Basil and the Big Cheese Cook-Off

  Cast of Characters

  BASIL

  English mouse detective

  DR. DAWSON

  his friend and associate

  NIGEL

  young mouse sentry

  ALAIN RONGEUR

  one of mousekind’s most celebrated chefs

  PIERRE, HENRI, AND GUSTAVE

  Chef Rongeur’s trusted assistant chefs

  CHEF TOPO

  mouse chef from Italy

  CHEF KLEIN

  mouse chef from Germany

  CHEF NEZUMI

  mouse chef from Japan

  THEO

  young Parisian ruffian

  VICTOR

  burly mouse guard

  ADELINE

  female Parisian mouse

  ADELARD

  Adeline’s twin brother

  PROFESSOR RATIGAN

  arch villain

  MARCEL

  elderly Parisian gentlemouse

  RAYMOND

  nervous mouse cook

  VARIOUS GUARDS, COOKS, DISHWASHERS, BELLHOPS, AND OTHERS

  Contents

  Cast of Characters

  1. Say Cheese!

  2. City of Light

  3. A Taste for Trouble

  4. An Old Enemy

  5. No Time to Spare

  6. Waking Up in Paris

  7. A Break in the Case

  8. New Plans and New Problems

  9. The Disappearing Soufflé

  10. Running Out of Suspects?

  11. Spying a Villain

  12. Desperate Detecting

  13. A Confounding Confession

  14. One Last Mystery

  15. The International Cheese Cook-Off

  About the Authors

  1

  SAY CHEESE!

  SURELY EVERY MOUSE THE WORLD over has heard of the International Cheese Cook-Off! Held every year in Paris, it brings together the finest mouse chefs and most discerning lovers of cheese dishes from every corner of the globe.

  And of course, every mouse has heard of Basil of Baker Street, the world-famous detective and my dear friend. Basil has solved so many tricky cases that his fame, too, has reached every nook and cranny of the mouse world.

  Thus it was no surprise when Basil was called in to save the cook-off from the greatest threat to its existence imaginable and the most evil of plots from the most cunning of criminals—

  But allow me to tell you about it from the beginning. . . .

  It was the year 1895. Basil and I were at 221B Baker Street, our home as well as that of the world’s greatest human detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We were hidden away in a corner of the great man’s study. That was where Basil had learned many methods of scientific sleuthing, methods that had served him very well over the years. But he, like Holmes himself, was always eager to learn still more, and so we often sneaked upstairs to eavesdrop.

  On that particular evening Basil was listening intently, scribbling notes in shortpaw as the brilliant detective discussed coded messages and handwriting analysis with his dear friend Dr. John H. Watson.

  I, however, had quite a different focus. While I had joined Basil on many of his most famous cases, I was at heart still a medical mouse—Dr. David Q. Dawson, at your service—and easily distracted from the in-depth details of detecting. And that night there was plenty to distract me, for Holmes’s housekeeper had set out a platter of fruits and cheeses for the men, and the odor drifting toward us was heavenly.

  “Stilton,” I murmured, closing my eyes and identifying the scents by nose alone. “A creamy Caboc from Scotland. And, of course, a fine English Cheddar . . .”

  “Hush, Dawson,” Basil scolded. “I wish not to miss a word of this fascinating discussion.”

  I stayed quiet after that. But later, as the two of us made our way down to the cellar, where our mouse town of Holmestead was located, my mind was still locked on the topic of cheese. “Let’s stop at the cheese shop for a nibble,” I suggested.

  “All right.” Basil was nearly always in a fine mood after an evening at Holmes’s foot, and tonight was no exception. “I could enjoy a nice bit of Blue Wensleydale myself. . . .”

  But halfway to the Holmestead Cheese Emporium, we spied a harried-looking mouse racing toward us. It was a youngster known as Nigel who often stood sentry at the edge of the village.

  “Mr. Basil, sir, I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” he exclaimed. “There’s a message for you—from Paris!”

  Nigel handed over a note. Basil unfolded it, and I peered over his shoulder, curious. The message was written in a tiny, precise hand, covering the entire sheet of paper, but though my eyesight is good, I could read scarcely a word of it.

  “Oh,” I said. “It’s written in French!”

  “Of course.” Basil thanked Nigel with a nod, then returned his gaze to me. “Didn’t you hear the lad say it comes from Paris?”

  As Nigel wandered off, Basil gave his full attention to the note. I waited patiently for him to translate it for me, knowing him to be fluent in French as well as several other languages. However, he simply refolded the missive and tucked it away in his cape without a word.

  “Well?” I prompted him. “What does it say?”

  “That can wait,” he replied. “Find another doctor to see to your patients for the next few days, Dawson. We depart for Paris first thing in the morning!”

  I felt a flash of annoyance. “You expect me to adjust my schedule yet refuse to tell me why?”

  Basil merely shrugged. “Not to worry, my friend. All will be revealed in time. For now, let us get some sleep.”

  With that, he turned and strode off toward home. I clenched my paws, tempted to refuse Basil’s orders for once. But even in my fit of temper, my curiosity was piqued, and I knew come morning I would go along with him as usual. . . .

  Sure enough, the very next day I found myself scurrying through the streets of London before dawn. The city was quiet, though we knew it was an hour of creeping paws and twitching whiskers and thus kept a careful lookout for cats. Fortunately, we didn’t encounter a single feline and soon hitched a lucky ride on a milkman’s cart. In that way we safely reached Victoria Station.

  “Basil,” I said once we’d stowed away on board a train bound for Dover. “When will you clue me in to the reason for our voyage?”

  He settled himself in a corner of the luggage shelf where we were hiding behind a large valise. “Right now, of course,” he told me, adjusting the deerstalker cap he always wore. “What better way to while away a long journey than with interesting conversation?”

  And that, at last, was when I heard the first details of the Case of the Big Cheese Cook-Off.

  2

  CITY OF LIGHT

  “THAT NOTE WAS SENT BY a dear friend from university,” Basil began.

  “Who’s that?” I asked, curious at once, for Basil and I had attended Ratcliffe College together in our younger days. “Anyone I know?”

  “Yes, of course—Alain Rongeur,” Basil replied, and I nodded, remembering the mouse in question very well. But I had little time to reminisce before Basil resumed his tale. “Alain is at the Parisian College of Cooking these days. He is known as one of the finest chefs in all mousedom. He also organizes the International Cheese Cook-Off.”

  My whiskers twitched. Every mouse knows of the International Cheese Cook-Off, held every year in Paris. The finest mouse chefs from all over the world travel there to unveil their latest masterpieces, and prizes are awarded in several categories. I’d had no idea an acquaintance of mine was involved in such a stellar enterprise!

  “Wonderful,” I said.


  “Indeed.” Basil stroked the fur of his chin thoughtfully. “The cook-off’s fame has grown to the point that poor Alain has had some trouble procuring enough Roquefort and Camembert for the proceedings. However, this year a much more serious problem has arisen. Someone is sending threats against the competition!”

  “What? Who, pray tell, would do something like that?”

  “Alain has no idea,” Basil replied. “He has received three separate notes thus far, which he promises to show me upon our arrival. For now he has said only that they assure terrible consequences if the cook-off carries on as usual.”

  Basil and I had plenty of time to discuss suspects and theories during the rest of the journey. We left the train at Dover, dodging human feet until we found our way up the ramp onto the ferry. It was a magnificent boat, able to make the long trip across the Channel in only one and a half hours—an amazing feat of modern human ingenuity!

  After that, it was another long train trip from coastal Calais to Paris. Halfway there I dozed off, waking only when Basil shook me by the shoulder.

  “We’re here, Dawson,” he proclaimed, his voice filled with zeal for the task ahead and no trace of weariness. “Hurry—let’s get to work!”

  I followed him, yawning at first but soon roused by the sights, sounds, and smells of the City of Light. We exited the busy Gare du Nord train station and looked around.

  “How do we reach the College of Cooking?” I wondered, a little overwhelmed by the shouts of the humans and the endless carriages clicking and clacking past in the road. A slender woman hurried by us leading a dog on a leash. The creature’s nose twitched; he turned to stare at us with bright, curious eyes and barked, sending me scurrying to the shelter of a cleft in the wall.

  But Basil merely laughed. “Ah, Paris!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms wide as if to embrace the city. “A place that loves its dogs, which keeps the cats in check!”

  Still chuckling over his own comment, he hurried off. “Wait for me!” I cried, rushing to catch up.

  It seemed that Alain had included directions in his note, for Basil knew exactly where to go. We caught a ride on one passing coach and then another, finally finding ourselves in the heart of Paris, steps from the river Seine. Only then did I look up and notice an immense tower rising over the rooftops.

  “Look at that!” I said, pointing.

  Basil squinted upward and then nodded. “Surely, Dawson, you’ve heard of the great tower of Monsieur Eiffel?” he said. “It was installed for the Exposition held here a few years ago. Monsieur Eiffel has an apartment at the top, which he uses to conduct meteorological research.” He nodded, clearly approving, for Basil was interested in all fields of scientific endeavor. “It’s the tallest tower in the known world!” he added.

  “Is it?” I stared at the tower until it disappeared from view when Basil and I ducked into a grate in the wall of the cooking school.

  Inside, people were rushing about carrying platters and trays, all of which were high overhead and thus out of view. But my nose stayed busy, twitching as one delicious scent after another drifted down to mouse level. Basil and I stayed out of sight, soon finding our way to the cellar beneath the school. Shelves upon shelves stood there, packed with food of every possible variety. I may have drooled a little as I scanned the printing on the packages—TOMATE, PTE, CHOCOLAT, and of course, FROMAGE. Even without knowing the French language, I recognized many of those names!

  “Basil, Dawson!” A portly mouse dressed in a white jacket appeared from behind a tub of les petit pois, better known as peas. “You made it, mes amis!”

  Our old friend Alain Rongeur looked a bit different than he had when last we’d seen him, but even so, it was suddenly as if we’d all three been transported back to those carefree university days. Several minutes passed in embraces and exclamations.

  It was Basil who put an end to that. “So, Alain,” he said briskly, stepping back and looking the chef up and down. “Let’s have a look at these threatening notes of yours.”

  “Oui, oui.” Alain’s face became serious as well. “There is no time to waste, eh? The cook-off is set to commence a mere two days from now. And if you can’t crack this conundrum, Basil, I shall have no choice but to cancel!”

  3

  A TASTE FOR TROUBLE

  “YOU WON’T HAVE TO CANCEL— not now that I’m on the case,” Basil assured our friend. “But first I must see those notes.”

  “Oui, of course,” Alain replied. “Yet you two must be famished after your long journey, mais non? Come with me.”

  He scurried off into the depths of the cellar without pause, for which I was glad. It had been a long journey indeed, and every last crumb of the cheese and bread I’d brought along had been long since gobbled.

  “Alain, wait!” Basil called. “The notes, if you please . . .” He trailed off with a frustrated sigh, having little choice but to follow the chef. Hiding a smile, I did the same.

  We soon found ourselves in a cozy mouse kitchen built into a nook beneath the humans’ staircase, with gleaming copper pots and wooden spoons hanging from the ceiling and delicious odors wafting everywhere. Alain called to several cooks, who quickly seated the three of us at a table topped with a checkered cloth. Seconds later the table was piled with platters and bowls of steaming food—gougères, better known as cheese puffs, along with various quiches, crepes, croissants, and many other dishes that I didn’t recognize but couldn’t wait to taste.

  As we tucked in, Alain pulled several scraps of paper out of his apron pocket. “Voilà! The notes,” he said, spreading them on the only bit of tabletop not covered with crockery.

  Basil shot a look toward a trio of young mice bustling about the kitchen. “Can we talk freely in front of your workers?”

  “Yes.” Alain nodded. “While I’m keeping this issue quiet from most of the school and beyond, these three were here when the notes arrived. Please meet Pierre, Henri, and Gustave, my most trusted assistants. They know everything—and have promised complete secrecy.”

  Gustave, a lean young fellow, heard him and looked over with a wry smile. “We’re accustomed to keeping secrets, sir,” he said in good English, with only a trace of a French accent. “Every soul in mousedom would love to get a sneak peek at the recipes for the cook-off, which the visiting chefs have provided to ensure we shall have the correct ingredients at paw.”

  “Yes,” Henri, rounder and a little older, added worriedly. “If indeed there will be a cook-off this year . . .”

  Seeming satisfied that the discussion could continue, Basil nodded once to the trio and then turned his attention back to the notes, studying them carefully.

  “What do they say?” I asked, for they were of course written in French.

  Basil took his time answering, studying first one note, then the next, and finally the third. “Hmm,” he said at last, taking a thoughtful bite of quiche. “Dawson, my friend, you really should pick up a bit of French.”

  “All right.” I tried to disguise my impatience. “But as that seems unlikely to happen in the next five minutes, how about a translation?”

  Alain picked up the first note. “Dawson, this one reads ‘Cancel the cook-off, or suffer the consequences,’ ” he said. “The others are much the same, with increasing levels of urgency—the second promises the destruction of the cooking school itself if the contest commences, and the third, the peril of all mousedom throughout Paris and beyond.”

  “Yes.” Basil stroked his whiskers, as he often did when deep in thought. “Alain, where were the notes discovered?”

  “I found all three in my apron pocket, each arriving one morning after the last,” Alain said. “Given the security around the cook-off, it’s hard to imagine who could have slipped in overnight to deliver them. But it seems that’s exactly what must have happened.”

  While we talked, Alain’s three young assistants had returned to their work. But now Pierre paused beside the table. “Chef Rongeur, sir,” he said, “what
about the tall stranger that Henri noticed skulking about last week? Could he have left those notes?”

  Basil looked up sharply. “A tall stranger?” he said. “I must know more.”

  Alain whistled to Henri, who was washing dishes nearby. He came over and bowed politely. “I saw him only once, monsieur,” he told Basil. “It was in the north alley, near the loading bay. As I said, he was tall, with stooped shoulders, a high, bony forehead, and a rather sly expression.”

  “Ah.” Basil nodded and waved a paw to dismiss the two cooks. “Thank you. That’s all I need to know.” He turned and smiled at Alain. “The case is more than half-solved, my friend, for I now know the identity of our note-writing rogue.”

  “You do?” I was so surprised that I nearly choked on my mouthful of baguette. Even for a detective as brilliant as Basil, this was record speed! “Care to fill us in, Basil?”

  “Weren’t you paying attention, Dawson?” Basil exclaimed. “The culprit is obviously our old nemesis—Ratigan!”

  4

  AN OLD ENEMY

  “RATIGAN?” I EXCLAIMED. “BASIL, SURELY you’re joking—that scoundrel is in prison, thanks to you!”

  “Not anymore.” Basil looked grim. “The Baker Street Irregulars informed me he escaped a fortnight ago.”

  “Oh dear,” I said with feeling. Professor Padraic Ratigan was a free mouse? That was bad news indeed. Ratigan was the head of the mouse underworld, and the brains and muscle behind much of the trouble throughout mousedom. “But why would Ratigan want to stop the cook-off?” I added. “Despite his countless faults, he loves cheese as much as the next mouse.”

  Alain cleared his throat. “I suspect I know the answer,” he said. “Professor Ratigan contacted me last year offering the use of his goons to provide security for the cook-off in exchange for a share of the proceeds.” He shook his head. “Naturally, I refused. Perhaps Monsieur Ratigan holds a grudge?”