The Detective’s Story

by Amy Randolph

It was a dull, rainy day, towards the end of August—one of those days when earth and sky alike are gray and dreary, and the rain drops pattering against the window sound like human sobs. The clock that hung against the wall pointed to the hour of three in the afternoon, and I was sitting by myself in our little inner office, looking out at the expanse of dull, gray wall that formed my only prospect from the not over-clean windows, and thinking. I had read every square inch of type in the newspapers; I had made out all the necessary papers and documents, and now with, literally, “nothing to do,” I was musing about Kitty Elton, and wondering how long it would be before I should be able to marry her.

Dear little Kitty! she was as sweet and patient as it was in the nature of woman to be, but I knew it was a hard life for her in that over-crowded milliner’s work-room, day after day and month after month, and I longed to set her free from the monotonous captivity. She was a pretty, blue-eyed girl of twenty, with a dimple in her chin and the sweetest roses on her cheeks that ever inspired the pen of poet. I was no poet, yet I think I understood and appreciated all her womanly grace and delicate beauty as fully as if my heart’s thoughts could shape themselves into verse. And it was of them I was thinking when the door opened, and Mr. Clenner came in.

Mr. Clenner was our “chief”—a dark, silent, little man, with a square, stern mouth and clouded gray eyes, which appeared almost expressionless when they were turned full upon you, and yet which seemed to see everything at one comprehensive glance. He sat down beside me.

“Meredith,” he said, in the quiet, subdued tone that was natural to him, “didn’t you say you were getting tired of doing nothing?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I have something for you to do.”

“What is it, sir?”