My personal opinion

Detective Max found himself deeply inhaling the scent of turpentine and lingering anxiety as he stepped into the villa. The late afternoon sun was slanting, casting long skeletal shadows from the easels and half-finished canvases that littered the vast studio. The victim, the renowned artist Julian Moreau, lay sprawled in his vibrating chaos, a single precise stab wound marring the otherwise pristine canvas of his chest. He clutched a paintbrush, perhaps a final act of defiance or a desperate attempt to identify his killer. “Elegant, isn’t it?” Detective Max muttered to himself while his partner, Sergeant Petrov, was busy photographing the scene. The scene was both elegant and brutal. Moreau’s art reflected his life—full of passion, risk, and a passion for the extravagant. Three people were present when the body was discovered: Moreau’s long-suffering wife, Isabelle, a woman sculpted by pain and expensive tailoring; his ambitious protégé, Damien, a young man with hungry eyes and nervou...

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 every...

Detective Max, a man weary from late nights and countless solved cases, found himself standing before the magnificent gates of Blackwood Manor. The wrought iron, curved into menacing gargoyles, seemed to mock him. Inside, nestled among acres of manicured lawns and meticulously landscaped gardens, was the home of Richard Thornton, the richest man in town. Tonight, it transformed into a crime scene.  Thornton, a man known for his shrewd business acumen and even more extravagant art collection, had reported a theft. A priceless diamond necklace, the "Eye of Orion," had disappeared from his supposedly impenetrable vault.  The atmosphere in the mansion was tense. Thornton, a large man with a perpetually flushed face, paced nervously around his office. His elegant wife, Eleanor, sat stiffly on a velvet chaise longue, her face pale and haggard. Around them were scattered the remains of a lavish party—half-empty champagne glasses, discarded canapé plates, and the lingering scent of e...

Detective Max, a man etched with the map of countless late nights and mysteries, stared out at the scene. The antique shop, Tick-Tock Treasures, was usually a haven of polished wood and delicate bells, but tonight it was a picture of shattered glass and upturned windows. Mr. Abernathy, the shopkeeper, a thin man with glasses perched precariously on his nose, wrung his hands. “My precious watch, Detective! The Emperor’s Chronometer! It’s gone! Vanished into thin air!” The Emperor’s Chronometer was legendary, a timepiece made for an emperor of the Qing Dynasty, encrusted with jade and gold. Its value was astronomical. Max surveyed the damage. The front door had been forced open, but there was no other visible sign of intrusion. The alarm system, however, had been cleverly disabled. “Mr. Abernathy, how many people knew about the chronometer and its location in the store?” “Very little. Naturally, I am referring to myself. My assistant, Elsie, has been with me for years. And… well, two pot...