The Casual Inspector Caswell

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 self-plea. Please, a try. And now, Peter Troy investigates the casual inspector casual. There are some people who maintain that although the police will drive you nuts with questions and such like when you don't want to see them, They're never a row when they're needed.

Well, I can't go along with that for the simple reason that I've personally found the police pretty helpful on more than one occasion. And my old buddy Detective Inspector Caswell has come through for me many a time.

Although I wouldn't want you to tell him that, as if it might spoil our comfortable cat and dog arrangement. I recall one occasion, however, when the good Inspector behaved, in my opinion, like a third-rate snook.

And I could cheerfully have rung his neck if his neck had been around at the time. It more or less started when I got home to my apartment one night. After a rather trying day.

Oh, Mr. Troy. What? Oh, Mr. Troy, I'm so glad I found you. Your office was closed and I just had to see you. Oh, well, do I know you? Oh, no. My name's Stanton. Paula's Stanton.

Mr. Troy, you must help me. I'm in serious trouble. Yeah, well, look, Mr. Stanton. I'm kind of bush right now. Now, couldn't it wait till the morning? No, it can't. If you don't help me now, grab him, Bruno.

Hey, what the fuck? Right, just let us down, inside quick. Right, in here. Closing over here. OK. Look, just what is this? If you want to play rough, pal, you've come to the right guy.