The Private Detectives WC 295

Logan Gilhooly and Shamus McDonald, Private Detectives

My partner and I are hiding in the cellar of the suspect’s house.

We were searching the premises without a warrant, when my partner, Shamus, said, “I thought I heard a noise.”

He is so tentative.

“Did you hear a noise, or do you think you heard a noise?” I said, looking for a definitive statement.

“I heard a noise!” he said, eyes bulging.

“Lower your voice.”

“Near the front door,” he said, a few decibels lower.

“Shamus, it’s an old house,” I whispered, “Old houses creak and moan.”

“What I heard wasn’t a creak or a moan, “Shamus said and headed for the cellar stairs.

“Look, Logan, you can wait to get murdered or arrested for trespassing, but I’m going to hide.”

So here we are, holed up in a dusty, cob-webbed cellar, surrounded by decaying rat carcasses.

I hear footfalls above us.

“More than one,” I whisper.

“I told you!”

Shamus always has to be right.

The cellar doorknob rattles; the door creaks open.

My heart is thumping around in my chest as I wait to be dismembered or at least disemboweled by the insane perp or perps. Shamus grabs my shaking hand.

Really? Really!

I let him.

Flashlight beams dart around the filthy trap we have made for ourselves.

“This is the police. Come out with your hands up.”

We aren’t stupid; we obey.

Captain Grieg comes forward. “I should have known it would be you two screw-ups.”

As we are cuffed and led up the creaky stairs, I take pride in the fact that Logan Gilhooly and Shamus Mc Donald, Private Detectives, were first on the scene and—basically—solved the crime--sort of.

It’s just a matter of time before we catch the murderer...

once we get out of the slammer.