by Merry Murder
“Hold on a minute, Susan. I can’t—”
“Did you find that aftershave for your uncle? There’s a sale in men’s stuff. By the way, tonight we’ve got the egg-nog party at my Aunt Eleanor’s house, and she says—”
“Susan!”
“Huh? What is it?”
“I can’t go shopping with you. Haven’t you heard about the murder?”
“Murder! What murder?”
“One of the employees, the head of accounting. They found him this morning, stabbed, in a Santa Claus suit. I’m on duty till further notice.”
“But you had the afternoon off.” “I know. But now I don’t.”
“Well, darn.”
A tall gray-haired man in an expensive suit and tie stepped out of the crowd. “Sergeant Kelso?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’m James Anderson, the store manager.” He offered a firm hand. “Sorry I missed you this morning.”
“Glad to meet you, Mr. Anderson.” He glanced at Susan. “This woman’s been following me around the store, but I don’t think she’s done anything illegal. Did you pay for those items, miss?”
Susan smiled sweetly. “This man seems to think he’s a policeman, Mr. Anderson, but I’ve seen him following other women around the store. I think he may be dangerous. Excuse me.”
Kelso smiled blandly at the manager’s quizzical look. “Just a little joke, Mr. Anderson. Uh, could we talk in your office?”
“Certainly.”
They took the elevator up to eight, passed the cheerleader, and entered the office where Kelso had interviewed Briggs. Anderson sat down behind the polished desk and folded his hands. “Have you come up with anything, sergeant?” He looked grave.
Kelso started to answer, then hesitated. The office door was slightly ajar. By moving a little to his left he could just see the toes of someone’s shoes.
“We haven’t come up with anything officially,” he said.
Anderson looked interested. “But, unofficially?”
“Unofficially, Mr. Anderson, I believe we know who murdered Arnold Wundt.” Kelso took out his pipe and some matches. There was an ashtray on the manager’s desk. “At least, I believe I know who murdered him. He was to have played Santa Claus this morning, right?”
“No, I believe that would have been Mr. Briggs.”
“But apparently Wundt took his place for some reason.”
“Oh. Right. I remember now. Briggs had a meeting to attend. But who was it, sergeant? Who killed Wundt, and why?”
Kelso got his pipe going and puffed at it a couple of
times. “I’ve sent some of my men over to Headquarters to get an accountant for me. When they get back, the accountant will check some things, and then I’ll make an arrest. I really don’t want to name names till the accountant gets here.”
“I see.”
The door opened and Briggs stepped into the office, eyes popping behind his thick lenses. “Mr. Anderson—oh, excuse me, I didn’t know you were with someone. Oh, hello, Sergeant Kelso.”
Kelso nodded. His pipe went out.
“What is it, Briggs?”
“It’s about Santa Claus this afternoon, Mr. Anderson. The customers are really upset about missing him this morning, and it’s one thirty now. They’re already lining up for the two P.M. Santa.”
“Can’t you do it, Briggs?” Anderson’s tone was sharp.
“No, sir. I’m afraid not. That is, I’d very much like not to. It’s occurred to me that it might be dangerous.”
“What?”
“I mean, sir—suppose the killer knew I was to play Santa at ten this morning. Suppose the killer found Santa behind the gift wrap counter. Everybody looks alike in that outfit, with the pillow and whiskers and all. The killer would have assumed it was me, and stabbed him. But by now he probably knows it was the wrong person.”
“Is that possible, Sergeant Kelso? Could the murderer have been after Briggs here, instead of Wundt?”
“It’s possible,” Kelso said, trying hard to suppress laughter. He was imagining a cold-blooded killer stalking Froggy the Gremlin.
“Well, who are we going to get? We’ve got to have someone.”
“I’ve played Santa at the police Christmas party a few times,” Kelso said. “I could do it.”
Anderson stared, then slowly nodded. Briggs smiled his face-breaking smile, his pop eyes dancing with delight behind his glasses.
“It’s not exactly in the line of duty for a police officer,” Anderson said. “But we could certainly use you.”
“I’d be glad to help out. I tend to put on a few pounds over the holidays.” Kelso patted his stomach. “I won’t even need much of a pillow.”
“Good.” The manager stood up, all business. “Briggs, get Sergeant Kelso a Santa suit and show him the booth. Thank you, sergeant. I won’t forget this.”
Kelso let himself be led away by the assistant manager. When they were out in the hall he said:
“Excuse me, is the Santa Claus outfit at the booth?”
Briggs nodded. “Yes, down on the main floor.”
“I’ll meet you there,” Kelso said. “I’ve got to go the men’s room.”
Briggs nodded, beaming, and Kelso hurried down the hall.
The killer stood in line, waiting for Santa. With his left hand he held the hand of a little boy whom he’d talked into standing in line with him, a third grader named Kevin whose mother worked in Credit and Layaway. The killer had paid Kevin five dollars and told him he wanted to talk to Santa but, as an adult, was embarrassed to go without a child. Kevin had taken the money and agreed to help.
In front of the killer and Kevin stood a fat woman whose two small girls had just finished singing “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” in strident voices and were starting “Silent Night,” encouraged by their mother. Ahead of them an attractive black woman waited her turn, whispering to a frightened little boy. Just inside a white cardboard fence surrounding a cardboard sleigh and eight cardboard reindeer, a jolly Santa sat on a red chair, holding a small girl on his knee while the girl’s mother, presumably, looked on. There was so much noise in the store, with all the talking and laughter and music and the whining of the fat lady’s daughters, that the killer couldn’t make out what was being said by the jolly Santa and the small girl, but it didn’t matter to him.
The killer’s other hand was inside his suitcoat pocket, gripping the handle of a small automatic pistol, fully loaded. He smiled as if thoroughly enjoying himself and nodded once in a while at little Kevin, who kept chattering something about a Star Wars toy. He wanted to tell little Kevin that he was an obnoxious brat, but he kept smiling and pretended to be having a good time.
The killer’s name was Briggs.
For over a year he’d been embezzling money from the department store, but last week that fool, Arnold Wundt, had caught him at it. Wundt had threatened to go to the police unless Briggs replaced every cent he’d taken. He’d had to kill him, of course.
And now this detective, this Kelso, seemed to have gotten wise to him. An accountant was coming. Kelso would manage to link the embezzlement to Wundt’s murder. Briggs couldn’t let that happen.
He hadn’t planned to kill Wundt in the Santa suit; it had just happened that way. But now the cops, except Kelso, were looking for a Santa Claus connection. He’d kill Kelso in the Santa suit and add to the confusion.
His fingers tightened on the automatic as the attractive black woman stepped forward and boosted her little boy onto Santa’s knee.
“Ho ho ho,” said the jolly Santa in a strangely rasping voice, but Briggs wasn’t fooled by the disguise.
Next in line were the two singing brats; then it would be the killer’s turn.
Briggs watched little Kevin step up to the red-painted chair.
“Ho ho ho,” rasped the voice.
He had to admit that the disguise was good—with the full white beard and drooping mustache, the red hat pulled low over the forehead, steel-ri
mmed spectacles on the nose, and the padding in the suit, the character bore little resemblance to Sergeant Kelso. But Briggs knew it was.
He stepped forward, drew the automatic from his pocket, and held it close to his chest, aimed at the Santa suit. The gun was between his body and Santa’s, invisible to the waiting shoppers.
“That’s enough, Kevin,” Briggs said, smiling. “Get down now, and let me have my turn.”
Kevin nodded, slid down, and walked away.
The eyes behind the spectacles widened slightly.
“I don’t want to shoot you,” Briggs said, smiling. “But I will. Believe me, I will. Take a break now. I’ll tell them Santa has to take a break.” He jabbed with the gun.
Santa stood up. Briggs hid the gun and turned to face the crowd.
“Ladies and gentlemen, old Santa has to take a short break, but he’ll be right back.” He turned. “Get moving, Kelso. We’re going to the basement. If you do what I say, maybe you’ve got a chance.”
He would kill him in the basement. No one would hear the shot over this bedlam. They walked through the crowd.
“Keep walking,” he said.
It was taking too long. He couldn’t shoot Kelso here in the middle of the main floor. If they didn’t get to the basement before something happened, he’d have to turn and run from the store. He felt confused. The plan no longer seemed nearly as workable as when he’d first thought of it. Kelso is the only one who’s sure, Briggs had thought. Get rid of Kelso and everything will be all right. But now it occurred to him that some of those women and children might remember him, remember that he’d gone off with Santa. He’d have to kill Kelso, if he could, and leave town immediately with what money he had. His chances were limited. He was sweating.
It was too late to turn back now. He’d made his move.
Briggs held one of Santa’s arms, steering him around a corner and along a narrow corridor that led to a basement stairway, aiming the gun with his other hand. Briggs was short; for some reason Kelso seemed shorter than he had earlier. Just as his face went hot with the realization that something was wrong, a hand came from nowhere and gripped his wrist painfully, twisting it so that he dropped the pistol. Powerful hands grabbed him and shoved him hard against the wall of the corridor.
“You’re under arrest,” said George Kelso. Kelso stood in the middle of the hall in his corduroy suit, flanked by three uniformed cops with drawn revolvers. “The charges are embezzlement and murder.”
Briggs stared. “Kelso! Then who the hell...”
The Santa person pulled the beard and mustache away and removed the hat. Briggs saw a smiling, attractive girl with blonde hair and brown eyes.
“Are you all right, Susan?” Kelso asked.
“Ho ho ho,” said the girl.
Kelso, Meyer, and Susan Overstreet sat at a table in the store’s cafeteria. “Silver Bells” played from the speakers, and shoppers at neighboring tables laughed and rustled their packages.
“Look at this meatloaf,” said Meyer, poking at it with his fork. “Now they’ve practically burned it.”
“Actually, mine’s not too bad.” Kelso took a bite. “I was starving.”
“So how did you make the switch with Susan?” Meyer asked.
“I went to the men’s room,” Kelso said. “When I was sure nobody else was in there, I let Susan in and we put the Santa outfit on her.”
“Incredible,” Meyer shook his head. “You’re lucky nobody walked in on you.”
“I was leaning against the door.”
“Sergeant Meyer?” Susan smiled at the detective. “Would you like to come over to my aunt’s house tonight for some eggnog? If you wouldn’t be uncomfortable. I mean, we won’t sing any carols or anything, and Aunt Eleanor doesn’t have a tree this year, just a few lights in the window.”
“Trees are too expensive for people on fixed incomes,” Kelso said, trying not to sound angry.
“So, will you come? We’d like to have you.”
Meyer put down his fork and cleared his throat. “Nobody’s ever invited me to have eggnog before,” he said quietly. “Tell your aunt I’d like to come.” He stood up. “I can’t eat this stuff. I’ll leave you two alone.” He started away, then added: “Take the rest of the afternoon off, Kelso.”
“Gee, thanks.” Kelso glanced at his watch. “All forty-three minutes, huh?”
“Well,” Susan said, eyeing him closely, “are you going to tell me how you knew?”
“Knew what?”
“Don’t do that. How you knew it was Briggs.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “Briggs made a couple of mistakes. He tried to convince me that Anderson, the store manager, had gone down to gift wrap at nine thirty. He kept emphasizing nine thirty. But why? I was the first one to question him, and only the other cops knew about the coroner’s estimate of nine thirty as the time of the stabbing. But the murderer would have known. That was one thing.”
“Hmm. What else?”
“He was too eager to tell me about the embezzlement, and to blame it on Arnold Wundt. If he’d been so certain, why hadn’t he exposed Wundt himself, earlier? So I wondered if maybe Briggs was the embezzler, and not Wundt. Maybe Wundt had found him out, and Briggs had killed him to keep him quiet.” Kelso shrugged. “Turns out I was right.”
Susan blinked and folded her arms across her chest. “That’s it? That’s all? I put on a Santa suit and risked my life for nine thirty and some talk about an embezzlement?”
“Well, there was one other thing...”
“Tell me.”
“Well, when I visited Briggs in Anderson’s office, he was eating a sandwich of some kind. He kept dabbing at his shirtsleeve and complaining about how the cafeteria always put too much ketchup on the bread. But after I left him in the hall, I went back to the office and found his sandwich in the trash. There wasn’t any ketchup on it.” Kelso paused. “That stuff on his sleeve was blood.”
“Yuk.”
“Incidentally, can’t your aunt really afford a tree this year?”
“It’d be tough. She buys a lot of presents. You’re coming tonight, aren’t you? Do you think Meyer will come?”
“Sergeant Kelso—” A tall, well-dressed man hurried up to their table. It was Anderson, the store manager, looking breathless. “Finally found you.”
“Don’t tell me something else has happened,” Kelso said.
“We’re supposed to have another Santa session in fifteen minutes, sergeant. With Wundt dead and Briggs in custody, there’s nobody to do it. So I was wondering...”
It wasn’t fair, he thought. He was almost off duty. He was tired. He wanted to go home and relax. He needed a bath, and he was sick to death of the chatter of mothers and children, the tinny music, the announcements of sales in this or that department.
Susan had done it once. She’d looked cute in the padded red suit and whiskers. He turned a pleading glance in her direction, trying to look desperate. She smiled, but slowly shook her head no.
“What do you say, sergeant? Will you help out? Please?”
It wasn’t fair. He sighed heavily in resignation. He nodded.
“Good man,” said Anderson.
“That’s the Christmas spirit,” Susan said.
Kelso scowled.
Kelso met Meyer at the door. Outside it was snowing. “Come in. You’re late.”
“I could leave,” said Meyer testily.
“Nonsense. Susan’s aunt wants to meet you, and there’s still plenty of eggnog. You’re letting in the snow.”
Meyer came in dragging a small, well-shaped tree and a paper bag.
“What’s this?” Kelso asked suspiciously.
“Some sort of festive plant.” Meyer frowned. “Silly lights and ornaments to hang on it. Somebody killed a tree so you people could celebrate.”
Kelso was moved. He stood for a moment, feeling a little of the old magic.
“Happy holidays, Meyer,” he said.
Meyer nodded. “Merry Christm
as, Kelso.”
There was much cheer in the house that night.
THE SPY AND THE CHRISTMAS CIPHER – Edward D. Hoch
It was just a few days before the Christmas recess at the University of Reading when Rand’s wife Leila said to him over dinner, “Come and speak to my class on Wednesday, Jeffrey.”
“What? Are you serious?” He put down his fork and stared at her. “I know nothing about archaeology.”
“You don’t have to. I just want you to tell them a Christmas story of some sort. Remember last year? The Canadian writer Robertson Davies was over here on a visit and he told one of his ghost stories.”
“I don’t know any good ghost stories.”
“Then tell them a cipher story from before you retired. Tell them about the time you worked through Christmas Eve trying to crack the St. Ives cipher.”
Ivan St. Ives. Rand hadn’t thought of him in years.
Yes, he supposed it was a Christmas story of sorts.
It was Christmas Eve morning in 1974, when Rand was still head of Concealed Communications, operating out of the big old building overlooking the Thames. He remembered his superior, Hastings, making the rounds of the offices with an open bottle of sherry and a stack of paper cups, a tradition that no one but Hastings ever looked forward to. A cup of government sherry before noon was not something to warm the heart or put one in the Christmas spirit.
“It promises to be a quiet day,” Hastings said, pouring the ritual drink. “You should be able to leave early and finish up your Christmas shopping.”
“It’s finished. I have no one but Leila to buy for.” Rand accepted the cup and took a small sip.
“Sometimes I wish I was as well organized as you, Rand.” Hastings seemed almost disappointed as he sat down in the worn leather chair opposite Rand’s desk. “I was going to ask you to pick up something for me.”
“On the day before Christmas? The stores will be crowded.”
Hastings decided to abandon the pretense. “They say Ivan St. Ives is back in town.”
“Oh? Surely you weren’t planning to send him a Christmas gift?”