Wilma Tenderfoot: The Case of the Fatal Phantom (7 page)

“Not enough,” growled the man. “Who’s next? We’ve got an empty seat at the table.”

“Tarquin Blackheart! Mind if I sit down?” said the young nobleman swaggering toward the table.

“One hundred counters …” said the black-eyed player, glancing at Tarquin’s stack as he placed it on the table in front of him. “Not much…but it’ll do. So you’re a Blackheart, eh? Live in that estate to the south of Coop? The BIG estate?”

“That’s right,” boasted Tarquin. “The biggest estate on the island. And you are…?”

“Barbu D’Anvers. You may have heard of me …”

Tarquin’s grin froze. He had indeed heard of Barbu D’Anvers. There weren’t many people on the island who hadn’t. As a general rule it displays a level of basic stupidity to gamble at all, but to gamble against a known villain requires an advanced sort of stupidity that only absolute idiots possess. Tarquin’s grin came back to life and broadened. “Barbu D’Anvers!” he guffawed. “Imagine that! Well! Let us play!” See? S.T.U.P.I.D.

Barbu watched as a decanter of Squifty Juice was placed on a small side table next to his opponent. A cunning grin settled on his lips. Gesturing toward Tully he mumbled, “Order another flagon of Squifty Juice for our friend. And make it a big one.”

“Are you trying to get him drunk, Master Barbu?” Tully grinned evilly.

“Roaringly so,” muttered the villain. “We shall get more out of him than his hundred counters, mark my words. Watch and learn.” And he winked at the boyish dealer.

For the next half hour Barbu allowed Tarquin to beat him time and time again. As the young Blackheart’s counter stack grew, so did his confidence and swagger…and his appetite for drink. “Looks like I’ve stolen all your luck, D’Anvers!” he cheered as he took what seemed to be Barbu’s last counters. “More Squifty Juice! Ha-ha!”

Barbu’s head was bowed in pretend defeat. “I do seem to be financially compromised,” he said, gesturing to the empty space in front of him, “but I’ve never been a man to walk away from a Supter table until I absolutely have to. Let us have one more wager. One hand of
Chance
Supter and winner takes Double-Double. If I lose I shall, of course, honor my debt with an IOU.”

“Double-Double?” guffawed Tarquin, taking a swig from his refilled glass. “Are you crazy? That’s about ten thousand grogs!”

“Well, let’s make it interesting. Any card from any suit. The lowest card wins it all. Janty—I mean, dealer—shuffle the deck. Tully, another glass of Squifty for our friend.”

Puffing a wayward curl out from his eyes and almost blowing his mustache off in the process, the “dealer” picked up the Supter cards. As he did so, he masked them with one hand and, while Tarquin was distracted by Tully’s clumsy efforts to serve drinks, he slipped the existing deck up one sleeve and let an identical-looking pack slide down the other. Barbu’s jaw twitched a little. “One card please.”

The boy dealt a card to each player. Tarquin leaned forward with a wide smirk on his face and took a look at his. Throwing his head back, he roared with laughter. “You shall regret this, D’Anvers,” he crowed. “I say, let’s make it Double-Double-Double-Double!”

Like a shark that knows it has its prey in its sights, Barbu allowed a small glint of triumph to dance briefly in his eyes before blinking slowly and blackly. “That’s a very large wager, Master Blackheart,” he hissed. “I accept.”

Taking his Squifty glass in one hand, Tarquin raised it. “Gentlemen!” he bellowed. “I have the lowest card in the deck! The plankton of fish! Ha-ha! I have you beaten, D’Anvers!”

Barbu, still seated, fingered the corner of his own card. “The lowest card in the pack?” he replied, a dangerously quizzical expression creeping across his face. “In normal Supter, yes. But we are playing
Chance
Supter, Master Blackheart. Where the lowest card is …” He turned his card over with a flourish. “…the joker!”

Tarquin, glass at his lips, stared in disbelief. “But …” he began, in a daze, “I had the plankton …”

“Yes,” answered Barbu, standing and pulling on his cloak. “You also had all the counters. But now you don’t. And not only that, you now owe me a further…hmm, let me work this out…about twenty thousand grogs.”

Tarquin fell back into his chair. “B-b-but I don’t have twenty thousand grogs.”

“Well, you’ll have to get them,” barked Barbu, banging the floor with his cane. “Just open up your family vaults or something.”

“We don’t have anything in our family vaults,” mumbled Tarquin, despair and embarrassment raging across his face. “Everything has gone …” He stopped, his mind racing with fear. “Although…hang on…they found this mummy on the estate yesterday. It’s got a key in its hand. A key to all that’s left of the immense Blackheart fortune, they say …”

Barbu’s face lit up. “A key to a fortune?” he whispered, bending close to a sweating Tarquin. “Interesting.” His black eyes narrowed and he turned to his apprentice, who was already peeling off his dealer disguise. “This could be what we’ve been waiting for. Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Janty. If we find this fortune, then we’re back in business. Rascal Rock will be regained and we can teach my rotten critics the lesson they deserve. This island
shall
be mine! My mind is made up. A plan is sprung. You and Tully go and fetch our things from the Institute. We are NEVER going back.”

“Yes, master.” Janty nodded.

“And as for you, Tarquin Blackheart,” Barbu added, crunching the end of his cane into the
young man’s chest, “you can expect me at the Hoo in the morning. Tully, take his counters. We shall collect the rest of what we are owed tomorrow!”

The tiny villain swept from the room and Tarquin, who really had been a very silly boy, knew he was in a vast amount of trouble. How he was going to get himself out of this scrape was anyone’s guess. He owed more money than he could even imagine, and all because he’d been a giddy goat. Listen and learn, children. The lesson here is
never
play cards with a scoundrel. That way you can avoid the crushing nightmare of being saddled with an enormous debt that you have absolutely no chance of paying off. A bit like when men decide they’re going to buy a football team and then have to explain to their wives why they can’t have a new kitchen.

Oh the horror!

T
he weather was getting worse. The following morning the skies were black, snow squalls were whipping across the Blackheart estate, and drifts were deepening. Tarquin, who was yet to tell anyone of the predicament he was in, was standing at the window of the upstairs sitting room and staring out. Where was he going to find nearly twenty thousand grogs? And how was he going to explain this to his father? Maybe, if he could get his hands on the hidden treasure first, then all his problems would be solved. Barbu D’Anvers had certainly seemed to like that idea. But how could he do that?

“Tarquin,” said Belinda, who was resting on a chaise longue by the fire, “please pass me the lemon water. I am experiencing a severe mental strain.”

“Get it yourself,” he grumbled back at her, “or call Portious.”

Belinda sat upright and fixed her brother with a shocked stare. “What’s the matter with you this morning? Your mood is frightful.”

“None of your business,” he snapped back. “I have things on my mind.”

“But so do I!” wailed Belinda, throwing herself back on the chaise longue. “What with desiccated fellows being dug up and cursed ghouls and blood on the walls! I mean, what next? I’ve already been terrified to distraction! And who’s going to want to marry me now? We’ve got a Phantom in the walls!”

“Oh here, take it,” relented Tarquin, turning from the window and reaching for the jug of chilled lemon water. “Anything to stop your infernal whining.” He crossed the room to her side.

“I say,” commented Belinda, sitting up to take
the jug. “Someone is coming along the drive in a barouche. Who would be visiting in this weather?”

Tarquin turned back to the window and looked down. A black horse-drawn buggy was struggling toward the house. Belinda got up and joined him. “Goodness. Look at the storm. We shall all be snowed in by the end of the day.” She took a sip from her glass, then added ominously, “There will be no escape for any of us.”

The black barouche had slid to a halt before the front entrance. As the carriage door opened and a young boy with curly black hair jumped out, Tarquin gave an involuntary groan. “Oh no,” he whimpered. “It’s Barbu D’Anvers’s boy.”

“THE Barbu D’Anvers?” squealed Belinda, peering over her brother’s shoulder to get a better look. “The famous villain? How exciting. What’s he doing here?”

“Never mind,” rattled Tarquin, turning and walking toward the door. “I have to stop him before he speaks to Father.”

“You KNOW Barbu D’Anvers?” cried Belinda, eyes widening. “Oh well, I’m coming with you,”
she trilled, running after her brother. “I’ve ALWAYS wanted to meet him!”

Barbu D’Anvers stepped down from the ba-rouche and stared upward from under the brim of his top hat at Blackheart Hoo, spread out before him like a smorgasbord of evil opportunity. It is a general truth that people commencing devilish plots tend to feel a little smug. That’s because they know what they’re up to, while no one else has the slightest idea that they are about to be taken for every penny under the sun. With a sly smirk, Barbu tossed his cloak over one shoulder, turned to Janty, and said, “Let the real games begin. Sound the bell. Tully, unload the bags.”

Janty leaped up the heavy stone steps to the Hoo’s double doors and reached for the rusty bell pull, but just as he was about to yank it, the door opened. It was Tarquin, with Belinda close behind him.

“Mr. D’Anvers,” Tarquin blustered, running down the steps toward the undersized crook, “there really is no need for you to call. I shall
honor my debt toward you. I just need a bit more time …”

Barbu held up a hand to stop him. “Janty! Tell the man!”

The tousle-haired boy pulled out a small notebook from his jacket pocket. “I have made a brief calculation,” he began. “And according to my IOU conversion table, in lieu of the cold, hard cash you owe Mr. D’Anvers, you have to provide board and lodging here at the Hoo for at least fifteen days.” He looked up with an insolent smile.

“Maybe longer,” added Barbu, leaning in threateningly. “In short, we’re staying for as long as we like.”

“B-b-but,” stammered Tarquin helplessly as the villain marched past him, “I don’t know how I can explain this to my father …”

“Well, think of something fast,” snapped Barbu, striding up the steps.

“Tarquin!” yelled Belinda, throwing herself in Barbu’s path as he reached the front door. “Introduce us, won’t you?” She held out her hand for
it to be kissed. “Never mind him. I’m Belinda Blackheart. Charmed, I’m sure.”

Barbu froze and stared in disbelief. “You want me to kiss your hand? Don’t be ridiculous. I have absolutely no idea where that has been.”

“On the end of my arm?” proffered Belinda, still smiling hopefully.

Barbu’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute,” he growled, “you’re a Blackheart. What’s this one’s status, Janty?”

“‘Belinda Blackheart,’” Janty read, “‘younger child. Second in line to inherit. No debts. No criminal record. Can do impressions of owls.’”

“Yes.” Belinda nodded enthusiastically. “I can! Tweeeee-itttt, twoooo!”

Barbu curled his lip. “When you say second in line, that means she gets everything if Tarquin is nowhere to be found, yes?”

“Yes, master, unless she’s married and has signed everything over to her husband.”

“You’re not married, are you?” asked Barbu quickly.

“Gosh, no!” giggled Belinda, twirling her hair
around one finger. “I haven’t even got a boyfriend.” Her eyes widened and she batted her eyelashes a little.

Barbu grimaced and gave her a quick look up and down. “Not surprised. But if she was married, then her husband would get everything? Good, Janty. Good. Now, you there!” he bellowed, on seeing Portious the butler. “Man with the half-collapsed face! Take us to our rooms. We shall be here for the foreseeable future.”

“Isn’t he dreamy?” whispered Belinda as she and her brother watched the terrible trio and an impressive number of bags marching up the central staircase. “Do you think he liked me?”

“I think you’ll be quite comfortable here, sir,” said Portious, showing Barbu into the guest suite. Compared to the garret room the villainous gang had been stuck in at the Institute, the Hoo’s guest room was positively palatial. There was a large four-poster bed with a bedspread decorated with pigs, as well as various bureaus and reading tables, a huge sumptuous sofa, and a
fireplace with a roaring fire. “Quarters for your servants are through the side door. Will there be anything else?” asked the butler morosely, opening a drinks cabinet and pulling out a tray of tiny bottles.

“Yes,” replied Barbu, snapping off his gloves and tossing them onto the bed. “I would like a map of the grounds, information pertaining to any secret vaults, and a footstool placed next to the bed.”

“Yes, that bed is unusually high off the ground. It can be a struggle for people who aren’t quite tall enough …”

“Ooooooh!” interjected Tully, grabbing Portious and bundling him to the door. “Mr. Barbu will ring if he needs anything else!”

Barbu cast an eye around the room. “That sofa’s seen better days,” he observed, noticing its threadbare corners. “Looks like Tarquin was telling the truth—they are down on their luck. Probably why the family has been so reclusive and secretive in recent years—the shame. All the better for us. That means they’re vulnerable to
an aggressive takeover.” He grinned. “Part one of my evil plot is complete. We’re in. As soon as we get the plans, let’s start thinking about potential locations for this missing treasure—wells, dungeons, odd-looking cupboards, that sort of thing.”

“It might be inside a pumpkin, Mr. Barbu,” proffered Tully, slamming the bedroom door shut. “Or disguised to look like a cat.”

“I’ll do the thinking, Tully, thank you. Obviously we should steal anything remotely valuable we see lying around—you know, to generate revenue to keep ourselves afloat—and if we can’t find the treasure, then we can use that daughter thing as a backup plan. Janty’s idea is an excellent one. I can do what anyone who regards skullduggery as a vocation does,” he explained, settling himself into a large armchair. “I can MARRY into money.”