Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison (20 page)

Wilma could now see Inspector Lemone, Penbert, and Dr. Kooks in the opposite wing. The Inspector was shouting and gesturing wildly at her, but, with the music reaching its crescendo, she couldn't make out what he was saying. She looked back toward Gorgeous, who was on his feet again and seemed to be holding back the cleaner, who, for some reason, was trying to get onto the stage.

But just then the music swelled for the big end to their routine. Wilma didn't know what to do. Should she drop the act and rush over to the wings to investigate further, knowing that if she did the game would be up? Or should she see the show through? Mrs. Speckle had been quite clear—the show must ALWAYS go on. Wilma would have to finish!

They kicked, turned, and kicked again, the main lights dimmed, and a narrow, piercing spotlight fell on Wilma's face. But something wasn't right. A strange sensation crept over her. A stabbing, scratchy numbness filled the back of her throat. She was struggling to breathe! She had to make it to the end of the routine! Shimmy! Shimmy! Throat getting tighter! Jazz hands! As she raised her arms to shake them, the theatre began to swirl. Pickle became a blur and the intense light was blinding!

“The p-p-poison . . .” she gasped, clutching at her throat as her knees buckled and the world went black.

Suddenly, from nowhere, someone had scooped her into his arms. She could feel a wet cloth on her face wiping ferociously and rapidly. Water was being poured into her mouth and, as if being yelled at through a thick fog, she could hear a voice telling her to gargle and spit. Somewhere, through the molasses of confusion she could hear Inspector Lemone shouting, “It's the greasepaint! The greasepaint!” but all she could do was drift in and out of consciousness.

After a while, Wilma felt her breathing begin to regulate, the terrible scratching in her throat eased, and, burping one large unpleasant-smelling bubble from her mouth, she opened her eyes. She flinched. She was lying in the arms of the crazy old cleaner!

“Who
are
you?” she whispered, gazing up at him.

Throwing the greasepaint-covered towel to the floor, the man stood to his full height and with an impressive flourish pulled off his hat and beard. “It's me, Wilma,” he said in as serious a tone as he could muster. “Theodore P. Goodman! I'm back!”

 

Please feel free to cheer.

“
G
ather everybody to the stage!” Theodore announced, his deep voice resounding around the auditorium. “I have been operating undercover as a theatre cleaner so that I could continue my investigation into these murders in secret. In my disguise I was able to hear and see things that might have gone unnoticed. But my work is now done. This case is about to be solved once and for all!”

An air of shocked expectancy bristled from the front of the stalls to the back of the upper circle. Some of the audience were on their feet and, everywhere, urgent mutterings filled the theatre. Theodore, handing Wilma over to Penbert, turned to face the gathering performers and backstage staff. He was still dressed in his cleaner's disguise, but his uncovered golden hair and magnificent caramel-colored mustache glistened in the footlights. He had returned in triumph.

Inspector Lemone, who had been completely at sea since the disappearance of his friend and colleague, was experiencing a flush of such intense relief that all he could do was buy two boxes of corn crumbles from a passing usher and consume them immediately.

“What is the meaning of this?” yelled Barbu D' Anvers, bustling onto the stage. “Why has the show stopped? I demand that it continue!”

“Mr. Goodman is claiming to have solved the case,” answered Baron vonWorms sharply. “You'll have to wait until he's finished!”

“Poppycock!” blared the diminutive villain. “People have paid to see a grisly show! Not a boring washed-up detective drone on!”

“Let Mr. Goodman speak!” shouted a voice from the back of the stalls.

“Yes!” shouted another from the dress circle. “I want to know who did it!”

Barbu's eyes narrowed. If there's one thing a short man hates, it's being contradicted. His hands tightened into fists. Someone, somewhere, was about to feel his wrath, but, annoyingly, there were too many audience members to choose from. And quite a lot of them were bigger than him. Not that that meant he was small. Oh no. Still, he was a terrible man and he had standards to keep up. So he turned and hit Tully on the forehead with his cane instead.

“Ow! What was that for?” moaned the longsuffering henchman, rubbing his head.

Janty stared at Wilma, still in her clown's outfit. “You were Maude Muddle?” he asked, frowning. “I can't believe you fooled me . . .You were really good.”

Wilma nodded and burped another foulsmelling belch.

“If everyone is gathered,” interjected Theodore, looking serious and noble, “then I shall begin.”

The undercurrent of mumbles from the audience fell silent.

Theodore took center stage. You could have heard a pin drop. “This case began with a death by poisoning. A poison that caused the victims to, in effect, be strangled from the inside out. But we didn't know where the poison was coming from or how it was being administered. At first, we thought it was someone with a grudge against the mind reader Sabbatica, but when the Great Sylvester also fell victim to the poison's ghastly grip, it was clear that a more complicated intention was afoot. Money seemed to be the primary motive! An insurance policy came to light,” continued the great detective, “one that guaranteed Baron von Worms a massive payout in the event of unnatural deaths.”

“I knew it was him!” rattled Eric Ohio, his wooden head shooting upward. “NEVER trust the management!”

“Shhh, Eric,” soothed Mrs. Wanderlip, pulling down his flapping arm as everyone turned to look at the Baron, letting slip a weak smile.

“But what if someone else had access to the Baron's office?” opined the great detective, holding a finger in the air. “They could have seen the insurance policy. And the fact that someone sent it quite deliberately to Inspector Lemone suggested that the Baron was being set up. The Baron was not the killer.”

“Yes!” shouted the Baron, punching the air.

“In fact, the killer was quite keen to send me several red herrings,” continued Theodore. “Because not only did we receive the insurance policy pointing a finger at the Baron, but we were also sent a sinister letter made from cut-up letters. It was as if the killer enjoyed the terror, the drama of a game of deadly anticipation. And, just today, another collage letter was found pinned to the unconscious body of Mrs. Grumbletubs. But every letter leaves a trail of clues, and that was the killer's mistake. Because during my time here, undercover as a cleaner, I made it my business to take note of everyone's rubbish.”

“Oh!” gasped Wilma, suddenly remembering. “That's what you meant when you told me that rubbish tells you everything you need to know!”

“Correct! And I can now reveal that I found this . . .” Theodore reached into the inside pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a large, crumpled piece of paper. As he unfolded it, a small gasp rang out through the auditorium. “It's the front page of yesterday's
Early Worm
and, as you can see, many of the letters have been cut out!”

“But where did you find it, Mr. Goodman?” called out Wilma, before burping another yellow bubble.

“I found it in the wastepaper basket of . . . Countess Honey Piccio!”

“Of course it was her!” screamed Eric, flinging an arm in her direction. “She's the paper tearer! She has access to loads of paper! How could we have been so blind!”

Now everyone turned to stare at the Countess.

“Bit like watching tennis,” mumbled Inspector Lemone, rubbing his neck.

“I resent the implication!” cried the Countess, clasping her hands. “I often have torn paper in my wastepaper basket. That doesn't prove anything!”

“Indeed,” Theodore agreed ambiguously, much to everyone's further confusion. “And so we come back to the poison. Penbert had some results and was able to reveal that the putrid substance had come from a plant.”

“A plant?” yelled Eric Ohio in a frenzy. “Geoffrey's crazy about plants! It was him! It was Geoffrey Grumbletubs! No wonder he didn't kill his mother!”

Everyone turned to stare at the teenager. Startled at the attention, he flushed bright red. “Shut up, Eric!” he complained. “Of course it wasn't me! Don't be ridiculous!”

“It was the seaweed!” burped Wilma, pulling herself off the stage floor. “I saw it in the bucket! I went to fetch some from Filthy Cove!”

“Filthy Cove?” shouted out Eric Ohio, his wooden head spinning sideways. “Then it really
is
Countess Honey Piccio! She's got a small bathing hut there. It
was
her! I knew it!”

“Disgraceful!” objected the Countess, flushed with indignity. “It certainly was not me!”

“But when I got there, someone was already there collecting seaweed!” added Wilma, her eyes widening. “And when they realized they were about to be caught red-handed they ran off, leaving a wooden finger behind them!”

“A wooden finger!” screamed Eric Ohio. “I knew it! It was Eric Ohio! The ventriloquist's dummy!”

“No, Eric,” chided Mrs. Wanderlip, shaking her head. “That's you. You can't accuse yourself.”

“Oh yes,” mumbled the dummy, his head sinking into his chest.

“The wooden finger was significant,” said Theodore, reaching for the Clue Bag in his waistcoat pocket and holding it out for everyone to see. “But this finger Wilma found did not belong to Eric Ohio!”

“See! See!” yelled the dummy, confident once more. “I knew it wasn't me!”

“But he's missing a finger, Mr. Goodman!” cried out Geoffrey, eager to get back at Eric. “It must be his!”

“No!” interjected Wilma, realizing what Theodore was getting at. “Look at the finger in Mr. Goodman's bag. It's a different color from the rest of Eric's hand. It's a different sort of wood. Eric lost his finger because the killer crept into his dressing room and stole his finger to make it look like he'd lost it at Filthy Cove! But that must mean there's someone else with a wooden finger? Am I right, Mr. Goodman? Is that what you meant when you said it was all change? You know, when you were a cleaner?”

“Precisely so, Wilma,” said Theodore, nodding. “Yet again, it seemed to be another false trail. But the seaweed was the key to the unraveling of this miserable mystery. People were dying onstage with no one near them. Not only that, but how was the poison being administered? Penbert discovered that the deadly enzyme was being hidden in the actors' greasepaint and that it was activated by phosphorescent light. As soon as the intended victims stepped onstage, they were doomed. Without knowing it, they were poisoning themselves!”

“It's actually a fascinating biological compound,” said Penbert, stepping forward and clearing her throat for a full analysis. “The chlorophyll in the—”

“Not now, Penbert,” said Dr. Kooks, pulling her back.

“Hang on!” squawked Eric Ohio, his wooden head now rotating very quickly. “In the greasepaints? But there's only one person in charge of the greasepaints! Malcolm Poppledore! It was him! I knew it!”

“Malcolm Poppledore was in charge of the greasepaints, yes,” answered Theodore patiently. “But he merely distributed the fresh deliveries. He was no more aware of what he was handing out than the poor unfortunates who applied it for the last time. The killer was not Malcolm Poppledore!”

“Oh, thank goodness,” heaved Malcolm, who had gone a bit sweaty.

“But it was under the stage where the greasepaints are mixed each day that the mystery would unravel further. My apprentice was struck on the back of the head after she chanced upon the killer, just as Mrs. Grumbletubs did when she stumbled into the laundry at the precise moment that the fiend was stealing her phosphorescent flashlight—a vital clue that would reveal how the poison was being activated.”

“This is the foss-fuss bit, Pickle,” explained Wilma, putting her arm around her beagle. “Try to keep up.”

“Phosphorus,” explained Theodore, turning to look at his apprentice. “Not foss-fuss. And this isn't that bit quite yet. I need to deal with the bumps on the head first, Wilma. Remember, it's important for detectives to be methodical in their final summing up. You can look that up in your textbook later.”

Everyone turned and looked at Wilma and shook their heads and tutted.

Wilma mustered a weak smile. “Sorry,” she mouthed.

And Theodore carried on. “So my assistant was bumped on the head. The reason? She had disturbed the killer as the deadly seaweed was being mixed into the greasepaints. Not only that, but Wilma was about to find the clue that would prove most decisive in solving this case—an old playbill for this theatre on which the names of the victims so far were crossed off. So who was it? And what was the strange creaking that Wilma heard just before she was hit on the head? It was the sound of a pair of brand-new leather shoes. And there is only one person here who has recently been complaining of uncomfortable new shoes!”

“Gorgeous Muldoon!” cried out Wilma, fit to burst, pointing toward the grumpy comedian still sitting on the floor. “It was him! He was the one! He's in love with Cecily and wanted her to be the only person on the bill, Mr. Goodman! I even saw him with a bucket of seaweed!”

“I knew it was him!” shouted Eric Ohio, his arms flying upward.

“What?” shouted Gorgeous, struggling to his feet. “I do have new shoes, but what does that have to do with anything? And the bucket was full of seawater! To soak my blistered feet in! Since when has that been a crime?”