Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (21 page)

As she weaved left then right, the tunnel narrowed and the vents in the walls were smaller, but the ceiling began to get higher . . . untilWilma arrived at a dead end but was able to stand up at last. The marks just stop, she thought to herself, looking around with the candle. How can that be? You can't walk through walls.

Wilma placed a hand on the wall in front of her and ran her fingers over the surface, searching for an indent or a button or something out of the ordinary. She stood back and frowned. “No secret button in front of me. Nothing to the sides,” she pondered, tapping her bottom lip with a finger. “How do I deduct myself out of this?”

Wilma stared up toward the ceiling and lifted the candle over her head. There, immediately above her, was a large metal hoop attached to a chain. Wilma smiled. With one small jump she grabbed hold of the hoop and pulled down. A deep, grating rumble shuddered from the wall in front of her as the bricks began to rearrange themselves, and to Wilma's astonishment a staircase gradually materialized in front of her very eyes. “Wowzees,” she said, blinking hard. “Can't wait to tell Pickle about this.”

The staircase wound away in a blind spiral. Wilma trod softly upward and within moments she could see a hint of light. It was coming from a wooden door, and as Wilma climbed closer she could hear movement from the other side. Heart thumping, she placed a shaking hand against the door frame and pressed an eye to a thin gap in the wood. She was looking into what seemed to be a very plush office: there was a bookcase, a large bureau, and just behind it a plinth-like structure with a miniature tree on it. Suddenly Wilma's view was obscured and, trying not to gasp, the brave ten-year-old realized that someone was standing in front of the door. If only she could see who it was! Peering as best she could, she caught sight of something that appeared to be furry. But what was it? Then the person on the other side of the door moved and suddenly everything became clear.

Standing with her back to Wilma was a woman with black hair tied up into a bun and a dark shawl wrapped around her shoulders. It looked like Miss Pagne! Wilma stood back again from the door. “Miss Pagne?” she said quietly to herself. “This must be the Museum! But how could the killer have started from here? Oh no! What if the killer is still here? I must warn her!”

Wilma lurched forward, grabbed the door handle, and burst into the room. “Miss Pagne!” she shouted. “You've got to get out of here! It's dangerous!”

As she yelled, Miss Pagne, whose back had stiffened, slowly turned around.

Wilma gasped and took a step backward. “But you're . . .” she said, backing into the wall behind her. “I don't understand . . . the fingernail . . . it makes sense now . . . but it can't be! It can't . . .”

Sadly, Wilma didn't get to finish her sentence. Because the heady smell of lavender laced with chloroform was already flooding her nostrils.

 

Told you it was going to get worse. Isn't this terrible?

T
he fog had come down thick and without warning. Barbu D'Anvers, the island's most dastardly villain, was standing, cloak wrapped tight, with Janty immediately behind him. They had come to the Twelve Rats' Tails, the natural home of all Cooper's scallywags, with one thing on their minds: revenge.

“Can't see her anywhere, Mr. Barbu,” said Tully, appearing from the mist.

“Nobody,” said Barbu, scowling, his jet-black hair flapping in the wind, “tries to out-evil me. Tully, go inside and bring out Flatnose Detoit. Tell him I'd like a word.”

“Yes, Mr. Barbu,” said the massive henchman. “Shall I take the boy with me? To show him how it's done?”

Barbu turned and shot a glance in Janty's direction. “I don't think so,” he said, narrowing his eyes a little. “No self-respecting scoundrel gets his own hands dirty. Let that be your second lesson, Janty. Always have a large stupid sidekick.”

Janty nodded. The cold wind blowing in over the harbor walls was spiking his cheeks crimson and, to keep warm, he pulled the sleeves of his sweater down over his hands. He knew what they had come to the docks to do and he had hardened his heart to it. They weren't just tracking down Barbu's rival; they were going to find whoever killed his father. And Janty wanted his own back.

“Here he is, Mr. Barbu,” said Tully, galumphing out of the rickety inn door. Flatnose Detoit, the infamous island tittle-tattle, was tucked under Tully's arm like a roll of carpet, arms pinned to his sides.

“Flatnose,” Barbu began, pressing his mouth against the informant's ear, “the last time we spoke, there was a woman. Tried to sell me lavender. Who is she?”

“N-n-no one knows, Mr. D'Anvers,” said Flatnose, stuttering in terror. “She always wears a hooded cloak. I wish I could help, but . . . owwww!”

Barbu rapped Flatnose's forehead with the silver head of his cane. “What is the point,” he barked, nose to nose with the trapped rascal, “of being an informant if you are unable to inform? If you can't tell me who she is, then tell me
where
she is at least!”

“Oh!” said Flatnose, eyes widening. “Well, you should have said. She was here not five minutes ago. Had a large sack over her shoulder. Went off in the direction of the docks.”

Barbu gritted his teeth. “Then why didn't you tell me that in the first place, you idiot?” he yelled. “Come on, Janty! Tully, shake him about a bit before you join us. Teach him a lesson.”

“I'd rather you didn't!” cried out Flatnose. “I've just eaten a very heavy pie!” But Barbu and Janty were already pacing away into the fog, and as they disappeared from view Tully gave Detoit a good shake and then tossed him into a pile of broken bottles. “Ohhhhhhh,” moaned the informant, holding his stomach and putting a hand to his mouth. “I hate that!”

 

Theodore was scribbling furiously. Hunched over Visser's order book, he was deep in thought. “I suppose the good thing about not knowing where Wilma is, is that whoever might be after her probably doesn't know either,” said Inspector Lemone, reaching for the plate of corn crumbles that Mrs. Speckle had left for them.

“That's not what I'm worried about, Inspector,” said the great detective. “Our problem isn't that the killer might find Wilma, it's that Wilma might find the killer. And then she'll be in all manner of trouble. Aha!” he added triumphantly, thumping the order book with his fountain pen. “As I suspected! Now I just need a couple more things ...”

He reached into his bureau and pulled out a piece of paper. Writing on it with great speed he called out, “Mrs. Speckle! Can I have you, please?” Drying her hands on a knitted dishcloth, Mrs. Speckle appeared in the doorway. She was wearing her knitted nightgown and double knitted slippers, and Inspector Lemone, who had never seen her in her bedroom attire before, gulped and went a bit quiet and solemn, the way gentlemen do when they're contemplating brand-new tires.

“I'd like you to take this note to Captain Brock, please. And I want him to find Miss Pagne and arrest her.”

“About time!” spluttered Inspector Lemone.

Just then there was a bark from below the study window. Theodore jumped to his feet and flung the windows open. “Pickle!” he shouted. “Up you come, lad! Good boy!” Pickle leaped into the room and stood, tail wagging low and generally looking run ragged.

“There's a note in his collar!” cried out Inspector Lemone, pointing.

Theodore bent down to take it. “What does it say, Goodman?” asked the Inspector, straining to look over the detective's shoulder. “‘Dear Mr. Goodman. I have gone up the air vent to find clues.' Oh no, Goodman. It's as we feared. She's taken matters into her own hands.”

“It's the worst news imaginable,” said Theodore, standing up and crushing the note in his fist. “If I'm right, and let's pray that I am, then we need to get to the docks this instant!”

“The docks?” shouted Inspector Lemone, running off after his friend for the second time that day. “But what would she be doing at the docks?”

“It's not what she's doing at the docks, Inspector!” yelled Theodore, flinging open the cottage gate. “It's what's being done to her! Mrs. Speckle, when you see Captain Brock, have him do as I ask and meet me at dock number nine!”

“Saints preserve us,” panted Inspector Lemone, pacing to leap onto the back of the tandem. “Must get there in time! Just must!”

“Dock number nine,” repeated Mrs. Speckle in something of a fluster as Theodore, the Inspector, and Pickle disappeared from view. “But what's happening at dock number nine?”

 

What indeed?

W
ilma was starting to come around. Too groggy to speak, she was vaguely aware that she was being carried in something rough to the touch like a coarse blanket or burlap sack. She wanted to wriggle herself free and put up some kind of fight, but her drugged body, heavy and lifeless, was unable to oblige. There was absolutely nothing she could do to help herself.

The air was cold and getting colder. Wilma felt herself being dropped to the ground and she lay motionless as someone above her wrestled with what sounded like a large sliding metal door. A blast of freezing air hit Wilma and the smell of fish filled her nostrils. Still unable to move, she could do nothing as the sack she was in was dragged heavily across the floor.

Suddenly the sack was swung back into the air, there was a flash of blinding light, and Wilma felt herself being tumbled out from whatever she had been wrapped in. She was in a brightly lit room but, still groggy, was unable to fully open her eyes. She could make out only indeterminate shapes: the shadowy person who loomed over her, dipping in and out of her line of vision, and a large block of trays or pallets stacked one on top of the other to her right.

Without the sack around her, Wilma was even colder. The chloroform had begun to wear off and she was just able to curl herself into a tight ball for warmth.

“You have meddled for the last time, Wilma Tenderfoot,” said a voice, sounding thick and fuzzy as Wilma struggled to hear properly. “Everyone who has stood in my way is now dead. Nosiness should never go unpunished. Didn't they teach you that at the Institute? Well, now you will learn it. And it will be the last lesson you ever learn!” An evil laugh punctured the air.

The figure moved away. Desperately Wilma tried to raise her head, but as she finally managed to pull herself up onto one elbow she heard a metal door being slammed sideways with a clatter. There was the click of an internal lock. The room was pitched into darkness.

“So . . . cold . . .” Wilma murmured, crawling forward along the floor. She reached up to the stack of trays filled with fish to her right. If she could pull herself up, she thought, perhaps she could get to the door. She had to get out of this bitter chill. By now her breath was coming in short, sharp pants, billowing out in front of her in clouds of desperation. With every second that passed, she could feel her body seizing up. She was being frozen alive! If she didn't make it to the door, she would surely die!

She had managed to get one hand on the tray above her. Crying out, she pulled herself upward. Now if she could just get to the door . . . but her legs weren't strong enough. Try as she might, Wilma couldn't move any farther. This was it. These were her final moments.

Thoughts ran through her mind . . . Pickle . . . her first sight of Theodore P. Goodman . . . the luggage tag she'd earlier tied around her wrist . . . How far away that all seemed now as she slumped slowly to the floor. And with those memories flashing through her thoughts, Wilma slipped into a dark, cold sleep from which there was little hope of return.

 

If you need a hanky, you might like to go and get one now.

T
heodore and Inspector Lemone were racing along the quayside, Pickle hard on their heels. “Not much farther now,” panted the great detective. “The old refrigeration unit is just ahead of us.”

“The place where they used to freeze all the fish?” gasped Inspector Lemone. “Before they opened the new unit on the Farside.”

“That's right, Inspector!” shouted back Theodore. “Pray we aren't too late!”

 

The island's original refrigeration unit was shrouded in the dense fog that had clouded in from the sea. As they ran toward its vast metal door, a lone bell rang on a buoy in the harbor like a death knell. Theodore and the Inspector grabbed hold of the weighty levered handle and heaved the sliding door aside. It scraped open and a blast of freezing air exploded into their faces. “A light!” Theodore shouted. “Quickly!”

Inspector Lemone, hands shaking, reached up to a hook on the outside wall and lifted down a small lantern. Holding it in front of him, he swung it into the icy tomb, scanning the room frantically. “There!” shouted Theodore as the thin beam of light caught a small, huddled figure on the floor. Dashing toward her, Theodore ripped off his overcoat and, lifting Wilma into his arms, he wrapped her up as tightly as he could. “Take off your coat, Inspector!” he yelled as he carried Wilma out to the quayside. “We must get her warm!”

Laying Wilma on the ground, Theodore took the Inspector's coat and covered her with it. She was very pale, blue around the lips, and icy droplets had formed in her hair and eyebrows. “She's not moving, Goodman,” murmured Inspector Lemone, voice catching in his throat. “Please tell me we weren't too late.”

Theodore was rubbing her arms and legs as fast as he could. “Must get the circulation going,” he said with an intense frown. “Come on, Wilma!” he urged. “Don't give up on me now!”