The Big Over Easy

by Jasper Fforde

“Not for the moment,” said Jack as sternly as he could. He needn’t have bothered. It came out sounding weak and ineffectual, and Grundy knew it. He gave a smile and bade them good day.

  The elegant assistant appeared from nowhere and escorted them back to the elevator, in which they were plunged at freefall speed back to the lobby, thanked and shown the door in under a minute.

  “I’ve never been so efficiently expelled from a building before,” murmured Mary in awe as they walked back to the Allegro.

  “I imagine that being fired is probably a similar experience,” said Jack, “but without the courtesy of the elevator.”

  20. Press Conference

  POPULAR CRIME MAG OUTLAWS TWINS

  The bestselling true-crime magazine Amazing Crime Stories announced that it would be banning the “identical twins” plot device as part of tough new measures to stave off what it described as “stagnation” within the world of professional detecting. Other plot devices facing the ax are the much-loved “left-handed perpetrator” and anything to do with anagrams. The Guild of Detectives reacted angrily to the ban, complaining that they had “not been fully consulted” and would “vigorously defend the right of detectives to use whatever plot contrivances come to hand in the course of their investigations.” The ban will come into effect in August.

  —From The Mole, March 30, 2004

  As soon as they walked into the station, they realized that something was going on. A certain buzz travels around as everyone discusses a prominent case. Friedland might have felt it all the time, as his exploits were routinely grapevined, but Jack had never experienced it before. Ashley and Gretel were waiting for them in the NCD offices.

  “What’s going on, Gretel?”

  “Humpty’s murder, sir. Seems like everyone has an opinion about how the investigation should be run. The Superintendent has been calling every twenty minutes wanting to know where you were.”

  “Ah,” said Jack, “no surprises there. Have you found any irregularities in Humpty’s finances yet?”

  “It’s very complex and very confusing,” said Gretel, “like being lost in a large forest. But I’m making headway. I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything solid.”

  She turned back to her desk and dialed another number on the telephone.

  “Ashley, any luck with that auburn hair?”

  “Not yet, sir. I’m running through the telephone directory; there are a lot of hairdressers in Reading.”

  “Keep at it. Did Tibbit get a name for the lad in the photograph?”

  “No,” said Ashley, “but we did get a cross-reference match with a silver VW Polo and the Christian name of ‘Bessie.’ Her name’s Bessie Brooks, veterinarian’s assistant, age 11001. Hasn’t been seen at work since the morning Humpty was killed. The address is on your desk.”

  “Excellent. Call Ops and get some uniform around there to bring her in for questioning. If she doesn’t want to come, then arrest her as a possible suspect. Mary?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I don’t buy that ‘two million means nothing to me’ crap from Grundy. This is a request for a search warrant for Winsum’s headquarters. I want you to—”

  “Murder, Jack?”

  Briggs was at the door. He didn’t look quite as angry as Jack had supposed he might be.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I could have sworn you told me yesterday it was suicide.”

  “I made a mistake. I’d spoken to you before Mrs. Singh’s initial report. There’s a copy on my desk—”

  “I’ve read it, Jack. So he was shot—by whom?”

  Jack outlined what had happened in the investigation so far, which wasn’t very much. Briggs didn’t seem bowled over with enthusiasm, but then Briggs never was. The three pigs he had never been keen on, and the emperor’s-new-clothes fraud inquiry had similarly been looked upon with tepidity. Even so, his answer surprised Jack.

  “Well,” he said as soon as Jack had finished, “seems like you’re doing fine. Keep me informed of any developments, and if there’s anything you want, anything at all, just call me.” He paused and then added, “As long as it’s not extra manpower, overtime, funds or…anything else I don’t agree with. I’ll have my secretary prepare a list. I meant what I said earlier about fast results. The budgetary meeting is next week, and an early arrest would do a lot towards continued funding. And listen: This doesn’t mean you’re excused from the Sacred Gonga security duties. I’m short-staffed as it is, and we’ve overspent this year already.”

  He thought for a moment.

  “One other thing: I’ve just spoken to the Chief. He’s had a call from Solomon Grundy himself, who lambasted him for half an hour about your threats. Do you seriously expect me to believe that Grundy is behind all this?”

  “It’s possible, sir. Winsum and Loosum are set on owning all Spongg’s foot-care remedies. Dumpty blocked a takeover bid and then seemed set on some kind of a plan to save Spongg’s.”

  “What sort of plan?”

  “I don’t know, but with Dumpty out of the picture, there is no barrier to Winsum and Loosum’s eventual takeover of Spongg’s. They have the best motive I can see, and what’s more, Solomon himself lost two million in Humpty’s Splotvian mineral-rights scam.”

  “The one in 1990? Fourteen years ago?”

  “Yes,” said Jack, “that one.”

  “And the proof?”

  Jack stared at Briggs.

  “That’s what the search warrant is for, sir.”

  “What search warrant?”

  “This one,” said Jack, holding the request up a bit weakly.

  Briggs glared at him, took the application and tore it in half.

  “Sorry, Jack. You’re going to have to do better than this. Words burnt into the wall. Voices from burning bushes, three witches around a cauldron. Anything. No hearsay, no suspicions and definitely no hunches. You don’t pester Mr. Grundy or Winsum and Loosum until I see that proof and sanction it.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing, Jack. The answer is no. We’ve got the Jellyman coming to town, and that’s a big deal. Grundy’s forty million to keep the Sacred Gonga in Reading is going to be a big tourism pull for the city—why would anyone want to visit Reading without the Sacred Gonga?”

  “The river? SommeWorld? The Friedland Museum? Castle Spongg? Shopping?”

  “It’s no joking matter. Think of the big picture. Think of Reading.” He lightened and laid a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it’s politics. Seventh floor. Don’t forget, if you get any proof, come to me first.”

  He looked at his watch. “Are you going to attend the press briefing, Spratt?”

  “I didn’t think I’d bother, sir.”

  “I think perhaps you should.”

  “Because they might be interested this time around?”

  “Not at all. It just allows Friedland to shine with greater luster.”

  “Then how could I refuse?”

  “Good. And I want a full report on my desk ASAP and not a Jack Spratt keep-the-NCD-going-at-all-costs special.”

  He clapped his hands together and rubbed them happily.

  “Right. Well, I must speak to Friedland before he goes on. Solved another one this morning, y’know—remarkable fellow!”

  Briggs gathered up his papers and strode off.

  “Well,” said Mary, who had returned to Jack’s side, “are we still on the case?”

  “It seems so,” said Jack with furrowed brow, “but Briggs wasn’t his usual shouting, screaming, threatening-to-suspend-me self. I hope he’s not unwell or anything—or perhaps he’s just happy with the way things are going. What do you think?”

  Mary felt herself swallow, and her mouth went dry. It could easily be explained. She knew that Friedland was poised to take over the inquiry, and it would be with her help, too.

  “I…I have no idea, sir.”

  “Me neither,” muttered Jack, “but I’m not complaining. Any news on Mrs. Dum
pty?”

  “Not yet, sir.”

  “We can’t search through Grundy’s boardroom minutes, so do some background delving, would you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. What is it, Gretel?”

  “Skinner sent down a report.”

  He read it carefully.

  “The cartridges didn’t match,” announced Jack, handing the report to Mary. “The Marchetti did belong to the woodcutters, but it wasn’t the one used to kill them. That’s a relief. I wasn’t keen on having to wade through one of Friedland’s old cases. And I was a fool to think he might be wrong.”

  He walked from the room.

  Mary wandered over to Gretel. Although she was subordinate to Mary, she had the edge in terms of years and experience. It gave Gretel the upper hand beyond the boundaries of official rank, and they both knew it. Mary would not ever want to pull rank on Gretel, and Gretel would make quite sure that Mary never had to.

  “How’s it going?”

  “Not too bad. Forensic accounting is an underused science. Look here: Last July, Humpty bought a thousand tons of fine-grade copper in Splotvia with money from an account drawn on the Bank of Malvonia. He swapped the copper for a hundred thousand gallons of béarnaise sauce. The sauce was never delivered, and Humpty received a refund. The refund was paid to a subsidiary company in Woppistania, which then used the cash to finance a hotel-development deal in Wozbekistan, which in turn generated a loss that Humpty was able to offer to large multinationals in order for them to offset against tax. In return for this, Humpty was given an eight percent fee. From a dirty forty thousand pounds to a laundered eighty thousand pounds in a few short moves. It would take a phalanx of lawyers a month to figure out whether a law had been broken, and another month to figure out which one.”

  It wasn’t the reason Mary had walked over. She knew next to no one in Reading apart from an aging aunt and a few ex-boyfriends. Gretel, she thought, would be a good person for nothing more unproductive—and necessary—than a chat.

  “Are you really a baroness?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” replied Gretel in the sort of way that you might admit to having two cars, “but it means nothing. My family is from East Germany. They had a large house and grounds near Leipzig. When the Russians took over, my family escaped to West Berlin with only the title and a single crested teaspoon. You’re from Basingstoke, yes?”

  “Born and bred—and it’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “Yes,” agreed Gretel, “so I heard.”

  “You’re very tall,” observed Mary. “Don’t you worry about Jack and his…reputation?”

  “The giant killing? No. His shortest victim was at least six inches taller than me, so I figure I’m well beneath his height criteria. When did you make sergeant?”

  “Four years ago,” replied Mary. “I took my Official Sidekick exams—for all the good it did me. Tell me, you’ve worked with Chymes. What’s the possibility of him dumping that idiot Flotsam? He’s sloppy and irritating, and his prose stinks.”

  “True Detective would welcome such a thing, but I’m not sure Chymes would dump him. Flotsam knows a lot about Friedland that Friedland wouldn’t want to get out.”

  “Such as?”

  “Nobody really knows—and Chymes wants to keep it that way. Flotsam’s here to stay, sadly—unless he wants out. Why, have you got your eye on the top DS job in Reading?”

  “Very long-term plan,” said Mary hurriedly.

  “The Chymes detecting machine is a double-edged sword,” confided Gretel. “The benefits are enormous. You play to his rules, and you sometimes hate yourself for doing so—but six months later it’s standard operating procedure and you’re looking to see who you can trample over next.”

  Mary nodded thoughtfully. She often hated herself. Once more here and there wouldn’t make much difference.

  “And that,” continued Chymes triumphantly, “was how we knew that Major Stratton was guilty. By pointing suspicion at himself via the unfinished Scrabble game and the half-eaten macaroon, he hoped to be charged, then released when his alibi was proved, banking on the fact that the police would eliminate him from their inquiries completely. But by analyzing the dried saliva on the back of the stamp, I could prove that Wentworth had not sent the letter purporting to be from the mergers commission. So with Dibble’s allergy to leeks ruling him out, Wilks in custody at the time…”

  He paused in front of his audience, who were frozen to the spot, spellbound.

  “…it could only be Major Stratton.”

  There was a burst of applause and a battery of cameras going off as Friedland nodded his appreciation at their appreciation.

  “But what alerted you to Major Stratton in the first place?” asked Josh Hatchett.

  “Simplicity itself.” Chymes smiled. “The Major was an accomplished Scrabble player. He would never have played ‘quest’ without bonuses when the possibility existed to play ‘caziques’ on a triple-word score. He must have had something else on his mind—such as murder!”

  There was another burst of applause.

  “You are most kind,” he said modestly. “A complete write-up of the case will be published under the title ‘The Case of the Fragrant Plum.’ Ladies and gentlemen—the case…is closed!”

  Jack was observing from the side door when Mary joined him. They watched Chymes take questions and explain in minute detail how the case was solved.

  “What’s this about you applying for the Guild, sir?” asked Mary.

  “It was my wife’s idea. But with Chymes on the selection committee, I think my chances are on the lean side of zero.”

  Mary didn’t answer.

  “You might have said something in rebuttal,” he muttered sulkily. “Like ‘Surely not, sir’—if only to make me feel better.”

  “Surely not, sir,” said Mary with a sigh. “Is that better?”

  “No. In fact, it’s worse.”

  “Do you know all these people?” she asked to change the subject, staring at the curious array of journalists. There were three news crews, a Japanese film crew, several independents and a small, rather lost-looking man with a camcorder who was obviously a newshound for a local cable channel.

  “The thin guy at the end is Josh Hatchett of The Mole. Next to him is Hector Sleaze, who writes for The Toad. They hate each other. The bloke with the glasses is Clifford Sensible of The Owl, who is about the only serious journalist here. The big fellow who looks a bit drunk in the front row is Archibald Fatquack, who edits The Gadfly. The two either side of him are Geddes and Pearson, who work for the local papers, the Reading Mercury and the Reading Daily Eyestrain. The others I don’t know, but presumably they’re syndicated journalists from the nationals.”

  There was more applause as Chymes finished answering questions, turned left and right for the photographers to get a few alternative snaps, then strode from the room with a flourish. Within five minutes the pressroom was empty apart from Archibald and Hector Sleaze, who was trying to decipher some of his own shorthand.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” said Jack slowly as he approached the lectern. “Yesterday morning at approximately one A.M., Humpty Dumpty was shot dead as he sat on his favorite wall. He died instantly. Any questions?”

  Jack started to leave, but there was a question—and it wasn’t from Archibald either. It was from Hector, who had never stayed long enough to even see Jack walk on, let alone speak.

  “Who are you?” asked Hector Sleaze.

  “Detective Inspector Jack Spratt of the Nursery Crime Division.”

  “Are you new? I haven’t seen you here before.”

  “Only since 1978, Mr. Sleaze. You’re usually out the door before I even stand up.”

  “Whatever. Humpty Dumpty?” repeated Sleaze incredulously. “You mean the large egg?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Any suspects?”

  “No.”

  “Any motive?”

  “No.”


  “Any weapon?”

  “No.”

  “That’s me all questioned out,” said Hector, getting up and leaving.

  “Anyone else?” Jack asked, addressing the room, which now had only Fatquack in it.

  “Inspector Spratt,” began The Gadfly’s editor, “can you confirm that in 1978 the British government negotiated for Mr. Dumpty’s safe exit from Ogapôga in exchange for information about oil reserves in the Ogapôgian Basin?”

  Jack sighed. “I haven’t heard of any deals with the Ogapôgians or anyone else, Mr. Fatquack. What’s your interest in Humpty Dumpty?”

  “I’m writing a biography, but I find more questions than answers when I begin to delve.”

  “Really?” replied Jack warily. He wasn’t going to tell Fatquack that he had found exactly the same.

  “Yes,” continued Archie, leaning closer, “but he wasn’t arrested for gem smuggling. I have spoken to a journalist who told me that he was actually trading guns to arm rebels to fight the government-backed land grabbers. Is this true?”

  “You tell me, Mr. Fatquack.”

  “Is this part of your investigation?”

  “Mr. Dumpty has a long and colorful history,” replied Jack,

  “from fraud to land speculation in Splotvia. All of these facets are part of our investigation, but we’ll be looking closer to home first.”

  “Like Oxford?” asked Fatquack. “You knew he went to Christ Church?”

  “Yes,” replied Jack, “1946. Just missed being chosen for the English rugby team.”

  “1946?” echoed Fatquack with surprise. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  Fatquack drew in a dramatic breath. “You know that the Jellyman was at Christ Church between 1945 and 1947?”

  “They might never have spoken.”

  “I doubt it. The Jellyman was captain of the rugby team.”

  “His Eminence has met many people in the past,” said Jack quickly.

  “Of course,” replied Fatquack awkwardly, eager for Jack to know that he would never accuse the Jellyman of any wrongdoing.

  “I’m not suggesting for one moment that he had any dealings with Mr. Dumpty, but it is interesting nonetheless. Is it true that you’ve applied to join the Guild?”