Cynthia Manson (ed)

by Merry Murder

  “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—”

  “Oh, no,” she interrupted. “Uncle Michael wasn’t there; he lives in America. But Aunt Cathy was visiting from Australia. None of us had seen her in years, so there was a sort of family reunion. Most of them were only there for the weekend. My parents and I stayed for a week—we always do during the summer. Oh!” She put a hand to her mouth in what Bethancourt could not help but feel was a very becoming gesture.

  “What is it?” asked Gibbons.

  “I’ve just remembered. I was at Grandmother’s house for a weekend in November. I was a bit behind here and I just wanted a quiet place to study and Grandmother said I was welcome. She always does.”

  “Did you go up to the attic or the third floor while you were there?” asked Gibbons.

  “No. The last time I was in the attic was last year when I helped Grandmother with the Christmas things.”

  “Do you remember whether anyone else went up there during the August visit?”

  Maureen wrinkled her brow thoughtfully. “I don’t know,” she said after a moment. “I don’t remember anything like that, but there were so many people... it was awfully busy.”

  “That’s understandable,” said Gibbons. “Now, can you tell me when you were last at the house before the August visit?”

  She paused again. “I think in April,” she said at last. “There was the vacation and I went up then, I know. I don’t think I was there again until August.”

  “You were alone with your grandmother in April?”

  “Yes—no, Aunt Clarissa came up and spent a night, I think.”

  “Don’t you have brothers or sisters?” asked Bethancourt. “Or did they not go to your grandmother’s in August?”

  She grinned at him. “I’m an only child,” she said, “and the youngest of my cousins. Dad married late.”

  “Really?” said Bethancourt. “Did you know that only children are often very high achievers?”

  “Great,” she answered. “Maybe I’ll win the Nobel prize someday, then. I’m studying physics.”

  “Well,” said Gibbons, rising, “you’ve been very helpful, Miss Bainbridge. Here’s my card; please call me if you think of anything else. Right now, we have an appointment to keep with Daniel North. I believe he was the cousin you mentioned who was also at the August reunion?”

  “That’s right. Say hello to him for me.”

  “We will,” promised Bethancourt. Outside, he added, “Quite something, isn’t she?”

  “She’s too young for you, Phillip.”

  “Much too young,” Bethancourt agreed. “But I could always wait for her to grow up.”

  “Incorrigible,” muttered Gibbons.

  Daniel North was a goodlooking man of about thirty, conservatively dressed as befitted a junior member of a prominent solicitor’s office. He received them with a quick smile and asked them to be seated. He denied having been in his grandmother’s attic since he was a child, and he had certainly not gone up there in August, which was the last time he had been at the house. Asked who else had been there at that time, his list tallied with Maureen’s, with one exception.

  “I thought,” said Gibbons, “that Maureen’s father had brought a business associate?”

  “Oh, him,” said North. “I’d forgotten. Yes, he was there. I can’t think why Uncle David brought him—I never cared for the fellow myself. Unsavory type, if you ask me. Anyway, if you want someone who’s been in the attic recently, you should talk to my mother.”

  Gibbons looked up. “She’s been up there?”

  “I don’t know,” answered North, “but she often visits my grandmother—much more frequently than the rest of us. If anyone’s been in the attic, it would be she. In fact, I think she’s in Dorset now.”

  “Yes,” said Gibbons. “The chief inspector was going to see her this morning. Well, thank you very much for your time, Mr. North.”

  North ushered them to the door, where the clerk appeared to escort them from the premises.

  “Well,” said Gibbons, shrugging into his coat in the vestibule, “that’s done with.”

  “It hasn’t got you much further.”

  “No one really thought it would. But you never can tell,” added Gibbons cheerfully. “One of them might have been up there near the crucial times.”

  “Look here,” said Bethancourt, leading the way out into the street, “why don’t you come round to dinner tonight and we can go ov
er it?”

  “Where are you dining?” asked Gibbons suspiciously. He had previously accepted dinner invitations from Bethancourt and found himself eating in restaurants that he could ill afford on his salary.

  “I’m meeting Maria at eight thirty at Joe’s Cafe,” answered Bethancourt, confirming Gibbons’ worst fears.

  “Well, I don’t know, Phillip—”

  “Don’t be a spoilsport, Jack. I’m sure there’s heaps of things about this case you haven’t told me yet.”

  Gibbons had an inspiration. “How would it be if I met you there for a drink before dinner?”

  “If that’s the best you can do, I suppose I’ll have to be happy with it. Eight thirty, then, in the bar.”

  “We could make it earlier, so that when Maria comes—”

  “She’ll be late.”

  “So will you.”

  Bethancourt assumed a solemn expression. “I give you my word, Jack, tonight I shall be punctual.”

  “Oh, very well. Half eight then.”

  The bar at Joe’s Cafe was crowded. Gibbons ordered a whisky and positioned himself in view of the door. He did not bother to search for Bethancourt among the other patrons, having less than no faith in his friend’s promise to be on time.

  He was pleasantly surprised, therefore, when Bethancourt made his way through the door at eight thirty-five, beaming triumphantly.

  “I told you I’d be here,” he said happily. “Here, let’s move down a bit. We can just fit in over there. Now then, Jack,” said Bethancourt, having obtained a drink and wedged himself firmly between Gibbons and a rather large man in evening dress, “let’s start from the beginning.”