The Crims Read online

  Imogen’s stomach went cold. “I don’t really feel like playing right now,” she said, desperately looking around for an escape.

  And then, just in time, there was Freddie, walking down the hall, followed by another butler. Imogen had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. “Meeting’s over!” he said. “Time to go!”

  Imogen’s butler walked up to the second butler and whispered something to him.

  The second butler shook his head.

  Imogen didn’t really want to wait around to find out what would happen next.

  She grabbed Freddie’s arm and hissed, “We need to go.” Then she ran as fast as she could down the golden staircase and up the beautiful entrance hall to the front door.

  Luckily, the butlers weren’t very good at running. “Come back here!” they shouted as Imogen and Freddie dashed up the stairs to the trapdoor and slammed it shut behind them. They were outside again, in the middle of the grassy square. Barely thinking about the traffic now, they ran across the four lanes to the pavement outside Big Ben and kept going, losing themselves in the crowds.

  Imogen felt a bit claustrophobic after her time in the underground, tiger-filled, cyanide-flavored palace, so she suggested that they walk to a slightly farther away tube station. “That was a bit of a stressful afternoon,” she said as they strolled along by the banks of the river Thames.

  “But worth it!” said Freddie. “They completely believed that I was a lawyer from Charm Ltd. My research told me that eighty-nine percent of lawyers wear white shirts and blue ties to client meetings, so I think that helped.”

  “I’m not sure the butler believed I was a work experience student,” said Imogen. “He did give me a coloring book—but then he tried to poison me.”

  “Oh! Well, at least he didn’t succeed in poisoning you. That’s the main thing!” said Freddie, who was surprisingly optimistic these days. “So. Here’s what I found out: The Kruks are suing Charm Ltd. because they think Captain Crook was inspired by a Kruk,” said Freddie.

  “I think they’re right,” said Imogen. “I saw a painting of him—Niklas Kruk.”

  “Toothy, evil smile? Very small eyes?”

  “Exactly!” said Imogen.

  Freddie nodded grimly. “So that gives the Kruks a motive to steal the lunch box—they’re trying to prove that Captain Crook looks just like a Kruk, and Charm Ltd. is trying to destroy all evidence that Captain Crook ever existed.”

  “But if we’re going to prove to the police that it was the Kruks who stole the lunch box, we have to actually find the lunch box,” said Imogen.

  “And the odds of surviving another trip to Krukingham Palace are somewhere around one in three million,” said Freddie. “Which is about the same odds as getting a royal flush in poker. It does happen, but you’re much more likely to get eaten alive by tigers.”

  “But we have to give it a go, don’t we?” Imogen pulled the invitation out of her pocket. “Do you fancy going to a birthday party?”

  THE NEXT MORNING, Imogen went back to the police station to visit her family. She had practiced her relaxed, no-big-deal smile in the mirror before she went out. If she presented her visit to Krukingham Palace as a fun little caper, maybe they wouldn’t be so worried about her. And if she forced herself to think about it like that too, maybe she wouldn’t be so worried about herself.

  The Crims were all sitting bolt upright in their cell, looking as dressed up as people who have been wearing the same clothes for over a week can look. They also looked as upset as people in a prison cell can look, which is very upset indeed. Al explained that they had just been interviewed via satellite by Nancy Grace from the United States, and it hadn’t gone well.

  “She was very unpleasant!” Josephine told Imogen. “She called us all sorts of names, and she didn’t compliment my hair once!”

  “Well, I have some good news,” said Imogen, smiling.

  “You’ve found my lunch box?” asked Uncle Clyde.

  “No,” said Imogen. “But I think I know where it is: at Krukingham Palace! And I think I know how to get it back.”

  “You don’t mean—” said Uncle Clyde, turning as white as a terrified sheet.

  “I do,” said Imogen. “We’re going to gate-crash Gustav Kruk’s sixty-fifth birthday party and find it!”

  “No!” cried Josephine, bursting into melodramatic tears. “You can’t go sneaking around Kruk headquarters! The Kruks are monsters, darling! They fed someone to tigers last week!”

  Imogen laughed uncomfortably. “Those are just silly rumors,” she said. “The Kruks are no more dangerous than we are.”

  “Tell her, Al,” said Josephine, whacking her husband’s knee.

  But Al just smiled up at Imogen sadly. “Imogen knows I don’t want her to go. But we have to respect her decision. And if anyone can get out of there alive, she can.” He nodded, as though he was convincing himself. “I’m sure she has a brilliant plan.”

  Imogen looked at her father gratefully. “I have the beginning of a plan,” she said. “The Horrible Children will distract the guests while I search the palace for the lunch box. But I will need some help finishing the plan. . . .” She looked sideways at Uncle Clyde, who had perked up at the word “plan.” “Do you think you could help me?” she asked. “You’re such an expert when it comes to complicated plans like this.”

  “Of course!” said Uncle Clyde, smiling his mad smile. “Sit down.” He handed Imogen his notebook and a pen. “Right. First, you need to sketch a blueprint of Krukingham Palace. . . .”

  That Friday, Imogen, Freddie, and the Horrible Children dressed up as the sort of people who might be invited to a sixty-five-year-old master criminal’s birthday party. Imogen was a wealthy widow, with a black veil over her head; Freddie put on a pair of glasses and a gold necklace and told everyone he was a crooked lawyer; and the Horrible Children put on party dresses and wigs and pretended to be spoiled, criminal children, which wasn’t too much of a push for them, really. Imogen felt almost relaxed as they set off for London. She was on top of her criminal game again. And she couldn’t wait to get inside the palace.

  They arrived at Big Ben at eight thirty p.m. and dashed across the traffic to the square, carrying a huge bunch of balloons. Almost immediately, the talking bush waddled up to them. “What are you doing here?” it said.

  “We’re here for the party,” Freddie said casually.

  “You’re supposed to go through the Westminster tube station entrance,” said the bush. “It says so on the invitation.”

  Imogen looked at her invitation. “So it does!” she said, chuckling. “It’s just that we’re such good friends with Luka Kruk that we use this entrance all the time. I just assumed . . .”

  The bush looked wary (as wary as shrubbery can look). There was an uncomfortable pause. But then the bush led them to the trapdoor and opened it. “Have a good time,” said the bush, as though it wished it could come to the party with them.

  When they reached the ballroom, the party was already in full swing. Acrobatic waiters were swooping through the air, serving tiny, expensive canapés to the well-dressed partygoers who were standing around, laughing at one another’s jokes. Imogen recognized several of the guests—a famous singer, a guy who had once played a corpse on her favorite TV medical drama, a billionaire who owned a major internet company, and a couple of North American river otters who had been the breakout stars of a recent nature documentary.

  The Crims mingled for a while, eating as many mushroom vol-au-vents as they could cram into their mouths, but when Nick and Nate started to make “polite” conversation with a Hollywood starlet (they asked her whether she’d had a nose job), Imogen decided it was time to put Uncle Clyde’s Party Distraction Plan in motion.

  Her heart pounding, she gave the Horrible Children the signal (she pretended to make a cheese sandwich—which is quite a tricky thing to mime, actually). Like a not particularly well-oiled machine, everyone split up, and chaos soon ensued.


  Henry walked up to the buffet table and turned the knob on the chocolate fountain into high gear. He ducked out of the way as the fountain spewed hot brown liquid over the guests’ fancy outfits.

  “Rats,” said the internet billionaire, wiping down his suit.

  “Actual rats!” shouted the starlet, pointing to the birthday cake. Sam’s pet rats were crawling out of it, nibbling on the icing and running across the table.

  Everyone started screaming and standing on chairs—but a second later, they were all laughing uncontrollably. Because Delia had popped the nitrous oxide–filled balloons they had brought to the party, spreading laughing gas throughout the ballroom.

  This was Imogen’s chance.

  She slipped out of the room just as Nick and Nate released their secret weapon: a greased pig inexplicably wearing a clown’s hat. As she hurried down the corridor she could hear crashes and bangs and squeals—the pig was clearly charging through the ballroom as planned, knocking over tables.

  Imogen padded silently downstairs to the basement to start her search for the Kruks’ Loot Room. She was starting to feel nervous now, but then she heard someone shout, “Stop that pig!” and she felt a little better—the greased pig was still causing chaos. Everyone would be focused on trying to catch the pig (which would be tricky, because it was slippery), and no one would have noticed she was missing.

  The Loot Room wasn’t in the basement, it turned out—that’s where the shark tank and the weasel dollhouse were (the weasels actually looked very sweet dressed up in Victorian clothes, but they could probably kill you in seconds). Imogen was growing more and more anxious. Every second she didn’t find the Loot Room, she was a second closer to getting caught and killed in a very unpleasant way.

  She climbed the stairs back to the ground floor, and she was about to keep going to the first floor when Luka Kruk, covered in chocolate and grease, stormed out of the ballroom and walked down the corridor, muttering to himself in German. Imogen crouched down on the staircase so he wouldn’t see her. She couldn’t understand everything he was saying, but she caught the words “humiliate” and “culprit” and “slow and painful death.” She swallowed hard. She had to find the lunch box and get her cousins out of there before he realized they were behind the mayhem!

  Imogen searched the first floor as quickly and silently as she could. There was a cuckoo clock on the landing that seemed to be mocking her by ticking particularly quickly. Time was slipping away, and she had nothing to show for it. She looked at her watch—they had been in Krukingham Palace for almost two hours. Even if she didn’t find the lunch box, she would have to get her cousins out of there soon.

  She moved on to the second floor, and then the third floor, feeling increasingly hopeless and desperate. She couldn’t find the Loot Room anywhere.

  She sat down for a while on the third-floor landing, her head in her hands. There was nowhere else to look. I tried my best, she told herself. No one can hold that against me. But she felt heavy and hopeless, the way she did when she got an A- on a test at school or thought about Big Nana dying.

  Big Nana had once called her the best potential criminal the family had seen in generations.

  And now she couldn’t find a Loot Room?

  Maybe I am out of practice, Imogen thought. Maybe I’m just a Future CEO now, thanks to Lilyworth. She thought of Derek Hornbutton. Surely he’d be completely useless in this endeavor.

  Or maybe Big Nana was just wrong about me.

  But there was no point sitting there feeling sorry for herself. She stood up to make her way back down to the ballroom.

  Then she noticed the door.

  It was small and set back from the hallway, which is why she hadn’t seen it at first. A small silver plaque read: “Broom Cupboard.” And beneath the plaque was a combination lock.

  Why would a broom cupboard, of all boring cupboards, have a combination lock?

  Imogen felt a rush of pure happiness—she’d done it! She’d found the Loot Room! Any minute now, the lunch box would be in her hands.

  She just had to figure out the code before anyone found her.

  Hands shaking, she started keying in combinations.

  She tried the names of all the famous criminals she could think of.

  She tried every name of every Kruk, and their birthdays—and their death days—and the names of some of their most famous heists.

  She tried a few swearwords, too, because you never know.

  Nothing worked.

  The seconds ticked by.

  Come on Imogen. Denke! she told herself, which means “think” in German—the Kruks were German, after all.

  And that’s when she realized—the combination would probably be in German. And she had a feeling she knew what it would be. . . .

  She flexed her fingers and started typing the Kruks’ motto into the combination lock: Wir werden Sie zu töten und nehmen Sie Ihr Geld.

  The door to the broom cupboard slid open.

  Yes! She hugged herself with triumph, wishing the other Crims were with her to share the moment.

  Imogen held her breath as she stepped inside the Loot Room—and then she gasped. Because the Loot Room wasn’t so much a room as a warehouse the size of a large airplane hangar or a small country in South America. It was filled to the rafters with incredible things: a complete T. rex skeleton, the Davidoff-Morini Stradivarius violin that had been stolen in 1995 and never recovered, a golden cup that Imogen was pretty sure was the Holy Grail, and a whole underwater town in a huge fish tank that may or may not have been the mythical city of Atlantis.

  How was she ever going to find the lunch box in time?

  Panicking, she began her search, glancing at things and tossing them aside carelessly—the actual Mona Lisa, suitcases full of cash, a cage full of very unpleasant camels (although she didn’t toss those aside—she didn’t have that much upper body strength).

  There was no sign of the lunch box anywhere.

  She stopped in the middle of the room to think, trying to control her breathing. Calm down, she told herself. If you don’t relax, you’ll miss something.

  But telling yourself (or someone else) to calm down usually has the opposite effect.

  She searched on for what felt like hours, growing increasingly desperate, until her eyes started blurring and her back started aching.

  She looked in every box and behind every stolen wardrobe and under every gigantic stolen bell (there were a lot of them—Luka Kruk was rumored to be a very talented bell ringer).

  She looked at her watch. It had been almost an hour since she’d left the party, and she had no idea how her cousins were faring. She was stupid to have stayed away for so long. She had no choice but to leave.

  Tears of frustration filled her eyes—she had come so close.

  Just a little bit longer, she thought. You can look for five more minutes, and that’s it.

  And then, as she was searching through a pile of Middle Eastern antiquities, something caught her eye from the far corner of the room. Something that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

  It was a toy hippo.

  Not just any toy hippo. Imogen had seen it before—in every childhood photo of Big Nana. She was always clutching this very hippo tightly, as though she was worried someone would steal it. She had been right to worry, it seemed.

  Imogen picked up the hippo and realized that the head was attached with Velcro. Inside was the My First Lock-Picking Kit that Big Nana had used as a child to break into department stores and steal the toys that her parents refused to buy her for Christmas. Imogen was stunned. How had the Kruks managed to get ahold of this? Imogen had never had reason to believe that the Kruks knew the Crims existed. But if that was the case, why did they have Big Nana’s toy? Did they go around stealing toys from random children, just to be mean? Probably, Imogen thought. They did go around feeding grizzly bears to sharks. But she still had a very bad feeling about it.

  Right, she said to herself. Th
at’s enough. Maybe the lunch box just isn’t here. She looked at the hippo. She felt as though it was looking back at her reproachfully. I know, she thought. I’ve let Big Nana down.

  Dragging her feet, she went to put the hippo back where she’d found it.

  But then, crammed into the corner where the hippo had been, she saw something else—something old, something slightly rusty, something familiar.

  Imogen walked over to it, her heart beating out of her chest.

  Please don’t let me be wrong, she thought.

  But she wasn’t wrong. IT WAS THE LUNCH BOX!

  THE ACTUAL LUNCH BOX!

  Imogen couldn’t quite believe it. She felt dizzy, and she had to close her eyes for a second. Was this actually happening? Had she really found it?

  She picked it up to prove to herself that it was real. It was lighter than she thought it would be, and dented, and the paint had yellowed a bit, but there was Captain Crook, smiling out at her merrily from the front, one hand forcefully pushing a kid’s head into a rubbish bin, the other hand grabbing the kid’s lunch box. She turned it over and saw Uncle Clyde’s initials written on the bottom in black marker.

  She felt a surge of triumph, so strong that she actually jumped up in the air. She’d gotten it right! The Kruks had stolen it! Here it was: the lunch box that her uncle had spent twenty years plotting to steal from Jack Wooster . . . the lunch box that had cost her her place at school and landed her whole family behind bars . . . the lunch box that had brought her back home to Blandington and back to a life of crime. Who would have thought that an inanimate object could be so powerful?

  She just had to get it out of Krukingham Palace without being caught and hand it over to the police. Then finally, she’d be able to go back to Lilyworth, where she belonged.

  Of course she still belonged there.

  Her joy was seeping away now and was being replaced by a cold, creeping dread. She was going to steal from the Kruks. If she even managed to make it out of the house alive, the Kruks would find out she had taken it. And then . . . She didn’t know what would happen next, but she was sure it would be very, very painful.