War of the World Records (11 page)

“Guess not,” said Arthur. “But what about the Treasurer then? Any clues as to his identity?”

“Ahh—that's the question, isn't it?” grinned the detective. “Well, my boy, thanks to your tip, I believe we have. You see, when I looked into Rex Goldwin's background, as your letter suggested, I made some startling discoveries. A quick inspection of his accounts reveals that our Mr. Goldwin has been receiving massive monthly payments from the Ardmore Association for well over a decade—and yet Ardmore has only begun to sponsor him publicly just this year. There's apparently been some sort of long-standing covert collaboration here.”

“Well,” said Ruby, “that would explain the compound.”

“What's this now?”

“Until just a few months ago,” Ruby replied, “Rex and his family lived at a secluded training facility. That facility must have been secretly funded by the Ardmore Association.”

Greenley looked puzzled. “I've been investigating Goldwin all week, and I never came across anything like this.”

“Mr. Goldwin is Ruby's father, sir,” Arthur explained.

Greenley's face was instantly painted with shock and embarrassment. “Oh dear. I—I'm so sorry, miss. I didn't realize. If I'd have known, I—”

“He's not my father,” Ruby insisted. “Not my real one anyway. And if he's guilty of these crimes, he needs to be stopped—who
ever
he is.”

“I don't know, miss. Are you certain you should be here?”

“Don't worry about me, Detective. I can look after myself. I've been doing it practically my whole life.”

Greenley sighed. After an extended pause, he reluctantly conceded, “Well, if you're certain you can handle it. I've just never worked with a suspect's daughter before—”

“He's not—”

“—biological, or otherwise,” Greenley clarified. “It's not something to be taken lightly.”

“I understand, sir. I can handle it.”

The detective gave another disgruntled, but relenting sigh. “Well, anyhow,” he resumed at length, “where were we?”

“Rex's secret partnership with the Ardmore Association,” Ruby quickly replied.

“Right. So, this prolonged collaboration certainly supports the notion that Mr. Goldwin is our Treasurer—and the one behind your family's recent misfortunes, Arthur—but unfortunately, with the heavy secrecy of Ardmore's board, there's really no way to prove it.”

“What can we do then, Detective?” Arthur asked.

“We'll have to try a different approach. If we're lucky, we just might be able to get him for something else.”

“Like what?”

Greenley peered out from under his brow. “It has come to our attention that, over the years, Goldwin has periodically procured the services of a Mr. Neil McCoy, a forgery expert who specializes in counterfeiting official documents. At this point, we can't be certain exactly what it is McCoy has been forging for him—could be passports, could be banknotes, could be world record certificates—but McCoy is currently the target of a major sting operation organized by Scotland Yard, which should be drawing to a close within the next couple of months. Once the Yard has made its move, we'll be able to determine precisely what sort of forgeries Goldwin has commissioned—and then charge him accordingly. Of course, these relatively minor offenses won't put him away for long, but at least they'll give us reason for an arrest, and buy us some time to find evidence for his real crimes.”

“But what about Sammy the Spatula?” Arthur protested. “Every day that goes by is another one he's forced to live as a fugitive from justice. Isn't there anything we can do
now
?”

“The only way to fully clear your chef's name is to prove that someone
else
committed the crime he's accused of—and that's going to take a bit more time. I've read Sammy's letter as well, and it's truly heartbreaking stuff. Believe me, there's nothing I'd like more than to prove him innocent and bring him back home. But we mustn't get impatient, Arthur. A man's life hangs in the balance here; Sammy will surely appreciate our diligence.”

Arthur nodded slowly as the difficult truth sank in.

“Meantime,” Greenley added, “keep your eyes and ears open—but be careful. It's only a matter of time before our friends Overkill and Undercut turn up again. And one of these days, they might actually complete their objective.”

After an ominous moment, Greenley perked up. “Well, I'd best be off. The missus is making my favorite tonight—just as she always does after I get back from these undercover jobs—and I reckon I ought to have a shower and a shave. Dragged that old coat through a rubbish bin on my way here—for authenticity purposes, you understand—and I'm afraid a bit of it's rubbed off on me. But first,” the detective concluded as he rose to his feet, “allow me to walk you to your train.”

• • •

Once aboard, the children found their seats and glanced out the window in time to see Greenley enthusiastically waving them farewell from his position on the platform, which now slid steadily away to their right.

As the beaming detective disappeared from view, Arthur lowered his arm and turned to his partner. “That went pretty well, don't you think?”

“What, being nearly murdered by a thieving hobo who turned out to be an overtheatrical undercover cop?”

“Well, no—after that part, I mean.”

“Yeah, I'd say so,” Ruby concurred. “It was a good meeting; the investigation definitely seems to be moving forward. And actually,” she confessed, “the thieving hobo bit wasn't so bad either. I feel sort of honored that someone went to so much trouble just to make an entrance with us. Greenley may be a few bullets short of a full clip, but it's hard not to like him.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agreed, “and if he's got half as much passion for detective work as he has for amateur theatre, we'll be wrapping up this case in no time.”

“Let's just hope he finds some decent evidence on Rex before we have to see Overkill and Undercut again. I'd take ten murderous hobos over those two any day. I don't know about you, but I'm really not looking forward to finding out how they plan on topping a Komodo dragon attack.”

“Agreed.”

“Speaking of which,” Ruby added, “how's Hamlet doing?”

Arthur had not yet mentioned anything regarding his family's faithful dog. It was hard enough to think about. “Not so good, actually,” he frowned. “He's barely been conscious since he had his leg amputated.”

“What?! Oh, that's awful.”

“Yeah. Abigail's taking it pretty rough. She and Corporal Whiskerton—that's our model-rocket-piloting hamster—have hardly left his side. I sit with them sometimes in the mornings and give Hammie a good scratch behind the ears—but it's hard to tell if he even knows we're there. Poor Hammie; he deserves to be out breaking canine world records, and he's stuck in bed with one less leg—all for saving our lives.”

“Poor Hammie,” Ruby lamented.

Amid the repetitive rumble and clank of the train, the children stared out the window in contemplation.

After a few minutes had passed, Arthur attempted to change the subject.

“You know, speaking of the Komodo dragon incident, that reminds me—just before the attack, you were right in the middle of explaining all about the world record you've broken. Hmm,” he said, scratching his head not so slyly. “Now what was it again?”

“I never said.”

“Oh, that's right,” Arthur recalled, playing a bit too hard at ignorance, “you were just
about
to say, when the Komodo dragon so rudely interrupted—remember?”

“I remember.”

“Well . . .”

“Well,” Ruby retorted, “I've since decided against it. Honestly—I'd been sitting up a tree for two hours. I wasn't exactly in my right mind.”

Arthur scowled. “You know, I can always just go look it up in the World Record Archives. Don't know why I haven't done it before, really.”

“Arthur,” Ruby implored, “if you consider yourself my friend at all, you'll stop trying to find out what record I've broken. It's not important, all right?”

Arthur let out a sigh. “All right. I'm sorry. I'll try to stop asking you about it. It's just that I find it terribly fascinating.”

The two sat in silence for another extended moment—until Arthur suddenly blurted, “Hang on a second—that's it!”

“What's it?” asked Ruby.

“The World Record Archives.”

“What about them?”

“The dwarf assassin, Mr. Undercut—wouldn't you say he's the shortest person you've ever seen?”

“Yep,” Ruby agreed, clearly confounded by Arthur's disjointed line of reasoning. “He's pretty short.”

“Mightn't he be the shortest person
anyone's
ever seen? And the giant, Mr. Overkill—mightn't he be the tallest?”

“I guess so—but what's that got to do with anything?”

“Well, if they really are the Shortest and Tallest Humans on Earth, their names—the
real
ones—should be cataloged somewhere in the World Record Archives. All we have to do is look them up.”

“Couldn't we just check the
Grazelby Guide
?”

“No use,” said Arthur. “I practically know the past ten years of Grazelby publications by heart. Most recently, the
Guide
listed the World's Tallest Human as Longwe Dounga—until four years ago, when it stopped listing the category altogether. The World's
Shortest
Human was still listed as Kurt Scantley—but then that category was removed two years later.”

“So how do you know these aren't our guys?”

“Mr. Dounga is a member of the Masai tribe and also holds the record for the World's Largest Stretched Earlobes. Believe me, it's not something you can miss. And Kurt Scantley only has one arm. Poor little guy got a tough break.”

“All right, then why do you suppose they're no longer listed in the
Grazelby Guide
?”

“Well, the annual publication is nowhere near exhaustive—it would be impossible for anyone to regularly publish every world record in history, of course—”

“Of course,” Ruby interjected sarcastically.

“—yet it does seem strange,” Arthur continued, “that
Grazelby's
would choose to omit such prestigious records as these. More likely, these records have been broken by a
new
pair of record holders—record holders whom, for some reason,
Grazelby's
can
not or
will
not list. . . . But then, that's what the archives are for. An entire building dedicated to world-record keeping—housing artifacts and information on every world record that has ever been set or broken. Because it's run by the International World Record Federation, it not only covers Grazelby-sponsored records, but all the records sponsored by other record books as well. There's no guarantee we'll find what we're looking for, but it's worth a shot, isn't it?”

“Sounds better than anything else we've come up with.”

“All right then,” said Arthur. “Do you think you can sneak away again tomorrow so we can make another trip to the city?”

Ruby's eyes twinkled with determination. “I'll see what I can do.”

As the train sped through the darkness, the two young sleuths pondered the day to come with the growing suspicion that it might just change everything. They would not be wrong.

The World Record Archives

T
he next morning
, Arthur woke to the sound of screaming.

He threw back his covers, leapt from his bed, and made for the doorway.

By the time he entered the corridor, however, he began to notice something odd about the cries coming from the first floor: for once in his recent life, these were not screams of terror or agony, but screams of joy.

Arthur hurried down the stairs more intrigued than ever, his brothers and sisters following closely behind.

The Whipple children arrived in the great hall to witness an astonishing sight.

Their sister Abigail lay in the middle of the floor, squealing with laughter at the feet of Mr. Mahankali and their parents. Pinning her to the rug, an energetic Great Dane dragged its massive slobbery tongue across Abigail's face as a hamster in a space suit scampered around them.

“Hamlet!” the children shouted as they dashed forward and dug their hands into the dog's fur.

Hamlet gave a kiss to Corporal Whiskerton, sending the hamster rolling happily backward, then returned his focus to Abigail. The barrage of licks continued for almost a minute before the girl finally scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around the dog's neck.

“Oh, Hammie,” Abigail cried, “I knew you wouldn't let that lousy lizard keep you down!”

Hamlet shuffled around to rest on his haunches, and Arthur and his siblings noticed the dog's front left leg for the first time. Where once had been merely a stub, there was now a narrow wooden shaft, ending in a curved metal spring.

“Where'd that come from?” said George.

Mr. Mahankali stepped forward, grinning through the hair that covered his entire face. “You will all be proud to hear that our canine friend has just become the First Quadruped to Successfully Receive a Prosthetic Limb—engineered, I might add, by your brother Simon.” The Panther-Man gestured to Arthur's older brother.

“Happy I could be of service,” Simon said with a nod. “But my design would have been useless without Hamlet's incredible courage and, well, doggedness.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Mahankali, “I fitted him with it last night while he was still unconscious, just to make sure the measurements were correct—but then, this morning, I woke up to a cold nose and big wet kisses—and there he was, standing at my bedside, begging for a walk.”

“Well then,” said Mr. Whipple, “shall we ask Hamlet if he'd like to take his new leg for a test run out on the east lawn? What do you say, children?”

“Yeah!” came the reply.

Hamlet sprang to his feet and panted excitedly.

“Come on, Hammie,” Abigail grinned. “Let's go for a walk.”

She placed her hand on his good front leg and began leading him toward the door—but the dog did not seem to understand. With a sudden, longing whine, he lowered his neck and nudged Abigail's knee.

“No, boy,” Abigail scolded. “I'll have to walk beside you now. I don't want to hurt you.”

Hamlet's whining grew louder and more insistent.

“No, Hammie,” she insisted, then turned once again toward the door.

But as soon as she had done this, the dog lunged forward, scooped the little girl up with the crown of his head, and tossed her onto his back.

“Hammie!” Abigail protested, grabbing onto the dog's neck to keep herself from toppling off. “You've got to put me down!”

Hamlet stood proudly on his new leg, his giant tongue dipping rhythmically from the side of his mouth.

The Whipples couldn't help but laugh.

“What should I do, Mr. Mahankali?” Abigail asked in frustration.

“After what he has been through,” the Panther-Man replied, “I would not deny him his wish to bear his favorite human on his back. It would be a terrible thing to sever his spirit as well as his leg, would it not?”

“I suppose you're right,” Abigail conceded, thoughtfully stroking Hamlet's fur. “Well then,” she declared after a quiet moment. “You heard him, Hammie . . . let's go!”

With that, the dog lurched forward and bounded across the room.

Though the ride was a bit bumpier than usual, neither Abigail nor Hamlet seemed to mind at all.

• • •

Arthur and his family spent the next two hours watching their freshly mended dog frolic from one end of the estate to the other. They finally made their way back to the house with the hope of giving Hamlet a rest, but the dog had no intention of stopping so soon. He dashed out to his training area and returned with a mouthful of rubber rings.

“Barely back from death's door,” said Henry, “and he's already asking for a ring toss!” Henry rubbed the scar on the back of his shoulder where he'd been skewered by a stray arrow at the Unsafe Sports Showdown. “There's a dog after my own heart.”

“I'd say he's eager to start breaking some new records,” Simon added, “and get even with the Goldwins for what their lizard did to him.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” said Cordelia. “Who's throwing first?”

Just then, Wilhelm entered the room and addressed their father.

“Excuse me, Mr. Vhipple—there is a gentleman to see you—from the
Grazelby Guide
, he says. Shall I show him in?”

Mr. Whipple glanced to his wife with mild trepidation. “No no, Wilhelm. I will meet him in the entrance hall.”

As their father stepped out of the room, the Whipple children all exchanged looks of curiosity—and then promptly filed out after him, eager to catch a peek of their new visitor.

Mr. Whipple led the large cluster of children that had materialized at his back into the foyer. There, he offered his hand to the figure at its center—a hollow-cheeked, middle-aged man in a slightly outdated suit, with slicked-over hair that appeared to have been parted by a laser.

“Mr. Whipple,” announced the man, peering through round, thick-lensed spectacles, “my name is Archibald Prim. I have been sent by Grazelby's head office for the purpose of becoming your permanent record certifier. I trust you've been expecting me.”

“We have indeed, Mr. Prim,” said Arthur's father through a half-forced smile. “It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Mr. Whipple. I look forward to establishing a mutually advantageous partnership between our persons. Certainly, with your prolificacy in record breaking and my expertise in record certification, this should make for a highly effective match.”

Listening to Archibald Prim's nasal drone, Arthur couldn't help but yearn for the warm, charming baritone of his family's previous certifier. However effective this new match proved to be, it was hard to imagine it ever coming close to the affinity he had forged with Uncle Mervyn. At the same time, Arthur realized that Mr. Prim deserved the benefit of the doubt—and thus resolved to refrain from any further comparisons.

“Yes—well, I must say, Mr. Prim,” Arthur's father replied, “you could hardly have arrived at a more fitting moment. Our dog was just about to attempt his first world record since pulling through a two-week coma.”

“Well then,” the certifier declared. “Let us not delay any longer. Kindly direct me toward the aforementioned animal, and I shall officiate whatever feats it endeavors to perform.”

“Very good, Mr. Prim. Right this way.”

As the Whipples led their new certifier into the great hall, Hamlet hurried into position, sitting himself on the far side of the ring-catcher's line, which Henry and Cordelia had marked on the floor. Stepping up to the ring-thrower's line with a ring grasped in her hand, Abigail readied her stance and waited for Mr. Prim's signal.

Mr. Prim removed a tape measure from his pocket and carefully stretched it between their respective toe lines.

“Hmm,” he muttered. “Nine feet, eleven inches, and fifteen-sixteenths. Good thing I checked.”

With that, Mr. Prim pulled up the strip of cloth tape that served as Hamlet's marker and meticulously repositioned it one sixteenth of an inch from its original position.

Examining his handiwork through squinting eyes, the certifier declared, “That's better,” and reeled in the tape measure. As he rose to his feet, Mr. Prim swapped the measuring tape for a stopwatch.

“Now—Competitor Number One,” he addressed Abigail. “Are you ready for commencement?”

“Ready, sir,” she answered excitedly.

“Competitor Number Two,” the certifier said, turning to Hamlet, “are you ready for commencement?”

“Woof!” replied the dog.

Mr. Prim looked to his stopwatch. “And . . . commence!”

The moment the word left Mr. Prim's mouth, Abigail flung the ring forward.

Hamlet's eyes locked onto the flying object. With unyielding focus, the dog lifted his new front foot into the air.

A moment later, the ring twirled around Hamlet's fabricated foreleg.

The Whipples cheered. Hamlet's tongue unfurled with pride.

“Good boy, Hammie!” cried Abigail, reaching for another ring.

Just as she prepared to release it, however, Mr. Prim called out, “Hold!”

The Whipples turned to the certifier in confusion.

“I'm afraid you'll have to start again,” he said. “Competitor Number One preceded my mark by nearly three hundredths of a second.”

Mr. Whipple's brow furrowed. It appeared he might protest—but then, he simply turned to his daughter and smiled. “It's all right, Abigail. Do as Mr. Prim says. One throw will be easy enough to make up.”

Abigail nodded in agreement, only slightly less excited than she'd been a few moments before.

“Competitor One—ready for commencement?”

“Ready.”

“Competitor Two—ready for commencement?”

“Woof!”

“And . . . commence!”

Abigail waited until Mr. Prim had clearly uttered the last syllable this time—and then tossed the ring. A perfect catch.

When the dog had caught five rings in a row, Abigail stepped aside so that Cordelia could have her turn. Four more perfect catches, and then—

“Fault! Competitor Number Three has touched the toe line. Competitor Number One must start again.”

Mr. Whipple's eyes widened, but he gritted his teeth and said nothing.

On the third attempt, the children were much more cautious, making doubly sure not to start too early or get too near the toe line. Soon, they had racked up thirty-five successful catches—only four rings shy of the world record for Consecutive Rings Caught on the Leg of a Canine. Charged with executing the actual record-breaking toss, Edward prepared his first throw very carefully, slowly inching his toes up to the mark and triple-checking his stance. When he was satisfied he was not guilty of any rule infractions, he cocked back his arm—and then pitched the ring into the air. But as soon as the object had left his fingers—

“Fault! Competitor Number Nine has failed to release the ring within the allotted sixty-second time limit. The attempt is forfeit.”

Sensing yet another stoppage, Hamlet dropped his leg and let the accumulated rings tumble to the floor. He turned to Abigail and let out a distressed whimper.

“All right Hamlet,” she groaned, “let's try it again. We'll all be extra careful this time—but not
too
careful.”

“Oh, I'm afraid that will be all for now,” Mr. Prim interjected.

“What ever do you mean, Mr. Prim?” inquired Mr. Whipple. “Hamlet's ready for another go.”

“Unfortunately, he'll have to wait until tomorrow before he's allowed one. According to Grazelby Certification Section 852, Subsection 17B-6: ‘an individual may not exceed three attempts at a given record within a period of twenty-four hours.'”

Arthur's father chuckled in disbelief. “Mr. Prim, please—everyone knows that rule was only created to prevent Striver's Mania in certain predisposed individuals; it has never been enforced for private record attempts made by well-minded participants. Surely, you're not serious about applying it to us?”

The certifier's face grew suddenly stern. “Mr. Whipple, are you asking me to violate Grazelby regulations on your behalf?”

“Well, of course not. But honestly, Mr. Prim, it's only—”

“Because if you were, I would have no choice but to charge you with attempted corruption of a world record official and report you to the International World Record Federation disciplinary council. I'm sure we would all find it highly regrettable if you were to be disqualified from IWRF competition just before the start of the World Record World Championships—wouldn't we, Mr. Whipple?”

Arthur's father lowered his head and exhaled. “Yes, Mr. Prim. It seems our canine ring toss attempts will have to wait until tomorrow.”

Hamlet slumped to the floor in defeat, resting his chin on his forepaws and whining softly.

“Very good,” declared the certifier. “I'm glad we see eye to eye on the matter. Really, Mr. Whipple, there's no need to fret over any one record; I shall be here indefinitely to judge whatever attempts you choose to undertake. So now then—which event would you like me to officiate next?”