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The hot blonde entered my office, slinging her hips, and I sprang to attention behind my cluttered desk. Call me Sam Slade, private detective to the stars...and to anyone else who had fifty bucks to retain me for a day. Plus expenses, of course.

Fifty bucks was big money in 1946. It rented a furnished apartment for a month (utilities included), bought an excellent suit of clothes, or made a payment on my Hudson convertible. But back to the blonde...

"Put it on the wood, honey," I said to her, and she looked at me as if I was something that had crawled out from under a rock. But we private dicks talked that way, and she might as well get used to it.

She sat on a straight chair near my desk which was cunningly positioned so I could appreciate the scenery when a pretty woman crossed her legs. She did, and I did. Her skirt pulled back from a perfect pair of knees sheathed in nylon. I got a glimpse of a garter clipped to a stocking top, and bare thigh above. I adjusted myself in my swivel chair so my buddy Pete, down below, had plenty of room to stretch out.

"What can I do for you, Miss uh...?" I was thinking of a few things already.

"Betty Culver," she said, showing pearly teeth behind red lips that knew how to smile. I eyeballed her chest, appreciating the perky bulges. ...

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