The Spy Who Came North from the Pole Page 2

  IN A LION SEEN BY MANY LIONS. BE THERE AT MIDNIGHT.

  Maggie looked at Mr. Pin, her eyes growing wider, and asked, “What in the world does it mean? There are lion gargoyles on buildings all over the city.”

  “I have an idea,” said Mr. Pin. “There are two lion statues in front of the Art Institute. Across the street, on a building on Michigan Avenue, there are many more lions that look down on them.”

  “So which lion is the right one?” asked Maggie.

  “I don’t know,” said Mr. Pin. “But I’m going to wait for the spy on the ground … not on the building across the street.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because penguins don’t fly.”

  “This whole thing sounds fishy,” said Maggie. “Why would a spy just accidentally drop his clues all over the place? Unless it’s a trap to lure you someplace where the police will catch you.”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Pin. “And he thinks he’ll get away with the codebook while the police hold me. So I’ll just have to set my own trap. Tonight.”

  “It could be dangerous,” said Maggie. “We have to tell the police.”

  “We can’t,” said Mr. Pin. “They think I’m involved.”

  “Then I’m going, too,” said Maggie.

  “Not this time,” said Mr. Pin.

  “So why are you telling me all of this if I can’t go?” asked Maggie.

  “In case,” Mr. Pin said slowly, “I don’t come back.”

  6

  It was almost midnight. The streets were empty. A dark figure huddled under a black cape headed into the dense fog. He made his way across Wabash under the tracks toward Michigan Avenue.

  Carrying a black bag, he inched behind a long, low wall of shrubs, then crouched down as he reached one of the statues in front of the Art Institute. Slowly, he put his wing into the lion’s mouth and took something out. He put it into his black bag. Then he took a roll of wire out of his bag and connected one end to the lion’s tail and the other to the door of the Art Institute. He did the same thing with the other lion. Then he hid behind the first lion again.

  Just in time.

  Another dark figure slowly made his way up the stairs. When he reached the lion, he took a large mallet and chisel out of a brown bag and gripped one in each wing. He was about to hit the lion when Mr. Pin jumped out.

  “Stop!” Mr. Pin shouted. “Don’t hit that lion. Besides, it won’t do you any good. It’s bronze.”

  “What?!” said the spy with the chisel, still hidden in the fog. “So you finally caught up with me.”

  “You made it easy,” said Mr. Pin. “Too easy.”

  “But my plan worked,” said the spy. “The police think you are the gargoyle smasher.”

  “So that’s why you left the clues,” said Mr. Pin.

  “Smart penguin,” said the spy with a chuckle.

  “Is that why you led me here, too?” asked Mr. Pin.

  “No. That was an accident. I didn’t mean to drop the last message. Even spies make mistakes.”

  “And coming here was a mistake, Mister—”

  “You can call me Gargoyle,” said the spy.

  “Just one question, Gargoyle,” said Mr. Pin. “Why the boxes of chocolate?”

  “You and I are a lot alike,” said the spy. He stepped out of the fog, and it all suddenly became clear to Mr. Pin how it could look as if he had been in two places at once.

  The spy was a rock hopper penguin, too!

  It was a lot to think about. But Mr. Pin didn’t have time to think. Gargoyle lunged toward the statue, desperate for the codebook. The chisel glinted in the glow of the streetlight. Mr. Pin stepped aside. Gargoyle sprang forward and tripped on the wire. Alarms screeched. Museum guards rushed outside.

  Gargoyle struggled to get up, then spun on his webbed feet. He sped down the stairs just as a bus pulled up, and he jumped on. Mr. Pin watched from the museum steps. And then, although he wasn’t sure why, he raised the missing codebook to his brow and saluted the only other penguin who had ever walked the streets of Chicago. Gargoyle raised his wing, returning the salute as the bus, driven by a man in a trench coat, disappeared into the fog.

  Meanwhile, O’Malley was first on the scene, along with Maggie, who had somehow forgotten about not calling the police. Most of the time, Maggie listened to Mr. Pin. But this wasn’t one of those times.

  Maggie jumped out while O’Malley hauled his large frame out of the squad car. Mr. Pin came down the stairs and handed O’Malley the book.

  “This is what the gargoyle smasher was looking for,” said Mr. Pin. “But it looks like he got away. Turns out he was a spy named Gargoyle. I found the book inside the lion’s mouth. It was a good thing I got here first. It looked like he was going to hit the lion with a chisel. He didn’t know I had already found the codebook.”

  “I’m just glad you’re all right,” said Maggie.

  Mr. Pin explained to the museum guards and O’Malley what had happened, but O’Malley just kept shaking his head.

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “You’re here, but as I was driving up, I thought I saw a rock hopper penguin hop into a bus.”

  “You’re right,” said Mr. Pin. “And he may be back. That was the spy who came north from the Pole.”

  The Spitter Pitchers

  1

  Wrigley Field was hot. But it was hotter in the bleachers. The rock hopper penguin detective Mr. Pin and his friend Maggie were sitting under the Scoreboard, watching the Cubs.

  So far it was a close game with a lot at stake. The Cubs were in second place. The game they were playing against the Dodgers could put them in first.

  “Frosty malt! Frosty malt!” called a vendor. It was unusual for someone to be selling ice cream in the bleachers. Mr. Pin held up his wing. A cold frosty malt came down the row, hand to hand, until it reached the penguin detective. Mr. Pin sent his money back the same way.

  “Thanks,” called Mr. Pin as he took the lid off the frosty malt. He was about to shovel the ice cream into his beak when he noticed some writing on the lid.

  It was a message for him! Interesting, he thought. But it wouldn’t be the first time he had found notes in strange places.

  “Come to my office after the game,” the note said. It was signed: “Walter Wavemin.” Walter was the Cubs manager.

  Mr. Pin ate the frosty malt but saved the lid. He dropped it into his black bag.

  The Dodgers were up at bat. Runners were at the corners. And the game was tied 5 to 5 in the top of the seventh.

  “Steeeeerike!” growled the umpire. The bleacher fans went wild. Someone threw peanut shells into the air. Maggie kept score on a pad of paper held on her lap.

  “Ball one.” The crowd was suddenly quiet.

  After three more pitches, the count was full, and the batter fouled down the right field line.

  The next pitch came in low, over the plate. The Dodgers’ batter got behind the ball, and it rode the breezes toward the bleachers. Cubs fans gasped. An outfielder leaped but was unable to reach the homer. Several fans sprang eagerly for the ball. But it was a black wing that easily grabbed it out of the air and threw it back onto the field. A TV camera zoomed in.

  “Nice wing on that penguin,” said the outfielder as he tossed it to the shortstop.

  Wavemin went to the mound. He called in his ace relief pitcher Sam Spitter, hoping he could get the Cubs back in the game. Sam held the Dodgers in the eighth inning. But he let two runs score in the ninth. The Dodgers won 10 to 5.

  “There’s always the next game,” said Maggie to Mr. Pin. “We’re not out of the race yet.”

  “No. And we’re not out of the park yet either,” said Mr. Pin.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Walter Wavemin wants to see us,” said Mr. Pin.

  “Really!’ said Maggie. “How do you know?”

  “I was given a note on a frosty malt lid.”

  Many strange things had happened, thought Maggie, since Mr. Pin had c
ome to live at her aunt Sally’s diner. But never before had the manager of a major league baseball team written a note on a frosty malt lid asking to see Mr. Pin.

  “Do you think the note is really from Walter Wavemin?” asked Maggie as the two detectives made their way through the crowd.

  “There’s only one way to find out,” said Mr. Pin.

  Maggie and Mr. Pin slipped through an unmarked door and went down a flight of stairs. They waited for some time until all of the players had gone home; then they went inside the locker room.

  The room was shaped like a cylinder and smelled like bubble gum, wet towels, and sweaty athletic tape. Uniforms tumbled out of hampers, and a box of new baseballs had been left on a table along with an unfinished game of cards. Maggie and Mr. Pin made their way past the wooden lockers as the batboys came in to clean the players’ spikes.

  The two detectives walked down another hallway and up a flight of stairs to Wavemin’s office. He was sitting behind a desk, a pile of bubble gum wrappers at his elbow.

  “Detective Pin,” said Mr. Pin. He tipped his checked cap and added: “Reasonable rates.”

  “You have quite a reputation as a crime solver and lover of chocolate,” said Wavemin. “That’s why I gave a note to a frosty malt vendor. I knew you were at the game and would be buying a lot of chocolate. He’d have no trouble spotting you.”

  “I like frosty malts,” said Mr. Pin. “Especially chocolate. Now, what’s the crime?”

  “There isn’t one yet,” said Wavemin. “But something’s not right with Sam Spitter. He’s been getting strange phone calls here in the clubhouse. When anyone else answers and asks who it is, the caller hangs up. And just the other day I saw Sam putting on a fake mustache.”

  “Really!” said Maggie. She wrote what Wavemin had said on her pad of paper.

  “Anything else?” asked Mr. Pin.

  “He’s in a slump,” said Wavemin.

  “Could happen,” said Mr. Pin.

  “But it can’t happen now!” said Wavemin. He thumped his fist on his desk, and the wrappers flew up like a pile of leaves. “We’re going to win the pennant this year.”

  “I understand. I’m on the case,” said Mr. Pin as he hopped over an Ace bandage and left the manager’s office with Maggie.

  2

  It was still crowded on Waveland Avenue as Maggie and Mr. Pin made their way from the ballpark through a cluster of people who were eating hot dogs and listening to a street-corner drummer.

  “If there were any more people,” said Maggie, “I think we’d stick together.”

  “Like penguins,” commented Mr. Pin.

  “Wait!” shouted Maggie. “Isn’t that Sam Spitter?” At first the person she pointed to looked like an old man. He was bent over and had a gray beard. He wore overalls, dark glasses, and a mustache.

  “I think that mustache is fake,” said Mr. Pin.

  Only Mr. Pin’s and Maggie’s sharp eyes for detail could detect the ace pitcher beneath the disguise.

  “I wonder where he’s going?” said Maggie.

  “Quick,” said Mr. Pin, spinning on his webbed feet. “I think he’s headed north.”

  Maggie and Mr. Pin hurried after the disguised Sam Spitter, through the turnstile, up the stairs, and onto a train headed north.

  It was a tight fit as the elevated train, or el, careened along its tracks. It was tricky, too, because Spitter was sitting next to the door. Maggie and Mr. Pin were at the back of the car behind a lot of tall people. At any moment, Sam could jump out, and if the detectives didn’t move fast, he’d disappear before they could find out where he was going and why he was wearing a disguise.

  It was several stops later that Mr. Pin suddenly said to Maggie, “This is our stop. Spitter’s getting off.”

  Mr. Pin was able to wedge his way gently through the crowd with his beak while Maggie followed close behind. As they left the train, they saw Sam hurrying down the stairs toward a bus. Sam got on and sat in the back. Maggie and Mr. Pin made it just in time and sat toward the front.

  Mr. Pin took a newspaper out of his black bag and held it up so they couldn’t be seen. He didn’t want the pitcher to know he was being followed.

  But it wasn’t long before Sam pulled the bus cord and got off. The two detectives rode to the next stop, left the bus, and doubled back. From a distance, they watched as Sam unlocked the gate of a Little League baseball park. Once inside, he relocked the gate.

  Maggie looked up at a sign shaped like a giant baseball. It stood next to the park where hundreds of Little League teams would play that summer.

  “Thillens!” said Maggie excitedly, reading the sign. “I played baseball here last summer. Pitched a no-hitter.”

  “I remember,” said Mr. Pin.

  “You helped me with my fastball,” said Maggie.

  Maggie and Mr. Pin weren’t sure what a major league pitcher disguised as an old man was doing in a deserted Little League park. But they wanted to find out. Hiding close by in some bushes, Mr. Pin rested his beak on the chain-link fence. The two detectives watched to see what Sam would do.

  Pretty soon a small truck pulled up. A man about the same height as Sam stepped out. He also unlocked the gate.

  “If I didn’t know better,” said Maggie, “I could swear that man was also Sam Spitter.”

  “Maybe it is,” said Mr. Pin.

  Sam and the man who looked like Sam strode onto the field together. The man the detectives had followed on the el took off his dark glasses. Still wearing a beard, he put on a catcher’s mitt, a mask, and a chest protector. He squatted behind the plate. The man from the truck went up to the mound. He started a windup.

  Zinnnng! Smack. The ball sank into the catcher’s glove.

  “Nice!” said the catcher. “Fingers on the seams for a split-finger fastball.”

  The pitcher wound up again.

  Zinnnng! Smack.

  “Better,” said the catcher.

  “The man on the mound isn’t Sam,” whispered Mr. Pin to Maggie.

  “How do you know?”

  “Sam already knows how to throw a split-finger fastball.”

  “Now, don’t work on the ball,” said the catcher to the pitcher who wasn’t Sam Spitter. “No nail marks, grease, or spit. There isn’t time if you’re a relief pitcher. Besides, it isn’t right.”

  “Okay, Sam,” said the pitcher. “The Spitter pitchers don’t throw spitters.”

  “Right,” said the catcher.

  “So the catcher is Sam Spitter,” whispered Maggie to Mr. Pin, clutching the chain-link fence. “But if Sam’s the catcher and the pitcher looks just like him and his name is also Spitter, who is the pitcher?”

  “His twin,” said Mr. Pin calmly.

  “Twin Spitter pitchers!” said Maggie. “I can’t believe it!” It was a good thing a bus rolled by, or she might have been heard.

  “But I don’t think Sam wants anyone to know there are two of him. That’s why he’s wearing a disguise,” explained Mr. Pin.

  “Try the split-finger again,” said Sam from behind his mask.

  Zinnnng! Thud. This time the catcher couldn’t catch the ball.

  “Great!” yelled Sam. “Now you’ve got it. Remember to be at the park early next week for the night game.”

  “Thanks, Sam.”

  The two pitchers finished their practice as the sun set on Thillens Park. They packed their gear, locked the gate, and Sam’s twin drove them away in the pickup truck.

  As the two detectives walked back to the bus stop, Maggie said to Mr. Pin: “Sam’s twin is a good pitcher.”

  “Very good,” said Mr. Pin.

  “He’s as good as Sam,” said Maggie.

  “He’s just as good,” said Mr. Pin. “Especially if Sam’s in a slump.”

  “The Cubs could win the pennant,” said Maggie. “Maybe even the Series.”

  “With good pitching,” said Mr. Pin to Maggie as the bus pulled up. “And I wonder … what will happen at that game next week?�
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  3

  Back at the diner Mr. Pin spent most of the evening in his back room, putting together a small model of Wrigley Field. He had just finished the upper deck and was about to glue on the lights.

  “Wrigley Field was the last of the old ballparks to put in lights,” said Mr. Pin to Maggie.

  “Why did they do it?” asked Maggie.

  Mr. Pin held up the tiny cardboard lights with a tweezer and replied, “So people can find the frosty malt vendor.”

  “Seriously.”

  “So the players can find the dugout at night,” Mr. Pin went on. “So the manager can see who’s pitching.”

  Maggie wasn’t sure she was going to get a real answer about the lights that night from Mr. Pin. So she left Mr. Pin muttering something about “all the great old ballparks, and old Wrigley didn’t want the lights after all.” Maggie went upstairs to feed her gerbils.

  Mr. Pin looked at his model of Wrigley Field. He held the lights in his tweezers and thought out loud: “If the lights are on, the manager can see who’s pitching. But if the lights are off, no one knows who’s on the mound. Very interesting. I wonder …”

  It was growing late, and the Sox were playing on the coast. The game was on the radio. “Now here’s the pitch,” said the announcer. Mr. Pin wadded up a piece of paper. Then the rock hopper penguin went into a spectacular windup, pivoted on his webbed feet, and slammed a sinker into a wastebasket.

  “There are no minor leagues at the South Pole,” said Mr. Pin.

  4

  The sky was dark. But the lights were on at Wrigley Field.

  It was an important game for the Cubs. It could also be an important game for Sam Spitter. Sam had told his brother to come early to this night game. Something just didn’t feel right to Mr. Pin. So he called Walter and told him he would be at this game. When the manager gave Mr. Pin two free tickets behind the Cubs dugout, the penguin detective didn’t complain.

  “Bill ‘the Babe’ Bruseball is starting pitcher,” said Maggie to Mr. Pin. She was listening to a play-by-play on a radio headset.