“Any name?”
Mary checked the back of the picture. There was none.
Even from a cursory glance, it was obvious that not only had Humpty been working the stock market — he had been working it hard. Most of the paperwork was for a bewildering array of transactions, with nothing logged in any particular order. The previous Thursday’s Toad had been left open at the business news, and Jack noticed that two companies listed on the stock exchange had been underlined in red pencil. The first was Winsum & Loosum Pharmaceuticals, and the second was Spongg Footcare. Both public limited companies, both dealing in foot-care products. Winsum & Loosum, however, was blue chip; Spongg’s was almost bust. Mary had chanced across a file of press clippings that charted the downfall of Spongg’s over the past ten years, from the public flotation to the fall of the share price the previous month to under twenty pence. Jack opened another file. It was full of sales invoices confirming the purchase of shares in Spongg’s for differing amounts and at varying prices.
“Buying shares in Spongg’s?” murmured Jack. “Where did he get the money?”
Mary passed him a wad of bank statements. Personally, Humpty was nearly broke, but Dumpty Holdings Ltd. was good to the tune of ninety-eight thousand pounds.
“Comfortable,” commented Mary.
“Comfortable and working from a dump.”
Jack found Humpty’s will and opened it. It was dated 1963 and had this simple instruction: “All to wife.”
“What do you make of these?”
Mary handed Jack an envelope full of photos. They were of the Sacred Gonga Visitors’ Center in various states of construction, taken over the space of a year or more. But the last snap was the most interesting. It was of a young man smiling rather stupidly, sitting in the passenger seat of a car. The picture had been taken by the driver — presumably Humpty — and had a date etched in the bottom right-hand corner. It had been taken a little over a year ago.
“The Sacred Gonga,” said Mary, thinking about the dedication ceremony on Saturday. “Why is Humpty interested in that?”
“You won’t find anyone in Reading who isn’t,” replied Jack.
“There was quite an uproar when it was nearly sold to a collector in Las Vegas.”
They turned their attention to the wardrobe that held several Armani suits, all of them individually tailored to fit Humpty’s unique stature and held up on hangers shaped like hula hoops. Jack checked the pockets, but they were all empty. Under some dirty shirts they found a well-thumbed copy of World Egg Review and Parabolic and Ovoid Geometric Constructions.
“Typical bottom-drawer stuff,” said Jack, rummaging past a signed first edition of Horton Hatches the Egg to find a green canvas tool bag. He opened it to reveal the blue barrel of a sawed-off shotgun. Jack and Mary exchanged glances. This raised questions over and above a standard inquiry already.
“It might be nothing,” observed Mary, not keen for anything to extend the investigation a minute longer than necessary. “He might be looking after it for a friend.”
“A friend? How many sawed-off shotguns do you look after for friends?”
She shrugged.
“Exactly. Never mind about Briggs. Better get a Scene of Crime Officer out here to dust the gun and give the room the once-over. Ask for Shenstone; he’s a friendly. What else do you notice?”
“No bed?”
“Right. He didn’t live here. I’ll have a quick word with Mrs. Hubbard.”
Jack went downstairs, stopping on the way to straighten his tie in the peeling hall mirror.
4. Mrs. Hubbard, Dogs and Bones
The Austin Allegro was designed in the mid-seventies to be the successor to the hugely popular Austin 1100. Built around the proven “A” series engine, it turned out to be an ugly duckling at birth with the high transverse engine requiring a slab front that did nothing to enhance its looks. With a bizarre square steering wheel and numerous idiosyncratic features, including a better drag coefficient in reverse, porous alloy wheels on the “sport” model and a rear window that popped out if you jacked up the car too enthusiastically, the Allegro would — some say undeservedly — figurehead the British car-manufacturing industry’s darkest chapter.
Jack knocked politely on the door. It opened a crack, and a pinched face glared suspiciously at him. He held up his ID card.
“Have you come about the room?” Mrs. Hubbard asked in a croaky voice that reminded Jack of anyone you care to mention doing a bad impersonation of a witch. “If you play the accordion, you can forget about it right now.”
“No, I’m Detective Inspector Spratt of the Nursery Crime Division. I wonder if I could have a word?”
She squinted at the ID, pretended she could read without her glasses and then grimaced. “What’s it about?” she asked.
“What’s it about?” repeated Jack. “Mr. Dumpty, of course!”
“Oh, well,” she replied offhandedly, “I suppose you’d better come in.”
She opened the door wider, and Jack was immediately assailed by a powerful odor that reminded him of a strong Limburger cheese he had once bought by accident and then had to bury in the garden when the dustbinmen refused to remove it. Mrs. Hubbard’s front room was small and dirty, and all the furniture was falling to pieces. A sink piled high with long-unwashed plates was situated beneath yellowed net curtains, and the draining board was home to a large collection of empty dog-food cans. A tomcat with one eye and half an ear glared at him from under an old wardrobe, and four bull terriers with identical markings stared up at him in surprise from a dog basket that was clearly designed to hold only two.
Mrs. Hubbard herself was a wizened old lady of anything between seventy-five and a hundred five. She had wispy white hair in an untidy bun and walked with a stick that was six inches too short. Her face was grimy and had more wrinkles in it than the most wrinkled prune. She stared at him with dark, mean eyes.
“If you want some tea, you’ll have to make it yourself, and if you’re going to, you can make one for me while you’re about it.”
“Thank you, no,” replied Jack as politely as he could. Mrs. Hubbard grunted.
“Is he dead?” she added, looking at him suspiciously.
“I’m sorry to say that he is. Did you know him well?”