The Case of the Missing Moustache Wax

The rain hammered against my office window, mimicking the incessant pounding in my head. It was one of those days where even the nicotine couldn't cut through the fog. My name is Benny, and I'm a private investigator. Or at least that's what my chipped business card proclaimed. In reality, I mostly dealt with missing pets, cheating spouses, and the occasional disgruntled landlord looking to evict a tenant who owed three months' rent in ramen noodle packets.

But today was different. Today, I had a client with a problem so bizarre, so utterly absurd, that even my jaded soul couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. He sat opposite me, a portly man with a walrus moustache and eyes that darted around the room like startled pigeons. His name, he announced in a voice trembling with indignation, was Archibald Featherbottom III. And his prized possession, a jar of artisanal moustache wax handcrafted by monks in the Himalayas, had vanished.

"It's not just any wax, Mr. Benny," Archibald declared, dabbing at his moustache with a silk handkerchief. "This is 'Whisker Wonder,' infused with yak butter and Himalayan rose petals. It keeps my moustache perfectly sculpted, like the wings of a majestic eagle in flight! Without it…" He trailed off, a look of utter despair clouding his face.

I sighed inwardly. This was going to be a long day. "Alright, Mr. Featherbottom," I said, leaning back in my creaky chair. "Tell me everything. When did you last see the wax?" Archibald launched into a detailed account of his daily routine, emphasizing the precise time he applied the wax (7:12 am sharp), the specific brush he used (a badger hair specimen passed down from his great-grandfather), and the meticulous way he sculpted his moustache (three clockwise twists followed by two counterclockwise). It was clear Archibald took his moustache very seriously.

"And then," Archibald concluded, his voice dropping to a whisper, "I went to make my morning tea. When I returned…it was gone! Vanished without a trace!"

I surveyed the scene: a cluttered office with stacks of paperwork teetering precariously on every surface, half-eaten biscuits scattered across the desk, and a faded poster of Humphrey Bogart glaring down from the wall. It wasn't exactly the setting for a high-stakes heist.

"Did anyone else have access to your apartment?" I asked.

Archibald puffed out his chest. "My apartment is a fortress! Only I possess the key, and the building has a strict security system. No one could have entered without my knowledge."

A fortress guarded by a man who couldn't resist detailing his moustache grooming regimen for a complete stranger. I doubted even Fort Knox had such lax security.

I decided to start with the basics. "Mr. Featherbottom, did you perhaps misplace the wax?"

A look of pure horror crossed Archibald's face. "Misplace it? Never! Whisker Wonder is too precious to be misplaced. I treat it like a newborn child."

Alright then. Time to play detective. I dusted off my fedora, grabbed my trench coat (which smelled suspiciously of mothballs), and headed out into the rain-swept streets. Archibald trailed behind me, his walrus moustache drooping in despair.

My investigation led me to a series of dead ends: the building superintendent denied any knowledge of the missing wax; Archibald's neighbours swore they had never seen him use anything but regular pomade; and the local barber shop owner claimed Archibald was "a walking advertisement for excessive grooming."

Just as my hope started dwindling, I stumbled upon a clue. Tucked away in a dusty corner of Archibald's apartment, I discovered a crumpled receipt from an online marketplace called "Oddity Emporium." The item purchased: one jar of