The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

by Martin H. Greenberg et al (Ed)

  “We wouldn’t,” Cherry put in, “if you had done it the way I said. That would have been proof.”

  “I preferred my way.” Wolfe, having a point to make, was controlling himself. “It will be an ordeal for you. They will question you at length about your talk with Bottweill yesterday morning at breakfast, wanting to know all that he said about his meeting with Miss Dickey in his office Thursday evening, and under the pressure of inquisition you might inadvertently let something slip regarding what he told you about Santa Claus. If you do they will certainly follow it up. I strongly advise you to avoid making such a slip. Even if they believe you, the identity of Santa Claus is no longer important, since they have the murderer, and if they come to me with such a tale I’ll have no great difficulty dealing with it.”

  He turned a hand over. “And in the end they probably won’t believe you. They’ll think you invented it for some cunning and obscure purpose—as you say, you are an Oriental—and all you would get for it would be more questions. They might even suspect that you were somehow involved in the murder itself. They are quite capable of unreasonable suspicions. So I suggest these considerations as much on your behalf as on mine. I think you will be wise to forget about Santa Claus.”

  She was eying him, straight and steady. “I like to be wise,” she said.

  “I’m sure you do, Miss Quon.”

  “I still think you should have done it my way, but it’s done now. Is that all?”

  He nodded. “That’s all.”

  She looked at me, and it took a second for me to realize that she was smiling at me. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to smile back, and did. She left the chair and came to me, extending a hand, and I arose and took it. She looked up at me.

  “I would like to shake hands with Mr. Wolfe, but I know he doesn’t like to shake hands. You know, Mr. Goodwin, it must be a very great pleasure to work for a man as clever as Mr. Wolfe. So extremely clever. It has been very exciting to be here. Now I say good-by.”

  She turned and went.

  DO YOUR CHRISTMAS SHOPLIFTING EARLY

  by Robert Somerlott

  Robert Somerlott is a versatile writer who has published numerous novels and short stories under his own name and under several pen names, including two novels that were alternate selections of the Book-of-the-Month Club. His shorter fiction has appeared in The Best American Short Stories, several college textbooks and in both the mystery-genre and “slick” magazines. Novels published under his own name include The Flamingos, The Inquisitor’s House, and most recently, Blaze.

  Shortly after Mrs. Whistler retired from the stage, she discovered her true genius for escapades bordering on crime. But with modesty astounding in an actress, she has always managed to stay in the background. No one—except her son, Johnny Creighton—has ever suspected that Mrs. Whistler was the secret force behind several headline events that startled the country in the last few years.

  For instance, millions of newspaper readers are aware that 267 animals staged a mass breakout from the St. Louis pound on Thanksgiving Day, 1959. Only Johnny Creighton knows that Mrs. Whistler engineered the escape. (The incident, headlined by newspapers as “Dog Days in Missouri,” triggered pound reform laws in that state.)

  Johnny was also the only one to know every detail of how Mrs. Whistler brought the powerful MacTavish Department Store of Los Angeles to its knees in less than 24 hours. There exists no court transcript, and the only memento of this case is an unflattering mug shot of Mrs. Whistler taken at the Los Angeles jail. Despite the atrocious lighting, Mrs. Whistler looks exactly as she did in her farewell performance on Broadway as the artist’s mother in Arrangement in Gray, a role she became so identified with that she legally adopted the name of the character. In the photo she wears a dark dress; her white round collar is visible, but her lace cuffs are not. Her sweet expression of sublime patience was not marred by the ordeal she was suffering—an ordeal for which others would soon pay heavily.

  Mrs. Whistler had no intention of getting involved in “The Affair of the Capricorn Brooch.” When she descended, unannounced, from the smoggy skies of Southern California on Friday, December 18, it was for the innocent purpose of spending the Christmas holiday with Johnny.

  Still, the moment he heard the voice on the phone he had a premonition of trouble. Oddly enough, he was thinking about his mother when her call came through. He had been sitting in his two-by-four law office, daydreaming of pretty Joyce Gifford, who had almost, but not quite, agreed to marry him. How, he wondered, could he explain his mother to Joyce? Just then the phone rang.

  “Johnny, dear,” said a gentle voice. “Surprise! It’s Mother.”

  “Mother?” His first reaction was panic. “Where are you? What have you done?”

  “I’m at the airport. I’ve come for Christmas.”

  “Don’t make a move till I get there. And, Mother,” he pleaded, “don’t do anything!”

  “Whatever do you mean, dear?” Mrs. Whistler was faintly reproachful.

  As he battled through the freeway traffic, Johnny could not rid himself of the suspicion that his mother was up to something. But at the airport, and later in his apartment, her manner was so subdued that Johnny was totally unprepared for the events that followed. She’s getting old, he thought, she’s settling down at last. The idea brought relief—and a little sadness.

  At 6:30 Joyce Gifford, her usually calm face white with anger, knocked at Johnny’s door.

  Johnny greeted her with a quick hug. “Hi, darling. Merry Christmas!” He lowered his voice. “I want you to meet my mother. She just arrived from New York.”

  In the living room an elderly lady was seated on the couch. Vainly, Joyce tried to remember where she’d seen her before—there was something hauntingly familiar about the black dress, the folded hands, the sad-sweet face.

  “How do you do?” said the old lady. “I’m Mrs. Whistler.” Joyce nearly dropped her purse. “You’re upset, my dear,” she said. “I could tell the moment you came in.”

  “Does it show that much? I’ve—I’ve had a horrible day!”

  “Good Lord,” said Johnny, “what’s the matter?”

  “Tomorrow I’m quitting my job at MacTavish’s. Mr. Schlag can find himself a secretary—if anybody alive can stand him! It was the most terrible scene! All over this poor pathetic woman they caught shoplifting.”

  “Shoplifting?” Mrs. Whistler leaned forward. “Isn’t that interesting!”

  Johnny saw the intent expression on his mother’s face. A danger signal flashed through him and he tried to interrupt. But it was too late.

  “I just can’t tell you how horrible the whole thing was,” said Joyce.

  “Try, my dear,” said Mrs. Whistler gently. “Try.”

  During the first thirty-three years of its existence, MacTavish’s (“A Wee Penny Saved Is a Big Penny Earned”) had dealt with petty shoplifters in a routine way: first offenders were usually dismissed with threats of embarrassment. Otherwise respectable kleptomaniacs were delivered to their humiliated relatives. Suspected professionals were prosecuted relentlessly.

  Then Dudley P. Schlag, nephew of a large stockholder, became manager, and things changed.

  “Once a thief, always a thief!” he declared, beating his bony little fist on the desk top. He assumed personal charge of store security and would neglect any other duty for the pleasure of watching a terrified teen-ager squirm under his merciless, watery eye.

  “There are no extenuating circumstances at MacTavish’s!” By political influence and exaggerated statistics he induced several local judges to cooperate in his crusade, and after each arrest Schlag called the newspapers to make sure the suspect was well publicized.

  “He’s inhuman!” said Joyce Gifford, close to tears. “Of course, thieves should go to jail. But two weeks ago there was a teen-age girl—really a nice kid—who took a little piece of costume jewelry on a high-school dare. Mr. Schlag went to Juvenile Court himself and swore he’d seen her around the sto
re several times—that this wasn’t really her first theft. And I’m sure that wasn’t true! A month ago they caught this old woman, a doctor’s wife. She’s been taking little things for years, and her husband always pays for them. She’s really pathetic. And Mr. Schlag had her taken to jail!”

  Mrs. Whistler clucked sympathetically. “The quality of mercy is not strained,” she said.

  “Today Miss Vought—she’s the meanest store detective—dragged in a woman who tried to take a cotton sweater from Infants’ Wear. Her name is Mrs. Blainey. She has an invalid husband, and she’s trying to support him and four children by doing domestic work. I just know she’d never stolen anything before. When Miss Vought searched her purse it was enough to make you cry. She had exactly forty-three cents. There was an unpaid gas bill and a notice that a mortgage payment on their house was overdue.”

  “What happened to her?” asked Mrs. Whistler.

  “Mr. Schlag told her that if she’d sign a confession the store wouldn’t prosecute. Well, she signed it, crying. Then he called the police. She’s in jail right now—at Christmastime! Her case comes up Monday—”

  “And they’ll throw the book at her,” said Johnny slowly.

  Joyce nodded. “Oh, that Mr. Schlag! There just isn’t anything bad enough that could happen to him!”

  Mrs. Whistler smiled slightly. “Oh, I’m sure there is, my dear!”

  Joyce turned to Johnny. “You’re a lawyer. What can be done about it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But, Johnny,” she protested, “surely you can do something!”

  “I don’t see what. I suppose I could appear in court for her on Monday. But it wouldn’t do any good. The sentencing is going to be routine. You’d just better forget the whole thing, Joyce.”

  “Forget it? I can’t forget it!”

  “Someone,” said Mrs. Whistler, “should take action.”

  “They certainly should,” agreed Joyce.

  Johnny was suddenly aware that both women were staring at him expectantly. There was a dreadful silence in the room. He had never seen Joyce so angry or so determined.

  “Hold on, you two! What can I do about it? I’m just a guy who draws wills and sets up escrows. There just isn’t any use in getting mixed up in something that can’t—” Johnny’s voice trailed off when he saw the expression on Joyce’s face.

  Mrs. Whistler glanced at the tiny watch pinned to her dress. “My goodness! If you young people will excuse me—” She took a step toward the guest room.

  Johnny saw the gleam in her eye. He was on his feet in an instant. “Mother! You’re planning something!”

  Mrs. Whistler smiled at Joyce. “Johnny’s always so worried about me. Isn’t that sweet? Good night, dears.” Mrs. Whistler closed her door behind her.

  Johnny turned to Joyce accusingly. “You’ve set her off! I can tell by the look in her eye!”

  “What on earth do you mean?”

  “You don’t know her!” Johnny paced the floor. “Last year she took on Mr. Moses and the whole New York Park Department—singlehanded! Six months ago it was Internal Revenue!”

  “Johnny Creighton, stop shouting at me! It isn’t my fault.”

  “Oh, yes, it is! You got her started with this Mrs. Blainey story. It’s made to order for her—invalid husband, four kids, even an overdue mortgage payment! It’s right out of Charles Dickens. And tomorrow, you can bet, she’ll try to do something to MacTavish’s!”

  Joyce stood up quickly. “Well, I’m glad somebody in your family has a little spunk! If she can teach MacTavish’s a lesson, more power to her!” Joyce looked at him coldly. “Johnny Creighton, you’re a stick-in-the-mud! So cautious it’s plain dull! You’re supposed to be an attorney, but—”

  “What do you want? Perry Mason?”

  Joyce gave him her coolest secretarial smile. “Perry Mason is a very attractive guy. Good night, Johnny!”

  “Stick-in-the-mud!” he repeated softly. Slowly a grim expression came over Johnny’s pleasant face. “Mother,” he called. “Are you awake?”

  Mrs. Whistler’s door opened instantly. “Yes, dear.”

  Johnny’s voice was stiff with determination. “We’ve got some planning to do.”

  “Planning?” Mrs. Whistler blinked at him. “Oh, darling, I’ve already done that.”

  At six o’clock Saturday morning Mrs. Whistler bounced out of bed. Three times she stretched, bent, pressed her palms flat on the floor. Thirty minutes later she stood over the stove, dreamily preparing scrambled eggs for Johnny while she examined a full page ad that pictured items on sale at MacTavish’s. Her son, still in pajamas, sat at the breakfast bar, his face a mask of stony heroism. He was convinced his mother’s fantastic scheme would fail, but he was determined to go down fighting.

  Mrs. Whistler pointed to a small item in the MacTavish ad. “One of these would do nicely,” she said. Johnny looked doubtful but nodded bravely. “If we can only think of some way to handle the last part!” Suddenly Mrs. Whistler smiled happily. “Santa Claus!” she exclaimed. “You’ll be Santa Claus!”

  “Mother! No!”

  “Johnny, dear.” Mrs. Whistler’s tone was stern. “Please don’t be stubborn.”

  “I’ll go along with the rest of it, but I won’t be Santa Claus!”

  Mrs. Whistler sighed. “Very well, darling.” She stirred the eggs thoughtfully. “Now, we’ll rent a nice red suit, and with whiskers no one will recognize you, and—”

  Johnny groaned and surrendered.

  At 8:15, as Joyce Gifford was leaving for her last day at MacTavish’s, her telephone rang.

  “Good morning, Joyce, dear. This is Mrs. Whistler.”

  “Why, good morning.”

  “Joyce, I have a dreadful premonition that disaster is about to overtake poor Mr. Schlag. If you happen to see me later today—and you will—please don’t recognize me.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Don’t try, dear. Just don’t recognize me. Or Johnny, either.”

  “Johnny? You don’t mean that Johnny’s actually going to—”

  Mrs. Whistler chuckled. “Still waters run deep. Goodbye, my dear. See you later.”

  At the height of the noon rush hour, Traffic Officer “Spud” Battersby trembled in the middle of a terrifying intersection, blowing a whistle, waving his arms, and narrowly avoiding death at every second. Suddenly Officer Battersby’s whistle nearly fell out of his mouth. A prim elderly lady carrying a straw shopping bag was calmly coming toward him, oblivious of the screaming brakes and blaring horns.

  “My God!” he shouted. “Get back! You’ll be run over!”

  A truck screeched to a halt six inches from the old lady. “Officer,” she said, “I want to report a crime.”

  Battersby snatched her from the path of an oncoming cab. They huddled in the middle of the street. “You want to be killed?”

  “Killed? Oh, no. No one’s been killed. But my purse was snatched not ten minutes ago.”

  “Get out of here! Call the police station!” A red light changed and a wheeled onslaught avalanched by.

  “My,” said the old lady, “you are busy, aren’t you?” She gave him a slip of paper. “If my purse is found, here’s my name and phone number.”

  “Lady, please… Look out for that truck!”

  “Merry Christmas, Officer!” Battersby shoved the paper into his pocket and managed to halt a hundred racing vehicles while the old lady made her unhurried way to the curb.

  “Another nut!” he said. “A one-hundred-percent Los Angeles nut!”

  At 12:45 Mrs. Whistler hesitated at the costume jewelry counter in MacTavish’s, smiling at Miss Hefron. the harassed and yule-weary salesgirl. “Everything’s lovely! I simply have to see every piece!”