Read Online The Mike Murphy Files and Other Stories by Christopher Bunn - Free Book Online Page A

at Polly.
    “I have here, Miss Inch,” said Mr. Fleming, “a list of your uncle’s assets. I won’t bother reading the entire thing. It’s excessive and—ah—rather peculiar.”
    “Uncle did like to travel,” said Polly. “I accompanied him on several of his trips, and I must say he was not fond of the beaten path.”
    “We require a copy of that list.”
    Polly turned to glare at the man from the IRS. Actually, there were three of them, but they looked drearily the same. Dark blue suits, pasty white skin, briefcases clutched on their laps.
    “Must you be here?” she said. “I’ve already forgotten your names. You’re ruining the ambiance.”
    “I’m Mr. Brown,” said the one who had spoken. “And these are my colleagues, Mr. Black and Mr. White. Seeing that the IRS has a lien on your late uncle’s estate, Ms. Inch, quite a considerable lien, not to mention the death taxes you will owe, we have every right to be here.”
    “Now, now,” said Mr. Fleming hurriedly, before Polly could say anything else. “I’ve got another copy right here. Always do things in triplicate, that’s what lawyers do. You’re a lawyer yourself, aren’t you, Mr. Brown?”
    “Naturally,” said Mr. Brown, snatching the thick sheaf of papers. “Now, Miss Inch, I demand that we pay a visit to the warehouse referenced here. Is this the only place Professor Inch had? Surely a man of his stature would own a residence? Did he live in this warehouse?”
    “Professor Inch,” said Mr. Fleming somewhat coldly, “was a traveling man. I doubt he spent more than several weeks a year back in the States. He lived in a hotel whenever he returned to this city. Here, Miss Inch, are the keys to the warehouse. If you don’t mind, my dear, I will accompany you in order to, ah, keep an eye on things.”
    It was raining from a cold, grey sky when they exited Mr. Fleming’s office. The old lawyer unfurled his umbrella and trotted along next to Polly, shielding her from the rain. He ushered her into his elderly Mercedes. The engine turned over with a cough.
    “I’m afraid your uncle was not wise with money,” said Mr. Fleming. He eased the car out into traffic. “The IRS was after him for years. Why, I remember the time he smuggled himself back into the country inside a sarcophagus. The postman delivered it to my house. My wife was quite startled when she opened it.”
    “Speaking of which,” said Polly, flipping through the pages, “there are quite a lot of sarcophagi on this list. Incan, Egyptian, and even some Chinese. I can’t imagine how the IRS is going to set a value on such things. This isn’t their expertise. Uncle Thaddeus never really knew when enough was enough, did he?”
    “Your field of study is Egyptology, is it not?”
    “All Uncle’s doing. He took me on my first dig when I was twelve years old. The Upper Nile. Beetles, mummies, dysentery, the works. It was delightful. I’ve been hooked ever since. Oh, there aren’t many jobs that necessitate such a degree, so I’m not sure what I’ll do when I graduate. Perhaps go in for sarcophagi smuggling or plundering pyramids. Will you look at that?!”
    “At what, exactly?” said Mr. Fleming, taking an admiring look at Polly.
    “Dr. Stewart I’m-So-Famous-and-Handsome Bulstrode! What’s he doing here?”
    They pulled up at a warehouse. The sedan with the IRS lawyers swerved in behind them. A tall man in an elegant suit waited at the warehouse door, umbrella in hand.
    “Ah, Polly, my dear,” he said. “How very good to see you.”
    “That’s Ms. Inch to you,” Polly said coldly. “What are you doing here? This is private property. Go away before I call the police.”
    “Dr. Bulstrode is with us,” said Mr. Brown, dodging puddles as he hurried over. “The IRS has retained his services in order to appraise the estate of Professor Inch. Dr. Bulstrode is the world’s premier authority on antiquities of the Egyptian, Inca, and Mesopotamian eras.”
    “As well