Boots. “Scrimmage wouldn’t let Cathy talk to you!”

  “Yes, she will,” grinned Bruno. “Now, about that telephone …”

  * * *

  Larry Wilson, his messenger duties over for the day, tiptoed into the empty office of the English Department and shut the heavy oak door softly behind him. He opened the window, picked up the telephone from the desk and lowered it down to a pair of waiting hands outside in the bushes.

  “Hurry!” he whispered.

  Bruno dialled Miss Scrimmage’s number.

  “You’ll never pull it off!” whispered Boots from beside him.

  “Watch me.” Bruno cleared his throat and in his very deepest voice said, “Good afternoon. This is Mr. Burton. I would like to speak with my daughter Catherine, please. It’s very important.” There was a long pause, then, “No, it’s not Dad, Cathy, it’s me — Bruno. Now listen carefully. We need your help …”

  Briefly he explained the situation with the land developer. “We don’t want him killed, you understand — just scared off. All you have to do is get the girls out on the lawn for band practice on Saturday at 1:45. Leave plenty of room, and don’t be surprised if your band gets a lot bigger … No, don’t worry about being good. Just be loud.” He laughed. “Yes, I’ll give your love to Mom, John and Susie. See you Saturday. ’Bye.”

  He passed the phone back through the window, whispering his thanks. Then he and Boots scampered off towards Dormitory 2.

  * * *

  “Eat your breakfast, dear. You don’t want to be late for your Board meeting,” said Mrs. Sturgeon early Saturday morning.

  “I’m not very hungry,” confessed the Headmaster glumly. “I don’t like the idea of being in town while some real estate developer decides the fate of my school.”

  “I don’t blame you,” she agreed. “It was pretty shabby of them to make the appointment for today.”

  “It was not only shabby, it was probably deliberate. The Chairman doesn’t want me here in case I might say something discouraging to the man.” He chuckled without mirth. “I should invite Miss Scrimmage to come over and meet her prospective new neighbour. If that doesn’t put him off, nothing will.”

  “Oh, William!” she exclaimed. “I can’t believe this is happening to Macdonald Hall!”

  He sighed. “I’m afraid we must face it, Mildred. Our days here are numbered. Would you please hand me my briefcase? I’d best be off.”

  * * *

  Saturday lunch was just drawing to a close in Miss Scrimmage’s pink and silver dining room when Cathy Burton got to her feet and tapped a spoon against her water glass for attention.

  “All right, girls,” she announced. “We’re having a special kind of band practice today. I want the whole school on the front lawn in fifteen minutes. Everyone should bring an instrument. That includes kazoos, harmonicas, whistles and combs with tissue paper.”

  “I don’t have an instrument,” called out one girl. Several other voices echoed the complaint.

  “Take along your spoons and get a garbage can lid to bang on,” Cathy replied. “We need percussion.”

  “What’s it all
about?” asked someone.

  “Macdonald Hall is coming over,” Cathy grinned. “We’re going to update the big band sound.”

  The girls scattered, always ready for action.

  In fifteen minutes the lawn in front of Miss Scrimmage’s Finishing School for Young Ladies was teeming with young people. Most of them had makeshift instruments ranging from cigar box banjos to jars of stones to shake. There were also a number of genuine instruments, from jaw-harps to tubas. Cathy had brought out a microphone extension to Miss Scrimmage’s P.A. system, for maximum volume.

  “Hot gazoobies, we’re going to blast that developer away!” exclaimed Bruno with great glee.

  “We’re certainly going to try,” Cathy agreed. “Let’s start!”

  “No, no, no,” begged Boots, tuning his guitar. “Let’s wait till the developer gets here. If we start too soon, Miss Scrimmage will catch us.”

  “Oh, no,” said Cathy. “She’s not here. She went out to the beauty parlour for a check-up.”

  Bruno turned to Elmer Drimsdale. “Hey, Elm, where’s your instrument?”

  “Well,” began Elmer, “I thought I’d just listen and —”

  “What do you mean ‘just listen’?” Cathy shrieked. “This is a combined effort! Everybody takes part!” She stuffed the microphone into his hands. “You are the vocalist!”

  “I don’t sing,” protested Elmer weakly.

  “Learn,” chorused Cathy and Bruno.

  “Here comes a truck!” shouted one of the boys.

  “This is it!” screamed Cathy. “And-a-one, and-a-two, and-a-one-two-three!”

  The band exploded into a riot of noise. Trumpets blared, garbage cans clanged, clarinets squeaked and bassoons groaned. Since no one had settled on a selection to play, every instrument was playing something different, and every tin plate and pot was banging a different rhythm. The effect was appalling.

  Cathy kicked Elmer in the shins. “You’re not singing!”

  Elmer grasped the microphone, shut his eyes tightly and began to shout the only thing that came to his mind — scientific facts. “The area of a circle equals pi times the square of the radius!” he howled.

  Bruno, who had been blowing foghorn noises through a vacuum cleaner hose, broke into hysterical laughter.