Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (11 page)

A dread silence fell in the workshop. Visser's body lay lifeless at the foot of the stove. A slug crawled out from the dark and slithered over his broken hand and then, from the gloom of the doorway, a small sniveling pierced the quiet. It was Janty. Certain that whoever had been there was gone, he had crept back to the workshop. Horrified by what he now saw, he took his father's body in his arms. As his tears fell on his father's face, he felt a small breath on his cheek. Visser was still alive! “Father!” cried Janty.

“Listen to me,” whispered Visser, mustering his last scraps of strength. “The order book . . . you must hide it. Keep it safe. And trust no one. Leave here and don't come back.”

“But, Father . . .”

“Do as I say!” urged Visser, fighting back the pain. “Tell no one! Never forget the forger's code, Janty! We never reveal our clients. Ever! You must carry on . . . you have the gift . . . promise me . . . you will be a great forger . . . a great . . .” And then, with one long look that held the promise of all of Janty's years, Visser's soul passed into the dark.

“Father!” screamed Janty, shaking his head. “Father!”

 

Another character dead? A poor boy orphaned? And we're not even halfway through. Oh, this is just awful.

T
itus Kooks wished he was an opera singer. Holding a dissected liver in one hand and a pot of brains in the other, he stood, eyes closed, and sung his lungs out. Penbert, his efficient assistant, who hated opera music, especially when Titus sang it, stood with her fingers in her ears and waited for it to stop. The song Titus was currently singing was a particularly bad one because Titus had written it himself. The song was called “I Feel Offal,” which will serve as a small clue as to quite how bad it was. Luckily for Penbert, who had better things to do, like getting on with her matchstick model of a chicken, the song was almost at its end.

“And though I am quite keeeeeeeen!” sang Titus, arms aloft. “To extract your spleeeeeeeeeeen! There is nothing badder! Than a moldy blaaaaaaaaaadder!” As the last note rang out, Titus slumped forward into a dramatic bow.

Penbert took her fingers out of her ears. “Bravo, Dr. Kooks,” she said, adding a small, halfhearted smatter of applause. “Now, as I was saying, I'm not sure if hydrofluoric acid is going to work because—”

“Was it rich?” asked Dr. Kooks, looking up. “My voice—did it have timbre? Did it resonate?”

Penbert blinked and pushed her incredibly thick spectacles to the top of her nose. “I think,” she began, shuffling her feet, “that it may have been better than yesterday.”

Dr. Kooks thumped the pot of brains down onto a work surface. “Then I am improving. Here, take these. Analyze them for confusion and befuddlement. Let me have your report by the end of the day.”

The lab, where all Cooper Island criminal scientific investigations were conducted, was a clutter of test tubes, microscopes, and dissected body parts in jars. On the wall were two thin vertical blackboards, each stenciled with the white outlines of a body, which, in turn, were covered with chalked arrows and scribbles, the largest of which read
Unnaturally smelly feet
followed by a long line of exclamation marks. In the corner of the room was a fume cupboard for the examination of toxic chemicals, a bookshelf bursting with books, files, and papers, and a series of hooks on the wall with masks, aprons, and gloves hanging from them. In the center of the room there was a large metal table for the examination of dead bodies and to the left two small desks, one heaving with documents, opera magazines, and random beakers of half-drunk tea, the other very neat and tidy with a small, unfinished matchstick chicken on it.

Penbert, who was always known by her last name, took her job extremely seriously. Dr. Kooks, on the other hand, did not and he liked nothing better than to play small practical jokes on his assistant, like the time he put a severed foot in her operating clogs. Penbert, because she was only the assistant and was determined to be serious, bore all of Dr. Kooks's nonsense with an air of stoic tolerance.

One of Penbert's favorite serious jobs at the lab was providing visitors with official passes and so, when Theodore P. Goodman, the world-famous detective, and Inspector Lemone, Cooper Island's only police officer, arrived at ten past four, she took a small but significant delight in logging them into the Visitor's Book and handing them large Visitor Badges to pin onto their lapels. “Thank you, Penbert,” said Theodore as he put his badge on, before adding, “You've pinned yours upside down, Inspector.” An oversight that had not gone unnoticed by Penbert.

“Now then,” began Theodore, shaking Dr. Kooks firmly by the hand, “the shard from the fake Katzin Stone. Have you managed to examine it?”

“Certainly have, Goodman,” boomed Titus, rubbing his belly. “You were right. It was made of sugar.”

“A special sort of sugar,” added Penbert, reaching for her clipboard.

“Yes,” said Titus, throwing an arm in Penbert's direction, “special sort. Hmmm. What was it again, Penbert?”

“It's a sugar called Ambeedextrose,” said Penbert, reading from her notes.

“Interesting,” said Theodore, fingering his magnifying glass.

“So the thief is a sugar expert?” said the Inspector, licking the end of his pencil and making a note.

“Not necessarily, Inspector,” interjected Theodore. “Let's not jump to conclusions.”

“Nice sugar, is it?” asked the Inspector, eyebrows rising a little. “Make cakes with it? Biscuits? Meringues?”

“It's not that sort of sugar,” said Penbert, shaking her head. “It has a very interesting molecular structure. It's thicker than normal. We also found a trace of poison on it. That was unusual too. Comes from the bark of the very rare Cynta tree. I suspect its presence is incidental. May have been transferred by touch.”

“That would explain the smell on the shard,” said Theodore, reaching for his notebook. “So the presence of the poison was probably unintentional. Fascinating.”

“Yes.” Dr. Kooks nodded, wafting a dismissive hand. “And it had some writing on it, a sort of inscription. What was it again, Penbert?”

“It said,
I Made It,
Dr. Kooks,” said Penbert, consulting her clipboard, “and was in a very unusual font, of which I've taken some supermagnified resonant images . . .”

Just as Penbert was about to unclip her pictures, there was a loud rap at the door. Penbert glanced up at the clock and frowned. She wasn't expecting other visitors and, in any event, wasn't sure she had more than two Visitor Badges. This was a worrying development. “Excuse me,” she said, putting down her clipboard.

Standing at the door was what appeared to be a very short man with a ginger beard so massive it covered three-quarters of his face. He was also wearing a large floppy hat, dark glasses, and patchwork overalls that were at least ten sizes too big. By his feet was a lumpy burlap bag that for some reason was moving of its own accord. “I have come,” said the man in a strangely high voice, “to fix the plumbing.”

Penbert gave a short frown. “But there's not a problem with the plumbing,” she said. “And besides, we already have our quota of visitors for today. Only two at a time. Thank you.” Penbert smiled quietly to herself. That would deal with the lack of badges problem.

“No,” said the man, inching forward and straining to see into the lab. “Definitely a problem. I've been sent by the . . . um . . . the . . . Central Plumbing Bureau.”

“The Central Plumbing Bureau?” asked Penbert, eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” said the man with a nod. “They deal with plumbing. Mostly.”

Penbert gave the man an even longer frown. “Are you really a plumber?” she said, folding her arms and pursing her lips.

“Oh yes!” blustered the man, hat falling down over his dark glasses. “I know lots about plumbing. Like that there ... that's a sink! Look at it, over there! Just past that detective!”

“How do you know I'm a detective?” asked Theodore, who had been watching from the lab. “Bring that man in, Penbert. Something's not quite right here.”

“But we've only got two Visitor Badges,” said Penbert, feeling a little anxious.

“Never mind that now!” boomed Dr. Kooks, who had marched over to the door to stare at the suspect plumber. “In you come, young man! Let's get the measure of you!”

The man bent down to pick up his bag, which was now wriggling so intensely, he had to grab it with both arms. He staggered into the lab, where everyone stood and stared as he tripped over one leg of his overalls, got his foot caught in the hem of the other, and fell headfirst into a pile of neatly stacked files. The plumber's bag, sliding halfway across the floor, suddenly ripped open and out of it, to everyone's surprise, stepped a beagle wearing a pair of goggles and a cap. Not only that, but he also appeared to have a very thick ginger mustache and a tool belt tied around his waist. Theodore snatched up the young man by the neck of his overalls and with one deft tug removed his beard. “As I suspected,” said the great detective as he looked down at Wilma. “Now this won't do. It won't do at all.”

“The thing is,” began Wilma as she stared back up at the detective, “it's very important that I practice gathering clues. You know, for contemplating and deductions. And crimes are like puzzles. Like you said. So I just thought I ought to come. In a disguise from Mrs. Waldock's trunk. Because sometimes they can be cunning. According to your top tip number seven. So I thought that it would probably be best . . .” Wilma trailed off—the great detective didn't exactly look impressed.

Theodore P. Goodman, who was a very important and very serious man, gave a little sigh. “Wilma,” he explained, handing the young orphan her large hairy beard, “you work for Mrs. Waldock. Now what will she say when she finds out you're running around chasing clues when I suspect you should be doing your chores? Still, you're here now. So stand over there with the Inspector and try not to trip over anything else.”

“But I've got no more Visitor Badges!” protested Penbert, who was even more agitated now that her carefully alphabetized files were scattered all over the lab floor.

“Here you are, Wilma,” said the Inspector, handing her his Visitor Badge. “You have mine. I'll just stand here on police business. Don't need a Visitor Badge for that.”

“Actually, you do,” muttered Penbert with a tut. “And—”

“Penbert,” interrupted Dr. Kooks, rolling his eyes, “do be quiet. Now then, Mr. Goodman. The inscription on the shard. Here's the picture. Look at that.
I Made It.
What do you think of that?”

“Hmmm,” said Theodore, using his magnifying glass to take a closer look. “It should be
I Made This.
Masterful forgery using sugar and sloppy grammar? It can only be one man—Visser Haanstra. Remember him, Inspector?”

“Ummm . . . on the tip of my tongue, Goodman . . . wait . . . hang on . . . no. No, I don't,” said the Inspector, tapping his pencil on the end of his nose.

“Case of the Silver Mask, Mr. Goodman!” blurted Wilma. “The one where Barbu D'Anvers set a trap using crabs. I've got it on my Clue Ring!” She excitedly waved her collection of cuttings at the detective.

“That's the one, Wilma!” declared Theodore. “We need to see him first thing tomorrow,” he went on with purpose. “Visser is a masterly craftsman, but I'll wager this wasn't his idea.”

“What about Jeremy Burling?” asked Wilma. “Because he's a suspicious.”

“A suspect, not a suspicious. There's a difference. No. I spoke with him this morning. I think he
believes
he saw Alan on the morning of his murder—and Captain Brock can attest to a visitor who answered to that name—but, well, disguises are cunning, Wilma. Jeremy's not our man. But I'll bet that mysterious visitor is, or my name's not Theodore P. Goodman. We must move fast, Inspector. Before the net tightens. Now then, Titus, what of Alan Katzin and his aunt? How were they killed?”

Dr. Kooks's face fell and an air of seriousness descended. “Strangest thing, Goodman,” he said with a small shake of his head. “Strangest thing. We found virtually nothing. No wounds, no bruises, no poisons in the blood, nothing. We did find one small fish scale on Alan Katzin's aunt. But she was a keen cook by all accounts, so that might explain that. And they were each holding a sprig of lavender.”

“But if there were no wounds, no poisonous substances . . . what killed them?” the Inspector asked, scratching his head.

“We're totally unable to establish how or why,” said Penbert. “But there was one thing . . .” She stopped mid-sentence and glanced at Doctor Kooks.