CHAPTER 4 – WHO’S THE CRAFTIEST?

Early in the morning, Aiman, Badrul, Johan, and Din had already gathered at Aiman’s mother’s shop. Each of them was still bewildered by their shocking discovery the previous afternoon—the missing pastries from several stalls had been found resold at a bazaar under a suspicious label that read: “Special Raya Cookies. Best Price.”

“What’s our next move?” Din finally broke the chilly morning silence.

“We need to investigate the bakery next door. I’m convinced their employees are involved in this,” Aiman replied, pulling back the curtain of his mother’s shop. His sharp eyes were fixed on Sinar Bakery, which stood right beside them.

Johan swiftly took out his Nokia 3310 from his trouser pocket, jotting something down in a draft message. His mannerisms resembled a detective from Detective Conan.

“I agree. Yesterday, we saw one of their workers delivering cookies to the stall. If we can gather solid proof, we can report it to Aiman’s mother,” he said confidently.

“If their workers really are stealing the pastries and reselling them, that’s outrageous. This is clearly sabotage,” Badrul said, his face serious.

Aiman nodded slowly. “Exactly. If we just let this go, more vendors could fall victim.”

*****

Moving cautiously, the four of them headed towards Sinar Bakery, pretending to be regular customers.

As soon as they stepped inside, they saw a man in his twenties carefully arranging trays of pineapple tarts on a glass display shelf. The black Puma cap he was wearing was unmistakable—it was the very same cap they had seen the night before at the bazaar.

“Hi, mate. Did you make all these pastries yourself?” Aiman started the conversation.

“Of course, kid. Fresh from the oven,” the man replied with a smile that seemed forced.

Badrul, meanwhile, couldn’t take his eyes off an empty box behind the counter, labelled: “Special Order – 50 jars”.

“Are all these cookies pre-ordered?” Johan asked, feigning interest like a serious customer.

The man looked slightly uneasy. “Err… yeah, a regular customer. He likes to buy in bulk,” he answered hesitantly.

Aiman stole a quick glance at the display rack behind him. His gut told him that these pastries looked exactly like his mother’s handiwork.

“Did you all notice that? Something doesn’t feel right,” Din whispered quietly.

Before they could investigate further, a familiar voice rang out. Faizal!

Faizal, infamous for his excessive nosiness, appeared at the bakery’s entrance with a wide grin. He had a habit of showing up anywhere and everywhere, much like spyware on Windows XP.

“What are you lot doing here? Buying pastries… or playing village detectives?” he teased with a chuckle.

Aiman and his friends exchanged glances. If Faizal found out about their investigation, the whole of Kampung Melayu would hear about it in no time.

“We’re just buying some pastries. What else?” Aiman replied, trying to keep their true purpose hidden.

But Faizal wasn’t one to be easily deceived. He stepped further inside, his eyes scanning the surroundings before landing on the “Special Order – 50 jars” box.

“Oi, I saw this box at the bazaar yesterday. Isn’t this from your bakery?” he said, pointing at the man in the Puma cap.

Instantly, the man’s face turned pale. “That’s not true…” he stammered.

Badrul, quick to read the situation, jumped in. “Oh, so the missing pastries from the stalls really did come from here?”

The man’s face grew tense. He clenched his fists before barking, “Stay out of this. Consider that a warning!”

For once, Faizal, who was usually just a meddler, gave the most sensible suggestion of the day. “If you’re not guilty, why are you so angry?”

Sensing the situation turning against him, the man suddenly spun around and bolted towards the back kitchen, pushing open the rear door in a desperate attempt to escape.

“He’s running!” Din shouted.

Without hesitation, they all gave chase!

The Puma-capped man sprinted down the narrow alley behind the row of shops, dodging piles of boxes and sacks of flour. Aiman and Johan led the pursuit, skilfully avoiding potholes as if they were playing Super Mario.

“Oi! Stop right there!” Aiman yelled at the top of his lungs.

But the man only ran faster, desperately trying to get away. He was almost in the clear… until—

THUD!

He slipped—his foot landing squarely on a discarded plastic bag soaked in cooking oil, left behind by the nearby mamak restaurant.

Faizal, arriving slightly later than the rest, burst into laughter. “Oi, this is just like Need for Speed! He crashed because of oil!”

The man tried to get back on his feet, but Johan and Aiman quickly pinned him down.

“Your secret’s out. Running won’t change a thing,” Johan said, a victorious grin on his face.

The man could only let out a long sigh. He knew there was no escape now.

Back at Aiman’s mother’s shop, the Puma-capped man finally spoke, his voice laced with disappointment. He admitted that he was merely a pawn in the operation—his job was to steal the pastries and resell them secretly at the bazaar.

“I was just following orders… I’m not the mastermind,” he murmured, almost pleading for sympathy.

Aiman and his friends exchanged glances. Clearly, this mystery was far bigger than they had imagined.

“So, who is your boss?” Badrul asked, his face serious.

The man lowered his gaze before whispering, “My boss… is someone you all know.”