Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (13 page)

“It's all right, Inspector,” said Theodore, raising a hand to stop his friend. “But I am surprised to see you, Barbu. Don't tell me this grubby mess is your doing?”

Barbu frowned. “Me? How could I? Visser was my very dearest friend. I have merely come to extend my commiserations and to take Janty home. Come, boy. Get your things. It's what your father wanted.”

“But I never met you,” complained Janty, staring at the black-clad figure before him. “I never even heard of you.”

Barbu blinked. “Never heard of me?” he asked, bending forward a little. “But I am Barbu D'Anvers, the greatest criminal mind that ever lived. Tully! Give him a poster. Never heard of me indeed.”

Tully reached into his coat and unraveled a large poster of Barbu standing looking evil in front of a menacing skyline with the words
Be Bad! Stay Bad!
emblazoned across the bottom.

“I can sign that for you if you like,” added Barbu, raising an eyebrow. Janty shook his head.

“What are you up to, Barbu?” asked Theodore, eyes narrowing. “You've never shown a scrap of kindness in your life. What do you want with this boy? He's going nowhere until I've gotten to the bottom of this.”

“Sorry!” said Barbu, grabbing Janty by the forearm. “No time for that! We've got to get back. And seeing as how I am now the legal guardian of the boy, I can't possibly leave him with strangers.”

“What do you mean legal guardian?” spluttered the Inspector.

“Paperwork, Tully!” demanded the villain, clicking his fingers.

The henchman passed his master a folded piece of paper, which Barbu flicked open with a flourish. “ ‘I hereby declare,' ” began the villain, reading out loud, “‘that Barbu D'Anvers' (that's me) ‘has been declared the sole protector of Janty Haanstra, an orphan' (that's you), ‘until such time as' . . . blah blah . . . and so it goes on. All aboveboard.”

“Give that to me!” puffed the Inspector, grabbing the paper out of Barbu's hands. “Well I never, Goodman, it's true. It's got the official stamp of the Lowside Institute for Woeful Children. They deal with all the island's orphans.”

“Wait a minute,” said Theodore, sensing foul play. “How did you know Janty was an orphan, Barbu?”

A slow, evil smirk slithered across Barbu's lips. “Well,” he said with an arrogant twirl of his cane, “nothing travels faster than bad news.”

“But I don't know you!” complained Janty again, pulling his arm away from Barbu's grip. “And besides, this man said he'd have me looked after. And he's going to find who killed my father!”

For a moment Barbu's eyes hardened. Then he lowered his head theatrically. “Oh dear!” He grasped at his chest. “You want to go with this man? This man who is responsible for all our miseries and disappointments? You do know who he is? You must. Every Criminal Element on Cooper hates him. This, dearest boy, is Theodore P. Goodman. He was your father's mortal enemy!”

Janty twisted around to look up at the detective. “You're Theodore P. Goodman?” he whispered, face contorting with confusion.

“Yes, he is!” shouted Wilma, leaping in from the corridor. “And he's the greatest detective in the world!”

“Oh no, not again!” Theodore groaned. “How did you get here?”

“The address of the workshop is mentioned in that report on the Case of the Silver Mask,” babbled Wilma quickly, “and then I snuck across the border by hiding in the back of a cabbage cart. We smell a bit. Sorry.” Pickle looked delighted.

“How long have you been here?” demanded Theodore, being as serious as he could without losing his temper.

“I heard everything. I was practicing eavesdropping—though I know that means I probably shouldn't have jumped out and revealed myself. . .” Wilma acknowledged as the detective raised his eyebrows. “But never mind that! We've got to stop the boy! You mustn't go with Barbu D'Anvers!” Wilma implored Janty. “He's a very bad man. I've got loads of proof on my Clue Ring!”

“Who is this?” asked Barbu, stepping forward to glower at the determined ten-year-old. “Is this girl a friend of yours, Janty?”

“Never seen her in my life.” The boy shrugged, still glaring at Theodore.

“Then this is clearly none of your business,” snapped the tiny villain to Wilma. “Go away.”

Wilma gulped and said the first thing that came into her head, which, for future reference, probably wasn't the best idea. “I'm Wilma Tenderfoot. You're a lot shorter in real life,” she said. “I mean, shorter than the pictures of you on my Clue Ring. I mean, in this one,” she rambled on, fumbling to find one of her newspaper scraps, “you must be standing on a box or something.”

“Tully!” yelled the villain, eyes widening. “Get her! Get her now, please!”

“Wilma!” shouted Theodore, striding out to stop Tully as he lumbered toward the ten-year-old girl. “Get behind the Inspector. I shall talk to you in a moment. Janty, I know that right now you're having trouble trusting me, but here, take my card. You may need it.”

Theodore reached into his pocket and handed the small boy a card with his address on it. Janty stared at it, his grubby fingers smudging its edges. He had two choices: He could leave with Barbu and pursue the life he was born to or he could turn his back on everything his father stood for and believed in. Anger burned deep in Janty's heart. More than anything he wanted revenge, and as he stood, gazing at the card Theodore had given him, he realized that with it every ambition he had ever had would be thwarted. Janty had made his choice. Eyes flashing, he very slowly tore the card in two. Wilma gasped. “I won't be needing this now,” said Janty in a low, defiant mumble. “I was born bad. And I'll stay bad.”

“But he's evil!” yelled Wilma, pointing toward Barbu. “You can't want to be like him.”

“On the contrary,” sneered Barbu, placing a hand on Janty's shoulder. “Everyone loves a bad boy. You'll understand when you're older. Tully, Janty, we're leaving.”

As they swept out Wilma bent down to pick up the torn pieces of card. “I can't believe he did that, Mr. Goodman,” she said with a shake of her head.

“This is a worrying development,” said Theodore, thinking out loud. “But, Wilma, you shouldn't have come here. Being a detective isn't a game.”

“I know that, Mr. Goodman,” said Wilma, twisting the end of her pinafore. “Oh my!” she added, glancing into the workshop. “Is that a dead body?”

“Oooh,” murmured the Inspector. “Probably shouldn't look at that. Being so young and all.”

“I don't mind, Inspector,” said Wilma. “I saw a dead cat once. I'm not frightened. And besides, I have to get used to death, what with my going to be a detective and everything.”

“All the same,” said Theodore, “there are some things you should be spared. Now then, Inspector, a word if I may.”

Wilma stood staring at the lifeless shape on the floor. She told herself she didn't have time to feel afraid; there was work to be done. As Theodore and the Inspector chatted in the corridor, Wilma wandered into the workshop to take a closer look. Pickle, who had scampered ahead of her to explore that intriguing smell of stew, was pawing at something under the cooker, his nose glued to the floor. Wilma bent down to see what it was. It looked like the broken end of what seemed to be a dart. “Well done, Pickle!” she whispered to the beagle. “This looks like it could be important. We should show this to Mr. Goodman! On the other hand . . .” added Wilma, thinking, “perhaps I should try to find out what it is on my own. And prove myself to Mr. Goodman that way—since the eavesdropping didn't quite work! I'll just pop it in my pocket and have a closer look when we get back to Mrs. Waldock's. Oh! Mrs. Waldock's letter!” Wilma gasped. “I totally forgot!” But just as she was about to dash off to deliver it, the detective approached, looking stern. “The Inspector and I are heading back to Clarissa Cottage. We need to update the Clue Board, see where we're at. And you are going to come with us.”

“Oooh!” Wilma replied, eyes widening. “Am I going to help you with some deductions and contemplating?”

“No, young lady,” answered Theodore, frowning. “I am going to have a serious chat with you. A very serious chat indeed.”

 

Oh dear. That doesn't sound good, does it?

W
ilma's mind was whirring with thoughts and theorems: the small, feathery dart shaft in her pocket was clearly important, but without any time to sit down, contemplate it, make deductions, and write things up on her Clue Board, she was in a fine mess. Not only that, but as she followed Detective Goodman and the Inspector, she was more than aware that she had a chore to do. A chore that wasn't getting done.

Wilma's eyes sparkled suddenly. “Hang on,” she said, whispering down to Pickle. “I should be concentrating on detective matters and darts, not having to mail silly letters! And what Mrs. Waldock doesn't know, Mrs. Waldock can't get angry about. Letters get lost all the time, don't they, Pickle?”

Pickle, who, at that precise moment, had a small but nevertheless persistent itch in his left ear, shook his head and gave a little snort. “That's what I think too,” said Wilma with a nod. “So if I happened to lose this letter between here and Mrs. Waldock's house, then that wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing, would it?”

And so the pair of them trotted after Cooper's greatest and most serious detective. And somewhere, between Visser Haanstra's workshop and the border with the Farside, Mrs. Waldock's letter was inadvertently dropped under a gooseberry bush, where no one was able to give it a second thought. How very convenient.

 

“I can't work it out, Goodman,” said Inspector Lemone as they approached the Border Control booth. “Barbu D'Anvers is rotten to the core. What does he want—taking that young boy in? I don't like the smell of it. Something's not right.”

Theodore reached into his pocket for his Border Pass. “That boy must know something useful,” he explained. “Barbu obviously thinks so, anyway. And he wants the boy close, where we can't get to him. Ahh! Trevor! Good day to you.”

“Inspector,” replied Trevor, giving his cap a small tug. “Mr. Goodman. Just give your passes a stamp. Oh! That's your tenth one this week. That means you can have a ... hang on, just check with the peepers ...” A small note was handed up. “Oooh!” exclaimed Trevor happily. “A set of steak knives!”

“Hello, Trevor,” said Wilma, stepping up to the booth and trying to look official. “I don't have a pass, but I'm with them. Good day to you. Thank you. Come on, Pickle.”

Trevor stared down and spluttered. “No pass? Hold on! Aren't you that girl who waved and questioned? Oh dear me no. No, no, no. No pass? Well! I thought I'd seen everything!” Another piece of paper appeared from the hole in the wall and was waved with some urgency. Trevor took it. “As I suspected,” he said, glancing down. “You've been given a Cheek-of-It Order. Only the very brazen get one of those. You're going nowhere.”

Theodore quickly approached the booth. “Trevor,” he began, in as reasonable a manner as he could muster, “am I right in thinking that ten stamps on my pass also entitle me to take a guest into the Farside?”

Another piece of paper was handed up.

Trevor blinked. “Hmmm. Annoying. But yes, Mr. Goodman, it seems it does.”

“Good,” answered Theodore with a firm nod. “Then come along, Wilma. Into the Farside we go.”

And as Wilma passed through, she couldn't help but shoot Trevor a smile that some would call smug. And Trevor, on seeing it, made a mental note that the next time he saw her he would make her wait for longer than anyone had ever had to wait before. Just see if he didn't.

 

Once back at Clarissa Cottage, Theodore was ready to get straight down to business. “Aah!” he declared as they all marched into his study. “Mrs. Speckle. Tea! And biscuits! Thank you!”

Wilma, finding herself back in her hero's study, was quietly bubbling with excitement. Maybe the serious chat he wanted to have with her was about making her his apprentice? What else could it be? She wandered over to the Clue Board and tried to appear serious. This was a momentous moment and she wanted to look prepared. Pickle, picking up on Wilma's portentous mood, licked his nose and sat up straight at her feet.

As Mrs. Speckle padded into the study, Inspector Lemone flushed a little and made his way over to the fireplace, where he stood with one hand on the mantelpiece. It might seem odd that he did this, but the fact was, he had read in a magazine that gentlemen can often look at their best when they assume manly poses and stare off into the middle distance. Theodore glanced over at his portly friend and gave a curious smile but said nothing. Sometimes friends just have to be left to pickle their own eggs.