Lemony Snicket - File Under - 13 Suspicious Incidents

“Did you go by the Hairdryer Emporium?” Pip asked. “That’s probably the loudest place in Stain’d-by-the-Sea. The kidnapper could be hiding her there.”

“I’m not from around here,” I reminded the Bellerophons. “Who runs the Hairdryer Emporium?”

“Hal Hairdryer,” said Squeak. “You’ve probably seen him out in front of his brother’s place, Hairdryer’s Salamis. He has a funny hat and two very serious arms.”

“But that place closed up a couple of weeks ago,” Jackie said, and sighed. “If he’s the kidnapper, I don’t know where we’d find him.”

“Running a loud business isn’t reason enough to call him a kidnapper,” I said. “The best way to find out who took Lysistrata is to catch them red-handed when you bring them the ransom.”

“Will you come with me tonight, Snicket?” The mechanic gestured to a motorcycle waiting by the door. “I’ll put the drills in the saddlebag and pick you up at the Lost Arms around eleven. We’ll get there early and you can hide yourself. That way we can get my dog back and catch whoever did it.”

“Blotted Boulevard will sure be spooky at that hour,” Pip said, reminding me of a time we’d been out there together, chasing a villain named Hangfire. “We’ll come with you, too.”

“No,” Jackie said. “The kidnappers would notice your taxi. The note said to come alone.”

I looked at the note again. “Be sensible” was something my chaperone, Theodora, said all the time, but like the case of Dugga Drills, this was something plenty of people had noticed.

“You kids get outta here!” The voice came from the doorway, where Jackie’s grandfather was leaning with a jar of molasses in one hand, and, in the other, a jar of molasses. His voice was sticky and slurry, because his mouth was either full of molasses or empty of teeth, or both. “

They’re friends, Grampa,” Jackie said.

“They’re keeping you from your work,” the old man said, spitting a brown glop onto the floor. “That Knight girl’s going to get very impatient.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times,” Jackie said. “You’re not going to take over this job for me.”

“You could at least let me deliver it,” slurred the old man. “That car deserves to have a driver like me. After all, I competed in the Magritte Derby.”

“That was thirty-seven years ago,” Jackie said patiently, “and you came in thirty-eighth. I’ll deliver it myself, thank you.”

“You can’t drive a Dilemma. You don’t have the reflexes of a professional like me.”

“Your hands shake from too much sugar,” Jackie said, “and your ears ring constantly from the bowling alley.”

“I like ringing ears!” the old man cried.

It is better to dive into a shark tank than into a family argument. “We’d best get going,” I said. “See you later, Jackie.”

“Much obliged,” Jackie replied, which is a fancy way of saying “thank you,” and slid back under the equally fancy car.

It was not easy to persuade my chaperone to let me help Jackie get Lysistrata back, but I explained it to her in a whisper at about ten thirty that night, when Theodora had fallen asleep, and I took her silence to be words which here mean “Go ahead, Snicket. Sneak out without waking me, and take a motorcycle ride in the middle of the night.”

I gave Prosper Lost a wave as I headed out, and Jackie was waiting with an extra helmet and a grim expression.

“I took the long way here, just to see if I could hear my dog barking anyplace.”

“The kidnapper could have drugged her,” I said, thinking of Hangfire again.

The mechanic shuddered. “I just can’t imagine who would kidnap my dog, even to get a set of expensive drills as ransom.”

“They could have stolen those drills,” I said, “when they stole the dog.”

“Lysistrata would have barked at any intruder,” Jackie said, “and I would have awoken.”

It wasn’t a bad answer, but it wasn’t good enough, just like my list of suspects. Hangfire was associated with Blotted Boulevard. Hal Hairdryer ran a loud establishment suitable for hiding a loud dog. Theodora liked the word “sensible.” Not a bad list, but it didn’t feel good enough.

I probably do not need to tell you that young people should not be riding around on motorcycles, even if the driver is a skilled mechanic with an extra helmet, and even if there’s a sort of magical terror to feeling the night air rushing in your face and the engine whining underneath you. I hung on tight to Jackie’s shoulders and tried to decide if I was more scared than excited or more excited than scared. I decided it was a tie.

We arrived early at Blotted Boulevard, as planned, and stood for a moment together on the silent, empty block. I hid behind a pile of rubble that looked like it had once been a newsstand, and Jackie stood beneath a flickering streetlight and waited. I waited, too. We kept waiting and then we kept at it. Both of us waited for almost two hours. Even in my hiding place I felt like a target, or an animal soon to become prey. I don’t know what Jackie felt like, out there where anyone could see. But if anyone saw, nobody came forward. We spent two late hours waiting for nothing, and finally the mechanic came to fetch me.

“Nobody showed,” Jackie said.

“I thought nobody would,” I admitted, “but it didn’t hurt to be sure.”

“Well, you’re a good sport to help me,” Jackie said. “I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

I shook my head. “Let’s ride around for a while,” I said.

Jackie smiled. “You like a joyride?”

“Joyride” is a word for driving around just for fun, but I’d had enough excitement for one evening and said so. “But joyriding is the whole reason for your dog’s disappearance. I think the kidnapper’s had his fun by now, and I’m sure Lysistrata will be returned to you.”

* * *

The conclusion to “Ransom Note” is filed under “Loud Dog,” here.

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