The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

by Martin H. Greenberg et al (Ed)

  Carefully, he stood the Dauphin’s Doll in the velvet niche. Then he clambered back across the counter, went through the glass door, locked it with the key, and turned to examine his handiwork.

  Proudly the prince’s plaything stood, the jewel in his little golden crown darting “on pale electric streams” under the concentrated tide of a dozen of the most powerful floodlights in the possession of the great store.

  “Velie,” said Inspector Queen, “you’re not to touch that doll. Don’t lay a finger on it.”

  The Sergeant said, “Gaaaaa.”

  “You men on duty. Don’t worry about the crowds. Your job is to keep watching that doll. You’re not to take your eyes off it all day. Mr. Bondling, are you satisfied?” Mr. Bondling seemed about to say something, but then he hastily nodded. “Ellery?”

  The great man smiled. “The only way he can get that bawbie,” he said, “is by spells and incantations. Raise the portcullis!”

  THEN BEGAN THE interminable day, dies irae, the last shopping day before Christmas. This is traditionally the day of the inert, the procrastinating, the undecided, and the forgetful, sucked at last into the mercantile machine by the perpetual pump of Time. If there is peace upon earth, it descends only afterward; and at no time, on the part of anyone embroiled, is there good will toward men. As Miss Porter expresses it, a cat fight in a bird cage would be more Christian.

  But on this December twenty-fourth, in Nash’s, the normal bedlam was augmented by the vast shrilling of thousands of Children. It may be, as the Psalmist insists, that happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them; but no bowmen surrounded Miss Ypson’s darlings this day, only detectives carrying revolvers, not a few of whom forbore to use same only by the most heroic self-discipline. In the black floods of humanity overflowing the main floor, little folks darted about like electrically charged minnows, pursued by exasperated maternal shrieks and the imprecations of those whose shins and rumps and toes were at the mercy of hot, happy little limbs; indeed, nothing was sacred, and Attorney Bondling was seen to quail and wrap his greatcoat defensively about him against the savage innocence of childhood. But the guardians of the law, having been ordered to simulate store employees, possessed no such armor; and many a man earned his citation that day for unique cause. They stood in the very millrace of the tide; it churned about them, shouting, “Dollies! Dollies!” until the very word lost its familiar meaning and became the insensate scream of a thousand Loreleis beckoning strong men to destruction below the eye-level of their diamond Light.

  But they stood fast.

  And Comus was thwarted. Oh, he tried. At 11:18 A.M. a tottering old man holding fast to the hand of a small boy tried to wheedle Detective Hagstrom into unlocking the glass door “so my grandson, here—he’s terrible nearsighted—can get a closer look at the pretty dollies.” Detective Hagstrom roared, “Rube!” and the old gentleman dropped the little boy’s hand violently and with remarkable agility lost himself in the crowd. A spot investigation revealed that, coming upon the boy, who had been crying for his mommy, the old gentleman had promised to find her. The little boy, whose name—he said—was Lance Morganstern, was removed to the Lost and Found Department; and everyone was satisfied that the great thief had finally launched his attack. Everyone, that is, but Ellery Queen. He seemed puzzled. When Nikki asked him why, he merely said: “Stupidity, Nikki. It’s not in character.”

  At 1:46 P.M., Sergeant Velie sent up a distress signal. Inspector Queen read the message aright and signaled back: “O.K. Fifteen minutes.” Sergeant Santa C. Velie scrambled off his perch, clawed his way over the counter, and pounded urgently on the inner side of the glass door. Ellery let him out, relocking the door immediately, and the Sergeant’s redclad figure disappeared on the double in the general direction of the main-floor gentlemen’s relief station, leaving the dauphin in solitary possession of the dais.

  During the sergeant’s recess Inspector Queen circulated among his men, repeating the order of the day.

  The episode of Velie’s response to the summons of Nature caused a temporary crisis. For at the end of the specified fifteen minutes he had not returned. Nor was there a sign of him at the end of a half hour. An aide dispatched to the relief station reported back that the sergeant was not there. Fears of foul play were voiced at an emergency staff conference held then and there, and counter-measures were being planned even as, at 2:35 P.M., the familiar Santa-clad bulk of the sergeant was observed battling through the lines, pawing at his mask.

  “Velie,” snarled Inspector Queen, “where have you been?”

  “Eating my lunch,” growled the Sergeant’s voice, defensively. “I been taking my punishment like a gook soldier all day, Inspector, but I draw the line at starvin’ to death, even in line of duty.”

  “Velie—!” choked the inspector; but then he waved his hand feebly and said, “Ellery, let him back in there.”

  And that was very nearly all. The only other incident of note occurred at 4:22 P.M. A well-upholstered woman with a red face yelled, “Stop! Thief! He grabbed my pocketbook! Police!” about fifty feet from the Ypson exhibit. Ellery instantly shouted, “It’s a trick! Men, don’t take your eyes off that doll!”

  “It’s Comus disguised as a woman,” exclaimed Attorney Bondling, as Inspector Queen and Detective Hesse wrestled the female figure through the mob. She was now a wonderful shade of magenta. “What are you doing?” she screamed. “Don’t arrest me!—catch that crook who stole my pocketbook!” “No dice, Comus,” said the inspector. “Wipe off that makeup.” “McComas?” said the woman loudly. “My name is Rafferty, and all these folks saw it. He was a fat man with a mustache.” “Inspector,” said Nikki Porter, making a surreptitious scientific test. “This is a female. Believe me.” And so, indeed, it proved. All agreed that the mustachioed fat man had been Comus, creating a diversion in the desperate hope that the resulting confusion would give him an opportunity to steal the little dauphin.

  “Stupid, stupid,” muttered Ellery, gnawing his fingernails.

  “Sure,” grinned the inspector. “We’ve got him nibbling his tail, Ellery. This was his do-or-die pitch. He’s through.”

  “Frankly,” sniffed Nikki, “I’m a little disappointed.”

  “Worried,” said Ellery, “would be the word for me.”

  INSPECTOR QUEEN WAS too case-hardened a sinner’s nemesis to lower his guard at his most vulnerable moment. When the 5:30 bells bonged and the crowds began struggling toward the exits, he barked: “Men, stay at your posts. Keep watching that doll!” So all hands were on the qui vive even as the store emptied. The reserves kept hustling people out. Ellery, standing on an information booth, spotted bottlenecks and waved his arms.

  At 5:50 P.M. the main floor was declared out of the battle zone. All stragglers had been herded out. The only persons visible were the refugees trapped by the closing bell on the upper floors, and these were pouring out of elevators and funneled by a solid line of detectives and accredited store personnel to the doors. By 6:05 they were a trickle; by 6:10 even the trickle had dried up. And the personnel itself began to disperse.

  “No, men!” called Ellery sharply from his observation post. “Stay where you are till all the store employees are out!” The counter clerks had long since disappeared.

  Sergeant Velie’s plaintive voice called from the other side of the glass door. “I got to get home and decorate my tree. Maestro, make with the key.”

  Ellery jumped down and hurried over to release him. Detective Piggott jeered, “Going to play Santa to your kids tomorrow morning, Velie?” at which the sergeant managed even through his mask to project a four-letter word distinctly, forgetful of Miss Porter’s presence, and stamped off toward the gentleman’s relief station.

  “Where you going, Velie?” asked the inspector, smiling.

  “I got to get out of these x-and-dash Santy clothes somewheres, don’t I?” came back the sergeant’s mask-muffled tones, and he vanished in a thunderclap of his fellow-officers’ laught
er.

  “Still worried, Mr. Queen?” chuckled the inspector.

  “I don’t understand it.” Ellery shook his head. “Well, Mr. Bondling, there’s your dauphin, untouched by human hands.”

  “Yes. Well!” Attorney Bondling wiped his forehead happily. “I don’t profess to understand it, either, Mr. Queen. Unless it’s simply another case of an inflated reputation…” He clutched the inspector suddenly. “Those men!” he whispered. “Who are they?”

  “Relax, Mr. Bondling,” said the inspector good-naturedly. “It’s just the men to move the dolls back to the bank. Wait a minute, you men! Perhaps, Mr. Bondling, we’d better see the dauphin back to the vaults ourselves.”

  “Keep those fellows back,” said Ellery to the headquarters men, quietly, and he followed the inspector and Mr. Bondling into the enclosure. They pulled two of the counters apart at one corner and strolled over to the platform. The dauphin was winking at them in a friendly way. They stood looking at him.

  “Cute little devil,” said the inspector.

  “Seems silly now,” beamed Attorney Bondling. “Being so worried all day.”

  “Comus must have had some plan,” mumbled Ellery.

  “Sure,” said the inspector. “That old man disguise. And that purse-snatching act.”

  “No, no, Dad. Something clever. He’s always pulled something clever.”

  “Well, there’s the diamond,” said the lawyer comfortably. “He didn’t.”

  “Disguise…” muttered Ellery. “It’s always been a disguise. Santa Claus costume—he used that once—this morning in front of the bank…. Did we see a Santa Claus around here today?”

  “Just Velie,” said the inspector, grinning. “And I hardly think—”

  “Wait a moment, please,” said Attorney Bondling in a very odd voice.

  He was staring at the Dauphin’s Doll.

  “Wait for what, Mr. Bondling?”

  “What’s the matter?” said Ellery, also in a very odd voice.

  “But…not possible…” stammered Bondling. He snatched the doll from its black velvet repository. “No!” he howled. “This isn’t the dauphin! It’s a fake—a copy!”

  Something happened in Mr. Queen’s head—a little click! like the sound of a switch. And there was light.

  “Some of you men!” he roared. “After Santa Claus!”

  “After who, Ellery?” gasped Inspector Queen.

  “Don’t stand here! Get him!” screamed Ellery, dancing up and down. “The man I just let out of here! The Santa who made for the men’s room!”

  Detectives started running, wildly.

  “But Ellery,” said a small voice, and Nikki found that it was her own, “that was Sergeant Velie.”

  “It was not Velie, Nikki! When Velie ducked out just before two o’clock, Comus waylaid him! It was Comus who came back in Velie’s Santa Claus rig, wearing Velie’s whiskers and mask! Comus has been on this platform all afternoon!” He tore the dauphin from Attorney Bondling’s grasp. “Copy… He did it, he did it!”

  “But Mr. Queen,” whispered Attorney Bondling, “his voice. He spoke to us…in Sergeant Velie’s voice.”

  “Yes, Ellery,” Nikki heard herself saying.

  “I told you yesterday Comus is a great mimic, Nikki Lieutenant Farber! Is Farber still here?”

  The jewelry expert, who had been gaping from a distance, shook his head and shuffled into the enclosure.

  “Lieutenant,” said Ellery in a strangled voice. “Examine this diamond…. I mean, is it a diamond?”

  Inspector Queen removed his hands from his face and said froggily, “Well, Gerry?”

  Lieutenant Farber squinted once through his loupe. “The hell you say. It’s strass—”

  “It’s what?” said the inspector piteously.

  “Strass, Dick—lead glass—paste. Beautiful job of imitation—as nice as I’ve ever seen.”

  “Lead me to that Santa Claus,” whispered Inspector Queen.

  But Santa Claus was being led to him. Struggling in the grip of a dozen detectives, his red coat ripped off, his red pants around his ankles, but his whiskery mask still on his face, came a large shouting man.

  “But I tell you,” he was roaring, “I’m Sergeant Tom Velie! Just take the mask off—that’s all!”

  “It’s a pleasure,” growled Detective Hagstrom, trying to break their prisoner’s arm, “we’re reservin’ for the inspector.”

  “Hold him, boys,” whispered the inspector. He struck like a cobra. His hand came away with Santa’s face.

  And there, indeed, was Sergeant Velie.

  “Why, it’s Velie,” said the inspector wonderingly.

  “I only told you that a thousand times,” said the sergeant, folding his great hairy arms across his great hairy chest. “Now, who’s the so-and-so who tried to bust my arm?” Then he said, “My pants!” and as Miss Porter turned delicately away, Detective Hagstrom humbly stooped and raised Sergeant Velie’s pants.

  “Never mind that,” said a cold, remote voice.

  It was the master, himself.

  “Yeah?” said Sergeant Velie.

  “Velie, weren’t you attacked when you went to the men’s room just before two?”

  “Do I look like the attackable type?”

  “You did go to lunch?—in person?”

  “And a lousy lunch it was.”

  “It was you up here among the dolls all afternoon?”

  “Nobody else, Maestro. Now, my friends, I want action. Fast patter. What’s this all about? Before,” said Sergeant Velie softly, “I lose my temper.”

  While divers headquarters orators delivered impromptu periods before the silent sergeant, Inspector Richard Queen spoke.

  “Ellery. Son. How in the name of the second sin did he do it?”

  “Pa,” replied the master, “you got me.”

  DECK THE HALL with boughs of holly, but not if your name is Queen on the evening of a certain December twenty-fourth. If your name is Queen on that lamentable evening you are seated in the living room of a New York apartment uttering no falalas but staring miserably into a somber fire. And you have company. The guest list is short but select. It numbers two, a Miss Porter and a Sergeant Velie, and they are no comfort.

  No, no ancient Yuletide carol is being trolled; only the silence sings.

  Wail in your crypt, Cytherea Ypson; all was for nought; your little dauphin’s treasure lies not in the empty coffers of the orphans but in the hot clutch of one who took his evil inspiration from a long-crumbled specialist in vanishments.

  Fact: Lieutenant Geronimo Farber of police headquarters had examined the diamond in the genuine dauphin’s crown a matter of seconds before it was conveyed to its sanctuary in the enclosure. Lieutenant Farber had pronounced the diamond a diamond, and not merely a diamond, but a diamond worth in his opinion over one hundred thousand dollars.

  Fact: It was this genuine diamond and this genuine Dauphin’s Doll which Ellery with his own hands had carried into the glass-enclosed fortress and deposited between the authenticated Sergeant Velie’s verified feet.

  Fact: All day—specifically, between the moment the dauphin had been deposited in his niche until the moment he was discovered to be a fraud; that is, during the total period in which a theft-and-substitution was even theoretically possible—no person whatsoever, male or female, adult or child, had set foot within the enclosure except Sergeant Thomas Velie, alias Santa Claus; and some dozens of persons with police training and specific instructions, not to mention the Queens themselves, Miss Porter, and Attorney Bondling, testified unqualifiedly that Sergeant Velie had not touched the doll, at any time, all day.

  Fact: All those deputized to watch the doll swore that they had done so without lapse or hindrance the everlasting day; moreover, that at no time had anything touched the doll—human or mechanical—either from inside or outside the enclosure.

  Fact: Despite all the foregoing, at the end of the day they had found the real dauphin gone and a worthless
copy in its place.