The Big Over Easy

“Now, that,” puffed Jack as they came within site of Castle Spongg, “is something I’m still not sure about.”

They found Gretel waiting for them in front of the house behind a large pink marble toe. It was over fifteen feet across and rested on a black marble plinth. A gift from His Royal Highness Suleiman bin Daoud, it was a token of gratitude to the first Lord Spongg for curing his kingdom of a particularly virulent form of athlete’s foot in 1878.

Jack glanced around. “Where’s Baker?”

Gretel looked uneasy. “He went in. I tried to stop him, but he said armed response wouldn’t be here for weeks, and there might be staff in the house that needed to be evacuated. He said it didn’t matter because he has a brain tumor and won’t last the week anyway.”

“Is that true?” asked Brown-Horrocks.

“No,” said Jack, “he’s a hypochondriac. He’s had a self-proclaimed two months to live ever since he started working at the division six years ago. He—”

A muffled shot interrupted Jack’s sentence. They peered around the statue at the front door, which was ajar. Nothing stirred from within.

“Call Ops and get the paramedics down here, but don’t let them in until I say so—and bring a vest back with you.”

Gretel scurried over to Baker’s car and relayed Jack’s request into the police radio. Jack was all for waiting, but then he heard it. It was the unmistakable sound of Baker. He was hurt, and he was moaning. Gretel returned with the vest. It was designed to stop a knife, but it could just about stop a bullet—as long as it was large-caliber, low-velocity or long-range—ideally, all three.

“You’re not going in alone, sir?” asked Mary.

“With all armed-response teams tied up with the Jellyman, it doesn’t look like I have a great deal of choice, does it?”

“It’s against regulations, sir.”

“True, but Baker’s hurt, and I don’t leave a man down. I’ll call when I can.” He took Mary’s mobile, switched it off and put it in his top pocket.

“Take care, sir.”

Jack looked at Mary’s anxious face. “Thanks.”

Jack approached the bizarre house warily. He knew that his decision went against every police procedural recommendation that had ever been made, but while an officer lay wounded inside, he felt he had to do something. He ducked behind one of the giant bronze anteaters and heard Baker cry out again. He ran forwards and stepped carefully inside the house. The lights were off, the interior dingy, and someone, somewhere, was playing the violin. While he paused to let his eyes get used to the gloom, a polite cough made him jump. He wheeled around and came face-to-face with… Ffinkworth.

“Good morning, Inspector,” said the butler solemnly. “I trust you are quite well?”

“I think you’d better leave, Mr. Ffinkworth. Lord Spongg is armed and dangerous. I don’t want any civilians hurt.”

Ffinkworth seemed miffed to be referred to as a “civilian.” He stared at Jack with his sharp green eyes for a moment.

“Indeed, sir. I hardly think I am in any danger from his lordship. The Ffinkworths have served the Sponggs faithfully for over a hundred years, and I sincerely doubt that his lordship would find it in his heart to end such a favorable alliance. If I get caught in what is referred to as a ‘crossfire,’ I am quite confident that my Kevlar vest will protect me, sir.”

He tapped his chest, and Jack could see that the butler was indeed wearing body armor. He hid a smile. Ffinkworth looked impassively ahead.

“Even so,” returned Jack, “I think you’d better leave.”

“In good time, sir. Can I offer you a small glass of Madeira? The house, it is generally agreed, looks easier after a small tot of firewater.”

“No thanks. Did you see another officer come in here?”

“Certainly, sir. Constable Baker has, I understand, been shot in the leg. He is in some considerable pain but not yet in danger of expiration. Will that be all, sir?”

“Where are they?”

“His lordship is in the west library. Mr. Baker is with him. He is held, sir, in what I believe is referred to as a ‘hostage situation,’ sir.”

Jack looked at the several corridors that led out of the entrance hall. “Which way is the library?”

“I am sorry sir,” replied Ffinkworth loftily, “but I have been instructed not to offer you any help. If you require anything else, please do not hesitate to ring.”

He bowed stiffly from the waist and disappeared down through a trapdoor like someone in a conjuring trick.