The Giant Rat of Sumatra

by Franklin W. Dixon

  “This ticket business could have wrecked us,” O’Lunny said in a low voice. “I don’t believe it was an accident, either.”

  “We’ll look into it,” Frank promised. “But we can’t do much until after the show.”

  “I realize that,” O’Lunny replied. “What I’m afraid of is that this ticket foul-up is just the beginning. I have a strong feeling that something more—something worse—is going to happen.”

  He hesitated, looking down at the floor. “Frank, I hate to ask you to miss seeing the show, but will you come back with us now? Spend the evening behind the scenes? I know that Joe will be keeping an eye open, but he’s going to be pretty busy with his acting debut. I’d feel better knowing that both of you were on the spot.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Frank said. He went off to tell his parents about the change of plans. Then he followed Joe and O’Lunny through an unmarked door. A long dimly lit corridor led backstage.

  The area just off the stage was crowded with members of the cast and crew. Many of them were already in costume and makeup. Frank noticed the way their eyes shifted around. It made them seem more nervous than he would have expected, even for an opening night.

  When the group noticed O’Lunny, the hum of conversation died away. O’Lunny gave them a wave and said, “Just a minor glitch, friends. Nothing to worry about. The curtain will go up in ten minutes or so. Oh—and there’ll be a reception in the lobby after the show, with lots of nice bubbly. We might even manage to find some crackers and cheese.”

  The laughter that followed sounded warm and friendly. A little too warm and friendly, maybe? Frank found himself wondering how he and Joe were going to manage to read these people. After all, acting was their profession.

  O’Lunny turned to Joe and Frank. In a low voice he said, “I’ll be right back. Hold the fort.” O’Lunny walked over to Li Wei, who looked glamorous in a long black dress. Soon they were deep in conversation.

  “Who’s that?” Frank asked Joe.

  “She’s Li Wei, the composer,” Joe replied. He looked around, then waved to Susanna, who was in white jeans and a T-shirt with a brightly colored parrot on it.

  When she joined the Hardys, Joe said, “Susanna, this is my brother, Frank. He’s O’Lunny’s new assistant.”

  Susanna laughed. “You guys really do have pull, don’t you? What, did your dad put a lot of money into the show?”

  “Oh, something like that,” Frank said.

  “Well, good for him,” Susanna said. “The way things are going, we Rats are going to need all the help we can get.”

  “What do you mean?” Frank asked. “Don’t you think the show’s any good?”

  Susanna looked alarmed. “Don’t even say things like that! It’s a terrific show—good plot, great songs, and a wonderful cast. It’ll make Broadway history . . . of one kind or another.”

  Frank was about to ask Susanna what she meant by her last comment when she added, “You’ll have to excuse me. I need to get in some meditation time before I go on.”

  She didn’t wait for a response before walking away. “Wait till Dad hears that he’s become a big Broadway angel,” Joe said as he watched her go.

  “He can handle it,” Frank said, grinning.

  A man with a clipboard under his arm walked by, calmly giving directions to the cast: “Places, please. Places for opening curtain. Places, please.”

  “We’d better get out of the way,” Joe said as the actors moved toward the stage.

  The lights came up on the set, but the curtain was still closed. From the wing, where Frank was standing, he could see the gloomy sinister warehouse set facing the audience. The stone walls of the set oozed with moisture. He could almost smell the fungus growing in long-neglected corners. He could also see the backs of the stone walls. They were nothing more than flats, tall rectangular wooden frames covered with painted canvas. On the back of the one nearest him someone had spray-painted, Act I Scene 1.

  From the other side of the curtain came a burst of applause, followed by the muffled sound of music. A tall broad-shouldered man in an old-fashioned knee-length coat brushed past Frank and Joe. He was wearing a shiny top hat and carrying a gold-headed walking stick.

  “That must be the Giant Rat,” Joe whispered. “I’ll fill you in on the plot later.”

  The man took his position in the middle of a half dozen villainous-looking gang members and put one hand out as if he were making a speech. The curtains slid open, and the audience burst into applause. The actors waited for the clapping to die down, then started to sing and move. Led by the Giant Rat, each verse of their song started as a menacing rumble and gradually built to a rousing shout of “Rats in every alley!” The audience loved it.

  In the scene that followed, Frank learned that the Giant Rat and his gang were plotting to disrupt a royal wedding. This would distract the detectives of Scotland Yard while the Rats carried out a series of crimes throughout London.

  One of the gang had an objection. Their plot might fool Scotland Yard, but what about the great and dreaded detective, Sherlock Holmes? What if he caught on?

  The Giant Rat gave an evil chuckle. “Holmes?” he said. “Don’t worry. I have a plan to take care of him!”

  The scene ended and the curtain closed. To make room for the stage crew as they rapidly switched the set, Frank and Joe pressed themselves back against the wall behind them. Before their eyes, the set was transformed into a Victorian living room, complete with fireplace and overstuffed furniture. Frank thought it looked like a faithful reproduction of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes’s famous address.

  “That’s Holmes and Watson,” Joe whispered, as the actors walked out onstage. “And Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper.”

  Frank grinned. “I’d already deduced that,” he said. “Elementary, my dear Joseph.”

  “I’ll see you later,” Joe added. “I’d better get back to the dressing room. Wait till you hear this next song. Believe it or not, it’s about having fish for breakfast. Yuck!”

  Joe left. A couple of minutes later, the curtains opened again. Frank liked the number, “Kippers and Eggs” and thought the actor playing Holmes was exactly right—sharp as a tack, a little scornful of others, yet secretly hungry for their applause.

  Frank’s favorite moment came when Holmes noticed an ink spot on Watson’s finger and a trace of mud on his pants cuff. From these minor clues, Holmes constructed a whole series of brilliant deductions. But then, after he explained his reasoning, Watson sniffed and said that it had really been very simple after all.

  Frank had to smile ruefully. In solving their cases, he and Joe had encountered people who acted that way more than once. After a mystery was solved, it didn’t seem so complicated anymore.

  As the scene continued, Frank reminded himself that he wasn’t there simply to enjoy the play. He roamed from spot to spot, trying to seem casual. He studied the people backstage as well as onstage, the sets, equipment, and the building itself. It was important to know how everything looked ordinarily. Otherwise, he might not realize that something was unusual.

  Onstage, Holmes and Watson’s breakfast was interrupted by a man in a mask who begged Holmes for help. Holmes spotted the coat of arms on the man’s signet ring and instantly recognized him as a duke, a cousin of the Queen. He agreed to keep His Grace’s identity secret and pledged to do whatever he could to foil the Giant Rat’s plot.

  The duke thanked him and left. Holmes stood for a moment, chin in hand, deep in thought. Then he donned his deerstalker cap and caped overcoat, thrust a revolver in his pocket, and exclaimed, “Come, Watson! The game’s afoot!”

  The curtain closed to applause and cheers.

  Holmes came striding offstage, directly toward Frank. Frank had to remind himself that the man wasn’t really Sherlock Holmes. He was an actor named—what was it?—Battenberg.

  Frank was about to congratulate Battenberg on his performance when the actor pointed his finger at one of the stagehands, whose name
was Bill. “You there,” Battenberg said in a clipped voice. “I want to speak to you.”

  “Who, me?” the stagehand said. He looked puzzled.

  “That’s right,” Battenberg said. “My entrance at the beginning of this scene—you were in my way. You will please make very sure that it doesn’t happen again.”

  The stagehand said, “Sorry, but we’ve got to shift the Scene One set offstage, and we’re tight for time. Can’t you just step around me?”

  Battenberg gave him a cold look. “My good fellow, you apparently have not noticed that I am the star of this show. You should be asking yourself how to make things easier for me, not going out of your way to inconvenience me.”

  The actor who was playing Watson stepped forward and said, “Now, Charles, the crew have their own jobs to do.”

  “Don’t you ‘Now, Charles’ me, Gordean,” Battenberg retorted. “I am well aware of your agenda. You want me out of the way, so that your friend Will Robertson can step into the part. Hornby may have talked me into accepting him as my understudy, but, I promise you, that’s as far as it goes. I am never going to let him take over my role. He’ll play Holmes over my dead body. Is that clear?”

  Somebody touched Frank’s shoulder and murmured, “What’s all the uproar?”

  Frank glanced sideways. A ragged dirty-faced London street kid was standing next to him. Frank looked again and recognized Joe. “Battenberg got mad at a stagehand,” Frank explained in an undertone. “Gordean tried to calm him down, so now Battenberg’s mad at him instead.”

  Joe said, “It figures. Battenberg’s been like a firecracker with a short fuse all afternoon. Too bad he’s so good in the Sherlock Holmes role. Otherwise, maybe they’d dump him.”

  “Does everybody in the show feel that way?” Frank asked.

  “Everybody I’ve talked to,” Joe replied. “They all seem to think he’s a good actor, but a rotten human being. So far I haven’t seen any reason to doubt them.”

  Frank turned his attention back to Gordean and Battenberg, who were still arguing. Several cast and crew members were also observing the confrontation.

  “It’s a waste of breath, trying to reason with you,” Gordean said. He turned on his heel and stalked away.

  Battenberg watched him go. Then he glared at the little circle of spectators and said, “I’m sure you all have better things to do than stand here with your mouths open.”

  The onlookers began to drift away. Frank took a step backward, then frowned. He had a sudden impression that the floor was tilting. That was impossible. Still, something was wrong.

  He looked up, then grabbed Joe’s arm. “The flat,” he gasped. “It’s falling. And Battenberg’s in front of it!”

  3 Set to Fall

  * * *

  “Look out!” Joe shouted, as the flat toppled forward. “Heads up!”

  He dashed forward and grabbed Battenberg by the arm. Battenberg struggled, unaware of the danger at first, but then he acquiesced. Joe dragged him to safety.

  Frank and two of the actors had caught the flat by the edges. They were holding it up, keeping it from hitting the floor. Frank’s face was red from the strain.

  Two stagehands rushed over. “Okay,” one of them said. “We’ve got it.” They grasped the sides of the flat and carefully raised it back to the vertical.

  “Release me, young man,” a voice said, close to Joe’s ear.

  Startled, Joe realized he was still gripping Battenberg’s arm. He let go and took a step backward. “Are you okay?” he asked the actor.

  Battenberg brushed off his sleeve. “Of course I am,” he said. “It was quite unnecessary to manhandle me like that. I’m still capable of moving on my own, thank you.”

  What a grouch! Joe thought. Aloud, he said, “You’re welcome. Anytime.”

  Battenberg sniffed and looked around. Then he raised his voice and said, “I’d like your attention.”

  When the group fell silent, Battenberg announced, “What just happened—or almost happened—was no accident. It was certainly part of a plot aimed at injuring me, and through me, the play.”

  Celia Hatteras, the gray-haired woman playing Mrs. Hudson, said, “Charles, dear, what a terrible thing to say.”

  In a dramatic voice, Battenberg replied, “Terrible, yes. But nonetheless true. However, the plotters have chosen the wrong target. I am not going to wait idly by while they mount their vile attacks.”

  Raising his right arm level with his shoulder so that his cape opened with a flourish, Battenberg made a slow sweeping gesture that took in everyone around him. “Let the villains heed this,” he continued. “I intend to conduct an investigation. I mean to unmask those who conspire against me and see they get the punishment they deserve. And no threats, no cowardly attacks, will deter me.”

  As Battenberg fell silent, somebody near Joe muttered sarcastically, “Curtain. Ovation. Film at eleven.”

  Hornby, the producer-director, hurried up. He looked tired and harried. “Is this a performance or a cocktail party?” he demanded. “Come on, people, get ready for Act Two. The first act went swimmingly. Let’s keep that energy flowing.”

  Battenberg walked off through the crowd with his head held high, his cape billowing behind him. He didn’t look to either side. The other actors began to drift off.

  Joe looked around. Frank was standing next to the flat, talking to one of the stagehands. Joe joined them.

  “So tell me, Bill—what usually keeps one of these things from falling over?” Frank asked.

  The stagehand pointed to three triangular wooden braces attached to the back of the flat. “See those?” he said. “They rest on the floor, sort of like table legs. Then we put sandbags across the bottom struts. The weight of the bags keeps the flat from falling over, but we can still move it easily when we need to.”

  Joe looked around. “Sandbags like those?” he asked, pointing to a shadowy corner.

  “That’s right,” Bill replied. “But I don’t know what they’re doing over there. They should have been on top of the struts of the flat that fell over, not piled in the corner.”

  “Maybe somebody moved them,” Frank said. “You didn’t notice anybody hanging around there, did you?”

  Bill shrugged. “Nope. I wasn’t paying attention, though. Like everybody else, I was watching the shindy between Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson . . . I mean, Battenberg and Gordean.”

  Frank cleared his throat and said, “You know, Bill, I thought Battenberg was out of line, picking on you the way he did when he came offstage just now.”

  “I don’t let it bother me,” Bill said with another shrug. “He’s got a rep for that kind of stuff.”

  “I don’t know . . . if somebody treated me badly, I might think about teaching him a lesson,” Frank said.

  Bill’s face tightened. “Now just hold on,” he said. “I didn’t fiddle with that flat. If I wanted to get back at somebody—you’ll notice I said if—you know what I’d do? I’d fill a plastic bag with flour, take it up into the flies, and bombs away!”

  Joe grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind, in case a sack of flour lands on me. But you know, Bill—seriously—those sandbags didn’t move by themselves. Somebody around here has got a mean sense of humor. I think we’d all better keep our eyes open.”

  “I guess that’s right,” Bill said, nodding slowly. He looked past Frank’s shoulder. Joe noticed a second stagehand who was motioning to Bill. “I have to go finish setting up for Act Two,” Bill said.

  “What do you think?” Frank asked in an undertone, as Bill walked away.

  Joe thought for a moment. “Anybody could have shifted those sandbags,” he said. “You could do it with your foot, in three seconds. And like Bill, everybody was watching the argument between Battenberg and Gordean. But how could anyone be sure that Battenberg would be the only one in the way of the flat?”

  “Good point,” Frank said, nodding. “I know it looks like Battenberg was the target. And he himself is convinced
of it. But what if he wasn’t? Maybe whoever did it didn’t care who got hit.”

  “You mean the real target was the show itself,” Joe said. “That would fit with that mix-up over the tickets. But who’d want to wreck the show?”

  “Somebody who doesn’t want The Giant Rat of Sumatra to be a hit,” Frank replied.

  Joe shook his head. “But, Frank, that eliminates everybody backstage. We all want the show to be a success—O’Lunny, Hornby, all of us in the cast, even the stage crew.”

  Frank grinned. “ ‘All of us in the cast’?” he repeated. “Hey, don’t forget why you’re playing that part.”

  Joe could feel his face reddening under his makeup. “All I meant was—” he started to say.

  “I know what you meant,” Frank said. “And that’s a good point you made. But what if you’re not the only one who’s playing a double role? Somebody could be pretending to be a loyal member of the company but secretly be working for an enemy.”

  “Then how do we catch him . . . or her?”

  “For now, we keep a close watch on everyone,” Frank replied. “And we wait for our ‘villain,’ as Battenberg put it, to make a mistake. Hey, shouldn’t you be getting ready? The intermission must be just about over.”

  Joe gulped. “You’re right,” he said. “I’d better run. Wish me luck.”

  Joe hurried down the hallway that led to the men’s dressing room. Frank watched him for a moment. Then he walked around behind the flat that had fallen. The braces in back were in deep shadow. The flat itself blocked most of the light from the stage.

  Frank got down on one knee. There was a sandbag draped across the bottom strut of the nearest brace. He reached out and grabbed it. Then he looked over his shoulder. There were several actors and stagehands moving around the flats for Act Two, not far away. Not one of them seemed to notice him, crouched in the shadows.

  Frank stood up and walked to the edge of the stage. He saw that the person who had moved the sandbags hadn’t been taking such a big risk. Everyone had been paying attention to the argument between Battenberg and Gordean at the time the contrast between the brightly lit stage and the pool of shadow at the rear of the flat would have made it hard to notice anything.