“I’m an attorney, not an antiquarian,” snapped their visitor. “There are documents attached, one of them a sworn statement—holograph—by Lady Charlotte Atkyns, the English actress-friend of the Capet family—she was in France during the Revolution—on purporting to be in Lady Atkyns’s hand. It doesn’t matter, Mr. Queen. Even if the history is bad, the diamond’s good!”
“I take it this hundred-and-ten-thousand-dollar dollie constitutes the bone, as it were, or that therein lies the rub?”
“You said it!” cried Mr. Bondling, cracking his knuckles in a sort of agony. “For my money the Dauphin’s Doll is the only negotiable asset of that collection. And what’s the old lady do? She provided by will that on the day preceding Christmas the Cytherea Ypson Dollection is to be publicly displayed…on the main floor of Nash’s Department Store! The day before Christmas, gentlemen! Think of it!”
“But why?” asked Nikki, puzzled.
“Why? Who knows why? For the entertainment of New York’s army of little beggers, I suppose! Have you any notion how many peasants pass through Nash’s on the day before Christmas? My cook tells me—she’s a very religious woman—it’s like Armageddon.”
“Day before Christmas,” frowned Ellery. “That’s tomorrow.”
“It does sound chancy,” said Nikki anxiously. Then she brightened. “Oh, well, maybe Nash’s won’t cooperate, Mr. Bondling.”
“Oh, won’t they!” howled Mr. Bondling. “Why, old lady Ypson had this stunt cooked up with that gang of peasant-purveyors for years! They’ve been snapping at my heels ever since the day she was put away!”
“It’ll draw every crook in New York,” said the inspector, his gaze on the kitchen door.
“Orphans,” said Nikki. “The orphans’ interests must be protected.” She looked at her employer accusingly.
“Special measures, Dad,” he said.
“Sure, sure,” said the inspector, rising. “Don’t you worry about this, Mr. Bondling. Now, if you’ll be kind enough to excu—”
“Inspector Queen,” hissed Mr. Bondling, leaning forward tensely, “that is not all.”
“Ah,” said Ellery briskly, lighting a cigarette. “There’s a specific villain in this piece, Mr. Bondling, and you know who he is.”
“I do,” said the lawyer hollowly, “and then again I don’t. I mean, it’s Comus.”
“Comus!” the inspector screamed.
“Comus?” said Ellery slowly.
“Comus?” said Nikki. “Who dat?”
“Comus,” nodded Mr. Bondling. “First thing this morning. Marched right into my office, bold as day—must have followed me, I hadn’t got my coat off, my secretary wasn’t even in. Marched in and tossed this card on my desk.”
Ellery seized it. “The usual, Dad.”
“His trademark,” growled the inspector, his lips working.
“But the card just says ‘Comus,’ ” complained Nikki. “Who—?”
“Go on, Mr. Bondling!” thundered the inspector.
“And he calmly announced to me,” said Bondling, blotting his cheeks with an exhausted handkerchief, “that he’s going to steal the Dauphin’s Doll tomorrow, in Nash’s.”
“Oh, a maniac,” said Nikki.
“Mr. Bondling,” said the old gentleman in a terrible voice, “just what did this fellow look like?”
“Foreigner—black beard—spoke with a European accent of some sort. To tell you the truth, I was so thunderstruck I didn’t notice details. Didn’t even chase him till it was too late.”
The Queens shrugged at each other, Gallically.
“The old story,” said the inspector; the corners of his nostrils were greenish. “The brass of the colonel’s monkey, and when he does show himself nobody remembers anything but beards and foreign accents. Well, Mr. Bondling, with Comus in the game it’s serious business. Where’s the collection right now?”
“In the vaults of the Life Bank & Trust, Forty-third Street branch.”
“What time are you to move it over to Nash’s?”
“They wanted it this evening. I said nothing doing. I’ve made special arrangements with the bank, and the collection’s to be moved at seven-thirty tomorrow morning.”
“Won’t be much time to set up,” said Ellery thoughtfully, “before the store opens its doors.” He glanced at his father.
“You leave Operation Dollie to us, Mr. Bondling,” said the inspector grimly. “Better give me a buzz this afternoon.”
“I can’t tell you, Inspector, how relieved I am—”
“Are you?” said the old gentleman sourly. “What makes you think he won’t get it?”
WHEN ATTORNEY BONDLING had left, the Queens put their heads together, Ellery doing most of the talking, as usual. Finally, the inspector went into the bedroom for a session with his direct line to headquarters.
“Anybody would think,” sniffed Nikki, “you two were planning the defense of the Bastille. Who is this Comus, anyway?”
“We don’t know, Nikki,” said Ellery slowly. “Might be anybody. Began his criminal career about five years ago. He’s in the grand tradition of Lupin—a saucy, highly intelligent rascal who’s made stealing an art. He seems to take a special delight in stealing valuable things under virtually impossible conditions. Master of make-up—he’s appeared in a dozen different disguises. And he’s an uncanny mimic. Never been caught, photographed, or fingerprinted. Imaginative, daring—I’d say he’s the most dangerous thief operating in the United States.”
“If he’s never been caught,” said Nikki skeptically, “how do you know he commits these crimes?”
“You mean, and not someone else?” Ellery smiled pallidly. “The techniques mark the thefts as his work. And then, like Arsène, he leaves a card—with the name ‘Comus’ on it—on the scene of each visit.”
“Does he usually announce in advance that he’s going to swipe the crown jewels?”
“No.” Ellery frowned. “To my knowledge, this is the first such instance. Since he’s never done anything without a reason, that visit to Bondling’s office this morning must be part of his greater plan. I wonder if—”
The telephone in the living room rang clear and loud.
Nikki looked at Ellery. Ellery looked at the telephone.
“Do you suppose—?” began Nikki. But then she said, “Oh, it’s too absurd.”
“Where Comus is involved,” said Ellery wildly, “nothing is too absurd!” and he leaped for the phone. “Hello!”
“A call from an old friend,” announced a deep and hollowish male voice. “Comus.”
“Well,” said Ellery. “Hello again.”
“Did Mr. Bondling,” asked the voice jovially, “persuade you to ‘prevent’ me from stealing the Dauphin’s Doll in Nash’s tomorrow?”
“So you know Bondling’s been here.”
“No miracle involved, Queen. I followed him. Are you taking the case?”
“See here, Comus,” said Ellery. “Under ordinary circumstances I’d welcome the sporting chance to put you where you belong. But these circumstances are not ordinary. That doll represents the major asset of a future fund for orphaned children. I’d rather we didn’t play catch with it. Comus, what do you say we call this one off?”
“Shall we say,” asked the voice gently, “Nash’s Department Store—tomorrow?”
THUS THE EARLY morning of December twenty-fourth finds Messrs. Queen and Bondling, and Nikki Porter, huddled on the iron sidewalk of Forty-third Street, before the holly-decked windows of the Life Bank & Trust Company, just outside a double line of armed guards. The guards form a channel between the bank entrance and an armored truck, down which Cytherea Ypson’s Dollection flows swiftly. And all about gapes New York, stamping callously on the aged, icy face of the street, against the uncharitable Christmas wind.
Now is the winter of his discontent, and Mr. Queen curses.
“I don’t know what you’re beefing about,” moans Miss Porter. “You and Mr. Bondling are bundled up like Yukon
prospectors. Look at me.”
“It’s that rat-hearted public relations tripe from Nash’s,” says Mr. Queen murderously. “They all swore themselves to secrecy, Brother Rat included. Honor! Spirit of Christmas!”
“It was all over the radio last night,” whimpers Mr. Bondling. “And in this morning’s papers.”
“I’ll cut his creep’s heart out. Here! Velie, keep those people away!”
Sergeant Velie says good-naturedly from the doorway of the bank, “You jerks stand back.” Little does the Sergeant know the fate in store for him.
“Armored trucks,” says Miss Porter bluishly. “Shotguns.”
“Nikki, Comus made a point of informing us in advance that he meant to steal the Dauphin’s Doll in Nash’s Department Store. It would be just like him to have said that in order to make it easier to steal the doll en route.”
“Why don’t they hurry?” shivers Mr. Bondling. “Ah!” Inspector Queen appears suddenly in the doorway. His hands clasp treasure. “Oh!” cries Nikki. New York whistles.
It is magnificence, an affront to democracy. But street mobs, like children, are royalists at heart.
New York whistles, and Sergeant Thomas Velie steps menacingly before Inspector Queen, Police Positive drawn, and Inspector Queen dashes across the sidewalk, between the bristling lines of guards.
Queen the Younger vanishes, to materialize an instant later at the door of the armored truck.
“It’s just immorally, hideously beautiful, Mr. Bondling,” breathes Miss Porter, sparkly-eyed.
Mr. Bondling cranes, thinly.
ENTER Santa Claus, with bell.
Santa. Oyez, oyez. Peace, good will. Is that the dollie the radio’s been yappin’ about, folks?
Mr. B. Scram.
Miss P. Why, Mr. Bondling.
Mr. B. Well, he’s got no business here. Stand back, er, Santa. Back!
Santa. What eateth you, my lean and angry friend? Have you no compassion at this season of the year?
Mr. B. Oh… Here! (Clink.) Now will you kindly…?
Santa. Mighty pretty dollie. Where they takin’ it, girlie?
Miss P. Over to Nash’s, Santa.
Mr. B. You asked for it. Officer!!!
Santa. (Hurriedly) Little present for you, girlie. Compliments of old Santy. Merry, merry.
Miss P. For me?? (EXIT Santa, rapidly, with bell.) Really, Mr. Bondling, was it necessary to…?
Mr. B. Opium for the masses! What did that flatulent faker hand you, Miss Porter? What’s in that unmentionable envelope?
Miss P. I’m sure I don’t know, but isn’t it the most touching idea? Why, it’s addressed to Ellery. Oh! Elleryyyyyy!
Mr. B. (EXIT excitedly) Where is he? You—! Officer! Where did that baby-deceiver disappear to? A Santa Claus…!
Mr. Q. (Entering on the run) Yes? Nikki, what is it? What’s happened?
Miss P. A man dressed as Santa Claus just handed me this envelope. It’s addressed to you.
Mr. Q. Note? (He snatches it, withdraws a miserable slice of paper from it on which is block-lettered in pencil a message which he reads aloud with considerable expression.) “Dear Ellery, Don’t you trust me? I said I’d steal the Dauphin in Nash’s emporium today, and that’s exactly where I’m going to do it. Yours—” Signed…
Miss P. (Craning) “Comus.” That Santa?
Mr. Q. (Sets his manly lips. An icy wind blows)
EVEN THE MASTER had to acknowledge that their defenses against Comus were ingenious.
From the Display Department of Nash’s they had requisitioned four miter-jointed counters of uniform length. These they had fitted together, and in the center of the hollow square thus formed they had erected a platform six feet high. On the counters, in plastic tiers, stretched the long lines of Miss Ypson’s babies. Atop the platform, dominant, stood a great chair of handcarved oak, filched from the Swedish Modern section of the Fine Furniture Department; and on this Valhalla-like throne, a huge and rosy rotundity, sat Sergeant Thomas Velie, of police headquarters, morosely grateful for the anonymity endowed by the scarlet suit and the jolly mask and whiskers of his appointed role.
Nor was this all. At a distance of six feet outside the counters shimmered a surrounding rampart of plate glass, borrowed in its various elements from The Glass Home of the Future display on the sixth-floor rear, and assembled to shape an eight-foot wall quoined with chrome, its glistening surfaces flawless except at one point, where a thick glass door had been installed. But the edges fitted intimately, and there was a formidable lock in the door, the key to which lay buried in Mr. Queen’s right trouser pocket.
It was 8:54 A.M. The Queens, Nikki Porter, and Attorney Bondling stood among store officials and an army of plainclothesmen on Nash’s main floor, surveying the product of their labors.
“I think that about does it,” muttered Inspector Queen at last. “Men! Positions around the glass partition.”
Twenty-four assorted gendarmes in mufti jostled one another. They took marked places about the wall, facing it and grinning up at Sergeant Velie. Sergeant Velie, from his throne, glared back.
“Hagstrom and Piggott—the door.”
Two detectives detached themselves from a group of reserves. As they marched to the glass door, Mr. Bondling plucked at the inspector’s overcoat sleeve. “Can all these men be trusted, Inspector Queen?” he whispered. “I mean, this fellow Comus—”
“Mr. Bondling,” replied the old gentleman coldly, “you do your job and let me do mine.”
“But—”
“Picked men, Mr. Bondling! I picked ’em myself.”
“Yes, yes, Inspector. I merely thought I’d—”
“Lieutenant Farber.”
A little man with watery eyes stepped forward.
“Mr. Bondling, this is Lieutenant Geronimo Farber, headquarters jewelry expert. Ellery?”
Ellery took the Dauphin’s Doll from his greatcoat pocket, but he said, “If you don’t mind, Dad, I’ll keep holding on to it.”
Somebody said, “Wow,” and then there was silence.
“Lieutenant, this doll in my son’s hand is the famous Dauphin’s Doll with the diamond crown that—”
“Don’t touch it, Lieutenant, please,” said Ellery. “I’d rather nobody touched it.”
“The doll,” continued the inspector, “has just been brought here from a bank vault which it ought never to have left, and Mr. Bondling, who’s handling the Ypson estate, claims it’s the genuine article. Lieutenant, examine the diamond and give us your opinion.”
Lieutenant Farber produced a loupe. Ellery held the dauphin securely, and Farber did not touch it.
Finally, the expert said: “I can’t pass an opinion about the doll itself, of course, but the diamond’s a beauty. Easily worth a hundred thousand dollars at the present state of the market—maybe more. Looks like a very strong setting, by the way.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant. Okay, son,” said the inspector. “Go into your waltz.”
Clutching the dauphin, Ellery strode over to the glass gate and unlocked it.
“This fellow Farber,” whispered Attorney Bondling in the inspector’s hairy ear. “Inspector, are you absolutely sure he’s—?”
“He’s really Lieutenant Farber?” The inspector controlled himself. “Mr. Bondling, I’ve known Gerry Farber for eighteen years. Calm yourself.”
Ellery was crawling perilously over the nearest counter. Then, bearing the dauphin aloft, he hurried across the floor of the enclosure to the platform.
Sergeant Velie whined, “Maestro, how in hell am I going to sit here all day without washin’ my hands?”
But Mr. Queen merely stooped and lifted from the floor a heavy little structure faced with black velvet consisting of a floor and a backdrop, with a two-armed chromium support. This object he placed on the platform directly between Sergeant Velie’s massive legs.
The Twelve Crimes of Christmas Page 18