Goldwhiskers by Heather Vogel Frederick Page A

Dupont. ‘And one pathetic mouse doesn’t count.’
    Goldwhiskers turned back to his mouselings. ‘That’s right,’ he said soothingly. ‘Your obedience makes Master so happy. And you mouselings like to make Master happy, don’t you? When Master is happy, everyone is happy. Master gives food. Master gives warmth. Master gives all good things.’
    â€˜We thank you kindly, Master, giver of all that is good,’ chanted the mice in automatic reponse.
    As Roquefort Dupont listened, he pictured himself seated in a big red leather chair back in his lair at Dupont Circle. He pictured himself with mice to dohis bidding and humans at his beck and call. A smile creased his hideous snout. He liked what he saw.
    â€˜Money can do this, you say?’ he demanded. ‘Cold, hard cash?’
    Goldwhiskers nodded, and Dupont chewed on his thin rat lip thoughtfully.
    â€˜Where would mouselings be without Master?’ Goldwhiskers continued. ‘On the street! No one wants useless orphans. No one but Master. And what happens to
lazy, disobedient mouselings
?’ The big rat’s voice rose sharply, and the orphans quailed. ‘That’s right! The
oubliette
!’
    â€˜The oobly-what?’ whispered Dupont.
    Piccadilly shrugged. ‘Not a clue.’
    â€˜â€œOubliette”,’ Fumble replied listlessly from behind them. ‘It comes from French. It means “forgotten place”. He’s talking about a dungeon.’
    â€˜Which reminds me,’ added Goldwhiskers. ‘Where’s Farthing? An extra slice of cheese for whoever brings me my naughty pet!’
    The mice who weren’t pulling on the dumb waiter’s rope scattered in search of the youngest orphan. A tiny squeak of alarm was heard in the shadows as someone nabbed him, and Farthing was duly dragged back to the red leather chair.
    Goldwhiskers glared down at him. ‘Haven’t I warned you about my carpet?’
    Farthing popped his tail into his mouth and sucked on it anxiously.
    â€˜Don’t you want to stay here, close to Master, where Master can feed you and take care of you and keep you safe?’
    Farthing nodded, his bright little eyes wide with fear.
    â€˜Then why do you keep PUDDLING ON MY CARPET?’ roared Goldwhiskers. ‘Master has no choice but to put you back in the oubliette until you learn some manners!’
    â€˜I need an oubliette,’ said Dupont enviously as the tiny orphan was seized and dragged away. He yanked on Fumble’s lead, and the mouse toppled nose-first on to the floor. ‘Remind me to build one when I get back to Washington.’
    â€˜Yes, boss,’ said Fumble tonelessly.
    Behind them, the basket swayed up through the trapdoor, piled with packages and mice. Goldwhiskers rubbed his paws together with greedy glee. ‘Smoked salmon, crackers, an assortment of cheeses and, for the main course, wild-mushroom pie. Oh, and, for dessert, fresh raspberries and whipped cream.’
    Roquefort Dupont’s stomach growled loudly.
    â€˜Fresh raspberries? In December?’ Piccadilly was incredulous.
    â€˜I ordered them online this morning. You can get anything at Fortnum and Mason’s,’ Goldwhiskers explained. ‘All it takes is money.’
    â€˜Quite the racket you’ve got going here,’ said Dupont with grudging admiration.
    â€˜One does one’s best,’ Goldwhiskers replied modestly.
    â€˜So, will you help us, Double G?’ asked Piccadilly.
    Goldwhiskers frowned. ‘What’s in it for me, chaps? I assume you haven’t any cash to offer.’
    Piccadilly scratched a filthy ear, considering. ‘How about membership in the GRR?’
    â€˜Your silly little club?’ Goldwhiskers laughed scornfully, and Dupont’s hackles rose again. ‘I have no interest in petty rodent politics. Let’s take a look and see what else you might have to offer me.’ He clapped his paws.