Mr Humperdinck's Wonderful Whatsit (2017 ed). Wynand Louw
busy the whole afternoon.” Maggie sighed the mother of all sighs, and started chewing on a piece of broccoli.
“What did you tell them?”
“Well, I went to Humperdinck’s just after eight in the morning. I figured that he might know something about this thing with the butterflies. The lock on the front door was broken. I found him lying face down in a pool of blood. Dead.” She shivered. “So I called the police.”
“What did the shop look like?”
“It was a mess, especially the back room. Everything was pulled from the shelves. The desk was smashed to bits.”
“Why did you think Mr Humperdinck would know about the butterflies?” Although he hadn’t thought of it before, Pete suspected what her answer would be.
“I think someone’s put some kind of magical curse on me. And the only person I know who may be involved in something like that is, well, was Mr Humperdinck. You know that doorbell of his? The other day it stuck its tongue out at me. And he kept talking to my cat as if it could understand every single word he said. And this blasted curse started right after he shouted at me. The old geezer puts a curse on me, and then he goes off and dies! How am I supposed to get rid of the curse now?” she sobbed and picked up a piece of spinach. “I HATE VEGETABLES!”
Pete left as soon as he could. Maggie wasn’t good company when she was in a bad mood, and it was evident that she didn’t know anything more about the murder. But she had a point: In some way or other, Mr Humperdinck had something to do with her problem. Two days ago, Pete didn’t believe in magic. Now he had seen it with his own eyes and suddenly all those odd little things about Mr Humperdinck started to make sense. His doorbell, for instance. Pete had never noticed that the doorbell had a face, but when Maggie said that it had stuck its tongue out at her, he knew he had seen its face before. He just didn’t notice it. And then there was the back room. Pete went in there once to call Mr Humperdinck. It was dark and dusty, with shelves filled with books and assorted pieces of junk all around. A kind of electricity in the air made his hair stand on end, like the generator in the science lab at school. Mr Humperdinck was busy at his desk, heating something that glowed with an eerie green light in a little glass cup over a gas burner. A thick, leather-bound book lay open on his desk.
Pete cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Mr Humperdinck, there’s a customer in the shop.”
“Tell him to come back tomorrow. And please don’t come in here again. It’s private,” the old man mumbled and turned to concentrate on what he was doing. At that moment, Pete thought he saw something disappear behind a book. It looked like a doll, only about three inches high. And it was alive. It had to be the darkness and the shadows of the gas burner playing tricks on his eyes. But now he thought otherwise. There had been something there that day.
Suddenly he could think of many other instances that confirmed his growing belief that Mr Humperdinck was in some way involved in magical things. But even if he were the prime suspect for jinxing Maggie, why would he have done it? What had she done to deserve it? And why had he been murdered?
That evening at about half past seven there was a knock on Pete’s door. It was Mrs Burton.
“There’s a man at my place who wants to see you.”
Pete followed her across the landing to her flat. Nathaniel the Artist and Mr Jones, who lived on the second floor, were already seated when they entered. Mr Jones held Mangler, his little Chihuahua, on his lap. A strange, bald man stood by the stove.
“Pete, this is Mr Vulture,” said Mrs Burton.
The man stared at Pete with beady black eyes down an enormous beak of a nose. “Voltaire, Madame. Like the famous French philosopher.”
Mangler growled. Mrs Burton’s cheeks glowed a bit.
“Pete, this is Mr Voltaire,” she said. “He was Mr Humperdinck’s attorney.”
“Not his attorney exactly, Madame. I’m a bit of a … ahem, specialist. I take care of deceased estates, and as such I was assigned by Mr Schwarz, who was his attorney, to see to this … ahem, matter.” His head bobbed backwards and forwards on his slender neck as he walked over to the table, sat down and opened his briefcase. “As everybody is present, we will now proceed to read the … ahem, will.”
The will! There was a shocked silence. It was obvious that no one had ever imagined being in someone’s will.
“Please be seated, Master Smith, and close your mouth.” Voltaire took out a document and read aloud, “Here follows the Last Will and Testament of … ahem, Wilhelm Karl Frederick Hans Jozef von Kirschbaume und Humperdinck.”
He paused for a moment to blow his nose in a huge red handkerchief, and then read the will. Pete didn’t understand much of it, but it seemed that Mr Humperdinck had no family or friends other than his neighbours in Paradise Mansions.
“The property known as Paradise Mansions is bequeathed to Mrs Edwina Burton.”
They all gasped. They hadn’t even known that the building belonged to Mr Humperdinck. They thought he was just the agent collecting the rent.
Mrs Burton put her hand on her mouth. “He did love me after all!” She started to sob uncontrollably.
Mr Voltaire had to wait a few moments for the clamour to die down before he could proceed. Nathaniel the Artist would receive a rare and valuable set of Chinese pig-bristle brushes, which dated from the fourteenth century. Apparently there were also two valuable paintings. And there was some cash in the bank for Mr Jones, whom Mr Humperdinck had called my dear friend in the will.
“And the next clause seems to make no sense whatsoever,” announced Mr Voltaire. “All my books, as well as the bicycle shop business, are bequeathed to my friend Snow White, the cat. We shall simply ignore this, since cats obviously have no need of … ahem, books or businesses.”
And lastly, Mr Humperdinck had asked Pete to take care of his mouse Squeak.
Squeak! Pete could kick himself. He had forgotten all about the white mouse in the wire cage. The poor thing had had no food or water since his master died, which was already more than forty-eight hours ago.
“Do you have a key to the shop?” Pete asked Mr Voltaire. “I must fetch the mouse.”
The man shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question. The police have sealed off the shop since it’s a crime scene. It’s illegal to enter without their permission. And then of course, there’s the problem of claims against the … ahem, estate.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mr Jones.
“I mean, Mr Jones, that before you can get to the loot, Mr Humperdinck’s creditors have to be paid. I have here a letter from the city council that states that Mr Humperdinck has failed to pay his levies and taxes on this property for the last twenty years.” He waved a piece of paper in the air. “How on earth he managed to do that is beyond me. But the estate owes the city more than this … ahem, hovel would ever fetch at an auction which, incidentally, will be held on the premises in two months’ time. You have six weeks to vacate the building. A notice to this effect will be sent to all the residents. And then, of course, there’s the question of tax and … ahem, my fee.”
“But if I don’t go fetch Squeak he’ll die!”
“It seems that you have inherited a dead mouse that will be sold on a public auction, young man.” Voltaire pulled his lips to imitate a smile, and then got up. “Now if you will excuse me, I have other important appointments.”
He took his hat and coat and went through the door. Pete ran after him. Mr Voltaire’s coat billowed behind him like a pair of enormous black wings as he went down the stairs. Suddenly he jumped through the window on the second landing. Pete rushed down to the window and was just in time to see him fly away, his black coat flapping in the wind behind him.
The bicycle shop’s door was sealed with a thick chain and a padlock, and there was a police