The Humpty Dumpty Tragedy by Herschel Cozine Page A

run across the writings of a certain Lewis Carroll in which Humpty Dumpty consorts with Alice, the Wonderland girl. While he didn’t come right out and say so, Mister Dumpty implied that he was not an egg; that he was merely egg shaped. Now why would one deny their heritage?
    I remembered that the story was covered by our local TV station. I visited the studio and was given permission to go into their archives where they had kept the tapes of the event. Enlisting the help of their projectionist (the film was taken before digital and all the latest gizmo technology), I sat down to watch.
    What I saw was startling. Armed soldiers had surrounded the spot where Humpty lay, keeping the curious crowd away with fixed bayonets and clubs. It was as if a royal crime had been committed. Why, I asked myself, was this seemingly benign little egg creating so much interest on the part of the government?
    I turned my attention to the men (and horses) working over Humpty. Some were collecting the broken shell while others were scooping up the yolk and white that had spread over the sidewalk. It was not a pretty sight.
    Then I saw something that I hadn’t noticed at the time the accident happened. The men were not trying to reassemble Humpty. They were frantically collecting every little piece of shell that they could find and putting it in a big black bag! The reporter on the scene had misinterpreted their activities.
    “They are trying to put Humpty Dumpty together again!” he had shouted. “Oh, this is so tragic! It’s hopeless! I can’t believe what I am seeing!”
    At the time the tragedy had occurred I, along with the rest of my countrymen, had listened to—and believed—what this reporter had said. Caught up in the drama of the moment, I had not questioned its accuracy. Now, in the quiet of the room, I could judge for myself what had happened. But I wasn’t certain what it was. The film only raised more questions than it answered.
    There was more to this story than what had appeared in the paper and on television. The Nurseryland government was hiding something. I was determined to get to the bottom of this affair.
    I paid a visit to Fort M. Goose, where the king’s army was billeted. I hoped to interview some of the soldiers involved in the cleanup. Perhaps they could tell me what had happened.
    I hit a stone wall. The commanding officer himself was summoned when I made my request, and politely but firmly refused to let me talk to anyone.
    “It’s against policy,” he said.
    “I don’t understand,” I responded. “I just want to ask a few questions.”
    “The Dumpty case is off limits,” he said. “I have my orders.”
    “Who gave the orders?” I asked.
    “I cannot say,” the general said. “But your request is denied. That is final.”
    And with that, the general turned in a brisk military fashion and strode from the room.
    I tried again a few days later, but was unable to talk to anyone. On my third try I was stopped at the gate by the sentry on duty.
    “Orders,” he said.
    I don’t know exactly when I realized what had happened that fateful day. It wasn’t a “Eureka!” moment, when everything falls into place. But the idea evolved until one day I found myself convinced that I had discovered the truth. Of course, I had no way to prove it. No one was cooperating, which only served to strengthen my belief.
    That was about to change.
    I had taken a brief break from the “Egg and I” case, as I had named it, to finish up another (paying) job concerning an illegal beanstalk in the city limits. I had just put the finishing touches on the final report and was placing it in my file cabinet when the door opened and the Inspector General of the royal family stepped in. I recognized him immediately. I stood up and bowed deferentially to the man.
    “To what do I owe the honor?” I asked.
    He waved me down to my seat with a regal flick of the hand and sat down in the chair by my desk. Looking furtively around