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How Nick Met Nora
May. 11th, 2012 01:33 amHe frankly reveled in being the dark horse in the room. This was the creme of society, or so he was told. It was said that the creme rose to the top, but he was fairly certain that they should sink, given the added weight in their pockets. But regardless of that, he moved through them with confidence and head held high - a fact that never failed to annoy and to frustrate.
All the better, he would say, all the better.
Nick Charles was a private investigator, a former policeman, and a flatfoot as far as the room was concerned. But one of them was a murderer, and he was going to find out just who it was. He'd followed the clues to their logical conclusion, and had spread the word through various underworld contacts that he'd be meeting tonight with an eyewitness who would shatter the murder of industrialist Emil Lucas wide open. The police had been baffled, and the son - an old drinking buddy and occasional 'for fun' safecracker - had come to the man who had once tracked him down and let him go.
He had the pool of suspects narrowed down to a dozen, and his police friends were at the exits, disguised as waiters and doormen with varying degrees of success. But this crowd didn't notice servants, did they?
He'd make his exit at the appropriate moment, and he would hopefully be followed by a desperate, and worried killer. It had to work, it had to make them not think. In the meantime, there was the matter of the rye in front of him.
And upon which another hand had just closed as his reached for it.
"Excuse me, sister, but this particular glass and I have been eying each other all night."
All the better, he would say, all the better.
Nick Charles was a private investigator, a former policeman, and a flatfoot as far as the room was concerned. But one of them was a murderer, and he was going to find out just who it was. He'd followed the clues to their logical conclusion, and had spread the word through various underworld contacts that he'd be meeting tonight with an eyewitness who would shatter the murder of industrialist Emil Lucas wide open. The police had been baffled, and the son - an old drinking buddy and occasional 'for fun' safecracker - had come to the man who had once tracked him down and let him go.
He had the pool of suspects narrowed down to a dozen, and his police friends were at the exits, disguised as waiters and doormen with varying degrees of success. But this crowd didn't notice servants, did they?
He'd make his exit at the appropriate moment, and he would hopefully be followed by a desperate, and worried killer. It had to work, it had to make them not think. In the meantime, there was the matter of the rye in front of him.
And upon which another hand had just closed as his reached for it.
"Excuse me, sister, but this particular glass and I have been eying each other all night."
