The Sprouts of Wrath

29

Professor Slocombe examined the multi-coloured parcel which lay before him on his desk.

“Don’t open it,” said John Omally. “Don’t even think about it.”

The hastily re-clad Jim nodded in agreement. “John had one too, it’s had his house down by the sound of it.”

The Professor laid Pooley’s parcel gently aside. “It is safe until opened, then?” he asked.

“So I believe.” John indicated the roaring fire. “That would be the best place for it. We brought it to you as …”

“As evidence? Yes, you did the right thing. You have been drawn into a horror not entirely of your own making.”

“Someone is out to kill us,” said John, “that is for certain. As to the who and the why, these escape me for the present.”

“It is Bob,” said Jim. “I’ll fix his wagon for this, see if I won’t.”

“No,” replied the Professor, “it isn’t your bookmaker, although I believe these matters are not entirely unconnected.”

Pooley took to the maintenance of a seething silence. “Bastard,” was his last spoken word on the subject.

“What is going on?” Omally asked. “I think we deserve to be told.”

Professor Slocombe refreshed his visitors’ glasses. “You cost me a small fortune in Scotch,” he told them, “but no matter, you are alive and well and that is cause for celebration. In answer to your question, I fear that something deadly is going on here in the borough. I have no absolute proof and I do not value speculation, but I suggest that this attempt has been made upon your lives because some person or persons consider that you have seen too much.”

“On the island?” whispered Pooley.

“Yes, and on the barge.”

“The ape?” said John sarcastically.

“It was no ape,” the old man replied. “Of that I am now quite convinced.”

“Then what?”

The Professor raised his old wrinkled palms. “I cannot say for certain. I have my suspicions.”

“Which you evidently choose not to confide in us.”

“All in good time, I must be sure.”

“You can be sure of that,” said Jim pointing to the parcel. “That leaves little to the imagination.”

“It does mine,” said Omally. “It is not your everyday murder attempt, now is it? I mean, guns I can understand, or old Mark Three Jags mounting the pavement when you’re stooping to tie your shoelace, but parcels which grow when you open them and smash your house down, this is a new innovation, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Jim, “you can at least try to explain that surely?”

The Professor looked thoughtful. “From what you have told me,” he said, “my thoughts are that it contains a multi-cellular polysilicate with an unstable atomic base which expands uncontrollably upon contact with the air through close proximity with the radiation of body heat.”

“Ah, one of those lads,” said Jim. “Then all is clear, my thanks.”

Omally was doubtful, but to save himself the spectacle of one of Pooley’s flapping and spinning displays he said, “Chemical warfare, Jim, a sophisticated anti-personnel device.”

“Something of the sort,” said the Professor. “I suspect that when expansion reaches an optimum point the polysilicate evaporates, leaving little or no trace of its existence. A devilish weapon, and the product of a dark and sardonic humour.”

“The joke is certainly lost on me,” said Omally, in an appalled voice. “Attempts upon my life rarely cause me to smile.”

“A cruel irony, John, your inquisitiveness was to prove your ruination.”

“Your understanding of such things is a tribute to your learning,” said John, “but your detachment sometimes verges upon the inhumane.”

“Quite so, I apologize.”

“We should take this thing to the police,” said Pooley.

Professor Slocombe joined John in some vigorous head-shaking. “I feel that might complicate matters even further. Inspectre Hovis is already quite keen to interview you. I should recommend strongly to the contrary on this issue.”

“Ah,” said Jim. “In that case, if irony is the name of the game, then let us readdress this parcel back to its sender.”

“The prospect has a certain charm, but we have yet to identify him. John, what do you know about the patron who has put up the money for the games?”

“As much as you, Professor, probably less, a scientific genius with money to burn and a desire for anonymity. Oh, I see, then you think …”

“I do not know, but there is much I would like to find out. Events suggest a link, both incidents occurred at sites directly connected with the construction of the stadium.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

“So do you think you might make some enquiries, employ your silken tongue, ask about, subtly of course.”

“But of course.” Omally scratched plaster dust from his blackened barnet. “It might prove difficult, but not impossible.”

“Good. Then it is my suggestion that you both lodge with me for a while, at a rent found mutually agreeable, of course. I have several spare bedrooms, you will find the accommodation suitable, I trust. Go about your daily business, keep your eyes open and your shoelaces well tied. That is my suggestion.”

Pooley nodded thoughtfully; this was evidently a serious matter. John said, “What about Mrs King? She’ll call the police when she sees what has become of that bug hutch she calls a rooming house.”

“I will deal with that directly,” said the Professor. “You can owe me out of your winnings.” Pooley reached for the whisky decanter. “And I will have a bar tariff typed out,” said Professor Slocombe, smiling sweetly.