It was warm sunny day in the nineteen twenties, but in the eyes of Merrill Elwin’s detective agency this day was the same as the rest, cold dark and lifeless. He sits in his first floor office, alone. Sunlight shines in upon his old desk. Merrill likes to think of himself as a private eye, but upon any inspection, he misses the mark. Beyond settling in the poorer part of town, in which the multiple stains on the sides of the building can be forgiven, his “office” could be improved. The window behind him, which he knows is completely essential for any PI, is extremely cracked. One of the back legs of the desk is now propped up by multiple copies of the daily news, all muddy. The hat rack behind the door is slightly charred for unknown reasons, and leans against the wall. In the office, two things are in useable condition, the phone and the bookshelf. The phone sits on the desk with speakers that, to this point, have only gathered dust. The bookshelf sits against the side wall and is filled with Sherlock Holmes novels and newspaper clippings of other investigators, Merrill’s inspiration. Merrill yearns to be a PI, yet unlike others in the business; he is kind, well mannered, optimistic, and always has a sense of humor. Merrill takes a sip of the spirits on his desk, and promptly spits it back out. “I’ll get used to it” he tells himself, still trying to spit some out; He won’t. The phone erupts to life, and shocks Merrill. He quickly reaches across his desk and fumbles with the rotary phone. He pulls it into his chair and quickly picks up the receiver.

“Hello?” He says frantically.
“Is this a detective agency?” A voice asks.
“Yes!” He answers just as frantically
“Is ... is everything alright?”
“Yes, yes, quite alright.” Merrill says calmly, trying channel his inner detective.
“I have a tip-off.” The voice asks, extremely concerned.
“Oh!” Following this, all that is heard from Merrill’s side of the line for multiple seconds are squeaky drawers being forcibly opened and closed followed by the rustling of papers, it then stops. “What is the tip?” Merrill asks.
“I heard that something illegal is being handed off in a gray briefcase on the corner of 94th and Sullivan street tomorrow at 2 O’clock.”
“Thanks for the info, by the way what is your …”

The caller hangs up. As Merrill finishes writing the information on his hand, he hangs up the phone, and puts it on the desk. He then leaps out of his chair and looks up with a smile for much deserved praise; until he remembers he is alone, and slinks back into his chair.

Merrill leans against a brick wall near the specified location, reading a newspaper. He looks down at his watch, 1:45. He decides to look over his inventory within his trench coat. An empty wallet, containing all of his cash and valuables. A Smith & Wesson, though he has no idea what make it is. It is also currently unloaded, for his budget's sake. A half-empty lighter, and a box of cigarettes containing basil which he rolled himself. Burning basil, conveniently, is Merrill’s favorite smell. The other contents on his person are: a brown fedora; a matching trench coat; his best suit and pants, which others may call their worst; a handkerchief in his suit pocket; and some lint. As Merrill goes back to reading his newspaper, he looks up and sees someone in all black with a grey briefcase walking towards the corner. Merrill try to inconspicuously both read the newspaper and watch the man. This results in Merrill very noticeably glancing rapidly between both. The man coolly drops the briefcase before crossing the street. Merrill looks around, noticing another man in all black walking briskly towards the briefcase. Merrill realizes that now is his chance, grabs the briefcase, and ducks into a back alley. The other man breaks into a run. The chase is on.

Merrill runs into the alleyway and out the other side onto a street devoid of human life. Merrill takes a hard left down the sidewalk and keeps running. The other man is gaining ground. He shouts at Merrill to stop, but he doesn’t.

“Stop ya filthy thief!” The other man says again.
“I believe that the term is ‘Private eye’.” Merrill shouts back.

Merrill didn’t have any getaway plan, but he figures this is as good as any he could come up with. Two loud shots are heard and two bullets whizzes past Merrill’s head and arms; the other man means business. Merrill keeps running; the briefcase is colliding with his legs. Another missed bullet whizzes past Merrill. Sensing his urgency, Merrill decides to duck into the nearest shop. He opens the door and goes inside, but not until another bullet pases through a small part of his left calf. Inside the store are two people, someone behind the counter and someone else stocking the shelves.

“Oh great! A customer.” The man behind the counter says “How can I help you today.”
“No.”  says Merrill as he stumbles towards the counter. His trench coat caught on the hat rack near the entrance.
“Sir, are you alright?” The man asks, now worried. Merrill’s trench coat drops to the floor pulling over the hat rack; Merrill doesn’t have time to pick it up. Merrill puts on a grin when he reaches the counter, knowing the man that has been following him will burst in at any moment.
“Yes, but my friend isn't.”

When Merrill came into the store he used the door, the other man opts for the window. As the glass from the other man’s entrance rains and trickles across the floor, Merrill uses all of his force to hurdle the counter ending up on the cashiers side. The cashier and the shelf-stocker both exit out a back door. The other man gains his surroundings and notices Merrill’s coat on the floor. Merrill clutches the briefcase tightly.
“What have we here?” The other man says. Merrill takes his handkerchief out of his suit and places it around his bullet wound. The other man shakes Merrill’s trenchcoat, emptying it of its contents. Merrill notices something interesting on the top shelf behind him, and starts to reach for it slowly. The other man suddenly looks up and notices Merrill. “Hey!” The other man shouts, firing another bullet at him. What the other man doesn’t know is that the deed is already done. The other man takes a cigarette out of the packet on the floor, puts it in his mouth, and lights it, and takes a deep breath. The other man promptly spits it back out. “What are in these!” the man says as he crushes the still lit cigarette under his boot.
“Basil.” Merrill responds coolly.
“Who has basil cigarettes?” The other man shouts, the question reverberating around the room.
“Me.” Merrill responds.
“Fine.” The other man responds and picks up Merrill’s wallet. The other man empties the contents into his hand; it feels a little lighter. “Ugh.” He drops it onto the ground with the cigarettes. “Looks like I’ll just have to kill you now.” The other man open his hand-pistol’s cylinder. “Oh, just one bullet left. Eh, I’ll just use your gun.” The other man cooly picks up Merrill’s gun and c***s back the hammer. Merrill pops up from behind the counter. The other man aims Merrill’s pistol and fires. Merrill is hit with the full force of the contents of gun. Nothing happens. “What! Is everything you own garbage?”
“Yes, actually.”
Merrill throws the briefcase towards the other man; the other man’s last bullet being lodged within it. Merrill uses this chance to escape out the same door as the workers. The other man is initially upset, but simply takes the briefcase and leaves.

“Looks like he left.”

The shelf-stocker says as he emerges from the back door. The shop owner and Merrill follow him silently. Merrill goes behind the counter and reaches for a grey briefcase the exact same size and color as the one the other man wanted. Yet,
“What are you doing?” the shopkeeper asks.
“Uhh… I’ll pay for it.” Merrill responds. Knowing that his wallet is empty, Merrill instead empties his pockets onto the counter. The shopkeeper picks up the piece of lint and puts it back down.
“You’ll need a little more than this.” The shopkeeper says.
“Maybe tomorrow then.” Merrill says as he gathers his items and leaves the shop.

Merrill wanders down the street back towards his abode and recounts what has happened. He’s lost the man and a cigarette. He’s gained the briefcase, well, when he buys it. He has also gained a story, and no small one. Whether it's to a trusted friend or when he walks down the street corner and passes the shop, he will remember this story. But, most of all, he helped someone. Merrill has no idea who they were, why they called, or how they knew about the brief case. But that does not matter, Merrill has helped someone. He decides to take his sense of humor on all of his adventures. Who needs to be grim and brooding when you can be light and happy. Merrill announces to himself that he shall be known as the fun detective, which is bound to get him more customers. Merrill smiles happily as he enters his office.