The Pearl of Bengal (2 page)

To find a priceless jewel, the legendary Pearl of Bengal, stolen from the temple of the goddess Kali in the Ganges River Delta.

Prelude: The Investigation Begins…

Chapter One: An Unexpected Reunion

Chapter Two: Off to Kolkata

Chapter Three: Uncle Rudyard’s Folly

Chapter Four: Deshpande’s List

Chapter Five: High Tea at the Tiger Hotel

Chapter Six: Something Doesn’t Add Up

Chapter Seven: The Statue of Kali

Chapter Eight: The Final Verdict

Epilogue: Mystery Solved…

Special Excerpt from
The King of Scotland’s Sword

I
t was a Saturday afternoon in mid-October. Dashiell Mistery was elbowing his way through a sea of umbrellas that had popped up like mushrooms when a sudden downpour hit. Within minutes, all of London was drenched. The bustling city streets were as muddy and gray as a scene out of Dickens.

Fourteen years old and as thin as a rake, Dash was a typical teenage boy, except for his secret obsession. He was studying to be a detective, though he told everybody he met that he was pursuing an online degree in marketing.

Only a few family members knew the truth.
Among them was his extraordinary younger cousin, Agatha Mistery.

“Watch where you’re going!” scolded a woman standing in front of a wig shop. In his rush, Dash had bumped into her, knocking her leather purse into a puddle. He scooped it up, shook it dry, and shoved it back into her hands.

“Here you go. Good as new!” he gasped, speeding away as she stood there sputtering. His best friends were waiting for him at the Hastings Street Bowling Alley, and if the church-tower clock he’d just passed was correct, he was already twenty minutes late.

As usual, Dash had taken his sweet time waking up. He’d slapped down his snooze-alarm several times, grabbed a slice of cold pizza while playing a rap mix he’d burned, and zoomed out of his penthouse apartment in Baker Palace without even checking the weather online.

Big mistake. Everybody in London knew
the city had only two kinds of weather: sun at intervals and rain at intervals.

The storm had caught Dash off guard. At first, he’d stood under an awning, hoping it was just a cloudburst. But the rain didn’t let up—in fact, the longer he waited, the worse it got. He couldn’t afford to lose any more time. He started to run, stopping only when he got stuck at a crosswalk. Now he was soaked from head to toe.

At Richmond Avenue, three blocks away, he hit another red light.

Panting and shivering, Dash huddled against a wrought-iron fence. What if his friends had given up on him and started their weekly challenge match? But they wouldn’t do that without calling him first, would they?

A terrible thought slammed into his head. “Oh no!” he groaned, digging frantically through his pockets. Except for a few stray coins, they were empty.

He fingered the case where he kept his most precious gadget.

It was light. Too light.

Holding his breath, he reached in. There was nothing inside.

“Where did I put it? Where?” he cried out in panic.

Eye International, the famous detective school he attended, had one very strict rule: Never go anywhere without the tools of the trade.

This didn’t mean the traditional investigator’s kit (e.g., magnifying glass, bugging devices, spy cameras, and walkie-talkies). All of these functions and more were performed by a patented high-tech device called the EyeNet. The worst thing a student could do was to lose it.

If he couldn’t find his EyeNet, Dash was in a sea of trouble. He kept patting his clothes in the pouring rain, waving his arms like an octopus. Meanwhile, the light had turned green, and a
new wave of bobbing umbrellas came at him.

Frozen in place, Dash pressed his palm on his forehead and tried to mentally reconstruct the events of the night before. He’d gone to Marshall’s apartment, played video games for a couple hours, and gotten back home around midnight. Half asleep, he’d kicked back on the couch to watch some shows he’d recorded. This morning he’d woken up fully dressed, with the TV still on. Had he put his
EyeNet into its charger right next to the couch, like he did every night? He didn’t remember doing it. Which could only mean…

“Marshall!” he shouted so loudly that passersby eyed him cautiously from underneath their umbrellas. “I left it at his apartment!”

Dash charged across Richmond Avenue without realizing the light had turned red. Horns honked and brakes squealed as taxicabs swerved
to avoid a collision. A policeman blew on his whistle, but Dash didn’t bother to turn. Nothing mattered as much as getting his EyeNet back as soon as possible.

Five minutes later, he skidded into the Hastings Street Bowling Alley. Panting, he swiveled his head, looking for Marshall. Every lane was in use, and the sounds of heavy balls striking pins echoed through the cavernous room.

Dash vaulted over the seats where his friends were sitting without even saying hello. He leaped into the lane, grabbing Marshall’s shoulder just as he let go of the ball. It swung wide and rolled into the gutter.

A big zero flashed on the scoreboard.

“Dash!” shouted Marshall. “That was a strike waiting to happen. You totally killed it!”

“Have you seen my…um…err…cell phone?”

“You left it at my place!”

“Thank God,” the young detective said with a gulp. “Can I get it right now?”

“Look at you, Dash! You are beyond disgusting!” sniffed Alison, tossing her curls. She was wearing a bright pink designer sweater.

Marshall and the others snickered.

Dash was sure he did look disgusting. He could feel wet hair glued to his cheeks, his clothes dripped like a broken faucet, and he’d left muddy footprints streaked over the polished wood floor.

“Calm down, I brought it,” said Marshall, rummaging through his backpack. “That thing is huge. Must be way overdue for an upgrade.”

Dash grabbed it, heaving a sigh of relief. “Thanks, but no way I’d replace it! My dad gave me this phone, and it means a lot to me.” He closed his fist over the EyeNet, trying to hide its array of buttons and flashing lights. Tapping a bowling ball, he added casually, “How about I
dry off by beating you all without mercy?”

“In your dreams,” snorted Marshall.

Dash grinned. As he made his way toward the shoe rental counter, he quickly punched in his secret access code. The EyeNet had been in standby mode since late last night, and there might be urgent messages.

A high-pitched ring shattered the air. Just he suspected, the Eye International symbol was flashing insistently. There were eleven missed messages, all from his school!

Dash skimmed down to read the last message, and a desperate cry escaped his lips.

“
Kolkata?
In India? Oh God, what a mess! I need Agatha!”

His friends watched as he shot back out like a rocket. “What a weirdo!” sniffed Alison, but the others just shook their heads and went back to their game. They were used to the unpredictable ways of the Mistery family.

T
he Mistery Estate was an ancient, lavender-roofed mansion on the edge of a park on the outskirts of London. Its high ceilings creaked with heavy oak beams. Whenever it rained, the grand old house seemed even gloomier. Windowpanes rattled inside their dark frames, and the wind seemed to haunt the large rooms, echoing down the long halls like the whispers of restless ghosts.

Luckily its residents were not easily frightened. For twelve-year-old Agatha Mistery, bright-eyed and petite, the sounds created a moody and magical atmosphere.

At that moment, Agatha lay on her canopy bed, listening to raindrops patter against her bedroom window, as though knocking to come in. After a few moments, she reached for her notebook and pen. “It’s a perfect day for writing,” she murmured to Watson, her white Siberian cat. “But let’s have some inspiration first. What do you say to a spy movie?”

The cat let out a satisfied meow as Agatha scratched his favorite spot under the chin. Then he followed her down the back stairs to the screening room. While most home theaters boasted state-of-the-art sound systems and flat-screen TVs, the Misteries had a thing for outdated technologies. Agatha’s parents, Rebecca and Arthur Conan Mistery, never took jets if there was a biplane or zeppelin handy.

Chandler, the Mistery Estate’s jack-of-all-trades butler, was already fitting a take-up reel into the vintage projector, as if he’d read Agatha’s mind.

Chandler was a former heavyweight boxer, with a square jaw and shoulders as broad as a redwood tree. As usual, he wore an immaculate dinner jacket, with his hair slicked back. “Which film have you chosen, Miss Agatha?” he asked politely as she entered.

She paused for a second. “I should brush up on Cold War spies for my new story, but I can’t decide,” she said, idly stroking the tip of her small upturned nose.

This simple gesture always helped her to focus her thoughts.

“What are you thinking, Miss?”

She searched for an answer. “There’s also the indie film Mom and Dad sent me from San Francisco,” she said. “It would be rude not to watch it before they get home.”