I met more polite but unavailing storekeepers and office managers as I explored the frosted streets of New Fiddleham. It was a remarkable city, though difficult to wrap my head around geographically. It felt as though no two roads ran parallel for more than a few blocks. Each avenue seemed to have been built to accommodate necessity, rather than according to any city-wide orchestration. Gradually I began to recognize the town’s loosely defined quarters: a cluster of showy commercial buildings here; a block of practical, nondescript office buildings there; and the industrial district, where the buildings grew into wide factories and sprouted smokestacks. Residential neighborhoods overflowed in the gaps between.

Every street was bursting with character, with broad structures elbowing one another on either side for dominance of the neighborhood. The roads were dotted with street vendors peddling their wares in spite of the snow, kids racing up the sloping hills to slide back down on soapbox sleds, and the press of people marching every which way, their footsteps and carriage wheels beating out the constant pulse of city life.

I had been at my task for hours when I finally found myself in the New Fiddleham post office. In spite of the shopkeeper’s suggestion, I found no better luck there. As I turned to go, however, something caught my eye. On a public posting board, peppered with lost pets and rooms to let, hung a simple sheet of creased paper with the words —SSISTANT WANTE—just visible between a sketch of a runaway collie and notice of a room to let on Walnut Street.

I carefully freed the advertisement, which read as follows:

INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES

ASSISTANT WANTED

$8 PER WEEK

MUST BE LITERATE AND POSSESS A

KEEN INTELLECT AND OPEN MIND

STRONG STOMACH PREFERRED

INQUIRE AT 926 AUGUR LANE

DO NOT STARE AT THE FROG.

Peculiar though the notice was, I felt I met the requirements soundly—and eight dollars per week would keep me fed and out of the snow. I got directions from the postman and walked the short mile or so to the address.

The little building was nestled among much taller, wider structures in the business district. On either side, men in stiff suits hurried along the frosty walk. As they passed number 926, they seemed to walk all the more quickly and find things in the opposite direction in which to take a sudden interest, like schoolboys carefully avoiding an embarrassing younger sibling at recess.

From a curled, wrought-iron pole above the door hung a sign that announced: 926—INVESTIGATIVE SERVICES in large letters and PRIVATE DETECTION & CONSULTATIONS: UNEXPLAINED PHENOMENA OUR SPECIALTY in smaller ones.