The Case of the Missing Quack

The rain hammered against the grime-streaked window of my office, a rhythmic dirge accompanying the ticking of my forgotten meter. Another Tuesday, another dame. This one, however, smelled faintly of lavender and desperation, clutching a purse that probably contained more receipts than secrets.

Her name was Mrs. Higgins, and her eyes, magnified by spectacles, held the terror of a woman who'd seen too much – or, in her case, not enough of her prized possession. 'It's… gone, Mr. Magnum,' she whispered, her voice a fragile flutter. 'My Bartholomew. My prize-winning, antique, limited-edition, French-imported rubber duck.' I blinked. A rubber duck. The mean streets just got… wetter.

I took the case. A detective's gotta eat, even if the menu consists of existential dread and lukewarm coffee. Bartholomew was no ordinary bath toy. He had a tiny monocle, a surprisingly robust historical provenance, and, according to Mrs. Higgins, 'a certain je ne sais quoi.' My first lead: a shifty-eyed squirrel known to frequent her bird feeder. My second: Bartholomew's bitter rival, Archibald 'Archie' 'The Collector' Snodgrass, proprietor of 'Archie's Aquatics & Antiquities,' a veritable den of rubber duck villainy down by the docks.

Archie's shop reeked of stale pond water and competitive collecting. 'Magnum,' he sneered, adjusting his spectacles, 'I knew you'd waddle in eventually.' We traded barbs sharper than a chipped plastic beak. He denied everything, naturally, while polishing a particularly smug-looking duck. Suddenly, I saw it. A faint outline of a tiny monocle, partially obscured by cheap enamel, on a duck tucked behind Archie's counter. Not Bartholomew, but a crude replica! The real Bartholomew, I realized, was probably hiding in plain sight.

I confronted Archie, not with a fist, but with irrefutable logic. 'You wanted Bartholomew gone,' I rumbled, 'to win the annual Rubber Duck Derby uncontested. You made a cheap knock-off to throw her off the scent.' He confessed, tears welling as he admitted his obsession. Bartholomew, it turned out, was simply lodged under Mrs. Higgins's bathtub, a victim of enthusiastic scrubbing and gravity. Archie was arrested for 'impersonation of a water fowl' (a new city ordinance, apparently) and Mrs. Higgins paid my fee, a single shiny quarter. I lit a cigarette, the rain still falling. Another case closed. The city slept, unaware of the aquatic drama I’d averted. Some mysteries, you see, are just too deep for the average bathtub.