The Big Over Easy

Jack thanked him, and they stepped inside. It was like walking into a museum, for the whole house was decorated and furnished in a middle-class Victorian fashion. There was no expensive furniture; all the pieces were of low-quality boxwood and poor veneer. A pair of plaster of paris antlers painted brown were waiting to be put up on the wall, and fans and other Victorian knickery-knackery filled every vacant space. Mr. Pewter contemplated Jack’s curious gaze with pride.

“It’s all original, Mr. Spratt. Every single piece, from the screens to the bedstead to the fans on the sideboard. As very little of poor-quality Victorian furniture survives, for obvious reasons, it’s of almost incalculable value. I bought these plaster of paris antlers at Christie’s last week for seven thousand pounds. I had to beat off stiff competition from Japan; they love this stuff almost as much as I do. Shall we repair to my study?”

“Please.”

Mr. Pewter led them through to a library, filled with thousands of antiquarian books.

“Impressive, eh?”

“Very,” said Jack. “How did you amass all these?”

“Well,” said Pewter, “you know the person who always borrows books and never gives them back?”

“Yes…?”

“I’m that person.”

He smiled curiously and offered them both a seat before sitting himself.

“So how may I help?” he asked.

“You were at the Spongg Footcare Charity Benefit last night at the Déjà Vu Ballrooms?”

“I was.”

“And you spoke with Mr. Dumpty?”

“Indeed I did, Inspector. Although, to be honest, I didn’t really get much sense out of him.”

“Was Mr. Dumpty drunk when he arrived?”

“Mr. Dumpty was a bit drunk all the time. He had a brilliant mind, but he wasted himself. I sat next to him, as I thought I could get him to join one of my self-help groups. You may not know, Mr. Spratt, but I run the Reading Temperance Society. We do what we can for people like Mr. Dumpty, using a combination of group reliance, prayer and electroshock aversion therapy. I spoke to him sternly about his habit when he joined the table.”

“What did he say?”

Mr. Pewter coughed politely. “He said, ‘Pass the Bolly, old trout, I’ve got a tongue like the Gobi Desert.’ I refused, and he got Marjorie to pass it over instead. I tried to make him see reason, but he just told me not to be an old, er…”

“Fart?” inquired Mary helpfully.

“Exactly so, young lady. I tried again to make him see sense but he became sarcastic. I warned him about that, too, as I also run Reading’s branch of Sarcastics Anonymous—”

“And after he became sarcastic? Then what happened?”

“He drank more and more until he was picking arguments with just about anybody on any subject. The whole sordid business came to a head when Lord Spongg approached the lectern and announced he was starting a fifty-million-pound fund for the rebuilding of St. Cerebellum’s, the woefully inadequate mental hospital. Mr. Dumpty got up before any of us could stop him and pledged the full fifty million plus any ‘brown envelopes’ that might be necessary. There was an embarrassed hush, and his lordship made a joke of it. Mr. Dumpty told him he would be coming into a lot of money in the next couple of months, called Randolph a clot and then fell flat on his face.”

“Unconscious?”

“Not quite. Lord Spongg escorted him outside with a waiter. Upon his return he apologized for his absence and explained that he had sent Mr. Dumpty home in Spongg’s own car.”

“What time was this?”

“About eleven.”

“Did you know Mr. Dumpty well?”

“Socially, hardly at all. But in the course of my professional life, I had reason to see quite a lot of him.”

Jack and Mary leaned closer. “Go on,” said Jack.

Pewter pressed a lever on the office intercom and said, “The Dumpty file, please, Miss Hipkiss.”

He then turned back to Jack and Mary and continued. “Humpty approached Perkupp and Partners about eighteen months ago with respect to some share dealings he was interested in. Since he had a considerable sum of money to invest, it was thought best that a partner in the firm should advise him. I was allocated as his personal broker.” He shook his head sadly. “Mr. Dumpty dead! What a dreadful business. Who inherits his estate?”

Jack and Mary glanced at each other. Neither of them had considered probate. His will had dictated “all to wife,” but he was divorced, so it seemed a bit gray.

“We don’t know yet. Why do you ask?”

“Only because I have to move fast to try to sell these shares. Barring miracles, Spongg’s will be bankrupt within the next two months, and Mr. Dumpty’s shares will be worth nothing. If we could get probate sorted out straightaway and I could start selling, then I might make something out of this whole dismal mess.”

Jack was still in the dark. “Just how many shares did he have?”

At that moment Miss Hipkiss entered with a heavy buff folder. Mr. Pewter thanked the secretary with a badly concealed wink and then consulted the file.

“At a rough estimate I’d say about… twelve million.”