“According to Miss Muriel O’Neill,” Charley says, “Gammer O’Neill dies practically convinced that there is a Santa Claus, although of course,” he says, “Miss Muriel O’Neill does not tell her the real owner of the gifts, an all-right guy by the name of Shapiro leaves the gifts with her after Miss Muriel O’Neill notifies him of finding of same.
“It seems,” Charley says, “this Shapiro is a tender-hearted guy, who is willing to help keep Gammer O’Neill with us a little longer when Doc Moggs says leaving the gifts with her will do it.
“So,” Charley says, “everything is quite all right, as the coppers cannot figure anything except that maybe the rascal who takes the gifts from Shapiro gets conscience-stricken, and leaves them the first place he can, and Miss Muriel O’Neill receives a ten-G’s reward for finding the gifts and returning them. And,” Charley says, “I hear Dancing Dan is in San Francisco and is figuring on reforming and becoming a dancing teacher, so he can marry Miss Muriel O’Neill, and of course,” he says, “we all hope and trust she never learns any details of Dancing Dan’s career.”
Well, it is Christmas Eve a year later that I run into a guy by the name of Shotgun Sam, who is mobbed up with Heine Schmitz in Harlem, and who is a very, very obnoxious character indeed.
“Well, well, well,” Shotgun says, “the last time I see you is another Christmas Eve like this, and you are coming out of Good Time Charley’s joint, and,” he says, “you certainly have your pots on.”
“Well, Shotgun,” I says, “I am sorry you get such a wrong impression of me, but the truth is,” I say, “on the occasion you speak of, I am suffering from a dizzy feeling in my head.”
“It is all right with me,” Shotgun says. “I have a tip this guy Dancing Dan is in Good Time Charley’s the night I see you, and Mockie Morgan, and Gunner Jack and me are casing the joint, because,” he says, “Heine Schmitz is all sored up at Dan over some doll, although of course,” Shotgun says, “it is all right now, as Heine has another doll.
“Anyway,” he says, “we never get to see Dancing Dan. We watch the joint from six-thirty in the evening until daylight Christmas morning, and nobody goes in all night but old Ooky the Santa Claus guy in his Santa Claus makeup, and,” Shotgun says, “nobody comes out except you and Good Time Charley and Ooky.
“Well,” Shotgun says, “it is a great break for Dancing Dan he never goes in or comes out of Good Time Charley’s, at that, because,” he says, “we are waiting for him on the second-floor front of the building across the way with some nice little sawed-offs, and are under orders from Heine not to miss.”
“Well, Shotgun,” I say, “Merry Christmas.”
“Well, all right,” Shotgun says, “Merry Christmas.”
A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS
Ron Goulart
IT IS NO SMALL THING to be able to blend three genres into good, readable stories, but Ron Goulart has proven to be a master at this juggling act, combining mystery, science fiction, and humor to produce scores of books with this rich stew, one of which, After Things Fell Apart (1970), was nominated for an Edgar Award. Many of his private eye stories are set in the future, a time and place with which he was comfortable enough to mentor William Shatner when the popular actor began to write a series of Star Trek novels. “A Visit from St. Nicholas” was first published in Santa Clues, edited by Martin H. Greenberg and Carol-Lynn Rossel Waugh (New York, Signet, 1993).
A Visit from St. Nicholas
RON GOULART
THE MEDIA, AS USUAL, GOT IT completely wrong. The corpse in the Santa Claus suit hadn’t been the victim of a mugging and therefore wasn’t an all too obvious symbol of what’s wrong with our decaying society.
Actually Harry Wilkie had gotten dressed up as St. Nicholas to commit grand larceny. Things obviously went quite wrong, which is why he ended up, decked out in a scarlet costume and snowy white whiskers, sprawled on that midnight beach in Southport, Connecticut.
It snowed on what was to be Harry’s final birthday. That was December 20th last year and the snowfall was fitful and halfhearted, not a traditional New En gland Christmas-card snow at all. And a foot or so of good snow would have improved the view through the narrow window of the living room of the condo where he’d been living in exile since his last divorce almost two years ago.
Harry was sitting there, phone in his lap, looking out at his carport, his two blue plastic garbage cans, and a bleak patch of dead lawn.
“Didn’t I warn you?” his brother Roy was asking from his mansion way out in Oregon someplace. “You take up residence in something named Yankee Woodlands Village, you’re obviously going to have problems. There probably aren’t any woodlands within miles, are there?”
“Six trees. The point, Roy, is—”
“What kind of trees?”
“Elms. The point, Roy, is that it’s been over four months since I was let go at Forman & McCay. You may not have heard, but the economy is—”
“You really had talent once. I still remember those great caricatures you did of Mr. Washburn.”
“Who?”
“Our high school math teacher. Washburn, the one with the nose shaped like—”
“My high school math teachers were Miss Dillingham and Mr. Ribera. The point is, Roy, that I’m running short of cash and—”
“To go from really brilliant caricatures to the worst kind of commercial art is sad and—”
“Forman & McCay is the second largest ad agency in Manhattan, Roy. I work on the Kubla Kola account, which annually bills—”
“Worked. Past tense.”
“And the Cyclops Security System account and—”
“Okay, how much?”
“Do I need, you mean?”
“I can’t let you have more than $5000. Abigail wants to go for her MA degree next sem—”
“You don’t have a daughter named Abigail.”
“Mistress. Will $5000 help?”
“Sure, yes. I’ve got a lead on a new art director job and right after the first of the—”
“Another job in the Apple?”
“No, it’s just over in Norwalk. Near Wilton here. A small, aggressive young agency that specializes in health food and herbal remedy accounts.”
“Have you considered trying one of those career counselors? It’s probably not too late, even at your age, to start fresh and—”
“My age? I’m two years, Roy, younger than you are.”
“Well, I’m nearly fifty.”
“You’re nearly fifty-one. I’m forty-nine. And I’ll tell you something else—having a damned birthday so close to Christmas is not that great. This year especially, since I’m not married or seeing anybody seriously, I got hardly any presents or even—”
“You maybe shouldn’t become serious about another woman, Harry. Not right yet anyway,” advised his brother. “Four marriages gone flooey is enough for now.”
“Three marriages gone flooey.”
“Was there one that didn’t go flooey?”
“There were only three marriages all told, Roy.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’ve kept track.”
“Only three, huh? Let’s see … there was the fat one. Was that Alexandra?”
“That was Alice, who was plump and not fat.”
“Hereabouts we judge a woman who tips the scale at two-fifty plus as fat.”
“At her peak she weighed one seventy-five.”
“That’s still pretty close to fat, Harry. And then there was that crazy skinny one. What was her name? Some kind of flower.”
“Pearl.”
“That’s the one. Loony as a fruitbar.”
“Nutty as a fruitcake.”
“Exactly.”
“No, I wasn’t agreeing, I was just correcting your cliché. Pearl was a mite eccentric, yes, though certainly not crazy.”
Out in Oregon his brother made a grunting sound. “The first one wasn’t too terrible. The best of the lot, in fact. Was her name Amy?”
“She was halfway good-looking, too.”
Harry asked, “Could you, Roy, FedEx me the check?”
“Things that bad?”
“The condo payment is a mite past due. And—” His phone signaled that he had another call. “Hold on, Roy, I have another call.” He pushed a button. “Hello?”
“Gee, you sound awful. Are you sick?”
“No,” he said tentatively.
The woman continued, “You sound absolutely rotten. I bet it’s another of those frequent bouts of bronchitis you were always having.”
“I’ve had bronchitis exactly twice in my entire life, Amy.”
“Most people never have it at all,” said his first wife. “Listen, can I talk to you?”
“Hold on a minute. I’m on the other line with Roy.”
“Roy?”
“My brother. The best man at our wedding.”
“Was his name Roy? That all seems like a hundred years ago and I try not to clutter my memory with all that old junk. Give him my best, though.”
He pushed a button and said to his brother, “I’ve got to take this other call. Send the money and—”
“It’s a woman, isn’t it? I can tell by the furtive tone of your voice.”
“Do I also sound like I have bronchitis?”
“Is this some new lady? You really, Harry, in your present state shouldn’t even consider—”
“It’s only my ex-wife. It’s Amy. She sends you her best wishes, by the way.”
“She wasn’t half bad, especially compared to what came later. Merry Christmas—and, oh, happy birthday.”
“Thanks, Roy.… Hello, Amy, what is it?”
And that’s when he first heard about what was up in the attic of the Southport mansion she and her latest husband had recently moved into.
The Southport mansion was less than a block from the Sound. A century-old Victorian, it rose up three stories and was encrusted with intricacies of gingerbread and wrought iron.
Harry arrived there at a quarter past one the day after his former wife’s call. Standing on the wide front porch, he noted that they had a new Cyclops alarm system.
“Late as usual,” Amy observed as she admitted him to the large hallway. The house was filled with the scents of fresh paint, new carpeting, furniture polish, and cut flowers.
“It took longer to drive over here from Wilton, probably because of the wind and sleet. And then, too, I—”
“You never were very good at planning anything, even a simple visit from one town to another.” She helped him out of his overcoat, holding it gingerly and then rushing it into a large closet. “Isn’t this the same shabby overcoat?”
“Same as what?”
“It certainly resembles the shabby old overcoat you insisted on wearing back when we were … um … together.”
“Married. We were married.” Harry thrust his hands into his trouser pockets and glanced around. There were several small abstract paintings on the walls, bright and in silvery metal frames. He couldn’t identify the artist.
“Yes, they’re Businos.” She smiled thinly and nodded at the nearest painting, which was mostly red.
“Oh, right, Busino.” He had no idea who the hell Busino was.
“What happened to your hair?”
He reached up and touched his head. “Still there, Amy.”
“Not very much of it,” she observed. “You used to have a great deal much more hair back when we were … um … cohabiting.”
He asked, “What about the paintings you wanted me to look at?”
“My husband … have you ever met Tops?”
“Tops? Your husband’s first name is Tops? No, I’d remember if I’d ever encountered somebody who was named Tops. What’s it short for?”
“Nothing. It’s a nickname. Obviously.”
“Is he home?”
“No, he’s with his parents over on Long Island. I’ll be joining them Christmas Eve day. I find two days with Mommy Nayland is all I can safely tolerate.”
“What do they call Tops’s father?”
“Jared.”
Harry nodded. “About the pictures?”
“I was trying to say that Tops has a full head of wavy hair.”
“I once did myself.”
She sighed briefly. “Follow me,” Amy invited. “We left them up in the attic after we found them last month. You see, as I mentioned to you over the telephone yesterday, many years ago an art director from some New York advertising concern lived in this house. A coincidence, isn’t it, since you’re an art director, too? His name was … um … Hoganbanger.”
“I doubt it.”
“Something like that. Perhaps Bangerhagen.” She started up the ornate staircase. “Tops and I think they may be from the 1950s or possibly earlier. Left behind by the art director. It’s old artwork by various artists, stuff he must have brought home. This Hagenfarmer seems to—”
“Do you mean Faberhagen? Eric Faberhagen?”
“That sounds about right. Have you ever heard of him?”
“Sure, he was a famous art director in the 1930s and 1940s. He still gets written up in advertising graphics magazines now and then,” Harry answered. “He worked for the agency that, back then, had the Kubla Kola account.”
“Yes, some of these awful paintings have cola bottles in them.”
Harry felt a sudden tightening across his chest. He let out an inadvertent gasp, took hold of the bannister. “Really?” he managed to say.
“Have you had a physical exam lately? Climbing a few flights of stairs shouldn’t—”
“It’s the bronchitis, that’s all.”
“With all the weight you seem to have put on, you have to think seriously about your heart.”
“I weigh exactly what I did while we were … um … married.”
“C’mon, Harry.” She laughed. “You used to be quite slim.”
“I was never slim, no.”
“Well, certainly slimmer than you are now,” she insisted. “Two more flights to go. Can you make it?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I understand you’re not married just now.”
“I’m not.”
“I’ve been meaning to call you before this. Ever since Tops and I bought this place five months ago and I quit working with Thigpen Reality,” his former wife told him as they began another flight. “The thing is, Tops isn’t that keen on my seeing old beaus … or old husbands. But when we came across these old advertising paintings, it occurred to me you were the perfect person to tell us what they’re worth. I got Tops to see it my way. And, really, there’s no reason why you and I can’t be friends again—in a distant way at least.”
“When you moved out you implied you never wanted to see me again. Let’s see … the exact words were ‘I never want to look at that awful pudgy face of yours as long as we both shall live.’ ”
“Well, then I guess you were overweight back then, too,” she said, nodding slowly. “As I told you, I weed out my memories fairly often. I have no recollection what I might have said to you eleven years ago. Did my remarks hurt you?”
“Not as much as the bricks.”
“Oh, my. Did I throw a brick at you, Harry?”
“Bricks, plural. Three.”
“I have no recollection. Wherever did I get bricks?”
“The bookcase in my den was constructed from boards and bricks.”
“Oh, that ugly thing. Yes, I remember that,” she said. “Tops and I got to talking, after we discovered this small cache of old advertising art that had been mouldering in the attic for untold years, and I suggested that it might be worth something. Tops simply wants to donate it to St. Norby.”
“Another nickname?”
“St. Norbert’s Holy Denominational Church. You must’ve driven past it on your way here.”
“Big building with a cross on top?”
“That’s dear old St. Norby, yes.” She started up another flight
. “But before we donate this stuff to their fair next month, I thought I ought to get an expert opinion. And, after some debate, Tops gave in and allowed me to ask you over. Maybe this crap is worth something after all.”
When they reached the large, chill attic and he saw the seven canvases, it took Harry almost a minute to get himself to where he could speak. He had to sit down on a highly polished humpback trunk and cough a few times.
Six of the unframed canvases were, indeed, crap. But the seventh, as he’d hoped ever since he’d heard the old art director’s name, was a large oil painting of Santa Claus in his shirtsleeves sitting in front of a roaring fireplace after a long night of delivering toys. He was relaxing by drinking Kubla Kola straight from the bottle. It was, beyond doubt, an authentic Maxwell Van Gelder.
Although most people knew nothing about the long-dead commercial artist, who’d been a favorite of the equally long dead Faberhagen, his Kubla Kola Santa paintings were highly prized by certain collectors. He’d done fifteen during his lifetime, but only five had surfaced thus far. The last one that had been sold, over three years ago, had been purchased by a Kubla executive for nearly $400,000. This one, which was much handsomer, ought to bring at least $500,000.
Harry was finally able, after another cough, to inform his ex-wife, “They’re not worth anything, Amy.”
“Nothing, not anything?”
“Not exactly nothing, no. There are people who collect old advertising art. I’d say you could get probably a hundred dollars or so for each of these,” he said. “That Santa, since it has a Christmas theme, might bring as much as two or three hundred.”
Amy looked disappointed for a few seconds, then smiled. “Tops was right this time,” she said, starting for the attic door.
“Wait a minute.” He rose off the trunk. “I collect this sort of stuff myself.”
The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Page 21