The Big Over Easy (12 page)

Jack parked the Allegro
in the deserted visitors’ car park, next to a huge stylized sculpture of a foot with a large void through it. He pulled his collar up against the rain and looked up at the Gothic-style redbrick factory. Apart from a few wisps of smoke creeping from its chimneys and the muffled sound of machinery from within, the whole place seemed deserted. It was shabby, too. Large sections of stucco were missing from the walls, the brickwork was badly stained and the windows were cracked and grimy.

They walked up the steps to the grand entrance and noted how the carved stone doorway depicted, in ten stages, the evolution of the foot from a flipper to the appendage of modern man. There was no one around, so Jack pushed open the heavy doors. The interior was similarly deserted; a musty, damp smell that reminded them both of Grimm’s Road rose up to meet them. As their eyes became accustomed to the gloom, they could see that they were standing in a vast entry hall dimly lit by roof-high stained-glass windows depicting great moments in chiropody. The foot theme didn’t end with the windows—they were standing on an immense mosaic of a foot with one of Spongg’s corn plasters on its big toe, picked out in gold and azure tiles. Below the picture, Spongg’s easily recognizable logo was written in brass letters a yard high. The walls were similarly adorned with an exquisite mural of mythical creatures in a setting of a forest in summer. There were satyrs, nymphs, cherubs and centaurs, all suffering from various foot problems and bathed in shafts of light. Next to each was a painted Spongg product being lovingly administered by beautiful and appropriately dressed maidens. The expressions of contentment on the creatures’ faces left one with little doubt as to the effectiveness of the remedies.

“Guess the product,” murmured Jack, gazing around at the curious decor and the large twin marble staircases that rose before them, curving up to the left and the right.

“Yeah, but what a
dump,
” replied Mary, pointing out the galvanized buckets that had been scattered about on the steps to catch the rainwater that leaked in.

“My grandfather used to work at Spongg’s,” said Jack. “He always said it was the best place to work in Reading. He lived in nearby Sponggville, and my father went to a Spongg-financed school. If Granddad ever fell ill, he went to the Spongg Memorial Hospital, and when he retired, he stayed in one of the Spongg retirement homes dotted around the country.”

“Was he buried in a corn plaster?”

“You must be Detective Inspector Spratt,” boomed a voice so suddenly that they both jumped. They turned to find a tall man dressed in a black frock coat standing not more than a pace behind. He had crept up on them as noiselessly as a cat.

Lord Randolph Spongg IV was a handsome man in his midfifties. He had black hair that was streaked with gray and a lined face that fell easily into a smile. His eyes glistened with inward amusement.

“Correct, sir,” replied Jack. “This is Detective Sergeant Mary Mary.”

He shook both their hands in turn and bowed graciously, then led them towards the staircase.

“Thank you for seeing us, Lord Spongg—” began Mary, but Spongg interrupted her.

“Just ‘Spongg’ will do, Sergeant. I don’t use my title much, and—don’t see me as fussy—but the first
g
is short and the second
g
long. Just let it roll around for a bit before you let it go.”

“Spongggg?” ventured Mary.

“Close enough,” replied Spongg with a mischievous grin. “Just put the brakes on a little earlier and you’ll be fine.”

He pointed his silver-topped cane at a satyr with pustules on its hoof and laid a friendly hand on Mary’s shoulder that she didn’t much care for—but might get used to, on reflection, given the opportunity.

“A charming picture, don’t you agree, Sergeant?”

Mary narrowed her eyes and looked at the strange creature.

“Not really, I’m afraid.”

Randolph Spongg paused for a moment, looked at the picture again and sighed deeply. “You’re right of course,” he said at last. “My grandfather had this all painted in 1921 by Diego Rivera. He suffered terribly from fallen arches, did Rivera. Did you know that?”

“I have to say that I didn’t,” confessed Jack.

“No matter. The result was a classical study of mythical beasts. My grandfather thought that it should reflect his products more, and he insisted that the creatures be made to suffer from some kind of foot ailment. Rivera quite rightly refused, so a Reading sign writer named Donald Scragg finished it off with all this product-placement stuff. Sometimes I think I will have Scragg’s paint removed, but artistic restoration is but the least of Spongg’s problems at the present.”

They followed Spongg as he ran nimbly up the marble staircase, expertly avoiding several more buckets that had been laid out on the landing. The corridor upstairs was almost wide enough to accommodate two lanes of traffic, but for stacks of old papers pushed haphazardly against the walls.

“Records,” explained Spongg, following Jack’s look. “We had a spot of bother with damp in the basement. Wait! Have a look at this.”

He had stopped in front of an oil painting of a venerable-looking gentleman, one of several that lined the corridor. Spongg gazed at it with obvious affection.

“Lord Randolph Spongg II,” he announced. The painting was of an elderly man with divergent eyes standing barefoot on a chair.

“My grandfather. Died in 1942 while attempting the land speed record. A great man and a fine chemist. He devised a trench-foot preparation in 1917 that paid for the company to lead the world in foot-care products for the next thirty years. He was the world’s leading authority on carbuncles and was working on an athlete’s foot remedy when he died. My father carried on his work, and we cracked it in the fifties; it kept us financially afloat for a bit longer. This way.”

He led them along the cluttered corridor until they arrived at a large mahogany door. Spongg pushed it open and stepped back to allow them to enter.

Spongg’s office was a spacious room with oak-paneled walls and a high ceiling, dominated by a portrait of a man they took to be the first Dr. Spongg. At the far end was a desk the size of a snooker table cluttered high with reports, and in the middle of the room was a model of the factory within a glass case. The room was lit by a skylight, and several more buckets and an old tin bath were laid around the floor to catch the water that leaked in.

Spongg read Jack’s expression as he saw the room and laughed nervously.

“It’s no secret, Inspector. We’re in a bit of a pickle financially, and I can’t afford to have the roof done. Cigarette?”

“Thank you, I don’t,” said Jack, noticing that there were actually no cigarettes in the box anyway.

Spongg smiled. “Wise choice. My father was trying to prove a link between nicotine and fallen arches when he died.”

“Did he?” asked Mary

“No. There isn’t one. But it’s due to my father’s hard work that we know even that much. I heard of Humpty’s death on the news last night. For almost a year now, we have been thanking providence for supplying the company with such an upright benefactor.”

He beckoned them both to the window and pointed out a large building of modernist style, a mirror-covered office block surrounded by a high-tech factory.

“Do you know what that is?”

Jack had lived in Reading all his life, and the rivalry between the two companies was well known.

“Of course. It’s Winsum and Loosum’s.”

“Winsum and Loosum. Right. They’ve been wanting to absorb us for some time. The Spongg family has only forty percent of the company, so a danger exists; we have been borrowing against the assets for the past twenty years to keep the old place alive—even old Castle Spongg is in hock.”

He indicated a table that was groaning under the weight of Spongg’s varied foot products.

“These are our bestselling lines. The need to remain competitive keeps the profit margin small, and we also suffer the most ironic of marketing difficulties.”

“Which is?”

“Success.”

“Success?”

“Product success, Inspector, not financial success. Have you ever had cause to use a Spongg preparation?”

“Yes.”

“And it worked?”

“Very well, as I recall.”

“So you see our problem. We promote the cure, thus effecting the slow eradication of our own market.”

Spongg pointed his silver-topped cane at several charts on the wall behind him.

“This is the reported incidence of verrucas. You see how it’s dropped considerably in the last ten years?”

Jack and Mary studied the chart on the wall. Apart from a few upturns now and again during hot summers, the trace headed progressively downhill. Spongg pointed to another.

“Bunions. Down seventy percent since this time a decade ago.”

He pointed to a third.

“Athlete’s foot. Steady decline these past twelve years.”

He faced them again.

“Good for the planet’s feet, Inspector, disastrous for Spongg’s!”

“And Humpty Dumpty?” asked Jack.

“Ah!” said Spongg with a smile. “Now, there’s an egg with faith!”

“Go on.”

“He was our major shareholder. At the last takeover bid six months ago, all the nonfamily shareholders voted to take Winsum and Loosum’s offer. Humpty held firm. With his support we could rebuff the takeover. I was impressed by his fortitude, but puzzled also.”

“Because…?”

“I have no idea why he did so. Humpty’s plans for Spongg’s are a complete mystery to us all. He was no fool; I’ve done my homework. But as to what he had planned for Spongg’s—I have not the slightest idea.”

He sighed again and gazed up at the painting of the first Dr. Spongg, whose likeness scowled out at the world holding the model of a foot in one hand and a pair of toenail clippers in the other.

There was a pause. Spongg stared at the ceiling for a moment, then asked, “Anyhow, what else can I do for you?”

“You helped Dumpty outside after his outburst at your charity benefit?”

“Yes; if I’d known he was going to get so…er, poached, I would never have had him at my table.”

“He said he could raise fifty million pounds just like that. What do you think he was referring to?”

“A refinancing package? Who knows? As I said, his plans for Spongg’s were a complete mystery to me.”

Jack looked at Spongg carefully, trying to find a chink in the man’s reserve. Pewter had said Humpty might have wanted to sell out to Grundy, so he watched closely for Spongg’s reaction to his next question.

“Do you think he was going to sell out to Winsum and Loosum?”

Spongg was unfazed. He shrugged. “Possibly, although I think he might have left it a little late. Grundy’s waiting for me to go under so they can buy what they want from the receivers. It’s not a question of
if,
it’s a question of
when.
”

Spongg looked at them both and raised an eyebrow. “By your line of questioning, I can see that you are not satisfied with the circumstances of Humpty’s death.”

“Correct, sir. We regard it as suspicious.”

“Does this make me a suspect?”

“I view everyone as a suspect,” said Jack politely. “Perhaps you would tell us your movements after the Spongg Charity Benefit ended.”

Spongg smiled. “Of course. I was driven home to Castle Spongg by Ffinkworth, my valet, at about half past midnight. Past one o’clock until breakfast at seven, I am afraid I can offer no witnesses.”

Mary made a note.

“And did you see much of Humpty otherwise?”

“Up until the night of the benefit, I hadn’t seen him for over a year. His death benefits no one here at Spongg’s, Inspector—quite the reverse.”

“Would you have any idea who might want him dead, Spongg?”

“A parade of cuckolded husbands, jilted lovers, disgruntled restaurateurs and unpaid wine merchants—I should imagine the list will be quite long.”

“What about Solomon Grundy?”

Spongg thought for a moment. “Did you hear about Humpty’s Splotvian mineral-rights debacle?”

Jack nodded.

“If you examine the list of people defrauded, I think you will find Mr. Grundy quite high up on it. I don’t think Solomon would resort to
murder,
but you should know about it.”

“Indeed we should,” replied Jack, taking a note. “Mary, do you have anything else to add?”

“Are you married, sir?” asked Mary.

“Was. I’m single at present.”

“Nothing else.”

Jack handed Spongg his card. “Thank you for your help, and I hope the company picks up. We’ll see ourselves out.”

They left Spongg staring at the model of his beloved factory. Jack had meant what he said: No one wanted to see Spongg’s go down; it had been a part of Reading for so long that its presence was alive all over the town. Apart from Sponggville, Spongg Villas and the Spongg Memorial Gardens, there was Spongg Street and Spongg Lane. The town hall was dedicated to the first Dr. Spongg, and outside the town was Castle Spongg, a vast country home built in the surrealist style in the thirties.

“What do you reckon?” asked Mary.

Jack thought for a moment. “He seems genuinely confused over
why
Humpty should be buying shares in the company. Humpty’s death doesn’t help him—with his shares in probate limboland, they can’t be sold, either to Grundy or anyone else. Spongg’s is going down the tubes, and it’s a shame. Next is Winsum and Loosum’s—and you’re driving.”

He tossed her the keys and they were soon motoring towards the exit past packing cases full of unsold foot ointments.

“Mary, why did you ask Spongg if he was married?”

Mary delicately pulled on the turn signal lever and the Lucas relay clicked at her with a soft metallic chirrup.

“I couldn’t help myself. Sorry. He
is
kind of attractive.”

She pulled into the main road a little too quickly; a small sports car with the top down and a distinctive paint scheme appeared behind them and drove past at great speed, horn blaring.