M Is For Magic

Miss Dumpty come into it? Jack and Jill—we’d make a great team. When this was all over perhaps we could go off together to Louie’s little place on the hill, where no one’s interested in whether you got a marriage license or not. The Pail of Water, that was the name of the joint.

I called the bartender over. “Hey, Joe.”

“Yeah, Mr. Horner?” He was polishing a glass with a rag that had seen better days as a shirt.

“Did you ever meet the Fat Man’s sister?”

He scratched at his cheek. “Can’t say as I did. His sister…huh? Hey—the Fat Man didn’t have a sister.”

“You sure of that?”

“Sure I’m sure. It was the day my sister had her first kid—I told the Fat Man I was an uncle. He gave me this look and says, ‘Ain’t no way I’ll ever be an uncle, Joe. Got no sisters or brothers, nor no other kinfolk neither.’”

If the mysterious Miss Dumpty wasn’t his sister, who was she?

“Tell me, Joe. Didja ever see him in here with a dame—about so high, shaped like this?” My hands described a couple of parabolas. “Looks like a blonde love goddess.”

He shook his head. “Never saw him with any dames. Recently he was hanging around with some medical guy, but the only thing he ever cared about was those crazy birds and animals of his.”

I took a swig of my drink. It nearly took the roof of my mouth off. “Animals? I thought he’d given all that up.”

“Naw—couple weeks back he was in here with a whole bunch of blackbirds he was training to sing ‘Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before mmm mmm.’”

“Mmm mmm?”

“Yeah. I got no idea who.”

I put my drink down. A little of it spilt on the counter, and I watched it strip the paint. “Thanks, Joe. You’ve been a big help.” I handed him a ten-dollar bill. “For information received,” I said—adding, “Don’t spend it all at once.”

In my profession it’s making little jokes like that that keeps you sane.

I had one contact left. Ma Hubbard. I found a pay phone and called her number.

“Old Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard—Cake Shop and licensed Soup Kitchen.”

“It’s Horner, Ma.”

“Jack? It ain’t safe for me to talk to you.”

“For old time’s sake, sweetheart. You owe me a favor.” Some two-bit crooks had once knocked off the Cupboard, leaving it bare. I’d tracked them down and returned the cakes and soup.

“Okay. But I don’t like it.”

“You know everything that goes on around here on the food front, Ma. What’s the significance of a pie with four and twenty trained blackbirds in it?”

She whistled long and low. “You really don’t know?”

“I wouldn’t be asking you if I did.”

“You should read the Court pages of the papers next time, sugar. Jeez. You are out of your depth.”

“C’mon, Ma. Spill it.”

“It so happens that that particular dish was set before the King a few weeks back…. Jack? Are you still there?”

“I’m still here, ma’am,” I said quietly. “All of a sudden a lot of things are starting to make sense.” I put down the phone.

It was beginning to look like Little Jack Horner had pulled out a plum from this pie.

It was raining, steady and cold. I phoned a cab.

Quarter of an hour later one lurched out of the darkness.

“You’re late.”

“So complain to the tourist board.”

I climbed in the back, wound down the window, and lit a cigarette.

And I went to see the Queen.

The door to the private part of the palace was locked. It’s the part that the public don’t get to see. But I’ve never been public, and the little lock hardly slowed me up. The door to the private apartments with the big red heart on it was unlocked, so I knocked and walked straight in.

The Queen of Hearts was alone, standing in front of the mirror, holding a plate of jam tarts with one hand, powdering her nose with the other. She turned, saw me, and gasped, dropping the tarts.

“Hey, Queenie,” I said. “Or would you feel more comfortable if I called you Jill?”

She was still a good-looking slice of dame, even without the blonde wig.

“Get out of here!” she hissed.

“I don’t think so, toots.” I sat down on the bed. “Let me spell a few things out for you.”

“Go ahead.” She reached behind her for a concealed alarm button. I let her press it. I’d cut the wires on my way in—in my profession there’s no such thing as being too careful.

“Let me spell a few things out for you.”

“You just said that.”

“I’ll tell this my way, lady.”

I lit a cigarette, and a thin plume of blue smoke drifted heavenward, which was where I was going if my hunch was wrong. Still, I’ve learned to trust hunches.

“Try this on for size. Dumpty—the Fat Man—wasn’t your brother. He wasn’t even your friend. In fact he was blackmailing you. He knew about your nose.”

She turned whiter than a number of corpses I’ve met in my time in the business. Her hand reached up and cradled her freshly powdered nose.

“You see, I’ve known the Fat Man for many years, and many years ago he had a lucrative concern in training animals and birds to do certain unsavory things. And that got me to thinking…. I had a client recently who didn’t show, due to his having been stiffed first. Dr. Foster, of Gloucester, the plastic surgeon. The official version of his death was that he’d just sat too close to a fire and melted.

“But just suppose he was killed to stop him telling something that he knew. I put two and two together and hit the jackpot. Let me reconstruct a scene for you: You were out in the garden—probably hanging out some clothes—when along came one of Dumpty’s trained pie blackbirds and pecked off your nose.

“So there you were, standing in the garden, your hand in front of your face, when along came the Fat Man with an offer you couldn’t refuse. He could introduce you to a plastic surgeon who could fix you up with a nose as good as new, for a price. And no one need ever know. Am I right so far?”

She nodded dumbly, then, finding her voice, muttered, “Pretty much. But I ran back into the parlor after the attack, to eat some bread and honey. That was where he found me.”

“Fair enough.” The color was starting to come back into her cheeks now. “So you had the operation from Foster, and no one was going to be any the wiser. Until Dumpty told you that he had photos of the op. You had to get rid of him. A couple of days later you were out walking in the palace grounds. There was Humpty, sitting on a wall, his back to you, gazing out into the distance. In a fit of madness, you pushed. And Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

“But now you were in big trouble. Nobody suspected you of his murder, but where were the photographs? Foster didn’t have them, although he smelled a rat and had to be disposed of—before he could see me. But you didn’t know how much he’d told me, and you still didn’t have the snapshots, so you took me on to find out. And that was your mistake, sister.”

Her lower lip trembled, and my heart quivered. “You won’t turn me in, will you?”

“Sister, you tried to frame me this afternoon. I don’t take kindly to that.”

With a shaking hand she started to unbutton the top button of her blouse. “Perhaps we could come to some sort of arrangement?”

I shook my head. “Sorry, your majesty. Mrs. Horner’s little boy Jack was always taught to keep his hands off royalty. It’s a pity, but that’s how it is.” To be on the safe side I looked away, which was a mistake. A cute little ladies’ pistol was in her hands and pointing at me before you could sing a song of sixpence. The shooter may have been small, but I knew it packed enough of a wallop to take me out of the game permanently.