Free The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories by Christopher Bunn

say—no, perhaps not. Polly, my dear girl, which sarcophagus would you say was your uncle’s finest discovery? I already know, of course, but I’m always happy to hear your opinions.”
    “You are, are you?” said Polly. She paused in the middle of the aisle and then shrugged. “I suppose the IRS is going to take most of this anyway, so we might as well get this over. As it happens, I do know which sarcophagus is the finest of Uncle’s collection.”
    “You do? Of course you do. Which one is it?”
    “I actually assisted Uncle on that dig. It was at the headwaters of the Nile in the middle of summer. Hotter than Hades, as Uncle always said. The air was red with dust blown in off the desert. The sunsets were absolutely—”
    “While your travelogue is fascinating, Ms. Inch, time is money.” Mr. Brown slid back his cuff and tapped his watch. “In the case of Thaddeus Inch, each passing minute means an extra five dollars and thirteen cents in interest, compounded monthly. I suggest you point out the sarcophagus in question and allow us to get on with our job.”
    “The crate at the end on the right,” snapped Polly. “It contains the sarcophagus of Pharaoh Menekeht the First. He’s been asleep for a long time. Five thousand years, I think. You really shouldn’t bother him.”
    Dr. Bulstrode laughed. “How very quaintly put, my dear girl. Women. So poetic. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some appraising to do.”
    “We have some money to make on behalf of the United States government,” said Mr. Brown severely.
    Bulstrode and the three IRS agents hurried away down the aisle. Polly stood watching them.
    “Don’t you want to see the sarcophagus?” said Mr. Fleming. “After all, if it was the jewel of your uncle’s collection, it really must be a sight. Five thousand years old! I’m curious myself.”
    She put her hand on his arm. “If you don’t mind, I’d rather have a breath of fresh air.”
    The girl and the old man turned and strolled back to the warehouse door.
    “That’s odd,” said Mr. Fleming, peering at the door. “There are no locks on the inside.”
    “Of course not,” said Polly. “They’re all on the outside. The walls in this place are concrete, two feet thick, with steel sandwiching both sides. Uncle built this warehouse in order to keep things inside. He wasn’t too concerned about people breaking in.”
    She turned in time to see Dr. Bulstrode triumphantly pull off the top of the crate at the far end of the warehouse. The IRS agents crowded around him to peer inside, calculators in hand.
    “To keep things in?” said Mr. Fleming with some bewilderment. “What on earth do you mean by that?”
    “What I mean is that it’s time to shut this door,” said Polly. And she gently pushed him outside. She swung the door closed just as a piercing scream came from inside the warehouse. But then the door slammed shut, and all they could hear was the falling rain pattering down around them. Polly swiftly locked each of the six locks.
    “Soundproof, thief-proof, and mummy-proof,” she said, dropping the keys into her purse. “Old Menekeht always was a light sleeper. I suppose one gets rather hungry after several thousand years.”

 
    THE CHRISTMAS CAPER
     
    The last house of the night. That’s when it happened. In Manhattan. Can you believe it? Seven billion presents, twenty-four time zones, more chocolate chip cookies than I could count. Or stomach. Maybe it was the cookies that were to blame. Or the jet lag.
    Whatever the reason, I was feeling pretty woozy by the time I squeezed down through that last chimney. The soot made my nose tickle. I adjusted my night-vision goggles when I got to the bottom and looked around. Nice place. One of those Park Avenue brownstones where you couldn’t swing a crystal chandelier without hitting a Matisse or a Degas. No real need for me. Still, tradition is tradition.
    I sampled the cookies on the sideboard. I couldn’t help it. Gourmet.