The Iron Maiden

Being a private investigator means two things. You can be sure you'll run into trouble, and you can never be sure you'll get out of it. Not much you can do about it, I guess, except like Julie always says.

Walk softly, please, Troy. And now, Peter Troy investigates the Iron Maiden. You often read creepy stories, that is, if you're given to reading creepy stories at all. About a hand reaching out from beyond the grave to take revenge on some poor jerk or to right a wrong done during a lifetime in this crazy world.

Now these stories are based on what seems to be a natural instinct in man, the instinct to perpetuate himself in some way, to leave behind him some influence or other after he's dead, which accounts for the wacky way in which some folks draw up their wills.

Some people, not content with just leaving their worldly goods to others, feel it necessary to attach all kinds of conditions. And as any lawyer can tell you, some of those conditions get really far out.

and none of the people who like to leave behind a kind of riddle. No doubt hoping to have themselves a darn good laugh at the antics of their relatives who have to solve it. Which brings me to the case of a certain old doll by the name of Sarah Young and a clutch of relatives

of varying virtue. But you can't be serious. I do love this place. It's a beautiful house. It may have been beautiful once, Bonnie, but it is day and age. It's nothing more than a a dreary old pile, an eyesore.

That's what you say. The little money spent on it could be restored and it would make a wonderful home. A home? For what? Straight cats? Who'd wanna live in such a dump? I would for one.