It was a Tuesday. You know the type. Gloomy, overcast, on the point of rain. It often rained. Depressing for most people. As if the Great Depression wasn’t depressing enough already. Business wasn’t good. There are, of course, ups and downs with everything (we are currently in the middle of a spectacular down in the American economy) and ‘Mallory’s Detective Agency’ – which, unfortunately, was comprised of only one detective – was no different. Despite my best efforts, it wasn’t very well known, tucked away on the upper floors of a deteriorating building, at the corner of an old block on a shady side-street. Every single client of mine, without fail, had remarked upon entry – with slightly different wording each time – that it was ‘a perfect location for a detective agency, right in the middle of all the criminals.’ They always sounded amused when they said it, as if they were telling a joke that they were particularly fond of. I always pretended to laugh. When one hears something that was once funny eighty-seven times, one rarely still finds it funny. And, anyway, it wasn’t funny to begin with. I stared at the door. It was eleven o’clock. No client had arrived through that door yet. I took out my lighter and cigarette case, extracted a cigarette and lit it. I started to smoke and stared at the door again. It still wasn’t opening. From the corner of my eye, I noticed that the ash on my ashtray was quite disorganized. I absentmindedly tidied it into a neat pyramidal heap. It was then that the door opened. The head, the bulging eyes and the remarkably lengthy neck of my secretary, Miss White, made a very welcome appearance. ‘A Mister Floyd to see...