Free Murder Most Merry by ed. Abigail Browining Page A

client said, with feeling.
    “So I finished the manuscript and still didn’t feel sleepy. And I got dressed and let myself out and went home.”
    There was a silence, broken at length by Zoltan Mihalyi, offering our client congratulations on his triumph and sympathy for the memory loss. “When you write your memoirs.” he said, “you’ll have to leave that chapter blank.”
    “Or have someone ghost it for you,” Philip Perigord offered.
    “The manuscript,” Stokes said. “What became of it?”
    “I don’t know,” the caterer said. “I finished it—”
    “Which is more than Woolrich could say,” Jayne Corn-Wallace said.
    “—and I left it there.”
    “There?”
    “In its box. On the bedside table, where you’d be sure to find it first thing in the morning. But I guess you didn’t.”
    “The manuscript? Haig, you’re telling me you want the manuscript? ”
    “You find my fee excessive?”
    “But it wasn’t even lost. No one took it. It was next to my bed. I’d have found it sooner or later.”
    “But you didn’t,” Haig said. “Not until you’d cost me and my young associate the better part of our holiday. You’ve been reading mysteries all your life. Now you got to see one solved in front of you, and in your own magnificent library.”
    He brightened. “It is a nice room, isn’t it?”
    “It’s first-rate.”
    “Thanks. But Haig, listen to reason. You did solve the puzzle and recover the manuscript, but now you’re demanding what you recovered as compensation. That’s like rescuing a kidnap victim and insisting on adopting the child yourself.”
    “Nonsense. It’s nothing like that.”
    “All right, then it’s like recovering stolen jewels and demanding the jewels themselves as reward. It’s just plain disproportionate. I hired you because I wanted the manuscript in my collection, and now you expect to wind up with it in your collection.”
    It did sound a little weird to me, but I kept my mouth shut. Haig had the ball, and I wanted to see where he’d go with it.
    He put his fingertips together. “ In Black Orchids, ” he said, “Wolfe’s client was his friend Lewis Hewitt. As recompense for his work. Wolfe insisted on all of the black orchid plants Hewitt had bred. Not one. All of them.”
    “That always seemed greedy to me.”
    “If we were speaking of fish.” Haig went on. “I might be similarly inclined. But books are of use to me only as reading material. I want to read that book, sir, and I want to have it close to hand if I need to refer to it.” He shrugged. “But I don’t need the original that you prize so highly. Make me a copy.”
    “A copy?”
    “Indeed. Have the manuscript photocopied.”
    “You’d be content with a... a copy?”
    “And a credit,” I said quickly, before Haig could give away the store. We’d put in a full day, and he ought to get more than a few hours’ reading out of it. “A two-thousand-dollar store credit,” I added, “which Mr. Haig can use up as he sees fit.”
    “Buying paperbacks and book-club editions.” our client said. ‘ It should last you for years.” He heaved a sigh. “A photocopy and a store credit. Well, if that makes you happy...”
    And that pretty much wrapped it up. I ran straight home and sat down at the typewriter, and if the story seems a little hurried it’s because I was in a rush when I wrote it. See, our client tried for a second date with Jeanne Botleigh, to refresh his memory, I suppose, but a woman tends to feel less than flattered when you forget having gone to bed with her, and she wasn’t having any.
    So I called her the minute I got home, and we talked about this and that, and we’ve got a date in an hour and a half. I’ll tell you this much, if I get lucky. I’ll remember. So wish me luck, huh?
    And, by the way...
    Merry Christmas!
     

RUMPOLE AND THE SPIRIT OF CHRISTMAS – John Mortimer

    I realized that Christmas was upon us when I saw a sprig of holly over the list of prisoners