FIFTEEN

About ten minutes later, I felt the ute come to a clanking halt. I had truck size bruises on one arm—an egg-shaped lump on my head from a loose hammer that crashed from one side to the other each time the car lumbered around a corner—and I smelt of old birds. No wonder. The sack I’d hidden under was covered in dried feathers and chicken poo.

Where were we?

Cautiously I poked my head out from under the smelly sack. The professor had parked over the road from a large galvanized iron warehouse with ‘Simpson’s Importers & Exporters’ printed in bold black lettering across the front of the building. Underneath was their slogan, printed in red: ‘At Simpson’s we export/import—anything—anywhere’.

Did that mean they were smugglers?

Before I could escape from the back of the ute, Greasy-Hair started yelling at his grandfather. “You stay here, Gramps, and don’t move. Got it? Otherwise,” he went on, climbing out of the car and slamming the door behind him, “you’ll end up as crocodile bait. Fingers and Meathead almost caught you last time you tried to get in.”

“But—” began the professor.

“You cantankerous old fool…” Greasy-Hair banged his fist down on the roof of the cabin and spat from the side of his mouth. “Didn’t you hear me? If you’re caught snooping around inside the warehouse you’ll get us both killed. I’ll nick the egg for you—but only if you do as I say. Wait for fifteen minutes and if I’m not back by then—get the hell outta here. Right?”

The stomp of his boots bit into the bitumen as he crossed the road toward the warehouse. Once again I lifted my head from under the sack and wriggled across the hard metal floor to the edge of the tray. The moment Greasy-Hair disappeared inside the building, I swung off the edge and hunched down behind the car.

A minute later I poked my head around the back tire and eyed the driver’s side door. What would the professor do? Would he ‘stay put’ or risk becoming ‘crocodile bait’?

And what about me?

Could I follow Greasy-Hair without the professor noticing me?

Music, slow and wailing, drifted from the window of the car. Good. The professor was staying put.

Now was a good time to let my assistants know my whereabouts. That’s more P.I. talk. While the professor’s slow, sad music covered any noise I might make, I pulled out my mobile and pressed Jack’s number. Immediately a voice answered—

“Noah?” I squeaked. “What are you doing with Jack’s mobile?”

“Mum’s got Jack helping her with the computer. He gave me his phone and told me to stand by for your call. What’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m at Simpson’s warehouse.”

“I know Simpson’s. It’s this side of Gawler,” said Noah. “Now, what’s happening? Are you in any trouble?”

“Only if I get caught. There’s a couple of mean-sounding guys called Fingers and Meathead inside the warehouse. I could be in trouble if they see me.”

“How will they see you if you’re outside Simpsons?” growled Noah.

“’Cos I’m going in.”

“No, Cha. Wait till we get there. The horses are saddled and waiting and as soon as we rescue Jack—we’re on our way.” Noah sounded as though he was enjoying this cloak and dagger stuff. Hey, he might make a good P.I. assistant after all. And then he spoiled the image by opening his mouth one more time. “So…don’t do anything stupid before we get there!”

The phone went dead. I couldn’t believe it. Short Dark and Irritating had hung up on me.

From behind the ute I peered across at Simpson’s warehouse. A truck and four powerful-looking motorbikes were parked on the road outside. I could see a delivery man loading boxes into the back of the truck. When he finished he waved to a guy dressed in khaki overalls who’d been helping him, then he drove off. Seemed like any other warehouse to look at, but what was happening inside? Was Simpson using his business as a smuggling cover-up? Or were Greasy-Hair and his mates using the export-import company as a cover, stealing native eggs and smuggling them overseas without the owner knowing?

Should I go in? Or should I wait for back-up? If I waited—it might be too late. Greasy-Hair said he’d be out in fifteen minutes.

I tugged at a loose piece of nail with my teeth. What would Rebecca Turnbull do if she were in my shoes?

Rebecca Turnbull came to a screeching halt outside the warehouse. She had two loaded guns in the pocket of her apricot trench coat and a knife tucked in the top of her brown suede boot. Putting on her tinted sunnies with diamonds set in each corner, she swung herself over the car door. With a mighty leap, her trained-to-kill Doberman, Fang, leaped to the footpath and stood beside her. Teeth set in a snarl, the dog led the way into the warehouse.

*

Fingers was the first to go down. Fang had him pinned to the ground within seconds; his jagged teeth playing a tune on the thug’s throat. When Meathead took a swing at Rebecca, she caught his fist like it was a soccer ball and bounced him against the wall. Greasy-Hair ran screaming back to his Grandpa…

*

Yep! That’s what Rebecca Turnbull would do.

I let out a sigh.

But not Chiana Ryan…

Getting inside the warehouse was easy enough. No scary guy grabbed me. No-one said, ‘Get lost, kid, or I’ll use your head for a dart-board.’ In fact, everyone was too busy working to notice me. Men and women dressed in khaki overalls scurried around like ants at a picnic, packing shredded paper into boxes, banging nails into wooden boxes, pasting addresses on the side of boxes or lifting and carrying boxes on bright yellow fork-lifts.

I spotted Greasy-Hair turning into a passageway off the main warehouse and followed him, P.I. style. That is, I pulled the collar up on my jacket, tugged my imaginary hat down over my eyes and darted quick looks first over one shoulder then the other, before scurrying after him.

Half way along the passageway, he shoved open a door with Gymnasium written in big black letters across the front. I blinked. Gymnasium? Surely I hadn’t risked my life riding in the back of that rusty ute, only to end up spying on a guy while he lifted weights and did push-ups?

“Yo, Fingers! What ya know, man?” My target’s voice, greasy as his hair, floated through the inch of space between the door and the doorway.

I pressed one eyeball to the opening. The room was fitted out like a real gym. Bench presses, weights, bikes, treadmills—the lot. Two men the size of hippos were lifting weights near the door. Their sweat smelt like rotten potatoes. Their grunts sounded like they were having trouble going to the toilet.

I could tell which one was Fingers—one hand had none—fingers that is. The other guy had a head the size and color of a side of lamb. Meathead I guess.

“Boss is lookin’ for you, Arty,” grunted Fingers lifting an iron bar that probably weighed as much as a horse.

“Boss says you’ve been a naughty boy,” added the other guy.

I did a double take. Meathead’s body, ogre-like and covered with tattoos and black hair could have belonged to an ape or a wrestler, but his voice sounded high and squeaky like a little kid.

Greasy-Hair, or should I say, Arty, fiddled with the lock on a door at the back of the room. He turned around, an evil grin on his face. “That makes three of us, doesn’t it?”

“Boss not happy,” continued Meathead’s babyish voice. “Says he’s found stuff out about you.”

“Yeah?” growled Arty opening the door of the back room and slipping inside. “Probably heard about all the guys I killed back in Tasmania.”

I’d traveled in the back of the ute with a killer?

Fingers grunted and dropped his weights on the floor. Luckily the floor was cement so the weights just groaned and bounced instead of disappearing through a great big hole in the wood.

He shambled across to the bench-press. “Watchadoin’ in there, Arty? Ya know the boss don’t like anyone in his office.”

“I’m just checking on something he wants me to ship off tomorrow. Interesting export. There could be a bit of money in it for us.”

I’d heard enough. These three were dastardly crooks—smugglers. And they were using an honest company as cover.

As I tried to close the door quietly, it slipped from my fingers. To my ears the resulting click sounded as loud as a gunshot. I held my breath. Squeezed my eyes shut. Had they heard the noise? Were Fingers and Meathead getting ready to crash through the door without opening it, drag me inside the gym and practice kick-boxing with my head? Was Greasy-Hair planning to pull off his first murder in South Australia?

I opened my eyes. Snatched a look up and down the passageway. No voices. No crashing doors. No murderous yells. Okay, should I tell the boss what I’d heard or get out of here pronto and go find a policeman?

As I tiptoed along the grey cement passageway I heard a woman’s voice speaking from behind one of the closed doors.

“Yes, sir,” the lilting voice said. “Arthur Goodenough is in the gym. I saw him go past. Would you like him paged?”

“No, Marcia. Leave him to me. Just inform all employees the gym is closed for the remainder of the day. No-one—I repeat no-one is to use the gym today.” The man’s voice was smooth, authoritative. Must be the boss. When he came out, I’d let him know about the crooks.

I squared my shoulders and stood waiting for the owner of the authoritative voice to push through the doorway. Wouldn’t he be surprised to learn Greasy-Hair and his two muscle bound mates were smugglers? Probably give me a reward.

Suddenly, without warning, someone—or something—slammed into me from behind. The wind thumped from my chest. I lost my footing and stumbled forward. But before I could scream, a large rough hand clamped over my mouth. Strong, digging-in fingers grabbed me by the arm and dragged me toward the nearest doorway. I kicked out, my toes crunching against the wooden door as it closed behind us. Ignoring the pain, I kept kicking backwards until the toe of one riding boot came up hard against my attacker’s shin.

Bullseye!

The strong smell of garlic and a low Ooof came from behind me. Was I in the clutches of a kidnapper? A murderer? Heart racing and gasping for air, I inched my head backwards until I found myself staring into the furious eyes of Greasy-Hair…Arty Goodenough. His scowl could have turned milk sour and he looked like he was itching to turn me into fish bait.