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It was a quiet day - and had been a quiet week - in the old brownstone at the corner of West Thirty-Fifth and Baker Streets. My boss, World Famous Private Investigator Harry Slothe, was upstairs in the aviary, throwing a birthday party for Burgess, his prize-winning macaw. I was downstairs in the office, dusting and looking through the bank balance - which was lower than it had been since the case I called "The Adventure of the Mistaken Identity and the Huge Lawsuit."
I was hoping the morning mail would bring a new client, and when I saw the package wrapped in plain brown paper, my hopes soared. Though it was addressed to Mr. Slothe, I was - after all - his confidential assistant. It wouldn't be the first time I'd opened his mail. Or forged his signature. Or disguised my voice as his when the FBI . . . but that's another story for another time. Just then, my mind was on getting the package to the office and opening it.
My excitement turned to disappointment when the paper fell away to reveal this month's Braille edition of Playboy. I'd caught Mr. Slothe reading one many months ago. It was the first time I'd seen him blush since "The Misadventure of the Nearsighted Proctologist." He'd quickly stuffed the magazine into a desk drawer and muttered something about "only feeling it for the articles."
Just then I heard the elevator on its way down from the aviary. My first thought was to hide the magazine, which isn't hard when the person you're hiding it from is blind. That's the same reason he refers to the painting of dogs playing poker which hangs in the office as "my unsigned Van Gogh." So I simply left the magazine on my desk. I knew that if Mr. Slothe got hold of it, he would be indisposed for the rest of the day. And one of the reasons he keeps me around is to keep his brain working. With no cases on the slate and no prospects, his discipline is easily eroded.
In a moment, the specially built wheelchair rolled into the office, straining under Mr. Slothe's fifth of a ton and the extra pound or so of Burgess, sitting on his shoulder.
"Good afternoon, Joseph. I'm sorry you missed the party," said the Falstaffian sleuth.
The bird squawked, "Awwk. Harry ate the cake. Harry ate the cake. Awwk."
Mr. Slothe's eyebrows arched. "I did say I would make it up to you, Burgess. Any mail today, Joseph?"
"Just a few bills. Nothing special," I answered cautiously.
"Awwk. Playboy on Joe's desk. Playboy on Joe's desk," the macaw repeated.
I looked at Burgess. "There's a fresh cuttlebone in the kitchen!" I said enthusiastically. When the bird had flown off, I closed and locked the office doors. Determined to keep Mr. Slothe's brain working, I confronted him with one of the many riddles I keep in store for these occasions. It goes like this:
Upon my back I wear a hump / As dumb, at least, as Forest Gump / In desert sand and often hotter / I go for days without any water.
What am I?
The puzzle occupied my boss just long enough for him to forget about the magazine on my desk. Sadly, not long enough to forget that it was bath night.
CAN YOU GUESS THE ANSWER TO THE RIDDLE?
I am a retarded, thirsty, hunchbacked Arab.