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was approaching the monkey. “Those eyes are dead and staring.”
    “They’re glass eyes,” Eddie said. “They always stare like that.”
    The monkey lay upon the carpet that dared not speak its name. It was one of those monkeys that clap little brass cymbals whilst bouncing up and down. That is all they do, really, but children, and indeed adults, seem to find them very, very entertaining. Indeed, they can never get enough of those monkeys that clap their cymbals together and bounce up and down. Very popular, those monkeys are.
    Although this one, it appeared, was dead.
    Eddie looked sadly upon the monkey. It lay there, on its side, frozen in mid-clap. This was clearly a monkey that would clap and bounce no more.
    “Wakey-wakey, Mister Monkey,” said Eddie. “You can’t sleep here, you know.”
    “It’s dead, Eddie – look at it.”
    “Perhaps if I were to give its key a little turn?”
    “Good idea, Eddie,” said Jack. “You give its key a little turn.”
    “You think I should?”
    “No, I
don’t
.”
    “Stay put, Jack,” said Eddie, and he plodded slowly about the fallen monkey. Eddie leaned over the monkey and sniffed, then stepped back from the monkey and viewed it, his chin upon his paw. He dropped to his knees and examined the non-speaking carpet, then glanced at the ceiling and grunted.
    Jack looked on and watched him. He’d seen Eddie go through this performance before and he’d seen Eddie draw conclusions from such a performance. Significant conclusions.
    Eddie climbed to his paw-footed feet and looked up at Jack. “There’s been dirty business here,” he said. “This monkey is certainly as dead as.”
    “Murdered?” Jack asked.
    “Something more than that.”
    “Something
more
?”
    “This monkey is something more than just as dead as.”
    “I don’t know what you mean,” Jack said.
    “Nor do I,” said Eddie. “Stand back a little further, Jack, if you will.” And Jack stood back accordingly.
    Eddie reached out a paw and lightly touched the monkey.
    There was a sound, as of a gentle sigh. And with it the monkey crumbled. Crumbled away to the accompaniment of the whispery sigh. Crumbled away to dust.
    Jack looked at Eddie.
    And Eddie looked at Jack.
    “Now
that
isn’t right,” said Eddie.
    They swept up the dust of the monkey. Well, not so much
they
as Jack. Well, Jack had hands with opposable thumbs after all. Eddie did hold the dustpan.
    “Pour what you can of him into this beer bottle,” said Eddie, fishing one with difficulty from the filing cabinet. “There might be something significant to be learned from the dust.”
    “Did you know this monkey?” Jack asked as he tried to do what Eddie wanted.
    “Hard to say,” said the bear. “Your cymbal-playing monkey is a classic toy, of course, an all-time favourite, but telling one from the other … I don’t know. There was one called Monkey who was with the circus. He used to drink in Tinto’s, but Tinto threw him out because he was too noisy. I knew another one called Monkey, who was also with the circus, did this act where he played the cymbals and bounced up and down. And –”
    “So they all look the same, do the same thing, are all with the circus and are all called Monkey?”
    “That’s about the strength of it.” Eddie struggled to cork the beer bottle, then set it down on Bill’s desk.
    “I’ve got a lot of Monkey left over,” said Jack.
    “Put it in the bin,” said Eddie.
    “Shouldn’t we cast it to the four winds, or something?”
    Eddie grinned at Jack. “See what a nice fellow you are,” said he. “How caring. What was it you said about toys only being toys?”
    “That wasn’t what I said. Or I hope it wasn’t.”
    “There’s been dirty work here,” said Eddie. “Strange, dirty work. It would seem that we are already on a case.”
    “Oh no.” Jack shook his head. “That’s not how it works and you know it. Someone has to offer us a case. And pay us to take it on. Pay us, Eddie,