Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Frozen Hearts (8 page)

As soon as Wilma reached the first sugarcane swizzle tree she stopped and ducked behind it, yanking Pickle alongside her. Pretending to chew its sugary bark, she peeped out from behind the gloopy trunk to see whether the attendant was still watching. But she was in luck: A group of opticians on a work outing had been standing in the wrong line for over an hour and were looking for someone to blame. They had the attendant surrounded and all of them were shaking their fists at him. One optician was so cross he knocked off the attendant's cap, which set in motion a chain of events that could only be described as ugly. Wilma's heart was beating fast. She had to get inside the Museum! “But how?” she wailed. “That line goes on forever!”

Pickle nudged at her with his nose and made a snorting noise in the direction of a cart that had just pulled into the square. “Of course!” Wilma exclaimed. “It's delivering a Tyrannosaurus rex skull! I read about it in Mrs. Waldock's mid-morning paper! We can creep over, jump inside the skull, and get in that way! Pickle! You are brilliant!”

Under normal circumstances Pickle would have felt a little embarrassed at the compliment, but even he had to agree that riding anywhere in a massive bone was probably the best idea he'd had in ages.

“
C
an't make head or tail of it, Goodman,” said Captain Brock, who had been pacing at the far end of the gallery. “I saw the stone at the Receiver's office. Stayed with it all the way. Get to the station, it's vanished.”

“It must have been Jeremy Burling.” The Curator nodded, gripping the top of his cane. “But how did he do it? And more importantly, where is the stone?”

“Burling swears blind he had nothing to do with it,” puffed Inspector Lemone. “We've searched his office and his home. Can't find a thing. Only two other people were given passes into the vault: Captain Brock and Alan Katzin.”

“This is a disaster for the Museum, Mr. Goodman,” said the Curator, thumping his cane on the floor. “A disaster!”

Theodore twitched his mustache and pondered. The Harlequin Gallery was on the fifth floor of the Museum. It was a round room with no windows, but the gloom was punctuated by three illuminated display cases containing the greatest treasures of Cooper. In the case to Theodore's left there was a large golden egg, in the display case to his right there was an ancient alabaster Lantha board set with azure-blue pieces, a five-sided dice, and intricately carved playing squares, and in the center of the room the case where the Katzin Stone should have been stood bare. “Greed,” began Theodore, leaning in to look at the empty display case, “is a dangerous mistress.”

“Quite right,” answered the Curator with a solemn nod. “Even the greatest of men can be turned by its charms.”

“Succumbing to charm is man's fatal weakness,” said a lady clad in black, sashaying toward them. She was a striking woman: dark hair tied up in a tight bun, with one wayward curl creeping down her cheek, deep brown eyes that smoldered below a sharp line of hair that swept across her forehead, and lips as red as tomatoes.

“Ahh, Miss Pagne!” said the Curator, gesturing toward her. “I don't think you've met. Theodore, this is my new assistant. Started last week.”

“A fine time to be joining the Museum, Miss Pagne,” said the great detective, holding out his hand. “Theodore P. Goodman. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

The fingers of Miss Pagne's hand curled around the detective's, her crimson nails flashing in the dim light of the displays. “No need for introductions, Mr. Goodman,” she purred, fixing Theodore with a wry smile. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“I'm a Lemone,” said the Inspector, holding out his hand, only to have Miss Pagne ignore it. “I mean I'm an inspector. Inspector Lemone. Not an actual lemon. Yes. That's who I am.”

Miss Pagne turned her velvet-brown eyes toward him and mustered a weak smile.

“Now then, Mr. Curator,” continued Theodore, ignoring his friend, “I would like to look at the box in which the Katzin Stone was stored.”

“I have it,” said Captain Brock, handing over the silver container. “I've been staring at it for hours. There's no secret panel. Nothing.”

“Interesting,” muttered Theodore, taking the box and peering inside it. “Hmmm. Slight odor. Just as I thought. Captain Brock, are you quite sure that you saw the Katzin Stone inside it?”

“If any other man asked me that question I would strike him down!” blustered Captain Brock, bristling. “When I say I have seen something, there can be no doubt that I have seen it. To suggest otherwise is slander, sir.”

“Forgive me, Captain Brock,” said Theodore with a small bow. “I should have phrased my question with greater care. I have no doubt that you saw what you
thought
was the Katzin Stone, but my question is this: Was it ever the real Katzin Stone?” Captain Brock looked more puzzled than an undone jigsaw.

“What are you getting at, Goodman?” asked the Curator, placing both hands over the top of his cane.

“I mean, Mr. Curator, that the stone that was transported to the Museum under Captain Brock's care may have been a fake. And that the real Katzin Stone was already gone.”

“How do you come by that, Goodman?” said Inspector Lemone, having to wipe his brow with the effort of thinking.

“If the real Katzin Stone had been in this box upon its collection, then I suspect Alan Katzin and his aunt would still be alive. They needed to be out of the way to allow access to the stone. The man who took the stone was dressed exactly like Alan. He would have needed his clothes and the pass into the vault. I'd bet my boots on it.”

“Then where's the stone that I saw?” asked Captain Brock, tapping himself in the chest with an angry finger. “Where did that go?”

“Simple, Captain Brock,” said Theodore, taking out a handkerchief with a flourish. “The stone inside this box was designed to disintegrate, and here,” he added, picking out something from inside, “is the proof.” The Curator, Captain Brock, and the Inspector leaned in to get a closer look. Pinched in the folds of Theodore's handkerchief was a gleaming shard.

“Well, I never,” said Inspector Lemone. “If you haven't done it again, Goodman!”

“Done what?” said a small voice behind them. “Have I missed much? No matter. Just carry on as you were.” Everyone turned around. Wilma waved at them. “Only me,” she said, and grinned. “Came in inside a big dinosaur's skull. It was quite cramped. But he liked it,” she added as Pickle licked his lips.

“No, no, no,” said Theodore with a frown. “This won't do. Wilma, does Mrs. Waldock know that you're here?”

“If I said not really, would that be a problem?” said Wilma, twisting the edge of her pinafore in her fingers.

The detective fixed her with a serious stare that left Wilma in no doubt that she might be in considerable trouble. “I shall have to take you back when I'm done,” he said. “Now stay close to Inspector Lemone and not one peep out of you. Do you understand?” Wilma nodded and smiled up at the Inspector.

Captain Brock had taken Theodore's handkerchief and was holding the shard to the light. Wilma gasped a little as she saw it. “It's like sunshine,” she said.

“Not one peep, remember?” said Inspector Lemone, putting a finger to his lips.

“What is it, Goodman?” asked the Captain, squinting at the sparkling object. “And how did it disintegrate?”

“Look inside the box, Captain,” said the detective, holding it out for everyone to see. “There's a tiny hole in one side. The clasp of the box was designed in such a way so as to release a melting agent when the box was shut. It is my belief that the fake Katzin Stone was made of nothing more than colored sugar, and that when the box was closed a concentrated gas or liquid simply melted it away.”

“Devilish simple,” said Miss Pagne, smiling a little.

“So the person who took it,” said Wilma, wide-eyed, “must have swapped the stone! Or swapped the box! Like in that magic trick when you were solving the Case of the Vanished Buttons. I've got it on my Clue—”

“Shhhhhh, Wilma,” whispered the Inspector, giving her a nudge.

“She's quite right,” acknowledged Theodore, raising an eyebrow, “if a little overexcitable . . . so we may be looking for someone with an exceptional ability for sleight of hand.”

“Though why swap it for a stone that melted?” asked the Curator, shooting Wilma a sideways glance.

“Except for that shard. And thank goodness for it. By examining it I shall be able to determine exactly what it's made of. When I understand that I'll be nearer to knowing who made it. Clearly whoever it was wanted something that would leave no trace—but buy him some time.”

“But what about the real Katzin Stone, Mr. Goodman?” said the Curator, tapping his cane on the floor. “It's all very well you chasing theories, but the most precious jewel ever found is still missing. And I want to know what you're going to do about it.” He took a step forward to emphasize his point and, catching his foot on the edge of one of the display cases, slipped a little and fell against the Captain. The gleaming shard, the detective's only clue, flew out of the soldier's hand and into the gloom of the gallery. It was impossible to see where it had gone.

“We must find that shard!” shouted Theodore. “Everyone tread very carefully!”

Wilma couldn't have been more thrilled. If she put her mind to it, she might actually be able to help with a case. She looked down at Pickle. “Come on,” she whispered, “get sniffing. We need to find it!”

“Nothing over here!” cried out the Inspector.

“I'm seeing nothing,” yelled Captain Brock. “Light! We must have light!”

Wilma, who still had the skates around her neck, suddenly remembered something. “When Mr. Goodman solved the Case of the Unlit Match,” she whispered to Pickle, who had his nose firmly to the ground, “he found a silver doorknob by bouncing light off his magnifying glass. Light is always attracted to light, Pickle!” With that, she unhooked the silver skates from her shoulders and held them out in front of her. At first, she saw nothing, but suddenly, as she waved the skates around and down to her left, they seemed to pick out the smallest of glimmers. Wilma nudged Pickle and pointed toward the tiny twinkle. Pickle, snaffling up every smell in the vicinity, gave a small but definite yelp, turned, and bounced on his front paws. Following Pickle's encouragement, Wilma got down onto her knees and reached her hand into the dark gap between two of the display cases. Feeling with her fingertips, she touched something cold and sharp.

“I've got it!” she yelled, jumping up. “Look! I've found it!” Wilma held the shard in her fingertips and looked at it. It so reminded her of caramel that she couldn't resist raising it to her mouth. “What's the point of taking it all the way back to Mr. Goodman's house just to find out if it's sugar? I'll eat it now! I'll be able to tell you if it is!” Wilma shut her eyes and lifted the shard to her lips, but as she did so she felt a hand dashing it from her fingers.

“No, Wilma!” shouted Theodore. “It may be poisoned!”

“But you said it was just s-s-sugar, Mr. Goodman!” stuttered Wilma shakily.

“Sugar that might have been dipped in a chemical compound,” said Theodore with a stern frown. “Though I can't work out why—if it was meant to have disappeared completely. An insurance policy perhaps . . . Still, smell the edges.” He lifted up the broken shard in his hand. Wilma leaned toward it and sniffed. A foul, pungent smell flooded her nostrils and she recoiled.

The Curator had heard enough. “The Katzin Stone stolen. Two people murdered. A young girl almost poisoned. Who could be so despicable as to do such a thing?”

Theodore stared hard at the empty display case. “I don't know, Mr. Curator. But I'm going to find out.”

“Probably someone with very bad manners, I expect,” opined Wilma with a nod; a deduction that everyone could agree with.

B
arbu D'Anvers was a very bad man: short fellow, russet suit, golden waistcoat, and a heart as black as evil. If you lived next door to him, you'd move. He had no friends and no one ever sent him birthday cards. Everyone who ever met him hated him, even nuns. And they like everyone. That's how bad he was. Like all very bad men, Barbu had an evil lair. And like all dreadful dens, Barbu's was situated at the top of a malevolent-looking crag. His crag was called Rascal Rock and it protruded from the main island like a stuck-out thumb. For anyone intending to devote their life to wrongdoing, it's very important to adhere to the following golden rule: “Location, location, location,” and Barbu, of all the island's Criminal Elements, had the very best spot from which to manage his mischief. At the top of Rascal Rock, Barbu's house was perched like a black crow ready to peck out the eyes of anyone who came calling. And to come calling, they first had to cross the very narrow and slightly precarious Um Bridge. He didn't get many visitors.

Ever poised to capitalize on the island's misfortunes, Barbu was pacing in his study.

As he strutted back and forth across the room laughing, Tully, who had the unfortunate task of being Barbu's Right-Hand Man, tried to laugh along. “Tully,” guffawed Barbu, “has there ever been a more Brilliant Criminal than Barbu D'Anvers?”

“Is this another trick question?” said Tully, reaching into his waxy overcoat for a corncob cigar. “Ummm ... not sure . . . yes?” He ducked too late as Barbu turned on his heel and threw a marble statuette, which bounced off the side of Tully's head.