Secret of the Skull Read Online Free PDF Page A

the joints
with tiny twists of wire.
    ‘Granddad Emerik made that for my dad on the day he was born. When Dad saw that again he almost cried!’
    There were a selection of official documents written in Vojvlic (the version of the Croatian language used in Vojvladimia), including what looked like a couple of birth certificates. There was a
picture, faded and crumpled, showing a tall man standing in a doorway, wearing a baggy suit.
    ‘That’s Granddad Emerik,’ said Skull. ‘That was taken on the day his first book of poetry was published. Look, he’s put a date and his signature on the
back.’
    He had indeed. Out of the box I also took a glossy, freshly issued passport. In it were Mirna Skulyevic’s photo and details, plus a series of border stamps showing that she’d left
Vojvladimia, travelled across Europe and arrived in the UK in exactly the way she’d described to Skull’s family.
    ‘Well?’ said Skull. ‘What do you think?’
    There was only one thing I could think. It was impossible, quite impossible, that all these things could have been faked or happened upon by chance. Clearly, much of it was verifiable as
genuine by Skull’s dad, Antonin.
    There was only one conclusion I could come to, a conclusion which finally cleared up the question of Mirna’s true identity. I could now be sure of one absolutely definite fact.
    Can you see what that fact was?

    Mirna was Mirna. The Mirna Skulyevic living at Skull’s house was the genuine article. She really was his great-aunt. Nobody else could be in possession of all this
stuff.
    All that information about the infamous Elsa Moreaux was just a distraction. Izzy had been correct. The link between Skull’s house and that bank robbery from forty-odd years ago was
nothing more than a coincidence.
    (Which was good news. I didn’t like the thought of coming face to face with someone as violently dangerous as Elsa Moreaux!)
    ‘Skull, I’ve changed my mind,’ I declared. ‘You bringing me all this stuff has been very helpful.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘Really. It’s allowed me to focus my investigation.’ We were nearing the school gates. Kids were dispersing across the playground and the road beyond. ‘Now, hurry up and
get that box back, before it’s missed!’
    ‘Right away!’ said Skull.
    He trotted off ahead of me. I was left feeling extremely pleased that some of the dense mist surrounding this case had finally started to clear.
    However . . .
    There was still the important matter of the credit cards to sort out. And the matter of the strange things Mirna had said when I’d visited Skull’s house – the strange things
she’d said which had led me to doubt her identity in the first place.
    I drifted into thought. I also drifted slap bang into my other great friend George ‘Muddy’ Whitehouse, the school’s leading expert in all things gadget-related. I nearly
knocked him off his feet.
    ‘Sorry, Muddy! I was busy thinking!’
    ‘Haven’t seen you for a couple of days, Saxby,’ he said cheerily. As usual, he was looking like a walking rubbish tip, littered with assorted mud, oil and food stains. He
scratched at a yellow one on his pullover. I think it was the vegetable pie from lunchtime. ‘You on an investigation?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, I’m in the middle of a very puzzling problem,’ I said.
    ‘ The Case of the Doyle Avenue Forger , is it?’ he said.
    ‘Huh?’ I blinked. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
    ‘It was on the news this morning. Didn’t you see it? The police raided a flat opposite where whassisname in Mr Prunely’s class lives.’
    ‘No,’ I shrugged. ‘What was going on?’
    ‘The bloke who lived there got dragged out kicking and screaming in the early hours, apparently. He had a flat full of fake documents – forged banknotes, certificates, passports,
money-off coupons, plastic parking permits, lottery tickets – everything you could think of. They’ve been after him for years. He had a