ANDY & TERRY’S HIGH-TECH DETECTIVE AGENCY
I don’t know whether or not you have your own high-tech detective agency, but if you do you’ll probably know that it can take a long time to get in because of all the high-tech security. I’m not just talking about boring, old-fashioned big-toe recognition security, either.
I’m talking big-toe, middle-toe, little-toe, whole-foot, lower-leg, upper-leg, left-buttock, right-buttock, lower-back, middle-back, upper-back, chest, arms, neck and head recognition security …
not to mention hair analysis,
blood tests,
retinal scans,
a dance contest …
and a really hard Andy & Terry trivia quiz!
By the time we finally get in, we’re pretty hungry.
“Let’s have a donut,” says Terry.
“Good idea!” I say. “No detective ever solved a mystery without the help of a hot jam donut.”
We eat our donuts and think …
and think …
and think …
and think.
“Well?” I say. “What do you think?”
“I think I’d like another donut,” says Terry.
“Me too!” I say.
We get two more hot jam donuts and continue thinking …
and thinking …
and thinking …
and thinking.
“Well?” I say. “What are you thinking?”
“About what?” says Terry.
“About how to solve The Mystery of the Missing Mr. Big Nose,” I say.
“Beats me.” Terry shrugs. “I haven’t got a clue.”
“That’s it!” I say. “You haven’t got a clue. I haven’t got a clue. We haven’t got any clues! We can’t solve a mystery without clues!”
“But where do we get clues from?” says Terry.
“From the scene of the crime, of course!” I say. “We’ve got to go to Mr. Big Nose’s office.”
“Great!” says Terry. “Let’s ride there on our flying beetroots.”
“We can’t,” I say. “They disappeared about a week ago.”
“Another mystery,” says Terry, frowning. “The Mystery of the Missing Flying Beetroots.”
“Yes,” I say, “but we have to solve The Mystery of the Missing Mr. Big Nose first. We’ll take the flying fried-egg car to his office.”
“No problem,” says Terry. “I’ll just choose a suitable disguise.”
“All right,” I say, “but make it fast. We don’t want the clues to go cold.”
“Sure, Andy,” says Terry, heading for the Disguise-o-matic 5000.
I’m climbing into the flying fried-egg car when somebody taps me on the shoulder. I turn around. It’s an old man.
“Who are you?” I say.
“Don’t you recognize your best friend?” chuckles the old man. “It’s me—Terry! I’m in disguise!”
“Terry!” I say. “Quit mucking around. This is serious! Terry? Terry?”
He’s gone again. In his place is a big, fat, slimy frogpotamus.
Yeuch! I hate those things!
“Get out of here!” I yell. “Didn’t you read our last book? The treehouse is a frogpotamus-free zone!”
“Relax,” says Terry, stepping out of the frogpotamus costume. “It’s just me again.”
I step forward to throttle him but I find my hands clutching a metal pole instead of his neck. I look up. It’s a stop sign.
“Terry?” I call. “Where are you?”
“Right here,” says the stop sign. Terry peels off the costume and laughs. “Gotcha!”
“Stop doing that!” I say.
“Stop what?” he says.
“Stop dressing up like a stop sign and stop playing with the Disguise-o-matic 5000! It’s a high-tech detective tool, not a toy!”
“Sorry,” he says, “but once you start, it’s hard to STOP. Get it?”
“Yes.”
“Then why aren’t you laughing?”
“Because it’s not funny.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s NOT!”
“Yes, it is.”
“STOP saying ‘Yes, it is’!” I say. “IT’S NOT FUNNY!”
“Yes, it is,” Terry insists. “I dressed up like a stop sign and you told me to stop dressing up like a stop sign and—”
“Excuse me, Terry,” I say. “I’m very sorry to have to do this.”
“What?” he says.
“This,” I say, giving him a short sharp tap on the head with a magnifying glass.
“Thanks,” says Terry. “I needed that.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say. “That’s what friends are for. Come on! To the flying fried-egg car!”
We jump in and pull the yolk down tightly over the top of us.
I press EXTRA SIZZLE on the control panel …
and we take off through the concealed flying fried-egg car hatch in the top of the detective agency.
We fly through Mr. Big Nose’s window and park next to his bookshelf.
Terry takes out the two biggest magnifying glasses and starts looking for clues.
“Hmm, very interesting,” he says. “I see a magnifying glass …
“I see a hand holding a magnifying glass …
“I see an arm attached to a hand that’s holding a magnifying glass …
“Hmmm … this is a definite clue, Andy, a very definite clue!”
“Yes,” I say, “a very definite clue that you are very definitely an idiot!”
“Well, I don’t see you doing any detecting,” says Terry, peering at me through the second-biggest magnifying glass.
“Give me that thing,” I say, snatching it off him.
I scan the office.
There’s a book lying on the floor next to Mr. Big Nose’s desk. I pick it up and examine it closely.
“What is it?” says Terry.
“It appears to be a book about vegetables.”
“Vegetables?” says Terry. “Yuck! I hate vegetables!”
“I know,” I say. “And so do I. But we have to look at it. It might be a clue.”
