When the researcher invited his detective friend to a celebratory banquet, the last thing either of them expected was that the following day would record the most significant theft of their era.
As the detective awoke from his overnight stay, preparing to bid his companion farewell, he was startled by the sorrowful, trembling voice recounting the theft.
“An infinite melting point—that's what distinguishes my new synthetic material,” the researcher declared with a reassuring tone.
Detective: “Do you have any enemies? Or does anyone know of your invention?”
Researcher: “I have no enemy but the devil himself. No one knows of this idea but us.
Everyone was puzzled. Uncharacteristically, the detective dismissed suspicion and ruled out the crime. Meanwhile, the researcher was completely convinced a theft had occurred—and a dark doubt even made him suspect the detective himself.
But what removes all suspicion from the detective is the fact that detectives have no need for revolutionary materials... or do they?
A relaxed chuckle escaped the detective’s lips before he remarked:
“Then you must have lost it... or misplaced it.”
Researcher (firmly): “Never! Impossible! I only purchased the lab yesterday!”
Detective (sarcastically): “Even if you lived here for an age, you wouldn’t be able to distinguish the hallway from the ceiling.” (Pointing at some nearby cabinets.) “Check those cabinets. I hope you didn’t mistake them for a garbage bin. Then again, even if you did, I’m sure you inspected them thoroughly!"
The researcher was taken aback—part confusion, part disbelief at the sarcasm. Before he could articulate his stammering protest, the detective added:
“If you know that only you and I are aware of your invention, and you're clearly excluding yourself... why do you accuse me so easily?”
A surge of conflicting emotions swelled in the researcher—rage, humiliation, then a wave of remorseful pity like that of a man realizing his injustice. Without protest, he replied:
“Forgive me, Duraid. You're the last person I'd point a finger at. But mathematics allows no room for hopeful assumptions. The probability leaves no escape for either of us.”
Detective (puzzled): “Probability... has fled from us both. But where has it gone?”
As the detective posed his question, a revelation began to form in his mind. The door opened, and the Butler, responsible for the lab's affairs, entered the scene.
The Butler: “A good day to you.”
Both Friends: “And to you.”
Detective: “We had completely forgotten about you, Lamy.”
Lamy: “In which equation did you forget me?”
Detective (taking out his notepad): “The equation of theft.”
Lamy (startled): “Theft?!”
Detective (nodding): “A material with a boiling point...”
Researcher (correcting): “Melting point!” (Then realizing correcting him wasn’t wise) “Hold on! Lamy isn’t a thief.”
Detective: “Then who is? The probability of Lamy being the thief is greater than either of us.”
Silence blanketed the room, as if a logic bomb had exploded, silencing all argument.
Detective: “Back to the case. The list of suspects is a one-man circle. So, I ask you, Lamy, to confess."
Before Lamy could respond, the door creaked open again, introducing a second suspect—the cook, arriving in the midst of Lamy's defense and the detective's obstinance.
Cook: “Greetings.”
All (with suspicion): “Welcome.”
Detective: “We had forgotten about you as well.”
Cook: “In what recipe did I escape your thoughts?”
Detective: “The recipe of theft.”
Cook (feigning terror): “Theft?!”
Detective (nodding): “A material with an infinite... what was it? Ah! melting point.”
Cook: “Was the material moldable?”
Researcher (eagerly): “Yes!”
Cook (with sly curiosity): “And could it heat pastries to their absolute limit?”
Researcher (inner monologue): Those are the questions of an expert... Could it be?(outer speech): Not confirmed, but possible.
Cook: “Well then, I have good news. There was no theft—only blame. I used the material to bake these pastries.”
(She exits briefly, then returns pushing a cart with a delicious aroma.)
“Bon appétit!”
Researcher: “How do you combine blame and generosity? But please, Lamia, don’t treat inventions like cooking pots!”
Laughter filled the room...
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Five hours after the ‘celebration’, the detective prepared to depart. But the researcher stopped him near the luggage room.
Researcher: “A cheap trick, by the way.”
Detective (packing, dismissively): “You uncovered the truth—even a fool could’ve.”
Researcher: “It’s like I never knew you at all.”
Detective: “Sometimes, meeting a kind stranger for a day is better than knowing a deceiving friend for a decade. But tell me—how did you figure it out?
Researcher: “Figure it out? There was no trail—just a single fine thread. You always decline my invitations, yet after I told you about my invention, you came running like an ostrich!”
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Detective: “So, I had a right...”
Researcher (interrupting): “You had no ground to stand on! Your eagerness to accuse anyone, even a humble servant, your fingerprints on the fake material—surely from carrying it to the kitchen...”
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The tension climaxed—an exchange of verbal arrows, until the researcher delivered his final blow:
“And when the cook asked if the material was moldable...”
Detective: “But it really is moldable!”
Researcher: “You've condemned yourself, traitor! It is moldable—but only under high pressure no human can generate. There's a massive machine for that near the ‘trash bin.’ But since you made a counterfeit, that explains the flaw!”
Everything turned murky—no one could say where either adversary would go from there. The detective found it a crime to forgive himself, yet guilt’s deep sting held him back from admitting anything.
He remembered the times he falsely pushed the innocent to confess…
Now he was collapsing under the weight of projection.
Researcher (furiously): “You wanted me to think my invention wasn’t stolen so you could escape with it. But no! I saw through the lie—and I want justice, even if I’m no detective or judge!”
Detective (defeated): “I needed it...”
Researcher: “And I need to see you punished.”
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From an analysis to a brawl, the case spiraled:
Detective (resisting): “I flipped the table before you even thought to flip it!”
(He tackled the researcher and pinned him to the ground.)
“I saw that flicker of doubt in your eyes. While you were munching on pastries, we held a secret meeting you didn’t even notice and that meeting sealed your disgrace!”
He clapped—and moments later, the cook entered with a wicked smile, handing him a glowing silver ingot. The sight of it drained all color from the researcher’s face as he collapsed, unconscious.
Detective (quietly to the cook): “Make sure the door locks automatically, but doesn’t shut to kill. This friend of mine doesn’t deserve such torment... What a farce! And all of it… just because the military pays top dollar for lethal tech.”
(He exits.)
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