M Is For Magic

The Case of the Four and Twenty Blackbirds

I SAT IN MY OFFICE, nursing a glass of hooch and idly cleaning my automatic. Outside the rain fell steadily, like it seems to do most of the time in our fair city, whatever the tourist board says. Heck, I didn’t care. I’m not on the tourist board. I’m a private dick, and one of the best, although you wouldn’t have known it; the office was crumbling, the rent was unpaid, and the hooch was my last.

Things are tough all over.

To cap it all the only client I’d had all week never showed up on the street corner where I’d waited for him. He said it was going to be a big job, but now I’d never know: he kept a prior appointment in the morgue.

So when the dame walked into my office I was sure my luck had changed for the better.

“What are you selling, lady?”

She gave me a look that would have induced heavy breathing in a pumpkin, and which shot my heartbeat up to three figures. She had long blonde hair and a figure that would have made Thomas Aquinas forget his vows. I forgot all mine about never taking cases from dames.

“What would you say to some of the green stuff?” she asked in a husky voice, getting straight to the point.

“Continue, sister.” I didn’t want her to know how bad I needed the dough, so I held my hand in front of my mouth; it doesn’t help if a client sees you salivate.

She opened her purse and flipped out a photograph. Glossy eight by ten. “Do you recognize that man?”

In my business you know who people are. “Yeah.”

“He’s dead.”

“I know that too, sweetheart. It’s old news. It was an accident.”

Her gaze went so icy you could have chipped it into cubes and cooled a cocktail with it. “My brother’s death was no accident.”

I raised an eyebrow—you need a lot of arcane skills in my business—and said, “Your brother, eh?” Funny, she hadn’t struck me as the type that had brothers.

“I’m Jill Dumpty.”

“So your brother was Humpty Dumpty?”

“And he didn’t fall off that wall, Mr. Horner. He was pushed.”

Interesting, if true. Dumpty had his finger in most of the crooked pies in town; I could think of five guys who would have preferred to see him dead than alive without trying. Without trying too hard, anyway.

“You seen the cops about this?”

“Nah. The King’s Men aren’t interested in anything to do with his death. They say they did all they could do in trying to put him together again after the fall.”

I leaned back in my chair.

“So what’s it to you. Why do you need me?”

“I want you to find the killer, Mr. Horner. I want him brought to justice. I want him to fry like an egg. Oh—and one other little thing,” she added lightly. “Before he died Humpty had a small manila envelope full of photographs he was meant to be sending me. Medical photos. I’m a trainee nurse, and I need them to pass my finals.”

I inspected my nails, then looked up at her face, taking in a handful of waist and several curves on the way up. She was a looker, although her cute nose was a little on the shiny side. “I’ll take the case. Seventy-five a day and two hundred bonus for results.”

She smiled; my stomach twisted around once and went into orbit. “You get another two hundred if you get me those photographs. I want to be a nurse real bad.” Then she dropped three fifties on my desktop.

I let a devil-may-care grin play across my rugged face. “Say, sister, how about letting me take you out for dinner? I just came into some money.”

She gave an involuntary shiver of anticipation and muttered something about having a thing about midgets, so I knew I was onto a good thing. Then she gave me a lopsided smile that would have made Albert Einstein drop a decimal point. “First find my brother’s killer, Mr. Horner. And my photographs. Then we can play.”

She closed the door behind her. Maybe it was still raining but I didn’t notice. I didn’t care.

There are parts of town the tourist board doesn’t mention. Parts of town where the police travel in threes if they travel at all. In my line of work you get to visit them more than is healthy. Healthy is never.

He was waiting for me outside Luigi’s. I slid up behind him, my rubber-soled shoes soundless on the shiny wet sidewalk.

“Hiya, Cock.”

He jumped and spun around; I found myself gazing up into the muzzle of a .45. “Oh, Horner.” He put the gun away. “Don’t call me Cock. I’m Bernie Robin to you, short-stuff, and don’t you forget it.”

“Cock Robin is good enough for me, Cock. Who killed Humpty Dumpty?”

He was a strange-looking bird, but you can’t be choosy in my profession. He was the best underworld lead I had.

“Let’s see the color of your money.”

I showed him a fifty.

“Hell,” he muttered. “It’s green. Why can’t they make puce or mauve money for a change?” He took it though. “All I know is that the Fat Man had his finger in a lot of pies.”

“So?”

“One of those pies had four and twenty blackbirds in it.”

“Huh?”

“Do I hafta spell it out for you? I…ughh—” He crumpled to the sidewalk, an arrow protruding from his back. Cock Robin wasn’t going to be doing any more chirping.

Sergeant O’Grady looked down at the body, then he looked down at me. “Faith and begorrah, to be sure,” he said. “If it isn’t Little Jack Horner himself.”

“I didn’t kill Cock Robin, Sarge.”

“And I suppose that the call we got down at the station telling us you were going to be rubbing the late Mr. Robin out—here, tonight—was just a hoax?”

“If I’m the killer, where are my arrows?” I thumbed open a pack of gum and started to chew. “It’s a frame.”

He puffed on his meerschaum and then put it away, and idly played a couple of phrases of the William Tell overture on his oboe. “Maybe. Maybe not. But you’re still a suspect. Don’t leave town. And, Horner…”

“Yeah?”

“Dumpty’s death was an accident. That’s what the coroner said. That’s what I say. Drop the case.”

I thought about it. Then I thought of the money, and the girl. “No dice, Sarge.”

He shrugged. “It’s your funeral.” He said it like it probably would be.

I had a funny feeling he could be right.

“You’re out of your depth, Horner. You’re playing with the big boys. And it ain’t healthy.”

From what I could remember of my school days he was correct. Whenever I played with the big boys I always wound up having the stuffing beaten out of me. But how did O’Grady—how could O’Grady have known that? Then I remembered something else.

O’Grady was the one that used to beat me up the most.

It was time for what we in the profession call legwork. I made a few discreet inquiries around town, but found out nothing about Dumpty that I didn’t know already.

Humpty Dumpty was a bad egg. I remembered him when he was new in town, a smart young animal trainer with a nice line in training mice to run up clocks. He went to the bad pretty fast though; gambling, drink, women, it’s the same story all over. A bright young kid thinks that the streets of Nurseryland are paved with gold, and by the time he finds out otherwise it’s much too late.

Dumpty started off with extortion and robbery on a small scale—he trained up a team of spiders to scare little girls away from their curds and whey, which he’d pick up and sell on the black market. Then he moved on to blackmail—the nastiest game. We crossed paths once, when I was hired by this young society kid—let’s call him Georgie Porgie—to recover some compromising snaps of him kissing the girls and making them cry. I got the snaps, but I learned it wasn’t healthy to mess with the Fat Man. And I don’t make the same mistakes twice. Hell, in my line of work I can’t afford to make the same mistakes once.

It’s a tough world out there. I remember when Little Bo Peep first came to town…but you don’t want to hear my troubles. If you’re not dead yet, you’ve got troubles of your own.

I checked out the newspaper files on Dumpty’s death. One minute he was sitting on a wall, the next he was in pieces at the bottom. All the King’s Horses and all the King’s Men were on the scene in minutes, but he needed more than first aid. A medic named Foster was called—a friend of Dumpty’s from his Gloucester days—although I don’t know of anything a doc can do when you’re dead.

Hang on a second—Dr. Foster!

I got that old feeling you get in my line of work. Two little brain cells rub together the right way and in seconds you’ve got a twenty-four-karat cerebral fire on your hands.

You remember the client who didn’t show—the one I’d waited for all day on the street corner? An accidental death. I hadn’t bothered to check it out—I can’t afford to waste time on clients who aren’t going to pay for it.

Three deaths, it seemed. Not one.

I reached for the telephone and rang the police station. “This is Horner,” I told the desk man. “Lemme speak to Sergeant O’Grady.”

There was a crackling and he came on the line. “O’Grady speaking.”

“It’s Horner.”

“Hi, Little Jack.” That was just like O’Grady. He’d been kidding me about my size since we were kids together. “You finally figured out that Dumpty’s death was accidental?”

“Nope. I’m now investigating three deaths. The Fat Man’s, Bernie Robin’s, and Dr. Foster’s.”

“Foster the plastic surgeon? His death was an accident.”

“Sure. And your mother was married to your father.”

There was a pause. “Horner, if you phoned me up just to talk dirty, I’m not amused.”

“Okay, wise guy. If Humpty Dumpty’s death was an accident and so was Dr. Foster’s, tell me just one thing.

“Who killed Cock Robin?” I don’t ever get accused of having too much imagination, but there’s one thing I’d swear to. I could hear him grinning over the phone as he said: “You did, Horner. And I’m staking my badge on it.”

The line went dead.

My office was cold and lonely, so I wandered down to Joe’s Bar for some companionship and a drink or three.

Four and twenty blackbirds. A dead doctor. The Fat Man. Cock Robin… Heck, this case had more holes in it than Swiss cheese and more loose ends than a torn string vest. And where did the juicy 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.

This dame was lethal.

“Put that gun down, your majesty.” Sergeant O’Grady strolled through the bedroom door, his police special clutched in his hamlike fist.

“I’m sorry I suspected you, Horner,” he said drily. “You’re lucky I did, though, sure and begorrah. I had you tailed here and I overheard the whole thing.”

“Hi, Sarge, thanks for stopping by. But I hadn’t finished my explanation. If you’ll take a seat I’ll wrap it up.”

He nodded brusquely, and sat down near the door. His gun hardly moved.

I got up from the bed and walked over to the Queen. “You see, toots, what I didn’t tell you was who did have the snaps of your nose job. Humpty did, when you killed him.”

A charming frown crinkled her perfect brow. “I don’t understand…. I had the body searched.”

“Sure, afterward. But the first people to get to the Fat Man were the King’s Men. The cops. And one of them pocketed the envelope. When any fuss had died down the blackmail would have started again. Only this time you wouldn’t have known who to kill. And I owe you an apology.” I bent down to tie my shoelaces.

“Why?”

“I accused you of trying to frame me this afternoon. You didn’t. That arrow was the property of a boy who was the best archer in my school—I should have recognized that distinctive fletching anywhere. Isn’t that right,” I said, turning back to the door, “‘Sparrow’ O’Grady?”

Under the guise of tying my shoelaces I had already palmed a couple of the Queen’s jam tarts, and, flinging one of them upward, I neatly smashed the room’s only lightbulb.

It only delayed the shooting a few seconds, but a few seconds was all I needed, and as the Queen of Hearts and Sergeant “Sparrow” O’Grady cheerfully shot each other to bits, I split.

In my business, you have to look after number one.

Munching on a jam tart I walked out of the palace grounds and into the street. I paused by a trash can, to try to burn the manila envelope of photographs I had pulled from O’Grady’s pocket as I walked past him, but it was raining so hard they wouldn’t catch.

When I got back to my office I phoned the tourist board to complain. They said the rain was good for the farmers, and I told them what they could do with it.

They said that things are tough all over.

And I said, “Yeah.”