War of the World Records (10 page)

“Apparently,” Mervyn explained, “my impartiality has been called into question. Several days ago, Grazelby's head office received a letter from an anonymous tipster, in which my split role as godfather, friend, and record certifier to this family was challenged. The letter charges that I have shown favoritism toward you in past decisions and accuses me of stopping an official record-contending competition without proper cause—namely, the hide-and-seek match with the Goldwins last month.”

“So
they're
involved, are they?” Arthur's father growled. “Well, that nearly explains it—but what on earth has that blasted game of hide-and-seek got to do with anything? Our children were being attacked by a Komodo dragon, for pity's sake!”

“This morning,” Uncle Mervyn continued calmly, “Mr. Grazelby asked me if I had indeed stopped the match. I told him I had. He reminded me that while such a call is generally left up to the officiator, the technical rule is that no event, once started, should be stopped for any reason, save for the loss of human life or by mutual consent of all competing parties. Since no human being had been killed, nor had a halt been agreed upon by both teams, the game technically should have been allowed to continue. Had there been no official complaint, Grazelby might have been able to look the other way on the matter—but with this anonymous letter, they had no choice but to declare a ‘conflict of interest' and reassign me to another branch.”

“Anonymous letter, my foot!” shouted Arthur's father. “Rex Goldwin will not get away with this!”

“Now, now, Charles,” Uncle Mervyn insisted, “don't do anything you'll regret. I'm afraid Mr. Goldwin is well within his rights this time. Save your fury for the championships. And as for me—I can't really complain; Moscow is a very prestigious post. In fact, in my younger years, before I was appointed here, I repeatedly requested that very assignment. I just wish they hadn't chosen now to honor me with it.”

Arthur looked up at his uncle. “When does your new position start, Uncle Mervyn?”

“I'm to leave first thing tomorrow morning. But no tears now. Grazelby will be assigning a new certifier to your family before the week is out. I'm sure that whomever they choose, he or she will soon become just another member of the family. You'll no doubt forget all about me in a week or two.”

At this, Mrs. Waite could no longer control her tear ducts and burst into weeping, subsequently triggering a slow-swelling outpour of tears from all of the Whipple girls, as well as a few of the younger Whipple boys.

After much crying and hugging and handshaking, Uncle Mervyn announced, “Well, I'd best be off. Packing up my life to do and all that. I'll see you in a couple of months at the championships—standing on the winners platform above a defeated family of Goldwins, with any luck.”

The Whipples walked their uncle to the front door, where Arthur's father said a final farewell.

“You will be sorely missed in this house. But our loss is Moscow's gain. Godspeed, Mervyn. Until we meet again.”

“It has been my honor and pleasure,” concluded a watery-eyed Uncle Mervyn, “to serve as your humble certifier. Goodbye for now, dear Whipples. May all your wishes come true.”

With that, he winked at Arthur. He flashed one last melancholy smile to Mrs. Waite, then turned and headed back down the drive. And then he was gone.

• • •

Arthur tried continuing down his list of record possibilities alone, as he had promised his uncle—but his heart just wasn't in it. With Uncle Mervyn no longer around to offer encouragement, Arthur felt he had lost the one person in the world who actually believed in him.

As the day wore on, he began to focus more and more on his quickly approaching meeting with Sergeant Greenley. He decided his only hope of ever getting his uncle back—or his favorite chef, for that matter—was to take down Rex Goldwin for good.

The Broken Record

A
rthur and Ruby
set off from the graveyard on bicycles, pedaling down scenic country roads under a slowly darkening sky.

During the hour-long journey to the train station, Arthur told Ruby of his uncle's reassignment to Moscow and her father's probable participation in the matter—to which Ruby hardly seemed surprised, yet offered her sympathies nonetheless.

The duo chained up their bikes upon reaching their first destination and purchased a pair of transfer passes into the city, then boarded the train.

One hour and three transfers later, Arthur and Ruby reached their final stop, venturing out of the underground station and into the electric night air of the bustling city street.

They made their way through the mobs of club-goers, pub-crawlers, theatre patrons, and fight fans, eventually arriving at a dingy stone wall marked by a large sign that read,
THE
BROKEN
RECORD
. Beside it, a blocky, dark-suited man with a broad, shaven head stood guarding a pair of double doors, his knobbly, hairy-knuckled hands clasped at his waist.

“So this is the place, is it?” asked Ruby.

“Yep. The World's Oldest Continually Operated Nightclub. I've always wanted to see the inside of it. Hopefully, we'll get the chance tonight.”

They approached the door, and Arthur addressed the doorman as politely as possible.

“Excuse me, sir, we're here to meet a friend of ours. I don't suppose we could peek in for just a moment and see if he's gone in already? We wouldn't want to keep him waiting.”

The doorman did not look down. “What's his name, this friend of yours?” he asked in a deep, gravelly voice.

“Uh, Green, sir,” said Arthur. “A Mr. Green.”

“Hmm,” grunted the doorman. “You'll have to wait outside. Stand yourselves to your left there while I get somebody to fetch him for you.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The doorman disappeared past the doors, which the children promptly heard him bolt shut from the other side.Arthur and Ruby shuffled down the pavement, stopping several paces to the left of the door, and leaned themselves against the dimly lit wall to wait for the detective.

The area was free of any other bystanders, but Arthur began to get the strange feeling he was being watched. He turned to look down the wall to his right, where a heap of rubbish spilled out of a shadowy corner a few yards away. In the darkness between the rubbish and the wall, he detected a hint of movement—and then, the distinct figure of a person skulking in the shadows.

Arthur's heart rate quickened. As his eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he realized he was staring at the grimiest-looking man he had ever seen.

At that moment, the man stepped out of the shadows. He gave a strange smile that revealed a rather incomplete collection of teeth and began stumbling toward the children.

“Hello,” wheezed the filthy-faced, scraggly-bearded man. “What're a couple of nice kids like you doing out on the street at this hour?”

Arthur took a deep breath and stepped out from the wall, squaring his shoulders in an attempt to shield Ruby from any abrupt attacks. “Pardon us, sir,” he replied nervously. “We're waiting for someone.”

“Funny, I don't remember giving you permission to stand in front of
my
wall,” said the man.

Frightened as he was, Arthur couldn't help but take exception to such a claim. “Now, sir, if you were to talk to the proprietor of the Broken Record, I'm sure you'd find the wall actually belongs to
him
—but, of course, we'd be more than happy to wait somewhere else, if that suits you.”

“I'm afraid that won't suit me at all. See, I'm looking to add some members to my street gang here. . . .” He gestured to the empty corner behind him. “And I must say the two of you fit the bill quite nicely.”

“We do, sir?” Arthur gulped.

“Oh, most definitely. You're just the right size for snatching purses off the streets and slipping down the sewers with the loot. Anything you bring back gets split between the three of us—and, in turn, I provide protection from rival gangs and roving murderers and such. Could be a very promising business opportunity for the pair of you.”

“Ahh—I'm very flattered, sir,” said Arthur, “but I, um, well, I don't think my parents would approve of me leading a life of crime.”

“Yeah,” Ruby said with a nervous smile. “Not really a sewer person myself.”

“Well, that is a shame,” said the man. “Because now that you've heard my gang's plans, we can't just let you walk away from this, now can we?”

“Well, yes, sir,” said Arthur, searching in vain for anybody who might help them. “I think you could, actually.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” said the man. He stepped forward, wringing his hands menacingly. “Honestly, what kind of gang would I be leading if I went round allowing potential squealers to just go on living? Not a very good gang at all, if you ask me. I'm sure you see my point, though—don't you, Arthur?”

“I—I can't say I do, sir,” Arthur replied, his voice beginning to quiver. “You see, we're just. . . . Hold on a minute—what was that you called me?”

“It
is
Arthur, isn't it? Arthur Whipple?”

“Yes,” Arthur replied cautiously. “How do you know my name?”

“Ah, but lad, Gutterpipe Garrett knows all,” the man said, squinting slyly. “Or perhaps you know me by my other name.”

The man's hands shot out, causing Arthur and Ruby to flinch with fright. But to their surprise, he simply reached up to his own head—and tore off his hair and beard.

“Ahh!” cried the children, recoiling in horror.

As Arthur took a second glance, however, he began to notice something strangely familiar about the beardless, short-haired man now standing before him.

“Detective Sergeant Greenley?!” he blurted in disbelief.

“At your service!” the man replied with a bow.

As Greenley stood upright again, the children remained frozen, their eyes and mouths locked open. The detective looked puzzled. After an extended silence, he spread his arms and added an enthusiastic “Ta-da!”

When there was still no response from his young audience, Greenley gently prodded, “Well . . . so what do you think—had you going for a tick, didn't I?”

Arthur and Ruby nodded mechanically.

“Sorry if I frightened you there a bit—afraid I tend to get rather carried away on these undercover jobs. Ever since I played Mercutio at my village Stage and Stewmeat Festival, it's like my inner actor just keeps crying to get out.”

Greenley retrieved a handkerchief from his coat, then set about wiping the dirt from his face and scrubbing the shoe polish from his blacked-out teeth. “All part of a grand tradition, of course, set down by the great dramaturgical detectives: Sir Justin Trouper, D.I. Guise, Basil Scrimm. We never start any case without a cast of undercover identities at the ready. Ahh—I've waited months for the chance to try out this new tramp character. And Inspector Smudge said the costume was a waste of resources. He'll be eating
his
words right about now, I think.”

The children stood speechless as Greenley returned the now grubby handkerchief to his pocket. “But enough with the theatrics for the moment—we've got business to attend to.” He removed his tattered scarf and ragged overcoat to reveal a freshly starched shirt and tie, then motioned to the building's entrance. “What do you say we get this meeting underway?”

“Yes, please,” said Arthur.

The detective stopped at the entrance and addressed the neckless doorman, who had since returned to his post. “Cheers, Philip,” Greenley said under his breath, tapping the side of his nose twice with his index finger.

Without shifting his gaze, Philip gave a nod and said, “Mr. Green.” Then he pushed open the door and waved the three through the threshold.

• • •

Arthur and Ruby followed the detective down a steep series of steps and through a winding, poorly lit corridor. They pushed past a velvet curtain at its far end to find themselves in a large, smoky room pulsating with activity.

Like a brotherhood of master snake charmers, the four-piece jazz band in the back corner coaxed the dance floor to shimmy and sway to its every whim, while the bony barman in the foreground flipped bottles in time with the music. Dim lamps dangled above red vinyl booths at the room's edges, where slick-haired scoundrels belched cigarette smoke into the faces of their dates—sultry, smoldering women who promptly belched it right back.

It wasn't exactly a place for children—but apparently the distinction had not occurred to Greenley. Arthur, however, was surprised to find that in an establishment designated for adults, most people behaved more or less like unruly schoolkids. The patrons all chattered in obnoxiously loud voices, some twirling around the floor as if they'd had too much sugar, while others stumbled about like it was past their bedtimes.

Mixing into the crowd like a splash of water in the World's Largest Pot of Grease, the children and the detective made their way to an empty booth at the back of the club.

“My apologies again for the false names and disguises,” Greenley whispered. “You never know who might be watching round here.” He peered cautiously around the room. “When Inspector Smudge and I are stationed nearby, this is where I meet with all the mob informants, reluctant witnesses, underworld ruffians, and other necessary evil-doers upon whom we coppers must sometimes rely.”

“Wow,” the children murmured, impressed by the detective's thrilling exploits.

“That is to say,” Greenley added, “I haven't actually
met
with any of them yet—not as such.”

“Oh,” said Arthur.

“I mean, there
was
that slightly dodgy boxing promoter, but I was only meeting with him to purchase a secondhand fish fryer he'd listed in the
Weekly
. You would not believe how much they want for a new one these days— practically criminal, if you ask me. . . . But, anyway, when I do get a proper meeting with one of these underworld types, this seems a good location for that sort of thing, doesn't it? I mean, cutting deals with gangland snitches, ransom drops with kidnappers, off-duty dance-offs with Russian mobsters, and all that. Not really
my
cup of tea, mind, but it provides the appropriate atmosphere—don't you think?”

Arthur and Ruby nodded in bemused agreement.

“Anyhow,” said the detective, his voice suddenly serious as he leaned in, “on to more important matters.” He reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved a worn-out, folded-up piece of paper, which Arthur recognized to be the Treasurer's note.

“You were right to send me this, Arthur,” said Greenley. “As much as it pains me to neglect an order from Inspector Smudge, I believe you've come up with a lead worth following here, and as an officer of the law, I would be remiss to ignore it. Indeed, I've been able to glean a fair bit from this little scrap—more, I dare say, than all the clues we've gathered so far.” He peered suspiciously over his shoulder, then leaned in further toward the children, lowering his voice so they could only just hear it over the noise of the club. “It would seem your little note here is the first concrete evidence substantiating rumors of a new treasurer on the Ardmore Board of Directors.”

Arthur and Ruby traded sideways glances.

“As you may be aware,” Greenley continued, “the public face of the Ardmore Association is relatively well-known—what with their
Ardmore Almanac
and so on—but the inner workings of its board have been shrouded in mystery ever since it went underground some twenty years ago. Hard as we've tried, the Association's senior ranks have proved impossible to infiltrate. At least with this note, we've now been clued in to some of their associates, with whom we are a bit more familiar.”

“Messrs. Overkill and Undercut?” said Arthur.

“Precisely,” said Greenley. “Though I think it's safe to say these exceptional-sized chums of yours are operating under assumed names—which is bound to make recapturing them difficult. At the end of the day of course, they are almost certainly low-level henchman or hired thugs, simply following the orders of their employers. It is the
employers
who are important to us. If we find the puppeteers, we shall find the puppets as well.”

“How many puppeteers do you think there might be, Detective?”

“Well,” Greenley replied, “the note's reference to this ‘Chairman of the Board' suggests we're dealing with the wishes of the board's director at least, if not the entire board itself. But, of course, until we start learning the identities of its members, we've got no one to charge. Can't rightly arrest a man's job title without the man himself, can we?”