by Matthew Ward
Arthur lunged backward. He glanced to Ruby and shared a look of horror, then shouted, “Everybody look out! He’s come to murder us all!”
But before anyone could run for cover, Inspector Smudge raised his hand sharply and said, “Please. There shall be no murders by this man tonight. Despite his enormous size and strength, this unspeaking ogre is well within my power, I assure you.”
It was then that Arthur noticed the shackles on the giant’s wrists and ankles. But where, he wondered, was the giant’s partner?
The hunching giant promptly attempted to stand, only to strike the back of his skull on the ballroom ceiling, which was a foot too low for his head. He grunted loudly in annoyance, but said nothing.
Just then, an impossibly tiny man wearing similar attire and face paint stepped out from behind the giant.
Rita Goldwin let out a shriek. “Goodness, Rex!” she cried. “What sort of party is this?”
Rex pulled his wife close to him, his face full of disgust. “Your guess is as good as mine, dear. Never can tell what will turn up at a Whipple gathering, can you?”
Arthur’s father took another step forward. “Please, Inspector,” he said, “what is the meaning of this?”
“Really, Mr. Whipple,” Smudge replied, “I should have thought you of all people would like a word with the elusive culprits behind the Cake Catastrophe Case. Allow me to introduce: Messrs. Overkill and Undercut.”
The shock on Mr. Whipple’s face intensified. “But how—?”
“Simple really. Directly after the hearing yesterday, I stationed an undercover unit outside the Mountain and Molehill with orders to detain any suspicious parties who might arrive. Indeed, it only took the interrogations of five other giant/dwarf duos before we arrived at the guilty pair. In the end, it was the makeup that gave them away—ridiculous creatures, clowns—and they quickly confessed to everything.”
“They did?”
“Like schoolboys. Far more easily, in fact, than I had expected for such conniving criminals—but then, of course, there are scant few who can endure the interrogations of Inspector Hadrian Smudge. Still, I should never have obtained any sort of confession at all, had I not found the culprits to begin with. And for that, Mr. Whipple, it would seem some recognition is due—to that rather fidgety son of yours there.” He nodded at Arthur. “As it turns out, what I thought was merely impudent meddling on his part has proved to be the deciding factor in solving the entire case!”
Arthur stood staring at Smudge with his mouth wide open.
There was a moment of silent disbelief before his father turned to him and cried, “Good Grazelby, Arthur—you’ve done it! Not only have you freed Sammy, you’ve had him acquitted as well!” Letting out a relieved sigh, Mr. Whipple turned to Sammy and smiled. Sammy, who had stood petrified ever since Smudge’s appearance, relaxed his shoulders and chanced a grin at the corner of his mouth.
Arthur felt his heart begin to swell. What he failed to notice, however, was the smirk on Inspector Smudge’s face.
“Not so fast, Mr. Whipple,” called the inspector. “I’m afraid no one has said anything about Mr. Smith yet.”
Arthur’s heart stopped its swelling. The Whipples’ smiles grew uneasy.
“Perhaps,” continued Smudge, turning to the scowling, shackled dwarf beside him, “Mr. Undercut will be so kind as to oblige. Indeed, he has insisted on speaking with you Whipples since the moment of his confession.”
At this, the dwarf stepped forward—and looked directly at Sammy.
“No use pretending any furvver, boss,” he said in a voice that sounded like a strange, high-pitched version of Sammy’s own. “It’s all over.”
The dread returned to Sammy’s face. “What?” he gasped.
“It were a good try,” continued the dwarf, “feeding that story to Mr. Lowe like you told us to do, to get you sprung from the clink—but it’s all gone pear-shaped now, ’asn’t it? Reckon Overkill and me shouldn’t have gone back to the Mountain and Molehill after that business—but then, you try entertaining a roomful of screaming, cake-eating kids whilst wearing shoes ten sizes too big and see if you don’t need a stiff drink afterwards. Of course, you’re not usually one to pass up a drink yourself, are you, boss?”
“Stop calling me ‘boss’!” spluttered Sammy. “I ain’t never seen neivver one of you in all me life!”
“Really, boss,” said the dwarf, “ain’t no good denying it now. After them Whipples snubbed the IBCPC and showed their clear hatred for us clowning folk, we was ’appy to ’elp you try and murder them at their birfday party, but, you see, the inspector’s offered me and Overkill reduced time if we come clean now—so I’m afraid we’ll ’ave to stop you before you carry out plan B and finish them off. You do understand, don’t you, boss?”
Mr. Whipple’s face turned grim. “What’s going on here, Sammy?” he said. “What’s he talking about?”
“I—I swear I don’t know, sir.”
The dwarf sighed. “It’s a real shame, of course. We were really looking forward to stealing their fortune with you after you’d poisoned them all tonight….”
The room gasped and turned to Sammy in shock.
“It’s not true!” cried Sammy.
“Oh, isn’t it, Mr. Smith?” snapped the inspector. “Then perhaps you might explain how I came to find this in the galley amongst your spices not three minutes ago—just where Mr. Undercut said it would be.” Opening his coat, he whisked out a small black bottle with a skull and crossbones on its label. “A rather unusual ingredient, even for you, Mr. Smith—wouldn’t you say?”
Everyone gasped again and glanced at the dining table.
“What?” cried Sammy. “No—it’s not mine!”
“Of course it’s not,” smirked the inspector. “It never is, is it?” He returned the bottle to his coat. “Well, my dear Whipples—what do you think of your chef now, hmm? Clearly, he’s been in league with this giant and dwarf pair from the very start. And tonight, he’s endeavored to murder you once again. I believe that makes three times now, does it not? Surely you can see now—it’s best if Mr. Smith comes with me.”
Sammy’s gaze darted between the confused and concerned faces of the nearby Whipples. “No,” cried the chef, “I’ve got nuffing to do wiv any of this, I swear! Why should I ever want to ’arm any of you?”
“Why, indeed, Mr. Smith?” the inspector sneered. “Surely even someone with your limited intellect can imagine what a gambling addict with record-breaking debts might do with a stolen family fortune?”
Mr. Whipple opened his mouth to speak, but stopped short.
“Please, sir,” Sammy begged his boss. “Don’t listen to this rubbish. I—I don’t know what’s going on here.”
As Arthur’s father stood in silent contemplation, Inspector Smudge shook his head and sighed. “I am sorry,” he said, “to have to reveal Mr. Smith’s true nature to you a second time—but then, if you and your boy had listened to me in the first place, we should not be in this situation again, now should we?”
Mr. Whipple lowered his head, then looked up at Sammy with a heartbroken expression. “You,” he said softly, “you had better go with him, Sammy.”
“Sir—no,” the chef pleaded. “You ’ave got to believe me. I—”
“You heard the man,” Smudge said as he took a step forward. “The game is up, Mr. Smith. You’re going away for good this time. Come along now—and let’s not have any fuss about it. You’ve nowhere to go—and you’ll not be taking any hostages tonight. I’ve learned my lesson from your last arrest and left that fool Greenley out of it this time. Allow me to introduce my new associates. Gentlemen!”
On his command, four brawny policemen stepped into the room and flanked Inspector Smudge beside their exceptionally sized prisoners. Each of the officers carried a different firearm—twin pistols, rifle, shotgun, and machine gun, respectively.
“Mr. Smith,” said Smudge, “meet the Commissioner’s Execution Squad. Execution Squad, M
r. Smith.”
“Pleasure,” said the man with the machine gun.
“Execution Squad?” cried Arthur’s mother. “Surely, as damning as the evidence may be, Sammy still has the right to a trial?”
“Oh, it’s not that sort of execution squad, Mrs. Whipple,” chuckled the inspector. “Not execution in the sense of putting criminals to death, you understand—but execution, in the sense of getting things done. Executing orders and tasks and such.”
“Righto,” said the man with the machine gun. “Nobody better at executing orders than the Execution Squad. More Successful Arrests per Member Than Any Other Law Enforcement Unit on the Planet…. Of course, we do also hold the record for Most Suspects Terminated While Resisting Arrest—so I can see how some people might get confused about the name. But in our defense, we always give our suspects the choice of which record they’d like to contribute to.”
“Most generous indeed,” said the inspector. “So, which one will it be for you then, Mr. Smith?”
Any last trace of hope in Sammy’s face completely drained away. Arthur could see the contents of the milk bottle that dangled from his left arm beginning to quiver.
“Well, I don’t know, Inspector,” said the chef in a stony voice. “’Ard to tell which is worse these days, innit? If I’m ever proved not guilty, I reckon you’ll only make somefing else up—or find some uvver lying jackals to slander me—in order to put me away again.” At the word “jackals,” the dwarf put on an affronted expression, but Sammy paid no mind. “Seems there’s only one way to truly be free of you, eh, Inspector?” he continued. “And I fink I may be ready for that. They’re good shots, these blokes, are they? Won’t make it too painful, will they?”
“Sammy, please,” said Mr. Whipple, “just go with them. Whatever you’ve done, I don’t want to see you hurt.”
“Appreciate the sentiment, guv—but I’d ravver end fings on me own terms now than to rest me fate in his zhands anuvver minute.” The chef gave a mournful smile to Arthur’s father, then slowly turned away.
By the time he’d turned back to Inspector Smudge, a mad twinkle had appeared in Sammy’s eye. “So tell me, Inspector,” he said, “you’d consider a milk bottle a deadly weapon, wouldn’t you? Plenty of blokes from the old days wiv missing teef who certainly would, I reckon. Smashed a pumpkin from fifty paces once, I did—and that’s a much smaller target than your head, innit, Inspector?”
His hand trembling, Sammy began to raise the bottle.
The Execution Squad aimed and cocked their weapons.
“Sammy, no!” cried Arthur’s mother.
“Goodness me, boss,” said Mr. Undercut, wringing his shackled hands together. “What ever are you doing?”
Mr. Overkill simply stared.
“Put the milk bottle down, Mr. Smith,” Inspector Smudge ordered, but he could hardly keep the smile from his lips.
The milk sloshed against the sides of the bottle as Sammy lifted his quivering arm past his waist.
Arthur stood looking on powerlessly from two yards away. Everything he had accomplished was crashing down before his eyes. Whatever the dwarf claimed, he could not imagine Sammy plotting to kill a mouse, much less his entire family. He knew Sammy, and this was not him. There had to be some other explanation.
As he watched the Execution Squad tighten their trigger fingers, Arthur decided his only choice was to take his friend at his word. If Sammy was telling the truth, and he did nothing to help him, he would have to answer someday for his inaction. If Sammy was lying, that was his problem; Sammy would have to answer for that himself. And that was none of Arthur’s business.
Unfortunately, there was still the matter of Sammy’s rapidly impending demise to contend with. If only Arthur could stop time, then maybe he could find a way to save Sammy’s life.
Then it struck him. Perhaps stopping time wasn’t quite as impossible as it seemed. But could he really stand up to Inspector Smudge?
Arthur glanced to Ruby.
Her expression told him what he had to do.
He took a deep breath. Then, as casually as he could manage, Arthur stepped between the Execution Squad’s guns and the trembling chef.
“Arthur!” cried his mother.
“What are you doing, boy?” the inspector shrieked. “Get out of the way! Do you want to be shot?”
Arthur tried to keep his voice from shaking. “So sorry to interrupt, officers—it’s just that I’d really like to assist with Sammy’s arrest, seeing as it was me who unwittingly helped to free him. Now that I realize what a mistake that was, I would hate to make another one. And I feel it would be a mistake not to inform you about the slight flaw I’ve noticed in your plan.”
“What?!” scoffed the inspector. “You’ve noticed a flaw in my plan? Preposterous!”
“Please, Inspector. You’ve got to listen to me. From what I can tell, your plan hinges on Mr. Smith being trapped in the ship’s cabin with no way out but the passage you and your men are currently standing in front of. But I’m afraid you’ve overlooked a possible alternative escape route. Perhaps you haven’t noticed how much weight Sammy has lost in jail—what with the questionable quality of the food there—but at his current size, he might just be able to squeeze out that porthole he’s standing next to. Your men could try and shoot him, of course—but then, what if one of the children got in the way? Record-breaking though the Execution Squad may be, I can’t imagine they’d want to add child murder to their list of achievements. I mean, what would the commissioner think about that?”
“You fool!” screeched the inspector. “Can’t you see you’ve got in our way yourself!”
Arthur gasped and put on his most convincing frown. “Oh no,” he muttered. “I have, haven’t I?”
With a quick backward glance, the boy shot an urgent look to Sammy. As the chef’s eyes narrowed from desperation to resolve, Arthur turned back to face the officers.
“I can’t believe I’ve done it again,” he whimpered, raising his hands in submission. “Why do I keep making such dreadful mistakes? Please don’t let them shoot me, Inspector!”
“Shut up, boy!” the inspector snarled. “Out of our way, now!”
“I can’t,” cried Arthur, his lips and limbs trembling. Looking down the barrels of five firearms, each of them trained in the direction of his head, he hardly had to embellish his reaction. “My feet won’t budge!”
At that moment, Arthur detected a small thud behind him, not unlike the sound of a milk bottle dropping onto a wooden deck.
“He’s going for it, lads!” cried the man with the machine gun.
“Boss, come back!” squealed the dwarf. “Inspector, you’ve got to stop him!”
What happened next was a blur.
Arthur heard the scuffling of feet to his rear, and the next thing he knew, Inspector Smudge and the Execution Squad were rushing at him.
“Don’t let him get out!” shouted Smudge.
Just before the man with the shotgun knocked Arthur to the floor, the boy heard the squeal of hinges, followed by a distant splash. Twisting about on the floor, Arthur craned his neck to see the man with the pistols, the man with the rifle, and the man with the machine gun all run to the open porthole, point their weapons through the opening, and open fire on the water below.
The octuplets screamed.
Arthur’s heart pounded in his chest. “Come on, Sammy…” he whispered to himself.
After the three men had emptied their magazines on the unsuspecting sea, the man with the shotgun traded positions with his colleagues and added one final blast to the barrage.
When the shooting had ceased, Smudge turned to Arthur with rage in his eyes. “You imbecile!” he shrieked. “How dare you interfere with my investigation! If not for certain recent laws against it, I’d have you flogged before this entire ship!”
“Oh, you needn’t worry about him, Inspector,” said the man with the rifle. “Takes more than a dimwitted boy to thwart the Execution Squad. I got you
r man, despite the distraction.” He patted his rifle barrel. “Put one straight through him with Miss Veronica here.”
“Rubbish,” said the man with the pistols, brandishing his weapons. “When his body washes ashore, I think you’ll find his skull’s been ventilated by matching revolver shots.”
“Care to make a bullet bet on that, lads?” said the man with the machine gun. “Fifty pounds I’ve got says I filled him with so much lead, he goes straight to the sea floor.”
“I’ll take your wager,” said the man with the rifle. “Always gets her man, my Veronica.”
“Very well,” said the man with the pistols. “But let’s get one thing straight—in the case of multiple hits, the pot goes to the kill shot, as determined in an official autopsy. And no trying to bribe the coroner this time, either.”
“Yeah,” said the man with the shotgun, “let’s try and be civil about our bullet bet this time. Absolute murder on my digestion, all that bickering.”
Arthur began to feel his own digestion might fail him at any moment.
“Gentlemen, please,” Mr. Whipple interrupted. “Traitor as the man may be, we have all grown extremely fond of Sammy over the years, and the thought of his death is utterly sickening to me. So, I should appreciate it if you’d kindly postpone your morbid wagering until after you’re off our boat.”
“Not a fan of gambling, are you, sir?” said the man with the machine gun. “Say no more.” He made a gesture as if buttoning his lip, but promptly turned to the man with the rifle and whispered, “What’s with him?”
The man with the rifle shrugged.
“My apologies, Mr. Whipple,” said Inspector Smudge. “Public relations is not one of the Execution Squad’s specialties, I’m afraid. But, of course, they’d have had no opportunity for such vulgar speculation had your boy not complicated the situation by—”
“Hey, look!” cried Rupert Goldwin.
While everybody else stood frozen around the dining table, Rupert was leaning himself over the ballroom railing and pointing excitedly to the glass floor below.
Everybody darted to the railing and peered over the edge.