The Fantastic Family Whipple (21 page)

The housekeeper led the group into the kitchen and directed them to a large pair of doors in the far corner, which were fastened together by a steel padlock.

“Ah, yes,” the inspector noted. “You wouldn’t happen to have a key to this cupboard, would you, Mrs. Waite?”

“Why, yes, sir. Sammy’s been good enough to entrust me with a spare. If I hadn’t sworn never to use it without asking him first, I’d gladly go and fetch it for you.”

The inspector’s polite smile faded. “Need I remind you, Mrs. Waite, that this is an official investigation?”

“I am sorry, sir,” the housekeeper insisted. “I wish I could help, I really do, but official investigation or no—an oath is an oath.”

“I see,” sighed the inspector. “Well, no matter. It won’t be the first time I’ve had to cut a lock in the name of Justice. Thank you for your help, ma’am.”

“Please, sir,” Mrs. Waite added, “I’m sure Sammy’d be more than happy to open it for you as soon as he returns to the house. I just know how much pride he takes in keeping the contents of that cupboard secret. One can only guess what rare, record-breaking items it contains. No other member of staff has ever been granted a peep, and I can only imagine how horrified he’d be to have a stranger—however official—rifling through it without him.”

“Oh, but Mrs. Waite, Mr. Smith and I are hardly strangers. We are old chums really, he and I. I’m sure he will understand.”

“I’m sorry sir, but it still doesn’t seem right to me.”

“Well, fortunately for your conscience, Mrs. Waite, it is not up to
you
. Your employers are determined to rule out Mr. Smith’s involvement as quickly as possible—with or without his presence—and I’m afraid opening that cupboard may be the surest way to accomplish this. That
is
still your goal, is it not, Mr. and Mrs. Whipple?”

Arthur’s parents paused a moment, and then, evading eye contact with Mrs. Waite, nodded silently.

“I’m afraid I must ask you to step aside, Mrs. Waite,” smiled Inspector Smudge. “Put your conscience at ease, ma’am—Sammy will surely hear of your efforts to keep his secrets safe.” Then, turning to his assistant he cried, “Greenley—cutters!”

After a brief startled look, D.S. Greenley removed a pair of bolt cutters from his coat and handed them to his superior.

Grasping the cutters with both hands, Inspector Smudge paused to savor the moment—and then, without a word, cut through the lock on the chef’s cupboard.

Mrs. Waite stalked out of the room in protest.

Brushing aside the broken padlock, the inspector threw back the doors to reveal a deep closet brimming with bizarre foodstuffs. A thousand delicious smells hit Arthur’s nostrils at once. The boy averted his eyes in an attempt to respect Sammy’s privacy, but try as he might, he could not resist a few quick peeks.

Slipping on a pair of black gloves, Inspector Smudge promptly stepped into the cupboard and disappeared
amongst the massive jars of pickled who-knows-what, strings of peculiar spices, and rows of burlap bags labeled in countless foreign languages.

A short time later, the inspector emerged carrying a large, black leather case with a dragon insignia on its side. At this distance, Arthur could see two words engraved below the emblem:
DRAKE® KNIVES
.

As Inspector Smudge placed the case on the kitchen table, he looked directly at Arthur. “Is this the case you saw the saboteurs in possession of as they sneaked about the cake, my boy?”

Arthur’s family turned to him in shock.

“Um,” said the boy. “Well, it does look slightly similar….”

“What?!” gasped Arthur’s father.

“But…it was rather dark at the time—so, I mean, I can’t say for absolute certain….”

“How did
you
know about this, Arthur?” his mother cried.

“Earlier this morning,” explained the inspector, “your son came to me with information vital to this case. It seems he witnessed two suspicious individuals in the vicinity of the birthday cake just prior to the incident. According to the boy’s report, they were dressed as clowns—and carrying a case identical to this one.”

“Arthur, why didn’t you come to us first?” cried Mrs. Whipple.

Arthur opened his mouth to explain, but no words came out.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Mr. Whipple assured his wife. “This doesn’t prove anything yet.”

“No, Mr. Whipple,” replied the inspector. Having already undone the case’s silver clasp, he now peered inside the narrow opening he had created at the case’s top. “But I’m afraid
this
does.”

With that, he splayed the case wide open to reveal its contents.

There in the open case lay a spool of dynamite fuse, a staple gun, a coiled up wire saw covered in flecks of what appeared to be candle wax, a hand drill with an extra-large bit, and the three largest firecrackers Arthur had ever seen.

A collective gasp escaped from all who were gathered in the kitchen—with the exception, of course, of Inspector Smudge, who did not seem at all surprised by this.

“As much as I am blessed to be consistently correct in my predictions,” he sighed, “I must admit what a terrible burden it is to always be right. I’m afraid it’s my lot in life. My deepest sympathies, Mr. and Mrs. Whipple—but I’m sure you will find it much better to have discovered Mr. Smith’s treachery sooner rather than later.”

Arthur’s mouth hung open in shock. He had never imagined his account of the prior night’s events would lead to
this
.

“But sir,” pleaded the boy, “what about the clowns?”

“Just some of Mr. Smith’s criminal associates, no doubt,” Smudge explained. “Not hard to see why they might want revenge after your family’s public refusal to participate in the IBCPC fundraiser last month.”

“I’ve said it time and time again,” Arthur’s father growled, “we take no issue with clowns in general—but we will not support special treatment for them either. Clowns must be subjected to the same laws as the rest of us!”

“Please, Mr. Whipple,” grinned the inspector. “You needn’t tell this to me. But surely you can imagine how they might see things differently. And with the clowning profession in its current state of decline, everybody knows how desperate for money they all are. Mr. Smith no doubt offered them a cut of the payoff in exchange for—”

At that moment, Sammy the Spatula, carrying a small but ornately decorated cake, stepped through the kitchen door.

Arthur’s mother went white.

“Wh—what are you doing here, Sammy?” asked Mr. Whipple.

“Just popping in to drop off Arfur’s birfday cake, sir,” the chef replied, oblivious to the recently discovered evidence against him. Holding up the cake, he turned to Arthur and smiled. “Told you I’d bake you anuvver one to make up for the prison cake—and well, here it is, mate—World’s Tastiest, guaranteed by yours truly. Didn’t want you to fink I’d forgot….”

Arthur then noticed the cake’s decoration. Tiny swirling bullwhips and miniature milk bottles dotted its surface in intricate patterns. The boy’s heart sank. “Sammy—I…” he spluttered.

With that, Inspector Smudge turned about to face the chef.

“Wait…” Sammy gasped, the smile crumbling from his lips. “What’s ’e doing ’ere?!”

“Still baking cakes, are we?” smirked the inspector. “I should have thought you’d outdone yourself with the last one. But perhaps you’ve another reason for coming here. Hmm?” he added, holding up the case full of explosives.“You weren’t hoping to collect
this
, were you?”

It was then that Sammy noticed the open cupboard doors and the busted lock. He glanced at Arthur with a brokenhearted look that made the boy’s chest feel hollow and then back to the inspector.

“What are you doing in me secret-ingredient cupboard,” he cried, “and what ’ave you done wiv me knives?!”

“Greenley—arrest this man!” shrieked Inspector Smudge.

Arthur saw a glint of horrified confusion sweep across the chef’s face, as D.S. Greenley glanced back to his superior for confirmation. Inspector Smudge’s face had blossomed into a fierce shade of red that left little uncertainty as to his intentions.

D.S. Greenley turned and took a step toward the chef, retrieving a pair of handcuffs from his belt with one hand while holding up his other in an attempt at a calming gesture. “Now, Mr. Smith. Let’s not make this any harder than—”

But before D.S. Greenley could restrain him, Sammy’s left arm grabbed the sergeant by the shoulder and reeled him into a rigid choke hold while his right arm snatched a
butcher knife from a nearby knife block and whisked it up to the sergeant’s throat.

Arthur’s birthday cake splattered to the floor.

“Don’t move, Smudge!” the chef shouted desperately. “I ain’t going back to prison, mate!”

“Sammy!” cried Arthur’s mother.

“Sorry, Mrs. Whipple,” slurred the chef. It was clear he had not completely sobered up since his appearance at the hospital. “I wish you lot didn’t ’ave to see this…but I just can’t ’ave these coppers locking me up again!”

“Perhaps,” Inspector Smudge countered calmly, “you should have thought of
that
before you decided to blow up your employers’ birthday cake, Mr. Smith. Because even if, by some chance, you are able to escape me now, your evil deeds will soon catch up to you—and the Law will follow shortly behind them. The Law does not like to be ridiculed, my criminal friend; it never forgets a name or a face. So no matter where you attempt to hide, the Law will lead me straight to you, and this I assure you, Mr. Smith—you shall not escape its shackles a second time.”

“Spare me the speeches, mate,” the chef shot back, trembling with fear and anger. “I’m sure your little stooge ’ere ain’t interested in ’earing your sermons wiv this knife at ’is froat!”

“Oh, um, don’t mind me, sir,” D.S. Greenley interjected meekly from behind the razor-sharp blade. “I’m rather fond of your ‘Noble Justice’ speeches. You needn’t stop on my account.”

The chef gave his hostage a baffled look.

“Sammy, please!” implored Mr. Whipple. “Put the knife down! You’ll only make it worse for yourself, man!”

“But I didn’t do it on purpose, sir! You’ve gotta believe me! I can hardly live wiv meself knowing it were me who baked that bleedin’ cake!”

Seeing that the chef was somewhat distracted in explaining himself to his employer, Inspector Smudge took a sly step forward.

“Don’t come any closer, Smudge!” snapped the chef, his trembling hand tightening its grip on the knife and pressing the flat of the blade against D.S. Greenley’s throat.

D.S. Greenley—who had taken his hostageship surprisingly well until this point—winced in pain, his face growing pale with panic.

“Well, I hate to say it, Mr. Smith,” retorted the inspector, halting his advance, “but this is hardly the behavior of an innocent man. I have met scant few innocent men who enjoy holding butcher knives to the throats of police officers.”

“You don’t understand!” cried the chef.

“I understand perfectly, Mr. Smith,” the inspector shot back. “Your gambling debts have made you a desperate man, and last night’s disaster was simply the latest in a series of diabolical plots—perpetrated by you and the enemies of this family—to undermine and/or maim the Whipples and their loved ones!”

“No!”

“So you had nothing to do with the giant piece of French toast that nearly flattened a four-year-old girl?!”

“Th—that were an accident!”

“An accident involving a food item that you prepared, but then were conveniently absent from when that item turned murderous, no?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, mate!”

“Oh really? Then perhaps you can explain where you were during the party last night. You see, no one seems to remember seeing you anywhere near the cake when the candles started to fall. So what exactly were you doing while everyone else was under a brutal attack by one of your baked goods? Conveniently absent once again, were we?”

“I swear, I didn’t even know anyfing ’ad gone wrong till it were all over! After I noticed your ugly mug in the crowd, I spent the rest of the night in the kitchen, mate!”

“Hmm. I’m fairly certain that ‘running from authority’ is generally the response of a
guilty
man, rather than an innocent one.”

“Pardon me, sir, for not wanting to ’ave a chat wiv the filf who put me away!”

“Ah, yes. I did put you away, didn’t I? What a fond memory. Shame the sentence didn’t stick the first time. But don’t worry, ‘mate’—I’ll make sure the next one does. And just think, once you’re in prison, you’ll no longer have to bother with all this culinary nonsense. They’ve got their own cooks there. Of course, their food might not be quite
as tasty as yours—but at least there is no danger of being crushed by it!”

This last comment proved more than the record-breaking chef could bear. In a burst of rage, he yanked the knife away from D.S. Greenley’s throat—and, raising the blade into the air, lunged at Inspector Smudge.

Mrs. Whipple screamed and pulled her three boys close, pressing up against the cupboard behind her while Mr. Whipple shielded his family.

Fortunately for the inspector, Sammy the Spatula’s drunkenness had deprived him of the pinpoint precision with which he usually wielded a butcher knife. After a quick dodge and a simple jab to Sammy’s wrist, Inspector Smudge swiftly disarmed the sluggish chef, leaving him off his guard and entirely vulnerable.

A moment later, the inspector had twisted Sammy’s arm behind his back—and a moment after that, the two were on the floor, Inspector Smudge’s knee firmly planted on Sammy’s spine. A flash of the inspector’s arm into his coat revealed a pair of handcuffs, which he promptly clapped onto the chef’s wrists.

Just behind Inspector Smudge and his recent captive, D.S. Greenley slumped exhaustedly to the floor, clutching his throat with both hands and panting with relieved surprise that his head was still connected to his shoulders.

“
That
, Greenley, my man,” informed the inspector, “is how one makes an arrest! Perhaps next time you won’t make such a bumbling fool of yourself, will you?”

“No, sir. Of course not, sir.”

Inspector Smudge returned his attention to his captive. “There we are, Mr. Smith,” he goaded. “No use struggling now.”