Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (6 page)

The Inspector shook his head. “He was in that box to the right. Saw him when we sat down. But he's not there now. Danged suspicious if you ask me!”

Theodore looked up toward the empty box, momentarily lost in thought. Wilma watched him and, because she should be trying to learn practical things during her apprenticeship, she went and stood next to him and stared up too.

“Got them!” called out Scraps, returning speedily from the backstage area.

Her hands, Wilma noted, were gloved: cotton gloves, once obviously white but now a grubby gray. “Everyone's got gloves,” she reflected, remembering that a detective's job was to notice as many things as possible. “Must be a theatre thing.”

As Scraps ran, she held out a tiny green bottle of smelling salts, but just as she approached her mistress, her gangly legs caught in a pulley rope and she fell headfirst into a piece of painted scenery. The bottle of smelling salts dropped to the stage and smashed open, sending the small odorous crystals scattering everywhere.

“Oh no,” she cried, scrabbling frantically to try to save something. “Miss Lovely's salts! Now what am I going to do? I'll be in terrible trouble. Nothing rouses her except these!”

If there was one thing Wilma believed in, it was lending a hand to someone who needed it, and seeing the poor girl desperate before her, Wilma knew what she could do. “You can use my dog if you like,” she said, putting a hand on Scraps's bony shoulder.

“Your dog?” replied Scraps, tears in her eyes as she looked up. “What good will a dog do?”

“He's got terrible breath. Honestly. It would raise the dead. I'll get him to breathe on your mistress. She'll be awake in no time.” Turning to Pickle, who had been enjoying chewing an old wig he'd found on a table, Wilma picked him up, placed his snout as close to Miss Lovely's nose as she could, and said, “Go on, Pickle, yawn!”

The beagle, who was tired anyway, needed no further encouragement. His mouth opened to a gape, out lolled his tongue, and with eyes clamped shut, Pickle let a deep gust of dog breath roll onto the diva's face.

“Ohhhh!” she screamed, her eyes popping open. “Ohh, that smell! It's like a thousand dead things blended into one vile stench! Scraps! Get this hound off me! Scraps!”

“I'm here, Miss Lovely,” said the set-upon dresser, stepping forward to take her mistress's hand. “Thank you,” she mouthed silently to Wilma.

“Take me to my dressing room,” warbled the actress, lifting a limp wrist to her forehead. “I am on the verge of an emotional eclipse. Excuse me. I must retire. Adieu. Oh, and please, Mr. Goodman,” she added, grabbing Theodore suddenly by the arm. “Find whoever committed this
unspeakable
act and toss them from the theatre!”

And with that she limped offstage, but not before she'd managed three bows to the audience.

 

Actors, eh? Pfffft.

B
aron von Worms, the manager of the Valiant Vaudeville Theatre, was pacing. His long silk coat was flapping and his hand was running anxiously through his considerable hair, so voluminous it looked like the top swirl of an ice-cream cone. “This could ruin me, Goodman!” he whined, slumping himself into the chair behind his desk. “The theatre is already on the verge of bankruptcy! Ever since we put on
Swamp
! We lost so much money—we've been in trouble ever since!”

“
Swamp
?” asked Wilma, looking puzzled.

“The musical I was telling you about,” answered Inspector Lemone, before adding with a whisper, “It stank.”

“Now this!” continued the Baron, his head falling into his hands. “And tonight of all nights. I had a potential investor in the audience. He's due in to see me at any moment! He's hardly going to be interested anymore is he? Mind reader poisoned live in front of an audience! Thank goodness the papers weren't in. One more bad review and we're done for!”

Wilma looked around her. Being an apprentice, as many grown-ups will tell you, mostly involves keeping quiet and doing boring things like fetching sandwiches or polishing magnifying glasses, but Wilma, while she wasn't allowed to ask questions or do much deducting or contemplating, was allowed to keep her eyes peeled for things like clues and a new thing that Mr. Goodman had called “anomalies.” These were things that seemed out of place or didn't add up. Besides, now she had the Golden Rules to adhere to, it was important that she try to make herself as useful as possible.

Wilma had never been in a theatre manager's office before, so it was quite difficult at first glance to tell if anything was out of place. There were heaps of scripts, a couple of feather boas, a large owl costume, a xylophone, a sequined dress hanging on a hat stand, a large box of greasepaints, and a small bucket and spade.

“Bucket and spade?” Wilma muttered to herself as the Baron rattled on in the background. “Perhaps that's an omen-knee?” She wandered over and picked up the bucket. It smelled salty, like the sea, and there was a small piece of seaweed at the bottom.

“What are you doing?” asked the Baron, snatching it back suddenly.

“Just looking for omen-knees. I'm an apprentice detective,” replied Wilma, a little startled, slipping a small piece of seaweed into her pinafore pocket.

“Anomalies, Wilma,” corrected Theodore, raising his eyebrows at her. “Now just stand over there. If I want you to do something, I promise I shall ask you.”

“Yes, Mr. Goodman.” Wilma shrugged. It was quite frustrating not really being able to do anything, but she was allowed to look, listen, and learn. Which was better than nothing. Still, she thought, eyeing the bucket, it was quite odd. The other things looked like they might belong in a theatre, but the bucket didn't. Perhaps she'd think about it again later.

“Did Sabbatica have any enemies, Baron?” asked the great detective, pulling his pipe from his pocket. “That's not to say that it can't be accidental, of course. Was she taking any strange herbal remedies, for instance? Had she eaten anything peculiar?”

“In my textbook from the Academy of Detection and Espionage,” piped up Wilma, reaching into her pinafore pocket, “there's a whole chapter on poisonings. ‘When poison is involved, it's generally administered by someone with a grudge or a need for secrecy or revenge.' That's what it says. And there's a list of poisons. And—”

“Wilma,” said Theodore firmly. “Please be quiet. Let the Baron answer.”

Baron von Worms shook his head. “I have no idea! She seemed to be reasonably popular. But then, it is hard to tell. They all call each other darling. So there's no way of knowing. There was a bit of tension between her and Cecily. Sabbatica was younger, you see. And Cecily has started to get wrinkles. I'm sure it's nothing.”

“No,” replied Theodore, packing his pipe with some rosemary tobacco. “Everything is useful.” The great detective turned to look at his apprentice. “Did you write that bit down? If you didn't, you might want to.”

Wilma's eyes widened. Something official at last! She took out her pencil and notebook and made a note. “I could ask Scraps more about that.”

Theodore twitched his mustache in thought. “All right then, later,” he said after a moment. “Seeing as you are both girls. She might feel happier talking to you. But I don't want you letting slip anything that you shouldn't, Wilma. Remember the top tips—a detective always saves what he's thinking till last.”

“And the Golden Rules, Mr. Goodman,” said Wilma with a nod, keen to show her employer she was advancing. “The one about being useful! I can do that while I ask the questions.”

Wilma was practically beside herself. Not only had she gotten to write down something that could turn out to be incredibly important, but she was also going to be allowed to do some investigating. She made a mental note to consult the relevant chapter in her textbook. As well as proving she could be useful, it was vital to show her mentor that she'd been listening and thereby learning. Like a good apprentice. It was very important that she should proceed properly, just like Mr. Goodman.

Suddenly there was a sharp rap on the door and Malcolm Poppledore, the props boy, stuck his head into the room. “Gentleman to see you, Mr. von Worms,” he said with a sniff.

“Baron von Worms, Malcolm,
Baron,
” replied the exasperated manager, rolling his eyes. “Show him in, please. Mr. Goodman, that'll be my investor. I'll have to ask you to leave. I really can't think of anything further to help. But if I do I'll let you know.”

“Baron!” boomed a voice from the doorway. Everyone turned to look. “What a perfectly spectacular evening!” It was Barbu D'Anvers, closely followed by Tully and Janty.

“Oh no, not him,” mumbled the Inspector, reaching for the last corn crumble in his box.

“Mr. Goodman,” acknowledged the diminutive villain with an ironic bow. “We meet again! And so soon! Aren't I the lucky one?”

“Let's go, Wilma, Inspector,” said the detective, ignoring him. “And take care, Barbu. I shall be keeping a close eye on things here. Mark my words.”

Wilma leaned in toward Janty, who glared back at her. “You'll come to no good if you stick with him, you know,” she hissed as Theodore made his way toward the door.

“I'm glad,” sneered the boy in return. “I like being no good. It's fun.”

Wilma shook her head disapprovingly. “Come on, Pickle,” she added, gesturing to her beagle. “There is a sudden bad smell in this room. And for once it's not you.”

And with that Wilma, Pickle, the Inspector, and the great detective left.

Barbu glared at the just-shut door and blew a loud raspberry. “Is it possible to despise a man more? No! It isn't! How can he stand being that dull? I mean, honestly?!”

“I'm so sorry about this evening, Mr. D'Anvers.” The Baron squirmed, rubbing his hands together. “Most unfortunate. But then, that's theatre! You never know what's going to happen! Ha-ha-ha. All the same. It's not what I would have liked. And such a shame! You didn't get to see Mrs. Wanderlip! Wonderful ventriloquist! And the Countess! Her paper tearing is second to none! Believe me, there's not a greater—”

“That will do,” snapped Barbu, holding a hand up. “I'm not really interested in your pathetic acts. But someone dying onstage . . . now that's an opportunity. Everyone will want to come here. I can see it now. The stage of death! There's a killing to be made! Pardon the expression. So, Baron, I am pleased to be able to tell you that I
will
be making an investment.”

The Baron's face lit up, his mouth gaped, and for a second he was so stunned he was unable to speak. Instead a small squeak squeezed out from the back of his throat. “Y-you are?” he stuttered eventually. “Actually going to give me money? I . . . I don't know what to say! Except thank you! Thank you, Mr. D'Anvers! You won't regret this! I'll be able to fix the leak in the ceiling! Repaint the scenery! Get some new props!”

Baron von Worms shot from his chair, arms outstretched, ready to hug his investor. He had almost reached Barbu when Tully, the villain's henchman, pulled him back by the scruff of his collar.

“I don't do cuddles,” said Barbu, recoiling. “And a little quicker next time if you please, Tully. He almost made contact.”

“Yes, Mr. Barbu,” said the stupid sidekick, scratching the side of his nose.

“Oh!” said the Baron, a little startled. “Well, that's all right! Ha-ha! We don't need to hug! But it's fantastic news! Amazing! I'm the luckiest manager alive! Having Barbu D'Anvers as the Theatre Angel!”

“Sorry,” said Barbu, frowning. “An
angel
? Me?”

“Yes!” The Baron grinned. “An angel! That's what we call people who give money to theatrical productions!”

“My mother will be turning in her grave,” replied Barbu, one eyebrow arching. “Although you might not think me so heavenly when you read my terms. Janty! Give him the contract!”

The young boy pushed a dark curl out of his eyes and reached into his trouser pocket. “Here you are, Mr. von Worms,” he said, handing over a folded piece of paper.

“Baron. Baron von . . .” began the manager, but catching Barbu's unimpressed eye he cleared his throat and let it go. Instead he took the contract and read. His face, which moments before had been so filled with relief and gratitude, fell. “B-but . . .” he stuttered, frowning as he read, “this can't be! In exchange for your initial investment, it says here you want ninety-nine percent of all ticket sales going forward. But that's not possible!”

“Oh, it's entirely possible,
Mr.
von Worms,” replied Barbu, smirking. “Either you accept my terms or you get no money. And, according to my sources, who tell me you've tried every investor on Cooper and failed, I am your one hope.”

The Baron slumped.

“Just as I thought.” Barbu smirked. “So you
will
sign my contract. And what's more, Goodman isn't the only one who wants to keep a close eye on things. I intend to move myself here immediately. This is now my office. And I'd be grateful if you'd get out of it. See the gentleman to the door, would you, Tully?”

“But I . . . but . . .” spluttered the Baron as he was bundled away.

“Right, then!” sighed Barbu, taking a quick look about him. “Let's make some money. Hmm. Is that an owl costume? Ooh . . . sequins.”

“
N
ow then, Wilma. I have a job for you,” Mr. Goodman announced.

Wilma was sitting by the fire in Theodore's study. Pickle was in the armchair opposite. Between them there was a small round table on top of which sat a Lantha board. (Lantha, for those of you not paying attention, is the favorite board game of all Cooperans. You can play it if you like—the board and rules are at the end of the book.) They had been trying to play since getting up that morning but, after Pickle had knocked everything to the floor for the third time, it had all ground to a halt.