I’m A Private Detective And I’m Here To Ask Questions, Not Start A Torrid Love Affair
My passion is solving crimes, not passion.
Alright, Miss Cornswaithe, you listen up good because I’m only going to say this seven times or so. I’m here to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Harold MacDuff and I’m not interested in any hanky panky whatsoever. This is a purely professional visit, late at night, being conducted in your private library. You are going to sit here and answer my questions about Mr. MacDuff while we have six or ten social drinks.
I don’t want any funny business. You’re my last interview of the evening and everyone so far has tried to fight me, seduce me, or perform amateur dentistry on me. Frankly, I’m running out of patience and teeth. What I need more of are answers. First question’s easy: do you want those whiskeys with or without ice?
Second question’s harder: how did your sister and Mr. MacDuff meet? Don’t deny it, every goon on the street’s been jawing about MacDuff sneaking around with some blonde heiress, and I already checked out the alibis of Misses Pendersmythe and Whalingskub. Don’t play games with me, I’ve been kicked, slipped a mickey, shot at, poisoned, tickled, poisoned again, insulted, antidoted, and mistakenly garroted. The last thing I want to do is go to the billiards room to…