Grabber Page 3

  SWAG!

  Just at that moment, a door banged elsewhere in the house. With a flutter of panic, Grabber flew away, forgetting to close the safe or put back the picture or cover his robbing trail at all. He was so anxious not to be caught that he headed straight back towards his cage. But in his haste and his youthful inexperience at flying, he clipped the lampshade with his wing. Down, down, down he spiralled, until he fell, of all places, into one of Ron’s socks!

  When Ron came in, imagine his surprise to see his wall safe nearly burgled, his bird cage open and the little dragon that should have been inside it upside down with his head poking out of the toes of a sock.

  The game was up for Grabber. No matter how hard he wriggled, he couldn’t break free. When Ron unpegged the sock, Grabber didn’t try to struggle. He simply blushed (dark green) and gave a sad little hrrr.

  His first foray into robbing had been a disaster.

  It was a fair cop.

  Chapter Seven

  Thankfully, Ron wasn’t angry. He merely chortled heartily and sat the sock (and its contents) upright on his palm. “Well, well, little Grabber. What games ’ave you been up to?”

  Grabber gave out a bashful hrrr.

  Ron’s gaze travelled sideways to the safe. “You’ve discovered my haul and my lollipop, I see. There’s a story about that lolly. Shall I tell you?”

  Grabber hrrred again and wiggled his ears. Ron’s words were little more than grunts to him. But the tone of them was pleasant and made him feel cared for. Mind you, when Ron reached into his canvas bag and flashed a pair of scissors in front of Grabber’s snout, the little dragon did begin to wobble in alarm.

  Ron calmed him with a soothing shush. The scissors clicked and snipped, but only to cut holes in the sock for Grabber’s arms and legs and wings and tail.

  Strangely, Ron left the body of the sock in place, so that it looked like Grabber was wearing a jumper. A black and white hooped jumper. This made Ron chuckle even more.

  “You look a proper rascal now,” he said.

  Grabber curved an ear.

  Ron carried him across to an old battered sideboard, opened a drawer and took out an envelope. He shook some photographs out of it. And there was one of Ron, in a black and white hooped jumper, wearing a robber’s mask!

  Grabber sat back in surprise.

  “I have been a bad fellow,” Ron Badfellow said. “I’ve lived up to my name and no mistake. I began my robbing ways all because of that lollipop.”

  Grabber tilted his head. He could not understand Ron’s words, but Pennykettle dragons don’t have to speak a language to recognize loss or heartache or despair. In a blink, Grabber fluttered up to sit on Ron’s shoulder. Ron was unsurprised. By now he had accepted there was something rather magical about his new friend. So he simply went about his business, tidying the room and muttering some more about the story of the lollipop.

  He picked up the picture of the teddy bear and boy. “This is me with Humphrey,” he said. “The best Christmas present I ever had.” He ran his fingers along the bear’s snout, brushing aside a streak of dust. “One night, a villain broke into our house and snatched him from the foot of my bed. I was fast a-zuzzing. So were Ma and Pa. The robber left this lollipop where Humphrey had been sitting.” He reached into the safe and took out the sweet. “I suppose he thought it was a kindness, Grabber. But it broke my heart. I’ve been looking for that villain – and my teddy – ever since.”

  He closed the safe and put the picture on its hook. “I thought it was a hopeless mission, I did. But a month or two ago, I had a stroke of luck.” He turned to the TV and slid in a video, then pointed a remote control at the screen.

  Grabber did a double take. There on the screen was Humphrey the teddy bear. He was sitting on a table between two men. One of them was grey-haired and elderly and kind.

  The other man looked quite shifty to Grabber. His dark hair was slicked back behind his ears and there was something distinctly untrustworthy about him. Perhaps it was his spiky-ended moustache? Or the small and sparkling earring he wore? His teeth were far too shiny as well. Grabber took an instant dislike to him.

  Ron said, “This is a show I watch every week. People bring their trinkets to be valued. Oh, yes. I nearly spilled a whole mug of tea, I did, when I saw my Humphrey on the show. He’s become an antique. Worth a pretty penny. Five thousand smackers to be precise.” He paused the screen on a close-up of the shiny-toothed man. “This is the rogue who is holding him hostage. His name is Douglas Crumbe. He has made a fortune from selling biscuits. How he came to have Humphrey, I do not know. I have discovered that this smarmy-looking fellow lives in a house on Cosytoes Lane, a very posh part of Scrubbley. I don’t think he would ever give Humphrey back, but he might be persuaded to sell him, Grabber. All those pretty things in the safe will soon add up to five thousand pounds. It’s not right to take things from the good people of Scrubbley to pay for my bear, but I am a desperate man.” Ron twiddled the lollipop in his fingers. “Just a few more houses. Just a few more robbings. Then I should have enough. Then you and I will pay Mr Crumbe a visit…”

  Chapter Eight

  Meanwhile, back in Wayward Crescent, Liz was beginning to suspect that something wasn’t right. For the last two days, since the visit of the policemen, the kitchen had been remarkably quiet. At first, she couldn’t decide what was wrong. When she looked around the room, everything was in its proper place. The refrigerator was humming. The tap dripped as it sometimes did. And from the garden came the lively chatter of birds. And yet…

  She glanced at the listening dragon on the fridge.

  “Do you think it’s quiet?” she asked.

  The listener, seeing her lips move, smiled.

  Liz narrowed her eyes and squinted at it. “Are you all right? Did you hear what I said?”

  The listener blew a bemused little smoke ring.

  Liz clicked her tongue. She turned to Gauge, who was sitting on the worktop, and said something quietly to him in dragontongue.

  Seconds later, Gauge had fluttered (unseen) to the back of the fridge top. He crept up behind the listener and hurred.

  The listener barely twitched its ears.

  Liz gave a thoughtful hum.

  Suddenly, the kitchen door opened and Henry Bacon came in once more. “Can’t stop,” he said.

  “Oh, shame,” Liz muttered, only slightly clenching her teeth.

  Henry slapped a drawing in front of her. It was a complicated sketch of wires and pulleys, built around a door frame. Above the door was some kind of hooter and a frying pan.

  “Bacon’s patent intruder defence system,” he beamed. “Any unwanted persons stepping on my welcome mat will get a hoot in their ear hole and a lump on their bonce from my frying pan. Want me to set it up for you, Mrs P?”

  “No, I do not,” Liz said huffily, just as the doorbell rang.

  Lucy pounded downstairs to answer it. A moment or two later she came down the hall followed by Inspector Bumble and Sergeant Beale. “Mum, it’s the police again.”

  “I’m off,” said Henry. He was gone in a flash.

  Liz met the Inspector’s gaze.

  “Mrs Pennykettle, I’ll come straight to the point,” he said. “I believe you know who broke into your house.”

  He flapped a piece of paper. It was Lucy’s note.

  Lucy turned on her heels and tried to escape. But Inspector Bumble clamped her shoulder and turned her round, red-faced, to her mother.

  “We received a tip-off,” said Beale.

  “Oh, really?” said Liz. She didn’t seem at all surprised. “Was it signed ‘love from Lucy’ by any chance?”

  “I never!” cried Lucy. She turned furiously to the Inspector. “How did you know it was from me?”

  “Call it a calculated guess,” he replied. He pointed to the top of the note, which carried Liz’s business logo: Pennykettle Pots and Crafts. “Next time you send an anonymous message, it would be wise not to put your address on it, Miss.”<
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  “Oh,” said Lucy, looking a bit embarrassed.

  “All right, you can let her off,” said Liz. “I think I do know who your robber is.”

  “Oh yes?” said Beale. He reached for his notebook.

  Liz walked across the kitchen and reached for the listener. She quickly examined its ears and said, “His name is Ronald Badfellow. He came to mend the glass in our door.”

  Sergeant Beale scribbled this down.

  Inspector Bumble pushed back his coat and put his hands firmly onto his hips. “And why would you think the robber is him?”

  “Because he’s plugged the ears of my listening dragon with putty.”

  “What?” gasped Lucy.

  “Listening dragon?” Inspector Bumble said in a voice which suggested Liz was quite barmy.

  “Yes. I think Mr Badfellow might have guessed that my dragons are real.”

  “Mum?” hissed Lucy. “What are you playing at?”

  Liz smiled and dug a glob of putty out of the listener’s ear. It responded by lifting its wing and kicking at the shell of its ear like a cat. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked the policemen.

  Lucy glanced up. The eyes of both men were almost spinning. Liz had used her magic on them. They sat down and mumbled, “Yes.”

  Liz cleared out the listener’s other ear. “Good. Lucy, put the kettle on, please. I think we’ll all have a quiet drink – and then we’ll go and pay Mr Badfellow a visit…”

  Chapter Nine

  Of course, it was not at all difficult for the two policemen to quickly find Ronald Badfellow’s address (especially when they’d been ordered to do so with a little more ‘magic’ from Liz). But by the time they had reached the small house on the estate, Ron the robber and his tiny partner in crime were already out on the prowl.

  That night, Ron drove his van down Cosytoes Lane, where Mr Douglas Crumbe had his house. It was called Custard Cream Towers, a tribute to Mr Crumbe’s success in the biscuit trade.

  Ron pulled up outside a pair of gigantic solid gates. “Look, Grabber. Mr Crumbe’s home. A fortress, it is, to be sure.”

  Grabber, who was sitting on top of the dashboard, gave a questioning hrrr and swished his tail.

  Ron pointed at the gates. “Humphrey. Through there.”

  Grabber dibbled his toes. Hrrrmphrey. Gradually, he was beginning to learn what Ron’s grunts meant. He glanced at the gates. The teddy? That way?

  “No good,” said Ron, guessing his intention. “I have thought many times about pilfering the place. But this is too grand for petty scoundrels like us. A sparrow could not take a crust of bread from these lawns without setting off a dozen alarms.”

  Grabber frowned thoughtfully. When he did this, something peculiar happened. The ridges round his eyes turned from dark green to black, until it looked as if he was wearing his own robber’s mask. He glanced down. There were some buttons on the door of the van. His dragon instincts told him that one of them, if pushed, would open the window. Within seconds, he’d done it and was gone.

  When Ron caught up with him, Grabber was hovering in front of a number pad attached to the wall at the side of the gates.

  Ron shook his head. “To make the gates open, one ’as to press the numbers in the right order, Grabber. But it’s impossible. There are more combinations than sweets in my jars.” He pressed four numbers, then a key marked ‘OPEN’. A red light beeped, but the gates remained closed.

  Grabber tried a few buttons himself. Nothing happened. He twitched his snout and tried a few more. Still nothing.

  “See,” said Ron. “It would take…”

  He was about to say ‘for ever’. But before he could complete his sentence, Grabber’s claws were moving so fast over the numbers that his paws were just a blur. Suddenly, there was a click and the grinding noise of motors.

  “Stone the crows!” Ron gasped. The gates were sliding apart. Grabber had cracked the lock in under three seconds!

  Hrrr! went the dragon, and flew inside.

  “Wait!” Ron cried, as his small green companion in his hooped sock vest suddenly became a dot in the distance. Ron sipped his breath. The rush of cold air found the gaps in his teeth, putting all his ageing nerves on edge. This was a most irregular caper. Risky. Unplanned. Sure to end badly. But a partner was a partner. And partners had a saying: all for one and both…for prison, at this rate. He locked the van and went in pursuit.

  Custard Cream Towers was nothing like its name. The walls were as brown as a Bourbon biscuit. And as Ron tiptoed silently between the conifer bushes that grew all along the S-shaped drive, he saw that the house was only two storeys high, not like a tower at all.

  Suddenly, an exterior light flashed on, illuminating a sturdy door. Ron crouched behind an ornamental statue. He could see Grabber hovering in front of the door, as if he was caught in a spaceship’s tractor beam.

  “Come away,” Ron hissed. “You’ll never get in.” This was a fair assessment. Any gentleman of the night would not have stood a chance of cracking the security. Even from a distance Ron could see that the door was protected by a moving video camera, at least three locks, and a burglar alarm that was winking, red and green, above the door.

  But this was nothing to a dragon of the night. Grabber switched his swag bag to his opposite shoulder, fluttered down to the level of the letterbox, lifted the flap, had a peek inside and flew straight through!

  Moments later the video camera had stopped moving, the burglar alarm had ceased to blink and the door had given three soft clunks. Ron couldn’t believe it. Grabber had disabled the security system.

  They were in!

  Chapter Ten

  The house had a cold, unpleasant kind of feel. There was nothing on the walls. No carpets on the floors. Not even a lampshade covering the light bulbs.

  Odd, thought Ron. Very odd indeed. Here’s this Douglas Crumbe, making millions from biscuits. Yet his house is as plain as an old cream cracker. Where were all the trinkets? Family portraits? Ornaments? Where was Humphrey, come to that?

  Ron didn’t have long to wait for an answer. Suddenly, a light went on in a room above the stairs. Ron pressed himself into the shadows and waited. There was no sound, except for a tiny voice going hrrr!

  It was a hrrr of surprise, strong enough to draw Ron out of hiding. He crept up to the room and peered inside. Lumme lawks! It was FULL of teddies.

  They were in heaps and bundles, and bundles upon heaps. All shapes. All sizes. Mostly brown. Mostly old.

  A tingle of excitement rushed through Ron’s bones. All his years of searching, all his years of loss, were about to end. Humphrey had to be here. He could almost sense the old bear’s sorrowful growling, the way he always did if you tipped him up.

  But then Ron took a nervous gulp. For there were so many bears cast about this room, so many Humphrey look-alikes, that it might take an hour or two to find his bear among them. And robbers rarely had an hour or two. Smash, grab, go. That was how it was. Get in fast. Get out even faster. But not in this case. Time must be taken. Humphrey must be found. So Ron put aside his canvas bag and began to sift the teddies. He’d been at it for only seconds when he heard a footfall by the door.

  He turned in shock, with an armful of bears. There was Douglas Crumbe, smoking a cigar.

  “Well, well,” said Crumbe. “What have we here?”

  “I don’t want no trouble,” said Ron.

  “It’s a little bit late for that,” said Crumbe. He gave a sickly, short-lived smile. “I won’t ask how you broke through my considerable security; you’re obviously a very talented crook. But I am intrigued to know what you want with my bears.”

  “You stole one!” cried Ron. “From me, from my bed, when I was just a nipper! He’s called Humphrey!”

  Mr Douglas Crumbe coughed with smoke and laughter. “Forgive me, but you are…sixty, perhaps? And I am in the peak of life, as you can see. I would not have been born when you were a boy.”

  “Then your father,” said Ron.
“Or someone you knew. Where did you get these handsome bears?”

  “Handsome?” Douglas Crumbe stroked his moustache. “I assure you, sir, there are few things in life more handsome than me!” His face disappeared behind a cloud of bluish smoke. By the time it was visible again, there was a glint of wickedness in his eyes. “Where I got them from is no business of yours. However, you’re welcome to take any you choose.”

  “Really?” said Ron, slightly taken aback. Why would this schmoozy rogue say that?

  “Be my guest,” said Crumbe. “You’ll be doing me a favour. When the police arrive to investigate the fire, I will describe you to them. They will, of course, believe me when I say you caused the blaze.”

  “Fire?” asked Ron with a gulp.

  Douglas Crumbe showed his teeth. “These ridiculous bags of fluff and wool that my sentimental father left me in his will are an embarrassment. It would take far too long to sell them. I really can’t be bothered. I need money fast. My biscuit empire is crumbling. So I’m going to burn down this house and claim the insurance. These teddies will make perfect kindling, don’t you think? Best of all, by turning them to ash I can claim their worth too. It’s the perfect crime. Goodbye, robber. Goodbye, bears.” He lifted the lit cigar into the air.

  “No!” cried Ron.

  But Douglas Crumbe merely smiled and flicked his cigar towards the bears.

  The situation looked hopeless. But suddenly, there was a flash of movement and the cigar was caught in mid-air – by a dragon!

  “What the blazes?” cried Crumbe, even though there were no blazes. For Grabber had not only caught the cigar, he had swallowed the heat of the thing and doused it. He spat the foul-tasting stick onto the floor.