About the Book

  Chegwin’s adventures at Toffle Towers continue when his staff are ‘reverse mugged’. The hotel could lose all its guests if Chegwin can’t solve the mystery and stop the chaos.

  But there’s a greater challenge looming. Chegwin must go head-to-head with rival hotel owner Brontessa Braxton in the Great River Race. The stakes couldn’t be higher!

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Room 49

  Junk Mail

  Under Attack

  Inside Chegwin’s Mind

  Bathtubs and Meetings

  Coffee and Newspapers

  New Roles

  Communication Breakdown

  Mayhem

  Brontessa Braxton

  Order Restored

  A Lovely Invitation

  Business as Usual

  Barry and Larry

  A Photo of Room 49

  Preparing for Battle

  The Great River Race

  Room 49 Unlocked

  Toffle Towers: Order in the Court

  Toffle Towers series

  Mr Bambuckle’s Remarkables series

  About the Author

  About the Illustrator

  Books by Tim Harris

  Imprint

  Read more at Penguin Books Australia

  Chegwin Toffle clutched a key and took a deep breath. He had to stay focused. Now was not the time to drift off in thought – something he did all too often. He stepped towards the door of room 49 and paused. There was someone moving around inside. He was sure of it. But who?

  For weeks, the ten-year-old hotel manager had heard noises coming from inside room 49. He had seen the lights flick on and off, and once he even saw the curtains draw closed. The housekeepers, too, had a strange encounter with the room, smelling chicken soup when they tried to look inside. But nobody had been able to locate the key until now.

  ‘Hello? Is anybody there?’

  The morning sun cast Chegwin’s shadow against the door and for a moment the sounds stopped. Perhaps his voice had startled whoever was inside.

  Chegwin wondered if he could coax the mystery person out. ‘Would you like some . . . er . . . free eggplant?’

  Silence.

  ‘How about a newspaper from 1983? We have plenty of those lying around . . .’

  Whoever was behind the door was not giving themselves away.

  ‘I know,’ said Chegwin, ‘if you come out and show yourself, I’ll give you a tub of raspberry yoghurt – delicious!’

  Still nothing.

  Chegwin sighed. ‘Fine then, I’ll have to let myself in.’

  The young hotel manager leaned forward and inserted the key in the lock. Suddenly, there was a sharp scraping noise somewhere inside the room – perhaps a chair being dragged across the floor.

  This flicked a switch in Chegwin’s mind. And just like that, his brainwaves took a detour, leaping from mystery-solving mode to wondering about the life of furniture. Most of the dining chairs at Toffle Towers were made from walnut, he reflected. Their round wooden legs looked just like pirate peg legs. Although pirates had swashbuckling tales to tell about their wooden limbs, and chairs did not.

  Even if chairs could talk, their stories wouldn’t be very interesting.

  ‘I met a human bottom today.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yep. It sat on me for about forty-five minutes during lunch.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It wriggled around once or twice, but it mostly just squished me until the meal was over.’

  ‘Righto.’

  Chegwin’s eyes had well and truly glazed over and he forgot all about the key in the door. He was too busy wondering what else chairs might talk about.

  ‘I met another human bottom today.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yep. It sat on me for three whole hours.’

  ‘Wow! Marathon lunch break?’

  ‘Nope. The person was doing a jigsaw.’

  ‘Mind. Blown.’

  There was a loud thud behind the door that was followed by panicked breathing, but Chegwin didn’t hear it because his imagination had now utterly consumed him. He was wondering what it would be like if someone went through life dressed as a toothbrush. Probably quite bizarre and awkward at the same time. Especially in lifts or at the beach or on a first date.

  If not for the fact that there were screams coming from the hotel’s lobby, Chegwin would have stayed frozen by the door, deep in thought, for quite some time. But the cries of his gofer, Mikey, brought him back to reality.

  ‘HELP! HELP!’

  The young manager snatched the key out of the lock and dashed towards the lobby. The mystery of room 49 would have to wait.

  ‘DON’T MAKE ME DO IT! SOMEBODY HELP ME!’

  Mikey’s pleas were urgent. Chegwin had never heard his employee so distressed.

  Chegwin picked up the pace, scrambling down a flight of stairs, then along the corridor towards a large portrait overlooking the lobby. It was a painting of Terrence Toffle – the former owner and founder of Toffle Towers, and Chegwin’s great-uncle, who he had inherited the business from. Chegwin had since breathed life back into the run-down hotel, filling it with guests for the first time in years.

  ‘NOOO! HELP ME!’

  ‘I’m coming, Mikey!’

  Chegwin leapt over the infamous squeaky floorboard under the portrait, slid down the handrail at top speed, then skidded to a stop at the reception desk where his gofer stood, pale-faced and shaking.

  ‘What is it, Mikey?’ panted Chegwin. ‘What happened?’

  The bellboy clutched Chegwin. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. I’ve just been reverse mugged.’

  Chegwin glanced around the empty lobby, trying to make sense of the situation. It was a quiet time of the morning as most of the guests had either checked out or left for a day of sightseeing. ‘Reverse mugged? What do you mean?’

  ‘You know . . . reverse mugged? Normal mugged is when someone steals from you. Reverse mugged is when someone forces you to accept a gift that you don’t particularly want.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Chegwin. ‘I didn’t know there was such a thing. Fancy that.’

  Mikey’s wide eyes told Chegwin he was still in shock.

  ‘What gift were you forced to accept?’ said Chegwin. This conversation was proving to be very anticlimactic.

  Mikey shook his head as if it were obvious. ‘This ugly brown shirt, of course. Look at it! It’s hideously, incredibly, overwhelmingly . . . boring! Two men forced me into it, right over the top of my favourite Hawaiian shirt.’

  Chegwin nodded. Now that Mikey mentioned it, the shirt was particularly plain. It looked as though it might put someone to sleep if they stared at it long enough. ‘Why don’t you take it off?’

  ‘I can’t. They glued it down.’

  This was bad news for Mikey. He was well-known for his colourful shirts. Come to think of it, Chegwin had never seen him dressed in anything else.

  ‘Why don’t you wear another shirt over the top?’

  ‘The brown one is too big. Look how bulky the material is – I’m dressed like a tent! I don’t think the buttons on my Hawaiian shirts will do up properly over the top of this monstrosity.’

  Chegwin ran a finger over the spare button on his own shirt. Each morning he deliberately mismatched the buttons and holes. ‘It’s not as bad as you might think,’ he said. ‘You can learn a lot about someone by the way they react to your shirt.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Mikey. ‘I don’t want to be known as the boring brown-shirt guy. I have a colourful image to keep up for the sake of the hotel.’

  This was true. Toffle Towers had more character than any other establishment in the country. From squeaky floorboards and gravity-free dining to an orange wheelbarrow strung up in the main belltower, the hotel was quirky in every way. Why would somebody try to tone down the colour of Mikey’s shirt?

  ‘You’re right,’ said Chegwin. ‘This isn’t just an attack against you, it’s an attack against Toffle Towers. We have an image to maintain and horrific brown shirts aren’t part of that. Who did this to you?’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know, boss. There were two of them – big guys. Arms as thick as tree trunks. Dressed in black commando gear.’

  ‘Black commando gear, you say? Well, I’m glad you’re okay.’ Chegwin’s mind was switched on and he focused all of his attention on Mikey. Chegwin’s parents were always telling him to be kind and put others first. And right now, his employee needed some care.

  ‘Mikey,’ he said, ‘perhaps you should take the rest of the day off to sort out your wardrobe?’

  Mikey pulled at the shirt, which was glued tight to his own. ‘Thanks, boss.’

  Chegwin took a step towards his office, then paused. ‘Oh, and one more thing.’

  ‘Yes, boss?’

  ‘Be careful. I would hate to think the attackers are still lurking around the hotel somewhere.’

  Lawrence Sterling, resident butler of Toffle Towers, sat behind Chegwin’s desk checking emails. His posture was perfectly straight, much like the top hat perched on his head.

  ‘Master Chegwin, may I congratulate you again on the success of last night,’ he said in his rich English accent. ‘I can’t remember the last time we had a full house. You’ll be delighted to know we are fully booked for the next six weeks. And with the Great River Race fast approaching, I’m confident the bookings will continue to roll in. It would appear that our rival – the Braxton Hotel – is no longer the only thriving accommodation in Alandale.’

  ‘That’s brilliant, Lawrence,’ said Chegwin, ‘though it’s not why I came to see you. Did you notice two men hanging around the lobby this morning?’

  Lawrence fixed his pale blue eyes on Chegwin. ‘Two men? Do you mean Barry and Dean?’

  Chegwin made a quick mental assessment of his caretakers, who had been known to play practical jokes before. He doubted their involvement, however, as he knew that they had spent the morning taxiing guests to town. ‘Hmm . . . Do Barry and Dean own black commando gear?’

  The butler raised an eyebrow. ‘Not that I’m aware of. Is something the matter? I heard a commotion in the lobby earlier but I was on an important call – The National Underpants Club is interested in booking rooms for the week of the Great River Race.’

  But Chegwin had zoned out again. He was imagining what night-time would be like if the moon were made entirely from disco-ball mirrors. There would be some wonderful parties on cloudless nights.

  Lawrence coughed. ‘Ahem. Master Chegwin, is there something I need to be aware of?’

  Tuning back in, Chegwin shook his head. ‘Everything’s fine . . . I think. But I need you out on reception for the rest of the day because Mikey is having some time off to sort out a clothing issue. I’ll take over the computer. And please let me know if you notice two men dressed as commandos.’

  ‘As you wish, Master Chegwin.’ The butler nodded formally and left the office.

  Chegwin pulled up a chair behind the computer and scrolled through his inbox. There were still hundreds of emails to deal with.

  He let out a sigh. Though it was not the sort of sigh someone might give when they are overwhelmed. It was the sort of sigh that signalled achievement. Chegwin had sworn to himself he would revive Toffle Towers so that its staff, such as Lawrence and Mikey, could keep their jobs. A full inbox was a good problem to have.

  Apart from the junk mail, that is. Chegwin hated junk mail.

  Chegwin deleted the last of the junk emails and stood up to stretch. As he did, he felt the key to room 49 in his pocket. He took it out and placed it next to the keyboard on his desk to remind him to scope out the mystery room later. Perhaps whoever was behind the door had something to do with Mikey’s reverse mugging.

  But right now, he had more important things to do. Among the junk mail was the flood of booking confirmations that Lawrence had mentioned. With so many people due to check in after lunch, he had to make sure his staff were on track with their responsibilities. The hotel hadn’t been this busy for years, and the young manager knew it was vital to keep on top of things.

  Before he left his office, Chegwin locked the door to make sure nobody could get in. The last thing he wanted was the key to room 49 being lost or misplaced again.

  Chegwin walked outside just in time to see the Toffle Towers shuttle bus touch down on the gravel driveway. It had recently been fitted with six mini rocket engines, and had become a talking point for the hotel guests, as well as the locals of Alandale.

  Barry Rake, the scruffy caretaker of Toffle Towers, hopped out of the bus and cleared his throat, producing an almighty gurgle that sounded a lot like a drainpipe during a storm. ‘That’s almost the last of this morning’s trips, mate. Just waiting for the Taylor family to check out and then I’ll fly them to town.’

  ‘Good work, Barry,’ said Chegwin. ‘Is Dean with you?’

  ‘Nah, mate. He wanted to grab some oil for his jetski. Said he’d stretch his legs and walk back once he found what he was after.’

  This seemed to back up Chegwin’s theory that Barry and Dean couldn’t have been involved in the Mikey incident. But still, it was best to be thorough in a situation like this.

  ‘I know this might seem an odd question, Barry, but do you and Dean own black commando gear?’

  ‘You’re not flamin’ daydreaming again, are you?’ said Barry, his voice as coarse as sandpaper. ‘What a weird question to ask. Of course we don’t own commando gear.’

  ‘That’s all I need to know.’

  ‘Any other strange questions to ask me?’ said Barry. ‘Or can I get to work on the plans for room one?’

  In the excitement of the morning, Chegwin had forgotten about his idea to upgrade room one. It would be the first guest room to undergo renovations since he assumed management of the hotel. He fiddled with the loose button on his striped blue shirt and grinned. ‘Go for your life, Barry. It would be terrific to launch the room before the Great River Race!’

  The caretaker walked away whistling, although he was so out of tune the birds in the nearby forest stopped chirping.

  Chegwin chuckled to himself. He sucked in some of the fresh morning air and allowed the Alandale sun to warm his face. It was another beautiful day at Toffle Towers.

  At least it was until Barry’s off-key whistles were replaced by the flustered cries of the hotel’s elderly cleaners, Dusty and Mildew Staines.

  ‘We’ve been reverse mugged! We’ve been reverse mugged!’

  Chegwin couldn’t believe his ears. Surely not two reverse muggings in one morning? Before today he hadn’t even known such a thing existed.

  Mildew, closely followed by her husband, rushed up to the young manager. ‘Chegwin, two men forced their way into our room in the staffing quarters. It was horrible. They were huge. Dressed like commandos. Awful experience. Scary. Nothing like this has ever happened here before!’

  ‘Slow down, slow down,’ said Dusty. ‘Just tell him what happened.’

  ‘Our game of Monopoly,’ said Mildew, ‘the one we’ve been playing for eighteen months –’

  ‘Not your game of Monopoly!’ cried Chegwin. He knew how much the board game meant to his housekeepers. It was how they bonded. ‘What did they do to it?’

  Mildew sobbed. ‘They packed it away – very neatly, which was thoughtful of them – and then put it on the shelf.’

  ‘But that’s not the worst part,’ said Dusty. ‘After they packed it away, they gave us a new board game.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Chegwin.

  ‘Sixty-Second Rush,’ said Dusty, ‘the action-packed, nonstop, adrenaline-filled racing game the whole family can enjoy in less than one minute.’

  ‘It’s awful,’ sniffed Mildew. ‘It’s too fast. How are we supposed to enjoy quality time with each other playing that? We’re used to playing games at our own slow pace.’

  Chegwin’s suspicions about room 49 grew stronger. Maybe there was a connection with the muggings. Maybe there were two large men hiding out in the room and attacking staff at random.

  Another discontented cry suddenly filled the air. It was Katie, the hotel’s bright-minded waitress. She raced outside to find Chegwin, her usual dimple-filled smile replaced with a look of horror.

  ‘Oh no, not you, too,’ said Chegwin.

  ‘I’ve been reverse mugged!’ said Katie, panting to catch her breath. ‘Two men cornered me in the restaurant and forced me to read the final few pages of my astrophysics textbook.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Chegwin. Perhaps this wasn’t as bad as what happened to Mikey or the housekeepers.

  ‘But it gets worse,’ said Katie. The waitress held up an incredibly thick book. ‘Then they gave me this – The Worst Poems in History – and forced me to read the first page.’

  ‘One page isn’t so bad,’ said Chegwin.

  ‘You don’t understand, I have this thing . . .’ Katie continued. ‘I can’t start a new book until I finish the one I’m reading. This book of poems is more than twelve-hundred pages long. Now that I’ve started, I have to keep reading until I get to the end. It’s just the way I approach books – I can’t help it.’

  ‘This is truly awful,’ said Dusty.

  The shaken staff looked to Chegwin for answers. The intruders had rattled them and they needed their young manager to provide guidance.

  ‘What should we do?’ said Mildew.

 

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