by Matthew Ward
“Hold on now,” Arthur objected. “I didn’t mean to offend. You could be right; I just thought it might upset you to find out Rex is the one behind the attacks—regardless of whether or not he’s your actual father.”
“Look, Arthur, even if I wasn’t adopted, God knows I don’t belong here. So I’m either waiting around for my real family to turn up and save me, or until I’m old enough to escape this one on my own. Maybe this is my chance. And besides, even if Rex were my real father, is there anything I can do about it if the man decides he wants to be a murderer?”
Arthur shrugged. “I guess not.”
“Then why should I be upset?”
“I don’t know, I just thought. . . . Well, anyway, I’m glad you’re all right.”
Ruby’s expression softened. “Thank you for your concern,” she said sincerely. After a short pause, she added, “So what do we do now?”
“Oh—right,” said Arthur, remembering why he’d been so anxious to regain his partner that day. “As I mentioned in my message, I have recently been in correspondence with Detective Sergeant Greenley, and he’s arranged a meeting with us tonight at twenty-one hundred hours in the city. We can bike to Farfield Station and take the train from there. Do you think you can get away?”
“Are you joking? They’ll have to shackle me to a dungeon wall to keep me from this one.”
“Be careful,” Arthur warned. “If Rex really is the Treasurer, there’s no telling what he’s capable of.”
“Hey. I’ve survived this far.”
“Well, keep up the good work then.”
• • •
After arranging to meet back at the graveyard in six hours, Arthur parted ways with Ruby and headed for home.
He ambled up the drive and spotted Uncle Mervyn walking toward the house alongside Mrs. Waite, the housekeeper. This was not the first time Arthur had seen the gray-haired couple strolling alone across the grounds together.
“Uncle Mervyn! Mrs. Waite!” he called, quickening his pace to catch up to the pair, who turned and stopped to wait for him. “Uncle Mervyn,” Arthur called again when he was within a few yards, “I was just coming to see you. Are you ready to pick up where we left off on our potential-record list? I’ve got a good feeling about this next series of events. Seems the magical domino’s working. Today just might be the day, right Uncle Mervyn?”
“Aye, lad. It may indeed,” Uncle Mervyn said with a smile. His expression was warm as ever, but there was something unfamiliar in his tone. Something somber. “But if not today,” he continued, “you must promise me you won’t give up—not before trying every item on this list. Do you swear it, lad?”
Arthur was dumbstruck. “I—I swear,” he stammered. It was then he got his first clear view of Mrs. Waite’s face. Her eyes were red and swollen. She gave a faint sniffle and brushed away a tear with her handkerchief.
Arthur, confused and increasingly anxious, stood petrified as Uncle Mervyn continued.
“If this is important to you, lad, you must keep after it—until you have exhausted every possibility. You may find someday that these things no longer matter, and on that day you may hang up your hat with pride—but you mustn’t give up now, simply because the task is difficult. Battle on, lad—never give up and never give in!” Uncle Mervyn’s voice reached a crescendo here and quickly fell off into a deep, reflective sigh. In a frustrated whisper, he asked himself: “How do you cram a lifetime of advice into a few short sentences?” Then, with sudden resolve, he offered his right hand to the boy and said, “Arthur, you are a fine lad, and I am honored to call you my nephew.”
Arthur took the man’s hand and the two shared a heartfelt handshake. “Thanks Uncle Mervyn,” he said sincerely. “I am honored to call you my uncle. But please, what on earth is the matter?”
“Come, lad. We must go and see the others.”
• • •
Arthur’s family was in the study, seated around a large table with a small stack of egg crates at its center. It appeared to be a typical family meeting, except that, instead of eggs, the egg crates were filled with hand grenades. Arthur feared his family had taken their rivalry with the Goldwins a bit too far.
“Now,” said Mrs. Whipple, “who’d like the first throw?”
All the children’s hands shot up at once.
“Ah, come on,” pleaded Edward, pointing to the one blank spot on a sleeve otherwise covered with embroidered patches. “I’m only three tosses away from my Young Grenadier’s badge!”
“Very well, Edward,” his mother said with a nod and then handed him a grenade, much to the displeasure of her other children. As she turned to see Arthur enter the room with Mrs. Waite and Uncle Mervyn, a sudden smile formed across her face. “Mervyn, you’re just in time!” she beamed. “We’ve just finished planning the World’s Largest Simultaneous Live Grenade Toss. Wait till those Goldwins see this!”
Arthur breathed a small sigh of relief. Disturbing as his mother’s plan sounded, he was glad to hear his family had not yet entered into all-out military conflict.
“So, Mervyn,” inquired Mr. Whipple, “how was your meeting with old man Grazelby this morning? He’s no doubt regaled you with endless stories of his latest trip to the Congo; I only hope he’s made it worth your while. Tell me, has the miser finally come to his senses and offered you a raise?”
Mervyn cleared his throat. “He has indeed. A whole twenty-five percent.”
While the words themselves were undoubtedly positive, Uncle Mervyn’s tone was hardly indicative of a man whose income has just been increased by one quarter.
“Well, well,” Arthur’s father said with a smile. “Congratulations, old boy! I’ve always said they were paying you a mere fraction of what you’re worth. Of course, it’s still true—but at least the fraction’s a bit larger now, eh?”
“Aye, well, unfortunately this is not the sort of promotion I had hoped for. The increase, you see, is contingent on my taking a new position—a position I am required to accept if I am to remain in the employ of Grazelby Publications. It seems—” Uncle Mervyn struggled with the words “—it seems I have been transferred to Moscow. I’m afraid I’ve only come to say goodbye.”
The Whipples’ smiles turned to looks of shock and dismay. Arthur’s heart sank.
“What?!” exclaimed Mr. Whipple. “How is this possible?”
“Apparently,” Mervyn explained, “my impartiality has been called into question. Several days ago, Grazelby’s head office received a letter from an anonymous tipster, in which my split role as godfather, friend, and record certifier to this family was challenged. The letter charges that I have shown favoritism toward you in past decisions and accuses me of stopping an official record-contending competition without proper cause—namely, the hide-and-seek match with the Goldwins last month.”
“So they’re involved, are they?” Arthur’s father growled. “Well, that nearly explains it—but what on earth has that blasted game of hide-and-seek got to do with anything? Our children were being attacked by a Komodo dragon, for pity’s sake!”
“This morning,” Uncle Mervyn continued calmly, “Mr. Grazelby asked me if I had indeed stopped the match. I told him I had. He reminded me that while such a call is generally left up to the officiator, the technical rule is that no event, once started, should be stopped for any reason, save for the loss of human life or by mutual consent of all competing parties. Since no human being had been killed, nor had a halt been agreed upon by both teams, the game technically should have been allowed to continue. Had there been no official complaint, Grazelby might have been able to look the other way on the matter—but with this anonymous letter, they had no choice but to declare a ‘conflict of interest’ and reassign me to another branch.”
“Anonymous letter, my foot!” shouted Arthur’s father. “Rex Goldwin will not get away with this!”
“N
ow, now, Charles,” Uncle Mervyn insisted, “don’t do anything you’ll regret. I’m afraid Mr. Goldwin is well within his rights this time. Save your fury for the championships. And as for me—I can’t really complain; Moscow is a very prestigious post. In fact, in my younger years, before I was appointed here, I repeatedly requested that very assignment. I just wish they hadn’t chosen now to honor me with it.”
Arthur looked up at his uncle. “When does your new position start, Uncle Mervyn?”
“I’m to leave first thing tomorrow morning. But no tears now. Grazelby will be assigning a new certifier to your family before the week is out. I’m sure that whomever they choose, he or she will soon become just another member of the family. You’ll no doubt forget all about me in a week or two.”
At this, Mrs. Waite could no longer control her tear ducts and burst into weeping, subsequently triggering a slow-swelling outpour of tears from all of the Whipple girls, as well as a few of the younger Whipple boys.
After much crying and hugging and handshaking, Uncle Mervyn announced, “Well, I’d best be off. Packing up my life to do and all that. I’ll see you in a couple of months at the championships—standing on the winners platform above a defeated family of Goldwins, with any luck.”
The Whipples walked their uncle to the front door, where Arthur’s father said a final farewell.
“You will be sorely missed in this house. But our loss is Moscow’s gain. Godspeed, Mervyn. Until we meet again.”
“It has been my honor and pleasure,” concluded a watery-eyed Uncle Mervyn, “to serve as your humble certifier. Goodbye for now, dear Whipples. May all your wishes come true.”
With that, he winked at Arthur. He flashed one last melancholy smile to Mrs. Waite, then turned and headed back down the drive. And then he was gone.
• • •
Arthur tried continuing down his list of record possibilities alone, as he had promised his uncle—but his heart just wasn’t in it. With Uncle Mervyn no longer around to offer encouragement, Arthur felt he had lost the one person in the world who actually believed in him.
As the day wore on, he began to focus more and more on his quickly approaching meeting with Sergeant Greenley. He decided his only hope of ever getting his uncle back—or his favorite chef, for that matter—was to take down Rex Goldwin for good.
The Broken Record
Arthur and Ruby set off from the graveyard on bicycles, pedaling down scenic country roads under a slowly darkening sky.
During the hour-long journey to the train station, Arthur told Ruby of his uncle’s reassignment to Moscow and her father’s probable participation in the matter—to which Ruby hardly seemed surprised, yet offered her sympathies nonetheless.
The duo chained up their bikes upon reaching their first destination and purchased a pair of transfer passes into the city, then boarded the train.
One hour and three transfers later, Arthur and Ruby reached their final stop, venturing out of the underground station and into the electric night air of the bustling city street.
They made their way through the mobs of club-goers, pub-crawlers, theatre patrons, and fight fans, eventually arriving at a dingy stone wall marked by a large sign that read, THE BROKEN RECORD. Beside it, a blocky, dark-suited man with a broad, shaven head stood guarding a pair of double doors, his knobbly, hairy-knuckled hands clasped at his waist.
“So this is the place, is it?” asked Ruby.
“Yep. The World’s Oldest Continually Operated Nightclub. I’ve always wanted to see the inside of it. Hopefully, we’ll get the chance tonight.”
They approached the door, and Arthur addressed the doorman as politely as possible.
“Excuse me, sir, we’re here to meet a friend of ours. I don’t suppose we could peek in for just a moment and see if he’s gone in already? We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting.”
The doorman did not look down. “What’s his name, this friend of yours?” he asked in a deep, gravelly voice.
“Uh, Green, sir,” said Arthur. “A Mr. Green.”
“Hmm,” grunted the doorman. “You’ll have to wait outside. Stand yourselves to your left there while I get somebody to fetch him for you.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
The doorman disappeared past the doors, which the children promptly heard him bolt shut from the other side.Arthur and Ruby shuffled down the pavement, stopping several paces to the left of the door, and leaned themselves against the dimly lit wall to wait for the detective.
The area was free of any other bystanders, but Arthur began to get the strange feeling he was being watched. He turned to look down the wall to his right, where a heap of rubbish spilled out of a shadowy corner a few yards away. In the darkness between the rubbish and the wall, he detected a hint of movement—and then, the distinct figure of a person skulking in the shadows.
Arthur’s heart rate quickened. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he realized he was staring at the grimiest-looking man he had ever seen.
At that moment, the man stepped out of the shadows. He gave a strange smile that revealed a rather incomplete collection of teeth and began stumbling toward the children.
“Hello,” wheezed the filthy-faced, scraggly-bearded man. “What’re a couple of nice kids like you doing out on the street at this hour?”
Arthur took a deep breath and stepped out from the wall, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to shield Ruby from any abrupt attacks. “Pardon us, sir,” he replied nervously. “We’re waiting for someone.”
“Funny, I don’t remember giving you permission to stand in front of my wall,” said the man.
Frightened as he was, Arthur couldn’t help but take exception to such a claim. “Now, sir, if you were to talk to the proprietor of the Broken Record, I’m sure you’d find the wall actually belongs to him—but, of course, we’d be more than happy to wait somewhere else, if that suits you.”
“I’m afraid that won’t suit me at all. See, I’m looking to add some members to my street gang here. . . .” He gestured to the empty corner behind him. “And I must say the two of you fit the bill quite nicely.”
“We do, sir?” Arthur gulped.
“Oh, most definitely. You’re just the right size for snatching purses off the streets and slipping down the sewers with the loot. Anything you bring back gets split between the three of us—and, in turn, I provide protection from rival gangs and roving murderers and such. Could be a very promising business opportunity for the pair of you.”
“Ahh—I’m very flattered, sir,” said Arthur, “but I, um, well, I don’t think my parents would approve of me leading a life of crime.”
“Yeah,” Ruby said with a nervous smile. “Not really a sewer person myself.”
“Well, that is a shame,” said the man. “Because now that you’ve heard my gang’s plans, we can’t just let you walk away from this, now can we?”
“Well, yes, sir,” said Arthur, searching in vain for anybody who might help them. “I think you could, actually.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said the man. He stepped forward, wringing his hands menacingly. “Honestly, what kind of gang would I be leading if I went round allowing potential squealers to just go on living? Not a very good gang at all, if you ask me. I’m sure you see my point, though—don’t you, Arthur?”
“I—I can’t say I do, sir,” Arthur replied, his voice beginning to quiver. “You see, we’re just. . . . Hold on a minute—what was that you called me?”
“It is Arthur, isn’t it? Arthur Whipple?”
“Yes,” Arthur replied cautiously. “How do you know my name?”
“Ah, but lad, Gutterpipe Garrett knows all,” the man said, squinting slyly. “Or perhaps you know me by my other name.”
The man’s hands shot out, causing Arthur and Ruby to flinch with fright. But to their surprise, he simply reached up t
o his own head—and tore off his hair and beard.
“Ahh!” cried the children, recoiling in horror.
As Arthur took a second glance, however, he began to notice something strangely familiar about the beardless, short-haired man now standing before him.
“Detective Sergeant Greenley?!” he blurted in disbelief.
“At your service!” the man replied with a bow.
As Greenley stood upright again, the children remained frozen, their eyes and mouths locked open. The detective looked puzzled. After an extended silence, he spread his arms and added an enthusiastic “Ta-da!”
When there was still no response from his young audience, Greenley gently prodded, “Well . . . so what do you think—had you going for a tick, didn’t I?”
Arthur and Ruby nodded mechanically.
“Sorry if I frightened you there a bit—afraid I tend to get rather carried away on these undercover jobs. Ever since I played Mercutio at my village Stage and Stewmeat Festival, it’s like my inner actor just keeps crying to get out.”
Greenley retrieved a handkerchief from his coat, then set about wiping the dirt from his face and scrubbing the shoe polish from his blacked-out teeth. “All part of a grand tradition, of course, set down by the great dramaturgical detectives: Sir Justin Trouper, D.I. Guise, Basil Scrimm. We never start any case without a cast of undercover identities at the ready. Ahh—I’ve waited months for the chance to try out this new tramp character. And Inspector Smudge said the costume was a waste of resources. He’ll be eating his words right about now, I think.”
The children stood speechless as Greenley returned the now grubby handkerchief to his pocket. “But enough with the theatrics for the moment—we’ve got business to attend to.” He removed his tattered scarf and ragged overcoat to reveal a freshly starched shirt and tie, then motioned to the building’s entrance. “What do you say we get this meeting underway?”
“Yes, please,” said Arthur.
