"Speak slower, Mr. Twitty, I can barely understand you," I said to the man sitting across my desk. He'd come to me for help. Seems there'd been a little trouble at the office.

"Mr. Harden, I - I - I can hardly express the sense of urgency connected with this investigation! It's a woman, Mr. Harden. She's up to no good! I think she's plotting to - to - kill me!" He was a nervous little fellow, gone bald, gone fat, smelling of sandwiches with too much mayonnaise. Way too much mayonnaise. I reached into my lower desk drawer and removed a large bottle of whiskey. "Tell me about this woman, Mr. Twitty. What makes you think she plans to kill you?" I poured myself a drink, and a shot for Mr. Twitty. He declined it. Too bad, the poor bastard needed it more than I did.

"She's going to kill me because of - what we did in the filing room!"