The Wistful Incense
The smoke is not a leak, Inspector. It is a diagnosis. You say it flatly, your hand resting on the cold iron of the boiler gauge, the needle trembling like a nervous eye. Director Halloway stands before you, his waistcoat straining against a belly that has grown softer since the war, his face a mask of bureaucratic patience. He does not look at the gauge. He looks at the ceiling, where the...
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