In Pulse's first serial fiction story, a sketchy private detective on his first big case pursues clues and bad news.
Chapter 3: A Crash, A Clue
I dashed up the apartment building stairs toward the crashing sound. My pith helmet tumbled off in my haste, and I had to stop. As I swept it back onto my head, I caught sight of the notes I'd written on my hand about the Waskotts: "Construction noises, rumbling, strange (sort of sweet) smell."
The landlady had given me more information than I'd expected. Luckily, the noise had given me an opportunity to run off before she could berate me about filching a castoff vest from her garbage can.
My garbage-diving habit had certainly been fruitful. In my pocket, I felt the diamond ring I'd found nestled amongst piles of blood-stained cloth in the Waskotts' trash can.