I never thought I'd be writing my memoirs.  Frankly, I never expected to live this long, not in my line of work, but here I am.  As I sit here in my leather armchair, a fire roaring in front of me, it's easy to call up all the memories of bygone days.  One case, though, sticks out in the vast filing cabinet of my mind.  I like to call it, "The Silhouette of a Dame," because that's how it all started. 

It's not easy being a private eye in Old Montreal, let me tell you, but this case started out looking like a piece of cake.  I'm not often wrong, but brother, was I ever.  The year was 1929.  Prohibition was in full force in the US, which of course inspired every crook between here and Texas to start up his own bootleg operation.  Rum running was the most common and untraceable crime of the day, and gangs were flourishing.  Gangsters, like Al Capone, were springing up everywhere and they were almost impossible to catch. 

I was a young private investigator, cocky, arrogant, and often just plain dumb.  I didn't get many cases and the ones that did come my way were small.  Until, that is, the day that Torchy walked into my office.  That is a day I will never forget.

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The cobbled streets were empty as I made my way to the office.  The pale circles of light coming from the street lamps served only to increase my wariness.  The snub-nosed pistol in my shoulder holster felt heavy and cool through my shirt.  A wino lay sleeping in an alley.  I probably should have reported him, but my heart just wasn't in it.  My career was on its way out; I was being evicted, my last case had turned into a muddled, complicated mess, and my reputation was shot.  But I still had my pride...Oh, who was I kidding?  All I had was a hat, a trenchcoat, and a revolver.

I was so distracted I almost walked past my office building.  I tried the handle, but the door was locked.  Wearily, I pulled a ring of keys out of my pocket and slipped a heavy iron one into the lock.  It turned with a resounding click that echoed through the narrow street.  I eased my way into the dark hallway and reached for the light switch.  I truned the knob and a warm yellow llight spilled into the street from the still-open door.  I leaned on the door and it closed smoothly behind me.  I sidled down the hall to my office.

The glass-paned door bore my name, Max Munday, across a frosted-glass window in  gold lettering.  Underneath that were the words "Private Investigator."  I ran a finger across the slightly raised lettering and sighed wistfully.  By the following Monday, I'd never see it again.  The doorknob urned in my hand and I shuffled in.  My hat and trenchcoat took their usual places on my antique coat stand, but a cold draft whistled around my ears and I slipped my hat back on.

A cardboard box sat on the floor.  I contained my few meagre posessions and the jar of jelly I had bought the previous week.  My stomach rumbled inquisitively, and I picked up the jar.  AS I bent down, the small heel of day-old bread in my pocket fell in to the box.  Sighing heavily, I scooped it back up, brushed it off, and scrounged around for a knife.  Not finding the required utensil, I had to be satisfied with my letter opener, which worked surprisingly well.

The sandwich wasn't the greatest meal I had ever eaten, but I supposed I would have to be satisfied until I could afford real food, which wouldn't be until I got a new case.  (The likelihood of which matched the odds of finding a needle in a haystack).  Depression threatened to overcome me, so instead of sinking into a self-pitying stupor, I got busy; my desk had never looked so clean.  Finally, I was so tired I had to stop.

A cold glare from the full moon traced lines across my office through the slats in my Venetian blinds.  The air near the window was cooler, refreshing.  I stood there, peering into the gloomy street for a long time.  Every once in a while a car would pass, its occupants strangely shadowed as the lights from various warehouses and offices flooded over the roof.  Somewhere, a clock struck midnight with a deep, sonorous boom.  I jumped, not realizing how late and quiet it had gotten.  All the lights had gone out, and the stars glittered coldly.

Frustrated with life, I sat down at my desk and put my head down on the cool mahogany.  My fingers traced an idle path around various scratches, burns and gouges.  It was going to be a long night.

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The ceiling fan spun in lazy circles over my desk, cutting a path through the hazy air.  I was attempting to relax after a very long and tiring day, and had just leaned back in my chair, put my feet up on the desk, and pulled my hat down over my eyes, when there was a knock at the door.  I sat up sharply and glanced towards the source of the noise.  I did not receive many visitors after midnight.  All I could see through the translucent glass was a silhouette.  The silhouette of a dame.
"Come in," I called, swiping at a lock of hair that had just dropped in front of my eyes.  The door opened with a squeak - I kept meaning to oil it - and there, outlined by the warm yellow light of the corridor which was spilling into my dimly lit office, was the customer who would change my life.

Now, Sherlock Holmes I ain't, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that the lady was in trouble.  She stepped in hesitantly and perched on one of the wooden chairs in front of my desk, after closing the door and hanging up her raincoat.
"What can I do for ya, toots?" I asked, picking up a pen to take notes.
"I'm in trouble.  Big trouble," she said quietly, dabbing at her eyes with a white lace handkerchief.  I waited for her to compose herself and continue.  "You see, it all started last Wednesday.  Now, I ain't the sharpest knife in the drawer, but I ain't dumb, so when Charlie started spending more and more time at the club, I was suspicious, see?"  She stopped to blow her nose.

"Ma'am," I began, "do you think you could tell me your name, the name of the club, and who this Charlie character is?"
"Oh.  Yeah, sure.  My name is Alice Mart-Aleck, but my friends call me Ace.  Of course, at the club they call me Torchy.  Charlie Lamont is the owner of the Green Tomato, downtown.  Charlie and I are engaged, and I'm the star attraction at the Green Tomato.  At least, I was, until Charlie hired that bimbo, Molly Bloom.  But I digress.  Charlie was still coming home at a reasonable hour - we live in the same building - until last week.  Well, we've been engaged for four months," she flashed her ring at me, " and I never had any reason to suspect anything, but he's been getting in later and later every night.  I know, I watch from my window.  Oh, and one other thing.  I think I'm being followed."  I was scrawling almost illegibly at this point.

This is it, I realized.  My big break, and my last chance.  I stared hungrily at the large diamond glittering on Torchy's ring finger, gazed greedily at the magnificent opal necklace clasped about her neck.  I could almost taste the success.  Then reality kicked in, like a cold shower on a hot day.  My heart sank.  I had never actually solved a case yet, and this was a big one.

I realized with a start that Torchy was still talking.
"Ma'am, could you give me that part again, I asked.  A slightly irritated look flashed across her face, but she complied anyway.
"Now, Mr. Munday, I realize that you are in the business of law enforcement, but I'm gonna tell you straight out: Charlie runs a speakeasy, and he sells illegal hooch across the border.  I'm guessin' you woulda figured it out sooner or later, so I just thought we'd establish some ground rules.  You don't bust Charlie for the hooch, and I'll throw in an extra two grand.  All I want you to do is find out why Charlie is hangin' around the club so late," she glared at me menacingly, so I nodded. "Good!" she snaped, slapping a stakc of bills onto the table.  I gaed at the cash, not really believing what I was seeing.  Torchy got up, put her coat on and headed for the door.

"Where can I contact you?" I asked, as her hand was on the doorknob.
"Meet me at the Green Tomato tomorrow night, 10:30," she whispered, then disappeared.  I sank in to my chair and then stood up again.  I paced back and forth in front of my desk, periodically sidling over to the window to peer through the slats.  A violent downpour had begun and water was coursing down the street into the sewers.  Finally, I tired of pacing and sat down to count the cash on my desk.

I'm LOVING this. Thanks for sharing!!

It IS a good read isnt it

I'm quite excited about what's gonna happen next
One thing - what's hooch? lol