ROBERT LOY

SING A SONG OF SIXPENCE A BOTTLE FULL OF RYE

If you are not handsome at twenty
If you are not strong at thirty
If you are not rich at forty
If you are not wise at fifty
You never will be.
-- Nursery Rhyme

SHE WAS BLONDE. SHE WAS tall. She had smoky-cool green eyes that --although I
would have bet all eleven dollars of my life savings it was impossible -- were
compelling enough to pull my attention away from that plunging-to-paradise
neckline of hers. She was also a princess -- the Princess -- and the next queen
of our country if her mother-in-law, Queen Charismatic, ever gets tired of
hogging the throne.

"Princess Ella," I said, wishing I had thought to wear that necktie I almost
bought a couple years ago, "come on in. 'Scuse the mess; I wasn't expecting
company."

"Ever?" she asked, delicately handkerchiefing away the knuckle dust she had
accumulated when she knocked on my door.

My association with majesty was limited to a disbelieving gape at a royal flush
that my oversexed friend George Porgie folded cuz he had a hot date to get to. I
wasn't sure if I was supposed to bow or curtsy, kiss her hand or tug my
forelock, so I stayed where I was, seated behind my desk. I did stub out my
cigarette. But that was more of a safety precaution than etiquette. With the
hair spray and the perfume she just exuded flammability.

Not to mention the way she crossed her legs.

"Mister Nimble?" my guest said.

"No," I told her, indicating the broken and dusty but still legible if you
looked at it from the right angle -- nameplate on the door. "My name is Jack B.
Goode. Private investigator. At your service."

"Hmm, that's strange. Somebody told me your name was Jack B. Nimble."

My face reddened, but I wasn't sure if it was because I was blushing or because
I put too much bourbon in my morning coffee again.

"I'm afraid that's just a nickname a gratified girlfriend gifted me with some
years ago."

"Well, now I am really confused." Her hand fluttered up and lit softly on her
alabaster cheek. "But I shouldn't be, I suppose. You probably have lots of
names. Now that I think of it, I could swear another friend told me your name
was Jack B. Quick."

I didn't see any reason to explain that this moniker was another nickname from
the same gossipy no-longer-gratified girlfriend after we broke up, so I asked
the Princess what it was I could do for her.

"I'm worried about my husband," she answered.

"You mean Prince Charming?"

She nodded her head and when she spoke again it was in a slower, more
school-teachery voice.

"Well, yes, he's the only husband I have."

"Go on," I told her.

"I think somebody's trying to kill him."

"What makes you think that?"

"He has a terrible sweet tooth, always insists on a slice of blackberry pie
before he goes to bed. Lately somebody has been putting blackbirds in his pie."

"Putting what in his pie?"

"Blackbirds."

"So what? A lot of politicians have to eat crow. Kinda goes with the territory,
doesn't it?"

My little joke fluttered over her head and out the window to its death.

"But the Prince is extremely allergic to anything avian. It's already happened
two dozen times. Robert Shaftoe, the head of the palace guards, is completely at
sea about this; you're our only hope. There was an anonymous letter baked in
with the last one threatening dire consequences if he didn't stop doing you know
what."

"No, I don't know. What?"

"I don't know. That's what the letter said: You know what."

"Oh, well, that's different." I excavated through three or four strata of desk
junk and emerged with a spiral notebook.

"Well," I said, licking the point of my pencil stub, after deciding it wasn't
worth risking rabies to dig down deep enough to where there might be a pencil
sharpener, "if he's doing you know what, he must be doing it with you know who.
So who?"

Princess Ella's cheeks turned even rosier and she raised her voice maybe five or
six decibels. I guess this is what princesses do when they're angry.

"Mr. Goode, are you implying that my husband might be committing the sin of
adultery?"

"Yes, Yer Highness, that's exactly what I'm suggestin' and I'll need all the
usual info -- names, addresses, favorite positions. Glossy color eight-by-ten
pictures if you can get 'em."

"Why on Earth do you need all of that?"

"I'm lonely," I told her. "Now what can you -- "

Now she stood up and tapped her little size double zero foot on the floor. I
thought she might be patting a cockroach on the head, but it turns out this is
how princesses throw a temper tantrum.

"Sir, you are barking up the wrong dog. It's true that his father the old King
was something of a merry old soul, loved a party with lots of wine, women and
tobacco, but Prince Charming is nothing like that old reprobate Cole."

WELL, I WASN'T going to argue with a princess. Maybe it becomes second nature to
try and protect the family name. Maybe she really didn't know her husband had a
wandering eye and a body that was willing to follow. After all, not everybody
reads the same high-class tabloids I do.

And maybe the Princess was right. Maybe Charming was faithful. Maybe for the
first time in the history of mankind "You know what" referred to something
asexual.

One way to find out. I dropped by to see my favorite informant, Bill Winkle.
Short and gruffer than a billy goat, Winkle runs a newsstand and he really knows
his business. And since he is also a dedicated busybody he knows everybody
else's as well.

"Hey, Bill," I said.

"Hi, Jack, find ya a Jill yet?"

"Still looking, my friend. I'm thinking she must have found herself one heck of
a hiding place."

Winkle scowled. "Fah, by the time you find her you'll be so far over the hill
you won't remember what you're supposed to do with her."

"Say, Bill," I said, "you got a little time for me?"

"Sure, Jack, Time, Newsweek, whatever you want."

"How about Playboy? As in Prince Charming following the philosophy?"

Winkle scowled. "How many times have I told you, don't believe everything you
read. This stuff about the Prince's philandering is just a little hard to
swallow," he said, straightening up a row of Reader's Digests. "I happen to know
the Prince likes nothing better than staying home and organizing his collection
of clodhoppers."

"So you're saying he's the model husband?"

"No, the Prince has his faults, but he's not the scoundrel some of your
less-respectable publications would have you believe."

"So, that's it? No dirt."

"Well, nothing new. Everybody knows he's got that funny thing about feet.
Whaddayacallit? A fetish. That's how he used to pick all his girlfriends back in
his bachelor days; never even looked at their faces, just their dogs. You
remember that crazy old woman over in Wellington actually lived in a giant shoe?
For a while Charming was dating one of her daughters, even though she was uglier
than homemade sin, just so he could hang around that big old brogan building.
His brother, Prince Winsome, digs the lower digits too. He had his eye on that
same girl same foot, I should say. For a while there he and Charming were arch
enemies."

"What was the name of the girl he was dating?" I asked, thinking I might finally
have a lead here.

"I don't know, there was so many of them. And the house is all boarded up now.
Turns out the mother was abusing the kids something awful. Terrible sad story.

"Say, wait a second," he interrupted himself. "I do know something about the
Prince. Ambassador White took the Prince to dinner one night a month or so ago.
I hear she wanted to ask some special favors for that dopey miner coalition she
represents. I happen to know that she kept your friend Charming out till way
after midnight."

My ears perked up.

"Yeah, where were they?"

"I toldja, they were having dinner. That's all -- dinner. The point is that the
sleep you get before midnight is the best and they got none that night."

Winkle is a real believer in the early-to-bed philosophy. In fact he's a fanatic
about it. It's his whaddayacallit -- fetish.

"The real story is about the Princess."

"You got some dirt on her?"

"There used to be a lot of dirt on her. She's a guttersnipe, comes from some
bourgeois family out in the sticks. Father dead, stepmother mean as hell, same
old story. Charming only fell for her cuz she had those tee-tiny feet he's so
crazy about. Course they've since discovered that it's tough to base a
relationship on a cute instep. But I'm pretty sure the Prince is still toeing
the line. I mean, I really don't think he's got a tootsie on the side. He's not
that kind of a heel."

I called the palace to see if I could get an appointment to see Prince Charming,
but I was told that although he was too busy to see me just yet he would be in
touch with me soon to set up an appointment.

At least I assume that's what all that laughing meant.

So the only thing I could think to do was root around Princess Ella's family
tree. It was easy to see why she didn't go around bragging about her background.
Her family lived in what was probably a nice house once, in a neighborhood that
could still have passed for respectable if this house had been in a different
one. Their mailbox was down and the yard was filled with junk and trash. I guess
they were having a hard time finding help since Ella went to live in the palace.

The woman who answered my knock was gray-headed and starting to stoop, but still
with a fire in her eye. I handed her my card and asked if I could come in for a
few minutes.

"Jack B. Goode?" she said, studying my card. "I'm sorry, Mr. Goode. We don't do
much planting these days, and even if we did I wouldn't be interested in buying
any beanstalks."

"Then we'll get along just fine," I told her, as I stepped in the door. "Since
I'm not selling any beanstalks."

The house smelled like mildew and stale popcorn. Dirty out-of-date party dresses
and shoes were strewn everywhere. So were pizza boxes and microwave dinner
trays. The only part of the house I could see that wasn't filthy was the
fireplace, and it sparkled.

"Girls, clear off that table, we've got company," my hostess yelled into the
dark kitchen. "A gentleman caller."

It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the gloom, but when they did I saw
two women lost somewhere in their thirties, playing an ironic hand of Old Maid
-- and arguing -- at the kitchen table. Their hair was in curlers, where it
looked like it had been for weeks, and their bellies roiled out over the
strained waistbands of their moth-eaten sweat pants.

My eyes continued downward, and I made a bet with myself that soon I would find
dirty off-brand sneakers, but I lost that wager because what they actually had
wrapped around their lower extremities was some sort of system of rags and
wooden braces. It was obviously an attempt to emulate our oriental friends and
make their feet petite.

But I could have told them it was a painful waste of time. For one thing their
ankles were already sailing along on size twelve dinghies, and for another if by
some weird chance another prince did come to this house looking for a mate, he
probably would not be as kinky as Charming.

The news of a gentleman caller did not impress either of these young ladies.
There was a bowl of milk that had curdled on the table, and one of the sisters
did shove this out of the way so I could sit down, but a tarantula had beaten me
to the seat, so I passed.

"You cheated," said the ditchwater brunette one. "That is not the card I meant
to draw."

Her sister made an even funnier face than the one God gave her --another bet I
would have lost -- and said, "Well, it's not my fault if you're clumsy."

"Cheater."

"Lummox."

Mamma cuffed them both in the back of the head.

"Girls, say hello to Mr. Jack B. Goode. Mr. Goode, these are my daughters,
Emberita and Sparkimberly."

Neither of them got up, but Emberita rolled her eyes at me and said, "Didn't you
kill a giant or something? I know I've heard of you."

"Frame-up job," I told her. "I never killed anybody bigger than a bread box."

"Can I get you something to eat?" Mamma asked me. "We've got some leg of lamb
that our neighbor Mary lost -- I mean gave us."

I did the rub-your-belly-and-pretend-like-you-just-ate-a-big-meal "No-thanks"
number. I'd already learned all I could here without asking a single question.
Prince Charming was certainly not having an affair with any of the yetis in this
house. And no doubt they could dish up plenty of dirt on Ella if I asked, but
how much of it would be fact and how much plain old jealousy would take too long
to figure out.

Just for the hell of it I decided to see if I could start a family feud before I
left. Everybody's got a fetish. Charming's was feet. I was betting that Mamma's
was a clean fireplace.

"I'm not hungry," I said. "But there is a chill in the air. Would you mind if I
started a fire?"

Now both girls jumped up.

"I'11 make you some coffee -- hot coffee," said Sparkimberly.

Emberita pulled on my arm. "And I'll get you a blanket and a coat. Although I
don't know why I should care -- it's her turn to clean the fireplace."

"Liar," was her sister's oh-so-clever retort. "It's your turn and you know it."

Mamma grabbed a broom, but I snuck out the back door and didn't see if she
swatted her daughters with it or flew off on it to her coven meeting.

BY NOW IT WAS 2:00 in the afternoon, and I thought about spending the remainder
of the day whiskey-diving at the Gosling's Mater, and the night wandering around
trying to figure out where the heck my house had gone. But then I remembered
that Princess Ella was paying me by the job and not by the hour, so I bought a
newspaper and took a seat at the Silver Spoon Coffee Shop to plan my next move.

The place had changed. Instead of the usual gossip and clamor, there was musical
entertainment, some unseen jazz cat manque torturing a fiddle somewhere. Worst
of all, instead of the redhead I usually flirted with, some greasy-haired guy
came over to take my order.

"Good afternoon, sir," he sang. "My name is Tommy Tucker; and I'll be serving
you supper. Our special this afternoon is a porridge made from pease meal; and
you can have that hot or already congealed. We also have it specially aged for
-- "

"You bring me anything green -- especially porridge -- especially old green
porridge, and you'll have to get all your music transposed to a higher
register."

"Sorry, sir. Perhaps you're more in the mood for something sweet. Our baker
Patty's cakes are quite the treat."

"Just bring me coffee. Black. And say, kid, what happened to the little girl
that used to work here? Red hair. A real dish."

"Oh, she quit. Took a month's advance on her salary and vanished." He looked
around before adding in a whisper -- "Took most of the silverware with her when
she went."

I gave him my card to give to the manager in case he wanted me to track down the
fork filcher.

The coffee was hot and for some reason tasted like peas. While I waited for it
to cool off enough to pour into the potted plant, I perused the paper.

The news was too depressing, the crossword puzzle was too hard and the comics
were dull, so I gravitated to the classified ads.

Right under a plaintive plea from somebody named Peep looking for some lost
livestock was this:

WANTED: Pastry chef, must be honest and hard-working. No bird-watchers. Apply at
Her Majesty's Royal Palace.

Hmm, I hadn't been undercover since those horrible humiliating days I spent
disguised as a hog, waiting for Tommy Thomas, the bagpiper's boy, to purloin
another piggy. Of course, I didn't know the difference between a pastry and a
g-string, but with any luck -- and surely I must be due for a dose -- I'd have
this case solved before I had to do any actual baking.

Going to work at the palace was a lot easier than I thought it would be. I
didn't have to pass any tests or fill out any forms. I just hopped over the
moat, banged on the back door of the castle and introduced myself.

"Hi, I'm Jack B. Goode and I'm --"

"Come in, come in." The old lady who answered the door grabbed me and pulled me
into the kitchen. "Jack Goode, did you say? I thought you were a much skinnier
man. How is your wife, still as obese as ever?"

"I don't have a -- " But she just shoved a tall white hat and an apron at me and
dragged me over to meet my mentor, an amiable, buck-toothed fella named Simon.

"Simon," she said, flinging open cabinet doors, "I thought I told you to restock
these shelves. These cupboards are bare."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. H. I'll take care of it as soon as I get a chance." Simon
sounded dog tired.

"Don't I know you from somewhur?" he asked me, after the boss lady left. "You
look awful familiar."

I wasn't in the mood to explain that I wasn't whatever National Enquirer freak
named Jack he thought I was, so I ignored his question and asked about the
turnover rate in the royal kitchen.

"Oh, we never make turnovers. Charming can't stand 'em."

Once I had clarified my query, I learned that the royals had been having a hard
time keeping anybody in the position, what with one after another getting blamed
for poisoning pies, and they were now drafting people into kitchen service.
Simon was roped into the position when he couldn't afford to pay a traveling pie
man for the treat he ate. Kind of ironic, I guess, that his sweet tooth led to
him becoming indentured.

"If you can tell the difference between a blackbird and a blackberry you should
be fine. It's not hard. Even I can do it, and I'm not very bright," Simon said.
"But if you mess up and put a blackbird in there, heads will roll -- and I'm not
using that as a rigger of speech. I mean heads will roll -- laterally.

"But don't worry, we're not making blackberry pies yet," Simon said. "We're
starting off today making tarts. You know how to make tarts, dontcha?"

I started to worry that I might be in over my head here, but Simon told me not
to worry.

"Just do whatever I do," Simon said.

"Does Prince Charming ever get down here?" I asked, thinking that if I could
just get a quick man-to-man word with the Prince, he might know who was trying
to poison him.

"The Prince? Down to the kitchen? Are you kidding?" Simon asked. "He's way too
busy playing golf and polo and...uh, you know, being a prince."

It turned out that tarts were really just little pies with no crust on the top.
My job was to knead and roll out the dough so Simon could shape it into little
pie pans and send it on down the line to be filled with what looked like Granny
Smith apples but for all I knew could have been blackbird guts.

Don't let anyone tell you that kneading dough is easy work. I was just about to
ask Simon what time we got our bourbon break when some fool behind me blew a
trumpet or a bugle or some other loud scary wind instrument, and Queen
Charismatic herself sauntered into the kitchen.

Everybody cast down their eyes as she passed, but I don't know why. She wasn't
the show-stopper that her daughter-in-law was, but she wasn't all that ugly for
an old broad. Still, me and some old one-eared gray kitchen cat, who had been
toying with a trio of sightless mice he'd captured, were the only ones brave
enough to actually look at the Queen.

"I'm here to inspect the tarts," she sniffed regally.

"Does she usually inspect your work?" I asked Simon, but he was standing
silently at attention. He might have nodded but I'm not sure. Once again, I
followed Simon's lead, straightened my spine and unfocused my gaze.

The tarts weren't the only thing she inspected. As we all stood there, an
unblinking grease-covered army, General Charismatic walked in front of and then
behind our ranks. We stood there without moving for what seemed like ever. My
legs were itching and I was wishing I remembered how to do those bird calls I
almost learned when I was a lad.

"Where are the tarts?" shrieked the Queen.

Her henchman nodded to release us from suspended animation, and we turned to
where the tarts were laid out, but they weren't. There, that is.

My co-workers really came alive now. We were looking in the pantries, up the
chimney, everywhere we could think of for the missing tarts -- or a way out of
the castle.

"He did it," the Queen shouted. "I saw him! Grab that knave!"

I turned and gave the guy behind me a
what-kind-of-miserable-scalawag-would-sink-so-low gaze, but it was a bluff. And
a pretty pitiful one at that. I knew she was pointing at me.

So did her troops. The guards grabbed my arms and pulled my hands behind my
back. The Queen yelled for somebody to get the Prince; the captain of the guards
yelled for somebody to get the royal executioner; and I wished I had hit the
snooze button on my alarm clock a few hundred more times this morning. Either
that or hit Princess Ella up for money. If I'd known I was going to end up
losing my head I woulda charged her at least twice what I did.

Some harried-looking lackey burst in with a prince -- Prince Alluring, the
youngest royal. From the way the underling's knees were knocking, I think he had
a sneaking suspicion this was not who Charismatic had in mind.

"Where is Charming?" she sniped at the guy.

"I called him just like you said, Your Majesty," he sputtered, "but the Prince
is in the counting room, counting up his slip-ons. He said he didn't want to be
disturbed."

"Why, that lazy loafer, I ought to --" She turned her royal attention back to
me. "You are accused of stealing tarts. The penalty is death for you and several
of your co-workers. How do you plead? Guilty or what?"

"Yer Majesty," I said, "I gotta tell ya the truth, I did steal a tart. Once.
From my best friend Phil. But it was a long time ago and as soon as I found out
what kind of girl she was I gave her back. Pilfering pastries is really not one
of my vices."

"Hah! You stole them, and I bet you tried to poison Prince Charming. Everybody
turn and face the doorway, so that you can hail the Prince when he arrives. I am
going to inspect these blackberry pies."

It was at that moment as my captors spun me around away from the blackberry pies
I had not even seen yet, that I decided to become a socialist -- or a communist
or a Buddhist or whoever it is that don't have these royal pains in the neck.

I knew Prince Charming was not coming. So did Queen Charismatic. I knew I didn't
steal any tarts or put any bird parts in pies. So did Queen Charismatic. I also
knew why she wanted us to turn our backs.

There was a "skritch-skritch" sound as one of the blind mice escaped from its
tabby tormentor and scurried up a hickory grandfather clock. It wasn't much of a
diversion, but it was gonna have to do.

"Look over there," I shouted. "It's Prince Charming. Behind us."

Everybody turned around but what we saw was not Prince Charming but Queen
Charismatic. She was not just inspecting our pies, she was flavoring them.

It took a moment or two before she realized that her youngest son as well as her
entire kitchen staff had just seen her pull a big dead black bird out of her
purse and put it inside a pie crust.

To her credit she didn't try to bulldoze her way out of it. She said, "I...I
never put enough in there to actually hurt him. I just wanted to make him see
that being a monarch is a serious job. He won't grow up and stop playing, and
I'm tired, I want to step down."

Nobody knew what to do now. Technically, it's not against the law for royals to
break the law. Just when it looked like we were all going to spend the rest of
our lives there, playing the who-can-look-the-stupidest game, the Queen took
command.

"Let him go," she said to the guards holding me. "You can keep your head but not
your job. You're fired."

Turning to the guards who had escorted her into the kitchen, she sighed and
said, "Well, come on, let's get back to the throne room. I guess this reign is
never going to go away."

As I was untying my apron and wondering if I had enough money to buy a bottle of
rye to celebrate wrapping up this case, Simon stuck out his hand for me to
shake.

"Wow," he said, "you are a great detective, I mean great. You solved one of the
biggest mysteries of our time." "You think so?"

"Yeah, I mean, I always wondered what she was lugging around in that purse of
hers."

I handed him my card and he looked at it for a minute.

"Jack B. Goode? Now I know where I know you from," Simon said.

"You can play a guitar just like a ringin' a bell, right?"

It was starting to dawn on me why everybody thought of Simon as simple.

"I'm sorry," I told him. "I have no idea what you're talking about."