“Hmm,” responded Pandora. “I heard she was a bit of a trollop.”
“Oh, she was,” replied Prometheus hurriedly. “She was as vain, foolish, mischievous and idle as she was beautiful.”
“And yet you fell in love with her?”
Prometheus nodded. “I loved her, and she betrayed me. I had no idea she was sent by Zeus to cause trouble to the human race. Alas, I was wrong. The ills were let out of my jar, and you can see the result.”
“But hope remained,” said Pandora, attempting to raise the spirits of Prometheus, who seemed to have lapsed into depression.
“Delusive hope,” corrected Prometheus quietly. “I had placed it there as a sort of insurance policy. Delusive hope, by its lies, dissuades mankind from mass suicide.”
“And where is she now?”
“I have no idea. After I was sentenced, my brother—fool that he was—married her to avoid a similar fate.”
“And you never saw them again?”
“They kept in contact for a bit, but you know how it is—just cards on my birthday for the first three hundred years and then nothing at all. The last I heard of them was in 1268, when Epimetheus was working as a cobbler and Pandora made a living as a translator. I have tried to find them since my release, but to no avail. I have difficulty traveling without a passport.”
“And the jar?” inquired Pandora, still curious.
He shrugged. “It’s invulnerable to any form of destructive power, so it must still be somewhere. But where that might be, I have no idea.”
“Coffee!” announced Jack, wondering whether sitting between Pandora and Prometheus wasn’t taking it too far. It was, so he sat with Madeleine. They all talked animatedly with Prometheus into the night. Pandora told him about studying for her degree in astrophysics; Prometheus mentioned that he thought Robert Oppenheimer had done the same as he—stolen fire from the gods and given it to mankind. The difference between him and Oppenheimer, he added dryly, was that Oppenheimer was never punished. Pandora told him about Big Bang theory, and he told her that Zeus had created the constellations; it was a lively argument and they had just got around to discussing human self-determination when Madeleine announced that she was going to bed and pulled on her husband’s hand to make him join her.
“I’ll stay for a little longer,” said Jack.
“It’s perfectly okay, Jack,” said Prometheus. “I’m not going to sleep with your daughter.”
His directness caught Jack on the hop, and he laughed at his own stupidity.
“Terrific!” he said at last. “I’m going to bed.”
Pandora and Prometheus continued talking as the fire gradually burnt itself down. Prometheus pointed out the flaws in evolutionary theory, such as how a bird could possibly have evolved wings without having useless appendages for thousands of years that would have hindered its survival. Pandora countered by saying that rule number one of the cosmos was that unlikely things do happen. Indeed, given the time scale involved and the size of the universe, unlikely things, paradoxically enough, become quite commonplace.
“What do you think?” asked Jack as he took off his shirt in the bedroom.
“About what?”
“Pandora and Prometheus.”
“Science meets mythology. It’ll be interesting to see what conclusions they draw before the night is out. I’ll be fascinated to hear what Prometheus has to say about the fossil record.”
“Hmm,” said Jack as he climbed into his pajamas and pushed the inert form of Ripvan off his side of the bed. The cat fell to the floor with a thump—and without waking.
Jack slept well that night, curled up with Madeleine like two spoons in a drawer. Below them in the living room, Prometheus and Pandora talked into the small hours, while barely a mile away, in Granny Spratt’s garden, the beanstalk creaked and groaned to itself as it grew, like a bamboo plantation in the tropics.
32. Giorgio Porgia
CRIME BOSS TO RUN PRISON
History was made last week when Giorgio Porgia, Reading’s onetime crime boss and self-proclaimed “menace to society,” was unanimously elected governor of Reading Gaol. The surprise result followed an equal-opportunities advertisement for a replacement governor to which Mr. Porgia applied. Septuagenarian former blowtorch-wielding sadist Giorgio Porgia was found to be the most qualified to run the prison as he had himself spent much time within such institutions and has an almost unparalleled understanding of the irredeemable criminal mind—his own. The Home Secretary happily endorsed his appointment, and “Governor” Porgia will begin work in March.
—From The Owl, January 29, 1999
If the Sacred Gonga hadn’t been due for dedication by the Jellyman the following day, the papers would have had nothing else but the Humpty Dumpty case. As it was, they were half Humpty, half Jellyman. Even so, the Humpty part of it wasn’t good, and they all followed pretty much the same line: that Jack was an imbecile who was too proud to ask for help from one of the most eminent and upright pillars of the detecting community. Jack took the papers from the breakfast table and tossed them in the bin, then switched off the radio.
“The crowd is gathering,” said Madeleine as she looked out the window at the pressmen and TV news crews waiting to get a reaction. “I’m going to take the children to see the Jellyman,” she added. “Do you think you’ll be able to join us?”
“I’m nursemaiding the Sacred Gonga,” replied Jack sullenly.
“Sorry.”
Stevie screamed “Da-woo!” enthusiastically and hurled his spoon on the floor because he could. Mary arrived at eight-thirty on the dot and ignored the journalists as she pushed past them. She was introduced to the family and said her respectful hellos before they both took a deep breath and stepped outside to meet the press.
They were met by the glare of video camera lights and the rapid-fire questions of the journalists.
“When can we expect you to relinquish the case to DCI Chymes?”
“Are you competent to run this investigation?”
“Doesn’t Humpty deserve more?”
“Will you plead on bended knee for Chymes’s help?”
“Do you really think that tie suits that jacket?”
“Will you resign from the force?”
“How many more people have to die before you ask for help?”
“What is your beef with tall people?”
“Is that really your Allegro?”
Jack and Mary pushed their way through the throng, got into Jack’s car and drove off with the newsmen still shouting questions.
“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 c
harms 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?”