PI Harry and The Covert Coo

It started with feathers.  

One on the windowsill. One in my coffee. One tucked inside a jazz record sleeve that hadn’t been spun since the moon last blinked.

I lit a cigarette, watched the smoke curl like a question mark. Something was off. Pigeons don’t just happen—not in triplicate, not in my flat, and not with that look in their beady little eyes. Like they knew something. Like they’d seen things.

So I laid the trap.

Seed trail from the fire escape to the phonograph. A fake feather duster rigged with a motion sensor. And a decoy pigeon—stuffed, stitched, and wearing a wire. I called him Gregory Peck.

Midnight. A rustle. A coo. A shadow moved like guilt across the parquet floor.

Then I saw him.

Trench coat. Bread crumbs in his pocket. Eyes like burnt toast. The Pigeon Smuggler. Real name? Clive. Alias? The Beak. He’d been planting birds in flats across the borough—some kind of avian espionage ring. Surveillance pigeons. Message pigeons. One was trained to tap Morse code on a radiator.

I cuffed him with a shoelace and a bad attitude.  

Case closed.  

But I still don’t trust the kettle. It whistles too much.


Previous investigation

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