A Christmas Murder

It had been a day well spent. Scott Putner was a Consulting Detective. He had come to be epitomise all that is dignified and intelligent over the course of a career that traced an upward trajectory since his little triumph in the affair of the Curious Case of Franklin Cufflink. Hidden behind the piles of papers on his table, he flipped through a couple of case files and decided he was done for the day. With one swift movement, he put on his coat and was walking along a slippery street towards the theatre. 

That evening, he was headed to watch the Christmas special ‘A day in Paris’. Everyone was talking about the play rumoured to be one of the last collaborations between the rifting actor-director duo of Robert Flent’s and Richard Berkley- at parties, get togethers and even family dinners, and Putner was growing tired of feeling left out everywhere. As he neared the theatre, he noticed a restless crowd outside the local pub, peering at some monstrosity with the semblance of a human body on the ground. Raising her voice above the hushed whispers, a woman shrieked ‘Someone fetch the police. This is stone cold murder.’ 

Putner stopped dead in his tracks. He felt the adrenaline racing through his veins, his heart pounding and head throbbing the moment he caught a glimpse of a mutilated body; the body of Richard Berkley.  

‘What’s this hullaballoo about? Oh my Goodness this is a crime scene. For the love of God, step aside please. I’m with the police.’

The attention that last sentence garnered never ceased to amaze Putner. People really lent their ears to his droning monotone only after he had established his association with the police. Jesus, even his own father had been that way during their very brief association. 

Presently, detectives from Scotland Yard arrived at the scene and Putner switched out of his reverie when someone slapped him on the shoulder and dragged him towards the body. 

‘A solid murder, this eh? What’d you make of it Scotty? My money’s on the actor bloke, the one Berkley supposedly had a feud with’

‘I don’t know Ridley. I just don’t know.’

***********

Putner was an intuitive man. He was gifted with the extraordinary ability to see through people- their vices and their shortcomings, their fears and their anxieties- and deduce their thoughts with exacting precision. To him, there was never any grey, it was always black or white. Today, however, things were different.

Putner wasn’t able to bring himself to look at the dead body. He felt the world gyrating around him. People’s faces were becoming more blurred by the minute, and the usual traces of guilt seemed to be vanishing. Or had he suddenly become blind to them?

***********

Two days later: 

The last live performance of ‘A day in Paris’ was that evening. A solemn Robert Flent took centre stage to address the audience. 

‘Good evening. The past couple of days have been nothing sort of a nightmare for me. Life is too short to fritter it away in petty quarrels and it is in the fondest memory of my friend and with the deepest regret that-    

‘Well Mr. Robert Flent I’m sorry to say this but you're under arrest for the murder of Richard Berkley. I’d like you to move towards the exit without any flamboyance or drama, ironic seeing that we are in a theatre. But off the record, any last words?’ Ridley had shot out of his seat in the audience, handcuffed Flent and was nudging him to budge from the spot he had apparently become rooted to. 

‘As a matter of fact, yes. I do have a few last words to say. Putner and Ridley? Really? Could you not have chosen better names?’ 

‘Er what? Anyway Mr. Flent I think we should get going. Well Putner I don’t know what to say. You’ve done it again. I’ll send across the paperwork tomorrow, proof read it and let me know if there’s anything I’ve forgotten to mention.’ 

***********

Later that evening, a fire crackled and warmed a living room. Two men raised their glasses of wine and sat by the hearth, talking.

‘To a Merry Christmas’ 

‘I’m glad we got him in the end. Flent really was an awful father. Quite a bit of touche from you, by the way, with the cyanide killing him in a trice and the stab wounds throwing everyone off the track of poison. The coroner was rather cooperative, don't you think, Putner? Not to mention, the media swallowing that rubbish we fed them about the feud and what not. I only wonder if Flent knew it was us, you know?’

‘I’m sure he did Ridley. Why mention that god awful ‘feud’ in his speech if he hadn't known we were after him? Why ask us about our names if he hadn't known we were the kids he abandoned? But I am glad we got him.’ 

It had been a day well spent.