The Mysterious Cases of Mr. Pin Read online

  “Right,” said Maggie.

  “We were followed by a white truck,” he added.

  “Right,” said Maggie.

  “The letters B A K were written on the truck,” said Mr. Pin.

  “Right,” said Maggie.

  “The first three letters in bakery are B A K,” said Mr. Pin.

  “And the man following us was wearing a white apron,” added Maggie.

  “The Picasso thief is a baker!” shouted Mr. Pin, hopping up and down.

  “Right!” agreed Maggie. “But how do we find Mr. Green Eyes before he finds us?”

  “We have to find the bakery that has the same chocolate I found on the museum wall,” Mr. Pin said, chomping on a roll.

  “There could be hundreds of bakeries in Chicago. How do we find the right one?” asked Maggie.

  “Sometimes you have to eat to catch a thief,” said Mr. Pin.

  Maggie wasn’t going to argue with Mr. Pin. He had been right before, when he saved Smiling Sally’s diner from being blown up by gangsters. But that was another story.

  Just then a man wearing a trench coat and with a long hooked nose and black glasses opened the door. Maggie shivered.

  “I’m Jones,” he said. “O’Malley sent me.”

  “Just in time, Jones,” said Mr. Pin. “We’d like to visit a few bakeries.”

  4

  Maggie and Mr. Pin were in Jones’s squad car, bouncing over potholes and mud puddles on sleet-covered streets. All of a sudden Mr. Pin ordered, “Stop the car!”

  “He likes chocolate,” explained Maggie to Jones.

  Mr. Pin hopped out of the car and went into a German bakery filled with large tiered cakes. Mr. Pin’s beak went back and forth as he surveyed the cases of pastries. Then he settled on a nice German-chocolate cake with flaky coconut in the frosting.

  “Delicious” he said, hopping back into the squad car. His feathers were matted with sleet and chocolate frosting. “But I would like to try some chocolate-frosted doughnuts, please.”

  Jones sighed as he spun away from the curb. They drove from bakery to bakery, Mr. Pin sampling chocolate at every stop. Still, every time he tasted the chocolate he said, “Not quite right. One more, please.”

  Soon it was getting dark. Just as Mr. Pin was about to give up, he pointed with his wing and said, “Follow that truck!”

  It was the white panel truck speeding straight down Michigan Avenue, past where they were parked!

  “Wake up!” Maggie yelled at Jones, who had fallen asleep.

  “Never mind,” said Mr. Pin. “I’ll drive.” He leaned Jones to one side, hopped up onto his black bag, and took the wheel.

  Maggie got on the radio and called O’Malley for help. Then she asked him to call Sally and tell her she was all right.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Pin swerved back and forth between buses and taxis. Horns blared and buses beeped. But when people saw a penguin driving a police car, they just stopped and stared.

  “Oh, no!” shouted Maggie. “I think we’ve lost him. All units,” she said into the radio. “We need to find a white panel truck with the letters B A K. The driver may be the Picasso thief.”

  The radio was silent. Jones snored loudly. Then all of a sudden a voice came through.

  “Spotted him just past Ohio Street.” It was Hank, a trucker from Sally’s diner.

  “Thanks,” said Maggie. “That’s a roger. Over and out.”

  “Glad to help,” said Hank.

  Mr. Pin sped down Michigan Avenue to Ohio Street. There he saw the thief turn into a side street and park in front of a small bakery specializing in extra-large wedding cakes.

  Mr. Pin pulled into a dark alley.

  Green eyes glinted in the light as the thief got out of the truck.

  “That’s him,” whispered Mr. Pin.

  “He’s going into the bakery,” said Maggie.

  “It has to be the bakery we’re looking for,” said Mr. Pin. “But where’s the painting?”

  “In the bakery,” said Maggie.

  “I have to know for sure,” said Mr. Pin, hopping out of the car.

  “Be careful,” said Maggie. “Art thieves are dangerous.”

  But Mr. Pin had disappeared into the alley’s shadows.

  He made his way to the back door of the bakery and slowly opened it. He heard shouts inside, so Mr. Pin hid in a cake box wedged between two blocks of dry ice. Frost collected on his wings, but he enjoyed the cold.

  Two men were arguing.

  “Leave that painting here, Borris,” said one baker. He had on a tall white hat.

  “It’s too risky, Max,” said Borris, the green-eyed baker. “That crazy penguin and the redhead are on to us. They know about the bakery. We have to move the painting.”

  “Too late!” shouted Mr. Pin as he slammed a freezer door into a cream-puff pastry cart. The cart skidded into Max, who toppled over a large chocolate cake.

  “Hmmm. That chocolate smells familiar,” said Mr. Pin, sniffing with his beak.

  Outside sirens blared. Police lights twirled.

  But Borris was getting away! He was carrying a very large wedding cake out the front door.

  Mr. Pin grabbed his black bag and hopped after him.

  As the thief started his truck, Mr. Pin opened his bag and emptied his prized rock hopper rock collection in front of the tires.

  The motor whirred and the wheels spun, but the white truck wouldn’t budge. The rocks had stopped the thief cold.

  Squad cars skidded to a stop around the truck.

  Police nabbed the thieves. They were handcuffed and loaded into a paddy wagon.

  “But where’s the painting?” boomed O’Malley, arriving on the scene.

  “The cake!” shouted Mr. Pin, pointing to the cake in the truck.

  “Oh, no,” groaned Maggie. “You can’t be hungry at a time like this.”

  Mr. Pin tasted the cake with the tip of his wing. “It’s chocolate!” he said excitedly.

  “Calm down, penguin,” said O’Malley. “It’s just a cake.”

  “It’s a cake with a painting inside,” said Mr. Pin. “The thief baked a cake around the painting. The chocolate is the same as what I found on the wall of the museum.”

  Sure enough, when the police scraped away a bit of the frosting on the cake, they found a carefully wrapped painting. It was Picasso’s The Old Guitarist.

  Inside the squad car, Jones woke up and asked, “Isn’t that penguin full yet?” Mr. Pin wasn’t. He disappeared into the bakery, hot on the trail of more chocolate. O’Malley congratulated Maggie, who insisted it was Mr. Pin who should be thanked.

  Meanwhile, another police car arrived, and Smiling Sally jumped out carrying a large sack filled with cinnamon rolls.

  “There you are,” she said, hugging Maggie. “I knew you’d be all right, but I’m sure you’re both very hungry. Where’s Mr. Pin? He probably needs one of my nice hot cinnamon rolls.”

  At that moment Mr. Pin, another case under his belt, wobbled out the bakery door. He looked for a moment at the steaming, sugary rolls and asked, “Could we save them for breakfast?”

  MR. PIN and the Monroe Street Pigeon

  1

  It was midnight. Chicago steamed. Mr. Pin’s wings stuck to the typewriter.

  It had been a hot summer at Smiling Sally’s diner. Mr. Pin, rock hopper penguin detective from the South Pole, was writing his memoirs. His friend Maggie was upstairs with her aunt Sally. Mr. Pin was downstairs, in his headquarters behind the kitchen.

  “The sky was dark. The air was cold,” typed Mr. Pin, recalling his first mystery.

  Errrrrrk! Boards creaked in the diner. Mr. Pin looked up from his desk.

  Errrrrrk! They creaked again. It was time to investigate. Hopping off his typing crate, Mr. Pin opened the door.

  Creeeak. Thud. Someone had just gone out the back door!

  Crash! Mr. Pin stumbled into a cart of coffee cups. A light switched on.

  “What’s going on?” It was Maggie, barefoot, red hair flying in all directions.

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Pin. “But someone was here, and he left a note.”

  Maggie picked it up. “Meet me at Buckingham Fountain before the race at noon tomorrow. I need help,” Maggie read.

  “Someone’s in trouble,” said Mr. Pin. “Memoirs can wait.”

  2

  Monroe Street shops charged the air with smells of smoked chicken, fresh popcorn, and carry-out sushi. Everyone said hello to Maggie and Mr. Pin as they walked toward Buckingham Fountain. Mr. Pin bought a Tribune and flipped to the city news.

  “Another day of politics,” said Mr. Pin.

  Meanwhile, Maggie was looking at chocolate pigeons in the window of a chicken store.

  “Why would a chicken shop sell chocolate pigeons?” said Mr. Pin.

  “I don’t know,” said Maggie. “And I wonder where Pete the chicken man is.”

  “He’s missing,” said his wife Florrie, who had just come out of the store.

  “Who’s missing?” asked Mr. Pin, looking up from his papers.

  “The chicken man,” said Maggie.

  “Pete put the trash in a grocery cart and went outside to dump it. He hasn’t been back since,” said Florrie. “I’m beginning to get worried.”

  “What was he wearing?” asked Mr. Pin.

  “A big, baggy coat,” said Florrie.

  “We’re on another case,” said Mr. Pin. “But we’ll keep an eye out for him.”

  “Now there are two cases to solve,” said Maggie as they continued east on Monroe. “The chicken man is missing and someone is in trouble at Buckingham Fountain.”

  There was little time to talk. Soon it would be noon and a ten-kilometer race was about to start in Grant Park.

  The city sear
ed. Waves of heat curled from the sidewalk. Most penguins would die in this weather. But Mr. Pin was no ordinary penguin.

  The two detectives rushed past the Art Institute, the scene of another mystery. Someone had stolen a famous Picasso. But that was another story.

  Maggie and Mr. Pin hurried through Grant Park to Buckingham Fountain. Numbered runners stretched, drank Gatorade, and talked about the heat.

  Just ahead a homeless lady sat on a bench feeding the pigeons. A grocery cart filled with her possessions was parked next to her. The pigeons flocked like children listening to a story. Mr. Pin marveled that homeless people fed pigeons.

  Big cities can have big hearts, he thought.

  “I wonder whom we’re meeting before the race,” said Maggie.

  “Hmmmm,” said Mr. Pin calmly. “It isn’t before the race anymore. The race is starting.” A wall of runners raced past Maggie and Mr. Pin. The two detectives scrambled onto the fountain.

  “Look out!” shouted Maggie.

  The homeless lady was steering her cart wildly through the runners toward Maggie and Mr. Pin. A runner who did not look like the other runners was chasing the homeless lady. He had a number. But he was wearing shiny black shoes.

  The runner caught the homeless lady and snatched a box that was hidden in her cart. Maggie fumed. How could someone steal from a homeless person?

  The homeless lady wrenched the box out of the runner’s hands and tossed it to Maggie. Maggie caught the box but fell backward into the fountain. Mr. Pin hopped in and grabbed the box, just before it hit the water. He quickly swam to the other side. The thief snarled at Mr. Pin, but the wall of runners forced him away from the fountain.

  The homeless lady had vanished.

  Now Maggie and Mr. Pin had a mysterious box from a mysterious lady who was chased by a runner who wasn’t a runner.

  “That wasn’t a runner,” said Maggie.

  “I know,” said Mr. Pin. “And that wasn’t a homeless lady.”

  “Who was it?” asked Maggie, astonished.

  “That was the chicken man.”

  “How do you know?” asked Maggie.

  “There was a chicken on the side of his grocery cart,” said Mr. Pin.

  “No wonder Pete the chicken man was missing. He wasn’t there, because he was here.” Maggie was very logical.

  “Right,” said Mr. Pin, who understood Maggie’s logic.

  “We have to find him,” said Maggie.

  “And we have to find out what’s in this box,” said Mr. Pin.

  3

  “Aunt Sally is going to worry,” said Maggie, skipping after her penguin friend. Sally always worried when they missed a meal.

  “Right,” said Mr. Pin, hopping over potholes. His red beak darted through the crowd of lunchtime shoppers. Overhead, an elevated train screeched to a stop. Maggie and Mr. Pin burst into Smiling Sally’s diner.

  Inside the diner there was a crush of hungry truckers. Sally was busy flipping burgers and pouring cool lemonade. Sally loved feeding people, especially Maggie and Mr. Pin.

  “You’re all right,” said Sally to Mr. Pin. With a wide smile, she handed him a tall lemonade. Sally had a smile that sang.

  “I don’t know too many penguins who can handle this heat,” said the trucker named Hank, whisking away sweat.

  “I don’t know too many penguins,” said a confused man who was delivering ice.

  “You don’t know Mr. Pin,” said Hank. “Mr. Pin is a detective. He’s been here since he saved Sally from a gang of gangsters.”

  “That’s right,” said Sally. “Now what’ll it be, Maggie dear. You had me a bit worried when you were late for lunch.”

  But Maggie was worried about the chicken man. She didn’t want the trail to get cold while they sat in the steamy diner.

  Mr. Pin tucked cinnamon rolls, grilled-cheese sandwiches, and lemonade under his wing and steered Maggie to the back room.

  Maggie spread the food out on Mr. Pin’s desk. Meanwhile, Mr. Pin made short work of the tape and string around the homeless lady’s mysterious box.

  Quickly, Maggie pulled shreds of paper from the box. Underneath there was more paper and finally a roll of cotton.

  “It’s a chocolate pigeon!” shouted Maggie.

  “It doesn’t smell right,” said Mr. Pin. “It’s not chocolate.”

  “Then what is it?” asked Maggie.

  “Clay,” said Mr. Pin.

  “If it’s not chocolate, then why would the homeless lady who’s really the chicken man give us a clay pigeon that looks like a chocolate pigeon when he’s being chased by a runner who isn’t a runner?” Maggie had a way of talking all at once.

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Pin, “but I’m going to find out.”

  “And where,” asked Maggie, “did the chicken man go?”

  Moments later Mr. Pin and Maggie were hot on the trail of the chicken man. First stop was the chicken shop on Monroe.

  Florrie, the chicken man’s wife, was wringing her hands.

  “He’s here, but I don’t know what’s wrong with him,” she cried. “Ever since his uncle George died, Pete’s been so … strange.”

  Maggie and Mr. Pin went to the back room, where Pete the chicken man sat on a stool, shaking.

  “Why did you give us a clay pigeon?” asked Mr. Pin.

  “And why did you meet us at the park?” asked Maggie.

  “I had no choice. Someone was following me,” said Pete. “So I disguised myself as a homeless lady. I always liked pigeons. My uncle George used to take me to the park to feed them. He gave me a clay pigeon just before he died. He said it could be very valuable. He also gave me hundreds of chocolate pigeons from his chocolate shop in Indiana.”

  Mr. Pin looked at the clay pigeon and wondered how it could be valuable. Chocolate pigeons seemed more artistic.… Maybe it was a clue.

  “Uncle George said we could use this pigeon to help homeless people,” said Pete. “We need to find out why this bird is valuable before we can help anyone. Uncle George never had a chance to tell me.

  “Maybe it’s priceless art,” said Maggie.

  “I don’t know,” said Pete. “But I do know someone else wants it.”

  “The runner in the park,” said Mr. Pin. “We’ll set a trap and bait it with a chocolate pigeon. It may be dangerous. Are you willing to take a chance?”

  “Yes,” said Pete.

  “Now here’s the trap,” explained Mr. Pin. “Wrap up a chocolate pigeon in a box like the one you gave us. Bring it to the diner tonight. Hopefully the runner will trail you to Smiling Sally’s.”

  “All right,” said Pete, still shaking. “I’ll do it. Thanks—”

  But before Pete could finish thanking them, Mr. Pin and Maggie had disappeared.

  4

  Smiling Sally’s diner simmered in the evening heat. Sally was busy in the alley passing out free food to homeless people. Mr. Pin and Maggie waited inside. Pete’s clay pigeon was safely hidden in Mr. Pin’s black bag, which he kept in the back room.

  A slow ceiling fan cranked in the sweltering silence.

  The diner was empty when Pete the chicken man approached the door. Suddenly he tripped on a black shiny foot and threw his box into the air. For the second time that day, Mr. Pin caught the box just in time.

  From a shadow came the shiny-shoed runner, a skinny man wearing a knit cap.

  Pete froze.

  “I want that pigeon,” growled the runner.

  “What’s so great about a clay pigeon,” asked Mr. Pin, stepping toward the door.

  “It’s not the bird,” sneered the skinny man. “It’s the jewels.”

  Maggie’s eyes popped.

  Pete plopped onto a stool.

  “What jewels?” probed Mr. Pin, his mind racing.

  “The jewels in the bird. I helped George make chocolate pigeons in Indiana. He ran the shop. I stirred the vats. One day he said he hid his grandmother’s jewels in a clay pigeon. He said he was giving them to his nephew. Now I want that pigeon.”

  Mr. Pin had an idea. “You can have the pigeon,” he said. “But this is the wrong one. The real pigeon is in the back room.

  Maggie couldn’t believe her ears.

  Pete was stunned. Mr. Pin was going to give the jewels to a crook. The homeless people would never get warm clothes and food to eat.