The Fourth Bear полностью

“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.”

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?”

He indicated an upturned water barrel for Mary and a garden roller for Jack.

“How long have you known Mr. Cripps?” asked Mary.

“Well, that is to say, I… oh, over thirty years. We both worked in the same department, although he is my senior by… er… well… um, more years than he would have cared to remember. Would you like to see Cuthbert and the family?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Oh! An… um, petty foible of mine. Quite… er, childish. Cuthbert… well, and the family — my cucumbers, you see.”

He led them into his ancient wooden greenhouse, the wood almost black with layers of creosote and the roof curved downward in the center with age. The reward in cucumbers, Jack noted, was not of the monetary sort. Mr. Fuchsia led them past radishes the size of basketballs, then some tomatoes and a few parsnips growing in a length of downpipe. His champion cucumbers were green monsters about six feet long and the thickness of a small barrel. The plant that had spawned the beasts was seemingly quite small and forlorn next to them. Even though there were seven of similar size, it wasn’t hard to figure out which one was Cuthbert. The others were excellent, but this one was perfect. The skin was smooth and shiny and blemish-free. It was quite a vegetable—or fruit, if you want to be pedantic.

“Very nice,” murmured Jack. “What do they taste like at this size?”

Mr. Fuchsia looked shocked. “Taste like? You don’t eat them, Inspector. These are for… um, showing.”

Mary pointed to a passive infrared alarm in one corner. “You take this seriously?” she asked.

“I certainly do,” replied Fuchsia. “Many cucumberistas have suffered loss and damage at the hands of”—he looked around and lowered his voice—“the Men in Green.”