The High Pressure Harpy

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.

Work South Lee, Peter Troy. And now Peter Troy investigates the high-pressure hobby. You're here of people being bitten by the love bug, and maybe there's more than a little sense to that expression. In my book, Love is a very odd kind of bug with more variations than the common cold virus, so that no two sets of lovers seem affected in quite the same way by this most deadly of

diseases. Oh, but my philosophizing on the subject of Love is come about as a result of my calling to mind a certain doll by the name of Diana Hoffman, in a case that actually began in a little corner store run by a guy whose name was Hagety.

There we are, Mrs. Pitiver, two and seven. Three shillings, four, six, eight, and two is ten. Thank you very much. Oh, thank you, Mr. Hegerty. Oh, you're with the time. I must hurry home and feed my pussy.

Goodbye, Mrs. Pitiver. Now, sir, what can I do for you? I stick up this place. Give me all the money, quick. What? You kid! This shotgun, blow your head off. Quick, all the money. You'll never get away with this.

You're money, I say. All right, all right. Oh, well, oh, sir, look at you, Mr. Pitiverty. Oh, oh, oh, oh, dear. Shut up, you. You'll never get away with it. Open them, honey, books. Here, here I do.