Traps Need Fresh Bait

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It was about three-thirty in the afternoon — the time when lunch counters begin to fill up with persons playing hooky from the business offices in nearby skyscrapers, persons who are looking for an afternoon coffee break with perhaps a piece of pie a la mode, or a sandwich for those who have weight problems.

Having no weight problem, I was craving sweets and was about to ask Elsie Brand, my secretary, to go out and join me in an ice cream when I saw a peculiar red flickering light on the frosted-glass panel of my private office.

The knob turned.

Someone on the other side kicked the door open, and then I saw what had made the peculiar lights — a circular cake studded with burning candles.

Elsie Brand was in the lead carrying the cake. Directly behind her was big Bertha Cool, the senior partner in our private detective business — a hundred and sixty-five pounds of rough, tough, profane efficiency.

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