Atticus Claw Breaks the Law Read online

  ‘All right, I suppose,’ Mrs Cheddar sighed. ‘But it’s only ten days away and there’s still so much to do. We’re expecting hundreds of people to bring things to be valued. I just hope it all goes smoothly.’ (Mrs Cheddar was also secretly hoping that if it did go smoothly then Rupert Rich, the presenter, might offer her a job on the programme.)

  ‘Attack the attic, make a packet!’ Mrs Tucker roared. (That was Rupert Rich’s famous catchphrase.)

  ‘Can we come?’ asked Michael excitedly.

  ‘Of course you can,’ Mrs Cheddar said. ‘You’ll love it. There’s going to be a real mixture of stuff. Lots of trash, probably – there always is – but some really beautiful things as well; people will bring jewellery and watches – and of course there’s Lady Toffly’s tiara.’

  ‘What’s a tiara?’ Callie asked.

  ‘It’s a sort of hairband,’ Mrs Cheddar smiled, ‘made of diamonds.’

  ‘It sounds wonderful,’ Mrs Tucker sighed. ‘I wish I had something like that tucked away in the roof.’

  ‘You should have a look,’ Mrs Cheddar said. ‘You never know what might be there.’

  ‘Attack the attic, make a packet!’ Michael and Callie shouted.

  ‘Huh!’ Mrs Tucker snorted. ‘All I’m likely to find is a load of Mr Tucker’s old fish hooks. Now come along, you two,’ she told the children, ‘let’s get you off to school.’ She went to get their bags while Mrs Cheddar kissed them goodbye and set off to work.

  When their mum had left, Michael and Callie got down from the table and went to wash their hands. The magpies were still at the window. They gazed at the children with black beady eyes.

  ‘Chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka!’ cawed one.

  ‘Chaka-chaka-chaka-chaka!’ the other cackled.

  Callie frowned. ‘It sounds like they’re laughing at us,’ she whispered.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Michael said. He studied the birds carefully. One was thin and scrawny with a hooked foot, the other was fat with feathers missing from its tail. The birds stared back at him. ‘It’s as if they’ve been listening to our conversation!’ Michael shivered. For some reason the two birds gave him the creeps. Maybe Mrs Tucker was right – maybe they did bring bad luck.

  ‘If we had a cat, it could chase them away.’ Callie grinned.

  ‘Yeah, like that’s going to happen! You heard what Dad said, Callie – he hates cats. We’ll be lucky if we get a goldfish.’ Michael leaned over the sink as far as he could and pulled the window shut.

  Two days later, Atticus Grammaticus Cattypuss Claw purred goodbye to the old lady in whose wheelie basket he’d been riding and stepped off the bus in Littleton-on-Sea. The journey had been reasonably straightforward: a comfortable cabin on a cruise ship with a couple from Spain who thought he was the ship’s cat and brought him delicious scraps every mealtime; followed by a pleasant train journey in first class and a short ride on the bus with the old lady in a shopping basket full of biscuits. He rubbed the crumbs off his whiskers. So far, he thought, so good.

  Atticus looked about him, taking in his surroundings. To his left was a parade of open-fronted shops and cafés, which wound its way into the distance. The shops sold ice cream and buckets and spades and postcards. The delicious smell of fish and chips wafted from the cafés. Atticus sniffed the air. Maybe later, he thought, turning his back. Right now, he had business to attend to.

  Across the road was the sea. The tide was out and the beach seemed to stretch for miles, flat and muddy-looking. Only a few people were on it. Atticus could understand why. A cold wind was blowing and it had started to drizzle. Like all cats, one of the things Atticus disliked most was rain. Fluffing out his coat, Atticus sighed. He missed Monte Carlo already.

  Sidestepping a little girl with sticky hands who wanted to stroke him, Atticus crossed over to the beach, hunching his shoulders against the wind, and jumped on to the sea wall. From here he had a better view of the pier. It stood a little way along the sand, beside the car park. He gazed at it, taking in every detail. It was roughly as wide as railway tracks and stuck out into the sea for about a hundred metres. Rusty rails ran along both sides of the wooden walkway, which was held up by huge iron pillars covered in seaweed.

  Atticus approached cautiously along the wall, ready to disappear in an instant if there was any trouble. He reached the car park and gazed along the walkway. The pier was deserted. There was no sign of anyone. Or anything. Atticus hesitated. He heard the town clock strike once to signal the quarter hour. 11.15. He was bang on time. But where was the mysterious client who had sent for him?

  Suddenly he heard a strange noise.

  ‘CHAKA-CHAKA-CHAKA-CHAKA!’

  The chattering was loud and angry as though someone or something was warning him off. He listened again. The sound was coming from somewhere below the pier, where the iron columns held the walkway in place. Atticus jumped down lightly on to the sand and tiptoed under the pier. He followed it out towards the sea, glancing up from time to time. About halfway along, he stopped. Balanced between several rusty struts way above him was a scruffy mess of twigs and leaves. Leaning over the side of it were three bright-eyed birds with black heads and flashes of blue and white on their wings.

  ‘Magpies!’ he whispered.

  ‘What are you doing down there?’ the first of them jeered.

  ‘Yeah, if you’re Claw and you’re really as good as you say you are, you’ll climb up here so we can talk,’ the second one sneered.

  The third one said nothing, but even from a distance and in the shadow of the pier, Atticus could see its eyes glittering.

  Atticus thought about walking away. He’d never worked for a bird before. People: often; dogs: sometimes; cats: occasionally; and once a pig who paid him to steal every truffle in Italy – but never a bird! A cat working for a magpie? The idea was ridiculous. And yet … Atticus’s curiosity got the better of him again. What on earth could a bunch of magpies want with him? He couldn’t resist staying long enough to find out. And if they were just messing around, he decided, he could always give them a nasty fright and go and get some fish and chips.

  ‘Sure,’ he agreed lazily, jumping on to one slippery beam and then to the next, balancing effortlessly on the thin edges.

  Soon, he reached the ledge where the magpies perched. They had climbed out of the nest to greet him. ‘Well,’ said Atticus, sitting down and popping out his claws one by one. ‘Here I am.’ He smiled, making sure the birds could see just how sharp and white his teeth were. ‘Now, what do you want?’

  When they saw his fangs, the two magpies who had shouted down at Atticus when he was a safe distance below – a fat one with ragged tail feathers, and a thin one with a hooked foot – dropped their beaks to their chests and fluttered backwards, away from him. But the other one – who Atticus took to be the boss – stood his ground and looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ Jimmy Magpie said quietly. ‘We want you to steal all the jewels in Littleton-on-Sea and bring them here to us.’

  Slasher nodded. Thug chattered to himself.

  Atticus raised a whiskery eyebrow. He’d heard people say that magpies were thieves, but he’d never suspected they could be this greedy. What do they want with all that loot? he wondered. Most thieves fenced jewels for cash. A few kept the most treasured items for their own use in necklaces (or collars if they were cats or dogs). But this lot? They couldn’t use cash and, as far as Atticus knew, birds didn’t do bling.

  ‘Suppose I agree,’ he said eventually, when the bird didn’t elaborate. ‘I prefer to go in through cat flaps and open windows. I can’t guarantee I’ll clean the whole town out.’

  ‘I see …’ Jimmy Magpie blinked at Atticus coldly. ‘Well I think you’ll find my boys can help you get into most places if you can’t manage it.’

  ‘I don’t want their help,’ Atticus snapped angrily. ‘I’m the best cat burglar in the world, remember?’

  There was a tense silence. ‘Very well,’ Jimmy M
agpie said finally. ‘We’ll do it your way. We find the houses. You hit them.’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’ Atticus demanded. He didn’t like the way the magpie did business. Nobody spoke to Atticus Grammaticus Cattypuss Claw like that: least of all a bullying bird. He’d almost decided to leave on the next boat.

  ‘Sardines,’ Jimmy Magpie said, watching Atticus carefully. ‘Four per hit.’

  Atticus wavered. Sardines! His mouth watered at the thought. He couldn’t resist sardines. ‘Eight,’ he countered.

  ‘Six,’ the magpie snapped back.

  ‘Done.’ Sardines were sardines. Whatever doubts Atticus might have had about taking the job he decided to put to one side, for the time being at least. ‘I’ll start tonight.’ He got up to go. ‘By the way,’ he asked as an afterthought, ‘how did you hear about me?’

  ‘We magpies keep our eyes and ears open.’ Jimmy Magpie shrugged. He looked sharply at Atticus. ‘We’re everywhere. And we know everything. So don’t try and double-cross us.’

  Suddenly Atticus remembered the messenger pigeon. Now he understood why it hadn’t talked. Jimmy and his gang must have terrified it.

  ‘You don’t frighten me …’ Atticus hissed. ‘And you’d better be careful what you say, or the deal’s off.’ He drew himself up and arched his back. ‘I’ll have you three for lunch before you can say “feathers”.’

  The two other magpies were trembling, but Jimmy showed no sign of fear. Instead he grinned and held out a claw. ‘No need for that, my friend!’ he cawed slyly. ‘We’re partners now! Come on, boys. Let’s get out the sardines and celebrate.’

  Thug and Slasher hopped back into the nest. Atticus heard heaving and panting as they flipped a fish over the edge.

  ‘I’ll eat alone, thanks,’ Atticus said, catching the sardine in his teeth and making his way back down to the beach.

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Jimmy Magpie called after him. ‘Make sure you’re back here tonight at midnight.’

  There was no reply. Atticus had gone.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him about the antiques fair at Toffly Hall, Boss?’ Slasher asked, peering down.

  ‘Yeah, that lady in Blossom Crescent said there’d be loads of jewellery there,’ Thug reminded him.

  ‘And watches,’ Slasher said eagerly. ‘Isn’t that why we hired the cat? To steal things for us?’

  ‘You keep your beaks shut about that for now,’ Jimmy hissed.

  ‘Why, Boss?’ Thug’s face was puzzled. ‘I thought the cat was gonna help us.’

  ‘Help himself more like,’ Jimmy said. ‘I’m not sure I trust Atticus Claw … yet. It didn’t take him long to threaten us, did it?’ Jimmy dipped his head angrily. ‘Typical cat. He thinks he can call all the shots. Doesn’t want to be told what to do by a bird.’

  ‘We could try and burgle the houses ourselves,’ Slasher suggested.

  ‘Yeah,’ Thug agreed. ‘Tell Claw we don’t need him.’

  Jimmy shook his head impatiently. ‘We can’t break safes. We don’t know how to open cupboards. And we make too much noise – or you two do, anyway.’

  Thug and Slasher looked sheepish.

  ‘We need a pro,’ Jimmy continued. ‘Which means, for the time being at least, we need the cat.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘So let’s keep the antiques fair a secret until we know more about him. See if he delivers on the burglaries or if he tries to double-cross us. In the meantime, you two get up to Toffly Hall and case the joint.’

  Once he’d finished his sardine and had a quick snooze, Atticus felt better. So what if Jimmy Magpie and his gang were a bunch of bullies? It wasn’t his problem. You couldn’t be choosy about who you worked for or you’d never get paid. He would do the job, take the sardines and scram like he always did.

  But first, he needed to find somewhere to live.

  Atticus had chosen a sheltered spot beside an empty beach hut to eat his sardine. Now he turned away from the sea and retraced his steps past the pier and back to the shops. He paused in front of a shiny metal ice-cream stand and gazed at his reflection. He lifted a paw and adjusted the handkerchief around his neck so that his name was clearly visible. He heard the clock strike two. Ten hours to go until he started thieving. There was plenty of time for him to find a comfy bed, have another snooze and get some more grub. Satisfied with his appearance, Atticus wandered in the direction of town in search of his next temporary human.

  At half-past three, Mrs Tucker was waiting for Michael and Callie at the school gates.

  ‘I thought you might like a snack.’ She ripped open two packets of crisps as they started the short walk home to Blossom Crescent.

  ‘What’s for tea?’ Michael asked. The crisps seemed to be making him even hungrier. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘I’ve brought you something special,’ Mrs Tucker replied

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sardines!’

  ‘Sardines?’ Callie pulled a face. ‘Yuk!’

  ‘Don’t knock ’em,’ Mrs Tucker said briskly, ‘till you’ve tried ’em. They’re delicious. And they’re good for your brain.’ She tapped her basket. ‘Mr Tucker caught them fresh today. In fact they’re so fresh they’re practically still swimming.’

  ‘Can I see them?’ Michael asked, curious. He flipped open the lid of the basket.

  ‘Not till we get home,’ Mrs Tucker snapped it shut. ‘We don’t want every cat in the area following us, do we?’

  Callie pulled at Mrs Tucker’s sleeve. ‘That one already is,’ she said. ‘Look!’ She pointed to a large brown-and-black tabby with four white socks and a red handkerchief tied around its neck. It was walking a few paces behind them.

  Mrs Tucker stopped and looked at the cat.

  The cat stopped and looked at her.

  ‘I wonder what happened to its ear,’ she remarked, before walking on again. ‘It’s all chewed.’

  Michael glanced back. ‘It’s still following us,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not following us,’ Mrs Tucker corrected. ‘It’s following the sardines. And you’re not having any,’ she said, turning round suddenly and glaring at the cat. ‘They’re for the children’s tea.’

  The cat regarded her steadily. ‘Meow,’ it said.

  ‘Can we stroke him?’ Callie asked. ‘He’s so cute.’

  Mrs Tucker hesitated. ‘I suppose so,’ she said. ‘Mind he doesn’t scratch though.’

  The children approached the cat cautiously.

  Michael held out a hand and scratched him gently under his chin. Callie stroked his fur. The cat began to purr. He arched his back with pleasure.

  ‘I think he likes us,’ Michael said.

  Mrs Tucker snorted. ‘I think he likes our sardines!’ she muttered.

  ‘I wonder what his name is,’ Callie said.

  Michael felt round the cat’s neck under the handkerchief. ‘He doesn’t have a collar.’

  ‘But look! There’s some writing on this,’ Callie noticed, bending down and examining the corner of the handkerchief carefully.

  The cat didn’t move. He lifted his chin.

  Michael knelt down beside his sister. He peered at the tiny embroidered letters. They were as delicate as a spider’s web. ‘Att-i-cus … Gramm-a-t-i-cus … Catt-y-puss … Claw,’ he read slowly. ‘Do you think that’s his name?’

  The cat purred loudly.

  ‘It’s awfully long.’ Mrs Tucker frowned. ‘For a cat. Mr Tucker just called his one Bones.’

  ‘I like it,’ said Callie. ‘It rhymes. Apart from Claw, that is.’

  ‘He seems to recognise it, anyway,’ Michael said, rubbing the cat’s ears. ‘Don’t you, Atticus?’

  The cat’s purring became a low throaty roar – like a car engine when you first switch it on.

  Michael turned the handkerchief over. ‘There’s no phone number.’ He tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘Do you … er … think he belongs to anyone?’ he asked casually.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, Michael Cheddar,’ Mrs Tucker said fi
rmly, ‘but you can’t keep him.’

  ‘Why not?’ Michael asked, disappointed. ‘I thought you liked cats.’

  ‘I do,’ Mrs Tucker said.

  ‘And you want us to have a pet.’ Callie reminded her. ‘You said so this morning.’

  ‘I know I did. But just because he doesn’t have a collar doesn’t mean he doesn’t belong to anyone,’ Mrs Tucker explained. ‘Especially with a name like that.’

  ‘He might not, though,’ Michael insisted. ‘He might be a stray.’

  ‘Someone must have tied that hanky round his neck,’ Mrs Tucker told him. ‘I mean, he didn’t just put it on himself, did he?’

  ‘He might have,’ Callie said.

  ‘Cats are clever,’ Michael added. ‘You said so this morning.’

  ‘Never mind what I said this morning!’ Mrs Tucker puffed out her cheeks. ‘The point is it wouldn’t be fair for us to take him if he’s already got a home. Think how his poor owner would feel. I mean, what if he was your cat and someone lured him away with a basket of fish?’

  ‘But what if he’s lost?’ Michael insisted. ‘Shouldn’t we at least look after him for a bit and try and find out who his owner is?’

  The cat had sat down while the argument was in progress. Now he stood up again and rubbed his body against the children’s ankles, purring gently.

  ‘See!’ Callie cried. ‘That’s what he wants!’

  ‘Well …’ Mrs Tucker hesitated. ‘He does look a bit lost.’ She thought for a moment. ‘I’ll tell you what. If he’s still following us when we get back to the house, we’ll take him in and see if we can find out where he’s come from. If he isn’t, that’s the end of it. OK?’

  ‘OK,’ the children agreed.

  ‘No peeking to see if he’s still there until we get to the front door,’ Mrs Tucker added. ‘And pretend to ignore him or he’ll think it’s a game.’ She marched off.

  The children gave the cat a final stroke and followed reluctantly.

  The rest of the walk was agony. Michael and Callie plodded along in silence, eyes to the ground. Even Mrs Tucker telling them about the time Mr Tucker beat off a giant lobster with his wooden leg couldn’t distract them.