My office door opened just after four. “Are you Luis Baker the Private Eye?”

“That’s what it says on the chart.” I replied asking the dame her name.

“Miss Biscuit,” she said, “if you really must know.” Her words crisp as she rolled in looking like she was loaded with dough.

Refined flour, I thought to myself. “Well, Miss Biscuit, what brings a fresh dame like you to a crummy place like this?”

“I’m abroad,” she said.

“Oh you are?” I replied, taken aback. “Okay. So why’s a broad like you here anyway?”

“I mean – it’s a holiday for me.”

“Is that right? So what are you celebrating, sister?”

She rolled her eyes. I knew she was hiding something. She knew I was on to her.

“Is there a John here?” She asked.

“Yeah, down the hall; second door on the left. Flush first, if you don’t mind.”

“What I asked, sir, was ‘does John work here?’ I do not need a loo, my good man.”

“Hey you came lookin’ for me lady! Now, are you going to tell me what’s eatin’ you or not?”

That Miss Biscuit was one tough cookie.