Cynthia Manson (ed)

by Merry Murder

  The girl handed the telephone back to the Canadian, looking frightened. “He’s on to me.”

  “Hell.” The Canadian picked up the receiver again, but the girl had left it, uncovered, and Davidson had heard the girl’s words. He dropped the telephone, pushed open the door of the booth, and raced for the stairs. As he ran he loosened the revolver in his hip pocket.

  The time was now 10: 41.

  Straight Line brought the Jaguar smoothly to a stop in the space reserved for Orbin’s customers, and looked at his watch. It was 10: 32.

  Nobody questioned him, nobody so much as gave him a glance. Beautiful, he thought, a nice smooth job, really couldn’t be simpler. Then his hands tightened on the steering wheel.

  He saw in the rear-view mirror, standing just a few yards behind him, a policeman. Three men were evidently asking the policeman for directions, and the copper was consulting a London place map.

  Well, Straight thought, he can’t see anything of me except my back, and in a couple of minutes he’ll be gone. There was still plenty of time. Payne and Stacey weren’t due out of the building until 10: 39 or 10: 40. Yes, plenty of time.

  But there was a hollow feeling in Straight’s stomach as he watched the policeman in his mirror.

  Some minutes earlier, at 10: 24, Payne and Stacey had met at the service elevator beside the Grocery Department on the ground floor. They had met this early because of the possibility that the elevator might be in use when they needed it, although from Lester’s observation it was used mostly in the early morning and late afternoon.

  They did not need the elevator until 10: 30, and they would be very unlucky if it was permanently in use at that time. If they were that unlucky—well, Mr. Payne had said with the pseudo-philosophy of the born gambler, they would have to call the job off. But even as he said this he knew that it was not true, and that having gone so far he would not turn back.

  The two men did not speak to each other, but advanced steadily toward the elevator by way of inspecting chow mein, hymettus honey, and real turtle soup. The Grocery Department was full of shoppers, and the two men were quite unnoticed. Mr. Payne reached the elevator first and pressed the button. They were in luck. The door opened.

  Within seconds they were both inside. Still neither man spoke. Mr. Payne pressed the button which said 3, and then, when they had passed the second floor, the button that said Emergency Stop. Jarringly the elevator came to a stop. It was now immobilized, so far as a call from outside was concerned. It could be put back into motion only by calling in engineers who would free the Emergency Stop mechanism—or, of course, by operating the elevator from inside.

  Stacey shivered a little. The elevator was designed for freight, and therefore roomy enough to hold twenty passengers; but Stacey had a slight tendency to claustrophobia which was increased by the thought that they were poised between floors. He said, “I suppose that bloody thing will work when you press the button?”

  “Don’t worry, my friend. Have faith in me.” Mr. Payne opened the dingy suitcase, revealing as he did so that he was now wearing rubber gloves. In the suitcase were two long red cloaks, two fuzzy white wigs, two thick white beards, two pairs of outsize horn-rimmed spectacles, two red noses, and two hats with large tassels. “This may not be a perfect fit for you, but I don’t think you can deny that it’s a perfect disguise.”

  They put on the clothes, Mr. Payne with the pleasure he always felt in dressing up, Stacey with a certain reluctance. The idea was clever, all right, he had to admit that, and when he looked in the elevator’s small mirror and saw a Santa Claus looking back at him, he was pleased to find himself totally unrecognizable. Deliberately he took the Smith and Wesson out of his jacket and put it into the pocket of the red cloak.

  “You understand, Stace, there is no question of using that weapon.”

  “Unless I have to.”

  “There is no question,” Mr. Payne repeated firmly. “Violence is never necessary. It is a confession that one lacks intelligence.”

  “We got to point it at them, haven’t we? Show we mean business.”

  Mr. Payne acknowledged that painful necessity by a downward twitch of his mouth, undiscernible beneath the false beard.

  “Isn’t it time, yet?”

  Mr. Payne looked at his watch. “It is now ten twenty-nine. We go—over the top, you might call it—at ten thirty-two precisely. Compose yourself to wait, Stace.”

  Stacey grunted. He could not help admiring his companion, who stood peering into the small glass, adjusting his beard and mustache, and settling his cloak more comfortably. When at last Mr. Payne nodded, and said, “Here we go,” and pressed the button marked 3, resentment was added to admiration. He’s all right now, but wait till we get to the action, Stacey thought. His gloved hand on the Smith and Wesson reassured him of strength and efficiency.

  The elevator shuddered, moved upward, stopped. The door opened. Mr. Payne placed his suitcase in the open elevator door so that it would stay open and keep the elevator at the third floor. Then they stepped out.

  To Lester the time that passed after Davidson’s departure and before the elevator door opened was complete and absolute torture.

  The whole thing had seemed so easy when Mr. Payne had outlined it to them. “It is simply a matter of perfect timing,” he had said. “If everybody plays his part properly, Stace and I will be back in the lift within five minutes. Planning is the essence of this, as of every scientific operation. Nobody will be hurt, and nobody will suffer financially except—” and here he had looked at Lester with a twinkle in his frosty eyes—”except the insurance company. And I don’t think the most tender-hearted of us will worry too much about the insurance company.”

  That was all very well, and Lester had done what he was supposed to do, but he hadn’t really been able to believe that the rest of it would happen. He had been terrified, but with the terror was mixed a sense of unreality.

  He still couldn’t believe, even when Davidson went to the telephone upstairs, that the plan would go through without a hitch. He was showing some costume jewelry to a thin old woman who kept roping necklaces around her scrawny neck, and while he did so he kept looking at the elevator, above which was the department clock. The hands moved slowly, after Davidson left, from 10: 31 to 10: 32.

  They’re not coming, Lester thought. It’s all off. A flood of relief, touched with regret but with relief predominating, went through him. Then the elevator door opened, and the two Santa Clauses stepped out. Lester started convulsively.

  “Young man,” the thin woman said severely, “it doesn’t seem to me that I have your undivided attention. Haven’t you anything in blue and amber?”

  It had been arranged that Lester would nod to signify that Davidson had left the department, or shake his head if anything had gone wrong. He nodded now as though he had St. Vitus’s Dance.

  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 Jewelry 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 Sant
a 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 Jewelry to Carpets, and Stacey abruptly turned behind Lester toward 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 realize that a theft was taking place, but the longer they could be kept from realizing it, Mr. Payne had said, the better. Stacey’s own inclination would have been to pull out his revolver at once and terrorize 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 behavior should arouse the least suspicion he should make a pretended 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 girl should come up, and the copper was bending over toward her with a look of holiday good-will.

  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.

&nbs
p; “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 Parlor 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.