The Fourth Bear полностью

Ferranti jumped up guiltily. He was a pale man with thin lips and very little hair covered by a bad wig. He was not in the force but worked for it—as a claims assessor who looked into any damage inflicted by the police in the course of their duties. He strove to have any claims dealt with quickly and efficiently, sometimes irrespective of fault—lawsuits were in nobody’s interest. He wasn’t generally liked, for obvious reasons.

“My phone’s been ringing off the hook all morning, Spratt. I’ve had fourteen claims for damages. One car wrecked, three with fender damage and another eight with broken side mirrors. I’ve got a demolished wall and a smashed garage door. It could come to over eight thousand pounds. Eight thousand more than Reading can afford, Inspector.”

“The garage door I can explain. I was thrown through it.”

Ferranti grunted and conceded that perhaps that one wasn’t entirely Jack’s fault. He looked at Jack’s spotless car suspiciously.

“Several witnesses attest to your damaging a lot of property with this car, Inspector. It seems they were mistaken.”

“Obviously.”

“I’m not convinced. How many other people chase gingerbreadmen in silver Allegro Equipes?”

“Probably dozens, Ferranti. Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Who owns Bart-Mart?”

“QuangTech,” he said. “Everyone knows that. Do you have another Allegro, identical to this one but covered in dents and scratches?”

“No.”

The assessor grunted, made a few disparaging remarks under his breath and then departed.

“What did you want to show me?” asked Mary.

“This car. I completely wrecked it, and now… well… it’s better again.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, not having seen Dorian Gray demonstrate the power of his unique warranty the day before.

“Yes. All that damage Ferranti claimed—it was me. I wrote the car off, but then, as soon as my back was turned, it was all perfect again.”

Mary raised an eyebrow. “That sounds kind of crazy, Jack.”

“Sounds, yes. But—”

“A car that can repair itself?” said a voice behind them. “You should sell that idea to Ford.”

They turned to find Virginia Kreeper, who had been watching them from the shadows.

“Miss Kreeper,” said Jack without much enthusiasm, “what a delightful surprise. Here to help some poor victim formulate a really good complaint against the service?”

“Not today, Inspector.”

“Having a break from trouble stirring?” he asked sarcastically. He hadn’t liked her the evening before at the Déjà Vu, and he didn’t like her now.

“No,” she replied, staring back at him coldly, “I’m here to do an independent psychiatric evaluation.”

“Oh, yeah?” said Jack with a laugh. “And what poor cluck are you going to slap your snake-oil, leech-sucking, voodoo magic on today?”

“Someone the doctors think might be suffering some form of delusional psychosis.”

“Such as?”

“Such as… cars that mend themselves.”

There was a pause.

“Bollocks,” said Jack in a quiet voice. “It’s me, isn’t it?”

“Of course, I was only kidding about that voodoo comment,” said Jack as soon as he was sitting in the Police Medical Officer’s room. It was cold and sterile and cheerless and not somewhere you’d really want to be. It was here that officers were frequently told bad news about their failing health. Or, in the hypochondriac Baker’s case, bad news about his excessive good health. Kreeper was behind the desk looking through Jack’s medical records and making annoying aha and hmm noises.

“And the leech stuff was admittedly a bit infantile.”