Mr. Pigeon surveyed his kingdom. A public park with its grass, trees, and benches left a bit to be desired as a place of business. He had no coffee machine and no secretary. His discarded newspaper lay on the bench, its headline blaring something about the new president of South Africa. At least today his only overhead was blue sky. While he waited, he flicked breadcrumbs from a small paper bag to the fat birds around his feet.

The meeting with his client was unlikely to be interesting. The man on the phone had sounded angry and demanding. Most clients who answered his ad were looking for a private detective or a bodyguard. He wasn't either. He wasn't six feet four inches tall, and he wasn't two hundred pounds of rippling muscle. Mr. Pigeon was average height and weighed less than one hundred and sixty pounds. He did try to keep in reasonable shape, but not one of his muscles rippled. Worst of all, he was gray-haired and old. He wasn't a detective, and he didn't do physical violence. What he offered was consultation. He was a problem solver, not a detective. He always tried to make that clear, but it didn't keep people from asking him to help with their divorces. Many did, so he kept some business cards carrying the pertinent information of a reliable local detective.

This client said he needed advice. That was what Pigeon did best. His favorite sort of case was where he listened, then dispensed amazingly brilliant advice that not only solved the client's problem, but greatly improved the ozone layer. It had, unfortunately, never quite happened like that.

A sharp object suddenly pressed the side of his neck, interrupting his train of thought. "Give me your wallet, old man, or I'll stick yah," a raspy voice growled behind him. Immediately Pigeon fell away from the blade and lunged forward off the bench. As he straightened up, he pulled a taser from under his jacket, turned and fired. A startled, sloppily dressed young man took the barbs full in the chest, started shaking and fell to the ground near the elm tree behind the bench.

"I guess you didn't expect the taser." Pigeon said, as he walked around the bench. He picked up the man's large knife, wedged the blade between the bench seat and the concrete supports and snapped it. Then he rifled quickly through the thief's pockets, pulling out a set of keys and a worn, leather wallet with a picture of Roy Rogers embossed on one side. "You are an embarrassment to your hero," he informed the body on the ground. Its shaking was starting to fade. "You will feel much better in a few minutes."

Opening the young man's wallet, Pigeon pulled out the money and counted it. "Only twenty-seven dollars?" he asked. He brought a set of handcuffs from his coat pocket, then dragged one of the thief's arms around the tree trunk. Then Pigeon pulled his other arm around the other side and snapped the cuffs closed. From another inside pocket, he pulled a strip of duct tape, which he smoothed carefully over the thief's mouth. He put the Roy Rogers wallet and keys back into the young man's coat pocket. The money he kept.

Standing up, Pigeon surveyed his handiwork. "It is a little remote here," he noted. "It may be some time before anyone comes along. I left the key to the handcuffs in your pocket. While you wait you may consider choosing another livelihood. This one doesn't seem to work very well." He walked back toward the bench, then turned. "By the way, Arnold," he said, "your driver's license is out of date. You might consider getting it renewed."

A well-fed, middle-aged man in a business suit had just approached. "Mr. Pigeon?" he asked. Pigeon nodded. "What's wrong with him?" The businessman motioned to the would-be thief.

"Tree-hugger," said Pigeon. "Let's walk." He started walking on the path that wandered around the perimeter of the park. The man frowned, shrugged and fell in alongside of Pigeon. "Tell me," began Pigeon, "all about it. Leave out no pertinent detail."

"My name is Jason Tweedman. It's my grandmother's problem, really. I'm trying to help her. She's eighty-three. I want to get her into a nice nursing home, one of those half-care places - where the residents live on their own but get the extra help they need?" His voice rose at the end, as if he wasn't sure Pigeon could understand this amount of detail.

"I am familiar with the concept," Pigeon said. "Please continue."

"She says she'd like to move, but she doesn't dare let her neighbor out of her sight. She's convinced this neighbor is a murderer and wants to kill her."

Pigeon sighed. "She went to the police, but they don't believe her. They think she is senile, has poor eyesight, and only bothers them because she is starved for attention." He stopped. "Tweedman, this is a job for a private detective. I'm a consultant. I don't do protection." He turned to walk away.

"Wait! You need to hear the rest." Tweedman grabbed Pigeon's sleeve. "Please," he begged, "Just listen." Pigeon nodded to him, then motioned that they should continue to walk around the park.

"My grandmother's a survivor of Ravensbruck - the Nazi concentration camp."

Pigeon nodded. "Located north of Berlin. A women's camp. Mostly Polish prisoners."

"Yes," said Tweedman. "Most people don't know that."

"I am old," remarked Pigeon. "And I used to teach history."

"She remembers this neighbor from the camp. She swears she was one of the guards, named Else Muller. Now this woman lives two houses away, and my grandmother is both angry and scared."

"What is this woman's current name?" asked Pigeon.

"Ellen Wheeler. She says she's from Milwaukee."

"You have talked with her?"

"It was the first thing I did after hearing all this. She does have a slight German accent. She said she was raised by her grandparents, who had emigrated from Essen and spoke only German at home. She is a widow. Her husband was in the Navy for twenty years, then retired and became a plumber. He died three years ago."

"I see," said Pigeon. "What do you need from me?"

"I need to get my grandmother to move to the home. I saw your ad and thought you could, you know, listen and kind of hold her hand. Make her think someone is going to do something about this fantasy Nazi."

"That's a lot of money to pay to sweet-talk someone."

"Look, I love my grandmother, but she doesn't understand what things cost, what nurses cost."

"Well, I may be able to help. There are conditions." Pigeon paused. "You say you read the ad?"

"Yes."

"Then you know I work for a flat fee of one thousand dollars, in advance. I guarantee results, but I don't guarantee what those results may be. I do what I think will work. If I don't fulfill what I believe is the contract, then I will refund the full amount. If I believe I have fulfilled it, whether or not the results are what you wanted, I won't." He paused again. "I may add at this point, that though I have had several clients who found my procedures uncomfortable, no one has yet insisted I return the fee."

"I understand," said Tweedman. "Here." He pulled out a check and handed it to Pigeon.

"All right." Pigeon took the check and tucked it away. "Let me ask you a few questions, beginning with the most obvious. Have you contacted the Wiesenthal Center? Or any other Nazi hunters?"

"My grandmother called their New York office. Else Muller committed suicide in 1963, in Argentina. Frankly, they didn't believe my grandmother. They said their resources were stretched too thin to begin an investigation on this. They are satisfied that Muller is dead."

"And so are you," commented Pigeon. "You believe them."

"Yes, of course." Tweedman was indignant. "My grandmother is getting up there. She's losing it. She spends too much. She belongs in the home. They understand about these sorts of things."

"Undoubtedly. One more question, Mr. Tweedman. Who else have you told or consulted about your grandmother's difficulty?"

"There isn't anyone else to tell. The police don't believe her, and the Wiesenthal Center doesn't believe her. She called them. I only called you."

"Very good, Mr. Tweedman. I think your problem will be solved within a week or so. Moving your grandmother should be much easier. Good day." Pigeon turned and walked away quickly in another direction.

Once out of earshot, Mr. Pigeon pulled his phone from his pocket and pressed a number he had on speed dial. He spoke for a few minutes, ended the call, made another call that took less than a minute, then walked toward his home.

Two days later headlines were screaming around the country about the Nazi prison camp guard who had been thought long dead and was discovered living comfortably in American suburbia. The FBI had her in custody, and she was being held for extradition to Germany, where she would be tried for war crimes.

Mr. Pigeon sat on the same bench, flicking breadcrumbs out of a paper bag to what were probably the same fat birds. Tweedman approached. He did not appear happy.

"Pigeon, I want my money back!" Tweedman snarled. "I thought you were going to listen to the old lady, then sweet talk her into the move, not start a publicity campaign!"

"Nonsense, Mr. Tweedman." Pigeon seemed unperturbed by the other's indignation. "I cannot help what you thought I was going to do. I fulfilled the contract. You wanted your grandmother to agree to the move. I simply removed the obstacle."

"You called a reporter!"

"Exactly, Mr. Tweedman. It is what you would have done had you been thinking clearly. You needed your grandmother to see that her problem was taken care of. You didn't want to pay a private detective to investigate, as that would have cost a lot more. I merely contacted the only investigative agency I know that charges me nothing to do the investigation, would be very interested in your grandmother's story, and has the power to draw the attention of government agencies who are institutionally too busy to look." Mr. Pigeon smiled pleasantly. "I'll bet your grandmother is willing to make that move now."

"Willing to move? Of course she is willing to move--to a far more expensive retirement home! She has four separate talk shows in a bidding war for a personal interview. She'll be able to provide for herself for years. I no longer have any say in it." Tweedman paused to gather his breath. "What really bothers me is the cavalier way you risked her life. Suppose that woman had tried to hurt my grandmother for exposing her? Would that have been in the contract?"

Mr. Pigeon frowned. "She did try," he said quietly. "She tried that first night. Ellen Wheeler was frightened when you asked about her past. You told her about your grandmother recognizing her. After we talked, I called a friend who does security and sent him over to Wheeler's house. He followed her to your mother's house. She stopped when she saw a young man sitting on your grandmother's porch. Then she went around behind the house and found another young man on the back porch. When the FBI finally arrested her they found a handgun in her purse." Pigeon drew a deep breath. "It cost me most of your fee to keep your grandmother alive long enough to be on a talk show, Mr. Tweedman, so don't lecture me about not doing my job!"

Stunned, Tweedman stood motionless and quiet for a short time, then turned abruptly and walked away.

A tall figure stepped out of the trees and spoke softly. "I wanted to thank you for the other day, Mr. Pigeon--for what you did."

"It was nothing, Arnold. Charlie tells me you did good work protecting that woman. He says you're a natural at the security business."

"He's offered me a job, Mr. Pigeon. I'll be working for him all the time." Arnold stopped, embarrassed. "I thought I should give these back." He held out a pair of handcuffs.

"That's very nice of you, Arnold," said Pigeon, pocketing the cuffs. "Then I should return these." He reached for his wallet, and Arnold took a step back. Pigeon pulled out several bills and handed them to Arnold. "Twenty-seven dollars, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Thanks." Arnold took the money and turned to go, then turned back. "Mr. Pigeon? I wanted you to know - I did renew my driver's license." He walked quickly off through the trees.

The fat birds were slightly disturbed by Mr. Pigeon's quiet laughter as he continued to flick breadcrumbs to them, but only slightly.