On the door  the wording read,
 “Mr.J. Silver
Private Investigator”.
Inside, amid the smoky cigar atmosphere we find the quintessential
image of the privet eye,  screwed up note paper in the bin,  or could it
be unpaid bills?
A half empty or is it half full whiskey bottle sitting on the side board.
A newspaper laid out before him, , his feet crossed settled on the large
oak desk while he leans back on his leather swivel chair,   trilby hanging
from the back of his head
Tipping his chair to an almost precarious angle, Mr Silver’s
eyes swept the headlines,
“Hum usual rubbish” he murmurs to himself
eyeing up the rubbish bin,
“a couple of muggings, a bank robbery,
and some blonde bit got herself shot by a jealous husband”.

It had been one of those quiet dull days when nothing  happens,
oh yer that is right,that is every day.
He poured another  slug of whiskey into his teacup,     lit a Havana .

and continued to balance his chair thinking
wishing some work would come his way.
Then all was so hush
In the hallway outside, he could hear the sound of a woman’s
foot steps, echo, as they got louder and so much closer, he played a game he
often did as he tried to imaged what the woman looked liked,
 ”Well, she’s not heavy” he thought,    “far to light a step for that,”
and it seemed she was in a hurry, I reckon an older women   he thought
 Building a picture in his mind “blonde” (I think that bit was just
more a wish then logic)    “and short,”   ” I can tell by the quickness of the step”.

Suddenly a form stood outside the glass panel of his office door,
there was a gentle knock.
He coughed to clear his throat,   “t’s open” come on in he  yelled,”
The figure appeared before him, the owner of the footsteps.
She  was   tall,  slim   “Well I got that bit right”     silver thought, attractive woman in her forties,
dressed all in black, she had a way of wearing a dress that
looked as if she had just been poured into it… her high stilettos,
shaped her ankles and legs which made them just impossible not to look at.

Silvers feet fell to the floor pushing his trilby onto the back of his head while
sucking on his cigar,with a corner smirk along side his Havana
and  in a low deep manly voice,said “and what can I do for you sweet?”
“Oh Mr Silver you gotta help me”, she gave a little sniff, touched the
corner of her nose with her silk handkerchief and continued;
“I’m in deep deep trouble if you can’t help Me” and so started another
of  Mr Silvers  days,  each leading him into a different adventure.

 ”I’m in deep deep trouble if you can’t help me,    you see,
I have lost my necklace it’s only a silver one with a precious
key on it, entering her  hand bag to show him picture of the necklace.
  ..
 My husband gave me on our anniversary it’s not worth more than about £50,
but he will kill me if he finds out I have lost it”.    You see he told me
that one day I would learn of this key,      but up until then I
must protect it with my life.