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Harry stepped into the front office of Stonebrook Furniture. He had a case to find proof of insider trading, and the best way to do that was to get a copy of the company’s balance sheets and income statements.

For now, Harry had traded in his fedora and wrinkled suit for… well, no fedora and the same wrinkled suit.

And Mustafo Bob — who had insisted on coming along.
“Now, Harry,” Bob had said, “you don’t know much about accounting and bookkeeping. You’re far too behind on your rent, you know. Now I, on the other hand, am well versed in accounting. My books are perfectly balanced!”

Truth be told, the only books Bob had were the ones he used to start his campfire. But Harry had to admit, he didn’t know anything about accounting. What could it hurt?

“Ma’am,” Bob intoned, offering a low bow in greeting, “we are from the accounting partnership of Mooshy, Dooshy, and Wooshy, licensed by the International Bureau of Money Stuff. Our motto is: ‘Trust us, we count.’ We are here to audit you.”

The young lady behind the desk looked like a deer in headlights.
“I’m… I’m… I wasn’t expecting…” she stammered.

Harry, feeling emboldened by Bob’s introduction and the receptionist’s obvious confusion, stepped in.
“We need your books,” he said plainly, then shook his head. “Not your literature. Your, uh, money scrolls. Coin ledgers. The big green book of doom.”

The receptionist, finally gathering her wits, asked, “And you’re with who?”

“The accountants,” Harry answered. “You know… Huey, Lewey, Dewey…”

Looking now dubious, the receptionist narrowed her eyes. “Those are Donald Duck’s nephews.”

“Ma’am,” Bob interrupted, pushing Harry aside. “We’re here to make sure there’s no funny business going on.” He leaned in close, the smell of everything Bob wafting toward her. She recoiled with the kind of dread normally reserved for haunted houses and overdue tax audits.
“We were sent after a tip-off. Something to do with… birds.” He narrowed his eyes meaningfully.

While Bob distracted the receptionist, Harry slipped into a side room. There he found a printer and a paper shredder.
‘Shredded — DO NOT RECONSTRUCT,’ read the printed sign above the shredder. Beneath it, in handwriting, someone had added, ‘For God’s sake, they’ll find out.’

Harry grabbed everything he could find.

When he returned to the front office, Bob had talked his way across the room and cornered the poor young receptionist. He was carrying on about lizard men and tinfoil hats. Harry could smell Bob from twenty feet away; the receptionist was much closer. She looked green.

“Bob,” Harry called. “We gotta go.”

Bob looked at Harry, then turned back to the receptionist with a smile and a flourish.
“Until we meet again, madam.”

His breath hit her like a freight train carrying dead chickens and fertiliser. Harry thought she might pass out.

As they left, folder in hand, Harry muttered, “We’re gonna get caught one day, Bob.”

Bob adjusted his cardboard tie. “Only if they audit us.”