Doctor Proctor's Fart Powder (17 page)

Mrs. Strobe looked at him, bewildered.

“But it was just a thought,” Nilly said. “And since I'm a man, it was probably a very dumb thought. So I say let's forget the whole thing and thanks for your interest, Mrs. Strobe. Please, just pick up where you left off.”

The corners of Mrs. Strobe's eyes twitched. Her prominent nose and the corners of her mouth twitched. But before she managed to say anything, there was a loud knock on the door.

“Come in!” she yelled quickly, actually sounding like she was relieved to have the interruption.

The door opened and there was a man standing there with a pair of dark aviator sunglasses perched on a short, thick nose with black pores.

“Good day, Mrs. Strobe,” he said. “Pardon me for interrupting.”

“Come in, Mr. Madsen. What can we do for you?”

The director stepped into the classroom and cleared his throat. “We have a little crisis. Or to be more precise: a big crisis. As some of you know, there was a freak accident as our marching band was practicing downtown this morning. Something very heavy and very hard and very unexpected fell out of the sky and hit two of our musicians on the head. They're in the hospital with mild concussions. The two students are Truls and Trym Trane.”

A murmur spread through the classroom. And a couple of almost inaudible hurrahs could be heard. Mr. Madsen cleared his throat again.

“And now the crisis is that the two of them will not be able to play with us in the Independence Day parade tomorrow. In other words, I'm looking for someone who can stand in for them at extremely short notice. Someone who plays the … uh, trumpet.”

Lisa looked at Nilly, who was sitting there with his mouth hanging open, staring at Mr. Madsen.

Mr. Madsen shuffled his feet and looked like he was feeling sort of uncomfortable, but then he continued: “And if I'm not mistaken, there's someone in this class who plays the … uh, trumpet. A boy with … uh, perfect pitch. A boy named … uh, Nilly.”

Everyone turned to look at the red-haired, tiny little guy who was now studying his nails with a distant, aloof expression.

“Nilly?” Mrs. Strobe asked.

“Yes, Mrs. Strobe?”

“Aren't you beside yourself with happiness, son? You're going to get to play with Mr. Madsen in the Dølgen School Marching Band in the big parade on May seventeenth!”

Nilly squeezed one eye shut and stared thoughtfully off into space. “The seventeenth of May, May seventeenth, that date sounds familiar … oh, yeah, now I remember! Isn't that Norwegian Independence Day? Because first of all I already have a lot of plans for Independence Day. I was planning to drink some traditional eggnog. Then there are a few sack races I'm signed up for. And then of course I have to defend my title as the reigning champion of the Great Egg-Rolling Race in Eggedal. And that's even in the toughest group, the hard-boiled egg group.”

The kids started laughing, but an extraordinarily powerful palm-against-teacher's-desk slap shut them all up again immediately. Apart from Nilly, of course.

“In short,” he said. “It may be difficult for me to squeeze any trumpet playing in on that particular day.”

Mr. Madsen grimaced and groaned in despair.

“Unless … ,” Nilly said.

“Yes?” Mr. Madsen lit up. “Yes, tell me!”

“Unless I'm asked very nicely, of course …”

“Yes, yes, I'm asking nicely!” Mr. Madsen cried out.

“Or even better, unless I'm begged.”

“I'm begging, I'm begging!” Mr. Madsen wailed.

“On your knees?” Nilly asked.

And Mr. Madsen dropped to his knees and begged while Mrs. Strobe's glasses slid twenty inches down her nose at this unusual sight.

“All right!” Nilly said, leaping up onto his desk. “I'll play. Just make sure you have a uniform that's small enough.”

And then all the kids cheered. So did Mr. Madsen. And although it was hard to tell, even Mrs. Strobe did, a little bit, on the inside. And while they were cheering, Lisa whispered a few words into Nilly's ear. And then he stuck two fingers into his mouth and whistled so loudly that the keyhole in the door made a squeaking sound, and suddenly it got totally quiet again.

“Now, a message for all children!” Nilly yelled. “This afternoon we'll be selling fart powder in Lisa's yard. Right, Lisa?”

“Yeah,” Lisa said, jumping up on her desk. “And we're lowering the price to twenty-five cents, since … well, since it's cheaper.”

“Isn't she smart?” Nilly smiled.

And with that the cheering started again, and since the bell rang right then, Lisa and Nilly were carried out of the room in triumph.

Mrs. Strobe and Mr. Madsen were left standing there in the classroom watching them go, shaking their heads and laughing.

“Those two are quite a pair, aren't they?” Mr. Madsen said.

“They sure are,” Mrs. Strobe said. “But there was just one thing I was wondering about.”

“Yeah?”

“What hit Truls and Trym?”

“That's the most mysterious part of the whole thing,” Mr. Madsen said. “Believe it or not, it was a manhole cover.”

The Confession

EVENING HAD FALLEN and in just one night it would be the seventeenth of May, Norwegian Independence Day, when all children and grown-ups put on their traditional costumes and march in parades until they get blisters and their feet swell up so much they can't get their brand-new dress shoes off. They would yell “Hurrah” until their voices were so hoarse they wouldn't even be able to whine when they stuffed themselves way too full of hot dogs and ice cream and their stomachs felt like they were crammed full of barbed wire. In other words, it was the evening before the day that all children and grown-ups were really looking forward to.

And on this evening Truls woke up and discovered that he was lying in a hospital bed. He looked around and discovered Trym lying awake in the bed next to him.

“What happened?” Truls asked. “Why do you have a bandage around your head?”

“A manhole cover,” Trym said. “And you have a bandage around your head too.”

“We were supposed to sell fart powder to the kids and make a fortune today!” Truls said. “Independence Day is tomorrow!”

“And we were supposed to play the trumpet,” Trym said, dazed.

Right then the door to the room opened and a nurse came in.

“Hi, boys,” she said. “There are two people here to see you.”

“Daddy!” Truls yelled, on the verge of tears, he was so relieved.

“And Mommy!” Trym whimpered.

“Not quite,” the nurse said, stepping to the side.

Truls and Trym stiffened in their beds. Before them stood two men that we have met before. They were wearing their police uniforms, and tucked under their arms each of them was holding a mason jar that we've also seen before.

“Good evening, boys,” Mr. Fu Manchu said. “I trust your head injuries won't be permanent.”

“And,” Mr. Handlebar added, “that you'll be able to confess right away that you were the ones who broke into Doctor Proctor's cellar.”

“And stole these mason jars,” Mr. Handlebar continued.

“It wasn't me,” Truls blurted.

“Or me,” whimpered Trym.

“We followed a tip and found them in your garage,” Mr. Handlebar said.

“And we also found two pairs of shoes there with glass shards in the soles. Like the glass shards that came from the broken glass in the cellar. You're done for.”

“But if you'll give us a confession now, you may be able to avoid winding up in the Dungeon of the Dead.”

“It was me,” Truls blurted.

“No, it was me,” Trym whimpered.

“And Dad,” Truls said.

“Yes, Dad,” Trym said. “He … he … tricked us.”

“We were duped.” Truls sniffed.

“We're so easily tricked,” Trym sobbed. “Poor us!”

“Hmm,” Mr. Fu Manchu said. “Mr. Trane, you say. Just as we thought. We should put out an A.P.B.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Handlebar said. “And fast. Neither he nor that dreadful Hummer of his were home when we checked.”

Mr. Fu Manchu got out his cell phone and called the police station. “Put out an A.P.B. for all patrol cars to stop any black Hummers they see. We're looking for a man named Mr. Trane. He's incredibly dangerous. I repeat: incredibly dangerous.”

And with that he started the biggest car chase in Oslo's history. We won't go into details, but more than one hundred police cars chased Mr. Trane's black Hummer as it raced through the streets of Oslo, spewing out more carbon dioxide than two locomotives. Every time the police blocked off a street and thought they had him, Mr. Trane just gave the Hummer more gas and broke through the barricades, speeding past the police cars, the police horses, and the policemen all over downtown Oslo.

And that's what they were still doing when the sun rose and Independence Day was finally here.

Independence Day

FOR THE LAST time in this story the sun rose in a cloudless sky. It had already shone for a while on Japan, Russia, and Sweden, and now it was starting to shine on the very small capital city of a very small country called Norway. The sun got right to work shining on the yellow and fairly small palace that was
home to the king, who didn't rule over enough for it to amount to anything, but who was looking forward to waving at the children's parade as it marched by and to listening to the Big and Almost World-Famous Royal Salute in his honor. And of course the sun shone on Akershus Fortress, on the old cannons that were aimed out over the Oslo Fjord, and onto the most remote of all the doors. The door that ultimately led to the city's most feared jail cell, the Dungeon of the Dead.

And just at this moment the door to the Dungeon of the Dead opened, and out onto the grassy embankment stepped Doctor Proctor, who had to squint in all that sunlight. He was followed by two prison guards.

“Hip hip hurrah!” yelled Nilly and Lisa, who were standing there waiting for him. They jumped up and down and waved their Norwegian flags.