An Extract From A Noir Story Set In A Parallel Universe Where Baked Goods Are Dangerous Weapons

"I don't see how you can call it evil," came the voice, smooth and strong and powerful like its owner. Murdoch strained to make out the man's face in the gloom, but could only see a rough shape and his eyes - two dark pools glittering with self-satisfaction.

"You didn't just murder that man, you breadstuck him. And not just once, either." Murdoch toyed with the idea of reaching for the lightswitch, but didn't move. He just couldn't tell what the intruder might be pointing at him in the deep and staggered shadows cast by the lowered blind, and he was clearly framed in the doorway - the doorway to his own office!

"Oh, come on Carson," the man said, shaking his head. "You know as well as I do that he was dead after the first one. The rest were just... making it look nasty."

"I don't think he deserved even one," said Murdoch, carefully slipping his hand into the pocket of his trenchcoat. He gingerly felt around for the individually wrapped lemon slice he had dropped in there earlier - one end of the packet was already torn, ready for use, and he didn't want to get any of that icing on his fingers. The nicotine stains were bad enough. "What did he do? Sleep around on his wife, con strangers in illicit card games... what else?"

"Do you mean," asked the man with a laugh in his voice, "what did he do to deserve a baking? If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you. I'll just say this: stay away from this case, Carson Murdoch, or you might be encountering a bagel or two of your own."

Murdoch's grip on the lemon slice tightened ever so slightly. He casually shifted his position to better cover the seated man. "Was that a threat, sir?" he asked in his best hard-boiled voice.

"You better believe it, son," said the man, no longer laughing. Murdoch saw his arm shift and hit the floor, frantically rolling back into the corridor as a hail of croutons flew through the doorway. The man moved fast for someone so big, and Murdoch could hear him clanging down the fire escape even as the rattle of the croutons died in his ears. He flew back into the office, thinking to chase the man and wring some more information out of him, but came to a stuttering halt as he saw what sat on his desk.

A bakewell tart, primed and dangerous. The little half-cherry on top glinted a stark red in the dying rays of the sun, and Murdoch wondered how he was going to get out of this one...