Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (19 page)

“Excuse me, young lady,” said someone approaching from up the corridor. “Could you tell me where the laundry room is, please?”

Wilma looked up. It was Inspector Lemone! Suppressing a small smile, she pointed into the doorway still packed with staring performers. “In there. Mrs. Grumbletubs has been killed. Looks like the same killer as before. There's foam and everything.”

“Thank you,” said the Inspector, stopping to mop his forehead. “Had to rush here straight from the lab. Quite a distance. Dr. Kooks, the body's in there by all accounts.”

“Excuse us, thank you!” boomed the doctor, pushing through the small crowd, Penbert in tow.

Inspector Lemone was about to follow them in, but on seeing Pickle he stopped and frowned. “Funny-looking thing,” he muttered, gesturing toward the trussed-up beagle. “What is he? Some sort of pig? Goat? Can't quite make it out.”

Wilma, trying not to laugh so as not to blow her cover, shook her head. “No, he's a caaat.”

“Cat, eh?” answered Inspector Lemone with some surprise. “Goodness! I know someone who'd like to give you a good chase! Ha-ha! By golly!”

Pickle stared blankly upward. Could Inspector Lemone
really
be that gullible? Yes. Yes, he really could.

“Anyway, best get on with this mucky business. Excuse me, 'scuse me, Inspector coming through!”

As he pushed his way through the gathered actors, Wilma squeezed into a small gap between Mrs. Wanderlip and the paper tearer, Countess Honey Piccio. Penbert was down on her knees examining the strange foam that was still bubbling from poor Mrs. Grumbletubs's mouth. “It's not the same,” she said, frowning. “And it has a different, very distinctive odor. With your permission, Dr. Kooks, I'd like to do a field analysis here rather than taking her back to the lab. I think the sooner we solve this problem, the better.”

Dr. Kooks nodded. “I agree. Let's clear the area. Make the laundry room a makeshift lab. Inspector, see to it, if you please? We shall need everybody out, a table to work on, and a large pot of tea.”

“Is it that phosphorous hoo-ha?” whispered Inspector Lemone, bending down to take a closer look.

“Phosphorous?” shouted the crazy old cleaner, lurking in the corner. “What's that got to do with anything?”

“Might be how the poison is activated,” began Inspector Lemone. “In fact, we were on our way to find out where it might be coming from. I just checked the lights at front of stage. They're all gas lights. So it's not them. Then I heard the scream . . .” Penbert shot him a sharp glance. “Oh. Not supposed to say police business out loud,” added Lemone, catching Penbert's glare. “Just pretend you didn't hear it. Right then, the lot of you, off you go. Let the scientists do their work! And don't panic! We'll have this solved in no time!”

Much to her annoyance, Wilma, with the others, was bundled away from the laundry room. “I need to find out more about the foss-fuss thing,” she said quietly to Pickle. “What is it? How does it work? I think it might be time to tell the Inspector who we really are . . .”

But Pickle, squashed up against a tea crate, was shoving his nose upward. He'd seen something and wanted Wilma to see it too. Standing on tiptoe, Wilma strained to look. There he was! Gorgeous Muldoon! And he was heading into Cecily Lovely's dressing room!

“Okay,” Wilma whispered. “We'll just see what he's up to, then we'll go and find Inspector Lemone.” After all, Wilma reasoned, the show was about to start. Gorgeous could administer the poison at any moment!

Squeezing past everyone and then carefully creeping closer, Wilma could hear the actress sobbing. No change there, of course, but underneath it rumbled the distinct deep tones of Gorgeous Muldoon. “But I thought that's what you wanted?” he was whispering. “To be the only person on the bill?”

Wilma poked Pickle hard in the ribs. This was a proper motive, make no mistake! Hearing someone approach behind her in the corridor, Wilma straightened and walked quickly past Cecily's open door. She looked in as she passed. Gorgeous was standing next to Cecily and in his hand . . . there was the bucket, with some seaweed still poking out of it! Wilma almost burst. Scooping up Pickle quickly, she swept back into their dressing room.

“He's bumping them all off to make Cecily a bigger star!” she panted. “Perhaps they're in it together! And did you see the bucket? Oh, Pickle! The net is tightening good and proper! Now all we have to do is see him administer the poison and we've got him! We have to tell Inspector Lemone immediately!”

Pickle wanted to agree but, at that precise moment, he was more concerned about the rear end of his tutu, which was causing him all manner of inconveniences. Still, at least he was suffering for his art. That was the main thing.

“
T
hank you,” said Mrs. Grumbletubs, handing Inspector Lemone the empty teacup. “I'm feeling much better now. I don't know what happened. I was carrying my laundry basket in and there was someone in here. I don't know what they were doing and I couldn't see who it was because my basket was in the way. Next thing I know I was out cold.”

“You obviously disturbed the killer,” opined Inspector Lemone, who felt a sudden obligation to say something official. “They must have been unable to administer the poison, so they hit you on the head instead. Fiendish. You've had a lucky escape, Mrs. Grumbletubs!”

“I've patched up the bump on the back of your head,” said Penbert with an organized sniff. “You were clearly struck from behind. And when you fell you knocked over this bottle of fabric softener, which must have dripped into your mouth. That's what caused the foaming. You can clean that up now,” she added, gesturing to the old cleaner who was standing, mop in hand. “I no longer need to analyze it.”

“I once dealt with a man killed by fabric softener,” cut in Dr. Kooks, sensing an opportunity for an anecdote. “I did the autopsy. He had the softest internal organs I've ever seen. And his liver smelled of pinecones. Nasty business.”

Everyone nodded in agreement. “Still,” added Penbert with a stiff nod, “at least you're all right now, Mrs. Grumbletubs. No wonder everyone thought you were dead. You were out cold. And, what with the foam, I'm not surprised people jumped to conclusions. It's only to be expected. They're not professional scientists. Like I am.”

“Ohhhh!” There came a small yell from the doorway. “B-b-but”—Wilma stumbled, pointing at the laundry mistress—“you're dead!”

“Not dead, thankfully. Just a bump to the head,” explained Inspector Lemone, taking Wilma's arm and gently steering her back to the corridor. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Inspector Lemone!” whispered Wilma. “It's me! Wilma! I'm undercover! And so is Pickle!” She pulled off Pickle's toast ears.

“Well, I never,” replied the Inspector, plainly astonished. “I say—you were right about that seaweed, Wilma! Penbert says it's the source of the poison!”

“I knew it! Well, I've discovered something even more important!” Wilma hissed, grabbing Inspector Lemone by the forearm. “Gorgeous Muldoon is definitely the killer! I heard him telling Cecily that he wants to make her the only person on the bill AND he was standing with a bucket of seaweed!”

“Greasepaints!” shouted Malcolm Poppledore, coming up the corridor behind them. “There you go. Fresh for tonight. Show starts in five minutes!”

Wilma took a tube and turned back to the Inspector. “If he's going to try to kill people tonight, then we have to move fast. I'm going to go on first and see if I can find any clues about how he's administering the poison. As soon as I see him make his move, we'll have him, Inspector!”

“Hang on, though, Wilma,” cautioned Inspector Lemone, suddenly troubled. “This is a very dangerous fellow. I'm not sure you should go on at all!”

“But I'm not on the list! He's only killing people on the playbill! He hasn't killed Mrs. Grumbletubs and he only banged me on the head, remember! I'll be fine. We can catch him in the act and nobody else will get hurt!”

“Hmmm,” thought the Inspector, still frowning. “I suppose you're right. But be careful. And don't let him come at you with a weird light. He's activating the poison with some sort of phosphorus. Still don't know where he's hiding the poison, though. So stay sharp. I'll finish up here with Penbert and Kooks. You get yourself ready. I'll be in the wings, so if anything does happen, I'll be there.”

“I've just got to reapply my greasepaint,” Wilma enthused, giving the tube a little shake. “Oh! And you might want to ask Mrs. Grumbletubs why she was so scared when she was talking to me earlier. She told me she'd seen something. This is it, Inspector. I just know it! Mr. Goodman will be so pleased with us!”

Inspector Lemone watched Wilma as she ran off toward the stage. “I hope he is,” he muttered under his breath, before turning back into the laundry room. “Now then, Mrs. Grumbletubs, apparently you saw something suspicious?”

“I s'pose I should have said something earlier,'bout what I seen,” Mrs. Grumbletubs confessed, her head hanging low. “But I was afraid for Geoffrey. It was my flashlight, you see. The one I use to spot the stubborn stains. And I saw the smoking.”

“Smoking?” asked Penbert with a frown. “Where?”

“Off the stains,” explained Mrs. Grumbletubs, handing Penbert a dirty collar. “But I only saw it when I used my flashlight.”

“And where's the flashlight?” asked Inspector Lemone, looking around. “Sounds like important evidence!”

“It's gone,” said Mrs. Grumbletubs, pointing to an empty hook.

“Well, there we have it,” announced Inspector Lemone, flushed with achievement. “The killer must have come in here to steal your flashlight! You discovered the fiend in the act and the rest is history!”

Penbert took the collar and placed it under her microscope. There was a large flesh-colored smudge on it. “Look, Inspector,” said Penbert, unusually excited. “Mrs. Grumbletubs is right. On the face of it, it would appear to be an ordinary dirty collar. The flashlight you were using must have contained a form of phosphorus. Look what happens to it when I switch on this phosphorescent light device that I made all on my own with no one helping me.”

“Do get on with it, Penbert,” rumbled Dr. Kooks, pacing.

Penbert lowered a small lever on her microscope and a strange blue light shone downward onto the collar. Everyone bent forward to watch. A heavy silence filled the room. Nothing.

“It's just a light. On a collar,” said Inspector Lemone, a little puzzled.

“Wait!” cried Penbert.

Suddenly, a small, almost invisible vapor wafted up from the collar. “Good grief!” shouted Lemone, standing upright and clamping a hand to his nose. “It's the same smell as the poison!”

“That's because it IS the poison!” yelled Penbert triumphantly. “The poison when activated emits a vapor that when inhaled is deadly! We have discovered HOW it's being administered! The phosphorous light reacts with the poison, creating a vapor that is easily inhaled into the lungs, which then creates the foam that causes the choking. The poison is coming from the smudge. The poison, Inspector, is in the GREASEPAINT!”

“Well, well,” said the befuddled Inspector, shaking his head. “In the greasepaint? What a fiendishly clever thing to do. In the greasepaint, eh? Pfffft. Greasepaint. Well, I never. Hang on a minute . . .” he added, panic setting in. “Greasepaint? Oh no! Wilma!”

 

Oh yes. Wilma. Not another close scrape with death? Here we go again . . .

T
he thunder of applause had been deafening. The auditorium, as Wilma and Pickle took the stage, was packed to the rafters. Everyone had come to see if more people would die. Wilma looked out and gulped. Performing their dance routine in front of so many people was extremely daunting, but there was no turning back now. She looked down at Pickle. His back leg was shaking uncontrollably. Not only that, but the involuntary smells were back. “Just pretend they're rows of cabbages,” whispered Wilma, placing a reassuring hand on his head. “Or they're sitting in nothing but their underpants.”

Wilma gestured to the conductor in the orchestra pit and the music for their routine began to swell. “There he is!” she said as she struck her first pose. “Gorgeous Muldoon! In the wings! Keep your eyes peeled, Pickle!”

Pickle, who was shimmying his rear end with considerable vigor, shot a quick look sideways at Gorgeous, lurking in the darkness. There was no doubt about it—menace most foul was afoot.

“He's just standing there!” hissed Wilma from the side of her mouth as she kneeled down and clicked her fingers. “He's got something in his hand! Is it the foss-fuss light? Maybe we shouldn't wait for him to make a move? Maybe,” she panted as Pickle jumped up onto her shoulders, “we should confront him now? Try and arrest him or something? Oh, I wish Mr. Goodman was here!” But Pickle couldn't think about that at this particular moment. He had a tricky yet dazzling dance move to pull off.

Behind Gorgeous in the wings, the crazy cleaner suddenly appeared from nowhere. Wilma was trying to watch, but they'd reached the point in their routine where they had to do synchronized neck rolls. As they spun to the left, Wilma could see the crazy cleaner creeping up behind Gorgeous. She frowned. She turned to the front. Frustration coursed through her! All she wanted to do was bring Gorgeous Muldoon to justice once and for all! Their heads snapped upward and as Wilma leaped up and stepped sideways to take position for the end of their act, she snuck a quick peek back toward the wings once more. Something had happened! Gorgeous was on the floor and standing over him was the crazy cleaner! What was going on?