The Big Over Easy

“You’re wrong,” Briggs said, handing Jack and Mary champagne glasses. “It’s a very good result. Without you more than ten thousand people would be infected with Dr. Carbuncle’s unbelievably infectious superverruca by now—with potentially millions in the coming months. Swimming pools, beaches and sports halls would have become no-go zones and shoe shops places of dread and suspicion. Spongg’s would be charging what they want, and we’d all be none the wiser. No, it’s a very good result indeed.”

Jack took a sip of the champagne to find that it was, in fact, fizzy apple juice.

“We’re still on duty,” said Briggs in response to Jack’s quizzical look. “Cheers!”

“Cheers, sir.”

Briggs sat at his desk. It was early evening, and the day’s security precautions were being slowly wound down. The Jellyman was at his last official engagement, a banquet over at the sprawling QuangTech facility to celebrate the technological, industrial and artistic achievements of Reading. Jack and Mary had been called up to Briggs’s office quite unexpectedly and were surprised to find Brown-Horrocks there, still dressed in the blue overalls, which were too short and showed at least seven inches of white ankle.

“The Biohazard Response Team went to Dr. Carbuncle’s house and are going to encase it in concrete rather than risk even moving the verruca,” said Briggs. “The Foot Museum is being soaked in disinfectant and won’t be reopened for six months. I’ve had a word with the head of the Center of Communicable Diseases. They’d like to shake your hand without latex gloves on—that’s quite an honor from those chaps.”

“Yes, but what about Lola and Spongg, sir?”

Briggs shook his head. “They won’t find anywhere they can hide in Europe. The deliberate spreading of infectious diseases is serious stuff; the police forces of the Continent will definitely be on the lookout.”

Jack was less than happy. Spongg and Lola’s progress had been charted by a series of sightings in the South of England. It seemed they had commenced their Channel crossing at Lulworth, and the French had sent two reconnaissance aircraft to patrol the coast. They were recalled three hours later when the Hornet Moth didn’t show.

“Have you seen the late editions?” asked Briggs. He showed Jack a copy of The Toad. It carried glowing reports of the extraordinary drama played out in Reading that day and heaped almost as much praise on Jack today as the bile they had dumped on him yesterday. “It’s all going frightfully well. The press want you to issue a statement. Perhaps you could make up a catchphrase for yourself—something like… ‘This inquiry is shut’ — or something.”

“I’d be lying, sir.”

“I’m sorry?”

Brown-Horrocks looked up from where he was transcribing his notes, which had faded badly in the autoclave.

“Something’s not right,” said Jack despondently. “Spongg planned to kill Humpty but didn’t. Someone beat him to it.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Lola said that she would inherit Humpty’s thirty-eight percent after her ‘husband’s untimely death in the Zephyr.’ If she was in on the whole scam from the beginning, she must have known about the shooting—so why mention the Zephyr? It was how they intended to kill him, but events overtook them. Then, when we visit her for the second time, asking annoying questions about Humpty’s new wife, they decide to use it on us.”

“That’s it?” said Briggs with a laugh. “That’s the sole reason for your doubts?”

“Pretty much. Someone else killed Humpty.”

“Who?”

“A hit man working for Solomon Grundy.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! We’ve gone down that avenue already. Grundy said he knew that his wife fooled around and didn’t care. I need proof, Jack, proof!”

“He only said he didn’t care, sir. Grundy turned down an offer of ten million for Humpty’s thirty-eight percent the night of the charity benefit. Charles Pewter told me the price was a snip and he should have jumped at the chance—but he didn’t. He knew there was no point, as Humpty had less than three hours to live. He knew that because he had paid a gunman to kill him. All the ‘understanding husband’ act was a sham—Grundy took his wife’s affair very badly indeed.”

“And Winkie?”

“He must have recognized the shooter. Someone from Winsum’s, where he worked.”

Briggs drummed his fingers on the desk and exchanged looks with Brown-Horrocks. He took a deep breath and said, “Refusing ten million quid for dodgy foot-care shares is undoubtedly the most tenuous piece of evidence I’ve ever heard. You could be wrong; Lola might have made a mistake mentioning the Zephyr.”

Jack bit his lip. Briggs was right. It was conjecture. Sadly, this wasn’t about what was true but what was provable.

“I’ll concede it’s a bit flimsy, sir.”

They stared at each other for a moment.

“It’s more than flimsy,” said Briggs at length, “it’s blessed inconvenient. I’ve got a roomful of press who want to hear exactly how Spongg murdered Humpty.”

“Can I make a suggestion?” asked Brown-Horrocks.