The Giaconda Caper

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It was a Thursday morning in January—stale and dank as last night’s cigar butts—and my office phone hadn’t rung all week. I was slumped at the desk, waiting out a tequila hangover, when this tall creamy blonde walked in. The way she was dressed whispered of money, and what was inside the dress hinted at my other hobby—but I was feeling too lousy to take much notice.

She set a flat parcel on my desk and said, “Are you Phil Dexter, the private psi?”

I tipped back my hat and gave her a bleak smile. “What does it say on my office door, baby?”

Her smile was equally cool. “It says Glossop’s Surgical Corset Company.”

“I’ll kill that signwriter,” I gritted. “He promised to be here this week for sure. Two months I’ve been in this office, and …”

“Mr Dexter, do you mind if we set your problems on one side and discuss mine?” She began untying the string on the parcel.

“Not at all.” Having lost the initiative, I decided it would be better to improve customer relations. I never saw much sense in private psis trying to talk and act like private eyes, anyway. “How can I help you, Miss …?”

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