Leaning back in my chair, I eyed the empty office while pouring a shot from the half-empty bourbon bottle. Downing it, I savored the taste of the cold iced tea. Never did like the taste of alcohol, but in my line of work, you have to look the part.

The name’s Francis Trowel and I’m a private eye.

Never heard of me? Not surprised. I’m not flashy like those other guys. You know the ones: Sam Spade, Phillip Marlowe. Hey, I’m not knocking them; they’ve solved plenty of tough cases. However, I’m convinced it’s their names that gets them all those great cases. Those names just scream private eye. Francis Trowel? Not so much.

After all, what else could it be? I’ve got the gritty office in a rundown building, the clothes, the gun, and even the secretary. Not one of those pretty young ones, but I guarantee Penelope can file and type better than any of them. And I’ve solved plenty of cases too, just not the kind you see in the papers. So what if most of them involved finding missing pets for old ladies. After all, it’s not only beautiful dangerous women who need private eyes.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to get better cases. Went by Frank for a while, but it didn’t take. Guys just laughed and women would shake their heads and say “I’m sure it has to be Francis.” Guess I just look like a Francis. Maybe if I could start smoking and not shave for a few days. No, hate the smell of cigarettes and never did like the feel of facial hair.

Sounds like I’m complaining, but not really. Just a bit of that self-reflection we private eyes are known for. It’s not a bad life. Seeing the joy on the faces of those old ladies when I bring back their Fifi’s or Bowser’s makes it all worthwhile. They pay well too, and I’ve got enough cookies and pies to last a month. Still, sure wouldn’t mind getting a case like Sam or Phil get once in a while. Probably not going to happen, but hey, a guy can dream.

The intercom suddenly crackled at me. “A Mrs. Wentworth to see you,” said Penelope. “Send her in,” I answered, quickly tidying my desk. No sooner than I’d tossed on my hat, good detectives always wear hats, in walked just what I expected: a well-dressed old lady sniffling slightly. Standing up, I offered her a chair and took a seat behind my desk.

“How can I help you Mrs. Wentworth?”

She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “My friend Mrs. Randolph told me how you found her Iris and I hope you can do the same for me.”

I remembered that case, one of my most difficult. Iris had been nabbed by a rogue dog catcher. Had to visit eight different dog pounds before I found her.

“And who do you want me to find?” I asked, halfheartedly wondering if it would be a dog or cat this time.

She let out a sob. “My husband, Professor James Wentworth.”

She now had my full attention. A genuine missing person case and a professor to boot. My mind raced with possibilities: military secrets? hidden treasure? some fabulous new invention?

“What kind of professor is he?” I asked, fully expecting her to say something like physics or chemistry.

“Botany,” she replied pulling a picture from her purse. Handing it to me, she began to cry. The picture showed a man with neatly trimmed white hair sitting behind a desk holding a pipe in one hand. If you looked up professor in the dictionary, oh boy, this is what you’d get.

Well at least I wasn’t looking for another lost dog. Once I got her settled down, I got the particulars. Almost a month ago Professor Wentworth headed into the mountains to look for plant samples and then nothing, no letters, no call, not even a telegram. Oh, she’d gone to the police, but they were no help. They said her husband had taken off with a young woman and was probably off somewhere finally enjoying life. My client assured me that her husband would never do such a thing. According to her, all he cared about was his research. I figured the cops were probably right, but hey, it was a case.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find your husband,” I told her as I stood up and offered her my arm, walking her to the door. She attempted to give me a smile, “thank you Mr. Trowel.”

Once the door was shut behind her, I rushed back to my desk and chugged some iced tea right from the bottle. Yeah, the professor was probably off somewhere just like the cops said. After all, who’d nab a botanist? Still it felt good to be looking for something with two legs instead of four. Tossing on a new shirt, never did get the hang of drinking right from the bottle, I headed for my first stop: the police station.

Mrs. Wentworth told me that Lieutenant Jack Hamilton had handled her case. I’d run into him a few times, a real jerk. Found him at his desk reading the paper, grousing about some politician. He was as big as ever, and not in a good way, with the same thinning hair and perpetual dour expression. If he hadn’t ended up being a cop, he would’ve made a fine undertaker.

Had to repeat his name several times before he finally lowered the paper and looked at me. Couldn’t help but think he was doing it on purpose.

“Shouldn’t you be over at the pound, Trowel?”

“Looking at you, I thought I was,” I countered, finally getting the opportunity to use some of my carefully rehearsed witty banter.

Putting the paper down, he glared at me. “What do you want?”

“I’m working the Wentworth case.”

Hamilton laughed. “Handling solved cases now Trowel? I guess even that’s a step up from finding lost dogs.”

I ignored the insult. “The guy’s wife doesn’t agree. She asked me to look into it.”

Hamilton leaned back, putting his fat hands behind his head. “The wife’s always the last to know. Got a witness who saw the guy picking up a dame, quite a good-looking one too, and she was carrying luggage.” Giving a condescending smile, he continued, “I’ll bet even you can figure that one out.”

It felt like I’d been shot in the gut. Was Mrs. Wentworth playing me for a sap? She didn’t say anything about a witness. I could tell Hamilton was taking sadistic pleasure in giving me the witness’ name and address. He even threw in a parting shot, free of charge. “In the future, maybe you should just stick to finding pets.” I was in no mood to answer.

Sure I was upset, but also something about this witness didn’t seem to wash. He lived in an old hotel in the seediest part of town and supposedly had seen the professor out his window. The prudish egghead his wife had described to me certainly wouldn’t show up in a place like that. Mrs. Wentworth might be onto something after all.

The guy I was looking for was Turk Brannigan. Knew the name. He was once a pretty good fighter, but had crossed the wrong people and you can’t fight with two broken hands. Last I’d heard, he’d been running betting slips for Bobby O’Brien. With Turk’s history, it was hard to believe he’d willingly go to the cops.

I took a cab over to the place and my suspicions were confirmed. The name out front may have said ‘Hotel’ but, it was your typical flop house: bunch of drunks, door off the hinges, and windows that looked like they’d never been washed. The lobby wasn’t any better: trash everywhere, guys passed out on most of the chairs, and an old guy at the desk reading a paper.

I walked over and cleared my throat loudly. He didn’t get the hint. Tired of reading the back of his paper, I put aside my manners and shoved the paper aside. “Looking for Turk Brannigan.”

“310,” he said clearly not caring. As I walked away he called out, “elevators broke, use the stairs.”

The trip up the stairs was its own adventure. Just like the lobby, there were bottles and trash everywhere. At least with only one light working, you could hardly see the mess, or anything else. Might have been easier to take the fire escape up. However, I finally made it to the third floor. It was decorated the same as the rest of the building, vintage junkyard. Most of the numbers had fallen off the doors, but faint outlines of where they’d once been remained. After stepping over several drunks and scrutinizing almost every door, I finally reached number 310 and knocked loudly.

“What’d ya want?” came an angry slurred voice from inside.

“Want to talk to you about Professor Wentworth.”

“Already told the cops everything I know.”

“Well now you can tell me.”

There was a brief pause, but finally the door opened revealing a vastly different Turk Brannigan from the one who’d graced the fight posters. Clearly the intervening years hadn’t been kind. “Come in and have a seat” he said, pushing some bottles off a chair and flopping on his unkempt bed. Seemed odd that he was being so cooperative, but I wasn’t going to complain about it.

I sat down and looked around the room. The bottles strewn around the room were no surprise, but what was surprising was the high priced labels on some of them. Yeah, Turk must’ve come into some money recently. Dirty clothes covered the floor and what the guy was wearing didn’t look much cleaner.

He glared at me through blood shot eyes. “I’ve got things to do. Now what do you want?”

“Name’s Francis Trowel and I’m looking into the disappearance of Professor Wentworth.”

Turk laughed. “Guy didn’t disappear. He took off with some pretty young girl. Saw him out my window.”

One look at the window told me he was lying. All I could see through it was a putrid yellow film that reminded me of a chain smoker’s teeth.

“So you knew Professor Wentworth?”

“Oh no. Never met the guy.”

“So how’d you know it was him?”

“Saw his picture in the paper. Story said he was lost in the mountains, but I saw him outside with that dame.” He suddenly sat up a little straighter. “Called the cops right away and told them what I saw. Being a good citizen and all that.”

“Right.”

I continued looking around the room, but didn’t see any books or newspapers. Had to wonder if Turk even knew how to read. I was now sure the guy had been paid off to lie about seeing Professor Wentworth, but why? Who’d go to so much trouble for a botanist? Maybe if I pushed him, he’d lead me to who paid him.

I stood up and did what any self-respecting private investigator would do, I lied. “Well, I’ve found witnesses who saw the professor in the mountains alone. If I were you, I’d stick around because the cops might want to pay you another visit.” The abject fear on his face told me I’d hit the mark. I walked out without saying another word and headed down to the lobby, finding an out of the way spot to wait.

It wasn’t long before Turk came down the stairs and made a beeline for the building’s only pay phone. He dialed quickly and was soon speaking animatedly to whoever answered. I was too far away to hear everything, but definitely heard “Wentworth”, “Trowel”, and “money.”

Hanging up the phone, he rushed out of the building. I quickly followed. Weren’t many people around so I had to hang back to not be seen. Probably overkill on my part because Turk just kept his head pointed straight ahead like he didn’t have a care in the world. Reaching the warehouse district, I quickened my pace. The place was like a maze and I didn’t want to lose him.

Rounding the corner of a building, I saw Turk duck down an alley. I ran across the street to keep him in sight, but the sudden sound of squealing tires readjusted my priorities. A pair of headlights were heading right for me. I jumped out of the way, landing like a sack of potatoes on the sidewalk. The car screamed away before I could get a good look at it.

Except for some scrapes, I was intact. I’d underestimated Turk. He’d made it easy to follow him and set me up. I looked down the alley, but he was long gone. That’s when I noticed the tear in my coat. My favorite coat. Now it was personal. That washed up fighter was going to pay for a new jacket, among other things. But there was nothing I could do about it now. I decided to head home and soak in a hot bath.

When I got to my office the next morning, I found Penelope looking flustered and quickly saw why. Lieutenant Hamilton was spilling out over the sides of a chair. Not my idea of a good way to start the day. He stood up when I came in, the smug expression on his face making him look uglier than usual.

I waved him into my office.

Hamilton pulled a pad from his coat pocket. “Where were you last night around eight?”

Didn’t like the obvious gleam in his eye when he said this. “Home.”

“Any witnesses.”

“Just my goldfish.” Hey, it’d been a gift from a grateful client.

Hamilton dutifully wrote down my answers, his fat fingers swallowing the pencil in his hand.

“What’s this all about?”

He gave a satisfied smile, “you’re the detective, you tell me.”

That’s when it hit me: Turk Brannigan. Maybe he was as much a sap as I was. My visit to see him yesterday might have made someone nervous. However, I wasn’t about to tell Hamilton that. “No idea.”

“Well seems someone used Brannigan for target practice last night. I’ve got a witness that says you followed him out of his hotel yesterday afternoon.”

“You know I went to ask him about Professor Wentworth. I could tell Brannigan was lying through his teeth and I followed him to find out who put him up to it. Almost got a run down for my trouble.”

“That’s your story. I see it a bit different. You tried to get him to change his story. He wouldn’t, and that made you mad. Your gun’s a .38, isn’t it?”

“What if it is? There’s thousands of them in this town.”

“Well, Brannigan was shot with a .38 so I’m gonna have to have a look at your gun.”

I nodded towards my desk. “Bottom drawer.”

The Lieutenant walked over and sat in my chair. For the next minute, the only sound was of drawers being opened and slammed shut. Even that little exertion left Hamilton read-faced and breathing heavily. “Okay enough stalling, where’s the gun?”

My stomach felt like it'd just taken a hard right from the heavy weight champ. I'd been set up again, this time for a murder rap. Didn't even consider taking my gun with me yesterday because I'd never needed one on any of my other cases. In time, my gun would turn up and I’d bet a million bucks it would turn out to be the murder weapon.

“If it’s not there, I don’t know where it is.”

Hamilton glared at me. “Maybe a trip to the station will improve your memory.”

I considered making a run for it, but that’d only make Hamilton more certain of my supposed guilt. So I went with him. Spent the day at the station going over my story again and again. They even tried the whole good cop, bad cop thing on me like I wouldn’t notice. Hamilton had the bad cop act down pat as he grilled me for hours. However, without the weapon, they finally had to let me walk. As I left the interrogation room, Hamilton put his face close to mine, I held my breath, as he whispered angrily, “don’t leave town Trowel.”

I’m sure it’d be a different story when my gun showed up. I had to find who’d heisted it, and fast. Back at my office, I found one of the windows had been jimmied open. It was just as I expected, someone had broken into my office. Not that Hamilton would believe me. The thief could have been anyone. After all, it’s common knowledge that a private eye always keeps a gun in his desk, just in case someone with a beef shows up.

Checked in with Burt, the night security guard. He’s an old guy who usually ends up asleep in the basement, so he was no help. I was at a dead end. Sitting at my desk, I wondered if it might be a good idea to disappear for a while despite Hamilton’s warning. My thoughts were interrupted when the phone rang.

“Mr. Trowel,” said the gruff voice on the other end, “I may have found something that belongs to you. If you want it back, come to the old Pullman warehouse in an hour.”

Before I could say a word, they hung up.

Now, I’m not stupid. It was clearly another set up, but what choice did I have? If the cops got their hands on that gun, I’d fry for a murder I didn’t commit. I decided to play their game, but on my terms.

Half hour later, I was slipping into the Pullman warehouse through a rear window. The place hadn’t been used in years and the overwhelming scent of mold and rotted wood hit me as I entered. The only light came from the outside street lights which filtered through the building’s dirty and broken windows.

Listening, all I heard was silence. Looks like I’d gotten there before my anonymous caller. Broken crates and pallets littered the floor and I quickly found a spot where I could keep an eye on things.

Twenty minutes after arriving, I heard the front door creak open. Carefully peering from my hiding place, I saw two burly guys dressed in cheap suits plod in. Right out of hired muscle casting. The first guy said something I couldn’t hear and the other one walked out of sight. The first guy took a handkerchief out of his pocket and used it to knock the dust off the top of a crate before sitting down facing the door.

Yeah, it was a setup all right: a neatly planned ambush. Clearly whoever was in charge didn’t like leaving loose ends. If I had to guess, they planned to kill me with my own gun and make it look like a suicide. It’d wrap up Hamilton’s case against me quite nicely.

Well I had other ideas. Would have liked to get the drop on them and make them talk, but that’d be difficult without a gun. It was the first time I understood why guys like Spade and Marlowe had more than one. If I got out of this in one piece, I’d definitely get a spare.

Without a gun I’d have to play it smart. If I waited long enough, the goons would likely give up so I could follow them to whoever hired them. Fortunately, the guy in charge seemed to be the impatient type. Fifteen minutes after I was supposed to arrive he called over to the other guy, “take a look outside. If you find Trowel, put him to sleep.”

“With pleasure,” answered the other man, emerging from the darkness and heading outside.

I was tempted to rush the remaining guy, but forced myself to hold back. Everything was going just as I’d hoped so I wasn’t going to mess it up. Besides, the guy was as big as a truck and they do say discretion is the better part of valor.

Within five minutes, the other guy was back. “No sign of Trowel. Must’ve chickened out.”

The head guy stood up. “Or maybe he’s not as stupid as the boss thinks he is. Let’s go.”

I was already angry, but that upped it a notch. Trying to run me down and framing me for murder was one thing, but insulting my intelligence was hitting below the belt. When I got my hands on the guy responsible, I’d have to teach him some manners.

As soon as they were gone, I slipped out of the building and headed for the alley where I’d parked my car. Sure I have a car. It’s just that we detectives prefer using taxis whenever possible. Image and all that you know. Anyway, got to my car and pulled to the end of the alley with the lights off.

Watching the street, I finally saw headlights come on and start moving in my direction. As they passed, I ducked down and waited for them to turn the corner before following. It didn’t take long to realize they were headed downtown.

When they stopped near a hotel, I kept going and parked around the corner. Rushing back, I was just in time to see them go inside. The place was certainly no Ritz, but wasn’t a dump either. Now all I had to do was get their room number.

With a practiced air, I turned up the collar of my coat and pulled my hat low before walking over. Stopping at the large window, I could see them getting their key from the front desk. Once they were safely in the elevator, I went inside.

The secret to getting information is confidence. Well, that and cash. Nothing like a sawbuck to get people talking and the guy at the desk was no exception. Those two clearly had no imagination; Smith and Jones? Really? Didn’t matter though, I had their room number: 620.

Number of ways I could play it: go in guns blazing, keep following them and hope to find the big man, or bring in the cops. Without a gun the first option was out, and whoever was running this was probably too smart to ever meet the hired help in person. That left option three. So even though it went against my better judgement, I called Hamilton from the lobby pay phone.

“Lieutenant Hamilton,” he answered in a voice that if I didn’t know better, invoked competence.

“Hamilton, it’s Trowel.” Ignoring his condescending snort, I went on. “If you want the guys who killed Turk Brannigan, get down to the Broadmoor.”

It took a minute for his laughter to subside. “Yeah, Trowel, I’ll get right down there.”

Knew he’d react that way, but what else would you expect from a jerk like Hamilton? Normally I’m a fairly even-keeled guy, but now I was mad and began to outline the deficiencies of his ancestry.

“Okay Trowel,” he grudgingly conceded. “I’ll come over, but you’d better be on the level.”

Took a second for that to sink in. Who knew Hamilton could be cooperative. “I’m always on the level.”

And boy did he take his sweet time showing up. Must have been over a half hour before he casually strolled into the hotel. I filled him in on everything that had happened: the phone call, the events at the warehouse, and following the two guys here. The Lieutenant didn’t seem impressed.

“Might as well talk to these guys since I’m here anyway,” he muttered before heading towards the elevator. Once on the sixth floor, Hamilton marched over to room 620 and pounded on the door. No surprise, he had the subtlety an elephant.

The door opened slightly and the face of the guy who seemed in charge peered out. “What’s the big idea?” he griped. The sight of Hamilton’s badge had an immediate effect on his attitude. “What can I do for you Lieutenant?” His tone was as innocent as I’d ever heard.

“Need to ask you a few questions. Can we come in?”

“Of course.”

Opening the door, the guy stepped aside and waved us in. Without the hat and cheap suit, you almost couldn’t tell the guy was hired muscle. Almost. Then he saw me. “Hey Trowel, why’d you have to go and call the cops? I brought your package to the warehouse like you asked, but you never showed.”

Hamilton looked over at me. “What’s this about a package?”

Suddenly, I had a very bad feeling. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

He sat on the arm of the couch, “I’m sure the Lieutenant won’t blab to your girl Francis.” Turning to Hamilton, he continued. “I was at Joe’s over on 2nd last night when Trowel here came in all out of breath holding a box. Being a pal, I bought him a drink. Said the box was a gift for a dame he’d met, but didn’t want his girl finding it. Asked me to hold on to it for him.” He paused and looked over at me. “And now you show up at my door with the cops. Some way to treat a friend Francis.”

Whoever was running this scam was good. Yep, walked right into the perfect set up. Guess I wasn’t as clever as I thought. Joe’s wasn’t far from where Turk was shot and, without a doubt, that box held my missing gun.

The gleam in Hamilton’s eyes and stupid grin on his face grew as the goon spun his story. “I’d like to see that box.”

“Sure thing Lieutenant,” he answered, disappearing into the next room. Hamilton looked over at me with an infuriatingly smug look. Soon as he opened that box, I’d be making another trip to the police station, and this time I wouldn’t get to leave.

I could just go quietly and hope for the best, but who was I kidding? I’ve seen guys go to the chair for less than they had on me. When the muscle guy came back carrying a box wrapped in newspaper, I did the only thing I could. I shoved Hamilton into him and took off. Slamming the door behind me, I ran down the hallway to the stairs.

I knew Hamilton would soon have the entire force looking for me. Ran down the stairs, covering two or three with each step. Peering into the lobby, I checked to make sure there were no cops. Sure was glad Hamilton had come alone. The coast clear, I did my best to look nonchalant as I made my way out to the street before running to where I’d parked my car.

Driving away, I had no idea where I was going. Penelope’s? No, the cops would check there first. Get out of town? No, I needed to clear my name. Nothing made sense on this case. Why go to so much trouble over some botany professor? What I needed was a place to lay low so I could think things through.

Then it hit me; the old Monroe kennel! That place hadn’t been used in years. The guy who’d owned it liked to play the ponies, but they ended up playing him. He should have stuck with the dogs. I’d found my share of missing dogs there before it went under. Maybe all those years pounding the missing pet beat had finally paid off.

The place was just what I expected: weeds choking the exercise area, boarded up windows, and a driveway filled with potholes. Parking in the back to keep the car out of sight, I worked to jimmy the back door. Took a few tries, but it was dark and missing pet cases don’t usually require breaking and entering. Even after all these years the place still smelled like dogs, but it was a small price to pay to keep the cops from nabbing me.

The boarded up windows let little light inside so I had to feel my way around. For a brief instant, I regretted not smoking because then I’d at least have some matches to see by. Except for some broken furniture and empty boxes, the place was empty. A chair would’ve been nice, but had to make do with some flattened boxes on the floor.

Leaning back against the wall, I closed my eyes and considered how I’d gotten myself into such a mess. I’d stuck to all the tried and true detective methods, but still found myself hiding out in a dilapidated, smelly kennel. It didn’t help that all I’d eaten since breakfast was a stale sandwich washed down with cold coffee at the police station. Yeah, the ‘good’ cop had gotten it for me, Hamilton would’ve let me starve.

By now every cop in the city would be on the lookout for me. That certainly put a crimp in any hope I had of nabbing whoever put the frame on me. Probably should have gotten out of town when I had the chance, but hey, you know what they say about hindsight.

At least I now understood why Spade and Marlowe always had that bottle of bourbon handy. Definitely needed something stronger than iced tea right now. That’s right, I don’t drink. Back at the hotel, the guy said he’d bought me a drink at Joe’s last night. The joint does a good business so there’d be plenty of people who could say they never saw me.

But Hamilton would never believe them. He’d chalk it up to bad memories or too much to drink. The guy has no imagination. Besides, don’t they say that it’s impossible to prove a negative? Yeah, I needed to prove I was somewhere else, and unfortunately goldfish don’t talk.

It looked like the only way out was to nab Brannigan’s killer myself. After what happened tonight, the guys at the Broadmoor definitely wouldn’t go anywhere near their boss so I was left where I started: clueless. What could possibly connect Professor Wentworth with someone who dealt with lowlifes like Brannigan and the two guys from the warehouse?

Now I wished I’d taken Mrs. Wentworth more seriously when she was at my office. Hadn’t even bothered asking her anything about her husband. Did he owe anyone money? Did he have any enemies? Stuff like that. Yeah, definitely been working pet cases too long.

I considered just finding a pay phone and calling her. Thing is though, husbands don’t always fill their wives in on what’s going on. But I’ll bet a guy like the professor had an appointment book and it might provide a few names to check out. Her place was in the classy part of town. You know, the one with all the big houses and plenty of cops around to keep an eye on things. Wouldn’t be easy getting there.

Feeling my way back outside, I slipped into my car. Figured as long as I keep off the main roads I should be okay. Then again, maybe that’s what the cops expected me to do. Being new to the whole fugitive thing, I wasn’t really sure. No, first instinct’s usually right they say, so side streets it is.

Some famous scientist once said time is relative and boy was he right. My watch said it’d only been a half hour, but it seemed like I’d been driving for days. Every time headlights came into view, I was sure the cops had found me. By the time I pulled into a nice dark spot at the edge of a park, my shirt was soaked. Hoofing it from there, I kept to backyards to stay out of sight. Only thing that did was get me lost.

A few detours were needed to finally find the Wentworth place. More mansion than house, it sat at the end of a long driveway in a tree-filled expanse. Sticking to the trees, I made my way up to the place. Didn’t see any lights on. Well it was already after ten, so Mrs. Wentworth was probably asleep. Under normal circumstances, I’d have waited till morning, but things weren’t normal.

Skipping the front door, I made my way around back and approached what I assumed was the servants’ entrance. From inside, I could hear the tell-tale cheers and boos of a prizefight. Sounded like a good one, but I had other business so I pounded on the door. The sound of a scraping chair and heavy footsteps were followed by the door swinging open violently.

A large man stood there, muscular arms and shoulders filling an undone white shirt. He glared at me, his face marred by a crooked nose and numerous scars. Not at all what I expected a butler to look like, but the perfect specimen of an ex-fighter, just like Turk Brannigan. Maybe I’d found what I was looking for.

“Kinda late to be bothering people,” he snarled at me. “If I were you, I’d be on my way.”

Deciding to play it straight, I looked the guy right in the eye. “I’m Francis Trowel and I need to speak with Mrs. Wentworth about her husband.”

The guy blinked as if trying to remember something. “Trowel? Oh yeah, the detective,” he answered, all anger gone from his voice. “Come on in and I’ll get Mrs. Wentworth.”

Once out of the servants’ quarters, my eyes grew wide as we passed through room after room filled with paintings, vases, and other fine furnishings. If I’d known my client was this rich, I’d have upped my fee a bit. “Quite the place,” I said to my guide, but he ignored me. Leaving me in the sitting room, I could hear his heavy footsteps slowly fade away. Upon his return, his shirt was now buttoned and he wore a snug butler’s jacket.

“Mrs. Wentworth will be right down. She asked if you’d like some tea while you wait.”

“Yes, thank you,” I replied as my stomach rumbled. As he turned to go, I called out, “and if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, some cookies sure would hit the spot.”

He only grunted in reply which I sure hope meant yes because I was starving. Three cups of tea and I don’t know how many cookies later, my client at last walked in the room. She wore a stylish silver robe, which by the way it glistened, had to be made of silk.

Standing as she came in, I waited for her to take a seat on the couch opposite me before sitting back down. “I’m terribly sorry for bothering you so late Mrs. Wentworth. You were right about your husband, but I need more information to track him down.”

“So you believe me? I’ll tell you everything I can,” she answered.

I gestured at the room around us. “After seeing this house, this might seem like a silly question, but did your husband owe anyone money?”

“Oh no.” She almost laughed. “James didn’t have extravagant tastes, but whenever he needed money I’d give it to him.”

It took a moment to sink in. “You mean all this …”

“Yes, Mr. Trowel, it all belongs to me,” she interrupted. “My parents were very wealthy and when they died, it all passed to me.”

Scratch one motive; the professor wasn’t in hock to anyone.

“Do you know if your husband had any enemies?”

This time she did laugh. “Are you serious Mr. Trowel? Everyone who knew my husband loved him.”

Strike two; no enemies.

Throughout the conversation, the butler guy would come in to refresh the cups of tea or clear my empty cookie plates. I’d learned his name was Harold although he looked more like a Harry to me. Mrs. Wentworth seemed very fond of him, which made the next question I had to ask very difficult.

I’m sure Spade or Marlowe would have just blurted it out, but I couldn’t do that.

“Not to be critical,” I began gingerly, “but Harold certainly doesn’t seem like your typical butler.”

Mrs. Wentworth smiled. “Oh he certainly isn’t Mr. Trowel. His mother worked for us for many years and he’d often come to visit her, so we got to know him well. Even after his mother passed away, he’d still come to see us. In a way, he became the son I never had.”

She sipped at her tea. “Harold was a boxer, but had to quit after nearly getting killed in a match. He was in the hospital for a month and since he had no one else, I would visit him often. When he was released, he had nowhere to go and no way to earn a living, so we offered to let him live with us. However, he insisted on working for us if he were to stay.”

My client stared at me. “I know what you’re thinking Mr. Trowel, but there’s no way Harold was responsible for my husband’s disappearance.”

Still wasn’t convinced. “I’m sorry Mrs. Wentworth, but I have to check out every possibility.”

“I understand Mr. Trowel. Now you wanted more information about my husband, so let me tell you about James.” She appeared to wipe a tear as she went on. “We met in college. He was just finishing his doctorate and I was a sophomore …”

I really didn’t need the professor’s whole history, but it seemed my client just needed someone to talk to, so I let her go on.

“… more than anything, James wanted to become a professor. I, on the other hand, had always dreamed of travelling the world and writing about my adventures. However, being a good wife, I put his needs ahead of my own. I can’t tell you how many faculty teas, charity events, and dinners I hosted over the years to help him achieve what he wanted. Hardest of all was that his teaching, research, and academic conferences left no time for us to start a family. I sacrificed everything for him Mr. Trowel, but I did it because I loved him.”

Sitting back, she looked up at the ceiling. “However, in the back of my mind, I always thought that once he’d gotten tenure, we’d finally have time see the world together. That was over ten years ago and nothing changed.” She let out a soft sob, “and now it’s too late.”

Shifting uncomfortably in my seat, I tried to find something to say, but all I could come up with was a lame, “I’m sorry.”

Leaning forward, she looked down at her hands. “It’s been said that a dream deferred is that much sweeter when you finally achieve it. But from personal experience, I can tell you that having one’s dreams put off indefinitely only leads to bitterness and remorse.”

Now I’m not much into philosophy, so I had no idea what Mrs. Wentworth meant. I gave her my patented blank look.

She looked up at me and shook her head in what I thought was disappointment. “Seems I’ll have to spell it out for you Mr. Trowel.” She carefully folded her hands in her lap. “I killed my husband.”

Never saw that coming. I was sure it had to be the butler.

“Not that difficult really,” she went on in a surprisingly matter of fact tone. “James always had a cup of tea before bed with lots of sugar. Didn’t even taste the arsenic.”

The gleam in her eyes as she spoke clinched it: she was telling the truth. The prim and proper old lady sitting before me was a cold blooded murderer. The smart move would be get out of there, but I couldn’t resist one last question.

“And Harold took care of the rest?”

She nodded. “He connected me with people who, for the right price, would make things disappear. He knew Mr. Brannigan from his fighting days and paid him to tell the police he’d seen my husband with another woman.”

One thing still made no sense. Why’d she hire me if the cops had closed the case? But I’d pushed my luck enough. I stood up.

“I’m sorry Mrs. Wentworth, but I’ll have to call the police.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” sneered Lieutenant Hamilton’s voice from behind me.

Never thought I’d be happy to hear that nasally voice. Then I turned around and saw him pointing a gun at me. “What are you doing Hamilton? Mrs. Wentworth just confessed to killing her husband.”

“That’s old news Trowel,” he laughed. “I knew Brannigan was lying, but unlike you, I got him to talk. When he fingered Harry, it wasn’t hard to trace him to Mrs. Wentworth. Let’s just say we came to an understanding. She was nice enough to let me know you were here.”

I always knew Hamilton was incompetent and a jerk, but never figured him for a dirty cop. He must have tipped off the guy at the hotel. That story about me giving him a package seemed a bit too convenient.

“So you killed Brannigan to keep him from telling anyone else what he told you,” I shot back.

Hamilton smiled. “That’s right. Gotta give you credit through. Figured you’d be a much easier mark when I suggested Mrs. Wentworth hire you.”

It all fell into place. I’d been set up as the patsy to take the fall for Turk’s murder. That’s why Mrs. Wentworth had hired me. Yeah, knew too much now, so there was no way I was getting out of this house alive.

“I assume I never make it to the police station.”

“You’re batting a thousand tonight Trowel,” answered Hamilton gleefully. “Found you here threatening Mrs. Wentworth. You pulled a gun and I had no choice but to shoot you.”

“But I don’t have a gun.”

“Oh, they’ll find one on you.”

As I verbally sparred with the Lieutenant, I looked around the room for any way out. The two doors were no good; one led back to the servants’ quarters and Hamilton stood in front of the other. There was a window on the other side of the room, but I’m sure I’d get plugged before I could reach it.

Hey, if I had to go, it would be on my terms. I took off for the window. Four steps in, the sound of thunder filled my ears followed by an exploding pain near my shoulder. The impact threw me to the floor and a warm sensation worked its way down my shirt. Laying there, another blast of thunder filled the room and I knew this was it.

However, instead of another bout of searing pain, I heard a sharp yell and the loud thud of something hitting the floor. Forcing my eyes open, I could just make out Hamilton’s body on the other side of the room.

“It seems Lieutenant,” almost purred Mrs. Wentworth, “that Mr. Trowel was able to get off a shot before he fell.”

I heard heavy footsteps entering the room.

“Seems Mr. Trowel’s unexpected visit worked to our advantage Harold. Check to see he’s dead and put the gun in his hand.”

“Sure thing Mrs. Wentworth.”

If they didn’t think I was dead, I’d be dead for sure. Had to make it look good. Shutting my eyes, I stopped breathing and let my body go limp. Seemed an eternity before I felt Harold lift my arm and drop it to the floor. Grabbing my hand, he forced my fingers around the gun handle. It was all I could do to keep myself from resisting. Fortunately for me, the butler was either too squeamish or too stupid to listen for a heartbeat through my blood soaked shirt.

“Yup, he’s a goner.”

“Good, see to the Lieutenant and search him.”

I could hear the butler get up and move over to Hamilton. Good thing too, as the urge to fill my lungs was on the verge of giving me away. Careful to not gasp, I gratefully took in a deep breath. As much as I wanted to see what was going on, I couldn’t risk opening my eyes.

“He’s dead, but doesn’t have it on him,” Harold soon announced.

“Unfortunate, but I’m sure we’ll be out of the country before anyone else can find it,” she replied in a subdued tone. “Now let’s inform the police of this terrible tragedy.”

Listening, I was gratified to hear the door close behind them. Figured the room would stay empty until the cops arrived. Yeah, Mrs. Wentworth was a smart dame; she’d play the scared old lady thing to the hilt, and that sure didn’t include sitting in a room with dead bodies. First thing I had to do was stop the bleeding.

Rocking back and forth, I was finally able to get to a sitting position and use my legs to push myself up against the couch. The effort left me feeling light-headed and weak. Grabbing my handkerchief, I folded it up and shoved it under my suit coat hard against my wound and held it there. Had to bite my lip to keep from yelling from the pain.

So at least I wouldn’t bleed to death, but I was only putting off the inevitable. When the cops arrived, I’d be hauled off for two murders, one of them a cop. That had death sentence written all over it. It’d be my word against Mrs. Wentworth’s, and I had no doubt who they’d believe. I needed something, anything, to put a hole in her story.

Maybe it was the blood loss or I‘m just stupid because nothing came to me. Bet even Spade or Marlowe couldn’t figure a way out of this mess. The only guys who could clear me were either dead or working for Mrs. Wentworth. One good thing about looking for lost pets is they’d never double-cross you.

“Thanks a lot Hamilton,” I muttered angrily at the lifeless body across the room. Sure he was dead, but now no one would ever believe he was dirty. He’d be hailed as a hero, complete with fancy funeral and the mayor giving the eulogy. As far as I was concerned, he got what he deserved. Just wish it’d happened after the cops had gotten the truth out of him.

Wait a minute. Mrs. Wentworth had Harold search Hamilton’s body. She’d only do that if he had something that would incriminate her. Maybe Hamilton really was smarter that I gave him credit for. I’ll bet he had Brannigan sign a confession. Nice little piece of insurance so the Wentworth dame would keep paying him.

So all I had to do was find it. Unfortunately, I was in no condition to do it myself. Guess I’d have to get the cops to find it for me. If I were Hamilton, where would I hide something important? Apartment? No, Wentworth could hire people to ransack it. I discarded several other ideas before it hit me: what safer place could there be than a police station?

He’d want to keep it handy so it was probably in his desk. Now how would I convince the cops to go through Hamilton’s desk?

The blood loss was getting to me and several times I felt on the verge of passing out. The sharp pain caused by poking my wound was just the tonic I needed to stay awake. It seemed to take forever for the police to show up. You think they’d drop everything at the report of a cop being shot.

When the door opened in walked a detective, nonchalant as you please, followed by two uniforms.

“About time you got here,” I called out in as strong a voice as I could muster.

That got his attention as he rushed over, pulling out his gun.

“Easy there detective, I’m not going anywhere.”

Seeing my state, he put the gun away and shouted, “call an ambulance!” I would’ve paid money to see the look on Mrs. Wentworth’s face right now. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, the cop picked up the gun Harold had placed on the floor near where Hamilton shot me. He looked me over.

“You Trowel?”

“Yes.”

He pulled out a badge. “Lieutenant Duggins. You’re under arrest for the murders of Turk Brannigan and Lieutenant Hamilton.”

Uncertain how much longer I could hold on, I had to talk fast.

“Listen to me,” I began, trying to look him in the eye. “I didn’t kill either of those men. Mrs. Wentworth’s lying.”

“Yeah right, save it for the jury,” interrupted Duggins.

I tried again. Sure hoped my hunch was right. “I’m sure you’ve heard it all, but I’m on the level here. Hamilton’s got the proof in his desk at the station.” My voice fading, I managed to get out a weak, “please, just look.” Unable to hold on anymore, I blacked out.

Waking up, I looked around. It seemed to be a typical hospital room, but in the dim light, I couldn’t tell whether the windows had bars or not. The pain wasn’t as bad as it’d been before and I could feel a bandage tightly wrapped around my chest. Well I lived, so that was something. Now the question was, did Duggins take the hint and search Hamilton’s desk? And more importantly, if he did, did he find anything?

Next time I opened my eyes, sunlight streamed in through the windows. To my relief, I saw no bars, but maybe they figured I was too far gone to need them. Wanted to get up, but with all the tubes sticking in me, I wasn’t going anywhere. I figured a nurse would have to show up sooner or later.

When one came in, I was pleased to see she was young and pretty. As she started taking my pulse I asked, “where am I?”

“Saint Anne’s hospital,” she answered while recording my pulse on her clipboard. Before I could get another question out, she shoved a thermometer in my mouth.

“Might sound like a funny question,” I began once she’d taken the thermometer out, “but could you tell me if there’s a cop stationed outside my door?”

Giving me a look as if I were crazy, she shook her head and walked out.

No cop outside! If I were up for a murder rap, they’d certainly have someone guarding me. I was in the clear! I hoped Mrs. Wentworth and Harold were sitting in a nice cold cell somewhere.

Now that I was awake, the doctor came in to check on me. He said it’d been touch and go for a while, but I was going to be fine. Turned out I’d been unconscious for almost four days. Before he left, I asked him if he knew anything about the Wentworth case. Shaking his head he answered, “never read the paper. Far too depressing.”

After a lunch of soup and some green jiggly stuff when what I really wanted was a steak, in walked Lieutenant Duggins. Seemed in a far more pleasant mood than the last time I saw him.

“How are you feeling Mr. Trowel?” he asked.

Doing my best to sit up, I replied, “I’d be doing a lot better if I knew what happened with Wentworth and her butler.”

Duggins smiled. “That’s part of why I’m here. That and to get a statement from you. Still a few things that need to be wrapped up.”

After I’d passed out, Wentworth and the butler had been brought to the police station to make a statement. Guess I’d been pretty convincing because Duggins went through Hamilton’s desk and found Turk’s confession. When confronted with it, Harold had copped to killing Professor Wentworth and Hamilton.

“But Mrs. Wentworth told me she killed her husband,” I interjected.

Duggins looked down. “I’m sure she did, but it’d be your word against hers. With no proof and Harold’s confession, all we can get her for is being an accessory after the fact. She’s probably already out on bail.”

As I said before, Wentworth’s one smart dame. Got Harold to take the fall for her. Accessory? Ha. That dame planned the whole thing and at most she’d get a year while Harold fried. I was reconsidering that whole not drinking thing.

“What did Harold say his motive was?” I asked, feeling depressed.

“Said he was tired of how the professor treated Mrs. Wentworth.” Duggins sounded as down as I was.

“What about Hamilton?”

Duggins shook his head. “Paid off by Harold to keep quiet. Found a nice wad of cash when we searched Hamilton’s place. Guy told us Mrs. Wentworth gave him the money to pay off Hamilton. Sad really. He was a good cop.”

Seeing no need to get into an argument, I kept my feelings about Hamilton to myself. “And what’d he say about shooting Hamilton?”

“Claims Mrs. Wentworth didn’t know a thing. Says he and Hamilton set up the whole thing to frame you for Brannigan’s murder and then he double-crossed Hamilton.”

I was getting angrier by the minute and couldn’t hold it back any longer “But Wentworth knew! I was there and she was calling the shots.”

Duggins sighed, clearly frustrated. “Sorry, but without proof, we can’t do a thing. Justice is far from perfect Mr. Trowel, but a least we got Harold for his part in this. Would I like to get Mrs. Wentworth too? Sure, but we have to work within the system, and sometimes the guilty get off.”

Thinking about my own close call, I added, “and once in a while the innocent get tossed in jail.”

I spent another week in the hospital, but it certainly wasn’t dull. I had plenty of visitors and even a few reporters stopped by. However, they were only interested in talking about Harold and Hamilton. Whenever I mentioned Mrs. Wentworth’s involvement, their pencils stopped moving. Hey, it was nice to get my name in the paper, but somehow I’d expected more. Seems I’d learned the hard way that life isn’t always fair. Bet Spade and Marlowe already knew that.

It was good to get back to the office, and Penelope greeted me with fresh baked muffins and coffee. Her muffins are the best, but the coffee, not so much. A small pile of letters sat on my desk, neatly sorted and arranged in order of importance. Let’s see Spade or Marlowe’s secretaries do that.

Even better, a full day of appointments awaited me, and none of them had anything to with animals. Guess those stories in the paper had done the trick. However, there was something I needed to do first: send Mrs. Wentworth her bill.

Hey, she’d used my services so she needed to pay. I buzzed the intercom, “Penelope, put together a bill for Mrs. Wentworth. Include the hospital bill, three weeks at double my normal rate, and add in the cost of a gun.” Took my finger off the intercom button, but quickly buzzed again. “Oh, and be sure to get that off today.”

Hospital aren’t cheap and after all, I’d been injured working on her case. And the double rate? She can afford it. Sure the cops had given me my gun back, but if I was going to be working more cases like hers, I’d need another one. I’m sure Spade and Marlowe would approve.