It was nine o’clock in the morning and the Wily Fox Detective Agency was open for business. Already there was a long queue of animals waiting outside – sheep, mice, owls, ocelots, ostriches and more.
Inside, Wily was sitting at his desk, polishing his favourite magnifying glass with his bushy tail. He glanced up at the clock, put his magnifying glass in a drawer and pressed a button on the desk.
“Send in the first client, Mrs Mongoose,” he said into a small microphone.
“Certainly, Mr Fox,” replied a crackly voice.
“I hope something good turns up today,” Wily murmured to himself. “If I hear another case of a squirrel who can’t find his nuts, I’ll—”
At that moment, there was a loud scream followed by an enormous…
Wily leaped to his feet and sprinted across the office.
Outside in reception, it was chaos. There was smoke everywhere and animals were scrambling up the walls, leaping out of windows and sprinting down the stairs.
Mrs Mongoose was flapping her arms, shouting, “Please leave the building in an orderly fashion.”
Wily was about to dash downstairs when the smoke parted, the screaming stopped and a slinky silhouette came slowly into the room.
The detective rubbed his eyes and blinked twice. The silhouette became an elegant young poodle with large brown eyes and soft black fur. She had a red beret perched on one side of her head.
“Fireworks can come in very handy,” she purred in a French accent, waving an empty box of bangers. “I hope you don’t mind me – how you say – pushing in,” she added.
Wily gave a half-smile. “No problem. That was quite a neat trick. I might use it myself some time.”
“Dogs like to do tricks,” said the poodle. “Perhaps I will teach you some others. But for now, the show is over.”
She walked through the empty reception, smiling at a surprised-looking Mrs Mongoose, and passed into Wily’s office.
“It’s OK, Mrs Mongoose,” Wily said. “I’ll take it from here.” He sat down at his desk and the poodle started to speak.
“My name is Suzie La Pooch. I own one of the greatest art galleries in Paris. Inside there are some of the most famous paintings in the world. See for yourself…”
“Fascinating, Mademoiselle, but I am a detective, not an art critic,” Wily said, snapping the catalogue shut. “Why should this interest me?”
“Because I have fallen in love with the wrong painting,” said Suzie.
Wily blinked. “OK…”
“Two weeks ago, I bought a painting from a gallery owned by a brown bear from Russia called Dimitri Gottabottomitch. The picture was small, a bit strange-looking, but I LOVED it. A day later, I got a phone call.”
“From who?” Wily asked.
“It was Dimitri. He said the gallery assistant had made a mistake. The painting wasn’t for sale. He wanted it back.”
“So – let me guess – you refused?”
“Of course I did. I’d fallen in love. I offered him more money – ten times what I’d paid – but he kept saying it wasn’t for sale. Then he called me rude names. Well, that did it. Nobody is rude to Suzie La Pooch. I hung up.”
“That’s odd behaviour for a businessman,” Wily muttered. “Refusing ten times the asking price.”
“Yesterday, this arrived,” said Suzie. She handed Wily a note:
Wily looked at the handwriting. Then he smelled the paper. He thought he recognized the scent – there was brown bear, but also something else…
“I must admit, this note unsettled me,” Suzie said. “I closed my gallery to the public. Locked the door. Turned on the alarms. Flew straight to London and came here.”
Wily looked up. “I assume giving the painting back is not an option.”
Suzie shook her head. “First, he is rude. Now, he is making threats. I may be a poodle on the outside, but inside I am pure Rottweiler.”
“And you don’t want to contact the police?”
“What if they take Dimitri’s side? Tell me to give the painting back,” said Suzie. “Besides, police officers are not very clever. I want to keep the painting and I want to know why Dimitri wants it back so badly. It seems that there’s something rather strange behind it all.”
“True,” said Wily. “OK, I’ll take the case. Return to your gallery at once and I’ll follow on. You may have locks and alarms, but Dimitri will have crowbars and drills. We need to make the place a fortress. Then we’ll work out why the painting is so special.”
“Merci, Monsieur Fox,” said Suzie, “I knew I could count on you. See you in Paris this afternoon.”
The poodle picked up her catalogue and walked out.
Wily pressed another button on his desk. The speaker crackled. “Did you get all that, Albert?” he asked.
A squeaky voice replied, “Of course.”
“Good,” said Wily. “I’m on my way down.”
He walked over to a bookcase and pulled out a copy of Fantastic Mr Fox. The bookcase slid across to reveal a fireman’s pole that was at least a mile long.
Wily put on a pair of gloves and thigh pads that were hanging on the wall. Then he leaped on to the pole and started to hurtle downwards. After a couple of minutes, Wily gripped with the thigh pads to slow his pace. He landed with a soft pouf on a crash mat in the middle of an underground laboratory.
“Morning, Albert,” said Wily. “What have you got for me today?”
A small mole with huge glasses emerged from the shadows.
“So, I hear you’re going to Paris…” He yanked a piece of rope that was under his arm, and a curtain whipped aside to reveal a moped.
“This is called a Vespa,” he said. “Everyone there has one. However, yours is slightly different.” The mole pulled a lever on the side of the bike and a gigantic rocket slid out of the back.
“It can fly,” Albert said proudly.
He pulled another lever and a large corkscrew popped out of the front. “And it digs tunnels.”
He pointed at a third lever. “And if you pull that, it turns into a submarine.”
“Wow,” said Wily. “Anything else?”
“Actually, there is,” said Albert. “If you whistle, it will come to you. Within a distance of a hundred metres. And if you tap that screen, you can talk to me at any time.”
Wily smiled. “Does it serve coffee, too?”
“Er, actually, no,” Albert apologized. “I didn’t, er, think about that…”
“I’m only joking, Albert,” said Wily. “It’s brilliant!” He climbed on. “Now, show me how this rocket works. I have to be in Paris by midday.”
