The Great River Race, page 4
‘Now’s not the time for one of your jazz songs,’ said Mrs Toffle gently.
‘It’s always time for a jazz song,’ said Mr Toffle. ‘But back to the reverse mugging story . . . During high school, I was into football. Big time. Footy was all I thought about. And I was good at it, too – good-diddly-wood. I was captain of the firsts. But my vice-captain became jealous. He wanted the top job, so he reverse mugged me.’
‘What did he do?’
‘He stuck a guitar to my hand so it would stop me playing sport. But it got me playing something else instead – music.’
‘Reverse muggings are usually the result of jealousy,’ said Mrs Toffle.
‘Or competition,’ said Chegwin’s father. ‘Perhaps whoever is targeting your staff is a rival? It sounds like a lot for a ten-year-old to handle. Are you sure you can sort it by yourself? Do you need our help?’
Do you need our help?
The question grated on Chegwin’s nerves. He had already fixed the problem. The staffing switch-up was a stroke of genius.
Do you need our help?
The words simmered in his ears and made their way further into his mind. Chegwin’s chest suddenly filled with the sort of pride that is dangerous when held in too long. He wasn’t sure where it came from – maybe it was the silver plaque etched with the word ‘Manager’ on his desk – but it crammed itself into his lungs and didn’t let go. ‘I’m fine. I came up with a solution all by myself.’
‘That’s wonderful news, darling,’ said Mrs Toffle. ‘What was your idea?’
‘I changed everyone’s jobs around. I thought about their weaknesses and switched things up.’
‘But what about their strengths?’ said Mr Toffle. ‘Shouldn’t the staff be working to those? Scoo-bop-bam-a-lam.’
Something snapped inside Chegwin. Mr Toffle had a good point, but Chegwin’s pride dug deeper. It was as though the overnight success of the hotel’s bookings had obliterated ten years of humility and respect. Not wanting to admit his mistake, Chegwin shot back a defensive reply. ‘It’s fine. Everything is under control. I don’t . . . I don’t . . .’
‘Yes?’ said Mrs Toffle softly, who was shocked by the angry tone in her son’s voice.
But Chegwin had once again drifted off. He was imagining himself as president of the world. He could boss everyone around and make any decision he liked. He would stack his private jet with generously sized tubs of raspberry yoghurt and make important phone calls to other important people. It was easy running the globe when you were good at daydreaming. He could even –
‘What were you saying, my lovely boy?’ said Mrs Toffle. Despite her son’s out-of-character behaviour, she was still as patient as ever.
‘I don’t . . .’ began Chegwin, ‘. . . I don’t need your help. Not now. Not ever.’
Mr Toffle exchanged a glance with his wife, and the pair stepped back towards the door. ‘Sorry, son . . . We didn’t realise you felt this way . . . Remember that we’re always here if you need us.’
Chegwin huffed as his parents walked away. He had an uneasy feeling in his stomach, but he distracted himself by resuming the search for the missing key. Why was room 49 so difficult to get into? It was as though someone didn’t want him to get inside.
After turning his office upside down for the third time, Chegwin gave up the hunt. ‘This is useless. I’ll never get into room forty-nine. How am I supposed to be a detective if I can’t even follow a simple clue? Maybe I need some time out to think about it all.’
Chegwin decided to perk himself up by heading to his secret hideout. The hotel would be fine without him for a couple of hours. The staff were professionals – they could adjust to their new roles and deal with check-in without him.
Oblivious to the struggle Mikey was having trying to attach furniture to the roof of the lobby, Chegwin made his way to the right wing of the hotel. The red-carpeted corridor was quiet. Perhaps Katie had already finished preparing the rooms on this side and was now working in the left wing. It didn’t match the cleaning schedule, but Katie could work out what to do. She was a trained waitress – someone used to wiping down tables. Organising a guest room wasn’t too different, was it? In either case, a deserted hallway meant Chegwin could slip into the storeroom undetected.
The door creaked open and he closed it quickly. Then he flicked on a light switch and made his way towards the corner of the room where there was a small door hidden behind some chairs. Chegwin pulled out a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. He closed it behind him, then walked down a thin staircase to the secret hideout in the basement.
He first discovered the hideout with his friends, Amy and Rufus, who lived in Alandale. The trio had revamped the basement, carrying down chairs to sit on and tidying the collection of old-fashioned toys that had formerly belonged to Terrence Toffle, Chegwin’s great-uncle. There was also a beautiful oak bookshelf, which matched the desk in Chegwin’s office. He was certain they had been built from the same block of wood.
Chegwin sprawled out on the rug and stared up at the dark roof. It wasn’t the same here without his friends. They were still busy and wouldn’t be free for another hour or so. Still, the peace and quiet would give him a chance to think about the mystery of room 49 and the reverse muggings.
But before that, he had a certain daydream to revisit. He closed his eyes and imagined playing the piano in front of thousands of people. This fantasy was building up to something special – an idea that would help transform Toffle Towers . . . If he could only find a piano large enough, he could –
Chegwin shivered. A draught was blowing on his legs. Perhaps he’d left the door open a crack.
He sat up and peered towards the stairs. No, the door was shut tight. Where was the draught coming from?
Crawling on his hands and knees, he followed the trail of cool air. It led to the bookshelf against the wall. ‘How strange,’ Chegwin said to himself.
He waved his hand in front of the bookshelf and the current seemed to disappear. He moved his hand to the side and the draught blew against his palm. Perhaps there was an opening in the wall behind the shelf?
Grunting, Chegwin pulled the bookshelf away from the wall. He couldn’t believe his eyes.
A tunnel.
In his hotel.
The passageway had been cut into rock. It was lit by flickering globes positioned every ten metres or so. This wasn’t on the blueprints he had studied with Mrs Flibbernut. It must have been built in secrecy.
Chegwin took a few steps into the tunnel and stopped. Where did it lead? What if he got lost? What if there were two men waiting to reverse mug him?
He took a deep breath. It was his hotel. He had to be brave.
Chegwin ventured further into the burrow, stooping as the ceiling became lower and lower. His feet crunched on the small stones on the floor.
Squelch.
What was that?
He looked down and examined the soles of his shoes.
‘Goose droppings? How did they get there?’
He pushed on and continued further into the tunnel. He rounded a corner and was surprised to see a dead end. Or was it?
There was a sliver of light at the end of the tunnel – brighter than the flickering yellow globes. This light was white. He crept over to see a chink in the ceiling. The light was shining in around the underside of a large tile.
Chegwin lifted the tile then slid it to the side. When he poked his head through the hole, the view made his heart skip a beat. He was looking across the floor of his office. He had popped up directly beneath his oak desk.
This must have been how Doc, Rufus’s pet goose, had escaped the secret hideout and appeared in his office just days before. The loud bird had startled Chegwin while he was working at his desk. It also explained why he’d stepped on goose droppings. The passageway linked the two spaces and Doc had wandered through.
‘The wood,’ he said aloud. ‘It is connected – oak to oak.’
Chegwin couldn’t wait to tell Amy and Rufus about the tunnel. He loved that he had friends he could share this sort of thing with. Before he moved to Alandale, he was about as friendless as a boy could be. But, as fate would have it, a couple of chance meetings with Amy and Rufus had sparked their friendship. His days as a solo act were over.
He would have called them right away, but something was happening in the lobby that required urgent attention. The guests had arrived. And they didn’t sound happy.
Chegwin quickly tightened the latch on a pair of magnetic boots and clanked – upside down – across the lobby ceiling to where Lawrence stood behind a desk.
Along with Lawrence’s counter, Mikey had nailed a collection of lounges, chairs and coffee tables to the roof. They wobbled precariously, threatening to fall down (or up, depending on which way you looked at it) at any moment.
Dozens of guests – all wearing similar boots and dangling from the roof like light fixtures – formed an angry queue behind the desk.
‘Ah, Master Chegwin,’ said Lawrence, ‘your timing is impeccable. Mr Grimwald, here, would like to speak to you about the hotel’s connecting transport.’
Mr Grimwald, the first man in line, was standing next to his wife and six children. He had more hair growing out of his ears than was on his entire head, and he was glowing red in the cheeks. ‘What sort of hotel forces its guests to carry their luggage up a hill?’
Chegwin was confused. ‘What about our caretakers, Dusty and Mildew Staines? Didn’t they push you in the bathtub?’
‘Did they push us?’ said Mr Grimwald. ‘We pushed them. They said they were striking against unfair work conditions. I can see why.’
Chegwin tried to imagine the family of eight pushing the bathtub uphill with two grumpy staffers. It wasn’t a pretty sight.
The complaints came in thick and fast. The frustrated guests surged towards Chegwin to voice their disapproval.
‘There was a ghost in our room!’
‘The food here is disgusting!’
Chegwin imagined the complaints forming a giant fist that crashed down onto his curly haired head. It was all too much for him to handle. The pride that had earlier engulfed him was now replaced by a feeling of utter dread. ‘Lawrence, I think my parents were right. This is too much for a ten-year-old to handle.’
‘Master Chegwin, we need you to –’
But Chegwin had made up his mind. It was easier to flee than face the verbal onslaught. Without saying another word to his loyal butler – or to the guests, who had begun phoning the Braxton Hotel to see if there were any vacancies – Chegwin clomped down the wall, untied the magnetic boots and headed straight back to the secret basement. Amy and Rufus were due to arrive at any minute, and he needed his friends’ advice.
Amy’s green eyes glimmered in the basement light. She had been listening to Chegwin tell his story.
‘You’re a nincompoop,’ she said. ‘What did you think would happen if you switched around everyone’s jobs? Of course there would be trouble!’
‘Yeah,’ said Rufus. ‘What she said.’
‘Honk!’ Even Doc could see how obvious Chegwin’s blunder was.
Chegwin sighed. ‘Some of the guests want to stay at the Braxton Hotel instead. What should I do?’
Amy took a moment to think about this. She ran her hand over the rug on the basement floor. ‘You shouldn’t have abandoned Lawrence for starters,’ she said. ‘Always put your staff first.’
‘But what about putting guests first?’ said Chegwin.
‘I always thought it was food first,’ said Rufus, who was thinking about his stomach.
‘Staff first, silly-billy,’ said Amy. ‘If the staff feel happy about their work, they will do their best job. Then the guests will have a good time. Technically, it’s true that guests come first, but that only happens when you prioritise and motivate your staff.’
This made a lot of sense to Chegwin. He had taken his staff away from what they loved – their strengths – and now the guests were suffering as a result. It was something both Pepper and his parents tried to warn him about. He should have listened.
But at least he was paying attention now, which was quite an accomplishment given how close he was to slipping back into the daydream about being a concert pianist.
Amy could sense Chegwin’s restlessness. She stood up and stepped towards the basement steps. ‘You’d better get straight to work to fix this mess.’
Chegwin held up his hand. ‘You’re right, but not that way. I know a shortcut.’ He had been holding on to his secret discovery all morning. It was time to break the news.
Amy’s eyes widened. ‘A shortcut? But there’s only one way out of the basement.’
‘Two ways, actually,’ said Chegwin. He pulled the bookshelf away from the wall, revealing the secret passageway.
‘Paint me purple and call me a grape,’ said Rufus. ‘Where does that lead?’
‘Honk!’ said Doc, remembering his previous tunnel escape.
Chegwin signalled for his friends to follow, then led them down the passageway to the end. He quietly slid open the tile and pulled himself up through the space underneath the desk in his office. His friends squeezed out after him.
‘This is wild,’ said Amy. ‘Your hotel gets better and better every time I visit.’
‘I thought you were leading us to the kitchen,’ complained Rufus. ‘I’m starving.’
There was an eerie silence in Chegwin’s office. It was unusual for this time of the day. Something wasn’t right, but Chegwin found himself drifting back into his daydream about the piano concert. His fingers worked up and down the keys, playing a melodious tune. The crowd roared and –
‘Why is it so quiet?’ said Amy, pulling Chegwin out of his fantasy. ‘Shouldn’t there be guests in the lobby?’
The young manager realised what was wrong. There was no busy hum in the reception area, which should have been bubbling with guests.
Chegwin crawled out from beneath the desk and poked his head around the corner of the office door. ‘Oh no.’ He turned around and signalled to Amy and Rufus to stay put, then ventured out into the lobby.
Apart from Lawrence, who was reading a newspaper upside down on the ceiling, there wasn’t a soul in sight.
‘Where is everybody?’ said Chegwin. ‘Where are the guests?’
Lawrence lowered his paper. ‘Ah, Master Chegwin . . . I see you have finally decided to make an appearance.’
The ten-year-old manager gulped. ‘I thought we were fully booked.’
‘Yes, we were fully booked,’ said Lawrence. ‘But that was until everything went pear-shaped. The guests’ luggage wasn’t delivered to their rooms, the rooms themselves weren’t properly prepared, afternoon tea was a disaster – half-frozen pork sausages served with warm milk is never a wise option – and on top of that there was nobody to run errands or respond to emails.’
‘But where did everybody go?’ said Chegwin.
Before Lawrence could answer, a large shadow filled the entrance of the lobby. ‘The Braxton Hotel,’ replied a deep voice. ‘That’s where everybody went.’
Chegwin immediately recognised the voice. It belonged to someone who wasn’t easy to forget. The woman was dressed in a bearskin coat and wore clumpy high-heel shoes. Her dark eyes flashed beneath unusually bushy eyebrows. It was Brontessa Braxton, owner of the Braxton Hotel.
Chegwin tensed up. Brontessa’s fierce reputation preceded her.
The imposing woman glanced up at Lawrence’s magnetic boots and smirked. ‘I hear that particular model locks up when you’re near a wall. What a lovely . . . gift.’
Chegwin’s jaw dropped. She knew about the reverse muggings.
Brontessa walked up to the boy and leaned over him so that her nose was almost touching the tips of his curly blond hair. Her breath smelt of fish, which Chegwin wasn’t particularly fond of, especially when it was breathed on him so hotly.
‘Don’t even think about accusing me of the attacks. You have no proof whatsoever. A hotel without security cameras is not even a proper hotel . . . it’s pathetic.’
Chegwin was out of his depth. He was reminded of how he used to feel when his former teacher, Mr Bridges, picked on him. He could only muster a quiet reply. ‘But our guests . . .’
Brontessa’s bad breath hovered around Chegwin’s head like an invisible, stinky cloud. ‘The Braxton Hotel is full to the brim with your . . . ex-guests,’ she said. ‘News travels fast, and the bad reviews of Toffle Towers resulted in a great number of transfers. They all too happily changed hotels, especially after my two butlers – as bird-brained as they are – organised some junk mail to be sent to every person in the country. The email listed our superior features and your lack thereof. You may have secured tonight’s bookings first, but we stole them fair and square. So I came here to say thank you, little boy . . . It was a pleasure doing business with you.’ Brontessa let out a wicked laugh – which sounded a bit like a hyena having a coughing fit – and strutted back the way she came, her high heels scuffing up the red carpet behind her.
‘Ugh, I can’t stand that woman,’ said Amy, who had been watching from Chegwin’s office. ‘Dad works at the Braxton and he can’t stand her either.’
‘Nobody likes her,’ said Rufus, who had joined Amy at the office door. ‘She says Mum’s coffee tastes worse than rotten eggs.’
‘How does she even know what rotten eggs taste like?’ said Amy. ‘Though I suppose it explains her breath . . . I could smell her from here!’ She glanced at Chegwin for a response to her joke.
But Chegwin was busy thinking about other things. Firstly, if Brontessa Braxton and her butlers were behind the muggings, it meant that whoever was in room 49 had nothing to do with it.
Secondly, all their guests were gone and the hotel would run at a loss for the night.
‘Did you hear that?’ Chegwin said, looking up at Lawrence. ‘She stole our customers.’
Lawrence nodded thoughtfully. ‘Indeed, I was here when the guests started phoning the Braxton Hotel. They left in droves. Please understand that I made a bid to stop them, Master Chegwin.’
