Knock, knock.

“Come in.”

Looking up, I noticed a well-dressed man in his forties had entered my office and sat down on one of the two chairs in front of my desk.

He must be loaded since he’s wearing one of those expensive grotesque-looking brooches on his coat. I can’t even tell what it’s supposed to be.

Great.

I hope this isn’t another rich guy trying to find out whether his spoiled wife is cheating on him like last time.

Shoving the stacks of paper aside, I light a cigar and prop my chin up with my hand.

Let the party begin.

“Good afternoon. Are you Mr. Daniel Moida?”

I curtly nodded in his direction, “The one and only. So, what can I do for you, sir?”

He was sweating profusely.

“I’m Raymond Brooks, a private book collector. I need you to investigate a theft,” he began.

Who hires a private investigator for a theft when the police exist?

“Why wouldn’t you go to the police with this matter right away?”

I take a puff of my cigar.

This ought to be a good story.

“You see, the police refuse to investigate the matter… no matter how much I try to sway them into doing so.”

Ah, that’s why he’s here.

They won’t help him.

“Let’s hear it. Tell me what happened.”

“A few weeks ago, I ordered a few books – exceedingly invaluable tomes, if you will, from another private book collector in New England,” he fidgeted with his fingers as he continued his tale, “I contacted the company that usually oversees my shipments. There were two employees who were incredibly eager to take on the job when they heard it was for me, but last night, they were in an accident. The thing is, one of the tomes is gone, but other items I ordered were retrieved from the truck.”

“I see. So, you’d like me to locate the missing cargo then, I presume?”

“Correct, sir,” he responded eagerly, “I’ll pay you handsomely for your time, I promise.”

I run a hand over my brown beard.

Not a bad deal, considering all I have to do is find a book.

After all, I haven’t been able to afford to fix up Betsy’s engine since the Great Depression started a few years ago.

“Alright, tell me more about this lost tome.”

“Well, it’s just a green tome on theology and occultism…” he trailed off, “it’s an interest of mine.”

The rich and their questionable hobbies.

“Mhm, what about the accident?”

“The delivery truck crashed into a tree on Grove Road. Other than the fact that the tome was missing by the time it was discovered, there was nothing peculiar about the scene. It’s still there if you want to see it, sir.”

“Very well, and these two men you mentioned just now, who are they and what did they have to say about the incident?”

“George Castus was hired to pick up the shipment and bring it to my home here in Portcroft. It was a short trip, since Innsmouth isn’t that far from here, you see. For that very reason, I only hired one guard, Barnabas Marsh, to help secure the goods.”

I scratched my head and took another puff of my cigar.

Isn’t Innsmouth that bizarre backwater town that was raided years ago?

“As of what became of them, well,” Brooks hesitated, his brow furrowed and sweaty, “George Castus is at Creedmoor State Hospital for treatment. Barnabus Marsh’s injuries were minor, so he was discharged earlier, but he resigned shortly after. He wasn’t the same after the injury, you see. He’s changed since. Something serious must’ve transpired during the trip and while I do hope they recover; I must insist that the missing tome is far more important than their current predicaments.”

Wow, what a selfish ingrate.

“Right,” I say slowly.

“If you’d like to speak to them,” Brooks added, “I could share their addresses with you.”

“That’d helpful, but let’s talk about payment first.”