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My boss, Harry Slothe, World Famous Private Investigator, sat behind his enormous desk in our office - which was also in the old brownstone at the corner of Baker Street and West Thirty-Fifth that we call home - reading the evening's Braille edition of the Times with one hand and stuffing cheese puffs into his mouth with the other. Occasionally, he would toss a snack in the direction of Burgess, his prize-winning macaw, who was in the office on one of his frequent sojourns from the aviary which occupies the brownstone's roof.
On occasions like this, I had seen Mr. Slothe's reading and eating become so fast and unrestrained - his hands a blur of motion - that he would raise an inkwell, the telephone, even the solid gold hotdog he uses as a paperweight, to his lips and bite it. Or turn pages so fast while eating that he would find himself trying to read the bumps on a donut or a saltine cracker. Or worse, throwing some inappropriate object at Burgess instead of the expected snack food. It was only a few months before that the gold hot dog had knocked the poor bird from his perch.
I was at my desk typing breeding records from the aviary, which I do when not in the middle of a case. Mr. Slothe was attempting to breed a carrier pigeon with a woodpecker, in the hopes of getting a bird that could not only bring him a bottle of beer, but open it as well.
"Bah! The bungling police," I heard the great detective rumble. I turned to see him slowly scanning a page of the Times. "Joseph, I believe I have found a mystery that suits my peculiar talents, and yours as well. It says here that a wealthy socialite - a Mrs. Stute - was found murdered in her penthouse apartment. The suspects include her estranged and destitute husband; a Miss Wintergreen - Mrs. Stute's personal assistant; Mr. Bogarden - the CEO of a charity that counted Mrs. Stute among their most generous contributors; and Mrs. Ellison, the social climber who was snubbed at Mrs. Stute's gala spring fireworks show and bowling tournament."
I was silent for a moment, turning over the possibilities in my mind. My reverie was interrupted by Mr. Slothe.
"Did you hear me, Joseph? Why don't you answer?" he grumbled.
I stood from my desk and made a long slow loop around his desk and the specially-built wheelchair that barely holds his 4,428 ounces. "I believe, sir, that the answer to this mystery is simple. While it might confuse Inspector Kramer and the police, it's really quite obvious to the trained and disciplined mind."
I was laying it on extra thick. But then, I'd sat through a thousand explanations just like it from him, so why not?
"I know you think I watch television too much and read too little, but in this particular instance, my own knowledge equals or surpasses your own. I don't say my conclusions could have been made without the hours spent listening to your own -"
"Confound it!" he exclaimed between bites of cheese puffs. "It's nearly time for dinner. What are you trying to say?"
I had stopped in front of his desk and leaned forward, resting my palms on the desk but being careful to keep them out of reach of the feeding frenzy. "Only that the solution is this: Mrs. Stute's estranged husband was working for Mr. Bogarden's charity in disguise and under an assumed name. He was also embezzling funds from that charity. When Mr. Bogarden discovered it, he feared financial ruin and public disgrace. The estranged husband convinced him that the only way out was to murder Mrs. Stute, thereby assuring a healthy bequest that would not only clear his debt, but allow the charity to continue to function. It was Mr. Bogarden who was maneuvered into murder."
I never thought it would happen, but my inexplicable revelation had done the impossible: Harry Slothe had stopped eating. Just then Peaseporter rang the bell for dinner and my boss was wheeling himself to the dining room before I could explain how I'd solved the crime.
CAN YOU FIGURE OUT HOW I HAD THE ANSWERS?
Mr. Slothe didn't know he was reading the television section of the Times, and reciting the plot from a rerun of Murder, She Wrote, which I had already seen.