Wily pulled Dimitri’s phone out from under the pile. He had a new message:
This was a bit of luck. The message could only be from one person – the fox who was behind everything. The detective’s nose twitched, his ears pricked up and his cheeks tingled.
“Wily Fox,” he murmured, “solving crime in record time.”
He pulled out his phone and called Albert. But it went through to voicemail:
There was a sound effect of an explosion…
That was strange. Albert always answered.
Wily decided to call Suzie La Pooch instead. He needed to give her an update and tell her she’d soon be free. He phoned Sybil Squirrel’s number at PSSST. Julius wouldn’t let him talk to Suzie, but Sybil might.
But there was another recorded message:
NEE-NAW-NEE-NAW, went the sound effect.
That was even stranger. There was always someone in the PSSST offices.
“You’re out of your depth, Fox,” said a voice behind him.
Wily turned round and saw that a groggy-looking Dimitri, still bound hand and foot, had propped himself up against the wall.
“Oh yeah,” said Wily. “Why’s that?”
“You will never beat her,” said Dimitri. “She sees everything, and knows everything.”
“Who? Who are you talking about?”
Dimitri shook his head.
Wily pulled out the old college photo. “It’s her, isn’t it? Vicky Vixen?”
“She’s not in the photo,” said Dimitri, “but she’s there just the same.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re the detective. You work it out.” Dimitri closed his eyes.
Wily shook him, but the bear had passed out again.
The detective tried to think. Six paintings. Painted over and over again. Sent to garages not galleries. And a fox that wasn’t there. He looked at the paintings on his phone again.
Hmm. Maybe he was out of his depth. But it was time to go. Whoever he was about to meet on the River Moskva – she would have the answers. He put on the bear costume and left the studio.
The River Moskva was frozen and covered with snow. Everywhere there were ice skaters in fur coats and hats, young animals pulling each other along on sledges and old donkeys in kiosks selling hot coffee and soup.
Wily scanned the river for any sign of a vixen. Nothing. She was late.
A couple of seconds later, a group of ice skaters parted to reveal a tall, elegant fox in dark glasses and a scarf tied, bandit-style, around her muzzle. She had a large briefcase in one paw. Ice skates glinted on her feet.
The fox was about twenty metres away. She was staring at Wily the bear. There was no expression on her face. This wasn’t Vicky Vixen.
Wily breathed in, trying to catch the fox’s scent. Across the ice, the other fox was also breathing in, and she had caught Wily’s. Her blank expression turned to one of surprise, then anger. She spun round and sped off.
Wily was out of the bear costume in seconds. He ran on to the ice, skidding in all directions. He was never going to catch up with the fox at this rate. He needed to f ind ice skates or skis or a sledge – or anything but his paws.
Then he heard a growling sound behind him and a voice declared, “It can turn into a snowmobile, too.”
“Albert?” Wily gasped.
The mole was riding the Vespa, which now had two giant skis under its chassis.
“When the Vespa went down over Moscow, it sent out a distress call,” Albert explained. “I came out here to repair it.”
“But how did you get here so fast?”
“Rocket socks,” he said, glancing at his feet. “Still need some work. Should be ready for your next case. Anyway, after I fixed your bike, I locked on to your mobile signal.”
Wily grinned. “Clever. Now budge over – I’m driving.”
Albert shuffled back and Wily leaped on. They gave chase and within moments they were closing in on the fox.
She was swerving between groups of skaters, leaping over sledges and looping around holes in the ice.
Albert was taking photos of her and trying to analyze them.
“She’s not showing up in any databases,” he said.
“Don’t worry,” said Wily. “We’ll soon catch her and then we’ll know everything.”
But the fox sped up, heading downstream where the ice was thinner.
Wily also picked up speed, making skaters leap out of the way.
“Take over,” he told Albert, “and get as close as you can.”
The mole grabbed the handlebars and steered the Vespa towards the vixen. Wily stood up behind him, getting ready to jump.
The vixen glanced over her shoulder and growled.
Wily jumped towards her, but as he did so, she whacked him with her briefcase. And Wily – in a reflex action – grabbed it.
The vixen tugged.
Wily tugged.
The briefcase sprang open, spilling its contents over the ice. Wily saw six paintings, all in the style of Kandogski. The vixen looked down at the pictures and then up at Wily. She growled before speeding off, leaving them on the ice.
“Albert!” Wily called.
But the mole was fifty metres away, turning the Vespa in a wide arc.
Wily tried to stand up, but the ice was too slippery. He saw the empty briefcase and had an idea. Two seconds later, he was pushing himself along the ice with his arms, using the briefcase as a sledge.
“Get the paintings! I’ll chase the fox!” he yelled to Albert.
Within moments, Wily had nearly caught up with the vixen again. She snarled and went faster, but the detective pushed even harder and sped up, too. As they headed downstream, Wily could see that the ice was getting thinner. It groaned and crackled beneath him.
Wily was within a metre of the vixen now. He tried to grab her feet, her arms, her tail. She swerved out of the way, narrowly avoiding a large crack in the ice.
“Who are you?” Wily muttered.
The vixen turned round, as if she’d heard his question.
“The one that got away,” she said in a low voice.
She pulled up a scuba mask from around her neck then she dived through a crack in the ice and vanished.
Wily slammed down with his fists and brought the briefcase to a stop by the hole. He peered into the icy water. A split second later, an arm emerged from the hole and pulled him under.