The Giant Rat of Sumatra Read online

  After another tense silence, Susanna said, “Ancient history. The story I heard is that Ewan thinks Charles deliberately sabotaged a production that was supposed to be Ewan’s big chance at being a star.”

  “Don’t forget Will Robertson,” Hector said. “Ewan and Will are old friends. And Will actually played Holmes in a TV movie a few years ago. He was good, too. Ewan couldn’t believe it when the role went to Charles instead.”

  Susanna gave Joe and Frank a smile. “If you want to catch up on old gossip, just hang out in a theater greenroom,” she said. “Not that we’re all born busybodies. It’s just that we have to spend so much time hanging around, waiting for our next scene. And face it, talking about other people’s quirks is a lot more interesting than knitting.”

  A crackle of static came from a loudspeaker on the wall. Bettina’s voice said, “Irregulars, get ready. Act Two, Scene Three. You’re on in three minutes.”

  Joe jumped up from his chair.

  Hector said, “Relax, Joe. Scene changes always take longer than they say.” He finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the trash bin, and strolled toward the door. Joe and the other Irregulars followed him out.

  “I think I’ll watch,” Frank told Susanna. “What about you?”

  Susanna shook her head. “I need to do a little mental preparation for my next scene. I guess that falling dummy shook me more than I knew. I’ll see you later.”

  Frank returned to a spot in the wings where he could see the stage. The scene was a back alley. Hector, Joe, and the others were in the opposite wings, ready to make their entrance.

  Frank glanced around. Gordean and Robertson were a few feet away, near the fog machine. The two actors were huddled together, talking in low voices. Gordean noticed Frank’s glance and muttered something to Will. He then looked over his shoulder at Frank before turning and walking away. After a moment, Gordean followed.

  Frank shrugged. Were the two actors involved in something underhanded? It certainly appeared so. The way they were behaving was almost like renting a billboard and advertising the fact.

  A stagehand came by, carrying a gallon jug of water. He walked over to the fog machine, unscrewed the cap of the water tank, and started to fill it. After a few seconds, he stopped. With a surprised look on his face, he peered down into the tank. Then he replaced the cap and walked away.

  The stage lights dimmed for the start of the scene. With a click, the fog generator went into action. The horn-shaped nozzle started spewing a thick gray mist onto the stage. Some of the vapor drifted over to where Frank was standing.

  Frank took a breath. A sharp smell stung his nose, then his throat felt as if it were on fire. He clapped his hands over his face. A moment later, he doubled over, coughing helplessly.

  7 The Fog Thickens

  * * *

  Coughing and blinded by tears, Frank staggered over to the fog machine. There had to be a switch on it, but where? Everything was a blur. He covered his nose and mouth with his left hand. Kneeling next to the machine, he ran his right hand over the top and sides of it. There was no switch that he could feel, but his fingertips touched the power cord. He jerked it. The machine gave a little shake and fell silent.

  With the machine off, Frank could hear the coughs of the people onstage. From her command post in the opposite wing, Bettina shouted, “Clear the stage! Everybody out! Aston, Pat, get over to the loading dock and open the sliding doors. We’ve got to ventilate this place now!”

  A group of actors hurried past Frank with tears streaming down their cheeks. From the rear of the backstage area came a rattling noise. Frank guessed that it was the loading-dock doors sliding open. A moment later he felt a breeze on his cheek. The noxious fog started to thin out.

  As Frank was getting to his feet, he spotted a plastic bottle a few feet away in a dusty corner. It was lying on its side, half hidden by the folds of a curtain. It looked as though someone had hastily tossed it there.

  Frank went over and picked up the bottle. The cap was off, and it was empty. The label read Spirits of Ammonia. Frank nodded to himself. He had been almost sure that he’d recognized that smell. For the sake of thoroughness, he held the mouth of the bottle a little way from his nose and took a cautious sniff.

  His eyes instantly started to tear again. That was the stuff, all right. He wiped his eyes on his shirt sleeve.

  Suddenly somebody tackled Frank around the waist. The sneak attack threw him backward. Frank’s left shoulder crashed against the wall, and the ammonia bottle flew out of his hand.

  His attacker pulled back and tried to slam him into the wall a second time. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder, Frank whacked the man on the side of the neck with the point of his elbow. There was a loud grunt, and the pressure around Frank’s waist let up.

  Frank was getting set to follow up with a knee to the stomach, when someone shouted, “What are you doing? Stop it at once, do you hear me?”

  Frank looked around. Hornby was standing with his hands on his hips and a look of fury on his face.

  The assailant released his grip and backed away. Frank was surprised to see that it was Max, one of the Irregulars who had been in the greenroom a few minutes before.

  “You’d better have a good explanation, Max,” Hornby said coldly. “This is a theater, not a boxing arena.”

  Max pointed to Frank. “This piece of garbage was trying to wreck our play,” he declared. “I caught him redhanded.”

  Hornby shifted his glare to Frank. “You’re Donald’s new assistant, aren’t you? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I don’t know what Max’s problem is,” Frank said. “When I smelled the fumes, I made it over here and unplugged the fog generator before it got any worse. Then I saw an empty bottle on the floor. It smelled like ammonia. I was looking at it when Max sneaked up and grabbed me.”

  “He had the bottle in his hand,” Max said. “And he was standing right by the fog machine. What was I supposed to think? I still say he’s the one who tried to gas us.”

  Hornby looked from Max to Frank and back. “Where is this mysterious bottle?” he asked.

  Frank glanced around. The bottle had landed several feet away, under a table. He retrieved it. As he did, he spotted a price tag stuck to the bottom. It was from Value Plus, a chain of discount stores. One of their stores was just a few blocks from the theater, on Broad Street.

  Hornby took the bottle from Frank and looked at it with a sour face.

  At that moment Joe hurried over. O’Lunny was close behind him, with Bettina and the stagehand whom Frank had seen tending the fog machine earlier.

  “Frank, are you okay?” Joe demanded. “What happened?”

  Frank explained once more, and pointed to the bottle in Hornby’s hand. “My hunch,” he concluded, “is that someone poured the ammonia into the water tank of the fog generator. Then, as soon as the machine was turned on, the fumes spread across the stage.”

  “Someone? You mean you,” Max said sullenly, glaring at Frank.

  The others ignored him. Joe asked, “When was the machine used last?”

  “During last night’s performance, I imagine,” O’Lunny told him.

  “This morning,” Bettina said. “The lighting designer turned it on so he could check one of his effects.”

  “And no ammonia?” O’Lunny asked.

  “Nope. Just fog,” Bettina replied. She glanced at the stagehand. “Right, Al?”

  “Right,” Al replied. “But I just thought of something. About a half hour ago, I checked the reservoir on the machine. It was half full. I meant to fill it, but then I got caught up in a couple of other jobs. When I finally got around to it, the tank was nearly full. I was kind of surprised, but I figured someone else on the crew had taken care of it.”

  “So it sounds as though the ammonia was probably put in the tank between the time you checked it and the time you came back to fill it,” Joe said. “A little less than half an hour.”

  Rolling his eyes,
Hornby said, “That’s the trouble with doing a show about Sherlock Holmes. Everybody wants to play detective.”

  Frank caught Joe’s eye and gave a tiny shake of the head. It was important not to do or say anything that might tip people off to their real mission.

  “Come now, Gilbert,” O’Lunny said. “Joe’s making a good point. If we knew where everyone was during that half hour, we would at least know who couldn’t have pulled this stunt.”

  “Huh!” Hornby snorted. “We were all over the place. I must have walked past this fog machine half a dozen times. And I’ll bet every one of you did, too. Enough of this. We have a rehearsal to finish.”

  He turned to Bettina. “Spread the word. Five more minutes, then we carry on from where we left off. Without the fog this time, please. And get someone to clean out the fog machine. We’ll need it in working order for tonight’s performance.”

  Bettina told Al to take the fog machine back to the scenery shop. Then she went off to carry out Hornby’s orders.

  Hornby glanced at the Hardys, then said to O’Lunny, “A word with you, Donald?” They walked away together.

  That left Frank and Joe with Max. After giving Frank a dirty look, Max headed in the direction of the dressing rooms.

  “Another hot prospect for our fan club,” Joe remarked. “And speaking about hot prospects, what does this latest stunt do for our suspect list?”

  Frank told him about seeing Gordean and Robertson standing near the fog machine earlier. “I didn’t notice either of them fiddle with it,” he admitted. “But they sure didn’t like it when they noticed me watching them.”

  “Say they’re in it together,” Joe said. “One of them could have acted as a combination screen and lookout while the other put the ammonia in the tank.”

  Frank said, “Let’s try something. Stand next to the machine, with your back to the stage.”

  “Okay.” Joe took up his position.

  Frank walked out onto the stage and looked back. Then he returned to the wings and followed a semicircular path around the fog machine. Finally he rejoined Joe.

  “I thought so,” he said. “I couldn’t see the machine from the stage, because you’re in the way. And from better than half of the backstage area, you and the machine are hidden by that side curtain. Our trickster wasn’t taking such a big risk after all.”

  “What about that guy who jumped you?” Joe asked. “Do you think he’s part of it?”

  Frank gave a short laugh. “Max? I doubt it. He’s read a few too many superhero comics, that’s all. When he spotted me next to the fog machine with a bottle in my hand, he saw his chance to strike a blow for Truth, Justice, and the American Way.” Frank massaged his side and added, “If only he’d struck it with a little less enthusiasm.”

  “Hey, I just thought of something,” Joe said. “Unless he’s working with somebody else, we can cross Hector off our suspect list. He’s got an alibi.”

  “How so?” asked Frank.

  Joe said, “Think back. After the fight between Battenberg and Gordean, we went back to the greenroom with Hector. He didn’t leave the room while we were there. I went out onstage with him to rehearse our scene, and that’s where we were when the fog started. So there wasn’t any time when he could have come over here to doctor the fog machine.”

  Frank frowned thoughtfully. “That’s right,” he said. “Or nearly right. Why couldn’t he have put in the ammonia while the rest of us were onstage, listening to the argument? Who would have noticed?”

  “Um,” Joe said. “Yeah, okay . . . but that would mean having the stuff someplace nearby and moving awfully fast. Even if we don’t cross him off the list completely, I still think this moves him down a few places, especially since we don’t have any motive for him at this point.”

  “We don’t have a strong motive for anyone,” Frank pointed out. “Except general dislike for Battenberg.”

  “Joe?” Hector called, from the edge of the stage. “Come on. We’re starting.”

  Joe jumped. “Oh, okay—thanks,” he called back. To Frank, he said, “I’ve got to go. What are you going to do?”

  “I think I’ll pay a visit to Ewan Gordean’s dressing room,” Frank replied. “If he’s there, I’ll ask him a few questions. And if he isn’t . . . well, it wouldn’t hurt to take a look around.”

  Joe joined the other Irregulars onstage. Frank watched them do their number for a few moments. Then he walked down the hallway that led to the dressing rooms. Each of the doors had a little brass holder for a name tag. Gordean’s held an engraved calling card.

  Frank rapped on the door and listened, hearing only silence inside. He looked both ways, then tried the knob. It gave a loud squeal and turned. He pushed the door open a crack. The room was dark.

  Frank said, “Hello?” No answer. He slipped inside and shut the door behind him. Then he groped along the wall for the light switch, found it, and flicked it on.

  “Whoa!” Frank gasped. As the ceiling light came on, the first thing he saw was the looming form of someone only a few feet from him. An instant later he realized that he was looking at his own distorted image in a mirror that covered an entire wall. He took a deep breath and waited for his pulse to calm down. Then he looked around.

  The room was small, no more than six feet wide by nine feet long. The floor was bare concrete, and the pale green walls and ceiling looked as if they had last been painted seventy-five years ago, when the Orpheum was still showing vaudeville. The mirror was on the long wall, to the right of the door. Just below the mirror, at sitting height, was a long shelf littered with bottles and tubes of makeup. At the far end of the room, a sheet suspended from the ceiling partly hid some costumes on hangers.

  A brown metal folding chair was drawn up in front of the makeup table. The only other piece of furniture was a sagging armchair covered in faded floral chintz. A little stack of paperback mysteries sat on the floor next to it.

  In the corner behind the door, Frank spotted the canvas case of a fishing rod and a gray metal tackle box. So Gordean really did keep his fishing gear handy. Frank went over, bent down, and lifted the lid of the tackle box.

  The top shelf in the box contained a neatly arranged assortment of lures. Frank lifted it out. The main compartment, underneath, was more disordered. There was an expensive spinning reel, a rusty folding knife, a tiny can of lubricating oil, an oil-stained rag, and a bunch of other stuff. Everything had a faintly fishy smell. Frank sifted through it. Near the bottom, he spotted a dark blue plastic spool. He lifted it out. The label read Monofilament Leader, 50-lb. Test. The spool was almost empty. Another spool near it looked unused.

  Frank replaced the two spools and sat back on his heels to think. Was the empty one the source of the nylon line used to rig the dummy? And if so, did that mean that Gordean was responsible? Or did it even, in a way, show that he was innocent? Would anyone who was guilty keep such obvious evidence around where anyone could find it?

  Footsteps stopped outside the door, and Frank was all ears.

  He heard the doorknob squeal and took in a quick breath.

  Someone was coming into the room.

  8 Moriarty’s Curse

  * * *

  The dressing-room door started to swing open. Frank was trapped, caught redhanded . . . or was he? He could see one slim chance to escape exposure—his only chance.

  Frank jumped to his feet and made a silent dash the length of the room. Ducking behind the sheet that formed the front of the improvised closet, he quickly burrowed to the back of the row of costumes. They were dusty and smelled of greasepaint. He stood still and tried to breathe silently through his mouth.

  Oh, no! he thought. The tackle box! He hadn’t had time to close the lid. Gordean would notice it immediately. He would know someone had been in his dressing room. Would he search the room himself, or call for help?

  Frank heard Gordean say, “You can’t hide that way forever, you know.”

  Frank’s pulse raced. He hadn’t ex
pected Gordean to spot him that quickly. Were his shoes showing under the row of costumes?

  He was about to step out from behind the curtain when he heard the murmur of a second voice. With a rush of relief, Frank realized that Gordean had been talking to someone else. He hadn’t discovered Frank—not yet at least.

  Gordean said, “People do notice your reactions, even if you try to conceal them.”

  Another murmur.

  “Tershous?” Gordean said. “I’d be very careful if I were you. An impressive talent, no doubt of that, but erratic. Not, in my view, to be trusted.”

  Frank strained his ears to hear the other half of the conversation, but all he picked up was more murmuring. He couldn’t even be sure whether Gordean was talking to a man or a woman.

  Gordean lowered his voice. “You know how much this role means to me. But I’m becoming more and more sure of one thing. The only chance this show has to survive is if some anonymous benefactor does a Moriarty on the Prince of Wales. And I don’t know that we dare hope for that.”

  The door closed. Frank held his breath and waited for Gordean to notice the open tackle box. Instead, Gordean muttered, “Oh, bother!” A moment later, the door opened and shut again.

  Frank risked peeking out between two of the tweed suits. The dressing room was empty. Obviously Gordean had forgotten something and had left to get it. How long would it take him? Five minutes? One? Less?

  Slipping out of his hiding place, Frank hurried on tiptoes toward the door. He paused to close the lid of the tackle box. As he did, he noticed a crumpled plastic shopping bag in the wastebasket. He grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket. Then he cautiously pulled the door open a crack and peered down the hall both ways. The corridor was empty. He slipped out and pulled the door closed behind him. Turning right, he walked in the direction of the stage.

  Frank hadn’t taken more than two or three steps when he saw Gordean coming toward him. The actor had a script in his hand and a look of preoccupation on his face. He paid no attention to Frank at all.