The Grub-and-Stakers Spin a Yarn (26 page)

“I’m not scared, just cautious. There’s nothing more dangerous than a scatty broad, you know that. Are you sure we didn’t make a mistake stashing Daughter Matilda with her?”

“Listen, what else could we do? We had to stay right out front the whole time where everybody could watch the cute little freaks doing their song-and-dance routine, didn’t we?”

“I know, I know. We’ve got the perfect alibi, but I’ll be one glad Siamese twin when we don’t have to be nice to jolly old thirty-second cousin Fuzzywuzzy any longer. Sometimes I wish we’d stayed with the carnival.”

“Like fun you do. This is the best racket we’ve hit yet. Go ahead, blow up George and get into bed. I’ll just nip down the back way and pinch the innkeeper’s car long enough to make sure everything’s ticketty-boo at Phiffer’s, and leave the darling daughter’s amputated finger with Mother Matilda to show her we mean business. Want anything from the live bait shop?”

“Yeah, fetch me back a strawberry milkshake, will you? Ta, Ran. See you later.”

Osbert heard the door close, then sounds of puffing. Then he felt the bed joggling again. That rotter Glanville hadn’t even bothered to brush his teeth, he thought disapprovingly. He waited till the twin overhead was comfortably settled and had begun to snore, then poked his head out from under the dust ruffle. Sergeant MacVicar’s head poked out, too. They exchanged nods. Then, noiseless and lithe as two sidewinders, they slithered out from their respective hiding places.

Sergeant MacVicar stayed on one side of the bed, Osbert crept silently around to the other. Together they confronted the two prone figures, one a bona fide half of a Siamese Twin act and one a blown-up rubber dummy that might perhaps have deceived a chambermaid glancing in to see if it was all right to make up the bed but that certainly would never have fooled Sergeant MacVicar or Deputy Monk. In dire and fateful tone, the sergeant gave utterance.

“Glanville Bleinkinsop, if that is in fact your name, I arrest you in the name of the law.”

“Huh? Who? What?”

“He means you’re pinched,” said Deputy Monk. “Bring your friend there along to the station if you’re uncomfortable without a backup.”

Osbert picked up the phone. “Room service? You can send Officer Ray up now. Don’t worry, Mr. Bleinkinsop, we’re not going to break up the act. I’m on my way now to collect your brother: Too bad about that strawberry milkshake.”

Officer Ray dashed in, burning to be of use, so Sergeant MacVicar let him carry the ingenious corset which the brothers had used for their act and which was now being impounded as evidence. Osbert didn’t wait to see this done; he was already out of the inn and into his trusty wagon.

It was as well that Sergeant MacVicar had been forced by protocol to keep off Chief Slapp’s territory. He was much too intrinsically law-abiding to have borne with equanimity the rate at which his deputy covered the road to Lammergen. Osbert had every confidence that Ranville had meant precisely what he’d said about delivering Daughter Matilda’s amputated finger to her mother.

But it wouldn’t be Matilda’s finger, it would be Clorinda’s! He stomped the accelerator clear down to the floor, roared into Lammergen like an avenging angel and managed to slow down enough not to flatten any late revelers who might be going home from the live bait shop before he drove the wagon into the field across from Mrs. Phiffer’s house so that Ranville wouldn’t see it and be warned away.

Osbert could spy no car in Mrs. Phiffer’s driveway and none parked out front, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Ranville too might have stashed his purloined vehicle somewhere out of sight. It wouldn’t be a good idea to risk the doorbell, either. The door was locked, but Osbert had a knack with locks. Careful not to trip over any frogs, he let himself into the house and tiptoed down the hallway.

A light showed through from the kitchen. From the sound of merry voices, both female to his extreme relief, Osbert judged that Ranville must have decided to go for the milkshake before he came for the finger. He further deduced from hearing Mrs. Phiffer declaim, “Fifteen for two, fifteen for four, and a run of three, so there!” that a cribbage game was in progress. Clearing his throat loudly, he stepped into the room.

“Evening, ladies. I’m sorry to interrupt your game, but I think you ought to know that the ransom note’s been delivered and Quimper Wardle’s on his way here to cut off Daughter Matilda’s finger.”

“But why?” gasped Clorinda.

“If Daughter Matilda loses a finger, she’ll never be able to play ‘The Flight of the Bumblebee’ again,” said Mrs. Phiffer severely. “Has Mr. Wardle considered that?”

“I don’t suppose he has.” Actually Osbert hadn’t considered it himself, but this was not the time to say so. “You’re plumb right, ma’am, and we can’t let it happen. Have you two got your plaster ducks ready?”

“Oh yes, right here,” Clorinda assured him. “We haven’t been without them for a minute. Have we time to peg out?”

“I could make some cocoa,” Mrs. Phiffer offered.

“Sorry,” said Osbert, “there’s no time for cocoa. We’ve got to batten down the hatches and stand by to repel boarders.”

“Then I’ll get you a duck. Here, you can hold mine while I run out to the garage!”

“No, Mrs. Phiffer! Stay here with us. I don’t want Wardle to catch you alone out there in the dark. His improvisations are getting too gol-darned grisly. What I want both of you to do right this second is take your ducks upstairs to the room where he handcuffed the other Daughter Matilda to the bed. We’ll leave the front door unlocked to make Wardle think he’s really got you fooled, and I’ll lurk among the pinwheels to nab him as he comes up the stairs. If he gets past me, you two bop him with your ducks as hard as you can.”

“But what if we hurt him?” Mrs. Phiffer asked.

“Then I’ll make you another pinwheel. If you knock him out, I’ll make you two.”

“Wunderbar!
But suppose Daughter Matilda and I both miss Mr. Wardle and knock out each other instead?”

“Then you forfeit your duck and don’t get any pinwheels.”

“And I get my finger cut off,” said Clorinda. “Don’t fret, Osbert, we won’t miss. Hark! Isn’t that a car stopping out front?”

“Upstairs, quick!” hissed Osbert. “Clorinda, lie down on the bed and make believe you’re handcuffed to the headboard. Mrs. Phiffer, lurk behind the doorway with your duck at the ready.”

Osbert realized bitterly that he’d counted too much on that strawberry milkshake. Ranville must have found the bait shop closed. And he himself was still weaponless! Hastily he snatched up one of the oversized plastic frogs and herded the two women up the stairs and into the room for which the self-styled Quimper Wardle and his equally wicked counterpart were still paying rent.

He’d barely managed to conceal himself in the shadows where the pinwheels hung thickest before the front door was flung roughly open and Ranville burst in. There was enough light in the hallway for Osbert to notice that the fiendish twin was wearing a green jersey and gray flannel slacks identical to the garments which the elderly person had attempted to impound on the banks of Bottomless Mere. More importantly, Ranville carried in his hand a mean-looking switchblade knife, and the expression on his formerly bland face was even meaner than the glint of that menacing blade.

The plastic frog, evidently designed to plant marigolds in, was hollow and had a hole the size of a dinner plate in its back. As Ranville slunk up the stairs with the knife thrust out in front of him as villains in old movies were ever wont to do, Osbert upended the frog and bated his breath until the would-be amputator came within arm’s reach. Then, with a swiftness none of Lex Laramie’s heroes could have bettered, he kicked the knife from Ranville’s hand and slammed the frog down over the miscreant’s head. As the now frog-faced Ranville lunged blindly toward his assailant, Mrs. Phiffer cracked him smartly across the shin with her duck.

“Oh, well ducked, Mrs. Phiffer!” cried Clorinda from the bed. “Jolly good show, Osbert! Chase him over this way so I can get a whack at him, too.”

But Ranville had no fight left in him. He didn’t even try to struggle while Osbert was securing his formerly murderous hands with the selfsame handcuffs he’d used to chain Arethusa to the bed. He just kept whimpering for somebody to please, please take off that frog. As it now transpired, this perfidious tool of the rival mincemeat magnates, this cold-blooded killer, this vicious kidnapper and sneaky impersonator was afraid of the dark!

Sergeant MacVicar had got in touch with Fridwell Slapp by telephone and been cordially invited to come over and assist with the formalities once Slapp had been assured that both Ranville and his somewhat less bloodthirsty but by no means less evil brother were safely under control. All in all, it was quite a party. By the time formal charges had been laid, statements taken, and both twins, whose name turned out to be not Bleinkinsop but plain Blenk, had been carted away to the county jail, the night was far spent and so were the participants.

And Mrs. Phiffer still hadn’t got her pinwheels. Osbert promised faithfully to come back in the afternoon of what was by now already the next day, accompanied by Dittany, Clorinda, Arethusa, and the real Daughter Matilda, whom so far Mrs. Phiffer still hadn’t got to meet. They’d all make pinwheels together and drink a nice cup of cocoa. And no, Osbert didn’t believe Mrs. Phiffer was under any obligation whatsoever to refund the balance of the alleged Mr. Wardle’s room rent considering the extra work she’d been put to in taking care of his prisoner, not to mention the fact that one of her frogs and two of her ducks had been damaged in the recent affray. Which, as Mrs. Phiffer herself remarked, entering into the spirit of Osbert’s argument, was all Mr. Wardle’s fault in the first place.

I
T NEED HARDLY BE
said that the pinwheel party wound up taking place not in Lammergen but at Dittany and Osbert’s. Punctually at three o’clock, a plaid 1952 DeSoto with a sporran on its radiator pulled up to their driveway and Mrs. Phiffer burbled in, her arms full of peach-colored plaster ducks wearing cupcakes on their heads. Dittany was charmed.

“How sweet of you, Mrs. Phiffer! No, Ethel, these cupcakes aren’t for you. Or are they?”

“Well, perhaps they shouldn’t be for anybody,” Mrs. Phiffer replied. “I did put quite a lot of plaster of paris in the batter. But don’t you think they look rather fetching on the ducks?”

“Delightful! Let’s line them up on the windowsill so that everybody can see them. Osbert, see what Mrs. Phiffer brought us.”

“Just what we needed,” he said dutifully.

“Well, one never knows when a plaster duck will come in handy,” the donor replied modestly. “Oh, and you’ve made my pinwheels. How perfectly lovely.”

Osbert permitted himself a gentle smirk. “I thought those midget plastic frogs in the middle would add a certain
je ne sais quoi
.”

“Oh, they do! They do! I think I may get really serious about frogs now that I have the flamingos pretty well finished. Daughter Matilda the First, how delightful to see you again!”

“Actually I believe I’d have been only the second Matilda the fourth, but as it happens I’m really Arethusa Monk the only. Ah, I see you’ve brought cupcakes.”

“Don’t eat them,” Dittany warned. “They’re plaster.”

Arethusa took the news bravely. “Zounds, one never knows, does one? Then I trust you have a few genuine cates and dainties at the ready? Plaster cupcakes notwithstanding, it’s good to see you, Phyllis.”

“What a euphonious name,” said Dittany, “Phyllis Phiffer.”

“In point of fact, I’m Agnes, but we don’t have to be stuffy about technicalities, do we?”

“Not at all,” Dittany’s mother assured her. “While we’re on the subject, I’m Clorinda Pusey, and here comes the genuine Daughter Matilda now. Osbert, could that be Mother Matilda with her?”

It could be, and in fact it was. Margaret MacVicar and the sergeant were right behind them. Dittany signaled to Osbert to trot out the cookies they’d been hiding in the pantry so Arethusa wouldn’t eat them all up before the company came. Amid the greetings and introductions and exclamations over Mrs. Phiffer’s ducks, Clorinda raced to scald out the teapot and urge the kettle to greater efforts.

The two Matildas gave Dittany a jar of mincemeat they’d brought and said they weren’t hungry because they’d just been sampling Cousin Margaret’s cullen skink with an eye to future mass production. They ate some of Dittany’s cookies anyway and found them excellent, though probably not adaptable to commercial distribution. As they all sat around sipping and munching, it became clear that nobody was really much interested in making pinwheels today. What they basically wanted to do was rehash the details of recent events.

“What I can’t figure out, Cousin Osbert, as I expect we might as well call you considering the striking resemblance between my daughter and your aunt and bearing in mind that my mother’s maiden name was Monk,” said Mother Matilda, “is how you ever happened to think of suspecting those Siamese twins in the first place.”

“That’s a good question,” said Osbert. “I guess I’d have to say it wasn’t so much one big thing as a bunch of little ones. To begin with, there seemed to have been what you might call a stagey air about that shootout: Aunt Arethusa talking about international spies and Clorinda saying it was mobsters, and all that stuff about felt hats and trench coats. Daughter Matilda told me her father wore his because he was an actor and got a kick out of dressing up; so I suppose it gradually seeped in that the others might have been actors, too. Then there was something about the way Glanville and Ranville moved and talked and managed to hug the limelight wherever they went. I had no way of knowing whether that was a natural way for Siamese twins to act since I’d never met any before, but it did strike me after a while as being awfully slick and professional.”

“I know just what you mean, darling,” Dittany put in. “Remember that cross talk they got off at lunch the first day, with all the outdated gangster slang?”

“That’s right, pet. There was also the fact that they’d come from England, though maybe a lot sooner than they said they had, and Wardle was supposed to be English, too. He’d told Mrs. Phiffer he had a brother over there, which maybe doesn’t mean much but it was another little drop in the bucket.”