Hunter stared at the curtains. “But it was a quarter-past seven when we got here!” he said. “It must now be—”
“Oh, yes,” said the girl, and her eyes brimmed over. “You see, I told you you had nothing to fear; it was all over then. But that is not why I thank you. I begged you to stay, and you did. You have listened to me, as no-one else would. And now I have told it at last, and now I think both of us can sleep.”
Not a fold stirred or altered in the dark curtains that closed the window bay; yet, as though a blurred lens had come into focus, they now seemed innocent and devoid of harm. You could have put a Christmas-tree there. Rodney Hunter, with Muriel following his gaze, walked across and threw back the curtains. He saw a quiet window-seat covered with chintz, and the rising moon beyond the window. When he turned round, the girl in the old-fashioned dress was not there. But the front doors were open again, for he could feel a current of air blowing through the house.
With his arm round Muriel, who was white-faced, he went out into the hall. They did not look long at the scorched and beaded stains at the foot of the panelling, for even the scars of fire seemed gentle now. Instead, they stood in the doorway looking out, while the house threw its great blaze of light across the frosty Weald. It was a welcoming light. Over the rise of a hill, black dots trudging in the frost showed that Jack Bannister’s party was returning; and they could hear the sound of voices carrying far. They heard one of the party carelessly singing a Christmas carol for glory and joy, and the laughter of children coming home.
The Boar's head was an important part of the Medieval English Christmas feast. It was brought in on a charger by a procession of cooks, huntsmen and retainers who would sing "The Boar's Head Carol." The custom began to die out about the thirteenth century, although it still is practiced in some places, where a suckling pig is substituted for the all-but-extinct boar.
Christmas is for Cops - Edward D. Hoch
There have been many prolific authors in the mystery genre, but few have been so completely identified with the short story as Edward D. Hoch. In a time when writers were turning short story ideas into novels for greater financial gain, Hoch found equal success telling his stories in the form to which they are best suited.
Though he has written four novels, his reputation unquestionably rests on the hundreds of short stories that have come from his pen. He has created four series characters; Nick Velvet, the raffish, Rafflish thief; Simon Ark, the 2000-year-old detective; “Rand”, a British cryptographer and spy, and Captain Leopold, the protagonist of “Christmas Is For Cops.”
Leopold is representative of the detective as he has survived the socioeconomic upheaval of the last twenty years. The police, and the police procedural, became an instrument for voicing social concern while adhering to the basic outlines of the traditional mystery story. It had begun in the late 1940’s with the works of Lawrence Treat and Hillary Waugh, and continues to flourish today in the works of Lawrence Sanders, Ed McBain and many others. About a decade ago it reached the zenith of its popularity, both in television (Kojak) and films (The French Connection.)
Hoch’s own durability comes from his mastery of this form and many others, and the straight-forward, unaffected way he addresses his reader. No gimmicks, no posturing, just good honest story-telling.
“Going to the Christmas party, Captain?” Fletcher asked from the doorway. Captain Leopold glanced up from his eternally cluttered desk. Fletcher was now a lieutenant in the newly reorganized Violent Crimes Division, and they did not work together as closely as they once had.
“I’ll be there,” Leopold said. “In fact, I’ve been invited to speak.”
This news brought a grin to Fletcher’s face. “Nobody speaks at the Christmas party, Captain. They just drink.”
“Well, this year you’re going to hear a speech, and I’m going to give it.”
“Lots of luck.”
“Is your wife helping with the decorations again this year?”
“I suppose she’ll be around,” Fletcher chuckled. “She doesn’t trust me at any Christmas party without her.”
The annual Detective Bureau party was, by tradition, a stag affair. But in recent years Carol Fletcher and some of the other wives had come down to Eagles Hall in the afternoon to trim the tree and hang the holly. Somehow these members of the unofficial Decorations Committee usually managed to stay on for the evening’s festivities.
The party was the following evening, and Captain Leopold was looking forward to it. But he had one unpleasant task to perform first. That afternoon, feeling he could delay it no longer, he summoned Sergeant Tommy Gibson to his office and closed the door.
Gibson was a tough cop of the old school, a bleak and burly man who’d campaigned actively for the lieutenancy which had finally been given to Fletcher. Leopold had never liked Gibson, but until now he’d managed to overlook the petty graft with which Gibson’s name was occasionally linked.
“What seems to be the trouble, Captain?” Gibson asked, taking a seat. “You look unhappy.”
“I am unhappy, Gibson. Damned unhappy! While you were working the assault and robbery detail I had no direct command over your activities. But now that I’m in charge of a combined Violent Crimes Division, I feel I should take a greater interest in them.” He reached across his desk to pick up a folder. “I have a report here from the District Attorney’s office. The report mentions you, Gibson, and makes some very grave charges.”
“What kind of charges?” the sergeant’s tongue forked out to lick his dry lips.
“That you’ve been accepting regular payments from a man named Freese.”
Gibson went pale. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Carl Freese, the man who runs the numbers racket in every factory in this city. You know who he is, and you know what he’s done. Men who’ve opposed him, or tried to report his operations to the police, have been beaten and nearly killed. I have a report here of a foreman at Lecko Industries. When some of his men started losing a whole week’s pay in the numbers and other gambling controlled by Freese, he went to his supervisor and reported it. That night on the way home his car was forced off the road and he was badly beaten, so badly that he spent three weeks in the hospital. You should be familiar with that case, Gibson, because you investigated it just last summer.”
“I guess I remember it.”
“Remember your report, too? You wrote it off as a routine robbery attempt, despite the fact that no money was taken from the victim. The victim reported it to the District Attorney’s office, and they’ve been investigating the whole matter of gambling in local industrial plants. I have their report here.”
“I investigate a lot of cases, Captain. I try to do the best job I can.”
“Nuts!” Leopold was on his feet, angry now. There was nothing that angered him more than a crooked cop. “Look, Gibson, the D.A.‘s office has all of Freese’s records. They show payments of $100 a week to you. What in hell were you doing for $100 a week, unless you were covering up for them when they beat some poor guy senseless?”
“Those records are wrong,” Gibson said. “I didn’t get any hundred bucks a week.”
“Then how much did you get?”
Leopold towered over him in the chair, and Gibson’s burly frame seemed to shrivel. “I think I want a lawyer,” he mumbled.
“I’m suspending you from the force without pay, effective at once. Thank God you don’t have a wife and family to suffer through this.”
Tommy Gibson sat silently for a moment, staring at the floor. Then at last he looked up, seeking Leopold’s eyes. “Give me a chance, Captain. I wasn’t in this alone.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I didn’t get the whole hundred myself. I had to split it with one of the other men—and he’s the one who introduced me to Freese in the first place.”
“There’s someone else involved in this? One of the detectives?”
“Yes.”
“Give me his name.”
“Not yet.” Gibson hesitated. “Because you wouldn’t believe it. Let me give you evidence.”
“What sort of evidence?”
“He and Freese came to me at my apartment and told me the type of protection they needed. That was the night we agreed on the amount of money to be paid each week. I wasn’t taking any chances, Captain, so I dug out an old recording machine I d bought after the war, and rigged up a hidden microphone behind my sofa. I got down every word they said.”
“When was this?” Leopold asked.
“More than a year ago, and I’ve kept the recording of the conversation ever since. What’s it worth to me if I bring it in?”
“I’m not in a position to make deals, Gibson.”
“Would the D.A. make one?”
“I could talk to him,” Leopold replied cautiously. “Let’s hear what you’ve got first.”
Gibson nodded. “I’ll take the reel off my machine and bring it in to you tomorrow.”
“If you’re kidding me, Gibson, or stalling—”
“I’m not, Captain! I swear! I just don’t want to take the whole rap myself.”
“I’ll give you twenty-four hours. Then the suspension goes into effect regardless.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“Get the hell out of here now.”
“Thank you, Captain,” he said again. “And Merry Christmas.”
* * *
On the day of the Christmas party, activities around the Detective Bureau slacked off very little. It was always pretty much business as usual until around four o’clock, when some of the men started drifting out, exchanging friendly seasonal comments. The party would really commence around five, when the men on the day shift arrived at Eagles Hall, and it continued until well past midnight, enabling the evening men to join in after their tours of duty.
Then there would be a buffet supper, and lots of beer, and even some group singing around the big Christmas tree. Without the family attachments of Fletcher and the other men, Leopold tended to look forward to the party. In many years it was the main event of his otherwise lonely holiday season.
By four o’clock he had heard nothing from Sergeant Tommy Gibson. With growing irritation he called Fletcher into his office. “Gibson’s under your command now, isn’t he, Fletcher?”
“That’s right, Captain.”
“What’s he working on today?”
Fletcher’s face flushed unexpectedly. “Well, Captain, it seems—”
“Where is he?”
“Things were a bit slower than usual, so I told him he could go over to Eagles Hall and help put up the tree for the party.”
“What!”
Fletcher shifted his feet uneasily. “I know, Captain. But usually I help Carol and the other wives get it up. Now that I’m a lieutenant I didn’t feel I could take the time off, so I sent Gibson in my place.”
Leopold sighed and stood up. “All right, Fletcher. Let’s get over there right away.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you on the way.”
* * *
Eagles Hall was a large reasonably modern building that was rented out for wedding receptions and private parties by a local fraternal group. The Detective Bureau, through its Benevolent Association, had held a Christmas party there for the past five seasons, and its central location had helped make it a popular choice. It was close enough to attract some of the uniformed force as well as the detective squad. All were invited, and most came at some time during the long evening.
Now, before five o’clock, a handful of plainclothesmen from various divisions had already arrived. Leopold waved to Sergeant Riker of the Vice Squad, who was helping Carol Fletcher light her cigarette with a balky lighter. Then he stopped to exchange a few words with Lieutenant Williams, a bony young man who headed up the Narcotics Squad. Williams had made his reputation during a single year on the force, masquerading as a hippie musician to penetrate a group selling drugs to high school students. Leopold liked him, liked his honesty and friendliness.
“I hear you’re giving a little speech tonight,” Williams said, pouring him a glass of beer.
“Herb Clarke roped me into it.” Leopold answered with a chuckle. “I’d better do it early, before you guys get too beered up to listen.” He glanced around the big hall, taking in the twenty-foot Christmas tree with its lights and tinsel. Three guy wires held it firmly in place next to an old upright piano. “See Tommy Gibson around?”
Williams stood on tiptoe to see over the heads of some newly arrived uniformed men. “I think he’s helping Carol finish up the decorations.”
“Thanks.” Leopold took his beer and drifted over to the far end of the room. Carol had put down her cigarette long enough to tug at one of the wires holding the tree in place. Leopold helped her tighten it and then stepped back. She was a charming, intelligent woman, and this was not the first time he’d envied Fletcher. As wife and mother she’d given him a fine home life.
“I’m surprised to see you here so early, Captain.”
He helped her secure another of the wires and said, “I’m always on time to help charming wives with Christmas trees.”
“And thank you for Sergeant Gibson too! He was a great help with the tree.”
“I’ll bet. Where is he now?”
“He took the hammer and things into the kitchen. I think he’s pouring beer now.” She produced another cigarette and searched her purse. Finally she asked, “Do you have a light?”
He lit it for her. “You smoke too much.”
“Nervous energy. Do you like our tree?”
“Fine. Just like Christmas.”
“Do you know, somewhere in Chesterton there’s mention of a tree that devours birds nesting in its branches, and when spring comes the tree grows feathers instead of leaves!”
“You read too much, Carol.”
She smiled up at him. “The nights are lonely being a detective’s wife.” The smile was just a bit forced. She didn’t always approve of her husband’s work.
He left her by the tree and went in search of Gibson. The burly sergeant was in the kitchen, filling pitchers of beer. He looked up, surprised, as Leopold entered. “Hello, Captain.”
“I thought we had an appointment for today.”
“I didn’t forget. Fletcher wanted me over here.”
“Where’s the evidence you mentioned?”
“What?”
Leopold was growing impatient. “Come on, damn it!”
Tommy Gibson glanced out at the growing crowd. “I’ve got it, but I had to hide it. He’s here.”
“Who? The man who’s in this with you?”
“Yes. I’m afraid Freese might have tipped him off about the D.A.‘s investigation.”
Leopold had never seen this side of Gibson—a lonely, trapped man who was actually afraid. Or else was an awfully good actor. “I’ve given you your twenty-four hours, Gibson. Either produce this recording you’ve got or—”
“Captain!” a voice interrupted. “We’re ready for your speech.”
Leopold turned to see Sergeant Turner of Missing Persons standing in the doorway. “I’ll be right there, Jim.” Turner seemed to linger just a bit too long before he turned and walked away. Leopold looked back at Gibson. “That him?”
“I can’t talk now, Captain.”
“Where’d you hide it?”
“Over by the tree. It’s safe.”
“Stick around till after my talk. Then we’ll get to the bottom of this thing.”
Leopold left him pouring another pitcher of beer and walked out through the crowd. With the end of the afternoon shifts the place had filled rapidly. There were perhaps sixty members of the force present already, about evenly divided between detectives and uniformed patrolmen. Several shook his hand or patted him on the back as he made his way to the dais next to the tree.
Herb Clarke, president of the Detective Bureau Benevolent Association, was alre
ady on the platform, holding up his hands for silence. He shook Leopold’s hand and then turned to his audience. “Gather around now, men. The beer’ll still be there in five minutes. You all know we’re not much for speeches at these Christmas parties, but I thought it might be well this year to hear a few words from a man we all know and admire. Leopold has been in the Detective Bureau for as long as most of us can remember—” The laughter caused him to add quickly, “Though of course he’s still a young man. But this year, in addition to his duties as Captain of Homicide, he’s taken on a whole new set of responsibilities. He’s now head of the entire Violent Crimes Division of the Bureau, a position that places him in more direct contact with us all. I’m going to ask him to say just a few words, and then we’ll have some caroling around the piano.”
Leopold stepped over to the microphone, adjusting it upward from the position Herb Clarke had used. Then he looked out at the sea of familiar faces. Carol Fletcher and the other wives hovered in the rear, out of the way, while their husbands and the others crowded around. Fletcher himself stood with Sergeant Riker, an old friend, and Leopold noticed that Lieutenant Williams had moved over near Tommy Gibson. He couldn’t see Jim Turner at the moment.
“Men, I’m going to make this worth listening to for all that. You hear a lot at this time of the year about Christmas being the season for kids, but I want to add something to that. Christmas is for kids, sure—but Christmas is for cops, too. Know what I mean by that? I’ll tell you. Christmas is perhaps the one time of the year when the cop on the beat, or the detective on assignment, has a chance to undo some of the ill will generated during the other eleven months. This has been a bad year for cops around the country—most years are bad ones, it seems. We take a hell of a lot of abuse, some deserved, but most of it not. And this is the season to maybe right some of those wrongs. Don’t be afraid to get out on a corner with the Salvation Army to ring a few bells, or help some lady through a puddle of slush. Most of all, don’t be afraid to smile and talk to young people.”
Thomas Godfrey (Ed) Page 44