Your attention is drawn to the enterprising Paco, who delves into those gritty, hardboiled details that escape all but the most seasoned investigators. The story seems to involve a dromedary in heat, after a fashion.
"How do you do, Detective Paco?", the man inquired, extending a small, liver-spotted paw. "I'm Frederick Stuyvesant, and this is my wife, Minerva." The wife gave me a nod and a friendly smile. I invited them to sit down.The whole thing promises to be a jolly romp in the Dashiell Hammett tradition.
Sheila, who appeared to have developed an instant fondness for the Stuyvesants, put her hand on the back of the husband's chair and leaned over to ask if they wanted anything.
Now, one of the most fascinating things about Sheila is this: even when she’s wearing a loose-fitting blouse, as she was that morning, her upper-story charms tend to make the thing look very snug, particularly when the top two buttons are unfastened and she's leaning over a chair. Mr. Stuyvesant, presented with this unexpected view, began licking his lips, like a hungry bear in front of whom two honey pots had just been dangled invitingly, and his right hand wandered absent-mindedly inside his suit jacket, most likely to give his pacemaker a good thump. Minerva jabbed him in the ribs.
"She means coffee or tea, Freddie. Or maybe a nitroglycerine pill."