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The ornate golden harp lay on its side where it had fallen. Two strings were broken. He did not know which two strings, as he did not play the harp. “Maybe next time around,” he thought. For several reasons, it was no surprise the harp had fallen: for one, it had been balanced on a tiny black book. The miniscule book was hardly larger than a postage stamp, no thicker than a doubloon, and had a capital “O,” in ornate gold script, embossed on the cover. The book lay where the base of the harp would have been, in plain sight, but as the detective put him in handcuffs, and he said, “Do you see that?” the detective said, “See what?” And when he looked again, the book was gone; but he had a sense of a swishing movement out of the corner of his eye. He threw the detective a puzzled look, but then they were hustling him away and he had no chance to ask further. “Could you grab my coat, please?” he asked over his shoulder of the other detective, who then picked up the tuxedo coat and draped it through the cuffed hands of the prisoner. They ushered him outside and into the waiting clown car. It was overcrowded inside, of course. And it smelled funny.

But when they arrived at the jail, they put all the clowns into one cell while ushering him past it and into a holding cell full of men who looked like they milked cows for a living. Some of them had black coats on. Maybe the cops thought he was part of this group because of his tux. In the corner of the cell was the cow itself. The large red and white Guernsey lowed mournfully, almost a moan, and when she moved the large bell on her collar clinked. The bell was engraved with the name “Myrtle.” He would have liked to have heard more cowbell, but not much later, the two detectives came and whisked him into interrogation.

It was a standard interrogation room, just like thousands shown on TV and in movies: bare table, chair on each side, the suspect seated facing a one-way mirror on the opposite wall, the detective with his back to the mirror.

“Why did you do it?” asked Detective Number One (Hereafter referred to as DNO).

“Do what?” tuxedo-wearing man asked. DNT (Detective Number Two) lurked in a corner, sucking his teeth.

“You know very well what,” said DNO.

“I didn’t do anything,” tuxedo-wearing man said. “It was like that when I got there.”

“What was?” said DNO.

“The harp,” said tux man.

“Lyre,” said DNO.

“I’m not lying,” Tux said.

“It’s a lyre,” said DNO.

“What’s a liar?” Tux asked.

“You’re a liar,” said DNO. “You’re lying about the lyre.”

“Huh?” Tux man said. “I’m lying about what liar?”

“NO. NO. NO,” said DNO. “It’s a LYRE.”

Tuxedo man suddenly jumped to his feet and shouted, “Who’s on first”

“WHAT?” shouted DMO right back at him, also jumping to his feet.

“NO! Who’s on first. What’s on second!” shouted Tux.

“Sit down and shut up!” shouted DNO and DNT at the same time. Tux man sat down. DNO shoved back his fedora and said,

“No. Lyre: L-Y-R-E. It’s a lyre, not a harp!”

“No harp? Oh,” Tux said.

“Think you’re funny, do ya?” said DNT from the corner.

“Huh? What’s funny” Tux said, with an innocent look, but inside, he was smirking.

“If you didn’t do it, who did? Who broke the strings?” asked DNO.

“Maybe the same person who took the book,” Tux said.

“Book? What book?” said DNT, suddenly leaning on the table. “What book you talking about? I didn’t see no book.” But his abrupt movement and widened eyes told a different story. DNT would have continued to harangue him about the book, but DNO gave DNT a sideways look and a head flick, telling DNT to get back in his corner and suck his teeth some more.

“Maybe it wasn’t a book,” Tux mumbled. He had started to wonder himself. Maybe it had been a figment, he thought. But then he remembered the swishing movement just after the book disappeared. Just then, he had the same sense of a sudden swishing movement and he felt something tug at his left pants pocket. But as his hands were still cuffed, he could not investigate.

The inquisition went on for another ten minutes but then ended abruptly. He hadn’t been expecting that. DNO finally said, “Ah, nuts. Enough of the stall. Put him back in with the A-mish. Let him cool his heels for a while. At worst, we’ll get him next time around.” After a pause, he said, “And send that cow back to Mrs. O’Leary.”

Tux was returned to the holding cell just in time to enjoy some fresh milk. And since they had un-cuffed him, he was able to reach into his pocket. He got an electric jolt when he felt the small book in his pocket. How had it come to be there? He knew it was the same book because he could feel the letter “O” on the cover. It must have been the niffler, he realized.

It was an amazing moment: he knew then that all his dreams would come true. Again. Maybe. The book would unlock the secrets of unimaginable wealth. Again. Maybe. “Here we go again—maybe” he thought.

Inevitably, just then, the cow kicked over the oil lamp and the straw caught on fire. “OK,” thought Tux: “Here comes the end of the world. Again.”

“Thank God for phoenixes,” he thought, as the smoke and fire consumed him. Again.