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My boss, Harry Slothe, World Famous Private Investigator, prefers to have clients come to him in the office of the old brownstone, instead of going to them. Maybe it's because he's blind. Maybe it's the effort of wheeling his 141,000 grams around a foreign environment. I think it's because he doesn't like being more than fifty feet from a full refrigerator.
On this occasion, we were sitting in the study of T. Reingold Worthington, the big game hunter. I was along primarily to carry snacks.
"Mr. Worthington," the Falstaffian detective said, "My only interest in animals is as food, so I don't see how I could possibly benefit this safari of yours. It sounds as though the rare mouse you are hunting would barely provide an appetizer."
"You belittle your talents, my portly friend," answered Worthington. "I must have you with me. You are every bit the hunter I am. Where I track animals, you track criminals. Where I cut my way through jungle brush, you cut your way -"
"Through foot long submarine sandwiches," I finished helpfully.
"Joseph," Mr. Slothe scowled, "perhaps you could admire Mr. Worthington's trophies."
I took the twenty cent tour of the study, leaving them to talk. Three walls were full from floor to ceiling with the mounted heads and front halves of animals. It made a visitor feel like Noah standing on the ark about to be trampled by every species on earth. The fourth wall had shelves and gun racks and various hunting paraphernalia. In the corner, near the huge double doors through which we'd entered, was a stack of supplies for the forthcoming expedition. I marveled at the huge rifle loaded with tranquilizer darts as big as the ones they used in that movie to fell the T-rex.
It occurred to me that if Worthington caught his mouse, he'd need a space on the wall for it. Sure enough, an empty plaque was there, though it was much much larger than I would have thought necessary. In fact, when I examined the little metal plate with the animal's name, I thought it said "sloth" instead of "mouse" but my boss called to me before I had a chance to investigate further.
"Joseph, we're leaving. Get me out of this madhouse."
"But Mr. Slothe," Worthington pleaded, "my safari. Just you and I alone in the jungle. . . ."
"Sir," growled Mr. Slothe, "I have no intention of going into the jungle alone with you on the pretext of hunting some fictitious animal. I have seen through your charade and know that I myself am to be the quarry in your ghastly hunt. You are bored hunting dumb animals and in your insanity wish to hunt the most dangerous game - Harry Slothe. Good day, sir!"
HOW DID MR. SLOTHE KNOW THAT WORTHINGTON INTENDED TO HUNT HIM?
When we first entered the study, Worthington looked at Mr. Slothe and muttered, "Boy, I can't wait to mount you."