by Matthew Ward
There, in the water beneath the glass, illuminated by the ship’s lights amidst the coral and sea creatures and kelp, was Sammy the Spatula.
He was doing the breaststroke.
“Sammy!” cried Arthur, unable to hold back his relief.
The boy quickly realized, however, that relief was not exactly the appropriate emotion.
“He’s getting away!” shouted Rupert.
The faces of the Execution Squad filled with disbelieving outrage.
“What the devil!” cried the man with the rifle.
“Not a scratch on him,” the man with the pistols gasped.
“Well, I’ll be scuppered,” grumbled the man with the machine gun. “Thinks he can escape the Execution Squad, does he? We’ll see about that, we will.”
And with that, the Execution Squad pointed their weapons over the railing.
“No!” Mr. Whipple cried as he lunged toward them.
But it was too late. Without delay, the four men opened fire on the swimming fugitive below—and the glass floor above him.
The party dove for cover as bullets ricocheted in every direction.
Only after they had used up all their ammunition did the Execution Squad cease fire.
“What have you done?” cried Arthur’s father.
In the ringing silence, the party peered cautiously over the edge.
At the middle of the floor, there was but one tiny crack, no bigger than a foot in length.
The crowd gave a collective sigh of relief.
Mr. Whipple turned to the man with the machine gun. “What were you thinking?” he demanded. “You could have—”
He was cut off by a loud crunching noise.
Arthur turned back to the floor to see that the tiny crack now stretched from one end of the floor to the other. Before he could comment, the first crack was joined by a second—and then third—and then fourth—until the floor resembled little more than a giant crystal spiderweb.
Screams rang out from the crowd.
“All hands on deck!” shouted Arthur’s father.
As the crowd scurried for the door, Arthur hesitated just a moment—unable to take his eyes off the fracturing floor below.
“Arthur—come on!” Ruby called out behind him.
Arthur whirled about and ran toward the girl and the crowded doorway.
But before he could reach them, a tiny man in fading clown makeup stepped in front of him.
“Going somewhere?” squealed the dwarf. He held up a shiny handcuff key, and Arthur noticed the two sets of shackles that now lay discarded on the floor. “Come on, Overkill—let’s make sure our persistent little friend here doesn’t die from drowning.”
Arthur looked up to see the giant reaching an enormous hand for his neck.
At that moment, the Glimmer Gallery exploded at his rear. The ship lurched, sending the giant—as well as Arthur and all the others—tumbling to the floor.
Arthur turned to see a wall of water gushing toward him.
And then, the world went black.
When Arthur came to, he found himself coughing up water on the deck of an unfamiliar boat.
“There, there, Master Arthur,” said a voice above him. “I’ve got you. You vill not be drowning tonight.”
Arthur looked up to see the Whipple butler leaning over him. “Thanks, Wilhelm,” he spluttered. “Where are we?”
“Welcome aboard the Swift Justice,” replied Inspector Smudge, walking up behind him. “Good thing I had the presence of mind to board your sinking ship, wouldn’t you say?”
Looking about him as he rose to his feet, Arthur found he was aboard a police boat crowded with the former passengers of the Current Champion. He felt a sudden pang of dread, sending his eyes darting from one corner of the vessel to the next. But he was relieved to find no sign of the clowns anywhere. The only member of his family not accounted for was his five-year-old brother, Franklin, whom he promptly noticed five yards off the Swift Justice’s starboard bow, clinging to the top of the frigate’s mast—the only part of the Current Champion still visible.
Arthur’s mother and father, leaning themselves over the police boat’s rails, were currently engaged in a maritime dispute with the young sailor.
“Franklin,” his father commanded, “get down here at once!”
“A captain always goes down with his ship!” the little boy shouted.
“You can go down with the ship when you’re older!” cried his mother. “Until then, you shall come aboard the rescue boat with the rest of us!”
“But maritime law clearly states—”
“There is one thing a captain must always obey, even before maritime law: a captain’s parents. Unless, of course, that captain wants to lose his sailing privileges for an entire year!”
Franklin looked suddenly aggrieved. “An entire year?” he cried. “Ah, come on—that’s not fair at all!”
“Must we take away cartography privileges as well?!” his father bellowed.
“No, sir,” Franklin sighed.
“Then you had better get yourself off that mast and into our boat this instant, young man!”
“Yes, sir,” said Franklin—and followed his father’s orders.
“Is that everyone, then?” said Inspector Smudge when Franklin was safely aboard the police boat.
Using an emergency blanket to dry his hair—which somehow looked just as perfect as ever—Rex Goldwin gave an eager smile and said, “All accounted for here, Inspector.”
“Yes,” panted Arthur’s father, “I believe that’s everyone.”
The survivors watched as the last inch of the Current Champion’s mast sunk beneath the surface and disappeared into the still, black water.
Arthur noticed three massive, cream-colored tubes floating amongst the debris where the ship once stood, each of them thirty feet long and over a foot in diameter. His heart sank when he realized: it was his favorite pasta dish—cannelloni colossale—the World’s Largest Tube Pasta.
His father let out a low, mournful sigh. “Everyone,” he added, “except for Sammy.”
“Well, yes,” said the inspector, “and his oddly sized henchmen, of course. But you needn’t worry about those villains anymore. I should have liked to bring the three of them back to face trial, but no matter—Justice always catches up to those who offend her, one way or another. Hard as I tried to offer Mr. Smith the civil course, his criminal heart was bent on taking the violent one. And now it seems his criminal heart beats no more.”
“I’ll say,” said the man with the shotgun. “Nobody can hold their breath that long.”
“No, they can’t,” said the man with the machine gun. “Gentlemen—the bullet bet is back on.”
The members of the Execution Squad grinned.
“And for that,” the man with the machine gun continued, “I reckon we’ve got this observant young man to thank.” He turned to Rupert Goldwin and patted him on the back. “If not for his keen eye, Mr. Smith might’ve actually got away. Good lad you’ve got here, Mr. Whipple. Sort of makes up for that other one—the daft one with the death wish—doesn’t he? Funny, that—how completely opposite brothers can be to each other, eh? Got a brother myself who’s a Franciscan friar, if you can believe it. Makes for rather awkward dinner conversation at the holidays, it does….”
Rex Goldwin chuckled. “Oh, Rupert’s not Charlie’s boy, officer. Though I can think of no better compliment you might offer me or my son. Hard to believe, eh, Charlie? People are mistaking my kids for yours now! Goodness, what a night. Shame about your chef trying to murder you again and your boat sinking, of course—but I must say, this evening’s not turning out too badly after all!”
“Yes,” agreed Rita Goldwin, “we’ll have to do it again sometime soon. And perhaps we’ll actually have dinner at the next dinner party, eh, Lizzie? What do you say we host next time—our house, a week from tonight? If you like, we can go to your house for dessert—I mean, if it’s not too much for you. Should be enough
time to find yourselves a new chef, shouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Whipple, wiping the corner of her eye to conceal a sudden tear. “I’m sure it should, Mrs. Goldwin.”
“Friday next it is then,” smiled Rita. “We’ll try and keep our house afloat until we’ve at least finished dinner!”
“Now, dear,” scolded Rex, “let’s not be insensitive—they can’t help it that they’re eternally plagued by a horrific family curse, can they?” He turned to Arthur’s father with a pitying smile. “We really are sorry about the boat, Charlie—but look on the bright side: at least you won’t have to worry about renaming it anymore. Now you can get yourself a brand new boat and christen it with a name a bit more appropriate for the future. The Fading Star, perhaps? I mean, I trust you’ve got frigate insurance?”
The man with the machine gun snorted. “Hope for your boy’s sake your policy doesn’t include a stupidity clause.”
The Goldwins and the Execution Squad snickered.
Arthur gave a mortified smile, then, catching Ruby’s glance, lowered his eyes to the deck.
As the snickering died down, he heard Ruby’s voice speaking clearly out over the others.
“You know,” said the girl, “sometimes stupidity and bravery are pretty much the same thing.”
There was a moment’s pause as the snickerers looked at her blankly—before they all burst into wild laughter.
“Sure they are, luv!” cracked the man with the machine gun. “And koalas and killer whales are the same class of animal! Great Gatling, that’s a good one!”
Of course, had the man with the machine gun known as much about zoology as he did about, well, machine guns, he would have known that koalas and killer whales are indeed the same class of animal: specifically, class Mammalia. Arthur was himself well aware of this fact, but he was in no mood to point out the mistake. (Of course, given the man with the machine gun’s actual area of expertise, Arthur likely would not have corrected him anyway.)
Mr. Whipple cleared his throat. “Well then,” he scowled, “now that you’ve all had a good giggle at my family’s expense, perhaps we might get back to shore—before one of you geniuses decides to shoot a hole in this boat as well.”
The giggling stopped.
As the police boat circled round and headed back toward the harbor, Ruby touched her hand to Arthur’s shoulder. “Never mind them, Arthur,” she said. “Sometimes stupidity and bravery are the same thing. And if that’s the case here, then what you did was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Arthur sighed and looked up. “Thanks,” he said. “I think.”
“You’re welcome,” said Ruby. “Every reasonable person knows you can never trust a clown—especially one who admits to trying to murder you, like that nasty Mr. Undercut. So, despite what anybody else may say—I think your instincts were right. I didn’t know Sammy like you did, but I’ve got a feeling wherever he is—in this world or the next—he’s grateful.”
Arthur tried to smile, but couldn’t quite manage it. In the end, despite all his hard work, he had been utterly unable to help Sammy.
Surely, in a life overflowing with failure, this was his biggest failure yet.
THE TROUBLES ARE NOT OVER
There was no breakfast at the Whipple estate the next morning. As the harsh light of day stabbed through Arthur’s window, the boy pulled the covers over his head. After what had happened the night before, he never wanted to get out of bed again.
He succeeded at this endeavor another three hours, before there came a knock at his door.
“Yes?” groaned the boy.
The door cracked open, and Mr. Whipple poked his head in. “I know it was a rough night, son—but you can’t stay in bed forever.”
Arthur rubbed his eyes and sat up. “‘Inert’ Burt Torpidson stayed in bed fifty-three years and eighty-one days,” he yawned. “I’m pretty sure I can beat it.”
“I don’t know, Arthur. Not really your style, is it?”
Arthur sighed. “What’s my style again?”
“Well,” his father replied, “it’s certainly never been to hide from trouble, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah,” said Arthur. “I guess you’re right.”
The boy’s eyes suddenly grew watery. “But…Sammy…he—he was our friend.”
“I know, Son.”
“But if I hadn’t put my nose where it didn’t belong—I mean, he’d still be in jail, but then Smudge would never have found the clowns, and at least Sammy wouldn’t be…”
“Don’t blame yourself, Arthur. He fooled us all, the poor wretch. Seems the drinking and the gambling had a tighter grip on him than any of us knew….”
The boy hung his head. “How can I not blame myself?” he said softly. “I mean, what with my constant failures—and now Sammy—it seems…it seems this Lyon’s Curse is all my fault somehow. Father—am I…cursed?”
Mr. Whipple stepped into the room.
“No, Son,” he said. “Please—you mustn’t think such things. This curse has nothing to do with you. No, I—I’m afraid I am the one who has brought this upon us.”
Arthur looked up with a puzzled expression.
His father let out a deep sigh. “You have asked about the Lyon’s Curse before,” he said, “but I have not told you the whole story. I told you your grandfather did not survive the curse—but what I did not tell you is that…it was me who killed him.”
“What?” cried Arthur in shock.
Mr. Whipple held up his hand to calm him. “Now, technically, it was not my hand that put him to death—but it may as well have been. When I was younger, you see, I failed to achieve a certain world record which previously had been in our family for years—and my father took it upon himself to win that record back. He was on his way to the attempt—to make up for my failure—when the curse brought his plane down…and there were no survivors. He died…because I failed.” Mr. Whipple’s voice was distant and hollow. “You see, Son—you are not the first person in this family to fail. And all your trifling failures combined will never add up to the one failure I shall always regret. You are not cursed, Son. I am.”
As the man gazed silently out the window, Arthur stared into his father’s eyes. He never would have dreamt his father capable of such failure—nor that the two of them could possibly have anything—even remotely—in common.
Arthur was just gathering the words to express his profound sympathy when his father collected himself with a sudden sniff, then clapped his hands together and turned back to face him.
“Of course,” Mr. Whipple added, the usual vigor returning to his voice, “this is all the more reason to fight failure with all that is within us. And, despite what happened with Sammy, there’s no denying you did some fantastic detective work before the unfortunate end. No failure there, Son. A bit of an odd tactic, perhaps, stepping in front of the Execution Squad like that—but overall, truly excellent stuff. Now, I’m afraid we will have to rethink that private detective job with Bleader and Leach, given the outcome here—but not to worry, Son. I’m sure it won’t take half so long to find another field you excel in. Now you’ve had a taste of excellence, you’ll be all the more hungry for the next—and we Whipples can’t stay excellent at something too long before we become the very best at it. So, pick your head up, Son. Your first world record could very well happen any day now. I’d say ten years, tops.”
Any trace of the broken man tormented by past regret had now gone, leaving in its place the same purposeful patriarch Arthur had always known.
“Thanks, Father,” said the boy.
“Yep,” said Mr. Whipple with a warm nod. “Now let’s get ourselves dressed and downstairs, so we can help your brothers and sisters with the day’s attempts, shall we? Don’t want to have to see those Goldwins again before we’ve added some new records to the books, now do we?”
“No sir,” said Arthur.
“Right then. I’ll see you in one hour.”
Mr. Whipple
turned to leave but stopped just outside the doorway. “Oh—I almost forgot,” he added, reaching down to retrieve something around the corner. “It seems you’ve got a delivery here.”
He held up a square box wrapped in brown paper, about eighteen inches in each dimension, and carried it across the room to Arthur’s bed. “Left by private courier just a few minutes ago. Quite heavy, really—but no mention of the sender that I can find. Certainly doesn’t look like Bonnie Prince Bobo’s handwriting, this. Another one of those book clubs you’ve signed up for, perhaps?”
“Yeah,” Arthur nodded as he took the package. “Probably.”
“Very well, Son. Enjoy your delivery, whatever it is. And then back to work—understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
For an instant, Arthur thought he caught a further glimpse of regret peeking out from behind the sparkle in his father’s eyes—but it was promptly obscured by a broad, confident smile, just before the man turned and closed the door behind him.
Finding himself alone again, Arthur rose from his bed and placed the parcel on his dressing table. He tore off the paper to reveal a large white box with a removable lid.
Just the right size for a letter bomb, he figured—or perhaps a human head.
But as he could not imagine things getting much worse than they already were, he gripped the edges of the lid and promptly lifted it from the box.
The contents were even more shocking than he had imagined.
It was a birthday cake.
At its center, set off against a backdrop of dark chocolate, white letters spelled out the following:
It then struck the boy that, spaced around the cake’s circumference, sculpted in gold leaf and glaze, were twelve tiny portholes.
Arthur’s heart leapt at the sight.
Sammy was alive.
The Execution Squad would not be pleased.
Scarcely able to believe what he was seeing, Arthur examined the pick that stuck out from the top of the cake. There, he found the following description:
CERTIFIED: WORLD’S TASTIEST
(WITH EXTRA-SPECIAL FILLING)
He then noticed the shiny butcher’s knife tied with a white bow to the inside wall of the box. With ever-growing enthusiasm, Arthur untied the knife and cut into the cake.