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"Yesterday afternoon, my boss - World Famous Private Investigator Harry Slothe - received a call in the office of our brownstone, which squats at the corner of West Thirty-Fifth and Baker Streets. The call came from Laszlo Stafilopolis - "Staf the Giraffe" to those who followed his illustrious basketball career - and not the first celebrity to require our services. Although he didn't go into detail on the phone, we gathered his problem had something to do with the book he'd written about his numerous sexual conquests.
So in the elevator the next afternoon on the way to Staf's penthouse suite, I was looking forward to filling my notebook with the kind of juicy stories that make great late night reading.
Nothing could have erased those fantasies quicker than the sight of the police army that was swarming through the penthouse when we arrived.
I described the scene to my boss, who growled in disgust, sensing circumstances that might delay lunch. As we approached the group, our old friend Inspector Kramer spotted us. I knew it was bad from the amount of gum Kramer was chewing; he looked like a chipmunk preparing for winter. By the time we reached him, he'd popped another three pieces and muttered a word that sounded like "jit."
"Must you chew that . . . stuff!" demanded Mr. Slothe.
"I thought you were blind?" Kramer retorted.
"Pardon me. From the sound, perhaps I've rolled into a cow pasture." I chuckled and Kramer snapped, "Cut the comedy, Slothe. I had enough headaches before you showed up. And by the way - why are you here?"
"To speak to a client, Mr. Stafilopolis."
The Inspector blew a bubble and popped it. Mr. Slothe winced. "Well, I hope you brought a ouija board. Stafilopolis killed himself last night." I knew what my boss was thinking; he always finds it suspicious when a client kills himself before being billed.
"Since you seem to have ruled out foul play, Inspector, you won't mind if Mr. Baloney and I satisfy ourselves on that account." And he wheeled himself past the army and into the room where Staf's body still lay in the middle of the floor, all 7'3" of him. "Joseph. Report."
I described the scene: the room was small and sparse. One window - the kind that doesn't open - and the only door the one we came through. A wood desk and simple chair were against one wall. The only other piece of furniture was a safe, about three feet square, unopened in the corner. Then I knelt to the body and described what I saw while the Brobdingnagian sleuth hovered over me. When I got as far as the crumbs of Twinkie in Staf's hair, I realized they were falling from Mr. Slothe's mouth. He finished his snack and turned toward Kramer, who had been watching our progress and blowing bubbles.
"If I may, Inspector. What is your basis for ruling Mr. Stafilopolis' death a suicide?"
"The door was locked from the inside. There's no other way in. The gun is there on the floor. You heard Baloney's description."
"Indeed I did. And how many suicides shoot themselves while standing? I'll answer for you: fewer than one percent. And below the waist? None in my broad experience."
"The guy had long arms. He's despondent. The gun is hanging in his hand. He decides to end it."
"I fear the sugar from that gum is rotting more than just your teeth, Inspector. Was anything found on the body?"
"Just his wallet, some keys and a ticket stub from the circus."
"Ah, yes, I remember him mentioning on the phone that he was attending last night's performance. With one of his girlfriends I believe?"
"She cancelled at the last minute."
"Sudden illness?"
"Fear of clowns." The Inspector continued, "He went alone. From the looks of things, he killed himself shortly after returning home."
"Hmm." Mr. Slothe drummed with sausage-like fingers on the arm of his chair and let his head loll to one side. He breathed in deeply. "Inspector, I'm afraid you will have to abandon your notion of suicide. Fortunately for you, I am on hand to provide a suitable alternative."
CAN YOU SOLVE THE DEATH OF STAF THE GIRAFFE?
I'll tell it in Mr. Slothe's own words:
"No man, having enjoyed an evening at the circus, could be despondent enough to commit suicide. That is a fact. It is also a fact that no murderer could have left this room. The final fact, which you have obviously overlooked, is that when a 7'3" man goes to the circus, his stature is bound to arouse the ire of its midget performers. That explains why Mr. Stafilopolis was shot below the waist. And if you open the safe in the corner, you will find the murderer hiding comfortably, awaiting an opportunity to escape."
Mr. Slothe was right on all counts but one: the circus midget had died from asphyxiation.