Greetings again. Continuing in my effort to make this blog a complete repository of my writings, here we have the first story in my An American Tail/The Great Mouse Detective crossover series, completed in 2012 and newly edited this year. A lot shorter than my other stories, this was really the first fan fiction I ever wrote and completed, also during my time in Graduate School when I wasn’t allowed to write anything but literary fiction. Here’s a synopsis from TV Tropes:
“The year is 1886. Basil of Baker Street, fresh off of busting Ratigan's latest heist at the British Museum, travels to New York City in search of stolen artifacts which he discovered had been sold on the black market to "a feline obsessed with culture". Upon his arrival he's assigned someone from the NYPD to be his body guard, who, as Basil deduces, is actually a woman in disguise, Miss Nellie Brie, a famous undercover reporter who couldn't resist getting the scoop on Basil's latest case. After proving her worth as an assistant to Basil, the two embark on a case that takes them through the corrupt underbelly of New York, exposing a crime lord, and in the process, even helping a certain lost little boy reunite with his family.”
The events of An American Tail take place in the background of this story. I got into a bit of trouble with fanfiction.net at one point because they felt that my using lines of dialogue lifted from the film was plagiarism. But they hadn’t bothered to check the premise of the story nor my other stories, because this story is much more than just a retelling of An American Tail with a couple extra characters thrown in. They were only going by what their bots told them. It was a “guilty until proven innocent” situation. In an act of good faith, I removed almost all of the lines originating from the movie and shortened any scenes that came straight from the movie. This was not a lot of work, because the story was already mostly original (as original as fan fiction gets anyway). I think this turned out to be for the best, really. The original version is still up on Deviant Art, but I don’t think I will bother editing that version any time soon.
This will take up two blog posts. I did the first half after the second half because I think it will read better. I don’t feel like doing that for Abigail and the Rats of NIMH because it was a lot of work.
I have a cover image someone made for me too.
Suren Oganessian
Basil’s American Tail
1
New York City, 1886
Puffing upon his wooden pipe, Basil of Baker Street, England’s premier mouse detective, exited the gangplank of the ship docked at Castle Garden carrying a large suitcase, careful to dodge the feet of the much larger human immigrants and tourists from London. Basil wasn’t here as an immigrant of course, he fancied jolly ol’ England just fine. Nor was he here on vacation either; he had very little time for such extravagances when there were criminals lurking about. No, it was a case which had led him to take the long voyage across the Atlantic Ocean.
The case, as it were, involved several valuable items stolen from the British Museum by Ratigan and his thugs, including jewels, a collection of antique Italian mirrors from the Renaissance era, and an ancient Greek statue of the goddess Athena. Ratigan had managed to slip right through Basil’s fingers once again, unfortunately, but he did capture one of Ratigan’s underlings during a police raid of Ratigan‘s hideout. The mouse revealed during an interrogation with police that what items hadn’t been recovered during the raid had been sold to an eccentric cat in America, who by his accounts had brown fur, a gold tooth, spoke in a New Jersey accent, and was obsessed with “culture”. It was now Basil’s job to find and apprehend this feline for purchasing stolen items off the black market, and to retrieve the items and make sure they got back to England safely. Although the crime largely concerned stolen human items, and felines were normally out of Basil’s jurisdiction, he was the only detective for the job. The only other detective nearly as good as he was, Sherlock Holmes, wouldn’t be able to help, being a human who had little if any idea of animal society, so far as Basil knew.
“Greetings…(hic), Basil of Baker Street…” hiccuped the voice of a large, mustachioed mouse in a top hat, who by the looks of things had had far too much to drink. He took off his hat and bowed, “Welcome to America!”
Basil raised an eyebrow, “And who may I ask are you?”
“Honest John’s the name,” he said, “I run things on this side of town.”
“Ah yes, an elected official. I was told I’d be meeting you at the docks,” Basil said, “Good to see democracy is working out so well here in the States.”
Basil was being sarcastic of course, but he knew it would go right over Honest John’s head in his drunken stupor.
“Oh of course! Y’oughtta try it sometime over in England,” Honest John said in his slurred Irish accent, drinking some more liquor, “Anyways, come with me to Tammany Hall, we’ll talk with the police chief and discuss yer livin’ arrangements while yer here with us in New York.”
“Ah yes, indeed. I do hope you’ve been searching for potential suspects in the crime,” Basil stressed.
“Well we found a cat who might know another cat. Best t’have the police chief explain it to ye, laddy. (Hiccup!) Excuse me.”
Honest John led Basil out of Castle Garden, where immigrant mice faced their first disillusionment with America by having their names changed. ‘Wait until they find out there really are cats here,’ Basil thought. It was a shame the uneducated masses fell for such an obvious ploy to get immigrants to come to America. Most in England were savvy enough to know better.
Outside there was a carriage parked on the street, a human-sized one of course, pulled by a horse. The smaller one made for mice was mounted onto the bottom. Honest John and Basil climbed inside, and after a wait the humans who’d ordered the carriage got in and it got moving. Basil didn’t speak much during the ride, and as Honest John continued to guzzle booze he stared out the window, taking in the surroundings and observing every detail, his deductive mind soaking everything in like a sponge in case he’d need to navigate these streets later. Basil also kept an eye out for any suspects. New York was a dirty city, at least downtown was. The impoverished mice who’d come from horrible conditions in Third World countries fared little better here. The streets were not paved with cheese; there was more horse manure to be found in the streets than cheese. Crime wasn’t hard to observe even from his window. His keen eyes noticed shoplifters and pick-pockets, all before their victims knew what had hit them.
Once they got to Tammany Hall, the wagon stopped, and Basil and Honest John had to quickly hop off before it moved again. Honest John led Basil as he carried his suitcase toward the doors and they entered Honest John’s office, where a group of police officers were waiting to meet with him.
“Well then, I take it this is New York’s best?” Basil asked.
“Chief McBrusque at yer service lad,” said the Chief, a rotund mouse with long red sideburns and a Scottish accent. He carried a wooden club and tapped the end of it in the palm of his other hand, “We’ll make sure yer well taken care of during yer stay. Any mouse so much as looks at ya funny, and whap!”
He swung his wooden club in the air.
“That probably won’t be necessary, Chief…” Basil replied. My, what ruffians cops were in the States!
“Well just in case, we hired ye an assistant to go with ye while yer investigatin’,” said McBrusque, “His name’s Officer Bob Rodentstein. He’s new on the job but he won’t let you down. Or else.”
The policeman in question stepped forward. He had a long beard, and jasmine-green eyes. Basil looked the cop over, wearing an amused smirk.
“I assure you, the help isn’t necessary,” Basil said.
“New York ain’t like London, Basil. The mice can be just as dangerous as the cats,” Honest John said, “I think you better take the help.”
“Oh very well then. This policeman can carry my luggage on the way to my living quarters,” he said, putting an emphasis on the word ‘man’.
“Oh yes, about that. We got ye a nice apartment over on Hester Street. Second floor, away from the cats,” Honest John said.
“Very nice,” said Basil, “And you said something about a potential suspect? Or someone who knew this suspect?”
“Our volunteer will tell you all about that,” said McBrusque, “As for me, I got some more skulls to crack out on the streets. Be seein’ ya.”
McBrusque led his men out of the room while Officer Rodentstein stayed behind.
“Charming,” Basil said, clearing his throat, “Right then, I’ll check back here, or with the police, the moment I have a new lead.”
“See to it that you do,” Honest John replied, “Now if you’ll be excusing’ me, I have some wakes to attend. These cat attacks just aren’t stopping, no matter how much we pay that scoundrel Warren T. Rat.”
“Is there some sort of protection racket going on?” Basil asked.
“Warren is one of the ‘community leaders’ in New York. He’s a rat who negotiates with the cats. Every mouse pays him to keep the cats away. Been doin’ us no good lately.”
Basil stroked his chin. Things were worse than he feared in New York. But, it probably had nothing to do with his case. He was after a cat, not a rat.
“Alright Officer Rodentstein, my suit case,” he said, handing it to the cop, who let out a grunt at its heaviness, “You’ll need to show me around, I’ve no idea where Hester Street is.”
“Will do, sir. It is within walking distance,” said Rodentstein in a voice Basil could tell was being forced lower. He opened the door and they left Tammany Hall, staying close to the walls of buildings to avoid the shoes of humans.
2
Officer Bob Rodentstein huffed and strained, carrying Basil’s large suitcase as they made their way up the stairs to Basil’s temporary apartment, the mouse-sized steps hidden within the walls of the much larger human-sized building. To someone of their size a two-story building might as well have been a sky scraper. It took several flights of stairs to make it all the way up.
“Please do hurry up, Bob. We haven’t got all day and I want to begin my investigation immediately,” Basil said, thinking the less time spent in this depressing city the better.
“Honestly, what did you put in this thing?” Rodentstein asked irritably as she trailed behind Basil.
“Oh just a few essentials, some lab equipment, a disguise, my violin…”
The heavily bearded officer rolled his eyes as he dragged the suitcase up the steps. Finally, they reached the top, and Basil used the key they’d been given in the lobby to open the door to his room. The room had two bedrooms and a living room, one bedroom for each of them Basil supposed. There was a small glass window carved through the wall, one which luckily had gone undetected by the unobservant humans. It overlooked the busy cobblestone street below, and the tall metal train tracks across the street which spread through the city.
Rodentstein dropped the suitcase and collapsed onto an armchair in front of the fireplace in exhaustion, panting.
Basil picked up the suitcase and opened it, carefully sorting through its contents and placing them where they needed to be; the glass vials, beakers, small microscope and chemicals being placed on a table (a far cry from the massive chemical set he had at home, sadly), the extra clothing was hung in the closet, and his violin set atop the second armchair in the room. It was a bit of a bother not having a maid around; he wasn’t used to doing this himself. Thinking about her gave him a strong craving for a cheese crumpet, something hard to come by on this side of the Atlantic, for whatever reason. He realized he’d need to do some grocery shopping by himself too, unless he could get his new ‘assistant’ to do it for him. What a bother that would be when he had so much work to do. You don’t know what you have until it’s gone. Basil resolved to give his maid a raise when he got back.
Along the way from Tammany Hall he’d picked up an issue of the local newspaper from a paperboy on the sidewalk, and now he took it out of the inside of his coat pocket and unrolled it.
“The best way to begin an investigation, I’ve found, is to scour the newspaper for clues,” Basil said, sitting down, careful to remove the violin first, before unrolling the paper and scrolling its headlines, “Perhaps ‘The Daily Nibbler’ might have something on my suspect.”
“The Daily Nibbler is an excellent resource for news around here,” Rodentstein chimed in, finally catching his breath, “At least when that egomaniac editor Reed Daley isn’t trying to stir up another sensational story.”
Basil cast a glance in his direction, “Famous for that, is he?”
“Well,you just can’t take everything he writes for granted,” Rodentstein said with a little hesitation, “Anyway, erm, about the suspect we were going to interrogate.”
He was changing the subject, Basil knew. But he’d been waiting for the officer to bring up who they’d need to track down. “Yes, who is it?”
“He’s a cat so we’ll need to be careful. He goes by the name Cat R. Waul,” Rodentstein explained, “He only stays in town a few months a year, since his owner travels between New York and out west quite a lot. But if we’re looking for a cat wealthy and eccentric enough to purchase stolen museum goods from this Ratigan fellow, he’d be a good place to start. Waul is also originally from England and may still have ties there, making him a possible accomplice himself.”
“Hm, and what do we know about his possible whereabouts?” Basil asked, while reading over an article on a cat attack on a local Chinese laundry that had fallen on hard times and had been unable to forfeit enough profits to Warren T. Rat, leaving three mice dead. Positively dreadful what was going on in New York.
“He likes to hang around a nightclub in the Bronx with his posse. It’s a cat-exclusive nightclub so unless you’ve got a cat disguise in that suitcase we’ll need to improvise a way in. And getting to actually talk to Waul will be another matter entirely.”
“Sounds dangerous. But I’ve stood against worse odds in my career,” Basil said with a nonchalant shrug, “I am interested in knowing whether or not this Waul character has any connection to Ratigan.”
“So, do we leave for the Bronx tonight?” Rodentstein asked.
“Yes, we shall. Though I think it would be best if we wore disguises,” Basil said.
“Disguises?”
“Indeed. We wouldn’t want to give our identities away if something happens, would we?” Basil said, “By the way, your beard makes you too noticeable. Shave it off before we go.”
Rodentstein blinked, “Sh-shave it off?”
“Yes. Or maybe you can shave it after we get back from the nightclub. Actually, that’s an even better idea. Then if someone sees you at the nightclub they won‘t recognize you later.”
Basil got up from his chair and put the newspaper down.
“But…but I can’t…”
Basil tilted his head, “Why is that?”
“It’s…it’s too special to me.” he said quickly.
“Too special? Why that’s absurd! It’ll grow in again, won’t it?”
“Yes but-”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I…I just can’t. I won’t.” he said, sitting up straight and narrowing his eyes.
Basil walked up to his chair and bent down, causing the officer to scoot back against the chair as far as he could. Basil reached his hand out and began to stroke the beard.
“It is rather regal, isn’t it? Yes, it looks good on you.”
He tugged on the beard and pulled it back, revealing a string. He let go and it snapped back onto the officer’s face.
“AHA!” Basil said, standing up straight and pointing an accusing finger at the imposter, “As I suspected from the beginning! You are no policeman. You are, in fact, a WOMAN!”
Trembling, she removed the beard and her police hat, revealing a fair face with raised cheeks, full lips, and only the softest peach-fuzz fur covering her complexion, her red hair done up in a bun to keep it hidden under the hat, “I should have known my disguise couldn’t fool the great mouse detective.”
Basil was not amused, “Who sent you?! Who do you work for?!”
“Calm down, Basil. I…I don’t work for Ratigan,” she insisted.
“Then who do you work for?” Basil demanded.
“I…” she glanced over at the newspaper on Basil’s chair, “I work for The Daily Nibbler.”
“Oh, is that it then? An undercover reporter? Here to snoop on me and sell the story to the newspapers eh?” Basil said, drawing back a bit, “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
Her jade eyes turned from Basil to the newspaper again, “Look for my advice column in there, you should find a picture of me.”
He slowly walked backwards toward the newspaper, not taking his eyes off the imposter in case she tried to pull a gun on him or something of that nature. He picked the paper up, trying to keep one eye on her and one on the paper as he thumbed through its pages. She showed no signs of moving, she only watched. Finally, he came to the advice column.
“Ask Nellie…” he read aloud as he looked it over. Someone had written to her about having recurring nightmares in the column, whereupon her advice had been that there was nothing in the dark that wasn’t there with the lights turned on, and that it was best to get the facts on something you were afraid of. Sure enough, there was a black and white photograph at the top of the column, matching this woman’s description, “So you’re Nellie Brie. The Nellie Brie.”
“Yes, I’m the Nellie Brie. Heard of me?” she asked.
“Oh don’t think the news of your undercover exploits hasn’t reached Britain.” Basil answered, “I must admit I found the methods you used in your report on corruption in New York mental institutions last year quite impressive. And you must have had to fool quite a few mice with your disguise to end up being assigned to assist me.”
“Don’t get me wrong Basil. It wasn’t about you, at first,” Nellie insisted, “I was going to do a big article on police brutality and corruption in the NYPD. You saw how maniacal that Chief McBrusque is. So I used the disguise, went through police training at a police academy, and joined the force. I’ve found evidence that McBrusque has been taking under-the-table bribes from factory and sweatshop owners, on top of overstepping his bounds and roughing up innocent civilians. I was about ready to publish the article, thus blowing my disguise, when news came that you were coming here from England to work on a big case.”
“And the story was too big to pass up.” Basil said irritably.
“They were taking volunteers to see who was going to show you around and watch your back while you were here, and well…on a complete whim mind you…I decided to volunteer and do a story on it,” Nellie confessed, “But listen, I meant you no harm. I’m on your side. I hate crime as much as you do, and I really want to help make this city a better place to live. Maybe I can help you. I want to, really I do.”
Basil could tell she was being sincere, although it annoyed him that she thought she’d be able to get away with tricking him with a disguise and printing a story about him right under his nose. It wasn’t even a very good disguise either, in Basil’s opinion. But it had proven affective up until she met him, so maybe she could keep it when she went along with him.
“Fine then, ‘assistant’. I’ll give you a chance,” Basil said.
She gave a smile, “Thank you Basil. I will do my best. You’ll need someone who knows the area.”
“Very well, put that beard back on. I think this calls for our first outing.”
“But the club won’t open until tonight.”
“I know that,” Basil scoffed, “We’re going grocery shopping. We can hone your detective skills by having you find out if they sell my kind of tea in America. Bonus points if you can find me a cheese crumpet.”
Nellie fastened her fake beard back on, “It just so happens I know just the place to go for cheese crumpets.”
“Well then, I’d say this is the start of a very successful partnership.” Basil said with a grin, politely opening the door for the lady.
3
When Basil and Nellie came back they both carried bags with them. After buying some food at the market Nellie took Basil to a British-themed pub downtown that served cheese crumpets as appetizers, and they bought a stockpile of them. There was an ice box in the tiny kitchen for them to keep their food in, and a stove with which to heat it up later. Basil had purchased a nice tea pot.
“Very well then, I think you’ve proven yourself a worthy partner,” Basil said.
“The honor is all mine,” replied Nellie as she removed her fake beard.
“So, as per our agreement, you help me wrap up this case and show me the ins and outs of New York, and I’ll let you write your big scoop on the whole thing after all is said and done.”
“Why thank you,” Nellie said, “I must say I never thought I’d be working with Basil of Baker Street of all people, but you can count on me. We’ll nab this cat.”
By this time it was late afternoon, but night wouldn’t be too far off.
“Right then, how are we getting to this nightclub?” Basil asked, at once thankful to have someone who knew her way around. Were he doing this alone, he’d be spending this time memorizing road maps and looking for a lead.
“There’s a trolley that goes that way, we’ll just need to catch it,” Nellie said, “The next one comes by Hester Street in about twenty minutes.”
“You’ve memorized the trolley schedule? How impressive,” Basil remarked, “You’ll be fit to be a nice, deductive private investigator yet.’
“As you’ll recall I already graduated a police academy for this undercover report, so yes, at this point I likely could be a private eye if I wanted to be. But I have different goals in mind. We should get going soon, it will take a while to get to where the trolley stops.”
Basil went through the closet and put on his disguise; a black trench coat with a wide-brimmed hat, and a fake moustache. Nellie giggled at the sight.
“Nice moustache.”
“Nice beard,” Basil scoffed.
“I suppose I can be a policeman and you can be my prisoner.”
“Ah, no. I thought about that. But I don’t think a policeman would be quite welcome in an establishment like this,” Basil said, taking long brown coat he always wore, and a bowler hat from the closet, tossing it to Nellie.
“Oh, nice thinking,” Nellie said, taking off the long coat and hat on her police uniform and replacing it with Basil’s coat. It was a nice fit. The bowler hat covered her hair as well.
“You look like a rather strapping gentleman now if I do say so myself. Well, close enough to one at any rate.”
“What was it that gave my disguise away, if I may ask?” Nellie questioned as she opened the door for them to leave down the stairs.
“Hm? Well, the first thing I noticed were your eyes, of course.”
“Really? How did that give me away? she asked.
“Oh they didn’t really give you away, they were just the first thing I noticed,” Basil commented, “Your eyes are, well…attention grabbing, yes.”
“There’s not much I can do about that,” she said, trying to decide if that were meant to be a concealed, shy compliment or not.
“And then of course, your more feminine body proportions; the smaller hands and feet, the wide hips,” Basil went on as they walked down the long flights of stairs, “All the gender-defining mouse traits were there, not well enough hidden by your police uniform. All this made that fake beard very comical indeed. Though I will have to commend the job you did at concealing your chest, bound with tight bandages I presume, if you don’t mind my being so bold.”
“Well I did ask, and you‘re right,” Nellie replied, rolling her eyes.
“I’ll have to guess that was probably what made your disguise at all affective this whole time, along with the beard hiding most of your face.”
“Do you think I’ll be okay in this tonight?” Nellie asked, feeling somewhat worried now that Basil had picked apart her disguise.
“Not to worry. It’s gotten you this far. You know, it’s quite hilarious you were able to graduate a police academy like that,” Basil mused with a chuckle.
“Just goes to show those nay-sayers that women can do anything men can do,” she said proudly as they reached the bottom of the stairs and walked through the lobby to the doors. They reached the outside, back to the noisy streets, the air filled with the sound of hooves clopping on the cobblestone streets and humans rushing by.
“You encounter that barrier often, do you?” Basil asked.
“Let’s just say reporting isn’t exactly a woman-dominated field. I’ve had to scratch and claw to get to where I am today. It’s not always easy when people have old-fashioned attitudes about women in the workplace. When I first got into the business they wanted me to cover fashion or gardening or high society and dull topics like that. I wanted action, I wanted to bring facts to the citizens of New York.” Nellie gave a disgusted sigh, “It’s a good thing my editor Reed Daley knew real talent when he saw it, or else I might be investigating frilly dresses instead of uncovering corruption and trying to make a difference in this town.”
“I think that’s highly admirable,” Basil said as they walked along, “In all my studies of biology, anatomy and psychology I see no reason for there being such inequalities in society. We’re all just as capable, it is unscientific and foolish to think otherwise.”
“Exactly! Why can’t more men be like you and Reed? Although, Reed just keeps me around because my stories sell. You saw for yourself he still has me answering those advice column letters while I’m on this big undercover case because he needs my name somewhere in every issue, lest his precious sales go down.”
“Yes, I believe you voiced some complaints about him earlier,” Basil noted.
Soon they came upon a group of humans waiting near a bench on the sidewalk.
“That must be the stop,” Nellie said.
They hopped down into the gutter and continued on, joining a group of grungy city mice also waiting for the trolley. They blended in with the crowd. After a few minutes the trolley came along, following rails in the streets and guided by electrical wires hanging above it. The mice hopped onto the bottom where there were cars designated for mice. It was fortunate that the humans never bothered to look underneath the trolleys.
Basil and Nellie took a seat together as the trolley got going again.
“Superb invention, these trolleys. No horse needed,” Basil said, “We call them trams in England you know.”
“Who knows, one day we might not even need horses at all,” Nellie suggested.
The trolley rode on, making various stops. The sun was setting by the time they made it to their stop at the Bronx. It’d be almost time for the club to open soon. Basil and Nellie hopped off onto the sidewalk. The streets were quieter here, and the stillness put them on their guard and made them cautious, the way a mouse often gets when there might be cats lurking about.
“We’ll be looking for a human pub,” Nellie said, “The cats have their own nightclub in the basement. I don’t know how we’re going to sneak in.”
“There’s always a way, as long as one can think,” said Basil.
Nellie pointed at a tavern across the street and down the block, with lively music coming from it as humans walked through the doors and came out of them drunkenly, “That’s the place.”
“Right then. When we’re there, you will refer to me by the name…Phineas Baldrick,” Basil said, “You may pick any name you like so long as it’s male.”
“Alright then, I’ll be…hmm…John Watson,” she decided after some thought.
“Very original,” Basil replied with playful sarcasm, knowing exactly who she’d gotten the name from.
Looking both ways before they did so, they darted across the street toward the travel. As they did, a horse and carriage pulled up to the tavern. Nellie and Basil hurried up to the sidewalk and bolted around the corner of the building, for very good reason. As the human passengers disembarked, a gray female cat wearing the dress of a saloon singer with a feather on her head hopped down from the top carrying a purse. She cleared her throat.
“Anotha night on da job,” she sighed in a Brooklyn accent, putting the purse on the ground for a moment so she could stretch, “Hope dat big orange cat from Warren’s gang shows up again tonight. Might actually make dis horrible gig worth somethin’.”
Basil’s calculating mind thought up a plan in an instant.
“Quick, into her purse Watson.”
She blinked, taking a few seconds to remember that she was Watson now, “Wait, are you insane? She’ll have us for dinner!”
“Trust me!” Basil said before darting on all fours and climbing into the purse. He peeked out over the edge.
Nellie gulped nervously before following Basil, quickly scampering over to the bag. Basil held his hand out to pull her inside.
“Well, let’s get ‘dis show on da road.” the cat said, picking the purse up and walking around the corner to an alley, where two muscular cats were standing guard.
“Stop right there, toots. Ya got a membaship?”
“Step aside boys, ya bother me,” she replied, walking toward the entrance, which was a window at ground level that led to the basement.
“Oh, it’s Miss Kitty.” said one cat.
“So it is. Right dis way, Miss Kitty.” the other said, opening the window for her. She slipped inside, unaware of the two passengers she carried.
4
Miss Kitty walked into her dressing room with the purse, giving Nellie and Basil a bumpy ride. The smell of perfume inside the bag was intoxicating, but Basil explained that it would be useful for masking their smell. Cats could smell mice from anywhere.
“What are we going to do when she opens the bag?” Nellie asked in a whisper, “I really don’t like this idea.”
“Relax, we’ll be out of here before she opens it,” Basil assured her. “We just need to wait for the right instant.”
Miss Kitty finally placed the purse down on a desk and opened a drawer for some lipstick to apply it in front of the mirror. Basil deduced upon hearing the sounds of the drawer opening and then the light smacking of her lips as she applied the lipstick that she’d be opening the purse for her makeup and perfume any moment now.
“Okay Watson, I’m going to peek and make sure she’s preoccupied. If you see me leap from the bag you are to follow behind immediately, and we will jump into the open drawer which if my calculations are correct will be to our left.”
“Nice to see you’re on top of things,” she said, her tone lacking in confidence.
Basil peeked through the top of Miss Kitty’s purse. She was busy brushing her hair now, humming a show tune to herself.
Basil glanced back at Nellie for a moment before quickly jumping out, expecting her to follow. Nellie took a breath and jumped out as well, the two of them scurrying madly into the drawer and jumping in. They moved back in the drawer, careful not to be visible.
“See? I told you I‘d get us out. Just trust me,” Basil said with a grin.
“You can have my congratulations when we get out of this situation with our fur still intact.”
At that moment they could hear Miss Kitty rustling through her purse. They hadn’t left a moment too soon.
“Okay okay, so you did get us out of there right on time,” Nellie admitted, “But what are we going to do now? Even if we do find Waul what’s to stop him from eating us on the spot?”
“I suppose we’ll spy on him,” said Basil, “At least until we can find some safe method of interrogating him.”
“I really expected England’s best detective to be better at planning ahead.”
“We mustn’t let the fear win, Watson. And it sounds to me like you’re frightened.”
“Only fools are fearless,” Nellie replied.
The drawer jerked open suddenly. Nellie and Basil scurried to the very back as Miss Kitty’s paw rummaged through the various self-beautification products she kept in there.
“What’d I do wit’ that make-up brush?”
Basil motioned to the wooden board that formed the back of the drawer, “We’ll climb over this board and drop down to the drawer beneath us,” he whispered, “Give me a boost and I’ll pull you up.”
Quickly, Nellie locked her hands together so that Basil could place his foot in them and lift up from there. He was heavy, but she held tight as he climbed to the top. He then held his arm down for her to grab. But, the drawer jerked as Miss Kitty opened it wider. Basil lost his footing, and slipped off, falling into the drawer below them.
“Basil!!” she whispered sharply, trying in vain to jump to the top of the board.
She thought she could hear a faint ‘Confound it!’ from below. Basil couldn’t help her now.
“Ah, is ‘dis it? I think so.”
She felt Miss Kitty’s fingers clasp around her hips, and suddenly Nellie was jerked into the air. Miss Kitty absent-mindedly opened her make-up and brushed Nellie into the fine colored powder she used to add blush to her cheeks, the dust collecting in the fake beard. Nellie’s body kept perfectly stiff, and she tried her hardest not to sneeze. But as she was brushed face-first against Miss Kitty’s cheek, she could no longer hold it in. She sneezed, just as the beard fell off.
Miss Kitty looked down at the ‘brush’ she’d been using and shrieked, dropping Nellie on the desk. She landed on her hands and knees with a painful wince, coughing, her face covered in pink powder.
“A mouse!” Miss Kitty exclaimed.
Nellie shakily got to her feet and backed away, her eyes wide with terror.
“Just what were you doin’ in my drawer?!” Miss Kitty demanded.
Nellie couldn’t bring her mouth to form words. She felt that this was the end for her.
There was a knock on the door to her dressing room.
“Are you alright in there, dearie?” came a British accent.
“Yeah yeah I’m fine! Scram will ya? I’m getting’ ready for da show.”
Grumbling could he heard from outside as whoever the voice belonged to left. Nellie’s eyes darted around for an escape. Miss Kitty drew a breath, collecting herself after the startle Nellie gave her.
“Hey, it’s alright little mouse, I don’t like eatin’ mice anyways,” Miss Kitty said.
Nellie blinked, “Y-you don’t?”
“Nah, I like fish. But what’re ya doin’ snoopin’ around here for? Ya know yer in a cat’s saloon don’tcha? Yer liable to get yerself made into an item on da menu.”
Nellie didn’t know if she could trust this cat, but she decided it best to give Miss Kitty an explanation.
“I’m…I’m on an undercover report,” she said.
“Oh really? Is dat what you were doin’ wearin’ da beard? Say lemme get dat stuff off yer face, ya look like a clown,” she chuckled, taking a handkerchief and licking it gently before wiping Nellie’s face, “Now what in my dressing room would be interesting enough to report on?”
“I just needed a way inside, and your purse was the best way I could find,” Nellie replied after Miss Kitty finished wiping her face clean.
“I see. Ya know you look awful familiar.” Miss Kitty said.
“You might have heard of me. I’m Nellie Brie.”
“Nellie Brie? Yeah I heard of ya’s. I heard Warren complain about ya bustin up some of his sweatshops before. Dat rat comes in here sometimes with his gang. I‘m hopin‘ some of ‘em come in tonight.”
“Well my colleague and I were looking for a cat by the name of Cat R. Waul,” Nellie explained.
“Oh him? Yeah he’s here. So yer not here alone then?”
“Oh, no I believe you’ll find him in the second drawer,” Nellie said, hoping Basil didn’t mind being pointed out. After all, this cat did seem friendly enough, and if she were going to eat her she’d have done it by now.
Miss Kitty opened the drawer to see Basil looking up at her. She picked him up and placed him on the desk.
“So we’re trusting a cat now?” Basil asked Nellie, irritated.
“Relax, she’s not going to harm us. I think she’s going to be a big help in getting this case unwrapped if she can ask Waul some questions on our behalf while we eavesdrop. Why don‘t you be polite and introduce yourself?”
“What was that earlier about only fools being fearless?” Basil grumbled.
“Go on,” Nellie encouraged him.
He sighed, “Alright, I’m Phineas Baldrick. Pleasure to meet your acquaintance, and please refrain from eating my associate and I.”
Nellie cocked an eyebrow. Well if he didn’t want to blow his cover, she wasn’t going to say anything. Nellie wouldn’t have blown hers if not for losing the beard.
“Nice to meetcha. And don’t worry, I’ll help you guys. I’m game fer snitchin’ on Waul, that snobby stuck-up Brit always gets unda my fur…no offense.”
“None taken,” replied Basil.
“So whatcha got in mind?” Miss Kitty asked.
“We want to know if he’s in any way connected to a rat from London named Ratigan,” Basil explained, “We know that a cat from New York purchased stolen museum goods from Ratigan and this Waul character sounded like a likely suspect.”
“Ratigan eh? Tell ya what, I’ll let you eavesdrop tonight after my big performance, and I’ll ask Waul about ‘dis Ratigan guy.”
“Splendid,” Basil replied, “And how are we going to eavesdrop without being seen by the cats?”
“Hm…well if ya climb up to da rafters on da ceiling, you should be able to climb down a chandelier. Now Waul’s a brown cat who’s always wearin’ a monocle and a red top hat, and he hangs around with a huge spider in a cowboy hat. He’ll be hard to miss.”
“Huge spider in a cowboy hat? Yes, certainly not something you see everyday…”
There was a knock on the door.
“Miss Kitty? Your performance is up next. We are eagerly awaiting your presence.”
“Erm…just a minute! I’ll be right out!” she turned to Basil and Nellie, “All right, I’m gonna slap on da rest of my makeup and I’m outta here. I’ll leave da door open and distract any cats in da hallway. Good luck, you two.”
“Thank you for your help,” said Nellie.
Miss Kitty opened the drawer again, this time finding the brush and finishing with it. She then gently picked the two mice up and placed them on the ground.
“Gettin’ up to da rafters will be all up to you’s, but if you do it during my performance all eyes’ll be on me,” Miss Kitty said with a wink, before rushing out the door leaving a trail of pink perfume behind her.
“Well imagine that, a nice cat,” Nellie said with a grin.
“Possibly the first one I’ve ever encountered,” Basil said, “At any rate, I hope you’re good at climbing.”
“Who me? I could climb up a two-story building. I’m more worried about you trying to climb in those shoes.”
“I’ll be just fine, thank you,” Basil replied, “I don’t know what it is with you Americans and your aversion to shoes.”
“Oh don’t be such a snob. Besides, shoes are for humans,” Nellie teased.
“I’ll have you know that every good detective needs a nice pair of shoes if they want to make their footprints less identifiable,” Basil objected, as the two of them made their way out the door and down the hallway, still arguing.
5
The nightclub was full of rowdy, drunken cats, noisily talking, laughing, getting into fights. The bar consisted of some wooden crates stacked together, and the rest of the nightclub used spare tables and chairs from the human bar upstairs. The alcohol came from the supply the humans kept in the basement. Some catnip was available for a good price as well. In the midst of all this, Cat R. Waul and his posse were seated at a table, engaged in a high stakes game of poker with some cats from the Mott Street Maulers. Warren himself wasn’t in attendance, having business elsewhere.
“I hope we don’t die of smoke inhalation up there,” Nellie said as they looked up at the ceiling from behind a crate. Cigar smoke hung in the air.
Basil took a look at the room, figuring out where best to make it to the chandelier that hung over the table Waul was at.
“When Miss Kitty starts singing, we’ll climb that wooden beam there,” Basil said, pointing to a nearby wooden beam along the wall.
“The wood looks like it’s bumpy enough for us to find footing on.”
“I really shouldn’t have left my climbing gear in London. But, I think I’ll manage.”
Basil and Nellie silently waited, until the lights in the room dimmed, and a spotlight shown on the stage. The room fell to a hush, and everyone turned their attention to the stage. The curtains opened, revealing Miss Kitty sitting provocatively on a piano as another cat played a soothing, jazzy melody. Miss Kitty then sang her own version of the sultry tune, “Gee Baby, Ain’t I Good To You?”
The cats were entranced by the musical number, a few of them whistling. Miss Kitty got down from the piano and began to prance along the stage as she sung. Basil and Nellie knew this was their cue, and ran for the wooden post, beginning the perilous climb to the rafters with Nellie taking the lead and Basil climbing behind her.
Basil and Nellie struggled to the top, clutching the grooves and cracks in the wood. Nellie did have the advantage without her shoes, but Basil was too stubborn about it. About halfway up he almost slipped, but Nellie was quick to wrap her tail around his wrist before he lost grip. He held on, giving Nellie a grateful expression before continuing to climb.
Their climb went completely unnoticed as Miss Kitty’s alluring presence took the center of everyone’s attention. She hopped down from the stage as she sang, flirting with random cats at the tables. In particular she came up to the table where Waul’s and Warren’s gangs were sitting, running her tail under the big orange cat’s nose. He looked like he could melt.
Quickly, Basil and Nellie neared the top of the beam. There was a piano solo in the song in which Miss Kitty strutted around the bar, her perfumed scent driving many of the cats wild. Once Nellie reached the top and climbed onto the horizontal wooden rafters in the ceiling she offered her hand and pulled Basil up. They each took a moment to rest.
“Well…how was the climb?” Nellie asked, trying to catch her breath, not easy in the smoky atmosphere.
“Oh fine, so perhaps being in our natural barefoot state does have its advantages when you‘re climbing about,” Basil admitted in a disgruntled tone, “It’s a matter of lifestyle. In England we live a less rugged lifestyle.”
“Unlike us yankee ruffians, hm?” Nellie mused.
“What I’m saying is that we’re more adapted to the indoors.”
“Ah, I understand,” Nellie could have gone on, but she decided to get back to business, “Alright, now to climb down to that chandelier.”
The song ended and the cats in the room all cheered. As promised to Basil and Nellie, Miss Kitty pulled up a chair at Waul’s table to ‘mingle with the patrons’, something she was told to do by management to drum up business.
“I say, jolly good show dear Miss Kitty. I can’t say I’ve heard that particular number before,” Cat R. Waul said, as the others picked up their poker game where it had left off.
“Eh, it’s a new one,” Miss Kitty answered, “Glad ya liked it.”
“I uh, really liked it too Miss Kitty.”
“What was your name again?” Miss Kitty asked the orange cat, “I always see’s ya around here.”
“My name’s Tiger,” he said shyly.
“Hm, come up and see me sometime Tigah,” she said with a wink.
Waul became visibly annoyed by this exchange, “Yes, well at any rate, dear Miss Kitty, we were just discussing the prospect of opening a saloon out west, in the town of Green River.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes, although we will need laborers to build it, so it is a vision for the far-off future. But you see, Warren didn’t take kindly to the idea of luring mice from New York out west to build it and…later be part of our menu.”
“More mice means more dough in his pockets,” Miss Kitty said.
“I’m still trying to negotiate with Warren and perhaps agree on some kind of a quota on how many mice I can take. However, when it is built, I will be needing singers. I would like to invite you to fill the position, once the saloon is ready to open.”
“I’ll think about it. I kinda like it here in New York…but then again I ain’t really gettin’ anywhere here.”
While they conversed, Nellie and Basil carefully climbed down the chain that the chandelier dangled from. Miss Kitty noticed the chandelier sway slightly.
“So eh, tell me Waul, speakin’ of dough…evah heard of this crime lord over in England called Ratigan?” she asked, speaking up so that Basil and Nellie would hear.
“Ratigan, you say? Isn’t he that rat that pulled off the Big Ben Caper?”
“I think so. I hoid he robbed a museum recently and was sellin’ a bunch of artifacts over da black market,” Miss Kitty said, “Ya know anything about dat?”
“Oh did he? Well, sounds like a tantalizing offer, but I have no use for stolen artifacts, unless to sell them for more than I bought them for. From what I’ve heard this Ratigan seems like a charming fellow, but I’ve yet to meet his acquaintance.”
A burly cat in a bowler hat, with a cigar clenched in his teeth, looked up from his hand of poker.
“Hey, I think da boss knows--”
A shorter cat with long sleeves that covered his hands kicked the bigger cat in the ankle beneath the table, and glared.
“Oh eh, neva mind…” the big cat said sheepishly, placing two cards on the table, “Hit me. And ya betta not be hiding any aces in those sleeves of yers, Aces. I know your tricks.”
“Not tonight, Jake. We better watch out for that tarantula, he’s the one who likes hiding aces in his boots,” Aces replied.
“Accuse me of cheatin’, huh? I can’t help it if eight poker hands are better than one, eeeheeheeheeeee!” Chula cackled.
“Did you hear that Basil?” Nellie whispered, “Those cats work for Warren T. Rat.”
“Hm yes, perhaps this ‘cat’ we’re after isn’t a cat at all, but a rat. It makes sense that two contemptible sewer rats would be doing business with one another. This Waul fellow may like culture, but he doesn‘t seem the type to hoard such artifacts. And I don‘t think he has a gold tooth either, at least not from what I can observe at this vantage point.”
“But Warren T. does…” Nellie answered, “Basil, I think you know who we need to snoop on next.”
Basil nodded, “He may not be the correct species, but everything else seems to be adding up. He’s definitely worth looking into next.”
“We’ll need a plan first,” Nellie warned, “He pretty much calls all the shots in this town. He has nearly every cat in this town at his command. If going after him weren’t so dangerous I’d have done an undercover report on him a long time ago.”
“Very well then. We’ll come up with a plan of action. I believe we got what we came here for. Though I think we’re stuck here until closing time.”
“You may be right at that,” Nellie said, coughing a bit from the rising cigar smoke.
The two of them waited, peering over the dangling chandelier, spying on the rest of the conversation, listening to them bicker over the poker game. Little did either of them know, a pair of eyes were watching them from the scaffolding, spying from behind a wooden beam.
“Basil of Baker Street, here in New York? The boss isn’t going to like this.”
The tiny figure gave a flash of electricity from its antennae and hiccupped.
6
“So you’re gonna snoop on Warren, huh?” Miss Kitty asked, back in her dressing room.
Basil and Nellie were atop her desk. It was 2 in the morning, and all the cats had left but Miss Kitty.
“Yes, we believe he is our number one suspect,” Basil said.
“Ya know how dangerous dats gonna be, don’t ya?”
“Yes we do, we’re well aware,” Nellie said, “I think it might be best to come up with some way we can meet him in a safe environment, like Tammany Hall the next time he goes to Honest John for his protection money.”
“Tell me Miss Kitty, is there anything you might know about Warren that could help us?” Basil asked.
Miss Kitty thought about the question. She seemed conflicted.
“Okay, here’s the thing. If he finds out I spilled the beans to you guys, I’m a skinned cat. I do know one secret about him…one big secret. None of da mice know about it, or at least da ones who did know about it ain’t alive no more. All da cats know about it, but no one’s allowed to say it, or else.”
Basil and Nellie looked up at her eagerly.
“Yes? Go on…” Basil encouraged.
“I can’t say it,” Miss Kitty concluded, “All I’ll tell ya is dis. When it comes to Warren, the real rat is what’s behind the mask.”
She opened her purse.
“Now get in you two. I wish ya good luck.”
--------------------------
The real rat is what’s behind the mask.
Basil pondered these words back at the apartment later that morning, clearing his mind of all else as he softly played his violin in front of the fireplace. The violin had a way of soothing his nerves, of helping him keep his deductive edge even after only getting about four hours of uneasy sleep. That blasted train across the street was the only thing that disturbed his music every now and then, but soon it passed. Perhaps Miss Kitty’s subtle clue would make more sense when he came face to face with the crime lord. The fact that even Miss Kitty was too afraid to tell them much just went to show how much power this robber baron wielded over New York. What had started out as a small side-case based on artifact theft may well have turned into something that would have repercussions for the entire city.
Nellie Brie meanwhile briefly returned to the Daily Nibbler offices to bring back a typewriter. Since her identity was no longer any secret to Basil, she decided she may as well start typing up their findings for her big scoop. Basil had given her permission of course. She also had some more advice letters to answer. Part of her job, after all. Once she returned though, they were going to head to Tammany Hall, and shadow Honest John until Warren showed up. That was the plan, anyway. Until then, Basil was taking this time to sit back and relax, with the soothing melody of his violin. He so enjoyed a little solitude every now and then. Okay…a lot of solitude every now and then.
“Papa!!”
Basil’s violin screeched. His head snapped back to look behind his chair and see who had said that. And there, standing in front of an open window, was a curious little child in a big blue hat that didn’t fit him, and baggy clothes. The boy gasped upon seeing Basil.
“Wait a minute…you’re not my Papa…” he said, his ears drooping.
“I should say not, young chap,” Basil said, getting up from his chair, still holding his violin, “Now what would possibly drive you to climb into a stranger’s window looking for your father? On the second floor, no less!”
“I-I’ve been looking for my family,” the boy said, sniffling and wiping his face with his sleeve.
Basil raised an eyebrow. From the wardrobe he could tell the boy was an immigrant; the baggy sweatshirt with the rolled-up collar was characteristic of Russian peasant mouse clothing, the tattered and frayed nature of his wardrobe showed that he’d been through some rough experiences either before or after arriving in America; that or he didn’t own many other shirts. Spots of coal dust on the boy’s clothes told Basil that he’d just been under the railroad tracks across the street. And then, the final piece of the puzzle slipped into place; he was wearing a fiddler’s cap, of the Russian variety (namely a ‘kasket’ cap, typically larger than those found in other European countries), a size too big for the youngster. It was likely his father’s originally, thus, his father had to be a violinist. Leading the lost child on the lookout for his family to believe that any violin he heard was his father’s.
“What is your name, child?” Basil asked, stooping down to be eye-level with the boy.
“It’s Fievel. Fievel Mousekewitz,” he answered shyly.
“Hmm, Russian-Jewish in origin, as I suspected,” Basil said, “Well then Mr. Mouseketeer…”
“Mousekewitz,” Fievel corrected him.
“Whatever. At any rate, I do apologize but I haven’t the faintest clue where your family may be, being merely a visitor to New York myself. Nor is helping children find their family something I have a great deal of time for right now.”
Fievel fidgeted with his tail and gave Basil an irresistible sad look.
“Well what more do you want from me?” Basil asked, disliking the uncanny way children had of pulling on one’s heartstrings, “I’m a private investigator on the trail of a vicious crime lord. You ought to take your ‘missing persons’ case to the local authorities, young boy.”
Fievel looked down and sniffed, wiping his eyes, making Basil even more uneasy.
“Oh dash it all. If I give you a cheese crumpet will you leave and go to the police station?”
Fievel looked up at Basil, “I guess I am really hungry…”
Basil opened the ice box and fished out a cheese crumpet for the boy. Fievel snatched it from Basil’s hands hungrily and began to devour it. It didn’t look like he’d had much to eat in a long time. Just then, the sound of a violin once again filled the room, but it wasn’t coming from Basil this time. It sounded like it was coming from the room directly above, a human-occupied one.
“Papa!!” Fievel exclaimed, running for the window.
“Wait a minute!” Basil shouted, but the boy was already out on the ledge, running toward the window sill of the much-larger human room, and climbing up. Basil watched him outside the window. ”Hm, oh well…I doubt a violin that loud is coming from a mouse, but he‘ll find out soon enough…”
He went back to his seat, deciding to forget the boy for now. But just as he was about to put his bow to the strings of his violin once more, his ears perked up.
“Wait a moment, the distinct scratchiness in that violin…why, it must be a phonograph recording,” Basil realized.
“Ahhhh! A mouse! Ahhhhhh!!!!” came yelling from a terrified human woman up above.
Basil put his violin down and rushed to the window once more, only to see Fievel fall from the window into a clothesline, and manage to parachute his way down to the ground into a water bucket, being washed down the gutter.
“Well…he’ll be okay,” Basil shrugged, going to sit back in his chair.
--------------------------
At that same moment, Nellie had just left the offices carrying a typewriter and a bundle of paper, after having filled her boss Reed Daley in on what was going on with the Basil case. He was disappointed that she had blown her cover, but then thrilled when she told him Basil was okay with it. “See if you can get him to do a special interview for our paper. We’ll blow the competition clear out of the water with a scoop like that!” He also asked her if she wanted to do a quick article on the breakout at Moe’s Sweatshop the night before, but she was too busy for that. Although any time a sweatshop was exposed was cause for celebration in her book; who knew how many more were hidden across the city.
She carefully made her way down the sidewalk toward Hester Street and the apartment she and Basil were staying in, dodging humans. As she turned a corner into an alley though, she felt a shadow envelop her. She turned around, only to see a large, muscular cat holding a wooden club with a nail driven through it. She recognized him as Jake from the night before.
“G’morning, Miss Brie, heh heh heh…” said Jake, gnashing his sharp teeth.
Nellie turned to run down the alley, but more cats crept out from behind boxes and trash cans. She was surrounded.
“What do you want with me?” she shouted, knowing that this wasn’t some random cat attack. She was being ambushed purposely.
As she spun around to face all her attackers, clutching her typewriter, she stopped in front of an overturned garbage can. Seeing a yellow glint in the shadows and a trail of cigar smoke rising from inside, she gazed in horror as Warren T. Rat stepped out into view, wearing a purple top hat and red longcoat.
“Hoid you was workin’ on another big scoop, Ms. Brie,” he said in his Jersey accent, “I’ve been readin’ your articles for a long time, in fact you could even call me a loyal follower of yours…”
“Yeah, if loyal means he’s sick an’ tired of your big mouth, heh heh,” said Aces, the long-sleeved cat from the night before.
“How did you--” she sputtered.
“A very reliable source told me you was at da nightclub last night, snoopin’ on my boys here,” Warren replied, puffing smoke from his cigar as he walked up to Nellie. He was rather tall for a rat; tall and imposing. But much shorter than the cats he had command over. As he leered down at Nellie, the snitch revealed himself. Digit peeked over the purple top hat Warren was wearing.
“If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a snoop, Ms. Brie,” Warren said, “What’s more, my little friend here told me who you was with. Basil of Baker Street, the great mouse detective?”
How did they know? The bug must have overheard Nellie address him as Basil. If only she’d continued on with that silly alias, she thought with regret.
“We were there to snoop on Cat R. Waul, not you,” Nellie insisted.
“Dost thou think that I am easier to be played on than a pipe?” he asked, rehearsing a Shakespeare quote.
“It’s the truth. I swear to it.”
“Regardless of what you were there for, I do not appreciate my business deals bein’ snooped on,” Warren said.
“Ooh can we eat her now boss? Can we can we?” asked a hungry cat with a vicious grin.
“I will speak daggers to her, but throw none,” said Warren, quoting Shakespeare once again, “If you eat her now, it’ll turn too many heads. She’s too famous, the mice will get suspicious. You mugs are already pushin‘ the envelope wit‘ those unplanned attacks of yours.”
Nellie was encouraged by this, “Then what do you have to threaten me with, Warren?”
“Although yer safe from da claws of these cats on my behalf, as is dat new Brit boyfriend of yours, you could easily suffer some kind of unfortunate accident…” he said ominously, “It’d be an awful shame if you was assassinated by a fellow mouse instead of a cat…”
“Hired by you, no doubt,” Nellie frowned.
“You’ve been a thorn in my side for a long time, Nellie Brie. You’ve been breakin’ up my sweatshops. You’ve been costing me dough. Ya want my advice? Get outta New York. Get out and stay out, if ya value your life. Betta yet go back across da pond wit’ Basil and bother Ratigan over in London. Cuz if I catch ya snoopin’ on me or my associates here one more time…”
Warren ran his finger across his throat, sending a signal to Jake. Nellie stared up at Warren not showing any emotion, though inside she was terrified. Only fools are fearless. Suddenly Nellie felt an excruciating pain in her back as Jake swung his club like a golf club, knocking Nellie down on her face and causing her typewriter to smash on the pavement, her papers flying in the air. Luckily the nail hadn’t hit her. But her dress was torn, her cheek, arms and legs were scraped, and her back was in agony.
“No more big scoops for you, toots,” said Aces, smashing the typewriter with his wooden club and destroying it further. Meanwhile Tiger stood in the background biting his claws, looking like he felt awful for Nellie.
Warren puffed on his cigar, “I think I’ve made myself clear, Ms. Brie. Next article I read about you in The Daily Nibbler betta be about you transferring out of New York. Until then, I bid thee adieu. Parting is such sweet…uh…sweet…”
“Psst! Sorrow!” Digit whispered.
“Ah dat’s right…sorrow,” Warren said, as he and the cats exited the alley, leaving Nellie behind, covered in bruises and scrapes. She winced as she got to her knees. Holding her back, she stood up. She was injured, but not severely. She could still walk.
“We must really be on the right track to solving this case,” she said ironically, turning back and painfully walking down the sidewalk back to Hester Street.
7
Basil’s ears perked up upon hearing a knock on the door.
“Aha, that must be Nellie now,” he said, putting his violin down and sipping the last of his tea before getting up to answer the door.
When he opened the door he was in for a shock. Nellie’s dress was torn and dirty, her face was scraped, her hair was unkempt, the bun coming undone and her hair’s true length flowing down off her shoulders. She wore a pained expression, holding her wounded arm where the sleeve had been torn.
“Great scott, Nellie, what on Earth happened to you?! Please come in, sit down, or lie down, whichever.”
Nellie walked past Basil, panting after making it all the way up the stairs, “It was Warren and his thugs. I think it’s safe to say we have a prime suspect.”
Basil opened the door to her bedroom, “Go ahead and rest. When you’re ready I want to hear every detail you can remember. Now I know I have a first aid kit around here somewhere.”
Nellie groaned and winced as she laid on her stomach, resting her left cheek, the unwounded one, on the pillow. Within a few moments Basil returned with bandages and some hydrogen peroxide for her wounds. He pulled up a chair and sat beside her bed. Nellie liked the way he doted on her.
“What exactly did they do?” Basil asked, filling a bottle cap up with the peroxide.
“I was hit in the back with a large wooden club by one of Warren’s underlings, and the rest of the cuts and scrapes are from when I skidded on the ground.”
“Nothing’s broken, I hope?”
“No, just bruised.”
Basil nodded knowingly, before taking Nellie’s arm, “This will sting a bit. It is a disinfectant.”
He poured peroxide on her scrapes, which sizzled and made her wince more, gritting her teeth. After that, he wrapped the bandages around her arm. “Now for that cheek.”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll cover those scrapes with make-up later rather than opt for bandages.”
“Suit yourself then, but I’m still disinfecting them.”
“Lovely,” she sighed, before wincing in pain again as he poured the peroxide on her wounds.
“I’ll need to turn you over to do the legs,” he said after waiting a few moments.
“I’ll just sit up for that,” Nellie murmured, biting her lip as she got up.
Basil lifted up Nellie’s dress, and rolled up her bloomers past her knee caps. She couldn’t help but feel slightly flustered when he did this, but Basil had a very professional way of going about it, as if he were a doctor. He then treated her scraped knees in the same way, disinfecting them and bandaging them up.
“Now then, in the interest of modesty, I’m going to politely ask you first if I may check out your back. Just to survey the damage of course.”
“Oh…well, I suppose since I can’t exactly check it out myself, it’s all right,” she said, laying back on her stomach again, resting her chin on her folded arms.
Basil carefully undid the back of her dress. Nellie was wearing a corset, and beneath that a camisole. “It’s a good thing you were wearing so much armor.”
“Very funny. You know how long it takes to put all this on?” Nellie asked.
“I’ve disguised myself in drag a few times, so I think I have an idea,” Basil said as he undid Nellie’s undergarments. Nellie laughed, wondering if he was being serious. Basil then gazed down at Nellie’s bare back. “Oh my, yes you have quite a large contusion there caused by some blunt force trauma. It looks quite painful. No open wounds though, so there’s nothing I could do with bandages or peroxide here.”
Nellie could feel her cheeks grow warm with a blush as she laid with her back exposed, which she tried to fight by shutting her eyes and focusing on how much her back hurt. It was a relief to have the restrictive corset undone, which had only made her back hurt worse.
“The best thing I can do is get some ice from the ice box and apply it to your back. You won’t be wearing that corset again for a while, you need blood flowing to the bruise for it to heal.”
“Were we still going to Tammany Hall today?” Nellie asked.
“Perhaps in a few hours if you feel up to it. But I think it would be wise to avoid Warren for the time being. If we do go maybe we can tell Honest John and the police of our findings,” Basil said, getting up and going out to the kitchen for some ice.
Nellie sighed, “I don’t know how much good it will really do, even if we tell them I was attacked. No one’s ever stood up to Warren before.”
After a few moments Basil came back with some ice wrapped in a cloth, the best he could throw together right now for an ice pack. Nellie let out a small gasp when he placed it on her back due to the shock of the coldness, plus the pain. But soon it became numb.
“We’ll ask Honest John what he knows about Warren, and go from there,” Basil said, “He’s dealt with Warren personally. He might know where he hides out. If we find where Warren is hiding the artifacts, we’ll have him.”
“Mmhmm…” Nellie replied, resting against the pillow, “Basil, tell me, were you ever a doctor?”
“I took some medical courses at Oxford,” Basil replied, “I’ve no medical degree per se, but I have enough medical knowledge to get by.”
“You know, you’re a bit like a walking encyclopedia,” Nellie mused, shutting her eyes and resting.
--------------------------
Nellie was back in her policeman outfit as the two of them made their way to Tammany Hall. She covered the scrapes on her face with makeup, and was wearing a fake beard on top of that. When Nellie and Basil arrived at Tammany Hall, they found it unexpectedly somber. The sign outside read “The Wake of Mickey O’Hare”.
“They hold wakes at Tammany Hall quite often,” Nellie explained, “Mostly for the Irish community.”
“I see. Let’s step in anyway, ‘Officer Rodentstein’,” Basil said.
As they were about to, a wealthy-looking mouse in a big dress walked by them, headed for the doors as well. She looked back at the two.
“Wait a minute, are you Basil of Bakah Stweet?” she asked.
“Who’s asking?” Basil asked suspiciously.
“That’s Gussie Mausheimer,” said Nellie, trying to put on a gruff voice, “Wealthiest mouse in New York.”
“Gwad to hear someone’s heard of me, officah. What bwings you to New York Basil? I wead all about you in ze newspapahs.”
“I’m here on a case. Looking for stolen items from the British Museum,” Basil explained, “By the way has anyone ever told you that you have Rhotacism?”
“Wotacism? What‘s zat?”
“It’s a condition that affects your ability to pronounce the letter R.”
“But I pwonounce ze wettah R just fine.” she protested.
“Ahem, never mind then,” Basil decided to change the subject if she was going to deny her speech impediment, “Coming to see Honest John I presume?”
“Why yes, I was just coming to pwopose a cowwabowation together, we must have a wowie so we can do something about zose cats.”
“A cowwa-what?” Nellie asked in confusion.
“A collaboration, she means,” Basil answered, “Very well then, you go on ahead. Our business with Honest John can wait a bit.”
“Why thank you Mr. Basil. I don’t pwan on wingahwing awound zis area foh too wong,” she said, walking ahead of them.
Nellie gave Basil another confused look. He whispered to her, “Lingering”, and then she nodded, finally understanding.
When the three of them walked through the door, the room was full of mice, gathered around a table with a dead mouse on display, Mickey O‘Hare himself, the unfortunate chap. Honest John was drinking as usual, drunkenly presiding over the ceremony. The room had fallen to a hush, however, as Gussie demanded to speak with Honest John about her rally idea. Basil and Nellie entered behind her, largely un-noticed, and stood by the doorway. Un-noticed, that is, except by a certain lost little boy in attendance, this time accompanied by two young adults.
“Hey, that’s the guy who I thought was my papa, but was someone else,” Fievel whispered to them, pointing, “He said he was a detective.”
“Detective eh? Maybe we betta ask ‘im for some help finding yer family.”
Basil and Nellie, however, had their attention on the discussion between Honest John and Gussie. Apparently, they were planning on organizing a rally, and bringing mice from all over the city to finally stand up to the cats.
“I think it’s a marvelous idea,” Nellie whispered to Basil, “Finally we’ll start cleaning up this town. Maybe even rid ourselves of that rat Warren.”
Basil nodded, “That would certainly be a step in the right direction. London has its cat problems too, but you don’t see the cats controlling the city with an iron grip like you do here.”
Gussie finished making her plans with Honest John, walking past Basil and Nellie, and exiting, slamming the door behind her. Basil saw the woman Fievel was with celebrating, and decided now would be the best time to approach.
“Found some friends have we, Mr. Mouthkowhip?” Basil asked, walking toward the child.
“Mousekewitz,” he corrected.
“Whatever.”
“And how do you know this child?” Nellie asked curiously.
“He stopped by the apartment while you were gone, looking for his father. Apparently we‘re both violinists,” Basil said. He looked at the two Fievel was with, “These two seem a bit young to be your parents.”
“Dat’s because we ain’t his parents. I’m Tony Toponi, ‘dis kid helped break me out of a sweatshop so I’m returnin’ da favor by helping‘ him look for his family. And dis here’s Bridget. So uh, yer a detective eh? Whatcha doin’ here at Tammany Hall?”
“Indeed, I’m Basil of Baker Street, a detective from London. We’ve come to speak with Honest John as soon as he has a moment…which it appears he has.”
“I brought us here so we could ask Honest John if’n he knows Fievel’s family,” said Bridget, “He knows every mouse in town, he does.”
“Very well, you go ahead of us,” Basil said, motioning toward Honest John at the other end of the room.
Bridget took Fievel to speak with Honest John, asking him if he knew the Mousekewitz family. Sadly, he did not, as they weren’t on the voter registry yet.
Fievel’s ears drooped. Another dashed hope. Nellie looked on with deep sympathy.
“The poor child, I wish we could do something to help,” she sighed, speaking quietly to Basil to keep up her disguise.
“We do have more urgent matters to attend to,” Basil replied.
It seemed Basil’s advice of going to the authorities hadn’t paid off for Fievel. Tony and Bridget led Fievel away, who stared at the ground as he walked, rubbing his cheek with his sleeve and sniffling.
“Hey don’t fret kiddo, we’ll find yer family some otha’ way,” Tony said.
“Every mouse in town will be at that rally Gussie Mausheimer was talkin’ about,” Bridget said, “Maybe we’ll find them there. I‘ll see about gettin‘ good seats.”
Fievel lifted his hat up, “Never say never…”
The trio walked back over to Basil.
“Well, your turn,” said Tony, “Say uh, Mr. Detective, I know yer busy and all but if ya come across a family named Mousekewitz while workin on dat big case of yours, tell ‘em their kid’s lookin’ for ‘em, will ya?”
Basil and Nellie exchanged glances. She nudged him with her elbow. Basil relented, clearing his throat before replying.
“I assure you, I will keep a keen eye out for the Mousekovich family while here in New York, and I’ll let them know their son is alive and well should I come across them.”
He suddenly felt something clutch his leg. He looked down and saw Fievel hugging onto his leg tight. Basil gave an irritated look, and tried to slide Fievel off his leg like an article of clothing, while Nellie gave an entertained laugh.
“Yeah, he tends ta do dat,” said Tony, rolling his eyes.
8
Once Honest John was able to spare a moment for the two of them, Basil and Nellie approached him, moving around the mourners for Mickey O’Hare. It did seem a tad disrespectful to have all this going on at a wake, but Gussie Mausheimer’s appearance was what started it, so it didn’t seem to matter, at least to Honest John.
“Ah, Basil of Baker Street! How’s the case been goin’?” he asked drunkenly, “Care for a drink?”
“No thank you, dear sir. I thought I would brief you on my progress and try to get some information from you. Could we go somewhere a bit more private?”
Basil gazed about the room. Warren’s spies could be anywhere. But this time the detective used his keen sense to tell if there was a little roach buzzing about, and there was no sign that he could see. Best to be safe though. His lapse in judgment was what had led to Ms. Brie being jumped in that alley. Basil couldn’t help feeling responsible. He hated making mistakes. It wasn’t something that happened regularly, but he was only a mouse after all, as prone to imperfection as anyone.
“Certainly. I’m about done here, I got another wake in an hour though.” Honest John said as he ushered Basil and Nellie back into another room, through a door with his name on it. Inside the room were books and various artifacts from the Native American mice that once roamed the land New York was built over. And of course, a shelf with wine bottles.
“Very well then, Honest John,” Basil began, “After some investigating last night, Officer Rodentstein and I have reason to suspect the culprit of the crime is none other than the ‘community leader’ who you call Warren T. Rat. While Cat R. Waul seemed suspicious, we determined that he likely hasn’t met Professor Ratigan.”
“Oh my…I was afraid of this.”
“Why, may I ask?” Basil inquired.
“I’m afraid the police ain’t gonna be helping you arrest him, even if you find concrete proof he committed the crime. Y’see, Warren is the only thing that keeps the cats from massacring all of us. Though he ain’t done such a good job at it lately. If we stand up to Warren though…his cats’ll have an open buffet on us.”
Basil stroked his chin, “Ah, the protection racket. I see your dilemma.”
“The honest answer is, if yer barkin’ up Warren’s tree, you’re on yer own,” Honest John said.
“Now wait just one minute!” Nellie said angrily, unable to keep herself quiet but still putting on her best masculine voice, “You’re saying that even if we find out for certain Warren committed the crime, you’re just going to let him get away with it? This may well spark an international incident between America and England!”
“Sir, if England wants to, they can send over the entire Scotland Yard to try and take Warren out, and get back those museum artifacts. And probably be made into mouseburgers for their trouble,” Honest John said, having another sip of his drink.
“Hm…a most challenging adversary indeed, this Warren fellow,” Basil said, the gears in his brain turning.
“But…there is one thing. You heard about that rally Gussie Mausheimer wants to organize didn’t ye?”
“Why yes, we were there when she spoke to you,” Basil replied.
“We’re gonna be talking about doing something about the cats. If we succeed in our goals, maybe then you’ll have a shot at taking Warren down. It probably won’t be the only crime he’ll be arrested for if we get those cats out of the way. My suggestion to you is this. Go ahead and continue your investigation, at your own risk, if you want to. But wait until whatever this plan we come up with at the rally pans out if you expect any police back-up, besides the bodyguard we gave you.”
“Very well then,” Basil said, “One question though. Could you perhaps point me in the direction of Warren’s base of operations? His hideout?”
“Since ye ask, you can usually find him lounging around inside a suitcase by Castle Garden, lookin’ for new employees to hire fresh off the boat. No one knows where he actually lives though. Rumor has it he lives underground somewhere, bein’ a sewer rat. This city is full of old sewer lines, so you’ll have quite a time finding it.”
“A sewer rat? I suppose it would be useless using that as an insult against him then. My bodyguard and I will be right on it.”
“Good luck then Basil. Hope to hear back from you again soon,” Honest John replied as he showed them out. After closing the door, he added, “I hope to hear back from them at all.”
--------------
After making a quick stop back at the apartment for a disguise for Basil (at Nellie’s insistence), the duo made their way back down the streets to the Daily Nibbler offices, both to get Nellie another typewriter, and to search the area where Nellie was beaten for any clues. The day was waning and the sun was beginning to go down as Basil and Nellie made their way to the alley. Basil had brought along a magnifying glass, and some vials and bags to collect any clues or fur samples.
“That was a cute kid back at Tammany Hall,” Nellie said, “I think once all this business is over with, he should be your next case.”
“Finding the boy’s missing family? Me? Why, as long as that scoundrel Ratigan is out there I can’t drop my guard for an instant,” Basil said, wearing his trench coat again with the moustache, “I don’t handle missing persons cases. If I helped every little child who strayed from their parents around here, it would be all I’d ever do.”
“Oh come now Basil, I know with your skills you’d find his parents in less than a day. Or do you not do missing persons cases because you’re no good at them?” Nellie teased.
“No good at them? On the contrary, dear Miss Brie, I’m confident that I could find his family in this city in less than a day if I applied myself. But I’m too busy for that sort of rubbish.”
They turned a corner into the alley where Nellie had been attacked. The alley was still littered with papers, and in one spot, the crushed remains of Nellie’s typewriter.
“I’ll quote you on that in my article if you don’t help,” Nellie said firmly, but with a teasing smile.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Basil replied irritably.
“Oh won’t I? You should have known what you were getting yourself in for when you befriended an undercover reporter, Basil,” she said with a smirk.
Basil shushed her and whispered, “Not so loud. You don’t want any cats overhearing us. They could return to the scene of the crime and according to them you’re supposed to be on a boat to London now.”
Nellie put her hand over her mouth, “Sorry.”
“Now then, can you remember where everyone was standing?”
“Well there was the big cat right behind me, Jake I think…and a cat over on that wooden crate, and one behind the trash can. The big orange one was further back…and I remember the way Warren crept out of that overturned trash can over there…”
The memory sent a shiver up her spine.
“Ah, good good.” Basil said as he hunched over, with a magnifying glass over his eye, and scanned the ground, “Now if I can only find…aha.”
He ran his finger over the ground.
“Yes?” Nellie asked.
“Cigar ashes,” Basil said, taking out a vial and a small spoon from his pocket, scooping the ashes up, “You mentioned he’d been smoking a cigar. Once I run a few tests I may be able to determine where the cigars came from, that could lead us to where he bought them and where we can find him again.”
Basil then entered the trash can, looking around for anything he could find.
“I wonder what he was doing there anyway? Probably just wanted to make a scarier entrance.” Nellie speculated with disgust.
“Hmm…aha, I see foot prints…he was wearing a pair of sandals apparently, unusual footwear for a rat I believe…and…aha! Yes yes, I do believe this is fur!”
He pinched some copper-brown fur from inside the can and took out another vial.
“By the look of things it’s remarkably soft…a somewhat uncharacteristic texture for rat fur to have. Very long too, unlike most rat fur. I will need to do some tests.”
“Are you through poking around in the garbage yet?” Nellie asked impatiently. The truth was, being here was making her more and more uneasy, especially since it was starting to get darker out.
“Just about. We mustn’t linger around here too long, but I think I’ve found what we need. Let’s get to your offices and retrieve your typewriter, once we return I want to test this evidence so we can get a clearer picture on who or what this Warren fellow is.”
With that the two of them left the alley to the office. At the printers, humans were bustling about as The New York World released its evening edition. That made it easy to enter, though dodging shoes was always a challenge.
“Getting to the offices is a little tricky, just follow my lead,” said Nellie.
Nellie carefully climbed up a wooden desk, and Basil followed her. At the top was the opening of a pneumatic tube with an open capsule, used by humans for delivering mail or messages to other parts of the building. The mice had learned to use it for transportation, building their own stopper inside the metal tube so they could make the capsule stop at the Daily Nibbler office, deep inside the walls.
“Ah, so we’ll be traveling by way of pneumatic tube, eh? I’ve always wanted to try that.”
There was a young mouse standing by to throw the switch, “Ms. Brie is that you?”
“Good eye,” she said with a wink, pulling her beard down for a second, “Take us to the office.”
“Yes ma’am,” he said, as the two of them climbed into the capsule and took a seat, hanging onto a makeshift rail that the mice installed.
Once the capsule was closed, the mouse flipped a switch, and a jet of air sent the capsule flying through the tubes at enormous speed. It was a bit like riding a roller coaster. The ride had them spinning upside down and sideways at different moments, until finally it came to a jarring halt. Nellie winced as her bruised back slammed against the seat.
“Are you alright?” Basil asked.
“I’ll be okay,” she said, standing up to open the capsule and step out.
She led Basil through the room, full of mice carrying newspapers, and to the desk where Reed Daley sat writing down ideas for headlines. He was a sharp-dressed mouse with his black hair greased back and waering a constant smug grin. He looked up from his work.
“Back so soon Nellie? And…is this Basil of Baker Street?”
“Yes it is. And Basil, this is Mr. Reed Daley, my editor. We’re here for another typewriter,” she said, taking her beard off and revealing her scraped cheek, “Apparently our hot lead on the case got a little too hot for a certain rat’s liking. Neither of us are going anywhere alone again until this is settled.”
Reed stood up from his chair, getting a closer look, “Were you mugged?”
“Warren T. Rat and his cat gang decided to resort to intimidating Ms. Brie and I,” Basil replied, “I was not present, so they decided to give the message to Nellie. They crushed her typewriter too.”
“Nellie, you be careful from now on,” Reed insisted, “You’re my star reporter, without you we’re sunk. But, on the plus side, this’ll make excellent material for that article. Now Mr. Basil, I asked Nellie to ask you if you’d do an exclusive interview for the paper. Would you be interested in that?”
Nellie seemed annoyed with Reed at being so insensitive, folding her arms and giving him an angry glare. Seemed all he cared about was selling papers. Although she still suspected he only acted that way to hide his feelings for her, and she’d have to wait before he ever opened up and admitted it. But, since she met Basil, she was starting to wonder if Reed was even worth the wait, with so many other possibilities out there.
“I might be inclined to talk about this case and some of my past ones in an article,” Basil said, “It will need to be after the case finishes up and just before I return to England. Can’t have Ratigan knowing I’m here and seeing it as a free pass to do whatever he wants in London because I’m not there to stop him, you know.”
“Great, just let me know when you want to do that,” he said with a grin, “We’re well on our way to being the top newspaper in the state at the rate we’re going.”
“So tonight is the big scoop on Gussie’s rally I take it?” Nellie asked.
“Unfortunately, no. The rally is supposed to be kept a secret from the cats so we were told we weren’t allowed to report on it at all,” Reed said irritably. He rubbed his eyes, which were beginning to look a little red and puffy.
“I suppose that makes sense,” Nellie said, “I wasn’t sure if I was going to go or not.”
She looked to Basil, who stroked his chin.
“It won’t help us find Warren’s hideout, but its results do have a great impact on our case since we can’t have police support until the cats in Warren’s gang are run out of town,” Basil said, pondering which would be a better use of their time, attending the rally or following the lead on Warren, “It depends on if the tests I run on our clues yield any results.”
Reed took out a handkerchief and blew his nose, “Yeah, well I’ve got one of our other reporters on it anyway, though we can’t publish his article until after the fact.”
“Are you feeling okay?” Nellie asked.
“I don’t know, I was fine a minute ago…you guys haven’t been around cats or anything have you? I’m allergic to cat fur,” Reed explained, “My mom always told me it was a blessing in disguise, because I always know when one is prowling around.”
“We just went to the alley where I was attacked and looked for clues, maybe there’s cat fur on our clothes,” Nellie said.
Basil narrowed his eyes He took out the vial that had Warren’s fur in it and stared at it.
“How very curious…” he said to himself.
9
Basil examined the cigar ashes under a microscope at a desk in the living room as the clacking keys of Nellie’s typewriter filled the air from her bedroom.
“Hm, yes the tobacco used to make this was surely grown somewhere in the southern United States, so that tells me it wasn’t imported and probably wasn’t too expensive,” Basil said to himself.
He could try to trace the cigar to where it was purchased, but the task might not be very productive. There were stores all over the city that the cigar could have come from, and Basil still didn’t know New York that well. He was finding that his style of detecting was far more effective in London, a city which he knew by heart, every street and alley. If only he could get a closer look at Warren to see if his suspicions were true. But he had yet to even lay eyes on him.
The clacking of Nellie’s keyboard stopped, and after a few moments she walked into the room holding a paper.
“Well that’s one more advice letter finished. How’s your research coming?”
“The cigar ashes leave too much of an open end. The fur intrigues me, however.”
“How so?”
Basil took the cigar ashes off the slide, and put another one on the microscope.
“Look here.”
Nellie walked over, and looked into the microscope, seeing two long hairs of similar thickness and length, but different color.
“Well? Are you seeing it?” Basil asked.
“What am I looking for?”
“One of those hairs is Warren’s. The other is from another cat in his gang,” Basil explained.
“They look almost identical.” Nellie remarked.
“Indeed, they do.”
“You aren’t suggesting what I think you are, are you?” Nellie asked with a smirk, putting one hand on her hip as she stood up.
“Just think about it,” Basil said, “Mice and rats don’t get along very well, but a mouse would trust a rat over a cat, wouldn’t it?”
“Oh honestly Basil, is there really that big a difference between cat hair and rat hair? Besides…even if what you’re implying is true, that really doesn’t do anything for our case.”
“But it is something to ponder,” Basil said, “How about the way Mr. Daley had his allergic reaction?”
“We had cat hair on us, who knows which cat the hairs came from? The way you’re going on about this conspiracy theory I’m thinking you’d make a great reporter for the Daily Nibbler. Reed would love you. I’ll believe Warren is a cat when I see it. He’d be an awfully small one.”
“Remain skeptical if you will, dear Ms. Brie, but my intuitions rarely lead me astray,” Basil retorted, “At any rate, I think I have formulated a plan.”
“Oh have you now? So are we going to that rally in the morning?”
“No, I believe not. I’m going to be far too busy sewing articles of clothing for little to no wages.”
Nellie cocked an eyebrow. “Explain?”
“Oh it’s all very elementary, Nellie. Honest John said that Warren hangs around in a suitcase near Castle Garden where he recruits immigrants for his sweatshops. I’ll merely impersonate a British immigrant looking for work. That way I’ll be able to get a good look at him, maybe ask him a few questions and see if he gives any hints about his hideout or possessing stolen artifacts. I’ll know if he’s wearing a disguise.”
“You’re going to go through all that just to see if he’s wearing a disguise?” Nellie gave a worried look, “Basil, that is a really bad idea. You don’t know what it’s like in those sweatshops! Trust me, I’ve been in them. Do you plan on escaping? Because it’s not going to be easy. Especially after the breakout at Moe’s the other day. And anyway…just what am I supposed to do?”
Basil could tell she was growing concerned for him, but he wasn’t swayed.
“Because I want you to stay safely away from Warren, you can either spy on us from a distance, or stay here. Perhaps the night after I’m captured you can meet me as I make my escape.”
“What about the two of us staying together? You promised,” she said, still not liking the plan one bit.
“This time it’s for the best. If Warren recognized you we’d both be in trouble. But he hasn’t seen me in person yet so I have a better chance of fooling him. Besides, we’ll get to liberate some sweatshop employees in the process. I don’t plan on being stuck there for more than a day if all goes according to plan.”
Nellie sighed, “Okay, okay. I trust you Basil. We’ll go through with it in the morning then. I want to come down there with you, but I won’t go anywhere near Warren.”
“There is method to my madness yet, trust me dear Miss Brie,” Basil said with a grin.
Nellie glanced out the window. The moon was just starting to come up, and it looked huge in the sky. It was a beautiful night.
“It’s been a rough couple of days. Since I’m done with my work and it looks like you are too, care to relax under the stars and get a bit of fresh air?”
“Going out this late with cats about is slightly dangerous, don’t you think?” Basil asked.
“We’ll go up to the roof. Come on, it’ll be nice,” she said with a smile.
Basil thought it over some, “I suppose there would be no harm in it if we remain vigilant.”
Basil got up and the two of them stepped outside, making their way up the long flight of stairs outside their apartment until they came to a tiny door labeled “roof access”. It came out right next to the much larger door for humans. The night winds carried fresh air to their lungs. They climbed up a ledge and sat down, overlooking the rooftops of the city, and the ocean beyond as it glimmered with the reflection of the enormous moon.
“If you forget about all the crime and hardship in this city for a moment, it really can be breathtakingly beautiful,” Nellie said as she gazed to the horizon.
Basil was silent, as he looked down at the city, memorizing the buildings and streets.
“I should have come up here sooner, this is an excellent way to get my bearings,” Basil said.
“My, does your brain ever stop to smell the roses?” Nellie asked, “It’s like a steam engine that won’t turn off.”
“I didn’t come to America for a vacation,” Basil replied, “Crime never rests, and neither do I.”
“Yes but if you don’t rest, you’ll get tired, and you’ll lose your edge,” Nellie argued, “I’m addicted to my job too but I know when to take time off for myself, at least…every now and then.”
Basil shrugged, “Being a news reporter and being a detective have their similarities. But I’d venture to say being a reporter is far less confrontational, particularly when you have a personal rivalry with the self-proclaimed ‘Napoleon of crime‘.”
“Oh reporting is all about rivalries, Basil. It’s always trying to get that big scoop before a reporter from a different paper or some new upstart beats you to it.”
“Touche, Ms. Brie. My experience with reporting is limited. I’ve never stopped to think about how similar it is to being a detective.”
“We even have similar goals. Well, the real reporters do, not the ones who are in it for the money.”
“How so?” Basil asked.
“I told you before. I want to clean this city up, expose all the crime and corruption behind the scenes for the world to see and make sure something is done about it. I want to make this place safer to live in, and correct its injustices. I know you care about that too, don’t you?”
“I’m glad working for Mr. Daley and becoming so successful hasn’t stopped you from pursuing those goals,” Basil said, “As for me, I suppose that drive was what led me to become a detective in the first place.”
“Oh? So when did you know that was what you wanted to do?”
“When my parents died.” he said bluntly, before looking up at the sky, “You know now that you mention it, there is something rather pleasant about tonight. The stars are simply beautiful.”
Nellie blinked, her jaw slightly agape, “How old were you?”
“Hm? When do you mean? Oh, you’re still on about that,” it seemed Basil’s ploy to change the subject hadn’t worked, “I was fifteen. Cat attack.”
“I’m so sorry…” she said, as she slowly took his hand, “I guess you hear that story a lot, no matter what country you’re in.”
“I was away at Boarding School at the time. I after receiving news of their disappearance I escaped the Boarding School and went back to the scene of the crime myself, there I found all the clues I needed to track down the culprit. Most victims of cat attacks just disappear without a trace, but I was able to piece together what had happened. I gave my findings to the police and they tracked the cat down. This cat was a serial mouse eater. But, they managed to poison the cat. It was my first case. Luckily I got on just fine after that; my father, Nigel Basil, was a wealthy man with a patent on cheese manufacturing equipment for mice. The inheritance was enough to put me through college and graduate school at Oxford, and I still make a living off royalties.”
“And from that day on you wanted to stop things like that from happening to others, right?” Nellie inquired.
“Something like that.” Basil replied somewhat uncomfortably.
“Sorry for making you bring that up, I always did have a weakness for asking questions even when they’re unpleasant ones.”
“No need for apologies Ms. Brie.”
“Well, here’s a less unpleasant one. So Basil’s actually your last name? Ibelieve I read that somewhere.”
“Yes, that it is. My first name is Sherringford. We British prefer to keep a last-name basis more often than not, and besides I quite prefer being called Basil at any rate. It sounds more like a first name anyway.”
“Mind if I call you by your first name?” she asked.
“Yes, a bit.” Basil replied.
“Oh, all right.” Nellie shrugged.
“If you must use my first name, just avoid referring to me as ‘Sherri’. I abhor that nickname.”
“A victim of playground teasing?” Nellie said with a slight grin, “It doesn’t sound like a good name to have when you’re a child.”
“Quite right,” Basil replied, “You aren’t saving all of this for your article are you?”
“I’ll keep all this off the record if that’s what you want. Really I was just striking up a conversation at first,” Nellie said, in that tone of voice she used when she wanted Basil to know she was being sincere, “Anyway, you want to know why I decided to be a reporter?”
“Indeed. I’ve been anxious to figure you out.”
“I’m afraid my story might not be as compelling as yours. I’m originally from Cochran Mills, Pennsylvania, where my family lived in a farmhouse. My father died in a cat attack as well, when I was about six, and we moved to Pittsburg to get away from the cats. My mother is a strong woman, and I guess it rubbed off on me, she raised me that way. I always liked to read about what was going on in the world too, so from an early age I read newspapers. When I was only sixteen I read an editorial in the newspaper that admonished women for even attempting to have an education or career, suggesting they should stray no further than the home. Naturally, I wasn’t going to let that slide. I wrote back to the newspaper under a pen-name and gave them a fiery rebuttal, telling them that women were capable of anything. The editor was so impressed he asked to see me, not knowing I was a woman myself. But after I impressed him with my rebuttal and it got positive reviews from others when he printed it, he gave me a job. The rest is history I guess, I worked my way up the ladder, turned some heads with my more investigative journalistic style after being given boring topics to report on like fashion and food, eventually got a high-paying job offer from the Daily Nibbler and I found myself in New York.”
“It seems to me you became a reporter to prove your worth then,” Basil noted, “The cat attack on your father must have had an impact too, when you got to New York you couldn’t stand seeing the same thing that forced you to leave Cochran Mills happening here on a far grander scale.”
“Did you take psychology classes at Oxford too?”
“Why yes, I did,” Basil replied.
“It was just a hunch,” she said with a smile, “But you’re basically right.”
“Then this case might be just what you were looking for, if we can expose Warren for the true fraud I believe he is.”
“Something tells me you’re right. I’ve been waiting for this case for a long time,” Nellie slowly put an arm around Basil and rested her cheek against his shoulder, something that surprised Basil a little, but he didn’t do anything to stop her, “Basil, please be careful tomorrow.”
Basil gave a warm smile, “Don’t worry, I always am.”
A gentle breeze blew as they stared up at the huge moon. As they listened in the silence, they began to hear the faint sound of someone singing, the sound carried by the wind.
“I wonder who that is,” Nellie said.
“It’s coming from the water tower about two buildings over,” Basil said, looking toward the building, “And I believe our singer is none other than little Fievel Mousterich.”
“You mean Mousekewitz.”
“Whatever.”
“I do hope he finds his family. They’re in this city somewhere,” Nellie sighed.
10
Warren puffed on a cigar, stopping to admire himself in the mirror as his accountant Digit counted a bag of cash; protection money from all of the mice.
“So eh, how are my profits doin’ today?” he asked Digit, “Betta be up from yesterday. Those pesky street rats escapin’ Moe’s. I’ll get ‘em all back.”
“W-well boss, with Moe out of the picture w-we’re losing upwards of twenty dollars a day. We haven‘t taken a hit like this since Nellie Brie exposed that other sweatshop,” Digit replied fearfully, hiccupping as his antennae buzzed, “We still have the Cheese Factory and a couple other sweatshops around the city though, we can ask them for more money to cover the loss.”
“Twenty dollars a day!” Warren gave an angry huff, blowing smoke at the cockroach and making him gag and cough, “And to think just the otha day I was moanin’ about losin’ fifty cents. What we needs is more workers. More chumps from off da boats we can swindle.”
Having been waiting for the perfect cue, Basil peeked around the entrance to Warren’s suitcase, a hole torn through the side. He was wearing a flat cap and a coat with a scarf, and fingerless gloves on his hands.
“Oi there, this the office of Warren T. Rat?” Basil asked, putting on a Cockney accent.
“Well well well, fortune brings in some boats which are not steered,” Warren quoted from Shakespeare, “Ya came to da right place. Warren T. Rat at your service.”
“Oh splendid. I just got off the boat this morning’ y’see, sailed ‘ere all the way from Liverpool lookin’ to strike it rich in the land of opportunity, aye? Trouble is I ain’t got nothing to me name but the clothes on me back. A man at Castle Garden told me at see you, said you could get me a job real quick and easy like.”
“You came at da best time. I know a nice little clothing shop that’s hiring. You get room and board, three square meals a day, and fifty cents a day,” Warren stopped to blow smoke rings, “And that’s just a starting wage. Impress da owner and he might promote ya.”
“My mum always wanted me to be a tailor. I think I’ll take ye up on the offer, I will. You seem like a swell guy Mr. Rat, and handsome too! With that nicely cone-shaped snout and those perfect ears.”
“Ahem, yeah of course I’m handsome,” Warren said, flashing a nervous gold-toothed grin.
Basil noted the distinct lack of prominent buck-teeth present in most rodents. Instead they were sharp and feline. Were the mice of New York really being fooled by this? Granted, few were as perceptive as Basil, and Nellie had far too much on her mind last time she saw Warren so surely she could be forgiven.
“Y’know, back home we got another nice, charmin’ rat by the name of Professor Ratigan. I worked for him for a while robbin’ jewelry stores and whatnot until the coppers caught up with us and I had to flee the country.”
Warren looked interested, taking the cigar from his mouth.
“Ya don’t say? You was one of Ratigan’s boys eh? Came to America to dodge da cops? I hoid of Ratigan…”
“Oh did ye? He’s real infamous, especially after the London Bridge job and all. Y’know the last job I did for him was one of his biggest. We hit up the British Museum, we did.”
Digit narrowed his eyes at Basil while Warren stroked his chin. The little bug was getting suspicious, Basil realized. And he’d seen Basil before.
“Ya know, I think I like you,” Warren said with a grin, “Takes a lotta sand to be a museum robber. Not that I would know anything about that bein’ the upstanding, law-abiding citizen that I am. That’s why I’m gonna put in a good word for your new boss. Come wit’ me.”
‘Drat!’ Basil thought to himself. His plan to get a confession out of Warren had failed. Though Warren did give some indication of being familiar with Ratigan, which still kept him as a prime suspect in the crime, he wasn’t going to accidentally spill the beans just because someone claimed to be one of Ratigan’s former gang members. It even looked like he was still selling Basil to the sweatshop despite that. Basil was even more worried that maybe Warren had figured out who he was, and would now lead him into a trap. He kept himself weary as Warren got up and walked toward the exit.
Meanwhile Nellie looked on from behind a discarded hat on the ground as Basil exited with Warren and Digit. She’d followed Basil down here, but now was keeping a safe distance. She hoped her policeman outfit would be enough to fool anyone should she be spotted by a cat. Even the hungriest cats in Warren’s gang weren’t foolhardy enough to eat a policeman, yet anyway. She was going to trail the two from afar, to find out where the sweatshop was.
“Follow me, and I’ll make your American dream come true, heh heh,” Warren said with a sleazy chuckle as he led Basil down the street, “They don’t call dis place da land of opportunity for nothing.”
“Too bad the streets ain’t paved with cheese like in the song they sang on the boat,” Basil remarked.
Indeed, on the boat ride to America he had heard the immigrant mice singing “There Are No Cats in America”, apparently a popular folk tune that was sweeping Europe. Too bad domesticated felines had been brought over to the New World by humans three centuries earlier, the poor fools. Basil of course had been aware of this fact.
“Hey, maybe they aren’t. But I’m makin’ sure at least da cats will be kept in line. I’m a negotiator between the two parties if ya haven’t heard. The mice pay me money which I give to da cats, and the cats use da dough to buy fish instead of eating mice.”
Would that it did work that way, Basil thought.
“Yer a regular saint you are, bless your heart.” Basil said.
The two of them walked downtown toward the Five Points slum, until they reached a six-story building and Warren opened a small mouse door on the side.
“Right dis way sir.” Warren said, as the two of them walked up a flight of stairs. They walked for a long while before reaching a door on the sixth floor marked “McNibble’s Clothing - Wardrobes Made While You Wait”. Warren opened the door, where a grumpy-looking Scottish mouse sat at a desk, counting coins and building small towers out of them. He looked up at the two.
“Ah, Warren T. Come for your pay have you? And with a new recruit too,” he said in a Scottish accent, getting up from his desk and walking over to them.
Basil could hear the sewing machines from the next room. The air was steamy and hard to breathe in, even in the entrance room.
“Yep, straight off da boat from England,” Warren said, “He used to be a thief too, so watch out. So where’s my pay cut?”
“Aye, ‘tis right here laddie,” McNibble said, sliding coins into a burlap bag to give to Warren, “That’s twenty dollars for today. And here’s an extra fifty cents for the new guy.”
It looked like he was approaching Basil to give him the money and Basil held his hand out, but Warren outstretched his hand over Basil’s and the coins dropped into Warren’s hand. The two of them shared a nice hearty laugh at Basil’s expense, who gave an irritated look.
“Oh, I do love the face they make when we do that to ‘em the first time,” McNibble’s snickered, taking his glasses off to wipe his eyes.
“Yeah, sure is a barrel of laughs workin’ wit’ you McNibble. Anyways, I got places to go, people to scam, I’ll be seein’ ya,” Warren said, taking the bag of coins and making his way out the door, leaving Basil and McNibble alone.
“Now then, get to work. We need another person at the sewing machines. And don’t dawdle, time is money!” McNibble demanded, pointing to the door that led to the sweatshop.
“Yes sir,” Basil said, sighing and preparing himself for the grueling manual labor ahead.
The room he walked into was dimly lit with a single lantern. Somewhere around forty mice, ranging from little children to the elderly, were all hard at work making clothing. Some mice sat hunched over at rows upon rows of sewing machines, others were cutting fabric with scissors, still others were ironing the clothes, which was what was making it so steamy in the room. None of the windows were open to ventilate the room. Basil could see from where he was standing that they’d been nailed shut, probably to prevent escape. Basil made a note to pay attention to where the clothes he bought came from the next time he went shopping. This was slavery, pure and simple.
“Hey new guy, get to the sewing machine!” ordered a mouse who dumped a huge pile of cloth into Basil’s arms.
Basil could hardly see where he was going holding the clothes, and he stumbled over to the nearest vacant sewing machine. He placed the pile of cloth down. Looking around, he got a good idea of his surroundings, as well as his fellow employees. Beside him was a miserable looking Irishman, thin with red hair and peach-colored fur, wearing a green bowler hat and a blue vest over a green shirt. On the opposite side was a mouse who sparked some interest in Basil. Though dressed in typical American street clothes the barrel-chested young mouse with reddish fur and long black braided hair looked to Basil like a Native American if he wasn’t very mistaken. Behind him were two children, one a chubby boy with black hair, another a smaller boy with a pointed nose.
“Yeah, I wonder where Noodles got sent off to,” said the chubby one, “We shoulda never left Orphan Alley.”
“Listening to Warren was all your idea, Roc,” accused the other.
“Excuse me for being tired of sleeping on hay all the time.”
Basil tuned them out as he began to sew a pair of pant legs together at the machine. He did it very carefully, even though there was really no reason for him to put any kind of quality into his work, not being paid for it and all. It was just a quirk of his to do everything perfectly. He was at work for over an hour before anyone at the machines spoke to him.
“It gets easier after a while,” the Irishman remarked, having noticed Basil.
“Oh? And how long have you been here?” Basil asked.
“A little over a week I think. It feels like much longer.” he said, “Dylan O’Brian’s the name, lad.”
“Sherringford Basil.” Basil confessed, though he didn’t plan on saying any more about himself than that, “Did Warren pick you up too?”
“Aye, that he did. Soon as I got off the boat. I only came here to get away from the cats…after a calico caught me lover by surprise.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Basil said.
Dylan replied, “Anyway, if I’d a known America were like this I’d a stayed back home in dear ol’ Dublin.”
“Well then, how was the rest of the trip to America?” Basil asked, making small talk as he stitched.
“Fine, mostly,” Dylan recounted as he sewed up a shirt sleeve, “We did go through a terrific storm. Tragically one family of Russians lost their son overboard, the father came back really upset about it as I recall. Whole family was in tears. Other than that not much happened.”
“Really, how sad,” Basil said dismissively. Until suddenly something dawned on him, “Wait a minute…do you recall the first name of the child who fell overboard?”
“Oh? Um…it was somethin’ you don’t hear every day. Fievel I think?”
“Aha! The same child I’ve run into several times since my arrival here in America,” Basil said triumphantly. Perhaps the boredom of working here was finally making him interested in Fievel’s case, or perhaps he felt the need to follow through with the promise he made to Nellie.
“You mean the boy lived?
“Indeed, and he’s scouring the city looking for his family. What did the family look like?”
“Oh, let me see…there was a heavy-set bearded man who played a violin, his wife wore her hair in a bun and always had a baby in her arms, and their little girl wore an orange cloth on her head and a little dress…that’s about all I recall, I never talked to them. I do remember the man singing a verse about how cats orphaned him when he was a lad back in Minsk while we were singin’ “There Are No Cats in America” though.”
“Do you happen to know where they might be living now?” Basil inquired.
“Afraid not, I lost sight of ‘em after we disembarked.”
“Oh well, it’s a start, now I know who to look out for when I get out of here.”
“Say what now?”
The silent Native American mouse beside Basil looked up from his work as well.
“Don’t say anything to anyone, but tonight, I have a cunning plan to get us out of here,” Basil said slyly.
“Eh, every new guy around here says that. You’re foolin’ yourself,” said one of the kids behind him, the chubby one named Roc.
“Yeah, pitiful,” snickered the other.
Basil turned around, “You know there’s nothing sadder than a young pessimist. Except maybe an old optimist. Anyway, believe me or not, it doesn’t matter. You’ll thank me later.”
“Ah, keep dreamin’,” scoffed the orphans.
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