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?”
“Word gets around, doesn’t it?”
“I know it’s not likely you’ll get in, but if by the remotest chance it happens, you will remember your friends at The Gadfly when Amazing Crime rejects the manuscript?”
“You have the nicest way of putting things, Archie.”
“So it wasn’t stealing gems in Ogapôga,” murmured Mary as they walked back to the NCD offices. “It was gunrunning to rebels.”
“His crimes never seem to benefit himself, do they?” Jack nodded his head thoughtfully.
“Diddling the City financial establishments out of forty million pounds in the name of freedom and democracy has the nub of a fine joke about it,” continued Mary.
“I agree. It looks as though the egg had a social conscience—and he didn’t mind risking everything if he thought it would do some good.”
“Like a Spongg share scam that liberated fifty million pounds for the rebuilding of the woefully inadequate and outdated St. Cerebellum’s mental hospital?”
“Could be. He might be a crook—but with a noble purpose.”
Gretel was hunched over papers and a calculator when Jack and Mary walked in. She gave a cheery wave without turning around.
“Have they found the bullet at Grimm’s Road?” asked Jack.
“Not yet.”
“I couldn’t remember whether you liked tea or coffee,” said Ashley, bringing in a steaming mug for Jack, “so I brought both.”
“Thank you.”
“In the same cup.”
Jack sighed. Ashley was still having trouble getting used to the way things were done.
“Thank you, Ashley. Next time it’s coffee, white, one sugar—yes?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mary was talking to a uniformed officer at the door. After taking a few notes, she thanked him and walked back into the office.
“Bessie Brooks has done a runner,” announced Mary, trying to find somewhere to sit in the cramped offices and eventually perching on the table edge. “They had a look around her flat, but she’s not been there for a couple of days. Suitcase missing and clothes scattered everywhere from a hurried pack. Can I issue an arrest warrant? It would make things easier if we’re to try and track her down though credit cards.”
The phone rang and Mary picked it up. She listened for a moment and winced. “Thanks for calling. We’ll be straight there.”
She put the receiver down and looked up at Jack.
“I’ve got a feeling this is bad news,” he said slowly.
“It’s Mrs. Dumpty.”
“At last! When can we talk to her?”
“Never—unless you know a good spiritualist. There’s been an accident down at the Yummy-Time Biscuits factory. She’s… dead.”
21. RIP, Mrs. Dumpty, and “the Case… Is Closed!”
CHYMES TO ATTEMPT WORLD SLEUTH RECORD
Global number-two-ranked Amazing Crime sleuth DCI Chymes will attempt to challenge Inspector Moose’s two-hour, thirty-eight-minute world speed-solving record set last July for a case involving a triple murder, a missing will, blackmail and financial impropriety. “I think we can manage to shave a few minutes off Moose’s record,” said DCI Chymes confidently as he went into training for the attempt. Because murders cannot be undertaken to order—even for speed trials, Chymes will have to wait until a suitable slaying arrives on his doorstep. “I’ve never been more ready,” he declared.
—Editorial from Amazing Crime Stories, June 7, 2002
“She was on an inspection of the chocolate digestive production line,” explained a very shaken executive less than half an hour later down at the Yummy-Time factory, a clean and efficient facility full of clanking machinery, stainless-steel vats and the smell of baking and hot sugar.