The Fantastic Family Whipple (37 page)

“Neither, actually. Two associates of Brian Carmine, the GGDG co-president. Both of them were too tall to be our man. Believe me, I checked.”

“Gee. It’s a full-time job just keeping track of the dwarves in this case—let alone avoiding being murdered by them. Another reason no good detective in your position would ever leave his partner behind.”

“Hard to argue with you there,” said Arthur.

He scratched the back of his head and shuffled his feet, while Simon and Roxy whirled past in the background. “But, well,” he added, “besides all that—I mean, I have to admit: I might still have been
kind of
worried about Smudge catching us working together.”

“What?” Ruby gasped.

“I know, I know,” replied the boy. “But even if he is a bit of a swine, he’s still one of the most respected record breakers of our time—and I just don’t think I can cross him.”

Ruby sighed and shook her head again. “You’ve got to get past this, Arthur. I mean, just because somebody’s given Smudge a few gaudy trophies—”

“Four hundred and two, actually,” corrected Arthur, “the Highest Number of Trophies Ever Received by a Law-Enforcement Agent.”

“Whatever,” scowled Ruby. “The point is: a man’s trophies don’t make him any more qualified to judge what is right and wrong. And from what I can tell, they might even make him
less
so.”

“Well, I don’t know about
that
,” said Arthur as Henry landed a front aerial behind him, followed by a triple back tuck from Rosalind. “But I see what you’re saying. It’s possible I maybe shouldn’t follow
every
order of Inspector Smudge’s—despite his amazing collection of world records….”

“Honestly, Arthur—all the records in the world couldn’t buy him the instincts you’ve got. You just have to learn to trust them, that’s all.”

“You think so? Okay, I’ll try. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about the meeting. Afraid I wasn’t thinking clearly. It’s all new to me, you know, this detective business. I, um—I won’t let it happen again.”

“You’d better not.”

“I won’t,” Arthur insisted. “Honestly—I didn’t realize you cared. But now, I give you my word: next time I’m summoned to a graveyard at midnight by a mysterious stranger who turns out to be the dwarfish descendant of the World’s Creepiest Undertaker—as well as the target of pygmy thugs hired by a corrupt union boss—I’ll be sure to invite you along.”

Finally, a hint of a smile crossed Ruby’s lips. “Fair enough, Detective Whipple,” she said. “Man. I can’t believe you went to a graveyard at midnight without me. That’ll be a tough one to beat.”

Arthur held out his hand. “Partners?” he said.

Ruby gave a melodramatic sigh, then took the boy’s hand in hers. “Partners,” she replied.

As the two shook hands, Ruby looked to the center of the glass floor they were standing on, and the dancers busy upon it—while a pod of dolphins glided past underneath.

“Really is beautiful, this dance floor,” she said. “Like we’re citizens of Atlantis or something. Sure you don’t want to dance?”

Arthur scrunched his brow again. “What? Like together? With you? Really?”

“Well, yeah,” said Ruby.

Arthur shrugged. “All right. If you really want to.”

“Well, come on then,” said the girl, leading him out onto the floor. “Show me this box step I’ve heard so much about.”

When she had found an available spot, Ruby turned back to Arthur and gave a smile and a curtsy. The boy bowed in response, then raised his elbows in the air—but before he could proceed any further, the music abruptly ended.

At the center of the floor, Henry, Simon, Rosalind, and Roxy struck their final poses, and everyone cheered.

Just then, a loud
booong
rang out from above, and the party turned to see Sammy standing at the top of the staircase with a dinner gong in his hand.

“Ladies and gents,” he grinned, “if you would like to join me upstairs, dinner will be served shortly.”

Ruby turned to Arthur. “Guess you’ll just have to save your famous dance moves until after dinner.”

Arthur gave a good-natured scowl. “I’m pretty sure you’re mocking my dance moves now.”

When the party had moved back to the dining area, Wilhelm poured champagne and ginger ale for the guests, while Sammy grabbed the bottle of milk from behind the bar and addressed the crowd.

“Before we eat, I’d just like to say a few fings. First of all, fanks to the Whipples for paying me bail and springing me from the clink—and for frowing me this fabulous party ’ere. Absolute class, you lot. I couldn’t be prouder to be your ’umble chef. You keep letting me in your kitchen, and I’ll keep cooking for you…. And as for you Goldwins, well—any
family who can give the Whipples a run for their money must be a fine family indeed. I’m pleased to know you.”

Sammy then turned to the bar and retrieved an empty glass. “And now,” he said, “let me pour a drink for the
true
man of the hour—me best mate, Arfur.”

As Sammy filled the glass from his bottle of milk, Arthur couldn’t help but be reminded of the milk bottle he had balanced on his head during one of the most heartbreaking failures of his life—and marvel at all that had happened since.

Looking to Arthur with sparkling eyes, Sammy handed him the glass of milk. “Fanks for believing in me, mate. Not only ’ave you proved yourself a brilliant detective, but a true friend as well. In honor of your dedication and ’ard work, we’ll be ’aving your favorite pasta dish tonight: cannelloni colossale. A bit of a challenge, I must say, preparing thirty-foot pasta on a boat—but it were well worf it, mate. What you done for me were nuffing short of extraordinary—and, well—it means more to me than I can say…. So there you ’ave it.” He wiped the corner of his eye with the heel of his palm and raised his milk bottle. “To old friends and new ones. And to Arfur Whipple—the truest friend of all.”

The others hooted and whistled, and everybody drank.

As Arthur savored his glass of milk, Sammy’s words echoed in his mind—and for the first time in his life, he felt he had truly succeeded in something.

Unfortunately, the feeling would not last long.

Thrusting the milk bottle back into the air after his first drink, Sammy then added, “Take that, Lyon’s Curse! ’Ave
to do a good bit better if you want to do away wiv Sammy and the Whipples!”

The others cheered and raised their glasses in salute.

“Hear, hear!” shouted Rex Goldwin.

Though Arthur’s father raised his glass as well, the boy noticed he did not do it quite so enthusiastically.

“Cheers!” cried Sammy, and tipped back his milk bottle.

“Cheers!” replied the others, and tipped back their glasses.

When Sammy had had several gulps of his drink of choice, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and declared, “Right then—to dinner. Let me just pop into the galley and see what’s keeping Mrs. Waite. Should be out any—”

But before the chef had even finished, the main doors flew open, and the Whipples’ housekeeper burst into the room.

From where Arthur stood, he could see the woman’s face was pale and splotched with pink—a detail Sammy apparently failed to notice.

“Ah,” the chef smiled, “there you are, luv. Where have—”

“We’ve been boarded!” cried Mrs. Waite. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whipple—I tried to stop him, but—”

At that moment, a tall, beak-nosed man pushed past her and barged into the ballroom.

The smiles fell from the Whipples’ faces. Sammy’s eyes filled with terror.

“Well, isn’t this a lovely little soiree?” Inspector Smudge grinned. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.”

Mr. Whipple stepped forward. “Well…of course not,
Inspector,” he said cautiously. “Though I must say your entrance comes as a bit of a shock. I trust nothing is the matter? Surely Sammy could not have infringed upon the judge’s orders so soon….”

“Please, Mr. Whipple,” the inspector grinned, “why should you think anything was the matter? I have merely come to deliver a bit of news—news so good, in fact, that I simply could not wait for your return to share it.”

Mr. Whipple’s cautious scowl deepened. “And to what exactly does this news pertain, Inspector?”

“Why”—the inspector beamed—“only to the solving of every crime against your family—and to the utter restoration of the Whipple name!”

Mr. Whipple glanced at his wife, then back to Inspector Smudge. “Well then, Inspector—please go on.”

“Indeed, Mr. Whipple. But I wonder if the news might be more potent coming from someone besides myself. I trust you will not mind if we invite a few more guests to our party?” The inspector stepped to the left side of the doorway then shouted into the dimly lit corridor behind him, “Gentlemen—send in our guests!”

At this, the voices of what must have been Smudge’s men echoed out in the darkness. “Go on then!” one of them called gruffly.

Arthur peered into the corridor. It seemed the shadows themselves were moving toward him.

Slowly, inexorably, a giant figure emerged from the doorway.

Arthur’s breath froze.

The figure wore a plain gray suit and tie—but its face was smeared with thick pasty makeup and a cracking crimson smile.

Arthur lunged backward. He glanced to Ruby and shared a look of horror, then shouted, “Everybody look out! He’s come to murder us all!”

But before anyone could run for cover, Inspector Smudge raised his hand sharply and said, “Please. There shall be no murders by this man tonight. Despite his enormous size and strength, this unspeaking ogre is well within my power, I assure you.”

It was then that Arthur noticed the shackles on the giant’s wrists and ankles. But where, he wondered, was the giant’s partner?

The hunching giant promptly attempted to stand, only to strike the back of his skull on the ballroom ceiling, which was a foot too low for his head. He grunted loudly in annoyance, but said nothing.

Just then, an impossibly tiny man wearing similar attire and face paint stepped out from behind the giant.

Rita Goldwin let out a shriek. “Goodness, Rex!” she cried. “What sort of party is this?”

Rex pulled his wife close to him, his face full of disgust. “Your guess is as good as mine, dear. Never can tell
what
will turn up at a Whipple gathering, can you?”

Arthur’s father took another step forward. “Please, Inspector,” he said, “what is the meaning of this?”

“Really, Mr. Whipple,” Smudge replied, “I should have thought you of all people would like a word with the elusive culprits behind the Cake Catastrophe Case. Allow me to introduce: Messrs. Overkill and Undercut.”

The shock on Mr. Whipple’s face intensified. “But how—?”

“Simple really. Directly after the hearing yesterday, I stationed an undercover unit outside the Mountain and Molehill with orders to detain any suspicious parties who might arrive. Indeed, it only took the interrogations of five other giant/dwarf duos before we arrived at the guilty pair. In the end, it was the makeup that gave them away—ridiculous creatures, clowns—and they quickly confessed to everything.”

“They did?”

“Like schoolboys. Far more easily, in fact, than I had expected for such conniving criminals—but then, of course, there are scant few who can endure the interrogations of Inspector Hadrian Smudge. Still, I should never have obtained any sort of confession at all, had I not found the culprits to begin with. And for that, Mr. Whipple, it would seem some recognition is due—to that rather fidgety son of yours there.” He nodded at Arthur. “As it turns out, what I thought was merely impudent meddling on his part has proved to be the deciding factor in solving the entire case!”

Arthur stood staring at Smudge with his mouth wide open.

There was a moment of silent disbelief before his father
turned to him and cried, “Good Grazelby, Arthur—you’ve done it! Not only have you freed Sammy, you’ve had him acquitted as well!” Letting out a relieved sigh, Mr. Whipple turned to Sammy and smiled. Sammy, who had stood petrified ever since Smudge’s appearance, relaxed his shoulders and chanced a grin at the corner of his mouth.

Arthur felt his heart begin to swell. What he failed to notice, however, was the smirk on Inspector Smudge’s face.

“Not so fast, Mr. Whipple,” called the inspector. “I’m afraid no one has said anything about Mr. Smith yet.”

Arthur’s heart stopped its swelling. The Whipples’ smiles grew uneasy.

“Perhaps,” continued Smudge, turning to the scowling, shackled dwarf beside him, “Mr. Undercut will be so kind as to oblige. Indeed, he has insisted on speaking with you Whipples since the moment of his confession.”

At this, the dwarf stepped forward—and looked directly at Sammy.

“No use pretending any furvver, boss,” he said in a voice that sounded like a strange, high-pitched version of Sammy’s own. “It’s all over.”

The dread returned to Sammy’s face. “What?” he gasped.

“It were a good try,” continued the dwarf, “feeding that story to Mr. Lowe like you told us to do, to get you sprung from the clink—but it’s all gone pear-shaped now, ’asn’t it? Reckon Overkill and me shouldn’t have gone back to the Mountain and Molehill after that business—but then,
you
try entertaining a roomful of screaming, cake-eating kids
whilst wearing shoes ten sizes too big and see if you don’t need a stiff drink afterwards. Of course, you’re not usually one to pass up a drink yourself, are you, boss?”

“Stop calling me ‘boss’!” spluttered Sammy. “I ain’t never seen neivver one of you in all me life!”

“Really, boss,” said the dwarf, “ain’t no good denying it now. After them Whipples snubbed the IBCPC and showed their clear hatred for us clowning folk, we was ’appy to ’elp you try and murder them at their birfday party, but, you see, the inspector’s offered me and Overkill reduced time if we come clean now—so I’m afraid we’ll ’ave to stop you before you carry out plan B and finish them off. You do understand, don’t you, boss?”

Mr. Whipple’s face turned grim. “What’s going on here, Sammy?” he said. “What’s he talking about?”

“I—I swear I don’t know, sir.”

The dwarf sighed. “It’s a real shame, of course. We were really looking forward to stealing their fortune with you after you’d
poisoned
them all tonight….”