“Expect more at the station,” said Jack, winding down the window as the windscreen began to mist up, then winding it shut again, as he was being rained on. He pulled out something he was sitting on. It was a man’s cap. “Whose is this?”

  “That?” said Mary awkwardly, “Oh, that’s… that’s… Arnold’s hat.”

  Jack laughed. “You’re taking him out for the evening in my fine automobile? I thought you were trying to dump him?”

  “I told him the Allegro was mine,” confessed Mary. “I thought it might put him off for good.”

  “And did it?”

  “No. He has an Austin Maxi — and he asked me if I’d checked the torque settings on the rear wheels recently.”

  They entered the one-way system in Reading with caution, for even frequent and experienced users of it had been known to become trapped for hours, sometimes days. It was not unique in that it took you where you didn’t want to go before it took you to where you did, no; what made Reading’s system special was that it always spat you out where you didn’t want to go no matter how hard you tried to get to where you did. It was the established technique of heading for where you didn’t want to go that allowed you to end up, quite by accident, in the area where you did. And it was in this manner that they arrived at Reading Gaol.

  Giorgio Porgia’s womanizing days were over. He was now seventy-five and in poor physical health. The days when women would swoon at his charms were long gone, the trail of irate husbands long since dried up. Giorgio Porgia had spent the last twenty years of his life in jail, a jail that would be his final resting place. As befits a man of his seniority within the underworld and the prison service, his apartments were large, well appointed and of the highest security. It wouldn’t be right and proper to have the governor of the jail in with the other convicts, nor would it be safe to have someone who once used a tire iron to enforce discipline kept under anything but the strictest security. Thus it was that Mary and Jack were handed over by a prison officer at the outside of Governor Porgia’s secure office to a disreputable character named Aardvark within it.

  “They call me Aardvark,” said the shambling, bony character as he led them down the corridor, “’cause I’m Mr. Porgia’s number one. I’m also doing twelve to sixteen for armed robbery, so just watch it.”

  Aardvark led them into a good-size room that had bars on the window and was tastefully furnished with antiques. A large, high-backed leather armchair faced the open fire away from them. A wrinkled index finger tapped time on the chair’s arm to an aria from Madame Butterfly.

  Aardvark signaled for them to halt, then whispered to the unseen figure in the chair. Jack nudged Mary and pointed to a framed photograph of Porgia and Friedland. There was another figure on the other side of Giorgio, but he had been cropped out.

  “You?” mouthed Mary, and Jack nodded.

  “You will have to excuse Mr. Porgia,” announced Aardvark, “but he speaks only in the language of his heart.”

  “And what language is that?” asked Jack, hoping that Mary could understand Italian.

  “English,” replied Aardvark. “He is the son of the Bracknell Porgias. You understand what that means.”

  “Of course,” said Jack, without understanding what it meant — or particularly caring.

  They walked around the front of the chair to find a decrepit old man sitting with a traveling rug over his knees. He smiled benignly at them in turn, running his eyes up and down Mary with the memory of his amorous youth passing fleetingly in front of him. All those women, all that kissing.

  “Please,” he asked in an affected Italian accent, “please sit down.”

  They sat on two antique chairs that Aardvark had put out for them.

  “Mr. Spratt,” he said fondly, “we meet again. How long has it been?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “It seems like only eighteen. How is Mr. Chymes these days?”

  “The same, sir.”

  “He has gone on to great things. I follow his exploits in Amazing Crime Stories avidly. Isn’t that so, Aardvark?”

  “Avidly, sir, yes,” replied Aardvark, rubbing his hands.

  “And you?” asked Porgia. “You are still at the NCD?”

  Jack rankled visibly. “There is still work to be done, sir. That’s why I’m here. I want to talk to you about an MO you once used.”

  Porgia’s eyes flashed dangerously. “You are here to talk about my days as a criminal?” he asked sharply.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I cannot, I will not, help you. I don’t speak about my past. If you wish to discourse on the functioning of this prison of which I am the governor, I will be happy to… talk… to you….”

  His voice trailed off as he suddenly seemed to become more interested in Mary. She glanced nervously at Jack. Mr. Porgia put on his spectacles with shaking hands, and a smile of recognition broke out on his lined features.

  “Vouchsafe, divine perfection of a woman,” he began in a soft voice that was almost a whisper, “of these supposed evils, to give me leave, by circumstance, but to acquit myself…. I did not kill your husband.”

  “Why, then he is alive!” replied Mary before Jack could ask what was going on. “O! He was gentle, mild and virtuous!”

  “The fitter for the King of heaven, that hath him,…” continued Giorgio grimly, “for he was fitter for that place than earth.”

  “And thou unfit for any place but hell!” replied Mary with vehemence.

  Giorgio Porgia smiled at Mary, his eyes moistening. “It’s Mary Mary, isn’t it?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “I saw you at Basingstoke in Richard III. It was the only time I have been out since my incarceration began. The Governor — myself — gave me a special pass to go and see you. You were wonderful, dazzling, inspired!”

  Mary blushed deeply, and Jack sighed inwardly.

  “Your retirement from the stage was a great loss, Mary.”

  “I didn’t have time for both, sir.”

  “If ever you return to the stage, please let me know. You will, I trust, take tea?”

  “No thank you, Mr. Porgia, but we would like to ask you some questions.”

  “Of course! Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea? Mr. Aardvark makes a very good cup.”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “A slice of Battenberg, perhaps?”

  “We’re fine.”

  “Ah, well,” said Giorgio happily, “how can I help?”

  His manner had warmed since he had recognized Mary. They could have asked him the color of his socks and he would have answered without a murmur.

  “We’re investigating the murder of Humpty Dumpty,” said Mary.

  The old man dropped his eyes to the floor and shook his head sadly. “A tragedy, Miss Mary. I heard about it on the wireless. What has this got to do with me?”

  “I was wondering how far your influence extended, Mr. Porgia,” added Jack, trying to regain the upper hand after being so badly upstaged by Mary.

  Porgia leaned forwards and raised an eyebrow. “What are you saying, Mr. Spratt?”

  Jack leaned forwards as well. “A man was found dead yesterday. We think he was killed because he knew who murdered Humpty.”

  “And you think I might have had something to do with it?”

  Jack stared into Giorgio’s eyes, trying to divine a spark of guilt. He might as well have stared out the window at the clouds and sheep, for the old man gave nothing away.

  “He had his tongue split and fed in small pieces to the dogs. Sound familiar?”

  Porgia sucked his teeth for a moment. “We used to do that to people who told tales, yes. Liars had their trousers set on fire, and impertinence was punished by breaking people’s legs with sticks and stones. I freely admit what I was, Mr. Spratt, and I shall die in prison as my punishment. I am here for the many hideous crimes I have committed in my futile life, and I am truly penitent for my sins. But I am happy also that I was able to see my parents buried in a decent plot and my children go to university. For that I am not ashamed. I have learnt the virtue of honor in my short tenure on this earth, Inspector, and others have learnt what it means to betray that honor. I’ve also learnt a bit about home improvements. I tell you now, upon the word of a criminal who will pay his debt with the remainder of his worthless life, I had nothing whatever to do with this murder.”

  He fixed Jack with a gaze that reinforced his conviction.

  “Would anyone want to frame you?” Jack asked.

  Giorgio laughed uneasily and started to cough. Aardvark patted him gently on his back with the kind of care that a mother might administer to her child.

  “For what?” he continued once the coughing fit had abated.

  “How can I usefully be punished?”

  Jack had to agree that he had a point.

  “I think,” continued Giorgio, “that someone is trying to throw you off the scent.” He sighed unhappily. “I come from a different world, Mr. Spratt, a world swept away by the unsophisticated modes of death meted out by street gangs, pimps, muggers and drug dealers. No one kills anyone with any style anymore. The kids I see now just shoot each other. Setting one’s opponents’ feet in a bath of cement and then throwing them in the Thames is considered very old hat these days. We used to encase people alive in motorway supports. I’m amazed,” he added nostalgically, “that the elevated sections of Junction 10 even stay up. They tell me I’m just a sad old romantic. The kids today have no respect for tradition. No dash, no style, no elegance.”

  His eyes glistened. “Those were the days. Yes indeed, those were the days.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Porgia,” said Jack, thinking it was time to leave. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “I hope you find Humpty’s killer,” said Giorgio thoughtfully.

  “I liked the egg a great deal, despite the fact that I am here because of him.”

  Jack started in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  The old man smiled and dabbed at a trickle of saliva that had inadvertently run from the side of his mouth. “You knew Humpty did three years for laundering money for me?” he asked.

  Jack nodded.

  “When he was working for me, he was also collecting information to bring me down. He thought that his own loss of liberty was a small price to pay for the removal of my crime syndicate. I was completely taken in. I even bought him an apartment in Spongg Villas for not talking. It was he who sent the dossier to you and Mr. Chymes.”

  He leaned forwards and smiled, holding a bony finger in the air.

  “Now, that, Inspector, was style. I didn’t find out for ten years. An ex-cop inside told me. I could have had him killed, but I thought on reflection the world was a better place with Humpty still in it. He did much good work, I understand.”

  “It depends on your viewpoint, Mr. Porgia.”

  The old man wheezed a sad laugh and took a sip of the Guinness that Aardvark had brought for him.

  “It does indeed,” he replied wearily, “it does indeed.”

  “One other point, Mr. Porgia,” said Jack. “There was a member of the Russian mafia who Chymes hunted down after the Andersen’s Wood murder. His name was Max Zotkin.”

  The Governor looked at him intently. “I know of this man,” he said slowly. “What about him?”

  “Is he here?”

  Porgia took a deep breath and stared at Jack for a moment. “Mr. Zotkin’s residency at Reading Gaol is potentially a matter of grave importance. What will you do with this information, Inspector?”

  “Nothing unless pushed, sir. Call it an insurance policy.”

  “You are the first person to ask, and while understanding of the reason for the subterfuge, I am unable to lie to you: There is no one of that name resident at this prison, nor has there ever been. Use the information wisely. Good-bye, Inspector. You will excuse me if I don’t get up.”

  He looked fondly at Mary.

  “Mary, bid me farewell.”

  “’Tis more than you deserve,” replied Mary; “but since you teach me how to flatter you, imagine that I have said farewell already.”

  Giorgio smiled and mouthed a silent “Adieu!”

  Jack drove away from the prison deep in thought. If someone wanted to make it look as though Winkie had been killed with a Porgia MO, then it stood to reason that it was to throw them off the scent. And if that was the case, then they were clearly looking in the right direction.

  Mary was thinking of other things. “Are you going to tell me where Max Zotkin might be if he’s not in prison?”

  “No,” replied Jack thoughtfully, “and with a bit of luck, I intend to keep it that way.”

  Mary’s phone rang, and she flipped it open, listened to something Baker had to say and then closed it again.

  “News?”

  “You could say that. It’s Bessie Brooks. She was nabbed trying to run away from a hotel in Swindon without paying. They’re going to transfer her to Reading Central at midday.”

  33. What Bessie Brooks Had to Say for Herself

  BEAR TO SHIT IN WOODS — OFFICIAL

  Following yesterday’s passing of the Ursine Suitable Accommodation Bill, bears will no longer have to live in urban housing allocated to them by the authorities. The new deal was greeted with open paws among Reading’s bear population. “Really, we’re delighted,” declared married father of one Mr. Gus Bruin. “No more city for us — we’re off to the forest!” Parcels of land will be made available in Andersen’s Wood, where humanlike bear family units will be able to live in small cottages, take long walks and eat porridge.

  Article in The Gadfly, September 8, 1989

  Jack pressed the two “record” buttons simultaneously.

  “This is a taped interview. Miss Bessie Brooks is being interviewed, and the time is twelve-twenty P.M. Detective Inspector Jack Spratt is conducting the interview. Also present are DS Mary Mary, Constable Kandlestyk-Maeker and Miss Brooks’s solicitor, Seymour Weevil.”

  He looked across at Bessie. She was staring at the table and appeared sullen.

  Bessie was in her early twenties and an attractive brunette who stood at least six foot one. She had dark brown eyes that were red with tears, and her expensive outfit was rumpled and dirty. She did not lift her head to look at any of them, and a packet of cigarettes that Jack had placed on the table remained untouched, even though they could see from the faint stain on her fingers that she was a smoker.

  Seymour Weevil, a short man with his hair combed carefully back from his forehead, watched the proceedings impassively from within a suit that should have been condemned as an affront to human decency long ago.

  “Miss Brooks, you have been brought in for questioning regarding the murder of one Humperdinck Aloysius Dumpty. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?”

  Bessie Brooks nodded imperceptibly.

  “Miss Brooks — ”

  But Seymour Weevil interrupted him. “My client is very willing to answer your questions but feels that she has been treated like a criminal. She also objects to having her apartment searched. She wishes it to be known that she loved Mr. Dumpty deeply and has no idea who killed him.”

  Jack ignored Weevil and continued. “Can you tell me your whereabouts on the night of the nineteenth and the morning of the twentieth of this month?”

  Bessie didn’t answer. Seymour Weevil gave her his handkerchief — a cheap one for her to keep, Jack noted — and said kindly, “It would help the police if you spoke to them, but you have the right to remain silent. Do you wish to exercise that right?”

  She lifted her head and stared at Jack and Mary in turn. Her mascara had run badly, and her eyes brimmed with tears. “Do you think he suffered?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  “We don’t think so,” replied Mary without any emotion.

  Jack placed the picture of her with Humpty on the table. It was in a plastic bag. She paused and then picked it up.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “It was on Mr. Dumpty’s desk.”

  A smile crossed her face momentarily as she realized that he must have liked her enough to have her photo up in his office. She touched Humpty’s features on the print with a fingertip and spoke again, yet this time her voice had found a new confidence.

  “Vienna, June last year,” she sighed wistfully. “Hump was on a business trip selling a thousand tons of Wozbekistanian industrial-strength instant soup powder. He asked me if I wanted to come along.”

  She cocked her head to one side as she filled herself with fond memories of the trip.

  “On the night this photo was taken, we went to see Madame Butterfly. In the first act, the tenor singing Lieutenant Pinkerton’s part was taken ill and the understudy was drunk. The management came out and apologized profusely and explained that they were unable to continue the performance. To my surprise Hump stood up and sang, without music, the first six lines of Pinkerton’s part. He was ushered onto the stage, and ten minutes later the performance continued with Hump as the Lieutenant. I was placed in the royal box with the compliments of the management, and Hump received eight curtain calls. It was a night that I shall never forget.” She smiled and shook her head sadly. “Does my story surprise you?”

  “Mr. Dumpty ceased to surprise me long ago, Miss Brooks,” replied Jack. “Why did you leave town?”

  The smile dried on her lips, and she looked down at the photo again.

  “I loved him, Inspector, more than any woman ever loved an egg.” She paused for a moment. “I should never have become emotionally attached to him, but it was hard not to. Did you ever meet him, Inspector?”

  “Only once, a long time ago.”

  “He was a remarkable man,” she said slowly, “quite remarkable. His crimes never benefited himself.”

  “Did he tell you of his plans?”