Cynthia Manson (ed) (35 page)

“So we went into the apartment and
spent the day together. The place was a real dump, I might add, but what else
can you expect from a blind woman who does her own housekeeping? Every time she
asked me a question about how I was, I would lie to her. I told her I’d found a
good job working in a candy store, I told her I was about to get married, I
told her a hundred pretty stories, and she made like she believed every one of
them. ‘That’s fine, Robert,’ she would say, nodding her head and smiling. ‘I
always knew things would work out for you.’

“After a while, I started getting
pretty hungry. There didn’t seem to be much food in the house, so I went out to
a store in the neighborhood and brought back a mess of stuff. A precooked
chicken, vegetable soup, a bucket of potato salad, a chocolate cake, all kinds
of things. Ethel had a couple of bottles of wine stashed in her bedroom, and so
between us we managed to put together a fairly decent Christmas dinner. We both
got a little tipsy from the wine, I remember, and after the meal was over we
went out to sit in the living room, where the chairs were more comfortable. I
had to take a pee, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom down the hall.
That’s where things took yet another turn. It was ditsy enough doing my little
jig as Ethel’s grandson, but what I did next was positively crazy, and I’ve
never forgiven myself for it.

“I go into the bathroom, and stacked
up against the wall next to the shower, I see a pile of six or seven cameras.
Brand-new 35 millimeter cameras, still in their boxes, top-quality merchandise.
I figure this is the work of the real Robert, a storage-place for one of his
recent hauls. I’ve never taken a picture in my life, and I’ve certainly never
stolen anything, but the moment I see those cameras sitting in the bathroom, I
decide I want one for myself. Just like that. And without even stopping to
think about it, I tuck one of the boxes under my arm and go back to the living
room.

“I couldn’t have been gone for more
than three minutes, but in that time Granny Ethel had fallen asleep in her
chair. Too much Chianti, I suppose. I went into the kitchen to wash the dishes,
and she slept on through the whole racket, snoring like a baby. There didn’t
seem to be any point in disturbing her, so I decided to leave. I couldn’t even
write a note to say goodbye, seeing that she was blind and all, and so I just
left. I put her grandson’s wallet on the table, picked up the camera again, and
walked out of the apartment. And that’s the end of the story.”

“Did you ever go back to see her?” I
asked.

“Once,” he said. “About three or
four months later. I felt so bad about stealing the camera, I hadn’t even used
it yet. I finally made up my mind to return it, but Ethel wasn’t there anymore.
I don’t know what happened to her, but someone else had moved into the
apartment, and he couldn’t tell me where she was.”

“She probably died.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Which means that she spent her last
Christmas with you.”

“I guess so. I never thought of it
that way.”

“It was a good deed, Auggie. It was
a nice thing you did for her.”

“I lied to her, and then I stole
from her. I don’t see how you can call that a good deed.”

“You made her happy. And the camera
was stolen anyway. It’s not as if the person you took it from really owned it.”

“Anything for art, eh, Paul?”

“I wouldn’t say that. But at least
you’ve put the camera to good use.”

“And now you’ve got your Christmas
story, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said, “I suppose I do.”

I paused for a moment, studying
Auggie as a wicked grin spread across his face. I couldn’t be sure, but the
look in his eyes at that moment was so mysterious, so fraught with the glow of
some inner delight, that it suddenly occurred to me that he had made the whole
thing up. I was about to ask him if he’d been putting me on, but then I
realized he would never tell. I had been tricked into believing him, and that
was the only thing that mattered. As long as there’s one person to believe it,
there’s no story that can’t be true.

“You’re an ace, Auggie,” I said. “Thanks
for being so helpful.”

“Any time,” he answered, still
looking at me with that maniacal light in his eyes. “After all, if you can’t
share your secrets with your friends, what kind of a friend are you?”

“I guess I owe you one.”

“No you don’t. Just put it down the
way I told you, and you don’t owe me a thing.”

“Except the lunch.”

“That’s right. Except the lunch.”

I returned Auggie’s smile with a
smile of my own, and then I called out to the waiter and asked for the check.

MURDER AT CHRISTMAS – C.M. Chan

There were eight days till
Christmas. That meant there were six days till Phillip Bethancourt would be
called to gather round the family hearth and join in the exchanging of good
cheer and discussions of the principle that, although one might be
independently wealthy, this did not eliminate the need for doing something
useful with one’s life and why couldn’t he have become a barrister like his
cousin Robert? Or head up a charity like his sister? If he was so interested in
criminal investigation, why didn’t he get a job with the CID? Bethancourt
always smiled and said he wanted to be a writer, a notion that was just barely
borne out by the publishing of three or four of his articles.

Eight days till Christmas also meant
five days till he would be required to place before Maria, his girlfriend, a
present both expensive and spectacular. This was only their second Christmas
together, but Maria’s attitude toward presents was clear to anyone who had
known her a week, and Bethancourt knew better than to disappoint her.

Bethancourt, proceeding down Bond
Street towards Asprey’s, caught sight of a stocky figure in a tweed overcoat
just crossing the street. This bore a strong resemblance to Detective Sergeant
Jack Gibbons, a great friend of Bethancourt’s and his chief source for the
practicing of his amateur detective hobby. Bethancourt sprinted forward to
catch him up at the corner.

“Phillip!” grinned Gibbons. “I was
going to call you when I got back to the office.”

“Christmas shopping, I see,” said
Bethancourt, eyeing the three bulging shopping bags in Gibbons’ chapped red
hand.

Gibbons made a face. “It may be the
last chance I’ll get,” he said. “There’s been a murder off in Dorset. I was sent
back this morning to get the postmortem and interview one or two people, but I
thought I’d better get some Christmas shopping done while I was still in town.”

Bethancourt’s eyes brightened behind
his glasses. “Were you going to call me just to say happy holidays, or is the
murder particularly interesting?”

Gibbons laughed. “Well, it’s an odd
one, certainly.” He shifted the packages in his hands. “There’s an elderly
widow, quite well off, living alone now in a huge Victorian monstrosity where
she brought up five children.”

“Sounds normal so far,” observed
Bethancourt. “Children, I take it, live in London or other equally faraway
places.”

“Yes, yes,” said Gibbons. “I haven’t
come to the odd bit yet. It’s the murder itself that’s so bizarre.”

“Well, who was murdered?”

“We don’t know.”

“You don’t?”

“No. If you’d just be quiet for a
bit, I could tell this in an orderly fashion.”

“Very well.”

“Mrs. Bainbridge got a Christmas
tree in a couple of days ago and went up to the attic to bring down the
ornaments. Well, she opens the attic door and a truly awful stench greets her.
It’s so dreadful, she’s nearly sick on the spot—”

“Jack, you can’t mean—”

“Oh, yes, I can. Her Christmas
ornaments were scattered all over the place and in the old steamer trunk where
she usually stores them, there was a dead man—several months gone, we think.”

“My God,” said Bethancourt,
fascinated. “What a shock for the old girl.”

“Oh, she didn’t discover the body
herself,” said Gibbons. “The smell alarmed her enough so that she went back downstairs
and called a neighbor. He and his wife came over, and he was the one who went
up and opened the trunk—and he
was
sick. It was
rather a pity that he’d just finished lunch,” added Gibbons reflectively.

“You can’t blame him,” said
Bethancourt with feeling. “It must have been perfectly foul.”

“Oh, certainly,” agreed Gibbons
cheerfully. “Well, it’s all quite a mystery at the moment. Mrs. Bainbridge hadn’t
been up in the attic since she put the ornaments away last Christmas, and she
doesn’t think anyone else has been, but the place has been simply overrun by
children and grandchildren. Once we find out who the dead man was and when he
was killed, it may all become a lot clearer.”

“It’s a lovely puzzle as it stands,”
said Bethancourt, an eager look in his eyes. “I say, Jack, you wouldn’t want a
lift back to Dorset tomorrow or anything, would you?”

Gibbons laughed at him. “Well, I don’t
know if tomorrow will suit,” he said slyly. “I’ve got to interview two
grandchildren first, and if I don’t find them in this afternoon—”

“You devil,” said Bethancourt. “I
will pay for the taxis and even carry one of your bags if you will let me come
with you.”

“And
drive me to Dorset
tomorrow?”

“Yes, damn you.”

“Very well,” said Gibbons, holding
out a shopping bag. “I knew you’d find this one interesting, Phillip.”

The postmortem was waiting for
Gibbons when they returned to New Scotland Yard to drop off the packages.

“Well,” said Gibbons, frowning at
it, “he apparently met his fate sometime in August, or possibly early September.”

“Lord,” said Bethancourt, pushing
his glasses more firmly onto his nose and peering over Gibbons’ shoulder. “You’d
think the whole house would have smelt of it by now.”

“The third story did a bit,” said
Gibbons. “But that’s the old servants’ quarters, and of course nobody goes up
there nowadays. Mrs. Bainbridge’s daily goes up to clean once a year in the
spring, but that’s all.”

“Stabbed, eh?”

“So they think, but you can see how
vague they are. A stiletto or a whacking great kitchen knife: it could have
been anything. There were bloodstains in the trunk, but the scene-of-the-crime
men didn’t find them anywhere else. So it’s likely he was killed elsewhere.”

“Well, of course. You don’t lure
people to attics to kill them.”

“You could,” said Gibbons. “I don’t
see why not. No, don’t start, Phillip—we’ve got to get over to the university
and find Mrs. Bainbridge’s granddaughter.”

Maureen Bainbridge, emerging from a
chemistry class, was a truly lovely creature of about twenty. There was
something kittenlike about her, how she held her head and brushed her dark hair
aside, and it made a fascinating contrast to her open, straightforward manner.
She was tall and slender, with the famous English peaches and cream complexion.

Even Bethancourt, who had a high
standard of female beauty, gave a low whistle when the student they approached
pointed her out. They extracted her from her classmates, introduced themselves
and explained their presence, and then followed her to an empty classroom where
they could talk.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” she
said, sitting down on one of the desks. “I really can’t quite believe it.”

“I’m sure it’s a shock,” said
Gibbons. “Can you tell us, please: when was the last time you were at your
grandmother’s house?”

“In the summer,” she replied
promptly. “We were all there during the Bank Holiday.”

“All of you?”

“The whole family,” she said
expansively, and then hastily amended, “All my aunts and uncles, I mean. Only
one of my cousins showed up. Oh, and Dad brought one of his business partner’s
sons. Grandmother was annoyed about that because it meant an extra bedroom, but
there he was, you know.”

Gibbons pulled a notebook from his
pocket and consulted a page. “That would be Renaud Fibrier,” he said.

“Yes,” she nodded. “He was just a little
older than me, so my cousin Daniel and I did our best to entertain him. But, of
course, there were a lot of family demands, and I’m afraid Renaud must have
gotten bored. He left Monday morning, at any rate, instead of staying on till
Tuesday.”

“He sounds a rather tedious
houseguest,” said Gibbons.

“I didn’t mean that,” Maureen said. “Renaud
was really rather charming. I only thought he must have been bored because he
left early.”

“I see,” said Gibbons. “We haven’t
spoken with Mr. Fibrier yet; your grandmother didn’t have his address.”

“Neither do I,” she replied
promptly, “but Dad should know.”

“Yes, we should be speaking to him
soon,” said Gibbons. He glanced down at his notebook again. “So the houseparty
consisted of Paul and Clarissa North, Bill and Bernice Clayton, Michael and—”