The Humpty Dumpty Tragedy by Herschel Cozine Page B

the room, he leaned forward and addressed me in a whisper.
    “Is this room secure?”
    “I beg your pardon,” I replied.
    “Microphones. Bugs.”
    I laughed. “Of course not. This isn’t the White House.”
    He relaxed somewhat, but shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
    “You are Nathaniel P. Osgood III?”
    “That’s right.”
    “A loyal subject to His Majesty Geronimo Cole?” he said, emphasizing “loyal.”
    “King Cole,” I said. “Yes.”
    He paused, searching my face for…whatever. I felt like a deer in the headlights. Finally, evidently satisfied that I was not a serial killer or sex pervert, he sat back.
    “I need your solemn oath that our discussion will be kept in the strictest confidence.”
    I didn’t know how to react to this. I considered giving the Boy Scout sign, or even the Masonic handshake. In the end I nodded. “I solemnly swear.”
    Had one of the king’s fiddlers been kidnapped? Were we about to invade Toyland and assassinate Laurel and Hardy? I knew better than that. There could be only one reason for the IG’s visit. He confirmed that with his next remark.
    “This concerns the Humpty Dumpty matter,” he said at last.
    I nodded and waited for him to continue.
    “What do you know about Dumpty?” he asked.
    I waved a hand. “What is there to know? He was a silly egg who sat on a wall on the edge of town and provided some local color.” As if Nurseryland needed more color. “Then one day…splat! Eggs Benedict!”
    “Is that what you think?” he asked.
    “That’s the prevailing view,” I replied.
    “You didn’t answer my question.”
    I smiled. “No. I didn’t.”
    “I repeat,” the IG said. “Is that what you think?”
    “Look,” I said. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll tell you what I think. But you must promise to be honest with me. No lies. No evasions. If I’m right, you don’t have to say anything. If I’m wrong, tell me so and I’ll back off. OK?”
    The IG puckered his lips and thought for a moment.
    “Fair enough,” he said at length.
    “Humpty Dumpty wasn’t an egg,” I started. “He so much as said so himself.”
    The IG grunted. “You’re talking about the Alice episode.”
    “Exactly.”
    “An unfortunate conversation,” the IG said.
    “Nonetheless a revealing one,” I said. “Not too many people knew about it, or gave it much thought. But after the accident and the actions of your people I began to look beyond the obvious. I reviewed the TV coverage, noticed the strange activities of the king’s horses and men—mostly the men. The horses only served as a diversion.”
    “What kind of activity?” the IG asked.
    “Popular belief is that the men were trying to put Dumpty together again. But from the tapes it became clear to me that they were not doing that at all. They were getting rid of the evidence! ”
    I paused, waiting for the IG to say something. His face remained guarded and he sat motionless.
    “I asked myself, what evidence? What is so incriminating about an eggshell? That’s when I came up with my theory. It wasn’t eggshell. Humpty was not an egg. The ‘eggshell’ was in all probability a secret material known only to those who created Humpty Dumpty. A technological device of some sort, like radar, or a material capable of detecting satellites, stealth aircraft, or even conversations. In other words, a spy machine!”
    I paused again. No response from the IG.
    “Nurseryland had a state-of-the-art defense gadget that they didn’t want anyone to know about.”
    I leaned forward and looked directly at the IG. “That’s my theory. Any comment?”
    The IG shook his head and smiled. He stood up slowly and straightened his tunic.
    “Who is your client?’ he asked.
    “There is no client,” I replied.
    “No client?” he said, his eyes widening. “Then why…?”
    “I am satisfying my own curiosity,” I said.
    “There are no other parties involved?”
    “None.”
    He visibly relaxed. “Good,” he said.