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 Dixon. Trixie Dixon, girl detective.

They say there's nothing sure in this world but death and taxes.

Whoever wrote that obviously never shared an office with Jack Justice on the third Thursday of October.

On that fine day, come rain or shine, he'd open the office door softly,

wobbled to his desk as if walking on eggshells underwater,

and leaned softly back in his chair as if he'd just gone nine rounds with Gentleman Jim.

A moment later, a fine sweat would break out on his brow.

The office would fill with a delicate aroma of a vermouth factory in midsummer, and, if it weren't already, I would open the office windows as far as the weather would allow.

Momentarily buoyed by the influx of oxygen, he would pry the lids off the sliced tomatoes he was wearing in his eye sockets, and point them at me in a manner he believed to be imploringly.

This was my signal that on this one day, I was not merely permitted to make the coffee. I was actually encouraged to do so.

Even once there were several cups in him, he was seldom much good anyone for the rest of the day.

See, the remnants of Blackjack's platoon would get together on the third Wednesday in October, for reasons he would never explain, to see if they could

finish off with whiskey, those whom the Germans had spared. I never knew why he didn't just stay

home the next morning. It seemed to be part of an intricate right of penance that I wasn't meant

to understand. Death and taxes. Death and taxes.

Another cup, soldier boy?

Why do you mock me?

Do you even own a mirror?

Shh. Oh, no.

...