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drew attention to ourselves. If he spotted us now, all he’d have to do is leave the queue and lose himself in the crowd.
    ‘Whatever you do,’ I whispered, ‘don’t run. Don’t cause anyone in that queue to look round.’
    Suddenly, Ed overtook us, running like his bum was on fire, heading directly for Rippa. Charlie and I both pulled yeeargh-faces.
    But it was almost too late. Rippa was at the head of the queue. In a few seconds, he’d be through the scanners. Even at full speed, Ed wouldn’t reach him in time!
    ‘How can we stop him?’ wailed Charlie.
    For a split second, my mind went blank. But then I had a brilliant idea.
    ‘Oi!’ I shouted, at the top of my voice. ‘Oi! Tarquin!’
    The sound echoed off the flickering screens and the shiny floor. As one, every last person in sight turned to stare at me. Rippa, with a face like a mad bull, spun on his heels. Without a
moment’s thought, he flung his pack of sandwiches directly at me, his mouth pulled into a wedge-shaped sneer. The sandwiches bounced and skidded to a halt at my feet.
    ‘So it’s true,’ I said. ‘He really does throw things at people who call him that.’
    Rippa’s pause gave Ed just enough time to reach him. Rippa almost made a run for it, but Ed took a firm hold of his arm and dragged him out of the queue.
    ‘Open it, please,’ said Ed, pointing to Rippa’s holdall.
    With his free hand, and a grunting sigh, Rippa unzipped the holdall. Nestled inside, between some scrunched-up T-shirts and a spare pair of jeans, was a cardboard folder. Inside the folder was
Issue 1 of The Tomb of Death .
    ‘How did you know?’ grunted Rippa.
    ‘I didn’t,’ said Ed. He pointed to me. ‘He did.’
    ‘And who are you?’ sniffed Rippa, looking me up and down. ‘Sherlock bloomin’ Holmes?’
    ‘No,’ I said with a smile. ‘My name is Saxby Smart.’
    On the way home, Charlie expected to get one giant, economy-sized telling-off from his brother, but it seemed that Ed was a changed man. ‘I shouldn’t have been so
tough on you over the jam, Charlie,’ he said, as the car chugged back into town. ‘If I’d been less crabby, you might have come straight to me in the first place. Sorry.’
    ‘Does that mean I can read your collection?’ said Charlie excitedly.
    Ed said nothing for a while. ‘Dunno,’ he mumbled eventually. ‘I’ll think about it.’
    Once I was home, I retreated to my shed. I made some notes on the case, and then I settled back in my Thinking Chair. There was a slight ripping sound from the arm. I sighed, and finally had to
admit to myself that even a simple repair job like that was beyond me. I’d call my friend Muddy in the morning, I decided. Get a professional in.
    Case closed.

 
    C ASE F ILE F IVE :
T HE T REASURE OF D EAD M AN’S L ANE

 
C HAPTER
O NE
    ‘O OOH DEAR ,’ SAID M UDDY . ‘Ooooh dear, oh dear, oh dear.
Oooooooh dear.’
    ‘Yeh, OK,’ I said grumpily. ‘Can you fix it?’
    Muddy examined the rip in the arm of my Thinking Chair, prodding it with a grimy finger. ‘Ooooh dear. Yup, that’s fixable. Should have called me in earlier, though, Saxby.
You’ve let this develop into quite a nasty little tear.’
    ‘I can do without the lecture, thanks,’ I said. ‘I did try to fix it myself, you know.’
    ‘Yeh, I can tell,’ muttered Muddy, doing a bit more prodding. ‘What a botch-up. Sticky tape, was it?’
    ‘Just get on with it,’ I grumbled. ‘Stop enjoying yourself.’
    My great friend George ‘Muddy’ Whitehouse is a genius when it comes to practical and mechanical things. He goes around looking like he’s been dragged through an assortment of
puddles and ditches, but there’s nobody at St Egbert’s School who’s more skilled at mending stuff. In less than ten minutes, there was a neatly glued patch on the arm of my
Thinking Chair.
    ‘Leave it for an hour or two before you sit in it,’ said Muddy, packing up his toolbox.
    ‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘You know how