The big over easy

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 Ogapoga in exchange for information about oil reserves in the Ogapogian Basin?”

Jack sighed. “I haven’t heard of any deals with the Ogapogians 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.”