by Matthew Ward
In a statement released late Saturday night, Smudge sent a warning to any possible perpetrators: “The Whipples have been the victims of a highly skilled saboteur—but not so skilled, I assure you, as to deceive the heightened senses of Sir Hadrian Smudge! The world may rest easily tonight in the knowledge that the criminal responsible for this heinous act will be swiftly and mercilessly brought to justice. Villains be vigilant—Inspector Hadrian Smudge is on the case!”
Arthur looked up from the photograph of the pointy-faced man defiantly holding up a sinewy finger on the front page of The World Record—and shifted his gaze to the man himself.
There, on the opposite side of the hospital waiting room, Inspector Smudge stood questioning one of the Whipple servants. With his thick, arching eyebrows and hooked nose, Smudge looked even more striking in person, and Arthur felt a wave of reassurance at the detective’s decision to work on his family’s case. If there was one man who could get to the bottom of the previous night’s strange goings on, surely it was Hadrian Ulysses Smudge.
Setting down the paper, Arthur turned to find the octuplets at his left, quietly holding hands with their heads bowed, while farther down the row, his brothers Henry and Simon battled each other—solemnly yet vigorously—for the Fastest Lord’s Prayer Ever Recited. Their parents, having so nearly lost their youngest daughter the night before, now sat to Arthur’s right, cradling Ivy close to them—while Ivy did the same to her matching toy bear, Mr. Growls, who had had a rather close shave of his own. Arthur, feeling equally overcome with thankfulness and worry, followed the octuplets and bowed his head as well.
Half a minute later, the waiting room doors swung open, prodding Arthur and the rest of the anxious crowd to their feet as a bespectacled man in blue surgical scrubs entered the room. But before the man could speak, a second, much shorter surgeon stepped out from behind him and addressed the crowd.
“Mr. Mahankali is out of surgery,” announced the undersized surgeon as she lowered her surgical mask, revealing the face of Arthur’s eldest sister, Cordelia. Well on her way to becoming the World’s Youngest Surgeon, Cordelia had recently accepted a provisional post at the hospital and had been called upon to assist in the Panther-Man’s surgery. “It was touch and go for a while there,” she continued, “but we are now anticipating a near-full recovery….”
Cordelia’s lip began quivering uncontrollably as her hardened professional exterior crumbled away and exposed the heartbroken girl beneath it.
The lead surgeon smiled and put a comforting hand on Cordelia’s shoulder before cheerfully resuming the report. “I’m afraid Miss Whipple says ‘near-full,’” he chuckled, “because—though we did all we could—it seems Mr. Mahankali may never again reach the heights of his former hairiness.” Then, noticing the grim expression on Mr. Whipple’s face, he cleared his throat and added solemnly, “But, of course, most importantly, it does seem he will survive.”
“Yes, of course, doctor,” Mr. Whipple sighed. “May we see him?”
“Yes, may we?” interjected a shrewd voice from across the room.
Stepping forward, Inspector Smudge presented a burnished brass badge to the surgeon. “After my clients have had their visit, I should like a moment alone with the man.”
“Very well then,” the surgeon replied. “Come with me.”
As the Whipples gathered around Mr. Mahankali’s bed, Arthur grappled with conflicting emotions. Though he was overjoyed just to witness his hairy friend’s chest rising and falling beneath the hospital sheets, he was equally horrified to see the proud Panther-Man in such a dreadful state, stripped of his most cherished world record and reduced to a matted mess of fur and bandages. With clumps of tangled hair poking out between strips of white gauze, Mr. Mahankali’s unconscious face looked like something out of Attack of the Mummy Werewolf, a film which—however enjoyable it had been on screen—Arthur had no desire to see translated to real life.
Just then, the recovery room door burst open, and Sammy the Spatula barged into the room.
“Where is ’e?” the chef called to no one in particular. “I ’eard ’e’s out of surgery.” Then, noticing the unconscious figure in the hospital bed before him, he rushed to Mr. Mahankali’s bedside—and broke down sobbing.
“What ’ave I done, mate?” he whimpered. “If I’d’ve known me best culinary creations would wind up nearly killing some of me best mates, I’d’ve dropped right out of cooking school. That’s God’s honest troof, that is.”
Arthur hadn’t thought it possible for anyone to appear more pathetic than the man in the hospital bed, but the chef’s present state had promptly proved the boy wrong. It smelled as though Sammy the Spatula had recently taken a swim in the World’s Largest Bottle of Scotch—but more likely, the chef had merely drunk it.
“Can you ever forgive me, mate?” the drunken man continued. “I’m sure I’ll never forgive meself….”
With that, Wilhelm stepped forward—his brow still streaked with ash from the preceding night’s calamity—and gently patted Sammy’s back. “There, there, my friend,” he said. “This is not your fault.”
The chef whirled his head around. “Innit, mate? It were me who baked the blasted fing, weren’t it? And me who put the candles on top—and me who made the French toast what almost squashed a sweet little girl?”
At this, Mr. Whipple gingerly took the chef’s arm and began leading him away from the bed. “Please, Sammy—be reasonable,” he whispered. “Clearly, you’ve had nothing to do with these tragic incidents. You’re the very best at what you do, my good man—and you were simply doing your job….”
This apparently did not have the comforting effect Mr. Whipple had hoped for, as Sammy immediately yanked his arm away and turned to face him. “I just can’t do it anymore, guv!” he blurted. “I made it froo two years in the clink wivvout givin’ up on me cooking, but I reckon this ’as finally done it! I just can’t bear to see nobody else ’armed by any more of me food…. It’s been a pleasure working for you, Mr. Whipple—but please accept me resignation.”
Mr. Whipple’s eyes bulged in surprise. “Now, Sammy—you can’t be serious! It’s been a very long night, and I’m sure we could all do with a bit of sleep and a strong cup of coffee or two—so why don’t you take the day off and we’ll discuss this tomorrow.”
“Sir, I—”
“Ah-ah-ah. I will not discuss the matter any further. As your employer, I order you to take the day off.”
The chef sighed. “All right, sir,” he said finally. “But don’t fink it’ll make me change me mind.”
With that, Sammy stumbled for the doorway—but before he could grasp the handle, the door opened on its own, and Inspector Smudge stepped into the threshold. Nearly colliding with the man, Sammy glanced up at the inspector’s face and took a startled step back—then hastily pushed past him through the doorway.
After watching the intoxicated chef stagger down the hallway and disappear from view, the inspector entered the room and made his way to the Panther-Man’s bedside.
“How does your man seem to be getting on?” he inquired.
“They tell us he’s stabilized,” said Mrs. Whipple, “but that he won’t be able to wake without severe pain for some days now.”
“Most unfortunate,” said the inspector. “I’m afraid, however, we haven’t the luxury of waiting for the pain to subside. Alas, our duty to the truth must take precedence over any small amount of physical comfort.”
Arthur’s father nodded gravely. “Yes…of course, Inspector.”
As Mr. Whipple ushered his family to the door, Inspector Smudge turned to the white-coated man in the corner of the room. “With your assistance, Doctor,” he said, gesturing to the patient. “I shall make my inquiry as concise as possible.”
The doctor nodded solemnly and walked toward the bed as the recovery room door closed behind Arthur and his family.
A moment later, an agonizing scream sounded through the door, sending shudders down Arthur’s
spine.
The Whipples waited for several harrowing minutes amongst the crowd of well-wishers gathered outside the Panther-Man’s room—until at last, the door opened and Inspector Smudge stepped into the hall.
“There is nothing left for me to do here,” the inspector declared. “Unfortunately, Mr. Mahankali has little to add to the investigation, as he did not notice anything out of the ordinary prior to last night’s disturbance.”
While Arthur’s heart sank to hear that Mr. Mahankali had been awoken in vain, the inspector’s words sent the boy’s mind racing. It was then that the image of the two suspicious clowns skulking through the shadows of the Grazelby tent leapt into his memory.
“And as there are no eyewitnesses to any wrongdoing,” continued Inspector Smudge, “I’m afraid we’ll be forced to rely solely on whatever physical evidence we may discover.”
Arthur’s pulse quickened. Surely the clowns had something to do with all this. And that made him an eyewitness. He could no longer remain silent.
The boy stepped forward. “Inspector, I—”
“Arthur, please,” snapped his father. “Inspector Smudge has no time for your questions now.”
“But I—”
“Really, Arthur,” his father whispered crossly, “if you must get the inspector’s autograph, at least wait till we’re back at the house.”
“Wh—? No,” the boy stammered in confusion. “You don’t—”
“Please, Mr. Whipple,” the inspector grinned, “don’t be too hard on the lad. This sort of thing is to be expected; I am certainly no stranger to youthful adulation. But of course, your assessment of time is an accurate one.” He gave a consoling little frown to Arthur and turned back toward the crowd. “Though I’m sure Mr. Mahankali has been thoroughly moved by everyone’s presence here today, I believe we shall now do him more good elsewhere. Let us return at once to Neverfall Hall, where I may properly survey the crime scene and conduct further interviews. The sooner the investigation is resumed, the sooner Mr. Mahankali shall be avenged!”
An affirmative clamor arose from the crowd, and before Arthur could say anything more, he was swept off in the sea of departing well-wishers.
As the boy exited the hospital with his siblings and mounted the stairs of the triple-decker Hulls-Hoyst, which was both the Whipple family car and the Tallest Automobile on Earth, it seemed his chance to aid in the investigation had gone.
But then, as Arthur approached the car’s second level, he happened to glance over his shoulder—and caught a glimpse of Inspector Smudge standing alone on the ground, less than five yards away.
His pulse quickening once again, the boy turned back to the stairs—and tried to convince himself he had no reason to speak to the man. He had, after all, already attempted to reveal his knowledge—only to be dismissed and ridiculed in the process. And besides, he reasoned, there was no real evidence that the clowns had had anything to do with the Birthday Cake Catastrophe in the first place. In all likelihood, they were entirely innocent.
And yet—what if they weren’t? What if Arthur’s eyewitness account was the one missing piece in apprehending the villains behind his family’s suffering? Surely it was worth risking any amount of ridicule for even the slightest possibility of cracking the case.
Arthur was nearly at the top level of the car when he suddenly stopped, causing a pile-up of Whipple children to his rear.
“Watch where you’re stepping, Edward!” cried Penelope.
“Don’t look at me,” Edward grumbled. “I’ve climbed glaciers on five continents; I think I know how to climb a few stairs….”
“Calm down, everybody,” said Henry. “Arthur—what are you doing up there?”
“Sorry,” said Arthur as he turned about and started back down the staircase. “I…I need to get down again. I’ll just be a minute.”
Amidst a chorus of irritated sighs, Arthur managed to make his way past his bewildered siblings and back onto the pavement.
Rushing over to the unsuspecting inspector, the boy skidded to a stop and blurted, “I beg your pardon Inspector Smudge but last night I’m pretty sure I saw two suspicious clowns sneaking around the birthday cake just before the candles started falling—they had a black dragon case—one was a dwarf, one was a giant—they probably had nothing to do with any of this but I just thought I should let you know…uh, sir.”
Inspector Smudge barely had time to look up from the notebook he was studying before the boy had launched into his single-breath saga—but by the time Arthur had finished, the detective’s interest had been visibly piqued. “My dear boy,” he said, “if you are trying to submit a statement, I’m afraid you will have to speak much slower than that. Now, what is it you say you saw last night?”
“Clowns, sir,” replied Arthur.
“Clowns? As in painted faces, brightly colored clothing, big shoes?”
“Yes, sir—something like that—but, um, creepy.”
“I see,” said the inspector. He flipped the page in his notebook and retrieved a pen from his pocket. “Do you think you might describe these clowns in a bit finer detail?”
“Um, yes, sir—I think so, sir. Um…well, one of them was the tallest man I’ve ever seen, and the other one was the shortest. I saw them step out from behind the curtain where the cake was sitting before Wilhelm rolled it out. The tall one was carrying a sort of big, black leather case, with um, a dragon on the side—and they seemed to be sort of, you know, sneaking. But it was probably nothing…”
There was an abrupt honk from the car, signaling his family’s impatience.
“On the contrary, my boy,” said the inspector, ignoring the horn and putting a sinewy hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “This might just be our best lead yet. Indeed, it seems you are the only person who saw anything at all last night. I must say, you possess quite a keen eye for someone of your abilities.”
“Thank you, sir.”
There was another impatient honk from the car.
“I’d better be going, sir,” said Arthur.
“Yes, of course. I shall see you back at the estate, where we shall no doubt bring a swift resolution to this case—thanks in no small part to your illuminating account. In the meantime, we must keep the matter between ourselves. We wouldn’t want your story finding its way into the wrong ears now; if our criminal quarry were to learn we’re on their tails so soon, they might very well flee the country—and make our jobs unnecessarily difficult. Best not to frighten the fox before the hounds are ready to pounce, hmm?”
“Yes, of course, sir,” Arthur nodded gleefully. “Thank you, sir.”
Turning and scampering back toward the waiting car, Arthur could hardly believe how well his meeting with the inspector had gone. Far from being ridiculed or spurned, the boy had actually managed to become a secret partner in the investigation. His head brimmed with visions of stakeouts, hideouts, and shootouts.
“Really wanted that autograph, didn’t we?” Henry remarked as his brother bounded through the car door and into his seat.
“What?” said Arthur, momentarily confused. “Oh, right. Yep—just couldn’t help myself.”
As Henry shrugged and turned away, Arthur failed to suppress a subtle smile. He could hardly wait to see the looks on his family’s faces when they discovered he had played such an integral role in cracking the case and avenging their honor. Surely after seeing him awarded the title of World’s Youngest Crime-Solving Sleuth by Inspector Smudge himself, they would never doubt him again.
Upon their return from the hospital, the servants promptly resumed their duties—as there was much to be done—while most of the Whipple children headed directly into the house and set about constructing the World’s Largest Get Well Card for Mr. Mahankali and Shiva. Now that Arthur was part of the investigation, however, he had more important matters to attend to—like a survey of the crime scene. And so, as his parents and older brothers, Henry and Simon, accompanied Inspector Smudge out to the east lawn, Arthur tagged along a few
steps behind them.
Peering across the sunlit grounds of Neverfall Hall, it was difficult to believe that something so terrible had taken place there hardly twelve hours earlier. Unless, of course, one noticed the cake.
The early morning sun had not been kind to the already disfigured dessert-turned-bringer-of-destruction. There was a massive sinkhole in the cake’s upper surface and several glaring bare spots around its curving face, where slabs of hardened icing had sheared away from the cakey cliff underneath. The ground around its base was scattered with enormous fallen birthday candles, like a game of pick-up sticks abandoned by some frustrated giant child.
On the south side of the cake lay the ruins of a once spectacular stage, now reduced to a massive pile of splintered planks and twisted metal. A towering construction crane (the type that might be used to hoist an unconscious elephant out of a collapsed stage) stood motionless nearby, staring down at the carnage in silent judgment, no doubt thinking to itself, For such tiny creatures, they certainly can make a mess.
The entire area comprising the cake, the stage, and the crane was cordoned off by yellow tape that read INVESTIGATION IN PROGRESS in bold black letters. Positioned next to the wilting cake was a large wheeled staircase, similar to the one Arthur had stood upon the night before to light the wicks of fourteen doomed birthday candles. At the top of the stairs, a man stood hunched over the edge of the cake—and appeared to be sniffing it.
As Arthur’s group approached the crime scene, the cake-sniffing man quickly stood up, brushed himself off, and started down the stairs. He was slightly thinner and shorter than average, with bright brown eyes and a pair of spectacles perched halfway down his narrow pointy nose, the tip of which was smeared with white icing.
“Inspector Smudge, look at this!” cried the man as he reached the ground, referring to some unseen object in his upturned palm—an object which he promptly proceeded to drop before anyone could catch a glimpse of it. “Oh dear,” said the man, quickly dropping to his knees and proceeding to comb through the surrounding blades of grass with his fingers.
