The Mystery Megapack

something that would get us talked about for the rest of the day. I didn’t do much harm—a splashed wall, spilt apples, a broken window; but I saved the cross, as the cross will always be saved. It is at Westminster by now. I rather wonder you didn’t stop it with the Donkey’s Whistle.”
    “With the what?” asked Flambeau.
    “I’m glad you’ve never heard of it,” said the priest, making a face. “It’s a foul thing. I’m sure you’re too good a man for a Whistler. I couldn’t have countered it even with the Spots myself; I’m not strong enough in the legs.”
    “What on earth are you talking about?” asked the other.
    “Well, I did think you’d know the Spots,” said Father Brown, agreeably surprised. “Oh, you can’t have gone so very wrong yet!”
    “How in blazes do you know all these horrors?” cried Flambeau.
    The shadow of a smile crossed the round, simple face of his clerical opponent.
    “Oh, by being a celibate simpleton, I suppose,” he said. “Has it never struck you that a man who does next to nothing but hear men’s real sins is not likely to be wholly unaware of human evil? But, as a matter of fact, another part of my trade, too, made me sure you weren’t a priest.”
    “What?” asked the thief, almost gaping.
    “You attacked reason,” said Father Brown. “It’s bad theology.”
    And even as he turned away to collect his property, the three policemen came out from under the twilight trees. Flambeau was an artist and a sportsman. He stepped back and swept Valentin a great bow.
    “Do not bow to me, mon ami,” said Valentin with silver clearness. “Let us both bow to our master.”
    And they both stood an instant uncovered while the little Essex priest blinked about for his umbrella.

THE WORST NOEL, by Barb Goffman
    Okay, Gwen. Get ready to fake it.
    It was nearly my turn to share what I was thankful for. Then we’d eat some pie, Thanksgiving dinner would mercifully end, and I could escape for home.
    But first I had to pay my annual homage to Mom, saying how thankful I am for my family. Every year I contemplate only mentioning my friends and work, but I always chicken out. Mom would make me pay if I didn’t smile and mention her.
    My sister, Becca, finally stopped blathering about her husband and baby, and Mom slipped into the kitchen, clearly satisfied, as always, with Becca.
    Becca’s husband, Joe, started sharing his thanks. I reached for another roll, slathered some butter on it, and swallowed it down in two bites. Joe finished talking. I steeled myself. My turn had come. I smiled and—
    “Happy birthday to you,” Mom sang, emerging from the kitchen with a large pumpkin pie, a candle in the middle. Everyone joined in, Becca’s in-laws looking uncomfortable, while Mom set the pie before me.
    “We would have wished you happy birthday earlier,” Joe said, glancing at his parents when the song ended. “But we thought your birthday was tomorrow.”
    “Oh, it is,” Mom piped in. “But Becca and I will be busy shopping, so it only makes sense to celebrate Gwen’s birthday now.”
    I wished I had a different family and blew out my candle.
    “Pumpkin pie as birthday cake,” Joe said. “How unusual.”
    He knew my preference for chocolate. As did Mom.
    “Well, it is Thanksgiving. Besides”—Mom poked me with her elbow—“it’s not like Gwen needs any more cake.” She smiled as if she hadn’t just been incredibly rude to me. “Becca, would you please slice the pie? I’m going to get Gwen’s gift.”
    A couple minutes later, as plates of pie made the rounds and I considered dropping mine, face down, on Mom’s Berber carpet, Mom handed me a gold-wrapped box. I opened the envelope first, and a small gift card fell out. I turned it over and cringed. Not a gift card. A membership card. For a gym.
    This was a new low, even for Mom.
    “Read the greeting card,” she said.
    Lord save me. “To our darling daughter on her birthday,” I read aloud. Not that Mom or Dad had penned that sentiment. It came straight from Hallmark. At the bottom, Mom had written, “We got you this gym membership and a personal trainer for the next six months. Happy Birthday.”
    Oh, yeah. There’s nothing like being reminded that you’re fat to make your birthday a humdinger!
    “What a wonderful gift,” Becca said in that tone she’d used since we were kids—the one grown-ups always thought sounded sweet and sincere but I knew was chockfull of sarcasm.
    “There’s