The world in which we live is populated by people of many races, with differing beliefs, attitudes, personal habits, tastes, hobbies, occupations, levels of income and other variable factors. It could possibly be asserted that the greatest mistake of any poorly educated analyst, sociologist, psychiatrist or counsellor is that of stereotyping; that loathsome yet ever persistent search for classes and groups into which an unsuspecting sample character might be categorized.

The error of excessive stereotyping is evident in the fictional lives of that loyal and trusted servant: the butler. He is forever performing those tasks which provide a suitable solution to the many dilemmas of millionaires, who suffer from the symptoms of being inundated with numerous financial assets in excessive of certain dollar quantities for which they have the capacity to contrive a sufficient variety of uses.

A butler's hours of work are often relatively extensive. Some butlers even reside at the estates of their employers as a condition of their employment. The butler is required to be immaculately attired, to deliver the newspapers to the hand of his employer at a certified time, to serve the desired meals, and to be polite and helpful to his employer's guests and other visitors. This distinction is mentioned in order to highlight the fact that an undesired visitor would not usually be considered as a guest.

It appears, that in the decades of old, the writers of many a murder mystery have been exceptionally eager to compose a tale in which the crime concerned is infallibly committed by that faithful fellow who has successfully carried the cucumber sandwiches through hundreds of stately homes. This trend is disturbing, to the extent that it represents an obvious example of stereotyping.

Perhaps some of the readers of murder mysteries are convinced that it is more than high time the butler was afforded at least a small reprieve, while others of those in the society from which the Sneaky Spy's followers have emerged would deem it only right, proper and correct, that the old traditions of iniquitous homicidal butlers be adequately maintained. The writer can only offer the suggestion, that this little tale will attempt to please everybody; to provide a form of cake which can be both devoured and retained; to enable the donkey to support the combined weight of both his master and his master's son without displeasing the crowd; and to cast at least a few aspersions on  the commonly held beliefs that are often expressed by the majority of dedicated patrons of the crime sections in libraries and bookstalls  in the simple words "The Butler did it."

Anthony Skilton was a butler who took pride in his work, and enjoyed the tasks associated with that distinguished form of employment known as butling. He worked at the house of Irwin Valtos, a resident of 98 Burnseid Street Wahroonga. Irwin Valtos was a managing director of a large group of financial institutions. He lived with his wife in the centre of one of the North Shore line's most scenic suburbs. Valtos had neither any shortage of friends nor any lack of money. So it was nothing of a surprise, that he should be giving a party at his own home on a Saturday night, when he knew that there was little chance of his being called into the office outside of his normal working hours in order to deal with an unforeseeable emergency.

Valtos had planned and prepared this party, giving every iota of attention to anything of the smallest degree of importance. He had researched the movements and activities of his friends, in order to select a date that would suit the majority of them, and had fortunately received thirty-eight positive replies from thirty-eight of the forty-three people that he had invited to the party. Most of these respondents had now arrived, and were now helping themselves to sausage rolls, cocktail frankfurts, and large glasses filled with Mrs Alicia Valtos' very finest non-alcoholic punch. The various conversations - that now replaced the earlier state of silence in the room - naturally blended into a nonsensical babble of mixed voices, not one of which could be distinguished from the sound made by the others, from a distance.

Cigarettes (some coated with differing shades of lipstick) found their way into the ashtray. Potato chips found their way into otherwise chattering mouths. Romantic pairs of partners found their way to the living room dance floor; and one poor fellow who had already demonstrated an overzealous enthusiasm for the house's numerous beverages, found his way to the bathroom.

There was a record playing in Valtos' hi-fidelity sound system, and a number of other records in a queue, waiting their chance to have their surfaces rotated by the reliable mechanism. The lights illuminated the front porch of Valtos' house, and he had positioned a cardboard arrow on the telegraph pole beside the footpath, upon which he had clearly written the word 'PARTY'. His remaining guests would know exactly where to come, and he could expect them to complete the total turnout within the next few minutes.

Dinnnnnnnnnnng. Donnnnnnnnnng.

Irwin Valtos repeated an action which he had already done many times that evening. He opened the door in order to admit a man and a lady into the house.

"Hello Irwin. It's nice to see you," said the lady.

"Yes, how are things?" added the man.

"Glad you could both make it. Skilton's prepared a superb feast to top off a good night's dancing and catching up with each other, and you really should try the wife's punch."

"You're not going to change my habits by-" began the man, who had now stepped into the house with the girl, and was following the girl and his host towards the assortment of food on the nearby table.

'This punch is non-alcoholic. Even you cannot complain. If I don't like something concocted from grapes and goodies, then I merely refuse to drink it."

"Well you won't refuse this."

Valtos poured the man a glass of the punch.

"You're right. It isn't alcoholic," said the man, after tasting the drink, "I'll never forget any of your countless attempts to trick me into making acquaintance with an alcoholic liquid, none of which ever succeeded either."

"I really cannot see what your moral view against it is. I let you talk me round, you know. I haven't got properly drunk since that day on the beach, when I had enough to-"

"Make the legal limit pale into insignificance. I remember it well, but there is a lady at my side. It might be wise not to go into the less than pleasant details just at the moment. There's also the chance that Mrs Valtos might find out."

"You can call her Alicia, you know."
"I'll call her anything except a bad cook. So what has she conjured up tonight?"

"All the ham and roast turkey you can eat, my friend, which for you means that Anthony Skilton has certainly earned his salary with every trip to the butcher's and the delicatessen this week."

The man grinned, and then laughed.

"I never disappoint you, do I?"

"You never cease to amaze me, either. I just don't know how anybody can eat as much as you manage to do away with at parties, and yet object to even the smallest glass of port."
"I don't morally object to it at all. I just don't prefer the taste of your more influential liquids, when I can always secure a steady supply of fruit juice and soft drinks."

The Sneaky Spy had come to the party… with Ingrid.

*          *          *          *

Percy lived a wild and riotous life, and involved his friends in activities, when he had convinced himself that they were indeed sincere and faithful friends. His adventures were as numerous as the countless video recordings of television shows in his special collection, and his usually retained his anonymity in two ways. Firstly, he would use the alias of Artie Myers - a ridiculous alter ego which he had thought of himself - when out on some of his adventures. Secondly, he would keep secret the fact that the man who lived at 66 Burnseid Street was the same man who played absolute chaos with the lives of those to whom Percy drily referred as 'the naughty ones.'

To complete the lifelong ruse, Percy had chosen a name for his inherited house, which was as hilariously sarcastic about the personality of the owner as a politician's promise to lower the tax rate usually proved to be. Percy Dale, the incurable Sneaky Spy, the man who refused to ever bleat like a sheep, lived in a house with a sign engraved in the woodwork of his front door, which read as follows:

ORDINAIRY

MAN

MANOR

Of the thirty-eight guests, Mr and Mrs Valtos and Anthony Skilton, Percy Dale and Ingrid Castlecove were the only two present who knew of Percy's Sneaky Spy lifestyle. Percy and Ingrid had attended the party with no ulterior motives. Their only aim was to enjoy themselves, while helping others to enjoy themselves as well.

Percy was still neatly dressed in a three piece black suit with a white shirt and the cravat which had caused the earlier disruption to his going about the usual transportation processes of the average pedestrian, despite his encounter with what he had left littering the lawn beside the footpath.

Ingrid was covered in the right places by a satin dress, coloured in the darkest possible shade of red, with a neckline which formed a beautiful semicircle immediately below the base of her neck. Ingrid Castlecove seldom wore lipstick. Percy had long ago convinced her that she neither needed any cosmetic attachments nor benefited from them. She was completely beautiful in the absence of any of the usual exotic extras. When these two were together, it was obvious that it had been ordained to happen.

They had been together in a few Sneaky Spy adventures. However, tonight, they sought only to have fun, and they began to dance their way towards the living room, collecting small items of food from various tables and sideboards as they did so.

Percy enjoyed popping little snacks into Ingrid's mouth, though she would never understand the reasons for that.