Half Moon Investigations - Eoin Colfer [74]
My stomach lurched and my heart pumped as though a fist was tightening around it. My mouth automatically opened to call for Red but I checked the impulse. There was no time. I would have to handle this myself. I was not an expert in the field of direct action, preferring to point my police contacts at the criminals, but there was no time for channels now. I had to move.
The figure edged closer to its target, its movements fluid yet angular. Bigger than me. Much bigger. But I wouldn’t need to contain the suspect, just knock him to the ground. The dark figure raised its hands, curling its fingers into claws like a TV vampire.
Move, I told myself. Now or never.
I did move, as though in a daydream. My brain couldn’t believe what my feet were doing. I had no idea how to attack someone. There was no chapter on this in the Bernstein Manual. I simply barrelled forward. To the casual observer my attack surely resembled a prolonged stumble.
I have read books about detectives tackling suspects. These fictional characters are always expert in several forms of martial art, having spent at least a decade training on a mountain top in the Far East. I have had no such training. The biggest thing I had ever tackled was a jar of pickled onions that refused to be opened.
I decided to add some noise to my attack to distract the shadowy figure. I intended to roar in a predatory fashion, but instead squealed like a boiling kettle. The noise worked. The figure twisted its head sharply just in time to see a pint-sized, red-haired Elvis hurtling in his direction.
He had time for a brief yelp, then I crashed into him and we tumbled to the wooden floor in a tangle of thrashing limbs.
May screamed, jumping out of our path. We rolled for a few metres until a low bench halted our progress. I crawled out from underneath my suspect, who was examining his elbow and crying bitterly. Not typical arch-criminal behaviour.
May stepped back, then forward. ‘What are you doing?’
I stood gasping. ‘It’s me, Fletcher. He did it. All of it. We have him.’
May frowned. ‘Fletcher? That’s you? That was you at the oil tank?’
‘Yes,’ I said urgently. ‘I thought April was behind everything. But I was wrong. This is the criminal right here. It’s all about the talent show.’
‘I don’t think so, Fletcher,’ said May. ‘David wouldn’t hurt a butterfly.’
‘I’m a pacifist,’ sobbed David, rubbing his elbow.
I thought my heart would burst with exertion and excitement. ‘But he was creeping towards you, dressed in black. You don’t have to be a detective –’
‘We were both rehearsing over here. David is a mime.’
A mime? Oh no.
David glared at me. ‘I won’t be opening any invisible doors with this arm, thanks very much.’
A mime. How could I have been so stupid?
A crowd was gathering. Teachers were surely on the way. Perhaps Guard Cassidy.
‘Fletcher,’ whispered the children. ‘It’s Fletcher Moon.’
I had to go. Now.
My cover was blown. I was finished. And I knew how this would look. It would seem as though I had come here in disguise to have another go at May.
Red came to my rescue again. He elbowed through the crowd, grabbing my forearm.
‘Let’s go, Watson. We’re on.’
I allowed myself to be pulled along, though the phrase ‘We’re on’ filled me with dread. Genie and Herod were in the wings chanting the vocal exercise:
Dog sees
Some shoes,
Dog eats,
Dog poohs.
I suspected they had made up this exercise themselves.
‘Come on,’ said Red.
‘We’re not warmed up,’ protested Genie. ‘Just two more dogs.’
‘And two more poohs,’ added Herod, adjusting his sideburns.
Red propelled them both onstage, dragging me along.
A folk-singing trio had just finished a version of ‘Country Roads’ and were in the middle of their bow when we tumbled on to the stage. Behind us, the other acts swarmed into the wings. My name was on everyone’s lips.
Moon the lunatic was here. In disguise.
Principal Quinn arrived on stage from the opposite wing, shooting Red a look that would have petrified a minotaur. You will pay for this later, the look promised.
‘Well, ladies and