A little somthing I tossed off just before lunch.
Times were tough and Dick Privet, Private Detective, had been hitting the sauce. All kinds of sauce: Tabasco, Soy, Worcester and when times were really tough HP. He hadn’t had a decent case in weeks, and he was beginning to get desperate. How would he maintain his prolific sauce habit without the Moulah flowing in? He opened his desk drawer, down to his last three bottles of Tabasco. He needed a new case and he needed it fast. A new case to investigate that is, not of Tabasco. Although, Dick reflected, that would be kind of handy right now too.
Then the phone rang. Dick leapt at the receiver, nearly knocking it out of its cradle in his excitement.
“Dick Privet, Private Detective Agency. No Job to small, no problem to large. We put the “Dick” in “Private.””
It was a woman’s voice that answered: soft, sultry, the faintest hint of an accent – English? South African? Outer Mongolian? Dick couldn’t quite place it.
“Mr Privet? I need your help. Can you meet me, at my apartment?”
Could he? Could he? Then he remembered. Don’t seem too keen, play it cool.
“I should be able squeeze you in. Twelve O’clock okay?”
Dick took down her particulars. She was based at Felchingham Mansions, one of the classiest and most exclusives joint in the whole of town. Whoever she was, one thing was for sure, this broad was made.
Later that day…
“Nice place you got here,” said Dick, gorping at the stunning opulence that surrounded him.
“It’s not much,” said Dick’s prospective client, “but it’s home”
Her name was Forthright, Abigail Forthright. Her husband, Sir Quentin Forthright, was one of the wealthiest men in the whole state. He owned a chain of Gouder factories on the Lower East Side -He was a big cheese in cheese, so to speak.
“Mrs Forthright, I’m guessing you didn’t invite me here just to chat about the decor?” quipped Dick dryly.
“You are correct Mr Privet, I have something I need to discuss with you, a matter of the gravest importance. It’s my husband, you see? I believe he is having an affair.”
“And what made you first suspect that your husband had been unfaithful?”
“A woman knows, Dick. Call it woman’s intuition if you will, there are subtle signs: The nights working late at the office, the weekend business trips, the mysterious silences, but really clinched it for me, was when I caught him having penetrative sex with my sister.”
“I see. It sounds like you have all the proof you need. What could you possibly need me for?”
“I have a very important task for you Mr Privet. My husband is planning on divorcing me. I can’t have that. I’m a woman of expensive tastes Mr Privet and I need to be kept in the manner to which I have become accustomed. If he divorces me, I could lose everything. I need you to follow my husband. Track his every movement. Take photos. Dig up every piece of dirt you can find. So when the day comes, I will be ready. I’m prepared to pay. Does $400 dollars a day sound acceptable to you?”
“Sounds like music to my ears”
“Good. I’ll not detain you further Mr Privet, you’ll have plenty of work to be getting on with.”
“And Mr Privet, my husband is a powerful man, he has friends in low, as well as high places. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. So please, please, be careful.”