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"Well, this is a fine way to ruin an otherwise delightful dinner!" The speaker was my boss, Harry Slothe, World Famous Private Investigator. What occasioned his disappointment was the discovery, over dessert, that one of the dinner guests was poisoned, and had actually been lying dead in his chair. I opened another grape Nehi and continued drinking.
"I just thought he was being quiet," said Jules DeGard, our host and Mr. Slothe's frequent consultant in matters avian. "I don't even remember inviting him. Does anyone know who he is?"
"I've never seen him before," sniffed Miss Totem, the socialite. She fingered her diamond necklace and turned away. "He looks like something that washed up on shore."
"Aaarrr, I resent that," grumbled Captain Felch, the hardened seaman. "I've washed ashore meself a time or two."
Jules DeGard waved his hand. "I'm certain Miss Totem meant no insult, Captain Felch. But the fellow does look a bit - well . . . ."
"Here now," boomed Gumbo, the sideshow freak. "Me no understand."
Snide laughter came from the end of the table and all eyes turned toward the source. It was Herr Siegfried, the Nazi war criminal. He had Professor Winkle, the astronomer, in a headlock and would not let go. I finished my bottle of pop and reached for another.
"Perhaps I should take charge of this situation," said Mr. Slothe. He wheeled his bulk out from behind the table and circled the motley group.
"First, I must compliment our host, Monsieur DeGard, on choosing a most varied and eclectic group of guests. And on this, the first day of April. Since I have been a companion of Monsieur DeGard for many years, and he is, of course, more than passingly familiar with my penchant for crime and analytical skills, I find it coincidental that I and my assistant, Mr. Baloney, should be invited to participate in such dramatic doings."
I had the feeling Mr. Slothe was building up to something. He continued. "I can only surmise that the unidentified gentleman at the end of the table is not dead, and the eccentric personages present are not suspects, and finally, that our host and my good friend is attempting to ensnare me in what is commonly known as 'an April Fool's' prank."
"Bravo, Harry," clapped DeGard. "I knew you would not let me down. You have seen through my little charade."
"But wait," interrupted Gumbo the Pinhead, "Man at end of table am dead. Not breathing. No pulse. Not fog spoon me hold under nose. Flatline on portable cardiograph me have handy."
I rushed to the man. "Great Scott! He's right, Mr. Slothe. The man is dead!"
It was hard to tell - with his sightless eyes hidden behind smoked glasses - whether Mr. Slothe was sorting an answer to this mystery or had fallen victim to another of his frequent strokes. I knew it was the former when the Brobdingnagian detective inhaled with an audible "woosh" and spoke. "Monsieur DeGard, I am happy to say that there can be only one solution to this mysterious death. One that reveals not only the murderer and his or her motive, but the identity of the victim and another fact not yet considered which I think will have lasting repercussions in the field of law. We must call the Governor at once."
WHAT WAS MR. SLOTHE'S SOLUTION TO THIS MYSTERY?
Since my bladder chose that moment to remind me of the eleven grape Nehis I drank with dinner, I was not present for Mr. Slothe's revelation. But I bet it was amazing. And if you've guessed the solution, please let me know what it is.