War of the World Records

by Matthew Ward

  The detective stopped at the entrance and addressed the neckless doorman, who had since returned to his post. “Cheers, Philip,” Greenley said under his breath, tapping the side of his nose twice with his index finger.

  Without shifting his gaze, Philip gave a nod and said, “Mr. Green.” Then he pushed open the door and waved the three through the threshold.

  • • •

  Arthur and Ruby followed the detective down a steep series of steps and through a winding, poorly lit corridor. They pushed past a velvet curtain at its far end to find themselves in a large, smoky room pulsating with activity.

  Like a brotherhood of master snake charmers, the four-piece jazz band in the back corner coaxed the dance floor to shimmy and sway to its every whim, while the bony barman in the foreground flipped bottles in time with the music. Dim lamps dangled above red vinyl booths at the room’s edges, where slick-haired scoundrels belched cigarette smoke into the faces of their dates—sultry, smoldering women who promptly belched it right back.

  It wasn’t exactly a place for children—but apparently the distinction had not occurred to Greenley. Arthur, however, was surprised to find that in an establishment designated for adults, most people behaved more or less like unruly schoolkids. The patrons all chattered in obnoxiously loud voices, some twirling around the floor as if they’d had too much sugar, while others stumbled about like it was past their bedtimes.

  Mixing into the crowd like a splash of water in the World’s Largest Pot of Grease, the children and the detective made their way to an empty booth at the back of the club.

  “My apologies again for the false names and disguises,” Greenley whispered. “You never know who might be watching round here.” He peered cautiously around the room. “When Inspector Smudge and I are stationed nearby, this is where I meet with all the mob informants, reluctant witnesses, underworld ruffians, and other necessary evil-doers upon whom we coppers must sometimes rely.”

  “Wow,” the children murmured, impressed by the detective’s thrilling exploits.

  “That is to say,” Greenley added, “I haven’t actually met with any of them yet—not as such.”

  “Oh,” said Arthur.

  “I mean, there was that slightly dodgy boxing promoter, but I was only meeting with him to purchase a secondhand fish fryer he’d listed in the Weekly. You would not believe how much they want for a new one these days— practically criminal, if you ask me. . . . But, anyway, when I do get a proper meeting with one of these underworld types, this seems a good location for that sort of thing, doesn’t it? I mean, cutting deals with gangland snitches, ransom drops with kidnappers, off-duty dance-offs with Russian mobsters, and all that. Not really my cup of tea, mind, but it provides the appropriate atmosphere—don’t you think?”

  Arthur and Ruby nodded in bemused agreement.

  “Anyhow,” said the detective, his voice suddenly serious as he leaned in, “on to more important matters.” He reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a worn-out, folded-up piece of paper, which Arthur recognized to be the Treasurer’s note.

  “You were right to send me this, Arthur,” said Greenley. “As much as it pains me to neglect an order from Inspector Smudge, I believe you’ve come up with a lead worth following here, and as an officer of the law, I would be remiss to ignore it. Indeed, I’ve been able to glean a fair bit from this little scrap—more, I dare say, than all the clues we’ve gathered so far.” He peered suspiciously over his shoulder, then leaned in further toward the children, lowering his voice so they could only just hear it over the noise of the club. “It would seem your little note here is the first concrete evidence substantiating rumors of a new treasurer on the Ardmore Board of Directors.”

  Arthur and Ruby traded sideways glances.

  “As you may be aware,” Greenley continued, “the public face of the Ardmore Association is relatively well-known—what with their Ardmore Almanac and so on—but the inner workings of its board have been shrouded in mystery ever since it went underground some twenty years ago. Hard as we’ve tried, the Association’s senior ranks have proved impossible to infiltrate. At least with this note, we’ve now been clued in to some of their associates, with whom we are a bit more familiar.”

  “Messrs. Overkill and Undercut?” said Arthur.

  “Precisely,” said Greenley. “Though I think it’s safe to say these exceptional-sized chums of yours are operating under assumed names—which is bound to make recapturing them difficult. At the end of the day of course, they are almost certainly low-level henchman or hired thugs, simply following the orders of their employers. It is the employers who are important to us. If we find the puppeteers, we shall find the puppets as well.”

  “How many puppeteers do you think there might be, Detective?”

  “Well,” Greenley replied, “the note’s reference to this ‘Chairman of the Board’ suggests we’re dealing with the wishes of the board’s director at least, if not the entire board itself. But, of course, until we start learning the identities of its members, we’ve got no one to charge. Can’t rightly arrest a man’s job title without the man himself, can we?”

  “Guess not,” said Arthur. “But what about the Treasurer then? Any clues as to his identity?”

  “Ahh—that’s the question, isn’t it?” grinned the detective. “Well, my boy, thanks to your tip, I believe we have. You see, when I looked into Rex Goldwin’s background, as your letter suggested, I made some startling discoveries. A quick inspection of his accounts reveals that our Mr. Goldwin has been receiving massive monthly payments from the Ardmore Association for well over a decade—and yet Ardmore has only begun to sponsor him publicly just this year. There’s apparently been some sort of long-standing covert collaboration here.”

  “Well,” said Ruby, “that would explain the compound.”

  “What’s this now?”

  “Until just a few months ago,” Ruby replied, “Rex and his family lived at a secluded training facility. That facility must have been secretly funded by the Ardmore Association.”

  Greenley looked puzzled. “I’ve been investigating Goldwin all week, and I never came across anything like this.”

  “Mr. Goldwin is Ruby’s father, sir,” Arthur explained.

  Greenley’s face was instantly painted with shock and embarrassment. “Oh dear. I—I’m so sorry, miss. I didn’t realize. If I’d have known, I—”

  “He’s not my father,” Ruby insisted. “Not my real one anyway. And if he’s guilty of these crimes, he needs to be stopped—whoever he is.”

  “I don’t know, miss. Are you certain you should be here?”

  “Don’t worry about me, Detective. I can look after myself. I’ve been doing it practically my whole life.”

  Greenley sighed. After an extended pause, he reluctantly conceded, “Well, if you’re certain you can handle it. I’ve just never worked with a suspect’s daughter before—”

  “He’s not—”

  “—biological, or otherwise,” Greenley clarified. “It’s not something to be taken lightly.”

  “I understand, sir. I can handle it.”

  The detective gave another disgruntled, but relenting sigh. “Well, anyhow,” he resumed at length, “where were we?”

  “Rex’s secret partnership with the Ardmore Association,” Ruby quickly replied.

  “Right. So, this prolonged collaboration certainly supports the notion that Mr. Goldwin is our Treasurer—and the one behind your family’s recent misfortunes, Arthur—but unfortunately, with the heavy secrecy of Ardmore’s board, there’s really no way to prove it.”

  “What can we do then, Detective?” Arthur asked.

  “We’ll have to try a different approach. If we’re lucky, we just might be able to get him for something else.”

  “Like what?”

  Greenley peered out from under his brow. “It h
as come to our attention that, over the years, Goldwin has periodically procured the services of a Mr. Neil McCoy, a forgery expert who specializes in counterfeiting official documents. At this point, we can’t be certain exactly what it is McCoy has been forging for him—could be passports, could be banknotes, could be world record certificates—but McCoy is currently the target of a major sting operation organized by Scotland Yard, which should be drawing to a close within the next couple of months. Once the Yard has made its move, we’ll be able to determine precisely what sort of forgeries Goldwin has commissioned—and then charge him accordingly. Of course, these relatively minor offenses won’t put him away for long, but at least they’ll give us reason for an arrest, and buy us some time to find evidence for his real crimes.”

  “But what about Sammy the Spatula?” Arthur protested. “Every day that goes by is another one he’s forced to live as a fugitive from justice. Isn’t there anything we can do now?”

  “The only way to fully clear your chef’s name is to prove that someone else committed the crime he’s accused of—and that’s going to take a bit more time. I’ve read Sammy’s letter as well, and it’s truly heartbreaking stuff. Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more than to prove him innocent and bring him back home. But we mustn’t get impatient, Arthur. A man’s life hangs in the balance here; Sammy will surely appreciate our diligence.”

  Arthur nodded slowly as the difficult truth sank in.

  “Meantime,” Greenley added, “keep your eyes and ears open—but be careful. It’s only a matter of time before our friends Overkill and Undercut turn up again. And one of these days, they might actually complete their objective.”

  After an ominous moment, Greenley perked up. “Well, I’d best be off. The missus is making my favorite tonight—just as she always does after I get back from these undercover jobs—and I reckon I ought to have a shower and a shave. Dragged that old coat through a rubbish bin on my way here—for authenticity purposes, you understand—and I’m afraid a bit of it’s rubbed off on me. But first,” the detective concluded as he rose to his feet, “allow me to walk you to your train.”

  • • •

  Once aboard, the children found their seats and glanced out the window in time to see Greenley enthusiastically waving them farewell from his position on the platform, which now slid steadily away to their right.

  As the beaming detective disappeared from view, Arthur lowered his arm and turned to his partner. “That went pretty well, don’t you think?”

  “What, being nearly murdered by a thieving hobo who turned out to be an overtheatrical undercover cop?”

  “Well, no—after that part, I mean.”

  “Yeah, I’d say so,” Ruby concurred. “It was a good meeting; the investigation definitely seems to be moving forward. And actually,” she confessed, “the thieving hobo bit wasn’t so bad either. I feel sort of honored that someone went to so much trouble just to make an entrance with us. Greenley may be a few bullets short of a full clip, but it’s hard not to like him.”

  “Yeah,” Arthur agreed, “and if he’s got half as much passion for detective work as he has for amateur theatre, we’ll be wrapping up this case in no time.”

  “Let’s just hope he finds some decent evidence on Rex before we have to see Overkill and Undercut again. I’d take ten murderous hobos over those two any day. I don’t know about you, but I’m really not looking forward to finding out how they plan on topping a Komodo dragon attack.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Speaking of which,” Ruby added, “how’s Hamlet doing?”

  Arthur had not yet mentioned anything regarding his family’s faithful dog. It was hard enough to think about. “Not so good, actually,” he frowned. “He’s barely been conscious since he had his leg amputated.”

  “What?! Oh, that’s awful.”

  “Yeah. Abigail’s taking it pretty rough. She and Corporal Whiskerton—that’s our model-rocket-piloting hamster—have hardly left his side. I sit with them sometimes in the mornings and give Hammie a good scratch behind the ears—but it’s hard to tell if he even knows we’re there. Poor Hammie; he deserves to be out breaking canine world records, and he’s stuck in bed with one less leg—all for saving our lives.”

  “Poor Hammie,” Ruby lamented.

  Amid the repetitive rumble and clank of the train, the children stared out the window in contemplation.

  After a few minutes had passed, Arthur attempted to change the subject.

  “You know, speaking of the Komodo dragon incident, that reminds me—just before the attack, you were right in the middle of explaining all about the world record you’ve broken. Hmm,” he said, scratching his head not so slyly. “Now what was it again?”

  “I never said.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Arthur recalled, playing a bit too hard at ignorance, “you were just about to say, when the Komodo dragon so rudely interrupted—remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Well,” Ruby retorted, “I’ve since decided against it. Honestly—I’d been sitting up a tree for two hours. I wasn’t exactly in my right mind.”

  Arthur scowled. “You know, I can always just go look it up in the World Record Archives. Don’t know why I haven’t done it before, really.”

  “Arthur,” Ruby implored, “if you consider yourself my friend at all, you’ll stop trying to find out what record I’ve broken. It’s not important, all right?”

  Arthur let out a sigh. “All right. I’m sorry. I’ll try to stop asking you about it. It’s just that I find it terribly fascinating.”

  The two sat in silence for another extended moment—until Arthur suddenly blurted, “Hang on a second—that’s it!”

  “What’s it?” asked Ruby.

  “The World Record Archives.”

  “What about them?”

  “The dwarf assassin, Mr. Undercut—wouldn’t you say he’s the shortest person you’ve ever seen?”

  “Yep,” Ruby agreed, clearly confounded by Arthur’s disjointed line of reasoning. “He’s pretty short.”

  “Mightn’t he be the shortest person anyone’s ever seen? And the giant, Mr. Overkill—mightn’t he be the tallest?”

  “I guess so—but what’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Well, if they really are the Shortest and Tallest Humans on Earth, their names—the real ones—should be cataloged somewhere in the World Record Archives. All we have to do is look them up.”

  “Couldn’t we just check the Grazelby Guide?”

  “No use,” said Arthur. “I practically know the past ten years of Grazelby publications by heart. Most recently, the Guide listed the World’s Tallest Human as Longwe Dounga—until four years ago, when it stopped listing the category altogether. The World’s Shortest Human was still listed as Kurt Scantley—but then that category was removed two years later.”

  “So how do you know these aren’t our guys?”

  “Mr. Dounga is a member of the Masai tribe and also holds the record for the World’s Largest Stretched Earlobes. Believe me, it’s not something you can miss. And Kurt Scantley only has one arm. Poor little guy got a tough break.”

  “All right, then why do you suppose they’re no longer listed in the Grazelby Guide?”

  “Well, the annual publication is nowhere near exhaustive—it would be impossible for anyone to regularly publish every world record in history, of course—”

  “Of course,” Ruby interjected sarcastically.

  “—yet it does seem strange,” Arthur continued, “that Grazelby’s would choose to omit such prestigious records as these. More likely, these records have been broken by a new pair of record holders—record holders whom, for some reason, Grazelby’s cannot or will not list. . . . But then, that’s what the archives are for. An entire building dedicated to world-record keep
ing—housing artifacts and information on every world record that has ever been set or broken. Because it’s run by the International World Record Federation, it not only covers Grazelby-sponsored records, but all the records sponsored by other record books as well. There’s no guarantee we’ll find what we’re looking for, but it’s worth a shot, isn’t it?”

  “Sounds better than anything else we’ve come up with.”

  “All right then,” said Arthur. “Do you think you can sneak away again tomorrow so we can make another trip to the city?”

  Ruby’s eyes twinkled with determination. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  As the train sped through the darkness, the two young sleuths pondered the day to come with the growing suspicion that it might just change everything. They would not be wrong.

  The World Record Archives

  The next morning, Arthur woke to the sound of screaming.

  He threw back his covers, leapt from his bed, and made for the doorway.

  By the time he entered the corridor, however, he began to notice something odd about the cries coming from the first floor: for once in his recent life, these were not screams of terror or agony, but screams of joy.

  Arthur hurried down the stairs more intrigued than ever, his brothers and sisters following closely behind.

  The Whipple children arrived in the great hall to witness an astonishing sight.

  Their sister Abigail lay in the middle of the floor, squealing with laughter at the feet of Mr. Mahankali and their parents. Pinning her to the rug, an energetic Great Dane dragged its massive slobbery tongue across Abigail’s face as a hamster in a space suit scampered around them.

  “Hamlet!” the children shouted as they dashed forward and dug their hands into the dog’s fur.

  Hamlet gave a kiss to Corporal Whiskerton, sending the hamster rolling happily backward, then returned his focus to Abigail. The barrage of licks continued for almost a minute before the girl finally scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around the dog’s neck.

  “Oh, Hammie,” Abigail cried, “I knew you wouldn’t let that lousy lizard keep you down!”