Once again, Decoder Ring Theater presents another page from the casebook of that Master of Mystery,

that's Sultan of Sleothing, Martin Bracknell's immortal detective, Black Jack Justice,

starring Christopher Mott as Jack and Andrea Lyons as Trixie Dixon Girl Detective.

The name's Justice. The name's Justice.

Jack, Justice.

I'm a Seamus, a gumshoe, a private eye, what you will.

Some people say with a name like mine, it's no wonder.

Of course, I once knew a man named Friendly who stabbed six people,

and a girl named Hero who fainted at the first sign of danger, so not everyone chooses to self-apply the identity of their birth certificate thrust upon them.

Besides, if I wrote it Jonathan J. Justice, I'd have made a swell lawyer, and J.J. Justice sounds like a newspaper man to me.

So it all comes down to how you wear your hat.

Me, I wear mine pulled low to shield my baby blues from the afternoon sun as I slide my way

into the office. The brim, slowly releasing the cloud of smoke it accumulates as I wait for

the antique elevator to consider carrying me to the third floor agency digs.

That's how it happens most every day, except the part about the afternoon. Today, seeing the

light glowing behind the frosted glass that read Jack Justice investigations, I knew I had

miscalculated. She was already there. Well, well, the late Mr. Justice. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed,

are we? We are. It took some doing, but we are.

I thought you were on the Rosen case.

Wrapped it up neat and tidy, about 11.30 last night.

She paid cash?

Good job, Trixie. You closed the case, drove across town, got a luxurious six-hour sleep,

...