9 December 2026
Wednesday. December. Every office in the city has decided to celebrate the season by being accused of murder, six at a time.
A woman in a paper crown asked me tonight what she should give a friend who has read every detective novel in existence and guessed the ending of all of them. I have the answer, and it is the only answer. The management sells vouchers, on its website, and a voucher puts the friend in the lift and the frame. Let her guess the ending of that.
The office parties come in shifts. Accountants at six, lawyers at seven, a dental practice at eight that brought tinsel. Everybody leaves in a better mood than they arrived, which is more than I can say for most office parties I have attended in a professional capacity.
Croissant has been given a Christmas scarf by the front desk. He looks magnificent. He also looks like a suspect.
— Insp. A. Brochard, Gendarmerie
