Jack McCurdy's on the Case
Jack's office was tiny, and up two flights of stairs. It was not New York, to be sure, where fancy dames were no doubt beating down the door of every shamus in town. But he could daydream that one might find her way here, in time for him to pay the rent.
His daydream of a blonde siren was shattered by a frantic knock on his door. Alas, it was not a lovely lady - it was quite the opposite, and a strange opposite indeed. A man of late middle years was there, wearing a most unusual outfit; a black robe, with a rope belt, and rope sandals. He was bald, but had a mustache and beard, salt-and-pepper grey. A plain wood-bead rosary hung from the rope belt, a carved wood cross at the end of it. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses was the only other ornament. Abruptly Jack realised he was looking at a monk, one of the ones from that monastery tucked away in the back woods of Arkansas.
"May I have the honour of addressing Mr. McCurdy ?" the man asked, his voice fretful as his expression, but nonetheless polite, and accented strangely.