The Big Over Easy

After picking up a Jack Spratt no-fat special bacon sandwich and a cup of coffee, he went and sat in his office. He stared at the pertinent points written up on the board. If it had been an ordinary murder inquiry, they would have had armies of officers and an incident room the size of a gymnasium, but this was the NCD. He knew he was understaffed and had to make do with the cast-offs and social misfits that no one else wanted, but he liked to think he did a reasonable amount with not very much.

As he was sitting there trying to figure out exactly why Humpty would think Spongg’s shares should go up, someone very tall walked past the open doorway. After a second or two, he came back, stooped to look in the door and said, “I say, is this the Nursery Crime Division?”

“Yelblf,” said Jack with his mouth full of bacon sandwich. “Can I helbpf you?”

“I’m looking for Detective Inspector, er…” He looked at a sheet of paper he had on a clipboard. “Jack Spratt.”

“That’s me. What can I do for you?”

“Ah!” said the tall man, looking at the clipboard again and then at the tiny office as though there had been some sort of mistake,

“My name’s Brown-Horrocks. I’m from the Guild of Detectives. I’ll be observing you today and reporting back to the selection committee.”

It took a moment for Jack to take this in, but when he had, he carefully wiped his mouth with a napkin and rose to shake the man by the hand.

“How do you do?” he said, trying to sound all professional and businesslike. “Won’t you come in and take a seat?”

Brown-Horrocks stooped once more and just about managed to get his large frame into the tiny room and sit in Mary’s chair by folding his legs in an uncomfortable manner.

“Thank you,” said Brown-Horrocks, looking around in an agitated manner. “Aren’t these offices a bit small for you?”

“We’re moving shortly,” lied Jack. “Ashley, would you get Mr. Brown-Horrocks a cup of tea, please?”

He said this as Ashley appeared at the door, more to get him out of the way than anything else.

“What was that?”

“Constable Ashley. One of the NCD staff.”

“Is he all right? He looked… well, blue.”

“All Rambosians are blue, Mr. Brown-Horrocks. He’s an alien.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” said Brown-Horrocks. “There must be something wrong with my hearing. For a moment I thought you said he was an alien.”

“Is that a problem?”

Brown-Horrocks stared at Jack, reached into his jacket pocket for a pen and made a note on the clipboard. Jack tried to see what he was writing, but Brown-Horrocks leaned away from him so he couldn’t.

“Let me explain what my job is,” said the Guild man kindly.

“As I understand it, you have applied to join the Most Worshipful Guild of Detectives, and your application has been passed to the second stage: a practical demonstration of your skills as a detective and any other attributes that you can bring to the Guild to further enhance and illuminate the Guild’s good standing with the public and the publishers of Amazing Crime Stories. Now, I understand you have four failed marriages. Is this true?”

“Yes,” said Jack. He didn’t know what Madeleine had written on the application, so he was going to have to wing it.

“Your application also says you have a drinking problem and are something of a loner.”

“Yes. I drink to excess, and my family has abandoned me completely. I make do with short-term flings with totally unsuitable and very dangerous women.”

“Hmm,” said Brown-Horrocks, and made another note.

“That’s good, right?”

“Not really.”

“No, I meant for the application.”

“I can’t give anything away as regards my report, Inspector, and it would be very improper of you to ask.”

“Of course. Here’s your tea.”

Ashley placed the cup and the saucer on the desk and said,

“Sugar?”

“Two, please.”

Ashley looked embarrassed and glanced at Jack.

“That’s 10, Ashley. He’s a Rambosian,” explained Jack. “They only understand binary.”

“Only… understand… binary,” repeated Brown-Horrocks slowly, making a note.

“Yes,” replied Jack, trying to act as if it were entirely normal and not strange at all. “If we need something in, say, eight days’ time, we just tell Ashley it’s needed in 1,000 days. Aside from a few lapses in common sense brought on by cultural differences, as befits a visitor from eighteen light-years away, he’s a model officer.”

“By the way,” said Ashley, pointing at Brown-Horrocks’s tea,

“they were out of milk, so I used emulsion paint.”

“See?”

“Yes,” said Brown-Horrocks slowly, making another note and staring at the alien curiously. “Tell me, Mr. Ashley, what’s it like being an alien?”

“Well, goodness,” he said, tapping one of his thumbs on his temple, “do you know, I’ve never really thought about it before.”

“Thank you, Ashley,” said Jack before any more damage was done. “Would you check my pigeonhole for any correspondence, please?”

Ashley got the message and beat a fast retreat.