The Crims Read online

  “Right,” she said. “That’s enough fun for one day.”

  “That’s what’s going to be on your gravestone,” said Delia. “When you die. Of being boring.”

  “Fine,” said Imogen. “You stay here and talk to the weird old robots. I’m going to infiltrate Charm Ltd. headquarters. Anyone who thinks that sounds boring is welcome to stay here. Everyone else: Let’s go to customer services!”

  She started walking. After a few seconds, the others followed her. Including Delia.

  When they got to customer services, Nick and Nate, still in their trench coat–dad disguise, walked up to the booth and drew themselves up to their full, wobbly, combined height.

  “Can I help you?” said the customer services representative, whose badge said her name was Annie Broccoli.

  “I certainly hope so,” said Nick (or Nate) in as deep a voice as he could manage. “What do you call this?” he demanded, holding out an ice cream cone they’d purchased on the walk over.

  “An ice cream cone?” said Annie Broccoli, clearly wondering if this was a trick question.

  “And what’s this?” said Nick (or Nate), holding out a razor blade.

  “That’s a razor blade.”

  “And do you think razor blades and ice cream mix?”

  “No,” said Annie, frowning. “Unless maybe you ran out of shaving foam and decided to use ice cream instead?”

  “WHICH WOULD BE A VERY STUPID THING TO DO!” boomed Nick (or Nate).

  “Oh, I’m sure,” said Annie. “I don’t have a beard, so I wouldn’t really know. But . . . why are we having this conversation, exactly?”

  “YOU TELL ME!” cried Nick (or Nate). “Why did my son here,” he said, patting Sam’s head, “find this razor blade IN HIS ICE CREAM CONE?”

  “Oh my goodness!” said Annie, her eyes suddenly wide. “I’m so sorry!”

  “I SHOULD THINK SO!” shouted Nick (or Nate), glancing down at Imogen, who gave him a subtle thumbs-up.

  “Please allow me to make this up to you,” said Annie, smiling anxiously. “I can offer you this coupon. It allows you to skip lines for the rest of the day.”

  Nick (or Nate)’s eyes widened. Imogen had tried to prepare him for this possibility, telling him to reject everything offered. As a reminder, Imogen elbowed him very hard in the stomach, which turned out not to be his stomach at all, but his twin’s face. For a horrible moment, it seemed as though the top twin was about to come crashing to the ground, bringing Imogen’s brilliant plan with him, but he righted himself just in time.

  “Are you okay?” asked Annie.

  “NOT REALLY,” said Nick (or Nate). “I just almost collapsed with disbelief because you have the NERVE to offer me nothing more than a COUPON when my ONLY SON NEARLY DIED OF INTERNAL BLEEDING!”

  “Your only son?” said Annie, looking pointedly at Henry.

  “That one doesn’t count,” said Nick (or Nate). “He wants to be a tattoo artist when he grows up.”

  “Oh dear!” said Annie.

  “I know,” said Nick (or Nate). “But back to the matter at hand. I want to speak to THE MAN IN CHARGE!” He slid a fake business card across the desk, which Delia had carefully designed and printed up on their computer the night before. It identified him as Rick Roberts, publisher of Rich Parent magazine.

  Annie’s eyes widened even farther as she looked at the card. “Oh, of course, Mr. Roberts!” she said, jumping up. “Let me just speak to my manager.” Bowing awkwardly, as if Nick (or Nate) was some kind of royal, she disappeared into the back office.

  The Horrible Children heard muffled voices, and a moment later, a small toad-like man in a brown suit entered the booth. He had a nasty way of rubbing his hands together, and a nasty, smarmy voice. “Mr. Roberts,” he said, holding out his slimy-looking hand. “I’m Geoff Biscuit. What can I do you for? Ha! Ha!”

  “I want to see the man in charge,” said Nick (or Nate).

  “I am the man in charge.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of the food outlets at Charmtopia.”

  “NO!” boomed Nick (or Nate), slamming his hands on the booth. “I want to see the man in charge . . . of EVERYTHING!”

  “All right, all right,” said Geoff Biscuit, backing away. “I’ll go and fetch the general manager.”

  After a little more muttering, a woman in a smart-looking navy dress walked into the booth. “Dolores Cheese,” she said. “General manager.” She held out her hand for Nick (or Nate) to shake, but he didn’t.

  “I asked to see the man in charge,” he said. “AND YOU ARE NOT EVEN A MAN!”

  “That is very sexist,” said Dolores Cheese. “I am in charge of this entire theme park!”

  “But you are not in charge of THE WHOLE OF CHARM LTD., are you?”

  “Not yet,” said Dolores Cheese (who was very ambitious).

  “And why does everyone who works here SEEM TO BE NAMED AFTER A KIND OF FOOD?” asked Nick (or Nate).

  “I’ll take you to see Mr. Hornbutton,” Dolores Cheese said sniffily. “I think you’ll find his job title, his name, and his gender to your satisfaction.”

  As Dolores Cheese turned away, Imogen flashed Delia an excited grin. The plan was actually working!

  Dolores Cheese led them back into the middle of the park, to the huge blue castle that loomed above everything else. The castle didn’t look like it belonged in Charmtopia—it looked too new and well looked after. “This way,” said Dolores Cheese as the huge steel gate to the castle swung open automatically. Their footsteps echoed as they walked down the shiny hallway to the steel lifts in the middle of the building. Dolores Cheese pressed the button for the 193rd floor. Amazing, Imogen thought. The castle doesn’t look that tall from the outside! “Mr. Hornbutton has the corner office,” Dolores Cheese said.

  Nick (or Nate) nodded, satisfied.

  When the lift doors dinged open on the 193rd floor, Dolores Cheese tapped her way down another extremely shiny hallway to a huge office that bore what appeared to be a solid-gold nameplate reading “Derek Hornbutton.”

  Derek Hornbutton’s office was almost as shiny as Uncle Knuckles’s bald head, only with less stubble and more vases full of artificial flowers. He had a sign that said “Millions of Bucks Stop Here!” on his desk, next to a framed photograph of himself with his arms around two smiling, well-groomed children, who Imogen guessed were his kids. Derek Hornbutton himself was seated at a gigantic desk, leaning back in his desk chair and waggling what looked like a solid-gold pen in his fingers. He had a thin mustache. Imogen was immediately suspicious. Big Nana had taught her “Men with mustaches usually have secrets. Even Charlie Chaplin. He had an eleventh toe.”

  Derek Hornbutton didn’t look very pleased to see them. “Mrs. Cheese?” he said. “Surely these people are looking for some sort of budget fast-food restaurant and not my personal office?”

  “Actually, sir,” said Dolores Cheese, “they have already been to a fast-food outlet—the Scoopadoopa Ice Cream stall. But they got an unexpected surprise in one of their cones.”

  “A voucher for a Captain Caring pajama set?”

  “No.”

  “A Princess Kindness key ring?”

  “No.”

  “A Helpful Baby dummy that doubles as a bath plug—now, those really do come in handy.”

  “No, sir,” said Dolores Cheese. “Please stop guessing.”

  “Then spit it out!” said Derek Hornbutton.

  “That’s exactly what my son had to do . . . BECAUSE OF THIS RAZOR BLADE!” Nick (or Nate) said sternly, holding out the slightly rusty blade.

  Imogen tried not to smile. She’d forgotten what good actors the twins were.

  “This is Rick Roberts,” Dolores Cheese said hastily. “Publisher of Rich Parent magazine.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so?” cried Derek Hornbutton, all smiles suddenly. “Rick! Please! Come and sit down! Would you like a cigar? Some whiskey? A surprisingly expensive pair of socks? Please! I have so many of the
m! My secretary keeps buying them for me!”

  “I’ll take the socks,” said Nick (or Nate) as he and Imogen and the other Horrible Children walked into the office. Derek Hornbutton waved a finger at Dolores Cheese, and she picked up a tray full of socks from the sideboard and offered them to Nick (or Nate). He selected a red-and-yellow polka-dot pair and put them in his jacket pocket.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “That’ll be all, Mrs. Cheese,” Derek Hornbutton said, waving her away.

  Dolores Cheese winced a bit, then turned, straightened herself up, and walked out. Imogen listened to her tap-tap-tap down the hallway. A small part of her hoped that Captain Caring really caught on with kids, so that there would still be a Charm Ltd. for Dolores Cheese to manage someday.

  “So,” said Derek Hornbutton. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “I WOULD LIKE THE DELICIOUS ICE CREAM FOR MY SON, WHICH I PAID FOR!” boomed Nate (or Nick), just as Imogen had told him to.

  “Coming right up,” said Mr. Hornbutton, buzzing his receptionist. “Hi, Jonathan,” he said. “Could you fetch an ice cream cone for this fine young gentleman?” He winked at Sam. “Was it vanilla? One scoop or two?”

  “Two scoops—” squeaked Sam, slapping his hand over his mouth. “Please,” he finished, in a much deeper voice.

  Derek Hornbutton chuckled and shook his head. “Don’t worry, boy,” he said. “I know how awful it is when your voice is breaking.”

  “His voice wasn’t broken until this morning, when it was cut to pieces by a razor blade . . . IN YOUR THEME PARK!” cried Nick (or Nate).

  “I really am so sorry,” said Mr. Hornbutton.

  “And as you can imagine,” said Nick (or Nate), “I won’t be comfortable giving the ice cream to my son unless you have fetched it for me personally. Considering recent events, you’ll understand why I can’t trust anyone else.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Hornbutton, chuckling again, “I don’t know about that. It isn’t really typical for the president of a major company to go on an ice cream run.”

  “Oh. That’s fine,” said Nick (or Nate).

  “Thank you for being so understanding,” said Mr. Hornbutton.

  “Not at all. I’m sure you’ll understand that Rich Parent magazine will have to revise our review of Charmtopia in light of today’s events. Which is a real shame. Because you’ll remember that last year, we named Charmtopia as the Number-One Place to Conspicuously Spend Your Fortune.”

  “No! That won’t be necessary! Of course I’ll get the ice cream!” said Derek Hornbutton, leaping to his feet like an overpaid gazelle. “I won’t be long. Make yourselves at home.”

  As soon as Hornbutton had left his office, they made themselves right at home.

  And as we know, Crim House wasn’t exactly the tidiest of homes. . . .

  Imogen and the Horrible Children started ransacking the drawers and bookshelves and secret compartments under the desk, looking for anything that could tie Charm Ltd. to the missing lunch box. They found a few odd things—something that looked like a rhino’s horn, a bottle of pills labeled “Overexcited Child Suppression Tablets,” and the manuscript of an unfinished autobiography called Lonely at the Top: Derek Hornbutton’s Story, which seemed to be written entirely in rhyme. But just as Imogen was beginning to think they’d looked everywhere, Delia let out a yelp.

  “What?” said Imogen, rushing over.

  Delia held up a piece of paper bearing a family crest: a stocky man and a stocky woman, each holding a machine gun, standing triumphantly over a dead grizzly bear.

  Written on the bear’s stomach was a single word: “KRUK.”

  “Wait, what?” said Imogen.

  This didn’t make any sense at all. What would Charm Ltd. have to do with the Kruks, an actually successful criminal family, which put them on an entirely different level from the Crims? She took the letter from Delia, but she only managed to skim the first line, which said something about “moving forward with our lawsuit,” before she heard the ding of the lift and Derek Hornbutton’s footsteps walking back toward the office. And all too quickly, there he was, framed in the doorway like a furious painting. His jaw dropped open. The ice cream fell to the floor. “WHAT IN CHARMTOPIA IS GOING ON?” he cried.

  Imogen looked around. Things had gotten a little out of hand while they’d been searching the office, she realized. Nick and Nate had taken off the trench coat and were jumping wildly on the expensive white leather couch for no apparent reason—possibly they were just overjoyed not to be standing on each other’s shoulders. Isabella, Imogen could see now, had taken a Cross-Eyed Cat doll from Derek Hornbutton’s vintage toy shelf and pulled it to pieces.

  “Let me explain—” Imogen started, but Derek Hornbutton was in no mood for explanations.

  “Who are you?” he cried. “NO ONE IS ALLOWED UP HERE BUT RICH PEOPLE!” He pressed a button on his desk, and big red lights started flashing and an alarm blared out: “Unidentified commoners in the office! Evacuate the building immediately.”

  Imogen didn’t need to be asked twice. She’d had enough of being forcibly removed from buildings by rich old men. She and the Horrible Children ran down the corridor and pressed the lift button.

  “First floor. Going up,” said the lift.

  “We don’t have time to wait!” yelled Imogen as the Horrible Children skidded to a halt next to her. “Quick! Down the stairs!”

  They raced to the spiral staircase that stretched all the way down the castle. Imogen stared down and thought she might be sick—she could barely see the bottom.

  “Come on,” said Delia, setting off down the stairs, closely followed by Henry (clutching Isabella) and Sam.

  “Come on,” said Nick (and Nate) as they sat on the banister and began to slide down. “It’s quicker this way!”

  So Imogen closed her eyes, sat on the banister, and pushed herself off. What was the worst that could happen? Apart from falling to a very undignified death in a very bad theme park. She decided not to think about that.

  But then they were at the bottom of the staircase, and Derek Hornbutton didn’t seem to have caught up with them. They burst out of the blue castle. “Which way is the exit?” asked Delia.

  “This way!” said Imogen, running toward the terrifying Friendly Clown face. She looked back toward the castle—and was stunned to see Derek Hornbutton careening toward them, dodging around the other families in the theme park, as if he was worried he might catch ordinariness from them. How did he catch up to us so fast? “Quick!” she yelled.

  “Stop those children!” shrieked Derek Hornbutton, blowing the rhino horn from his office.

  Several costumed characters forgot what they were doing and started running toward them, arms outstretched, faces blank and smiling. Imogen felt a shiver of panic. This is worse than being chased by giant dogs! At least you knew what giant dogs would do when they caught you; they would eat you. Which would be terrible, clearly—but Imogen had a feeling being caught by the Friendly Clown or Princess Kindness might turn out to be a lot scarier.

  “I’ll catch ’em, Mr. Hornbutton!” lisped the Helpful Baby, too helpful by half, as it started lumbering in their direction surprisingly quickly. When the baby reached them, it tried to grab Delia in its big, squishy arms.

  Delia slipped out of the way just in time. She stuck her tongue out at the Helpful Baby and kept running toward the exit, grabbing a bag of Gobstoppers from the sweets stall as she ran.

  Nick and Nate dodged past all the characters and overtook the rest of the Horrible Children. Imogen watched them race through the exit gates toward the train station. Sam and Henry and Isabella and Delia made it through too, and Imogen wasn’t far behind. She just had a few more steps to go. . . .

  “Come on, Imogen,” called Delia, hanging back to wait for her.

  Imogen willed her legs to go just a bit faster. . . .

  But then she heard a voice calling “LEAVE IT TO ME, MR. HORNBUTTON!” in a terrifying voice. A very fri
endly but terrifying voice. She turned around and saw the Friendly Clown himself, running toward her in slow motion.

  Imogen kept running at her usual speed, and she made it out of the exit before the clown had even taken his fourth step.

  “NOOOOO!” he screamed (in slow motion again) as Delia grabbed Imogen’s hand.

  “Thanks for waiting,” said Imogen.

  “That was close,” said Delia.

  “It wasn’t really,” said Imogen.

  “No, it wasn’t,” admitted Delia. “It just sounds better if you say that sort of thing sometimes, doesn’t it?”

  They made it on to the train just in time, and they bought hot chocolate and cookies from the refreshment cart to celebrate making it out of Charmtopia alive.

  “Wow,” said Sam, looking at his cookie respectfully. “I’ve never eaten anything I’ve paid for myself before.”

  “It tastes so much better,” said Henry. “This is, like, blowing my mind.” He dipped his finger in his hot chocolate and wrote his name on the train window. “Got to mark the moment,” he said.

  Imogen pulled out the letter she’d taken from Derek Hornbutton’s office from her pocket. “Want to hear what it says?”

  “YES!” the Horrible Children yelled in unison.

  “Right,” said Imogen, unfolding the letter and clearing her throat, impressively. “Here goes:

  To The Man in Charge:

  As you and your associates at Charm Ltd. have not addressed our complaints about the Captain Crook character to our satisfaction, and continue to suppress evidence of the character’s existence, we are left with no choice but to find another way of attracting your attention. I understand that you are very attached to your two pet poodles, Dollar and Bill. . . . If you want to see them alive again, I suggest you try a little harder to deal with our concerns. Otherwise, they’ll be turned into very expensive cat food and fed to a very expensive cat.

  Yours sincerely,

  The Kruks and Patrick the tiger.”

  “The Kruks?” said Sam.

  “The Kruks,” said Imogen, nodding. She put the letter down. She noticed that her hands were trembling.