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.

It had been a period of uncharacteristic industry at the mighty world headquarters of Justice and Dixon.

We had been gainfully employed for 26 of the previous 30 days

on a variety of matters of little or no interest.

We had both snooped on housewives and snooped on behalf of housewives.

We had run down leads for bail bondsmen and helped a local antiques dealer to invalidate a will.

We had recovered stolen property and stolen very little property ourselves.

We had overturned a conviction and helped to free an innocent man in the process, and we also

located not one, not two, but three lost cats. We have been playing expense accounts off each other

for so long that Miss Dixon was beginning to feel a slight tugging sensation about the middle to which she was entirely unaccustomed,

largely the result of not buying my own lunch in nearly a month.

And yet, as always, there was a knowledge that it couldn't possibly last.

The law of large numbers simply would not allow Old Square John I to settle into

industrious prosperity, and sooner or later the piper must be paid for all this expense account

chop suey. It was as inevitable as death and taxes. It was this particular phrase which cast

a cloud over my morning as I typed up a final bill for

a Mrs. Helen P. Sweet of Henderson Drive, who would shortly be sharing some rather candid

photographs of Mr. Sweet with a divorce court. Not the certainty that the good times must

surely end, but the entrance of the shop-worn cliche. They always seem to rear their ugly

little heads just before things were about

to get interesting, and who the heck needs that? Excuse me, I was looking for the firm of Justice and Dixon?

...