The Humpty Dumpty Tragedy
The Humpty Dumpty Tragedy
By Herschel Cozine
Copyright 2012 by Herschel Cozine
Cover Copyright 2012 by Dara England
and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by Herschel Cozine and Untreed Reads Publishing
Delinquency Report
Saint Nicked
The Birds
The Porridge Incident
The Humpty Dumpty Tragedy
By Herschel Cozine
Hi. Nathaniel P. Osgood III, here. I usually get paid for the work I do for clients here in town. But I once had a case in which I was my own client. Ergo, no income. Believe me, I earned every penny!
You have all heard the story of Humpty Dumpty and his unfortunate fall. It was big news back when it happened. A walking, talking egg is indeed a phenomenon even in this part of the world. The story got front page treatment in
The Nurseryland Tattler
, our local rag. The pictures were unsettling to be sure. Oh, I have seen broken eggs before, but usually in frying pans; not splattered all over the street. And the soldiers and horses working over this mess made for great TV. The ratings were sky high.
Now why, you ask, would they even attempt to put this thing back together? A valid question. It was obvious to everyone that Humpty was beyond help. But we are dealing with the government here, and Government Intelligence is an oxymoron. The whole affair was hopeless and a waste of taxpayers’ money.
As you might imagine, the incident created quite a controversy. People wrote irate letters to the editor protesting the use of the military, particularly the horses. Even in this crazy town where almost anything goes, the use of horses as paramedics defied logic.
And then, of course, there were the usual letters from those who made light of the situation. “He was a good egg,” one wrote, with “a sunnyside up disposition.” Another wrote that if he hadn’t been so easygoing and been more “hardboiled,” this never would have happened. Perhaps the sickest of all was the one who wrote, “he was such a shy egg that it was good to see him finally come out of his shell. He’d be a shoo-in for the lead in Shakespeare’s ‘Omelet’.” Such callousness is indeed shocking. A flagrant disregard for the feelings of the survivors. I laughed out loud when I read it.
The tragic event slowly faded into history, being replaced by other equally important incidents such as the blackbird attack on members of the royal family and terrible abuse of the “shoe” children. A plaque on the wall where Humpty fell is all that is left. And even that has been vandalized in recent years by graffiti artists and youngsters who have little respect for our heritage and way of life.
But it is time to set the record straight. I have been sworn to secrecy all these years, caught in a cover up that was not of my doing. Now, with all of the principals gone, I can speak freely. I hope this will help you to understand some of the strange unexplained activities surrounding the event, particularly the seemingly ridiculous actions of all the king’s horses and all the king’s men.
Humpty Dumpty was not what he appeared to be. He was…well, let me start at the beginning.
I had been troubled by the case from the start. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men had rushed to the scene where Humpty fell, immediately cordoned off the area and worked frantically to put the poor creature together again. I asked myself, Why? This was not a federal case. It was a matter for the local authorities. There had been many cases like this in the past. Jack and Jill, for instance. The king’s army did nothing in that case. Nor did they rush to the rescue of the poor pussy in the well. There was something peculiar here. Something smelled rotten, and it wasn’t an egg. I decided to investigate further.
I started by doing some research on Mister Dumpty. No one knew where he came from. He had just appeared one day, a fully grown egg, if you will. He could be seen almost daily sitting on the wall, but where he went when he wasn’t on the wall was uncertain. He had no known address and had no occupation. Well, he didn’t need an occupation. He was, after all, an egg. And there isn’t much call for an egg in the working world.
An egg. I began to question this shortly after I started looking into the affair. I had 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 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.