Wilma Tenderfoot and the Case of the Putrid Poison by Emma Kennedy Page A

to her beagle. “There is a sudden bad smell in this room. And for once it’s not you.”
    And with that Wilma, Pickle, the Inspector, and the great detective left.
    Barbu glared at the just-shut door and blew a loud raspberry. “Is it possible to despise a man more? No! It isn’t! How can he stand being that dull? I mean, honestly?!”
    â€œI’m so sorry about this evening, Mr. D’Anvers.” The Baron squirmed, rubbing his hands together. “Most unfortunate. But then, that’s theatre! You never know what’s going to happen! Ha-ha-ha. All the same. It’s not what I would have liked. And such a shame! You didn’t get to see Mrs. Wanderlip! Wonderful ventriloquist! And the Countess! Her paper tearing is second to none! Believe me, there’s not a greater—”
    â€œThat will do,” snapped Barbu, holding a hand up. “I’m not really interested in your pathetic acts. But someone dying onstage . . . now that’s an opportunity. Everyone will want to come here. I can see it now. The stage of death! There’s a killing to be made! Pardon the expression. So, Baron, I am pleased to be able to tell you that I will be making an investment.”
    The Baron’s face lit up, his mouth gaped, and for a second he was so stunned he was unable to speak. Instead a small squeak squeezed out from the back of his throat. “Y-you are?” he stuttered eventually. “Actually going to give me money? I . . . I don’t know what to say! Except thank you! Thank you, Mr. D’Anvers! You won’t regret this! I’ll be able to fix the leak in the ceiling! Repaint the scenery! Get some new props!”
    Baron von Worms shot from his chair, arms outstretched, ready to hug his investor. He had almost reached Barbu when Tully, the villain’s henchman, pulled him back by the scruff of his collar.
    â€œI don’t do cuddles,” said Barbu, recoiling. “And a little quicker next time if you please, Tully. He almost made contact.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Barbu,” said the stupid sidekick, scratching the side of his nose.
    â€œOh!” said the Baron, a little startled. “Well, that’s all right! Ha-ha! We don’t need to hug! But it’s fantastic news! Amazing! I’m the luckiest manager alive! Having Barbu D’Anvers as the Theatre Angel!”
    â€œSorry,” said Barbu, frowning. “An angel ? Me?”
    â€œYes!” The Baron grinned. “An angel! That’s what we call people who give money to theatrical productions!”
    â€œMy mother will be turning in her grave,” replied Barbu, one eyebrow arching. “Although you might not think me so heavenly when you read my terms. Janty! Give him the contract!”
    The young boy pushed a dark curl out of his eyes and reached into his trouser pocket. “Here you are, Mr. von Worms,” he said, handing over a folded piece of paper.
    â€œBaron. Baron von . . .” began the manager, but catching Barbu’s unimpressed eye he cleared his throat and let it go. Instead he took the contract and read. His face, which moments before had been so filled with relief and gratitude, fell. “B-but . . .” he stuttered, frowning as he read, “this can’t be! In exchange for your initial investment, it says here you want ninety-nine percent of all ticket sales going forward. But that’s not possible!”
    â€œOh, it’s entirely possible, Mr. von Worms,” replied Barbu, smirking. “Either you accept my terms or you get no money. And, according to my sources, who tell me you’ve tried every investor on Cooper and failed, I am your one hope.”
    The Baron slumped.
    â€œJust as I thought.” Barbu smirked. “So you will sign my contract. And what’s more, Goodman isn’t the only one who wants to keep a close eye on things. I intend to move myself here immediately. This is now my office. And