Detective Max adjusted the brim of his fedora, worn out by the fatigue of countless cases solved and unsolved, as he stepped onto the porch. The crisp autumn air carried the scent of rotting leaves and forest smoke, a sharp contrast to the rich, almost suffocating aroma of old books and expensive cigars that wafted from the writer's house. The house belonged to Arthur Finch, a renowned mystery writer who, ironically, was now the center of his own real-life enigma. Finch had reported a theft: the manuscript of his forthcoming, long-awaited novel, The Serpent’s Kiss, was missing. Finch, a large man with a neatly trimmed mustache and nervous eyes, greeted Max at the door. “Detective, thank God you’re here! I'm desperate. The manuscript has vanished! He led Max into a study reminiscent of a literary sanctuary. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, interspersed with antique globes, framed first editions, and various odd artifacts collected from Finch’s travels. “Tell me everything, Mr. Finch,” Max said in a low, rumbling voice. Finch wrung his hands. “I went out for my usual walk this morning. When I returned, I found the study door ajar. He pointed to a beautifully carved antique desk in the corner and said, "That's where I kept the manuscript locked." Someone had torn off the lock. Max looked around the desk, confirming Finch's statement. Indeed, Finch had skillfully picked the lock, indicating a professional attitude. "Does anyone else have access to the house, Mr. Finch?" "Only my housekeeper, Mrs. Davis, and my nephew, Edward, have access to the house. They've both been with me for years. I trust them implicitly." "Did you notice anything else missing or out of place?" Finch shook his head. "It's just the manuscript." The disturbance appears to have only affected the manuscript. Max continued to interview Mrs. Davis, a large woman with a kind face and perpetually tired eyes, and Edward, a young man with sharp features and an air of restless ambition. Mrs. Davis insisted that she had been cleaning the upstairs bedrooms all morning and had heard or seen nothing suspicious. Edward claimed that he had been in the library, looking for a writing project of his own. Max, ever the meticulous observer, noticed subtle inconsistencies in their stories. Mrs. Davis seemed too eager to emphasize her innocence, while Edward’s tone was a little too polished, too rehearsed. But neither of them provided any concrete evidence to support their claims. “Mr. Finch,” Max said, turning back to the author, “I would like to speak to Mrs. Davis and Edward separately again. I have a few more questions.” He called them back into the office one by one. First, Mrs. Davis. “Mrs. Davis,” Max began gently, “Mr. Finch tells me that you have been working for him for many years. That should give you a good idea of his habits and routine." Yes, Detective, indeed. I am intimately familiar with Mr. Finch. "And have you heard of his new book, The Serpent’s Kiss? "Oh, yes," she replied. He’s been talking about it for months. He said it was his best yet.” Then Max spoke to Edward. “Edward, your uncle mentioned that you were also a writer. Is that true?” “Yes, sir. I'm currently working on my novel, which is a historical thriller. Are you familiar with the plot of your uncle's latest book? Edward hesitated for a moment. "I... I heard him mention it. He mentioned something about a stolen artifact and a dangerous conspiracy. Max leaned back in his chair, the gears in his mind turning. He had a premonition, a faint whisper of intuition. He decided to try a different approach, one that would play on the psychology of the potential thief. He called them both back into the office. “Mrs. Davis, Edward, thank you for your time. I have a few final questions. These are simple yes or no questions. Please answer honestly.” He looked directly at Mrs. Davis. “Mrs. Davis, did you go into Mr. Finch’s office this morning before I arrived?” Mrs. Davis looked Max straight in the eye and answered without hesitation. “No.” Then she turned to Edward. “Edward, did you know that the manuscript of The Serpent’s Kiss was locked in the desk before it was stolen?” Edward fell silent, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. “Yes,” he said. Max nodded slowly, a ghostly smile playing on his lips. “Thank you both. That will be all.” Finch, confused, watched Mrs. Davis and Edward leave the office. “Detective, what does this mean? Did you find the thief?” “Yes, Mr. Finch,” Max said in a determined voice. “I did. It was Edward.” Finch was stunned. “Edward? But how? He said he was in the library!” “His alibi is irrelevant,” Max explained. “His answer to the question gave it away. I inquired whether he was aware of the manuscript's lock on the desk. He said yes. But you, Mr. Finch, never actually mentioned to me that the manuscript was locked in the desk. Simply put, the desk remains locked. Mrs. Davis made no such assumption. Edward, in his haste to appear knowledgeable, revealed that he knew the location of the manuscript in a detail only the thief would have known. Finch stared at Max, his face a mixture of disbelief and enlightened understanding. “Incredible! Was it really that simple?” Max nodded. “Sometimes, Mr. Finch, the truth is hidden in plain sight, buried under layers of deception. It’s the details, the seemingly insignificant discrepancies, that reveal the lie.” Later, Max stood on the porch, invigorated by the cool autumn air, following Edward's confession and the recovery of the manuscript from his apartment. He had done his job. He had solved the mystery not with brute force or forensics, but with keen observation and a carefully crafted question. As he walked away, he knew that the truth, like a well-written plot twist, always had a way of revealing itself if one knew where to look. And Detective Max, with his years of experience and sharp intellect, always knew where to look. After all, everyone, including the seemingly innocent nephew, plays a role on the grand stage of the world. Max's job was to unravel the script and reveal the player behind the mask. And he had done it again with quiet brilliance.
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