Selby Supersnoop (10 page)

‘He’s Australia’s most famous composer of MM.’

‘MM?’

‘Maximal Music. And he was born in Bogusville.’

‘Oh, that Jango Phoot,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘Doesn’t he write that plinkity plunkity kind of music that you can’t hum or whistle?’

‘It’s not plinkity plunkity anymore. It’s more crashity bangity,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘Especially this new piece. It’s called The Great Chicken Disaster Symphony. It’s based on something that happened when he was a young man. His truckload of chickens overturned and all the chickens escaped. It’s very personal music.’

‘Hmmm, The Great Chicken Disaster Symphony. Very interesting, but why does he want to perform it in Bogusville?’

‘Because country people are friendly people.’

‘We are?’

‘Yes. In the city there are people who hate him. Some of them come to his concerts just to boo and hiss and carry on. Once someone even threw a bucket of tomato sauce all over the audience in the middle of a performance. That could never happen here.’

‘Let’s hope not,’ Dr Trifle said. ‘So will you be singing or playing an instrument?’

‘I’ll be screaming and clucking and singing the part of the principal pullet.’

‘A pullet? Isn’t that a young chicken?’

‘Yes, darling, and you’ll love my screaming too,’ Mrs Trifle said proudly. ‘It sounds just like tyres screeching. Do you want a demonstration?’

‘I think I’d rather wait for opening night and be surprised, thank you all the same,’ said Dr Trifle who was cracking eggs into a bowl and thinking of escaping chickens.

‘I’ll take Selby along to the rehearsal,’ Mrs Trifle said, ‘he needs a walk. I trust the meal will be ready VS.’

‘VS?’

‘Very soon.’

‘Yes, of course, dear. You go and get ready.’

‘The Great Chicken Disaster Symphony,’ Selby thought as he lay behind the lounge listening to Dr and Mrs Trifle’s conversation. ‘I’m not sure that it’s my kind of music but it’ll be great to see the BSDS rehearse.’

That night Selby and Mrs Trifle made their way in the rain to Bogusville Hall. Selby sat at the back of the hall watching as the grey-haired Jango Phoot conducted the Bogusville Song and Dance Society by waving a bent windscreen wiper.

Constable Long smashed bottles, Phil Philpot broke up a wooden barrel with an axe, Postie Paterson beat on a bathtub with a hammer, Melanie Mildew made hideous scratching noises by running her long fingernails down a blackboard, and the rest of the BSDS (including Mrs Trifle) clucked, screamed, honked horns and made the noise of police sirens.

‘I don’t know if this Maximal Music sounds good,’ Selby thought as he covered his ears, ‘but it sure is fun to watch!’

Finally, the symphony came to a great crashing end.

‘Take ten!’ the composer called. ‘Well, what did you people think of it?’

There was silence for a moment and then Phil Philpot said, ‘I think I messed up some of those wood-splitting sounds.’

‘That part sounded good to me,’ Postie Paterson said. ‘But my bathtub is a little out of tune. You don’t suppose we could find an E flat bathtub?’

‘I may have spoiled the end bit when I broke my fingernail,’ Melanie Mildew said. ‘I’ll have to glue on a false one for opening night.’

‘Well, I liked it,’ Constable Long said. ‘It’s much better than that plinkity plunkity music you used to write.’

Jango Phoot sighed.

‘Thank you for your comments,’ he said. ‘I really don’t know what to think. I’m so nervous about tomorrow. Now that it’s stopped raining, I’ll take a walk around the block. See you soon.’

While the composer was out of the hall, Mrs Trifle and the others talked about the symphony.

‘He’s really captured the sound of a truck crash, hasn’t he?’ Postie Paterson said.

‘It sounds just like recess at school on a windy day,’ said Camilla Bonser, the librarian at Bogusville Primary School, ‘with all the kids going crazy.’

‘I don’t think Mr Phoot is happy with his symphony,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘But then, I guess I’d be nervous too if it was my new symphony and all these important people were coming to hear it.’

Selby was listening to all this when suddenly he noticed something sail through one of the high windows in the hall and then come shooting down to the floor.

‘Look! It’s a paper plane,’ Constable Long said, ‘with a note on it.’

‘I’ll take that,’ said Camilla Bonser who was used to grabbing notes away from the kids at school. ‘It says “Cancel tomorrow’s performance if you know what’s good for you,” and it’s signed “The Tomato Sauce Phantom". I wonder what it means?’

‘Let’s see who threw it!’ Constable Long said.

Everyone, including Selby, ran outside and into the car park, but there was no one there.

‘Footprints!’ Mrs Trifle said, pointing to the tracks in the mud that stretched across the field.
‘Look! I see him way over there, standing on the footpath!’

‘I think you’re mistaken,’ Constable Long said. ‘That’s not the culprit — that’s Jango.’

‘But the footprints are going towards him.’

‘If you look carefully, you’ll see that they’re going in the opposite direction,’ the policeman said. ‘They’re coming towards us — away from him.’

‘Oh, so they are,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘Yoohoo, Mr Phoot! Could you come here please?’

The composer made his way across the muddy field.

‘Someone threw this note through the window,’ Camilla explained.

The composer took the note and read it.

‘So that’s what he was up to,’ he said. ‘I saw a man run towards the hall and then throw something towards the window.’

‘Where’d he go?’ Constable Long asked.

‘After he threw this, he ran out the driveway to the street, hopped into a car and drove away,’ the composer said. ‘And I thought I’d be safe here in Bogusville. I guess I’ll have to cancel tomorrow’s performance.’

‘You can’t just cancel,’ Phil Philpot said. ‘What about all the people who are coming?’

‘I can’t risk having tomato sauce thrown on them — or worse. There’s no telling what these so-called music-lovers might do. I can’t put them in danger.’

‘It’s very sad,’ Selby thought as he and Mrs Trifle walked home. ‘Ten years of work down the drain. And now he’ll probably never write music again — plinkity plunkity or crashity bangity.’

‘I know you don’t know what’s happening, Selby,’ Mrs Trifle said, ‘but this is all very sad. You’re so lucky to be in your simple little doggy world and not in our complicated people-world.’

‘Simple, schmimple,’ Selby thought. ‘I only wish I could find the guy who threw that note.’

That night, when he couldn’t sleep, Selby suddenly remembered the chapter in The Art of the Private Investigator about footprints.

‘I should have studied the footprints,’ he thought. ‘What if the culprit was wearing a shoe with a chip out of the heel? What if he used a
walking-stick? There might have been an important clue.’

With this, Selby got up, crept out of the house, and ran all the way back to Bogusville Hall.

‘Hmmm,’ Selby thought as he studied the footprints. ‘Nothing unusual here. No chips. No walking-sticks. Just plain old footprints. In fact,’ he said, looking over at the footprints that Jango Phoot had made, ‘they’re kind of like Jango’s.’

Selby put his nose down closer to the mud.

‘Hey, hold the show! They’re exactly like Jango’s! But they can’t be! Jango was walking around the block on the road. Unless … unless Jango wasn’t walking around the block. Maybe he scribbled the note, made it into a paper plane, threw it, and then ran backwards across that field to where we saw him.’

Selby looked around the car park.

‘That explains why he left muddy footprints in the car park when he came towards us but there are no muddy footprints from the other tracks. It all makes sense — Phoot is the Phantom! But why would he want to call off his own performance?’

Selby went home and crept into the study where he phoned the composer’s motel.

‘Sorry to wake you, Mr Phoot,’ Selby said, ‘but I have to talk to you.’

‘It’s all right, I wasn’t sleeping,’ the composer said.

‘I know that you’re the one who threw that threatening paper plane.’

‘You do? Who are you? How could you possibly know?’

‘I do. Never mind. And I know you ran backwards across that field,’ Selby said, answering all three questions in order. ‘Why did you do it?’

There was a long sigh.

‘The symphony,’ the composer said. ‘It isn’t good enough. I needed an excuse to cancel opening night.’

‘But it’s great,’ Selby said. ‘I was there at the rehearsal and everyone loved it.’

‘You’re a musician — a member of the BSDS?’

‘No, I’m not a musician.’

‘But you were at the rehearsal.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you must be a dog. The only one who wasn’t a musician at the rehearsal was a dog.’

‘So, I’m a musician,’ Selby said. ‘But never mind about that. I think you should go ahead with the performance tomorrow night.’

‘Why?’

‘Because everyone’s looking forward to it.’

‘That’s what I’ve been thinking too,’ the old man said. ‘Okay, I’ll go ahead with it. You’ve convinced me. But please don’t tell anyone what you know.’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t,’ Selby said.

The next night Bogusville Hall was packed as The Great Chicken Disaster Symphony came to its stirring conclusion. For a second everyone just sat in their seats, stunned. Then they jumped to their feet, cheering and screaming even louder than the symphony itself.

‘That was brilliant!’ Mrs Trifle said after the concert as she handed the composer a bouquet of flowers from the BSDS.

‘Oh, thank you so much,’ Jango Phoot said. ‘I’m so happy that everyone liked my new work. And I’m so glad that I came to Bogusville
to perform it. It has given me confidence. I can’t wait to get home and work on my new, much quieter piece: The Running Through the Mud Symphony. I will dedicate it to the Phantom Phonecaller — whoever he may be.’

‘Phantom Phonecaller,’ Selby thought. ‘That’s me! A real live symphony dedicated to little old Selby! This is wonderful! And I owe it all to The Art of the Private Investigator. Without it I never would have known that those footprints were really Phootprints.’

‘There’s been a terrible accident!’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘It was just on the news. Gwendolyn Krater is trapped at the bottom of Gumboot Cave!’

‘Not the Gwendolyn Krater?’ Dr Trifle said.

‘Yes, Barrington Krater’s sister.’

‘But they’re the best cave explorers in the country.’

‘And the most reckless, if you ask me,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘Apparently Gwendolyn found another cave in the bottom of Gumboot Cave. She fell down a shaft and can’t get back up.’

‘Why doesn’t Barrington just go down after her?’

‘He’s too big. Gwendolyn’s tiny and she just barely fitted down the shaft. He tried dropping a rope down the shaft but it wouldn’t go. The Cave Rescue Services’ drilling equipment is coming, but it won’t be here till tomorrow.’

‘Just thinking about it gives me that horrible feeling about being in tight places. You know, that Santa Claus thing.’

‘Claustrophobia.’

‘That’s it.’

‘Sheeeeesh! I hate caves,’ Selby thought. ‘Why do people want to explore them? Why can’t they just stay up here in the fresh air and enjoy life?’

‘There’s another problem,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘The water is rising in the cave and Gwendolyn could drown if she isn’t rescued soon.’

‘Drown? Shivers!’ Selby thought. ‘Stuck down a cave with the water coming up. Just thinking about it makes my heart beat like a bongo drum.’

‘I have an idea,’ Dr Trifle said, dashing for his workroom. ‘I’ve got some equipment that might help. Jump in the car and let’s go!’

Twenty minutes later, when the Trifles arrived at the entrance to Gumboot Cave,
Barrington Krater was there with some reporters. Dr Trifle slung his rucksack over his shoulder.

‘I have some sophisticated rescue equipment here,’ Dr Trifle said without bothering to say hello. ‘Take us down to the new shaft and we’ll see if we can rescue your sister.’

‘Great!’ Barrington said. ‘Let’s go!’

‘Selby, you stay here,’ Mrs Trifle said.

‘Nonsense! Come along, old dog, old bean,’ Barrington said, grabbing Selby’s lead and pulling him into the cave. ‘Dogs love caves. They don’t have any of the silly fears that people do.’