“What am I going to do?” Lewis whispered to the empty room. “What on earth am I going to do?”
12. Police Probe
Saturday morning! Lewis stretched lazily in bed, enjoying the luxury of a long lie. He’d actually quite enjoyed his first week at school; his teacher was great and the boys and girls had been friendly. He had piles of homework to do, of course, but so far the worst thing about it was having to get up at the crack of dawn when it was still pitch black outside. Idly he got out of bed and was heading for the shower when he heard the door-bell ring. As his mother and father had gone house hunting in Aberdeen he slipped out of his room and peered over the banister to see who the visitor was. He turned white with shock, for two uniformed police officers were standing in the hall talking to Mrs Sinclair. Her voice floated clearly up the stairwell.
“Yes, the house does belong to Mr Robinson,” she was saying, “but he went to America in the summer. It’s rented out just now to a Mr and Mrs Grant, but I’m afraid they’re not in at the moment. They went up to Aberdeen yesterday.”
One of the policemen produced a piece of paper. “It was actually Mr Robinson we wanted to see,” one of them said. “We’re checking on a book that he bought last year. It’s called Famous Collections of the World. I wonder if we could have a look at it?”
“That’s no bother at all, officer,” Mrs Sinclair said, relieved that the matter wasn’t serious. “If it’s anywhere, it’ll be in the library. Just come this way.”
As they followed her out of the hall, Lewis stiffened with horror. If they went into the library, the first thing they’d clap eyes on would be the Mona Lisa! And although Casimir had told him that no one would give it a second glance, he was not so sure. The police weren’t fools and he just couldn’t take the risk.
Thanking his lucky stars that he hadn’t made a wish yet, he rushed to the bathroom mirror, his eyes full of alarm. A hundred thoughts raced in a jumbled torrent through his mind. What if they searched the house? They would find all his treasures! They’d call him a thief and he’d go to prison! And what would his mum and dad say?
“I wish,” he hurriedly said to Casimir, “I wish that you’d send back all the things I’ve wished for from that book, send them back to where they came from! Please! Right now!”
He crossed his fingers tightly as he made his way through to his bedroom and paused at the door, scared that nothing would have happened; that they’d all still be there. He looked anxiously round and saw to his relief that the room was bare. They’d gone! Thank goodness, they had all gone!
He fell on the bed, trembling with shock and relief. He could hardly believe the narrow escape he’d had. But niggling in the back of his mind was the knowledge that he still had to make a wish every day. Casimir was being awkward making things more and more difficult. Now he was saying that he couldn’t wish for anything made of wood because he’d already wished for shelves to put his treasures on. He couldn’t wish for ivory because of the statue and he couldn’t wish for food because he’d once asked for a Chinese meal. He curled up in a ball and hugged his knees. If only, if only he could get rid of Casimir!
His thoughts went round and round in circles as he tried to think of something that Casimir couldn’t do. He knew him well enough now to believe that he actually could do everything. Even moving Mount Everest wasn’t an option as he’d probably cause an earthquake to swallow it and then push it up somewhere else. He’d never felt so depressed in his life.
Lewis only ventured downstairs because he was feeling hungry. His attitude to Mrs Sinclair had long since changed as, despite her prim appearance, he had soon discovered that she was a wonderful cook. “Are there any of those biscuits left that you made yesterday, Mrs Sinclair,” he asked, peering hopefully round the kitchen door.
She eyed him shrewdly. What was the matter with him? He looked really pale and ill-looking. She hoped he wasn’t coming down with something. “Yes, there are still some left,” she said, feeling quite sorry for him as she took the biscuit tin from a shelf. “How many would you like?”
“Five or six,” he hazarded. “I’m starving!”
She counted them. “There are eight left,” she said. “If you have five today there’ll still be three left over. Or you could divide them equally … four now and four later?”
Her words took Lewis right back to his primary school and his teacher saying in a tone of exasperation. “It’s impossible, Lewis! You can’t do it! You can’t possibly make three lots of five out of twelve counters. You can only make two lots with two left over!”