Jack smiled. “Yes,” he replied, “I daresay it does. But I know nothing and don’t wish to know anything. If anyone swapped the goose, good luck to them as long as they use that wealth wisely. If they don’t, then I just might wish to get involved.”

Tibbit smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Jack walked back into the office to continue his speech.

“Where was I? Ah, yes: Long after we are ashes and—”

Luckily for the NCD staff, he was once again interrupted, this time by Mrs. Singh, who swept in like a galleon in full sail.

“There you are!” she said. “I’ve been trying to reach you all day. Don’t you ever return calls?”

“I’ve been busy bringing down the second-biggest foot-care empire in the world and one of Reading’s most respected figures—and my mobile was blown up.”

“You could have used Mary’s.”

“It was taken by an identical-twin butler.”

“What about that Guild chap’s?”

“Melted in the autoclave.”

“Never mind. I got Humpty’s results back from the SunnyDale Poultry Labs.”

“And?”

“Large quantities of alcohol, traces of marijuana, and about sixty-eight different strains of salmonella, four of which would probably have proved fatal within the next six months, and traces of chorioallantoic membrane.”

Everyone in the room leaned closer.

“Traces of what?”

“Chorioallantoic membrane. It’s a highly vascularized extra-embryonic membrane that functions as a site for nutrient transport and waste disposal during embryonic development.”

“Embryonic development?” echoed Jack. “You mean…”

“Right. He didn’t die from the gunshot wound or the fall. He hatched.”

There was a deathly hush as they took this in.

“Hatched? You mean to tell me Humpty Dumpty was pregnant?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” replied Mrs. Singh, “although ‘pregnant’ is perhaps the wrong word. He was an egg, Jack, and eggs, when fertilized, hatch.”

“I know what eggs do, Mrs. Singh. And what was going to come out? A three-hundred-pound chicken?”

“Not at all,” replied Mrs. Singh. “Even my most conservative estimates place the chick alone at that sort of weight—the fully grown hen would probably tip the scales at two to three tons.”

“I need to sit down.”

“You are sitting down. Skinner and I couldn’t simulate the extreme breakup of his shell,” continued Mrs. Singh, “no matter what we did. The damage was too severe for anything a bullet might have caused. Something hatching, now, that’s a different matter.”

“So how did the bullet go straight through?”

“Fluke,” replied Mrs. Singh. “It must have passed between the body and the wing or the leg—or something.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” said Mary, trying to get all the information in context. “Firstly, he’s a guy, right? Even if he is, to all intents and purposes, a very large egg?”

“Indeed,” replied Mrs. Singh, “he had all the necessary equipment.”

“And a series of girlfriends, so he wasn’t shy on exercising it,” added Jack.

“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

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.

“Thank you, sir. And may I say on a personal note how impressed I was by the way you cracked the Humpty case. Once had a verruca myself. Nasty little blighters. Do you always wear blue overalls, sir?”