The Manual of Detection by Jedediah Berry Read Free Book Online Page A

blue woolen dress, then began clearing the crumpled pages off her desk and into a wastepaper basket. Her hands were shaking a little, and Unwin thought he should leave the room and give her the chance to recover, but she spoke quickly and without pause as she worked, so he was unable to excuse himself. “I’m an excellent typist, and I practice as much as I’m able,” she said. “I’ve studied the Agency’s most important cases, and I’m not averse to working extra hours. My greatest fault is my susceptibility to unpredictable bouts of deep sleep. The irony of my condition, in light of the Agency’s foremost motto, is not lost on me. But the work I’ve done to make up for my weakness has strengthened my resolve beyond normal expectations. I apologize in advance for the snoring.”
    All that remained on her desk—aside from the typewriter, telephone, and lamp—was a shiny black lunch box.
    Emily came around the desk and reached to take Unwin’s hat, but he held tightly to the brim. She clutched it and tugged until he relented, then she brushed off the trilby and hung it on the coatrack.
    She stood very close, and the room felt suddenly small for them both. He could smell her perfume in the air: lavender. She reached for his briefcase, and he drew it against his chest, shielding it with both arms.
    “It’s okay,” she said, her smile revealing her crooked teeth. “That’s what I’m here for.”
    So his assistant knew what she was here for, even if Unwin did not. But what to do with her? Were he at his desk on the fourteenth floor, he might have been able to think of something. There were always labels to be typed, folders to be sorted: alphabetically, in chronological or reverse-chronological order. But Unwin took pleasure even in those minor tasks and would not soon have parted with them.
    He freed one arm from his coat and transferred his briefcase to the other hand while Emily slipped the coat off and away and hung it below the hat. She had also taken possession of his umbrella without his seeing how it was done.
    “I have a lot of work to do,” he said.
    She folded her hands in front of her. “I’m prepared, of course, to hear all about our case, assuming you’ve already been contacted by your watcher.”
    “I have . . . conferred with the gentleman,” Unwin said.
    There was a knock at the door, and Emily opened it before Unwin could stop her. In the hall stood a man in a crisp white shirt and yellow suspenders. His age was unapparent: the unkempt blond hair belonged on the head of a boy of thirteen, but he entered the room with the unhesitant calm of someone much older. He was holding a shoe-box-size package wrapped in brown paper.
    “Messenger for you, sir,” Emily announced, as though Unwin were not in the room with her.
    Unwin accepted the package and unwrapped it while the two watched. Inside was an Agency identification badge for Charles Unwin, Detective. Beside it was a pistol. Unwin snapped the box shut. “Who sent this?”
    “That information is not within the bounds of my message,” said the messenger, running his thumbs along the undersides of his suspender straps.
    Unwin had parlayed with messengers before. He found them, on the whole, a rascally lot, prone to twist the rules governing their profession to their own advantage. This one was clearly no exception.
    “Can you tell me when it was sent?” Unwin tried.
    The messenger only looked at the ceiling, as though to acknowledge the question would shame them both.
    “Are you free to take a message, then?”
    With that, Unwin knew he had snared the man. Messengers were obliged to deliver only what they were given, whether packages or words, but they had to take a message whenever asked. This one let go of his suspenders and sighed. “Spoken or typed?” he asked.
    “Typed,” said Unwin. “Emily, you told me you are an excellent typist.”
    “Yes, sir.” She returned to her typewriter and loaded a fresh sheet of paper bearing