Hi. Nathaniel P. Osgood III here. I’m sure you have all heard about the vicious murder of Cock Robin. And I’m sure, too, that if I asked you who did it you would answer, "The sparrow". Not true. But before I go any farther let’s set the record straight on the sparrow.

    The sparrow is not a bird—at least not the sparrow I am referring to. Think about it. How could a sparrow possibly use a bow and arrow? Impossible! No, the sparrow in this tale is an entirely different sort. His name is Lou "The Sparrow" Mildew. He earned the nickname by his birdlike face and his twittering high-pitched voice.

    Back to the question: Who killed Cock Robin? Armed with this new information you may still answer "the sparrow", but this time you would mean Lou. You’d still be wrong. Why? Lou "The Sparrow" Mildew was framed.

    I became involved in the case shortly after Lou was convicted of murder and sentenced to life in the penitentiary. I am certain you are wondering why such a harsh penalty was imposed for the killing of a robin. At most it’s a misdemeanor. Malicious mischief, perhaps. After all, it’s only a bird, for Pete’s sake. Again, a misconception that has clouded this case for years. Cock Robin was not a bird. For those of you who don’t keep up with things, Cock Robin is–or was—the leader of the rock group, "Cock Robin And The Worms".

    Now, this puts a whole new face on the story. Oh, I’m sure there are those of you who feel no remorse at his loss. In fact you would grieve more if the victim had been a bird. That’s your prerogative. I was brought into the case on behalf of The Sparrow, so will leave my personal convictions out of this.

    The day started out much like any other Monday. I was hung over, grumpy from lack of sleep, and not fit company for any human being. My long suffering secretary brought me my morning coffee, placed it silently in front of me and retreated to the door before I found something appropriate to say. I’ll leave the definition of "appropriate" to you.

    I was stirring the cream into the coffee and frowning over the morning headlines—an interesting story about a kid named Jack who had been severely burned while jumping over a candle. Whatever happened to goldfish swallowing as entertainment? The door swung open and my secretary stuck her head in. I looked up reluctantly, as I am wont to do when engrossed in reading.

    "There’s a Mister Greer to see you," she said.

    "Greer?" I frowned and set the paper aside. "Who is he and what does he want?"

    "He says he’s an attorney. He wants to engage your services." She opened the door wider and, before I could protest, a corpulent man with a white mustache and very little hair strode into the room. He was visibly upset, and I forgot my own disposition as I observed his. I started to rise, but he waddled to my desk like a duck being chased by a hawk and stood in front of it.

    "Osgood?" he asked.

    I nodded.

    "Greer is the name," he said "I’m an attorney."

    He announced this with a note of pride. I don’t know why. I waited for him to go on. He pulled a huge white handkerchief from his pocket, swiped it across his forehead and put it back.

    "I have a client who was just convicted of a crime he didn’t commit," he said. "I need you to help me reverse this terrible decision; this miscarriage of justice; this prejudicial, unethical, ridiculous travesty." He paused, having run out of adjectives, pulled the handkerchief from his pocket once again and wiped his forehead. This action, repeated over and over during the course of the meeting, brought images of Louis Armstrong to mind, and I had trouble concentrating on the business at hand. But years of practice made it possible to give the impression that he had my full attention.

    "Who is your client?" I asked.

    "Mildew," he said. At first I thought he was referring to my bathroom. Then, realizing he had never been in my bathroom, I repeated the name.

    "Mildew? Is that his first name or his last?"

    "Last," he replied. "His first name is Lou. Surely you are familiar with the Cock Robin murder."

    "Cock Robin. Of course," I said. "The Sparrow."

    "A nickname," Greer said, wiping his brow for the third time in as many minutes. "The prosecution used it all the time. It was prejudicial."

    He gave no explanation, and I didn’t ask for any. "I didn’t follow the case that closely," I said. "I’m not a rock and roll fan. Come to think of it, having heard his singing I am not broken up about his death."

    "That’s not important," Greer said. "My client was framed. He wasn’t even at the concert when Robin was killed. Furthermore, he has never used a bow and arrow in his life."

    "Evidently the jury was convinced. The benefit of the doubt usually goes to the defendant. What persuaded them to convict your client?"

    "Lying witnesses!" Greer shouted. "Joe ‘The Owl’ Spriggs. "Harry ‘The Hawk’ Barker." He snorted. "There were others. They all work for Jake ‘The Buzzard’ Grimes."

    "It sounds like a bird sanctuary," I said. "Whatever happened to ‘Scarface’ and ‘Bugsy’?"

    "Who cares?" Greer shouted. "The point is that Grimes wanted Cock Robin killed and one of his henchmen did the killing. Then they lied about it and Lou was convicted."

    "Why use a bow and arrow?" I asked. "Isn’t that a strange choice for a weapon?"

    "That’s for you to find out," Greer said. "I need you to investigate this matter and find out who really killed Cock Robin. Will you take the case?"

    I thought for a minute. It wasn’t really my cup of tea. I preferred non-violent crimes or civil cases. Like lost sheep or stolen jewelry. On the other hand, the rent was due and I had no work lined up. I find it interesting that in every private eye story I have read, the rent is always due. It’s an occupational hazard.

    "Okay," I said at last. "But I’ll need an advance."

    Greer shrugged. "My client is not a rich man. Try to keep the expenses down." He pulled a checkbook from his pocket and borrowed a pen from my desk. He scribbled on it, tore it off and handed it to me. I didn’t check the amount.

    "Here is my card," he said, tossing a business card on the desk. "Call me as soon as you have anything to report."

    Before I could say anything, he turned and waddled out of the room wiping his forehead and mumbling incoherently. I stared after him, wondering why I had allowed myself to be talked into this venture.

    I didn’t know where to start. So I started by familiarizing myself with the case. To do this required a trip to the Nurseryland Library, a small building in the heart of town next to the Rub-A-Dub Laundromat. The laundromat sign, depicting three men in a tub, had created a controversy a few years back.

    "Perverts!" was the rallying cry of the protestors.

    The sign remained. I, for one, thought it was rather cute.

    I thumbed through the old issues of The Nurseryland Tattler. The arrest and trial of Mildew made the front page, and the subsequent trial got equal exposure.

    Mildew had been caught a short distance away from the concert hall the night of the murder. The police found a bow and arrow in the trunk of his car along with a ticket to the concert. Mildew had protested that the evidence had been planted, but eventually he confessed. It was only a matter of a few days before he recanted his confession, claiming it had been given under duress. I made a note of that, returned the newspapers to the archives and left.

    The prison where felons such as Mildew were kept was a three-hour drive from town. I made it in four. (It’s a long story and I don’t care to discuss it). I made my way through a series of metal detectors and spread eagled shakedowns, finally reaching the visitor’s room. It was not a pleasant place, with barred windows, heavy screens between the residents and the guests, and armed guards by the door. It reminded me of an airport.

    Lou "The Sparrow" Mildew was ushered into the room by a burly policeman who looked as though he ate glass for dessert. The policeman pointed in my direction and Mildew slowly made his way to the chair in the cubicle. He picked up the phone and nodded to me.

    "Mildew?" I asked.

    He nodded again.

    "My name is Osgood. Mr. Greer hired me to look into your case."

    At the mention of Greer’s name, Mildew grimaced but said nothing.

    "I need some information," I said.

    "Like what?" he asked, his voice a high-pitched twitter. If I had a hand in naming him, he would be known as "The Canary".

    "Well," I said, "for starters you confessed to the crime. Why would you do that if you were innocent?"

    "Torture," he said.

    I looked him over. He didn’t seem to have any wounds. "What kind of torture?"

    He shuddered. "See how long you can hold out when you are forced to listen to Willie Nelson CDs all day."

    The prospect was chilling. I nodded sympathetically. "Okay. Is there anything you can tell me that would help me in my investigation?"

    Mildew thought for a minute "I didn’t do it," he said.

    I shrugged. "That’s not much to go on. Do you have any idea who may have killed Cock Robin, and why they framed you?"

    "Jake Grimes’ thugs," he said. "They’re the ones who lied at the trial. One of them did it. You can bet on that."

    "Why?"

    "How should I know? Maybe they don’t like Rock and Roll."

    "Then again, maybe they do," I said, Robin’s wailing still ringing in my ears.

    "You might talk to ‘The Fly’," Mildew said. "He saw him die."

    "The Fly?"

    "Yeah," Mildew said. "George ‘The Fly’ Grizzlehammer. He’s a custodian at the concert hall where Cock Robin was performing when he was killed."

    I nodded. At least it was a break from all the bird nicknames. I liked this guy already and I hadn’t even met him yet. "Where can I find him?"

    "I don’t know where he lives, but you could probably catch him at the concert hall."

    "Okay," I said. "

    I motioned to the guard who came over and led "The Sparrow" away. I watched his retreat with a feeling of sadness. Willie Nelson? There ought to be a law.

    I caught up with "The Fly" back stage of the Cat And Fiddle Music Hall. He was on his hands and knees scrubbing the dressing room floor. Not wanting to startle him, I stood quietly in the doorway until he finished what he was doing.

    "Mr. Grizzlehammer?" I said.

    He jumped slightly at my voice, dropped the scrub brush into a bucket and nodded.

    "Osgood," I said, extending my hand. "Private detective."

    His face registered concern at the pronouncement, but he returned my handshake and looked at me with a steady eye—or eyes, if you will. His nickname was well suited to him. His eyes had a netlike appearance to them, unlike any I had ever seen before. They disconcerted me, and I had to look away.

    "Contacts," he said.

    "What?"

    "Contacts." He pointed to his eyes and smiled. "Some people are into body piercing. This is my statement."

    That was reassuring. I regained my composure and returned his smile. "To each his own," I said. "I want to talk to you about the Cock Robin killing."

    His smile evaporated. "I told the cops everything I know," he said. "They got the guy who did it. End of story."

    "Not quite," I said. "There is reason to believe The Sparrow was framed. You saw the whole thing, I understand. Did you actually see Mildew shoot the arrow that killed Cock Robin?"

    Grizzlehammer shook his head slowly. "No. I saw Cock Robin get hit with the arrow. Right here," he said, touching his chest. "Killed him instantly, I expect."

    "Where were you when it happened?" I asked.

    "In the balcony. The concert was just about to finish and I start cleaning up with the balcony." He smiled. "Better to clean from the top down. Saves cleaning the first floor twice."

    "As I understand it," I said, "the arrow hit Cock Robin from above and to his left. So it probably came from the balcony. Agree?"

    Grizzlehammer nodded. "I suppose so."

    "And you saw no one?"

    Grizzlehammer shook his head. "Nope. I was looking at Cock Robin, like everybody else."

    "Okay," I said. "Would you show me where you were standing at the time?"

    Grizzlehammer grunted. Mumbling protestations as he led me to the balcony, he took his place by the broom closet at the rear of the hall. From there one had a clear view of the stage and most of the balcony seats. I looked around to see where one could stand and shoot an arrow without being observed. A small space in the far upper left corner of the balcony, between the last row of seats and the wall, was the most likely spot. But how could one get out of there carrying a bow without being seen?

    I thanked "The Fly" for his help, such as it was, and left him standing by the broom closet. I made my way to the main office of the theatre. The manager, a diminutive man with bushy eyebrows and protruding teeth, was in his office, poring over a poster announcing the upcoming appearance of Jack Spratt and the Platter Lickers. I made a note to skip the performance.

    Introducing myself, I sat down, uninvited, in the chair by his desk. Taking a pen from my pocket, I opened my notebook and leaned back.

    "Explain your ticketing policy," I said.

    He blinked, sending his bushy eyebrows into a kind of hula dance. "I beg your pardon?"

    "The theatre is divided into sections," I explained. "Loge, mezzanine, balcony, and so on. Is it possible for a person holding a ticket to one section to move to another?"

    "Oh, no," he said instantly. "There are strict rules for that. Fire regulations, you see."

    "So no one is able to go into a section unless he has a ticket for that section?"

    "That’s right."

    "How well is that enforced?" I asked.

    "Extremely well," the manager said. For the record, he had no nickname that I am aware of. If he did, I would have bet on "The Mole".

    "Tell me about it."

    "Well, the tickets are of different colors. Red for loge, green for mezzanine, yellow for balcony, blue for orchestra. To assure that no section becomes overcrowded and cause a fire hazard, ushers are stationed at every entrance. They check the tickets and only allow those who have the right colored ticket to go in."

    "How do you know that the ushers are doing their jobs?"

    The manager drew himself up proudly, "Technology," he said. "The turnstiles are fitted with slots to receive the tickets. The customer inserts the ticket in the slot. If it is not the proper ticket, the turnstile will not turn. The ushers are there to prevent anyone form jumping over or crawling under the turnstile."

    "Impressive," I said. "But is it foolproof?"

    "To the best of my knowledge it is. I haven’t had any complaints from the ushers or the public."

    "Can an usher be bribed to manually open the gate?" I asked.

    "I suppose so," the manager said. "But that would mean that two ushers would have to be bought off. There are two at every turnstile." He frowned. "It would mean instant dismissal if the ushers were caught. I run a tight ship." The eyebrows danced again and I watched them with growing admiration.

    I drove home from the theatre in deep thought. Thinking back to the news article concerning Mildew’s arrest, I recalled that the concert ticket they found in his car was green. If "The Sparrow" killed Cock Robin, he would have had to bribe two ushers, hide a bow and arrow on his person, and make his way through a crowd of potential eyewitnesses to the upper regions of the balcony. Possible? I suppose so. In this part of the world, where owls marry pussycats and dishes elope with spoons, anything is possible. But it was still unlikely. I decided to sleep on it.

    Sleeping is an activity at which I excel. This time was no exception. Awaking the next morning, I prepared my usual gourmet breakfast, put the box of corn flakes back in the cupboard and scooped a spoonful of instant coffee crystals into a cracked cup. The water had just started to boil when inspiration struck.

    It was obvious to me that the perpetrator of the Cock Robin killing had access to the theatre without being restricted by tickets, turnstiles and ushers. In short, an employee. It would have to be someone who could come and go without being challenged. This is the only way, to my way of thinking, that one could get a bow and arrow into the theatre without anyone seeing him. Whoever did this would have a hiding place for the weapons, easily accessed yet not a place where someone would go unless they had a reason to. This rules out restrooms and concession stands

    Broom closets! Janitors! Grizzlehammer! I was on a roll.

    It would be a relatively easy thing to do. While everyone was watching the show, Grizzlehammer could have gone to the broom closet and taken the bow and arrow from where he had stored it earlier. Standing by the broom closet he could easily shoot Cock Robin. The trajectory seemed right. Then, just as easily, he could return the bow to the closet and melt into the crowd.

    My euphoria at having identified the killer evaporated almost as fast as it came. Even if a bow was found in the broom closet, it would not be sufficient evidence. After all, it’s not like tying a bullet to the gun it came from. How does one trace an arrow back to a bow? This wasn’t going to be as easy as I first believed. I cursed. Why did he use a bow and arrow? Those things went out with William Tell.

    Well, there was no use worrying about it. I had to find another way to tie Grizzlehammer to the killing. Maybe, if the arrow couldn’t be traced back to the bow, it could be traced back to other arrows. An intriguing thought. I pondered the possibilities as I drove over to police headquarters.

    I don’t know what the laws are where you live, but here in Nurseryland it is a requirement that evidence in a capital crime must be kept until the guilty party or parties are dead. When I inquired about the arrow in the Cock Robin killing, I was granted the right to see it after being fingerprinted and filling out a ream or two of paperwork. The lie detector test was waived.

    A cursory examination of the arrow revealed nothing out of the ordinary. The feathers were run of the mill, the arrowhead a common alloy. I was about to put it back when I noticed a small mark on the shaft, about an inch below the head. I took out my magnifying glass. Don’t laugh. Sherlock Holmes isn’t the only detective to use a magnifying glass. Holding the arrow up to the light I studied the mark carefully. Then with a hoot of triumph, I called for the attendant, returned the arrow to its box, and headed back to the theatre.

    Grizzlehammer was on his coffee break. He looked up when I entered the room. His multieyes registered recognition, replaced quickly by alarm when he saw the look on my face.

    "What are you doing here?" he asked.

    "Grizzlehammer," I said. "You killed Cock Robin. And I can prove it."

    Grizzlehammer stood up quickly, panic on his face. "You’re crazy," he said.

    "I’d like to take a look in the broom closet upstairs."

    "There’s nothing in there except mops and pails," he said.

    "Let me see."

    "It’s none of your business," he said, sitting down again.

    "If you won’t let me in there, I’ll get the manager. He won’t take kindly to having a murderer on the payroll."

    Grizzlehammer thought for a minute, then shrugged his shoulders. "Okay," he said. at last. "But it’s only a waste of time."

    He led me up the carpeted stairs to the back of the balcony. Fishing some keys out of his pocket, he inserted one in the lock. The door swung open with a creak.

    An array of mops, brooms, pails and rags filled the shelves and lined the walls. Standing in the corner, behind a large mop, was a bow. Next to it stood a quiver of arrows. I picked up the quiver.

    "Interesting," I said.

    Grizzlehammer reached for the quiver, but I held it away from him.

    "So I have a bow and arrow," he grumbled. "So do a lot of people. You ain’t pinning a murder rap on me because of that."

    I said nothing. Pulling an arrow from the quiver, I looked at the shaft. Just below the tip of the arrow was a marking. I took out my magnifying glass and looked at the mark.

    "I just came from police headquarters where I examined the arrow that killed Cock Robin," I said.

    "So?" Grizzlehammer said.

    "It had a mark just like the one on this arrow."

    "A lot of arrows have marks," he replied.

    "I’m sure they do," I said. Holding the arrow and magnifying glass out to him, I went on, "But how many use a fly for the mark? I don’t imagine it’s a very popular logo. But it is perfect for George ‘The Fly’ Grizzlehammer."

    Grizzlehammer’s face turned a ghostly pale. "Mildew must have found them and used one of them when he killed Cock Robin," he said.

    "I don’t think so," I said. "First of all, Mildew was not in the balcony. His ticket was for the mezzanine."

    "He could have snuck by the ushers," Grizzlehammer said.

    "Perhaps. But he couldn’t get in your closet. You told me you always keep it locked. And you were standing next to it when Cock Robin was killed." I paused while Grizzlehammer digested this information.

    "You came up here before the performance ended. As an employee you could get by the ushers without a problem. You went to the broom closet, took out the bow and arrow and shot Cock Robin. Then in the ensuing chaos you returned the bow to the closet and mingled in with the crowd. A perfect crime! Almost."

    "You can’t prove it," he said.

    "These arrows will be pretty convincing," I said pointing to the quiver. "Don’t bet against me. Why don’t you come clean and get a more lenient sentence? Who hired you to kill Cock Robin?"

    Grizzlehammer looked at me defiantly for a moment or two. Then his face melted into a mash of defeat. "Grimes," he said.

    "The Buzzard?"

    He nodded his head. "That’s the man. He was in love with Robin’s wife. Cock Robin wouldn’t give her a divorce. He was threatening Grimes with a lawsuit. Alienation of Affection or something like that." Grizzlehammer smiled sadly. "Grimes isn’t used to people standing up to him. He gets his way."

    "So he paid you to kill Cock Robin?"

    Grizzlehammer nodded again. "He told me all I had to do was kill the guy. He would see to it that I was never suspected. He had one of his goons plant the stuff in Mildew’s car."

    "Why Mildew?" I asked.

    He shrugged. "Bad luck on Mildew’s part. His car was parked nearby and was convenient." He shook his head and sighed. "I kinda felt sorry for the guy. But there wasn’t much I could do about it without getting myself into trouble."

    "Yeah," I said. "But that’s about to change." I took my cell phone from my pocket and called police headquarters. I explained the situation to the cop on duty, and he promised to send a squad car to pick up Grizzlehammer.

    Hanging up the phone, I turned to The Fly. "One more question. Why use a bow and arrow?"

    Grizzlehammer frowned. "Because I didn’t have a spear," he said.

    The answer made perfect sense to me. You’d have to live here awhile to understand.