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I was doodling and taking notes in the office of the old brownstone that was also our home, owned and run by my boss, World Famous Private Investigator Harry Slothe, sitting behind his enormous desk eating handfuls of popcorn. He was listening to Mr. Divot. I'm glad one of us was.
The office was crowded. There were three high school students - two boys and a girl - and three sets of parents; their principal, Mrs. Barger; and their teacher, Mr. Divot. Divot's head was hidden in bandages above his singed eyebrows. Ordinarily, a case involving this many people would have been turned down by Mr. Slothe - on the notion that he would have to share his snacks with too many guests. But our bank account was the lowest it had been since "The Adventure of the Very Expensive Office Supplies."
"One of them," said Divot, pointing to the three students, "dropped that firecracker on my head at the Fourth of July Festival. I want you to figure out who did it and you, Mrs. Barger, to punish the guilty party."
The parents looked angrily at Mrs. Barger. I would have felt sorry for her, but she reminded me of an old girlfriend. A really old girlfriend. "I've told you, Mr. Divot, if one of these student's is guilty, he or she will be expelled. But if this turns out to be another of your stunts, you will be released from the school's employ."
Mr. Slothe had stopped eating and been silent for some time, reclining in the specially-built wheelchair that fights to support his 380 pounds. It was hard to tell - since his blind eyes are hidden behind dark smoked glasses - whether he was listening intently, sleeping, or suffering another mild stroke. On a pretext, I went to his desk and fingered the solid gold hotdog he keeps as a paperweight, then dropped it with a bang. That got him.
"Let me sum up," the Univac-sized genius rumbled. "Mr. Divot suspects one of these three students from his sixth period science class of dropping a firecracker on his head at the July Fourth Festival." He gestured in the general direction of the students. "Mr. Howard, the class Valedictorian; Mr. Fine, a straight A chemistry student; and Miss DuMont, the school tramp." The girl's parents smiled proudly. Their phone number was the only concise entry in the notebook before me.
Mr. Slothe continued. "Ladies and gentlemen. It is nearly three o'clock, the hour for my supper. And since I've had only this meager bowl of popcorn since lunch, I will not draw this out. To the parents: fear not. Your cherubs are free to pursue their academic and . . . extracurricular activities. Mrs. Barger, you may begin the process of firing Mr. Divot. I have reason to believe that his injuries are the result of a science experiment gone awry."
HOW DID MR. SLOTHE KNOW THAT DIVOT'S INJURIES WERE NOT INCURRED AT THE FOURTH OF JULY FESTIVAL?
It was February 17th.