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From: israel@qantel.UUCP ( Renegade@ex2564)
Newsgroups: net.jokes
Subject: True Grit Mysteries III - Part 7
Message-ID: <474@qantel.UUCP>
Date: Mon, 24-Jun-85 12:12:11 EDT
Article-I.D.: qantel.474
Posted: Mon Jun 24 12:12:11 1985
Date-Received: Sat, 29-Jun-85 02:41:44 EDT
Reply-To: israel@qantel.UUCP (Paul Israel - Renegade@ex2564)
Organization: MDS Qantel, Hayward, CA
Lines: 74



TALES OF ROGER GUTS, P.I.

   The Travesti family mansion covers about 50 acres of prime California
seaside real estate. The estate includes tennis courts, private gym,
shooting range, stables, a private Olympic swimming pool, a private
Olympic brewery, a large greenhouse, and a front driveway that's large
enough to qualify for matching Federal highway funds.
   Up said highway Angel and I proceeded to the main house. As I 
screeched the jeep to a halt, some snooty old guy in a tuxedo stepped
out to greet us. I recognized him as the butler, Norbert.
   "Good day to you, Mr. Guts. To what do we owe the pleasure of
your company?"
   "Skip the bootlicking, Bert, I've got to talk to Lisa right away."
   "Oh, I am sorry, Sir, but Ms. Travesti isn't seeing anyone this
afternoon. She's retired to her room, apparently not feeling very well."
   "That so? Whatsa matter with her?"
   "I'm not sure, Sir. Seems to be some kind of headache. All I heard her
say was she felt sick, and then she muttered something about how anyone
could stand watching five hours of Gilligan's Island..."
   I turned to Angel. She sat there staring after the butler, then turned
to me - "But it can't be her. Why would she steal her own rock?"
   "Search me. Insurance, maybe, who knows? But it certainly fits nicely
into the pattern - Lisa knew the security layout, she knew I'd get the
case, in fact, she made sure I'd get it, and whenever she couldn't
find me with her ESP, she could just sit back and wait until I checked
in with her to report my progress. Small wonder the servants couldn't
figure out who was spying on them."
   I turned to the butler. "Well, Bert, I guess you'd better call the
cops - seems your mistress committed a few itty, bitty felonies, and
has a date with a judge she didn't expect. I wouldn't bother about her
afternoon tea, if I were you."
   "Well, that answers my next question, Sir. I'll alert the authorities."
   "Great. C'mon, Angel, let's go see a lady about a rock."
   We stepped into the main hall, and headed upstairs to Lisa's room.
I knocked on the door. "OK, Lisa, it's all over. You took the rock,
and you're going to take the fall." Dead silence.
   Angel grabbed my shoulder - "She's not in there!"
   "WHAT? Nobert! Get up here and open this door! Oh, never mind..."
I pulled out my Uzi and drilled the lock, then kicked open the door.
   We rushed inside. The room was filled with assorted conspicuous
consumption commodities, wall to wall carpeting, chandeliers, and
a bed large enough to accomodate at least two orgies and field practice
for the Stanford marching band. The butler came running thru the door
behind us.
   "Well, where is she, Norbert? The door was locked on the inside, so either
she's hiding in here somewhere, or there's another way out, right?"
   Norbert looked astonished. "Another way out, Sir? Oh no, Sir, not to
my knowledge." He grimaced at the door. "Well, if you'll excuse me,
Sir, I'd best call a locksmith..."
   Angel was sensing something. "She WAS here, very recently. I can
feel the vibrations...." She strolled over to an empty wall, running her
hands along it. "There's a passage behind this wall. It's opened
electronically by typing a sequence of numbers on something...that's
all I can see."
   I looked around the room, and spotted a princess phone near the wall.
I walked over and picked up the receiver.
   "Do you know what to type?"
   "I think so - I know how she thinks." I dialed 'P-A-S-S-A-G-E'. The
wall shifted a bit, and swung open.
   The entrance opened up into a long, dark hallway. Before I could
say "Got a match?", Angel was already slipping a flashlight into my
hand.
   "Read my mind, eh?"
   "Of course! Let's go."

		TO BE CONCLUDED...
-- 
Renegade of Berkeley
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