“I see,” said Jack thoughtfully, “so the financial sense in breeding a giant cucumber is…?”
“Not very high, although there may be value to the competitive veg-growing industry. Cucumbers are technically a fruit and in the same family as pumpkins, melons and squash, so it may benefit those markets, although, to be honest, giant melons don’t strike me as potentially that commercial. But it’s not something we go in for, so my knowledge is a little sparse on the subject. May I ask why?”
“Just something that has come up in the course of our inquiries.”
There was another pause. Annoyingly, Bisky-Batt was being disarmingly candid.
“Can we interview the Quangle-Wangle?”
“I can certainly ask him, but I shouldn’t hold your breath. He grants me an audience every morning. I am, to all intents and purposes, his arms and eyes and voice. The Quangle-Wangle is old and frail. He has fought in two world wars and built an empire that straddles the globe. His body is wasted, but his mind is still keen. He told me once, although I think he was paraphrasing Carnegie, that a man who dies rich dies without honor. He has spent the last ten years of his life giving away more than fifty million pounds to needy institutions through his various charitable trusts. All requests are considered on their own merits by a table of eight consultants, but the Quang makes the final decision. A request for a new scout hut in Wantage is taken with the same seriousness as a diphtheria-inoculation program in Splotvia. As I recall, both were approved.”
“And SommeWorld?”
Bisky-Batt smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Ah yes, SommeWorld. The Quangle fought as a foot soldier in the Great War and was in the third wave at the Battle of the Somme. He knows more than most the horrors of war. The theme park was an idea he had been toying with for a while. He wanted to demonstrate to the world the hideous conditions and pointless loss of life in warfare but didn’t want to be seen as a hypocrite, so he sold QuangTech’s weapons division and poured the proceeds into SommeWorld. What did you think of it?”
“Very impressive—but none too cheap, I should think.”
“Too true. The land alone cost over a hundred million. Can you imagine trying to buy a single two-thousand-acre tract in the Home Counties? He had to purchase an entire village to make it. The park itself cost another hundred million to build. Even with five hundred thousand visitors a year, it will take seventy years to break even.”
“Hardly good business.”
Bisky-Batt shrugged. “The Quang’s like that. But even with the vast cost of SommeWorld, he’s still one of the wealthiest men on the planet.”
There was more small talk, but nothing of any relevance, and after another twenty minutes Jack and Mary rose to leave. They had heard enough for the moment and could easily return. Bisky-Batt showed them back to the entrance lobby and shook them once again by the hand. He was the vice president of a major corporation and had given them an hour of his time without being the least bit obstructive. He had supplied straight answers and volunteered information. QuangTech’s ethical policy was well known, and perhaps, thought Jack, his own prejudices against big corporations were clouding his judgment. Then again, if someone’s behavior is too good to be true, it generally is.
“What do you think?” asked Mary as they walked back to the car.
“He seemed straight enough,” replied Jack, “but I’d still like to have interviewed the Quangle-Wangle personally.”
“By the way he spoke, you’d think it would be easier to have an audience with the Easter Bunny.”
“Almost certainly. Why, do you think it would help?”
“No, Jack—I mean, aren’t you taking all this missing-scientist and mysterious-explosions stuff a little bit too seriously?”
“How do you mean?”
“Okay, devil’s advocate here. We have a dead journalist, with no sign whatsoever that it was anything but an accident. She was trying to link—as the conspiracy theorists have been doing for years—a doubtlessly insane and almost certainly dead scientist with unexplained explosions around the globe, which on the face of it appear to have no link at all. QuangTech is a big corporation, sure, but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad. The Quangle-Wangle has built SommeWorld as a graphic lesson in the horrors of war, and they haven’t indulged in any sort of weapons development in over a decade. I just think it all sounds a little far-fetched—even by NCD standards.”
“I see your point,” replied Jack slowly, “but what about the nature of the blast at Obscurity?”
“Jack,” said Mary, “Parks based his entire theory on that one piece of baked ceramic. It could have come from anywhere. He could have sent it to Goldilocks himself.”
“And the radioactivity?”
“The radium from an old watch would have done the trick.”
“Is that likely?”
“Why not? It won’t be the first time that an overly keen journalist has been given the runaround by a source more eager to receive fifteen minutes of fame than deliver facts. Conspiracy nuts are always looking for mainstream outlets for their rantings. Perhaps Goldilocks was just being used.”
“And her death?”
“I don’t know. It’s possible we’re not even close to the real reason.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Jack with a sigh. “I always tend to look for the more bizarre aspects of a case. Perhaps I should take a page from Copperfield’s book and concentrate on purely objective, relevant and sensible matters.”
There was a pause.
“Right, done that. Let’s drop in on Hardy Fuchsia and learn something about giant cucumbers.”
Mary laughed. “You’re the boss, boss.”
23. Extreme Cucumbers
Largest cucumber: The official heavyweight in the cucumber world is the 49.89-kilo monster grown by Simon Prong in 1994. Cultivated after many years of patient crossbreeding and nurturing, Prong’s champion might have grown even larger were it not for the attentions of a gang of murderous cucumber nobblers who destroyed the cucumber two days after the record was officially set, an attack that tragically cost Prong his life.
Mr. Hardy Fuchsia was editor, publisher, proprietor and founder of Cucumber World, all rolled into one. They found him in the greenhouse of his modest semidetached house in Sonning. The day was hot, and the greenhouse’s vents were all open to keep down the heat inside. Hardy Fuchsia was a cheery man with a limp; he was about eighty, retired, and he obviously thought cucumbers were the be-all and end-all. He came out of the greenhouse, mopped his brow with a handkerchief and shook them warmly by the hand.
“Tragic,” was all he could say when they mentioned Stanley Cripps. “Tragic, tragic, tragic.”
“Had you spoken to him recently?”
“The evening… um, before he died,” said Fuchsia. “He was wildly excited over this year’s possible champion. We might be competitors, but we still talk a great deal. Premier-league cucumbering is a lonely pursuit, Inspector, brightened only by the arrival of another with a similar high level of skill. I hope… ah, you appreciate that?”
“Of course. What did you talk about?”
“His challenger for the nationals. He and I were the only competitors in the cucumber extreme class—for anything weighing over twenty-five kilos. If he beat me, he’d automatically win the world championship. His champ was about to pass the magic fifty-kilo mark; not even I’ve managed that, although size isn’t everything. A fine curve can speak volumes—and a smooth, unblemished skin is worth thirty percent of the judge’s… ah, marks alone. Would you care to have a seat?”