Detective Milo crouched on the rooftop, squinting at the tiny trail of sesame seeds glinting in the moonlight. "He's taunting us," he muttered, bagging a few crumbs like precious evidence.
Mrs. Pennyworth peered over his shoulder. "Maybe he's just messy?"
"No," Milo said gravely, "this is deliberate. Look at the pattern - three crumbs, then two, then one. It's a message."
Mrs. Pennyworth crossed her arms. "You're saying a sandwich thief is leaving you… Morse code? With bread?"
"Exactly." Milo whipped out a notebook and scribbled furiously. "Three-two-one. That's… an address!"
An hour later, Milo's beat-up car screeched to a halt in front of an abandoned deli on the far side of town. Its flickering sign read "Sammy's Subs" - half the letters missing, the place dark as midnight coffee.
"This is it," Milo whispered, stepping out of the car.
Mrs. Pennyworth clutched her rolling pin like a sword. "This looks haunted."
"Worse," Milo said. "It's probably health-inspection-violating."
They crept inside. The place smelled of stale bread and mystery. Dusty sandwich menus hung crooked on the wall, and a single spotlight illuminated a table in the center of the room. On it sat… a single pickle jar.
Milo approached cautiously. Inside the jar was a note, neatly folded. He unscrewed the lid and read aloud:
> "You're getting close, Detective. Midnight tomorrow. Bring mustard. - S"
Mrs. Pennyworth groaned. "Mustard?!"
"It's a trap," Milo said, pocketing the note. "Which is exactly why we'll walk right into it."
Suddenly, a noise echoed through the deli - a slow creak from the back room. Milo spun around, flashlight raised. "Sam?" he called.
The creak grew louder, followed by… a hiss.
From the shadows slinked not Sandwich Sam, but a squad of raccoons, each wearing tiny bandanas and carrying baguettes like baseball bats.
"Oh no," Mrs. Pennyworth whispered. "He has raccoon henchmen."
Milo sighed. "Of course he does."
The raccoons charged.