by Matthew Ward
“Spare me the speeches, mate,” the chef shot back, trembling with fear and anger. “I’m sure your little stooge ’ere ain’t interested in ’earing your sermons wiv this knife at ’is froat!”
“Oh, um, don’t mind me, sir,” D.S. Greenley interjected meekly from behind the razor-sharp blade. “I’m rather fond of your ‘Noble Justice’ speeches. You needn’t stop on my account.”
The chef gave his hostage a baffled look.
“Sammy, please!” implored Mr. Whipple. “Put the knife down! You’ll only make it worse for yourself, man!”
“But I didn’t do it on purpose, sir! You’ve gotta believe me! I can hardly live wiv meself knowing it were me who baked that bleedin’ cake!”
Seeing that the chef was somewhat distracted in explaining himself to his employer, Inspector Smudge took a sly step forward.
“Don’t come any closer, Smudge!” snapped the chef, his trembling hand tightening its grip on the knife and pressing the flat of the blade against D.S. Greenley’s throat.
D.S. Greenley—who had taken his hostageship surprisingly well until this point—winced in pain, his face growing pale with panic.
“Well, I hate to say it, Mr. Smith,” retorted the inspector, halting his advance, “but this is hardly the behavior of an innocent man. I have met scant few innocent men who enjoy holding butcher knives to the throats of police officers.”
“You don’t understand!” cried the chef.
“I understand perfectly, Mr. Smith,” the inspector shot back. “Your gambling debts have made you a desperate man, and last night’s disaster was simply the latest in a series of diabolical plots—perpetrated by you and the enemies of this family—to undermine and/or maim the Whipples and their loved ones!”
“No!”
“So you had nothing to do with the giant piece of French toast that nearly flattened a four-year-old girl?!”
“Th—that were an accident!”
“An accident involving a food item that you prepared, but then were conveniently absent from when that item turned murderous, no?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, mate!”
“Oh really? Then perhaps you can explain where you were during the party last night. You see, no one seems to remember seeing you anywhere near the cake when the candles started to fall. So what exactly were you doing while everyone else was under a brutal attack by one of your baked goods? Conveniently absent once again, were we?”
“I swear, I didn’t even know anyfing ’ad gone wrong till it were all over! After I noticed your ugly mug in the crowd, I spent the rest of the night in the kitchen, mate!”
“Hmm. I’m fairly certain that ‘running from authority’ is generally the response of a guilty man, rather than an innocent one.”
“Pardon me, sir, for not wanting to ’ave a chat wiv the filf who put me away!”
“Ah, yes. I did put you away, didn’t I? What a fond memory. Shame the sentence didn’t stick the first time. But don’t worry, ‘mate’—I’ll make sure the next one does. And just think, once you’re in prison, you’ll no longer have to bother with all this culinary nonsense. They’ve got their own cooks there. Of course, their food might not be quite as tasty as yours—but at least there is no danger of being crushed by it!”
This last comment proved more than the record-breaking chef could bear. In a burst of rage, he yanked the knife away from D.S. Greenley’s throat—and, raising the blade into the air, lunged at Inspector Smudge.
Mrs. Whipple screamed and pulled her three boys close, pressing up against the cupboard behind her while Mr. Whipple shielded his family.
Fortunately for the inspector, Sammy the Spatula’s drunkenness had deprived him of the pinpoint precision with which he usually wielded a butcher knife. After a quick dodge and a simple jab to Sammy’s wrist, Inspector Smudge swiftly disarmed the sluggish chef, leaving him off his guard and entirely vulnerable.
A moment later, the inspector had twisted Sammy’s arm behind his back—and a moment after that, the two were on the floor, Inspector Smudge’s knee firmly planted on Sammy’s spine. A flash of the inspector’s arm into his coat revealed a pair of handcuffs, which he promptly clapped onto the chef’s wrists.
Just behind Inspector Smudge and his recent captive, D.S. Greenley slumped exhaustedly to the floor, clutching his throat with both hands and panting with relieved surprise that his head was still connected to his shoulders.
“That, Greenley, my man,” informed the inspector, “is how one makes an arrest! Perhaps next time you won’t make such a bumbling fool of yourself, will you?”
“No, sir. Of course not, sir.”
Inspector Smudge returned his attention to his captive. “There we are, Mr. Smith,” he goaded. “No use struggling now.”
But it was clear that Sammy had no fight left in him. Dazed, disgraced, and helpless, the ordinarily gruff chef spontaneously began to weep. It was the most heartbreakingly pitiful sight Arthur had ever seen.
Inspector Smudge led the way as D.S. Greenley escorted a shackled Sammy the Spatula toward the black car in the Whipples’ gigantic circular drive. Looming gray clouds blocked the sun overhead. Arthur, who had not left the chef’s presence since his arrest, was gradually joined by other members of the Whipple family and staff as word of the confrontation made its way across the grounds.
Emerging from the front door and seeing his friend in handcuffs, the brave butler, Wilhelm, reflexively rushed forward but was halted by a gesture from Mr. Whipple’s raised hand. Nothing could undo what had already been done.
The gatherers simply stood and stared, their faces full of surprise and sadness.
Still following a few steps behind the captive, Arthur caught a glimpse of Sammy’s sniffling face and red, swollen eyes as the chef turned to D.S. Greenley.
“Sorry ’bout that business back there, mate,” said Sammy, his eyes darting between Greenley’s face and the ground. “Nuffing personal.”
“That’s quite all right, Mr. Smith,” the sergeant smiled. “You know, I’ve never been taken hostage before. It was rather exhilarating, actually….”
“Greenley!” shouted Inspector Smudge, turning to face his assistant. “Don’t ever converse with a criminal in custody! I mean, honestly, what are they teaching you at the academy these days? Now get the criminal in the car, and no matter what he says, not another word to him. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. Terribly sorry, sir,” D.S. Greenley stammered as he quickly ushered Sammy into the back of the car then sat himself at the steering wheel.
Inspector Smudge paused outside the open passenger-side door and addressed Arthur’s parents as they looked on in disbelief. “You are no doubt delighted, Mr. and Mrs. Whipple, to witness such timely justice here today. As promised, I have apprehended the mastermind behind these detestable acts of sabotage—in under twenty-four hours, no less—and I assure you, it will only be a matter of time, and perhaps a bit of rigorous interrogation, before Mr. Smith leads us to his accomplices, thereby bringing the case to a swift and tidy conclusion. Thank you all for cooperating during this investigation. Oh, and a special thanks to your son, there—what’s his name—Angus, is it?”
“Arthur?”
“Yes. Arthur. It was his observant eye that ultimately led to Mr. Smith’s arrest. I couldn’t have done it without your help, my boy. I’m sure you’ll make a fine detective some day.”
Arthur had waited his whole life for this kind of recognition—but it did not have the effect he had expected. Instead of feeling proud or joyful or satisfied, he merely felt ill. Without even turning to look at them, Arthur could sense his family’s disappointment searing into his temples.
“Now, do let me know if you find anything else that might help us track down Mr. Smith’s henchmen,” concluded Inspector Smudge as he removed his coat and entered the car. “I shall keep you posted from our end with details of the interrogation as it progresses. I can hardly wait to get started! I must say, this h
as been a monumental day for law-abiding citizens everywhere. Rest assured, dear Whipples—there is one less criminal free tonight to contaminate the world for the rest of us!”
“Thank you, Inspector,” Mr. Whipple said emptily.
“No thanks necessary, my good man. Justice is my reward…. Well, justice and that figure we agreed upon when I was hired. I’ll have Doris, my secretary, send out a bill…. Good day!”
With a final tip of his hat, the inspector pulled the door shut, sealing himself in with his prized captive. After an awkward moment and a muffled shout of “Drive, Greenley!” the car jerked into motion and headed down the long drive.
The row of stunned Whipples stood and watched the car until it turned the corner and vanished from sight.
“Do you really think Sammy had a part in all this?” Arthur heard his mother ask his father. “I mean, I know he has a bit of a dubious past, but this just doesn’t seem like him at all!”
“I know, dear,” Mr. Whipple sighed, “but it’s hard to argue with Inspector Smudge’s track record. He does hold the record for Most Solved Cases in History. I’m…I’m afraid he’s done it again.”
“Oh, Charles—it’s all like some awful nightmare. I feel so betrayed, so heartbroken—it almost would have been better to never have discovered the culprit’s identity at all than to find out it was our dear Sammy….”
With that, Mrs. Whipple broke into tears.
Wrapping his arms around his wife, Mr. Whipple’s face was solemn and weary as spontaneous sobs sprang up from their surrounding children.
Arthur had imagined quite a different outcome for his first case as a junior detective. One that included an honorary badge from Scotland Yard—or at least a proud word from his mother and father. The last thing he had expected was to see the trusted family chef hauled away in handcuffs, his family left traumatized and brokenhearted.
And yet, he now heard the call of his imaginary detective badge even louder than before. Despite Smudge’s dogged insistence and his father’s reluctant but eventual concession—not to mention the undeniable evidence—Arthur could not bring himself to believe Sammy the Spatula capable of such a bitter betrayal. And he would do whatever it took to prove it.
Even if it meant another encounter with a certain pair of clowns.
THE UNSAFE SPORTS SHOWDOWN
When the din of stomping feet and clattering chairs had grown to an almost unbearable peak, a booming, disembodied voice arose from the loudspeakers, reverberating through the outdoor arena. “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls…welcome to Unsafe Sports Showdown Twenty-Seven!”
The crowd issued forth a ground-shaking cheer, sending tangible vibrations through Arthur’s bones as he paused to soak in the scene before joining in the clamor himself.
Eventually, the tumult began to fade, and the booming voice continued. “Kicking off this year’s Showdown, Cameroon battles Nepal for the Rhino Polo Intercontinental Cup!”
Banners from both countries shot up across the stands as face-painted fans blew into faux rhino-horn trumpets and beat on drums resembling rhinoceros feet.
“And now, to perform the national anthem—along with the anthems of Cameroon and Nepal—the Youngest Singer Ever to Open the Unsafe Sports Showdown…Lenora Whipple!”
The crowd continued their applause, then hushed as Arthur’s little sister approached the microphone at the center of the field.
But before Lenora could take her position, a small yet concentrated chorus of boos erupted from the stands.
“What in good Grazelby is that?!” cried Arthur’s father.
“There!” shouted Simon, pointing to the stands below.
Arthur and the others turned to see a dozen people in the front row standing on their chairs and holding a banner that read: WHIPPLES + RECORD BREAKING = MENACE 2 ALL INNOCENT BYSTANDERS!
“The beasts!” cried Arthur’s mother.
Just then, a team of security guards rushed in below, dragged the protestors from their seats, and escorted them back up the aisles.
The crowd cheered.
Being far too shrewd a performer to be put off by a few angry picketers, Lenora promptly stepped up to the microphone and started to sing.
The voice that filled the arena sounded more like a seasoned soprano’s than a five-year-old girl’s, as Arthur’s sister belted out high notes with beautiful vibrato, transitioning effortlessly between three different languages.
On the last note of the Nepalese national anthem, the crowd roared in admiration of such a perfect performance, now frenzied with anticipation for the match to come.
Lenora bowed, humbly.
“And there you have it, folks—we are now officially under way! Absolutely mesmerizing voice that Lenora’s got, eh, Chuck?”
“Positively, Ted. How anybody could boo an operatic angel like her is beyond me.”
“Yep—hate to see it, Chuck. Quite a rocky time it’s been for the Whipples as of late, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, no question, Ted. First, there was that mishap with the World’s Largest Piece of French Toast—and then the catastrophe of their birthday cake exploding and nearly making pancakes of their party guests. Just confirms my policy to never hire an ex-convict for a cooking position. Seems this Sammy ‘the Spatula’ Smith character was motivated by a record-breaking gambling debt, of all things. Luckily, due to the extreme nature of the crimes and the undeniable physical evidence, he has been denied bail and must await his trial behind bars.”
“Luckily indeed, Chuck. And yet, even though these incidents have both been traced to their former chef, the Whipples have still managed to draw considerable fire from bystanders’ rights groups and other assorted safety nuts for their supposed negligence.”
“Indeed they have, Ted. Thankfully—apart from the odd protestor—you’ll not find many of those types here.”
“Thankfully not, Chuck. Still, the Whipples need to prove this recent run of bad luck is nothing more than a fluke if they hope to have a smooth championships season. The Unsafe Sports Showdown marks the final international world record tournament before the start of the World Record World Championships in just two months’ time. It’s vital that they go into the championships with as many records and as much confidence as possible, and this is their best chance to do that. If they can make a strong showing here today, as they’re expected to do, their troubles may all be behind them.”
“I certainly hope so, Ted…. Oh, and here we are, folks—I believe I see the arena gates opening now!”
Having since recovered from the minor pre-match incident, Arthur and his family watched from their private box as four unruly rhinoceroses emerged onto each side of the field, stamping their way into position. On the back of each rhino sat a rider holding the reins in his left hand—doing his best to control the bad-tempered beast beneath him—while grasping a long-handled mallet in his right.
When both teams had taken their places, the booming voice made a surprise announcement. “And now, rolling the first ball into play, please welcome the former captain of the Indian National Team, Phoolendu Mahankali—and his elephant friend, Shiva!”
At the center of the arena, a third gate opened—and out strode the Panther-Man, sitting proudly atop the elephant’s back. Both were heavily bandaged—Mr. Mahankali with his arm in a sling and his head wrapped in gauze, Shiva with a brace on his front right leg and a huge bandage around his right ear.
Upon seeing the two famous figures enter the arena without assistance—battered but not broken—the entire crowd leapt to its feet, issuing an ovation louder than any it had yet given that day.
It was a fine match—perhaps the best Arthur had ever seen. In the last minutes of the final chukker, Cameroon pulled out a long-shot victory over Nepal, with a final score of 8 to 73⁄4. What’s more, there were only three tramplings and one goring this year—a substantial improvement over the previous year’s final, which had earned the competing countries the record for Bloodiest Match Ever Play
ed.
But despite being witness to such a fine game of rhino polo, seeing Mr. Mahankali and Shiva had reminded Arthur of the other great casualty of the Birthday Cake Catastrophe: Sammy the Spatula.
In the days since the chef’s arrest, Arthur had done his best to uncover clues in the hopes of tracking down the mysterious clowns—but to little avail.
According to Gordon Carouser, the Whipple family’s party planner, there was no record of the disparately sized duo ever being at the Birthday Extravaganza. Somehow, they had managed to sneak onto the estate without an invitation and then slip off unseen—hardly a simple task for such a conspicuous couple.
But whatever unholy magic lay behind their apparent teleportation, Arthur remained optimistic. Given their extreme sizes, he figured they would not be able to hide from him forever. Because, honestly, how hard could it be to find a nine-foot-tall giant clown? Surely, as long as they had not fled the country or gone completely underground, it was only a matter of time before the dwarf and the giant crossed Arthur’s path again. And this time he’d be ready.
After filing out of the arena, the Whipples split off into two groups so that all the children might make their events on time. Mrs. Whipple and Mrs. Waite took Ivy and the octuplets off to compete in the Extreme Playground events—including extreme swing set, extreme seesaw, and extreme merry-go-round—while Mr. Whipple and Uncle Mervyn accompanied the older children as they made their way toward the Pogo Pavilion, where Arthur would be competing in his only event of the day: the junior division all-terrain rocket-stick race.
Though this marked the third year he had entered the competition, Arthur had not always been so familiar with this particular unsafe sport. Indeed, the first time he had climbed onto a rocket stick, he had learned the hard way that—though a rocket stick looks very much like a large pogo stick—it actually contains an internal combustion engine just above its foot pegs. When the foot of a rocket stick strikes the ground, it is driven like a piston into a combustion chamber, where fuel is compressed and ignited, causing a small but concentrated explosion. This fires the piston down again and—with the aid of a sophisticated spring system—launches the stick and rider as high as fifteen feet into the air. This had come as quite a shock to Arthur at the time, who—being only four years old—had mistaken the thing for his own bouncy play toy. Terrified as he was, however, the thrill proved habit-forming, and he had spent the next five years attempting to qualify for the official race.