Special Agents Clarke and Driscoll surveyed the room. It was a cramped little bedsit in a bad neighbourhood. The chalk outline marked the place where the body had lain, slumped over the end of the bed.

“This is an open and shut case,” Driscoll said. “What the hell do they need us for?”

Clarke didn’t answer. There was something wrong about the room; something had been disturbed and not just the previous tenant. A shelf above the bed held a few books that had fallen to the right.

“There was something there,” Clarke said.

Driscoll glanced at the bookshelf. “So?”

“So something was stolen.”

Driscoll sighed. “All right I’ll bite. What was stolen?”

“It had to be heavy enough to keep those books upright but small enough to fit on the shelf. Whoever put it up wasn’t much of a handiman. One of those brackets is loose. I’d say it was a music box.”

Driscoll raised an eyebrow. “Y’know, I hated Sherlock Holmes as a kid. So, I guess we’re on the case then.”

“Lucky us.” Clarke smiled sidelong at her partner.