Ten Classic Crime Stories for the Festive Season

by Cecily Gayford

  The thin woman looked at him, astonished, ‘Young man, is anything the matter?’

  ‘Blue and amber,’ Lester said wildly, ‘amber and blue.’ He pulled out a box from under the counter and began to look through it. His hands were shaking.

  Mr Payne had been right in his assumption that no surprise would be occasioned by the appearance of two Santa Clauses in any department at this time of year. This, he liked to think, was his own characteristic touch – the touch of, not to be unduly modest about it, creative genius. There were a dozen people in the Jewellery Department, half of them looking at the Russian Royal Family Jewels, which had proved less of an attraction than Sir Henry Orbin had hoped. Three of the others were wandering about in the idle way of people who are not really intending to buy anything, and the other three were at the counters, where they were being attended to by Lester, a salesgirl whose name was Miss Glenny and by Marston himself.

  The appearance of the Santa Clauses aroused only the feeling of pleasure experienced by most people at sight of these slightly artificial figures of jollity. Even Marston barely glanced at them. There were half a dozen Santa Clauses in the store during the weeks before Christmas, and he assumed that these two were on their way to the Toy Department, which was also on the third floor, or to the Robin Hood in Sherwood Forest tableau, which was this year’s display for children.

  The Santa Clauses walked across the floor together as though they were in fact going into Carpets, and then on to the Toy Department, but after passing Lester they diverged. Mr Payne went to the archway that led from Jewellery to Carpets, and Stacey abruptly turned behind Lester towards the Manager’s Office.

  Marston, trying to sell an emerald brooch to an American who was not at all sure his wife would like it, looked up in surprise. He had a natural reluctance to make a fuss in public, and also to leave his customer; but when he saw Stacey with a hand actually on the door of his own small but sacred office he said to the American, ‘Excuse me a moment, sir,’ and said to Miss Glenny, ‘Look after this gentleman, please’ – by which he meant that the American should not be allowed to walk out with the emerald brooch – and called out, although not so loudly that the call could be thought of as anything so vulgar as a shout, ‘Just a moment, please. What are you doing there? What do you want?’

  Stacey ignored him. In doing so he was carrying out Mr Payne’s specific instructions. At some point it was inevitable that the people in the department would realise that a theft was taking place, but the longer they could be kept from realising it, Mr Payne had said, the better. Stacey’s own inclination would have been to pull out his revolver at once and terrorise anybody likely to make trouble; but he did as he was told.

  The Manager’s Office was not much more than a cubbyhole, with papers neatly arranged on a desk; behind the desk, half a dozen keys were hanging on the wall. The showcase key, Lester had said, was the second from the left, but for the sake of appearances Stacey took all the keys. He had just turned to go when Marston opened the door and saw the keys in Stacey’s hand.

  The manager was not lacking in courage. He understood at once what was happening and, without speaking, tried to grapple with the intruder. Stacey drew the Smith and Wesson from his pocket and struck Marston hard with it on the forehead. The manager dropped to the ground. A trickle of blood came from his head. The office door was open, and there was no point in making any further attempt at deception. Stacey swung the revolver around and rasped, ‘Just keep quiet, and nobody else will get hurt.’

  Mr Payne produced his cap pistol and said, in a voice as unlike his usual cultured tones as possible, ‘Stay where you are. Don’t move. We shall be gone in five minutes.’

  Somebody said, ‘Well, I’m damned.’ But no one moved. Marston lay on the floor, groaning. Stacey went to the showcase, pretended to fumble with another key, then inserted the right one. The case opened at once. The jewels lay naked and unprotected. He dropped the other keys on the floor, stretched in his gloved hands, picked up the royal jewels and stuffed them into his pocket.

  It’s going to work, Lester thought unbelievingly, it’s going to work. He watched, fascinated, as the cascade of shining stuff vanished into Stacey’s pocket. Then he became aware that the thin woman was pressing something into his hand. Looking down, he saw with horror that it was a large, brand-new clasp knife, with the dangerous-looking blade open.

  ‘Bought it for my nephew,’ the thin woman whispered. ‘As he passes you, go for him.’

  It had been arranged that if Lester’s behaviour should arouse the least suspicion he should make a pretend attack on Stacey, who would give him a punch just severe enough to knock him down. Everything had gone so well, however, that this had not been necessary, but now it seemed to Lester that he had no choice.

  As the two Santa Clauses backed across the room toward the service elevator, covering the people at the counters with their revolvers, one real and the other a toy, Lester launched himself feebly at Stacey, with the clasp knife demonstratively raised. At the same time Marston, on the other side of Stacey and a little behind him, rose to his feet and staggered in the direction of the elevator.

  Stacey’s contempt for Lester increased with the sight of the knife, which he regarded as an unnecessary bit of bravado. He shifted the revolver to his left hand, and with his right punched Lester hard in the stomach. The blow doubled Lester up. He dropped the knife and collapsed to the floor, writhing in quite genuine pain.

  The delivery of the blow delayed Stacey so that Marston was almost up to him. Mr Payne, retreating rapidly to the elevator, shouted a warning, but the manager was on Stacey, clawing at his robes. He did not succeed in pulling off the red cloak, but his other hand came away with the wig, revealing Stacey’s own cropped brown hair. Stacey snatched back the wig, broke away and fired the revolver with his left hand.

  Perhaps he could hardly have said himself whether he intended to hit Marston or simply to stop him. The bullet missed the manager and hit Lester, who was rising on one knee. Lester dropped again. Miss Glenny screamed, another woman cried out and Marston halted.

  Mr Payne and Stacey were almost at the elevator when Davidson came charging in through the Carpet Department entrance. The American drew the revolver from his pocket and shot, all in one swift movement. Stacey fired back wildly. Then the two Santa Clauses were in the service elevator, and the door closed on them.

  Davidson took one look at the empty showcase, and shouted to Marston, ‘Is there an emergency alarm that rings downstairs?’

  The manager shook his head. ‘And my telephone’s not working.’

  ‘They’ve cut the line.’ Davidson raced back through the Carpet Department to the passenger elevators.

  Marston went over to where Lester was lying, with half a dozen people round him, including the thin woman. ‘We must get a doctor.’

  The American he had been serving said, ‘I am a doctor.’ He was bending over Lester, whose eyes were wide open.

  ‘How is he?’

  The American lowered his voice. ‘He got it in the abdomen.’

  Lester seemed to be trying to raise himself up. The thin woman helped him. He sat up, looked around, and said, ‘Lucille.’ Then blood suddenly rushed out of his mouth, and he sank back.

  The doctor bent over again, then looked up. ‘I’m very sorry. He’s dead.’

  The thin woman gave Lester a more generous obituary than he deserved. ‘He wasn’t a very good clerk, but he was a brave young man.’

  Straight Line, outside in the stolen Jag, waited for the policeman to move. But not a bit of it. The three men with the policeman were pointing to a particular spot on the map, and the copper was laughing; they were having some sort of stupid joke together. What the hell, Straight thought. Hasn’t the bleeder got any work to do, doesn’t he know he’s not supposed to be hanging about?

  Straight looked at his watch. 10:34, coming up to 10:35 – and now, as the three men finally moved away, what should happen but that a teenage gi
rl should come up, and the copper was bending over towards her with a look of holiday goodwill.

  It’s no good, Straight thought, I shall land them right in his lap if I stay here. He pulled away from the parking space, looked again at his watch. He was obsessed by the need to get out of the policeman’s sight.

  Once round the block, he thought, just once round can’t take more than a minute, and I’ve got more than two minutes to spare. Then if the copper’s still here I’ll stay a few yards away from him with my engine running.

  He moved down Jessiter Street and a moment after Straight had gone, the policeman, who had never even glanced at him, moved away too.

  By Mr Payne’s plan they should have taken off their Santa Claus costumes in the service elevator and walked out at the bottom as the same respectable, anonymous citizens who had gone in; but as soon as they were inside the elevator Stacey said, ‘He hit me.’ A stain showed on the scarlet right arm of his robe.

  Mr Payne pressed the button to take them down. He was proud that, in this emergency, his thoughts came with clarity and logic. He spoke them aloud.

  ‘No time to take these off. Anyway, they’re just as good a disguise in the street. Straight will be waiting. We step out and into the car, take them off there. Davidson shouldn’t have been back in that department for another two minutes.

  ‘I gotta get to a doctor.’

  ‘We’ll go to Lambie’s first. He’ll fix it.’ The elevator whirred downward. Almost timidly, Mr Payne broached the subject that worried him most. ‘What happened to Lester?’

  ‘He caught one.’ Stacey was pale.

  The elevator stopped. Mr Payne adjusted the wig on Stacey’s head. ‘They can’t possibly be waiting for us, there hasn’t been time. We just walk out. Not too fast, remember. Casually, normally.’

  The elevator door opened and they walked the fifty feet to the Jessiter Street exit. They were delayed only by a small boy who rushed up to Mr Payne, clung to his legs and shouted that he wanted his Christmas present. Mr Payne gently disengaged him, whispered to his mother, ‘Our tea break. Back later,’ and moved on.

  Now they were outside in the street. But there was no sign of Straight or the Jaguar.

  Stacey began to curse. They crossed the road from Orbin’s, stood outside Danny’s Shoe Parlour for a period that seemed to both of them endless but was, in fact, only thirty seconds. People looked at them curiously – two Santa Clauses wearing false noses – but they did not arouse great attention. They were oddities, yes, but oddities were in keeping with the time of year and Oxford Street’s festive decorations.

  ‘We’ve got to get away,’ Stacey said. ‘We’re sitting ducks.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool. We wouldn’t get a hundred yards.’

  ‘Planning,’ Stacey said bitterly. ‘Fine bloody planning. If you ask me – ’

  ‘Here he is.’

  The Jag drew up beside them, and in a moment they were in and down Jessiter Street, away from Orbin’s. Davidson was on the spot less than a minute later, but by the time he had found passers-by who had seen the two Santa Clauses get into the car, they were half a mile away.

  Straight Line began to explain what had happened, Stacey swore at him and Mr Payne cut them both short.

  ‘No time for that. Get these clothes off, talk later.’

  ‘You got the rocks?’

  ‘Yes, but Stace has been bit. By the American detective. I don’t think it’s bad, though.’

  ‘Whatsisname, Lester, he OK?’

  ‘There was trouble. Stace caught him with a bullet.’

  Straight said nothing more. He was not one to complain about something that couldn’t be helped. His feelings showed only in the controlled savagery with which he manoeuvred the Jag.

  While Straight drove, Mr Payne was taking off his own Santa Claus outfit and helping Stacey off with his. He stuffed them, with the wigs and beards and noses, back into the suitcase. Stacey winced as the robe came over his right arm, and Mr Payne gave him a handkerchief to hold over it. At the same time he suggested that Stacey hand over the jewels, since Mr Payne would be doing the negotiating with the fence. It was a mark of the trust that both men still reposed in Mr Payne that Stacey handed them over without a word, and that Straight did not object or even comment. They turned into the quiet Georgian terrace where Lambie lived. ‘Number Fifteen, right-hand side,’ Mr Payne said.

  Jim Baxter and Eddie Grain had been hanging about in the street for several minutes. Lucille had learned from Lester what car Straight was driving. They recognised the Jag immediately, and strolled towards it. They had just reached the car when it came to a stop in front of Lambie’s house. Stacey and Mr Payne got out. Jim and Eddie were not, after all, too experienced. They made an elementary mistake in not waiting until Straight had driven away. Jim had his flick knife out and was pointing it at Mr Payne’s stomach.

  ‘Come on now, Dad, give us the stuff and you won’t get hurt,’ he said.

  On the other side of the car Eddie Grain, less subtle, swung at Stacey with a shortened length of bicycle chain. Stacey, hit round the head, went down, and Eddie was on top of him, kicking, punching, searching.

  Mr Payne hated violence, but he was capable of defending himself. He stepped aside, kicked upwards and knocked the knife flying from Jim’s hand. Then he rang the doorbell of Lambie’s house. At the same time Straight got out of the car and felled Eddie Grain with a vicious rabbit punch.

  During the next few minutes several things happened simultaneously. At the end of the road a police whistle was blown, loudly and insistently, by an old lady who had seen what was going on.

  Lambie, who also saw what was going on and wanted no part of it, told his manservant on no account to answer the doorbell or open the door.

  Stacey, kicked and beaten by Eddie Grain, drew his revolver and fired four shots. One of them struck Eddie in the chest, and another hit Jim Baxter in the leg. Eddie scuttled down the street holding his chest, turned the corner and ran slap into the arms of two policemen hurrying to the scene.

  Straight, who did not care for shooting, got back into the Jag and drove away. He abandoned the Jag as soon as he could, and went home.

  When the police arrived, with a bleating Eddie in tow, they found Stacey and Jim Baxter on the ground, and several neighbours only too ready to tell confusing stories about the great gang fight that had just taken place. They interrogated Lambie, of course, but he had not seen or heard anything at all.

  And Mr Payne? With a general melee taking place, and Lambie clearly not intending to answer his doorbell, he had walked away down the road. When he turned the corner he found a cab, which he took to within a couple of hundred yards of his shop. Then, an anonymous man carrying a shabby suitcase, he went in through the little side entrance.

  Things had gone badly, he reflected as he again became Mr Rossiter Payne the antiquarian bookseller, mistakes had been made. But happily they were not his mistakes. The jewels would be hot, no doubt; they would have to be kept for a while, but all was not lost.

  Stace and Straight were professionals – they would never talk. And although Mr Payne did not, of course, know that Lester was dead, he realised that the young man would be able to pose as a wounded hero and was not likely to be subjected to severe questioning.

  So Mr Payne was whistling ‘There’s a Silver Lining’ as he went down to greet Miss Oliphant.

  ‘Oh, Mr Payne,’ she trilled. ‘You’re back before you said. It’s not half-past eleven.’

  Could that be true? Yes, it was.

  ‘Did the American collector – I mean, will you be able to sell him the manuscripts?’

  ‘I hope so. Negotiations are proceeding, Miss Oliphant. They may take some time, but I hope they will reach a successful conclusion.’

  The time passed uneventfully until 2:30 in the afternoon, when Miss Oliphant entered his little private office. ‘Mr Payne, there are two gentlemen to see you. They won’t say what it’s about, but they look – well, rather f
unny.’

  As soon as Mr Payne saw them, and even before they produced their warrant cards, he knew that there was nothing funny about them. He took them up to the flat and tried to talk his way out of it, but he knew it was no use. They hadn’t yet got search warrants, the Inspector said, but they would be taking Payne along anyway. It would save them some trouble if he would care to show them –

  Mr Payne showed them. He gave them the jewels and the Santa Claus disguises. Then he sighed at the weakness of subordinates. ‘Somebody squealed, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m afraid the truth is you were a bit careless.’

  ‘I was careless.’ Mr Payne was genuinely scandalised.

  ‘Yes. You were recognised.’

  ‘Impossible!’

  ‘Not at all. When you left Orbin’s and got out into the street, there was a bit of a mix-up so that you had to wait. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Yes, but I was completely disguised.’

  ‘Danny the shoeshine man knows you by name, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, but he couldn’t possibly have seen me.’

  ‘He didn’t need to. Danny can’t see any faces from his basement, as you know, but he did see something, and he came to tell us about it. He saw two pairs of legs, and the bottoms of some sort of red robes. And he saw the shoes. He recognised one pair of shoes, Mr Payne. Not those you’re wearing now, but that pair on the floor over there.’

  Mr Payne looked across the room at the black shoes – shoes so perfectly appropriate to the role of shabby little clerk that he had been playing, and at the decisive, fatally recognisable sharp cut made by the bicycle mudguard in the black leather.

  Nebuchadnezzar

  Dorothy L. Sayers

  You have played ‘Nebuchadnezzar’, of course – unless you are so ingenuous as never to have heard of any game but Yo-yo, or whatever the latest fad may be. ‘Nebuchadnezzar’ is so old-fashioned that only the sophisticated play it. It came back with charades, of which, of course, it is only a variation. It is called ‘Nebuchadnezzar’, I suppose, because you could not easily find a more impossible name with which to play it.