The Big Over Easy

“Okay. He’s over sixty-five years of age, so I think we can safely say he was born—laid—whatever—unfertilized. Most eggs are, right?”

“Right.”

“So when was he fertilized?”

Mrs. Singh thought for a moment. “This is more the field of avian pathologists, but by comparing the volume of his egg and likening that to a scaled-up model of ostrich chick development, we can safely say… about six months ago.”

“How?”

“The hole I found drilled in his shell,” said Mrs. Singh. “A modified IVF procedure would do the trick.”

“But it’s still murder,” muttered Jack. “Whatever grew inside him would have been slowly consuming him from within. The question is: Why?”

“I should imagine the poultry industry might be very interested in a three-ton chicken, sir.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mary. You’d never find an oven big enough. Besides, what misbegotten evil genius would be so cruelly insane as to want to carry out such a bizarre and perverted experiment on a living, breathing creature?”

They looked at each other, snapped their fingers in unison and said, “Dr. Quatt!”

“Spot on. She had the opportunity, the skill, the knowledge. But, more important, the total absence of any ethical standards whatsoever. Gretel and Ashley, take a couple of officers and go to St. Cerebellum’s to arrest Dr. Quatt. Baker, call the Ops room and see if anyone has reported seeing a giant chicken loose in Reading—especially near the Grimm’s Road area. I want locations, times, size, everything—so we can plot them on a map.”

They all dashed off to do his bidding. Ashley scampered along the roof to the elevator while Gretel bade Brown-Horrocks a shy “well, see you around, then” sort of farewell.

“Thanks, Mrs. Singh, you’re a marvel. Stay for a drink?”

She politely declined, as she had to babysit two of her grandchildren, then stared in a medically curious way at Brown-Horrocks and departed.

“At last!” announced Jack. “Some closure. I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. I’ve been blown up, decontaminated, rolled along the top of a room, my Allegro’s been written off, and I was almost vaporized by an insane chiropodist. And tomorrow I’ve got to hunt a giant chicken running loose in Reading. Well, cheers.”

“Cheers, sir.”

“Do you think Officer Kandlestyk-Maeker would enjoy the zoo?” asked Brown-Horrocks, who obviously had other things on his mind. “They’ve got a baby giraffe, you know.”

44. The End of the story

BR AK-IN AT PRINT RS

Th polic w r call d last night to th print rs of R ading’s pr mi r gossip sh t, Th Gadfly, wh r it was discov r d a gang of typ thi v s had mad off with th ir ntir stock of ’s. Polic w r initially baffld by th th ft until n ws of a similar th ft involving th whol sal purloinm nt of th l tt rs A, B, C, and D was r port d from Byflt. “I think,” said DCI Palatino, “that I can s a patt rn b ginning to m rg.” Archibald Fatquack, ditor of Th Gadfly, would not l t th th ft halt publication of his v n rabl organ and d clar d, “It’s busin ss as usual!”

—From Th Gadfly, S pt mb r 1, 1995

It was a cloud, clearless night and the stars brinkled twightly in the heavens. As Jack and Mary motored closer to his hother’s mouse, they could see that the mull foon had risen behind the beanstalk and now presented the leaves and pipening rods in sharp silhouette. Attached to the top of the stalk was a steady red light, a safety precaution fitted by the Civil Aviation Authority that afternoon. The crowds had departed from the streets nearby, and litter and soft-drink cans lay scattered about the road. After the busy day, everyone was at home relaxing.

Everyone, that is, except Dr. Quatt, who had not been at St. Cerebellum’s or her home when Ashley and Gretel called. Jack had issued a warrant for her arrest and posted uniformed officers at both places. No one had reported a chicken loose in Reading either—of any size.

“Thanks for dropping me off,” said Jack as they drove slowly up the road towards his mother’s. “Madeleine said she’d be up at Mum’s and I should meet her there. Hello, what’s this?”

Ahead of them two police cars blocked the street, and two officers in vests held automatic weapons.

“Yes, sir?” inquired one of the policemen in a businesslike tone when Jack got out and walked towards them.

“Detective Inspector Spratt, NCD.”

He held up his ID card, and the officer stood to attention respectfully.