The door sign said: "Detective Bolmes". Under it, in small letters, it reiterated: "It's Bolmes, not Holmes!"

Whether any of this was intended to be humorous or charming was difficult to tell. The door was ugly, made out of something that looked like cardboard, hardened by age and by flies that sat on it over the years. It was part of a corridor, the walls of which seemed to be made of a material of similar quality. Both the door and the walls shuffled slightly when a force was applied, such as people walking past them.

The corridor, in turn, was part of a building, a small and somewhat worn piece of functional architecture, the type which works, but you can't help but wonder if it was designed by an intern. Mere 5 stories tall, narrow and sandwiched between Manhattan skyscrapers, it was easy to miss. Its first floor harbored a shop that sold canaries, a bird that in this day and age only coal miners would want to buy.

Either way, on this unusually cold September morning Ms. Bolmes herself sat in front of a man, a client who has sought her services as a private detective. Arguably, the setting could not be more cliché, but we must report the truth, even if it compromises the respect that we hope to gain from the reading public.