Case of the Fiendish Flapjack Flop (Humpty Dumpty Jr. Hardboiled Detective) Read online

  HUMPTY

  DUMPTY JR:

  HARDBOILED

  DETECTIVE

  in

  THE CASE OF THE FIENDISH FLAPJACK FLOP

  by: Nate Evans and Paul Hindman

  Illustrated by: Vince Evans and Nate Evans

  © 2008 by Nate Evans and Paul Hindman

  Cover and internal design © 2008 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover and internal illustrations © 2008 by Vince Evans

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used ficti-ciously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and is not intended by the authors.

  Published by Sourcebooks Jabberwocky, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Evans, Nate.

  Humpty Dumpty, Jr., hardboiled detective, in the case of the fiendish flapjack flop / by Nate Evans and Paul Hindman ; illustrated by Vince Evans and Nate Evans. ISBN: 978-1-4022-3419-4

  p. cm. — (Humpty Dumpty, Jr., hardboiled detective ; 1)

  Summary: When hard-shelled detective Humpty Dumpty, Jr. investigates the break-in of the Pat-a-Cake Bakery and the kidnapping of its owner, the trail of clues leads to a ne’er-do-well pancake.

  [1. Characters in literature—Fiction. 2. Nursery rhymes—Fiction. 3. Mystery and detective stories.] I. Hindman, Paul. II. Evans, Vince, ill. III. Title.

  PZ7.E89223Hu 2008

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008008502

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  VP 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For my son

  Jesse Gavin

  With Pride and Respect

  —Paul

  For Dan

  with love and appreciation

  —Nate and Vince

  For Laurie,

  Who has been there from the start,

  filled with love, encouragement, and ideas.

  None of this could have happened without you.

  I love you.

  —Vince

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 A Call to Action

  Chapter 2 Assault and Batter-y

  Chapter 3 Catching a Rat

  Chapter 4 The Knave of Hearts

  Chapter 5 Rat’s Clue

  Chapter 6 Panic at Precinct 54

  Chapter 7 Crusty Crinkles

  Chapter 8 The Baker and the Bodyguard

  Chapter 9 The 297-Floor Drop

  Chapter 10 An Old Clue

  Chapter 11 Pancake Batty

  Chapter 12 The Pancake Crumbles

  Chapter 13 The Egg Unscrambled

  Chapter 1

  A Call to Action

  Once Upon a Crime:

  There was a detective.

  Me.

  Humpty Dumpty Jr., Hardboiled Detective. I’m a good egg who always cracks the case. One morning, sitting at my desk, I watched the sun rise out my grimy window.

  Dawn light played peek-a-boo through the tall skyscrapers of the gritty city.

  My city.

  New Yolk City.

  A crazy, dangerous, beautiful town.

  I spun around in my chair and gave my office the once-over.

  They say a messy desk is the sign of a busy egg. Mine is so bad, I can barely see over the piles of paper scattered everywhere. That’s how busy this egg is.

  I proudly gazed at all the framed awards covering my walls.

  One is the Royal Commendation of Princess Dorothy of Oz, for solving “The Case of the Silver Slippers.”

  Another favorite is my thank-you note from Christopher Robin and Edward Bear, for cracking “The Case of the Broken Hunny Pot.”

  There are others, and though they give me a warm fuzzy feeling, they’re really just a map of my life.

  I solve crimes. I get awards.

  And I’ve cracked every case.

  Except one.

  The one that made me become a detective.

  The one I don’t talk about.

  I leaned back in my swivel chair and snapped open the morning paper.

  The headlines leaped out at me like a slap in the face:

  “Johnny” Cakes, that two-bit pancake punk.

  I’ve put him away about twenty times.

  The last time was for life.

  He was a loser.

  Well, now he’d succeeded in one thing: Escape.

  There was a sidebar to the article:

  Pancake’s Partner Peppermint Pete Recaptured

  Another two-bit loser. But he was back in the slammer, so no worries.

  The phone screeched.

  I answered, “Dumpty Detective Agency.”

  A woman screamed,

  The line went dead.

  My caller ID read: “Pat-A-Cake Bakery.”

  “Patty!” I cried, dashing out.

  Then I remembered something, and dashed back.

  Opening the top desk drawer, I grabbed my magic wand.

  I shoved it into its holder, and hauled shell out the door.

  The Pat-A-Cake Bakery is halfway down my block. Patty Cake is the best baker in the world.

  And a good friend.

  I had to find out if she was all right.

  But I was afraid what I would discover.

  Chapter 2

  Assault and Batter-y

  Nervously, I approached the bakery door.

  Locked.

  I zipped down an alley to the loading-dock stairs in back.

  I caught a faint whiff of burning peppermint as I bounded up to the landing.

  The door-lock had…disappeared.

  Odd. No doorknob, no latch, nothing. Just vanished–POOF.

  Chunks of peppermint lay crumbled in the well of the lock. Very odd.

  I ran in.

  What a scene!

  In the storehouse, boxes of sugar, tubes of frosting, and cookware were scattered across the floor.

  Flour sifted from the ceiling, settling on everything.

  In the trade we would call these “signs of a struggle.”

  “Patty?” I softly called.

  Silence.

  I walked into the bakery, waving flour away from my face.

  There were footprints in the flour all over, but they were smudged, so I couldn’t make any sense of them.

  I peeked in Patty’s office.

  The phone was on the floor, ripped out of the wall.

  This didn’t look good.

  I picked up the mangled telephone.

  Hold on.

  Something on the floor.

  A playing card.

  The Knave of Hearts.

  Also known as Jack!

  This playing card was obviously left by the kidnapper. But for me to find?

  If it was Jack, that meant he was back to his old tricks again, stealing tarts, no doubt.

  But the Knave was only a petty thief, not a kidnapper.

  Maybe he’d changed.


  I slipped the playing card into a plastic evidence bag, and put it in my pocket.

  I moved on to the kitchen.

  More mess.

  Pies were smeared on the walls.

  On the floor, a split bag of flour.

  Smoke billowed from Patty’s ovens. I switched them off.

  On the counters sat half-finished projects—like Kiwi Lime Pies and Raspberry Chiffon.

  But, nothing Patty bakes is ordinary.

  Her cakes aren’t just cakes.

  They’re palaces. And fountains.

  And the Statue of Liberty.

  I immediately recognized her recipe cards scattered across the worktable:

  Mixed-Up Musical Mudpies;

  Levitating Loop-de-Loos;

  Firework Sparkler Donuts;

  Burping Bubble Brownies.

  The magic of these recipes never worked. Patty was a terrible wizard. But they tasted delicious.

  Okay. As I looked at the evidence splashed around me, certain things were perfectly clear:

  Poor Patty Cake.

  Well, I’d find her.

  Suddenly, I heard something coming from the storehouse.

  I tiptoed toward the sound.

  There was someone back there.

  A shadow flitted across the floor.

  It wasn’t sweet, plump Patty Cake.

  It was someone else. Someone dangerous.

  I heard shuffling above. I looked up, just in time to see a huge box.

  Chapter 3

  Catching a Rat

  “Yikes!” I cried, and rolling into the aisle, aimed my wand to zap my attacker with a lightning bolt.

  “Sha-Boom!” I hollered.

  The storehouse filled with a million lightning bugs.

  ‘Oops,’ I thought, ‘so much for lightning bolts.’

  I’ve always been lousy at whipping up the magic.

  My foe leaped from the shadows.

  I spun out of his way.

  I head-butted him, right in the gut.

  “Oof,” he said, as we fell to the concrete.

  I got my skinny arm around his neck.

  “Listen, you squirmy worm, where’s Patty Cake?”

  “Mmmph, mmph!” he grunted.

  I loosened my hold so I could understand him.

  “So,” I barked, “spill it: deliver Patty Cake!”

  The guy squeaked, “YOU spill it, Fatso! What have YOU done with her?”

  His voice was high.

  ‘Hold on!’ I thought. ‘Is this a kid??’

  I dragged him over to the door so I could get some light on the subject.

  He was definitely a kid.

  A scrawny, pale, filthy kid!

  I growled, “What’s your name?”

  “Rat.”

  “‘RAT’? Who names their kid ‘Rat’?”

  “Nobody named me, Mister,” Rat said. “I named myself. It’s perfect. I’m just like a rat. I live in garbage, and I bite. Nobody messes with Rat.

  “And,” he went on, “that includes you. You overgrown, farm-fresh JERK!”

  I pointed my wand at the boy. “See this? This means I can mess with you, right? Talk straight. Do you know Patty Cake?”

  “Yeah,” he answered. “She feeds me every day, if it’s any of your business. She’s great.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “I came here for breakfast. The door was open. Then I saw the mess. I snuck in to check on Mrs. C, and I ran into you. Or, you ran into me. That hurt, by the way. How do I know YOU didn’t mess with the old lady?”

  I released my grip on Rat and holstered my wand.

  “Patty called me for help,” I said. “My office is just down the street.”

  “Yeah?” Rat asked. “Whaddya do?”

  “I’m a detective. Name’s Humpty Dumpty Jr.”

  “Who names their kid ‘Humpty Dumpty’?” Rat sneered.

  “I’ll ask the questions. I’m in the middle of a tricky investigation right now. I have to figure out what happened to Patty Cake!”

  “So, what do we do now?”

  “What ‘WE’?” I said. “I work alone, kid.”

  “My meal ticket is at stake!” Rat said. “I’m gonna find out what I can.”

  I stopped him. “You’d better not get in my way,” I said, “or mess up any clues.”

  “Whatever,” Rat said, “but if it turns out you snagged Patty, watch out, Bub! You’re breakfast!”

  Chapter 4

  The Knave of Hearts

  Rat scurried out.

  I walked back up the street to my office.

  The only clue I had was the Knave of Hearts.

  It was time for a little chat with Jack.

  That meant going across the river, to Queens.

  I grabbed my skateboard, my main form of transportation in the Naked City.

  Down on the street, I hopped on and took off.

  I love rolling through town, my wheels thrumming on the asphalt; the smells of a million restaurants wafting in my nostrils, only to have the steaming stench of the gutters hammer them senseless.

  Ah, New Yolk.

  Swerving between trucks and taxis, I nearly plowed over a little old lady pushing a grocery cart.

  She cursed me and poked at me with her umbrella, but I arrived without a crack in Queens by noon.

  The enormous castle gates were locked, and I had to wait ten minutes after ringing the bell.

  I stood there impatiently (what was happening to Patty Cake this minute?), looking through the bars at Her Majesty’s castle.

  The building is modern, but somehow it gives me the creeps. It would’ve looked good on a stormy night in Transylvania.

  But, let me tell you, it took a lot of rocks to build that mountain, and I’m talking the hard stuff, cash.

  The queen is nothing but money.

  Finally the gate buzzed open, and I walked through.

  The driveway was gravel, so I couldn’t ride my skateboard. I had to lug it all the way.

  I hate that.

  Finally, I reached the door.

  A butler in a white wig let me in.

  “May I take your, er…”

  He was looking at my orange-and-green skateboard.

  “…your means of transportation, sir?”

  “What do you want with my board?” I asked.

  I’m always suspicious of guys in white wigs.

  “To save you the trouble of carrying it, sir.”

  “Carrying it? I’m riding the sucker!”

  With that, I slammed the skateboard onto the fancy tile, and stepped aboard.

  “Where’s Her Majesty?” I asked as I rolled away.

  “She is busy in the Royal Counting House, sir. Do you need directions?”

  “I know the way.”

  I’ve been in Queens plenty, usually on a case. But sometimes I’ll attend a bash the Hearts are throwing, just to eat and drink and see how the other half lives.

  The counting house was filled with mounds of gold coins, gushing like shiny yellow waterfalls.

  “Your Majesty?” I called.

  There was only the tinkling of gold in the distance. Nice sound.

  I followed the noise until I saw Her Majesty, sitting on a little stool.

  She counted as she dropped each coin into her adding machine.

  “Two-million-seventeen- thousand-five- hundred-and-twenty-eight Ducats,” she said.

  PLINK.

  “Two-million-seventeen- thousand-five- hundred-and-twenty-nine Ducats.”

  PLINK… “Your Majesty?”

  “OHH,” the queen groaned, “we’ve lost count! We shall have to start all over again!”

  “Sorry, Majesty,” I said.

  Hope she didn’t order “Off With His Head.” She was big on that.

  Better walk on eggshells.

  “Well, what is it?” she asked. “Another one of your tiresome mysteries?”

  “Majesty,” I said, “Patty Cake, the owner of the Pat-A-Ca
ke Bakery, is missing.”

  “Why are you bothering us?”

  I said, “I need to speak to the Knave of Hearts, Your Majesty.”

  “Jack?” she said. “You say you need to speak to Jack?”

  “Yes. I found this at the scene of the crime.”

  I pulled out the playing card.

  She barely glanced at it. “Just leave us, you walking soufflé.”

  “Please, Majesty.”

  The queen screamed, “To the Dungeon!”

  Yikes. “What did I do?”

  A guard in a helmet, holding a big ax, appeared from behind a pile of gold.

  “Take him to see Jack,” the Queen of Hearts commanded. “FOR THREE MINUTES, Egg!”

  Whew.

  “Many thanks, Your Majesty.”

  The queen went back to counting her money.

  The guard said, “Follow me.”

  He led me down dark stairs to the dungeon. The walls dripped moisture.

  The guard opened the lock and swung the rusty gate open.

  “The Knave of Hearts,” he announced. I stepped into the dim, moldy cell.

  The gate clanked shut, leaving me in the dark.

  “Jack?” I whispered.

  “Who is it?” a dismal voice sounded.

  “Jack, it’s Humpty Dumpty. How did you wind up here?”

  “How do you think?” Jack’s voice trembled. A flare of light followed the sound of a match striking.

  Jack lit a small candle.

  He looked awful! He was pale and shivering. He’d gained about 100 pounds, and blubber bulged over his belt like huge balloons.

  “Same old problem,” Jack murmured, “I can’t help it. I love tarts. My sweet tooth is unstoppable. And it’s gotten worse. It’s not just tarts, but pudding, and ice cream.

  “I’m so far gone. I’m ashamed of myself. I even tried to…I tried to…”

  He hung his head. “Once, I was with a friend. I was so hungry, I poured hot butter and syrup all over him, and, and…never mind,” he said, mournfully.

  “Whoa. Who was that?” I asked.