Noir Comedy

I could tell she was trouble as soon as she walked into my office.

For a start she wasn’t wearing a mask.

I adjusted my own Private Investigator mask and watched her face closely as she explained why she’d come to me—emotions constantly skipping and dancing across the damn thing as she talked. Hell, I thought to myself. How is anyone ever supposed to read a person through all that noise?

But all other evidence was pointing towards her being a Femme Fatale. The expertly painted face, the curvaceous figure, the low neckline. And that sultry voice.

“It’s my husband, Wilbur Henderson,” she purred. “He was found shot dead this morning over the other side of town. Murdered!”

Mrs. Henderson gave a sob that I didn’t buy for a minute.

“The police are investigating naturally, but I want to do all I can for poor Wilbur so…”

She looked at me. Pleadingly? So hard to tell without a mask. I stared back at her.

I have to admit I was intrigued. Maybe she didn’t love the husband but she apparently cared enough to pay for a detective of her own. I was pretty much hooked, and then came the clincher.

She leant forwards towards me.

“Won’t you please help me?”

The broad was showing enough cleavage to audition as a wet nurse.

And like a babe in arms, I fell for it.




We drove back in my car to her place, where she introduced me to six foot six of muscle, otherwise known as “my handyman, Rupert.”

But it wasn’t his biceps that caught my attention. I swiftly got Mrs. Henderson to one side.

“Say,” I told her. “Your handyman’s the murderer...”

She put a hand to her mouth. “No! How can you be sure?”

I jerked my head discreetly in his direction.

“Because he’s The Murderer,” I said. “He’s wearing the Murderer’s mask.”

Mrs. Henderson shook her head. “How clever of you! I must go and phone the police and tell them there’s been a positive identification…”

And she walked behind me to go the telephone, while I indicated through gesture and posture how smug I was feeling about solving the case.

Unfortunately I was so caught up in this, her hitting me over the head with a blunt object kinda took me by surprise.




I came round to find myself staring up into my own mask. As my vision became clearer I recognised the person wearing it.

“Rupert!”

He sauntered away and went to stand beside Mrs. Henderson.

I tried and failed to raise my hands to my own mask. But in truth I didn’t need to touch it. I already knew which mask I now had on.

“Up you come, you low-life scum.”

I was dragged to my feet by the guy who had been restraining my arms. I turned my head as best I could and saw the mask of The Police Officer.

I opened my mouth to speak—to explain about Rupert and the switch.

But I closed it again. What defence did I really have? I was wearing the Murderer’s mask—the part was mine.

I had to accept my fate.

And as I was led away Mrs. Henderson gave me a broad grin and two thumbs-up.

What a woman! Enigmatic to the end.




And so here I sit, waiting for that last walk down the hall to the chair.

You may ask, why don’t I just take the mask off and do without entirely?

Well, perhaps sometimes you’ve just gotta be a man and play the role you’ve been assigned. And perhaps I’d rather die a somebody than live a nobody.

And perhaps that dame had coated the inside of the mask with gum arabic before slapping it onto my face.