The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

by Martin H. Greenberg et al (Ed)

  “It’s brilliantly, unthinkably clever,” said Ellery at last “A master illusion. For, of course, it was an illusion….”

  “Witchcraft,” groaned the inspector.

  “Mass mesmerism,” suggested Nikki Porter.

  “Mass bird gravel,” growled the sergeant.

  Two hours later Ellery spoke again.

  “So Comus had a worthless copy of the dauphin all ready for the switch,” he muttered. “It’s a world famous dollie, been illustrated countless times, minutely described, photographed…. All ready for the switch, but how did he make it? How? How?”

  “You said that,” said the sergeant, “once or forty-two times.”

  “The bells are tolling,” sighed Nikki, “but for whom? Not for us.” And indeed, while they slumped there, Time, which Seneca named father of truth, had crossed the threshold of Christmas; and Nikki looked alarmed, for as that glorious song of old came upon the midnight clear, a great light spread from Ellery’s eyes and beatified the whole contorted countenance, so that peace sat there, the peace that approximated understanding; and he threw back that noble head and laughed with the merriment of an innocent child.

  “Hey,” said Sergeant Velie, staring.

  “Son,” began Inspector Queen, half-rising from his armchair; when the telephone rang.

  “Beautiful!” roared Ellery. “Oh, exquisite! How did Comus make the switch, eh? Nikki—”

  “From somewhere,” said Nikki, handing him the telephone receiver, “a voice is calling, and if you ask me it’s saying ‘Comus.’ Why not ask him?”

  “Comus,” whispered the inspector, shrinking.

  “Comus,” echoed the sergeant, baffled.

  “Comus?” said Ellery heartily. “How nice. Hello there! Congratulations.”

  “Why, thank you,” said the familiar deep and hollow voice. “I called to express my appreciation for a wonderful day’s sport and to wish you the merriest kind of Yule tide.”

  “You anticipate a rather merry Christmas yourself, I take it.”

  “Laeti triumphantes,” said Comus jovially.

  “And the orphans?”

  “They have my best wishes. But I won’t detain you, Ellery. If you’ll look at the doormat outside your apartment door, you’ll find, on it—in the spirit of the season—a little gift, with the compliments of Comus. Will you remember me to Inspector Queen and to Attorney Bondling?”

  Ellery hung up, smiling.

  On the doormat he found the true Dauphin’s Doll, intact except for a contemptible detail. The jewel in the little golden crown was missing.

  “IT WAS,” said Ellery later, over pastrami sandwiches, “a fundamentally simple problem. All great illusions are. A valuable object is placed in full view in the heart of an impenetrable enclosure, it is watched hawkishly by dozens of thoroughly screened and reliable trained persons, it is never out of their view, it is not once touched by human hand or any other agency, and yet, at the expiration of the danger period, it is gone—exchanged for a worthless copy. Wonderful. Amazing. It defies the imagination. Actually, it’s susceptible—like all magical hocus-pocus—to immediate solution if only one is able—as I was not—to ignore the wonder and stick to the fact. But then, the wonder is there for precisely that purpose: to stand in the way of the fact.

  “What is the fact?” continued Ellery, helping himself to a dill pickle. “The fact is that between the time the doll was placed on the exhibit platform and the time the theft was discovered no one and no thing touched it. Therefore between the time the doll was placed on the platform and the time the theft was discovered the dauphin could not have been stolen. It follows, simply and inevitably, that the dauphin must have been stolen outside that period.

  “Before the period began? No. I placed the authentic dauphin inside the enclosure with my own hands; at or about the beginning of the period, then, no hand but mine had touched the doll—not even, you’ll recall, Lieutenant Farber’s. Then the dauphin must have been stolen after the period closed.”

  Ellery brandished half the pickle. “And who,” he demanded solemnly, “is the only one besides myself who handled that doll after the period closed and before Lieutenant Farber pronounced the diamond to be paste? The only one?”

  The inspector and the sergeant exchanged puzzled glances, and Nikki looked blank.

  “Why, Mr. Bondling,” said Nikki, “and he doesn’t count.”

  “He counts very much, Nikki,” said Ellery, reaching for the mustard, “because the facts say Bondling stole the dauphin at that time.”

  “Bondling!” The inspector paled.

  “I don’t get it,” complained Sergeant Velie.

  “Ellery, you must be wrong,” said Nikki. “At the time Mr. Bondling grabbed the doll off the platform, the theft had already taken place. It was the worthless copy he picked up.”

  “That,” said Ellery, reaching for another sandwich, “was the focal point of his illusion. How do we know it was the worthless copy he picked up? Why, he said so. Simple, eh? He said so, and like the dumb bunnies we were, we took his unsupported word as gospel.”

  “That’s right!” mumbled his father. “We didn’t actually examine the doll till quite a few seconds later.”

  “Exactly,” said Ellery in a munchy voice. “There was a short period of beautiful confusion, as Bondling knew there would be. I yelled to the boys to follow and grab Santa Claus—I mean the sergeant, here. The detectives were momentarily demoralized. You, Dad, were stunned. Nikki looked as if the roof had fallen in. I essayed an excited explanation. Some detectives ran; others milled around. And while all this was happening—during those few moments when nobody was watching the genuine doll in Bondling’s hand because everyone thought it was a fake—Bondling calmly slipped it into one of his greatcoat pockets and from the other produced the worthless copy which he’d been carrying there all day. When I did turn back to him, it was the copy I grabbed from his hand. And his illusion was complete.

  “I know,” said Ellery dryly, “it’s rather on the let-down side. That’s why illusionists guard their professional secrets so closely; knowledge is disenchantment. No doubt the incredulous amazement aroused in his periwigged London audience by Comus the French conjuror’s dematerialization of his wife from the top of a table would have suffered the same fate if he’d revealed the trap door through which she had dropped. A good trick, like a good woman, is best in the dark. Sergeant, have another pastrami.”

  “Seems like funny chow to be eating early Christmas morning,” said the sergeant, reaching. Then he stopped. Then he said, “Bondling,” and shook his head.

  “Now that we know it was Bondling,” said the inspector, who had recovered a little, “it’s a cinch to get that diamond back. He hasn’t had time to dispose of it yet. I’ll just give downtown a buzz—”

  “Wait. Dad” said Ellery.

  “Wait for what?”

  “Whom are you going to sic the hounds on?”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to call headquarters, get a warrant, and so on. Who’s your man?”

  The inspector felt his head. “Why… Bondling, didn’t you say?”

  “It might be wise,” said Ellery, thoughtfully searching with his tongue for a pickle seed, “to specify his alias.”

  “Alias?” said Nikki. “Does he have one?”

  “What alias, son?”

  “Comus.”

  “Comus!”

  “Comus?”

  “Oh, come off it,” said Nikki, pouring herself a shot of coffee, straight, for she was in training for the inspector’s Christmas dinner. “How could Bondling be Comus when Bondling was with us all day?—and Comus kept making disguised appearances all over the place…that Santa who gave me the note in front of the bank—the old man who kidnapped Lance Morganstern—the fat man with the mustache who snatched Mrs. Rafferty’s purse.”

  “Yeah,” said the sergeant. “How?”

  “These illusions die hard,” said Ellery. “Wasn’t it
Comus who phoned a few minutes ago to rag me about the theft? Wasn’t it Comus who said he’d left the stolen dauphin—minus the diamond—on our doormat? Therefore Comus is Bondling.

  “I told you Comus never does anything without a good reason,” said Ellery. “Why did ‘Comus’ announce to ‘Bondling’ that he was going to steal the Dauphin’s Doll? Bondling told us that—putting the finger on his alter ego—because he wanted us to believe he and Comus were separate individuals. He wanted us to watch for Comus and take Bondling for granted. In tactical execution of this strategy Bondling provided us with three ‘Comus’ appearances during the day—obviously confederates.

  “Yes,” said Ellery, “I think Dad, you’ll find on backtracking that the great thief you’ve been trying to catch for five years has been a respectable estate attorney on Park Row all the time, shedding his quiddities and his quillets at night in favor of the soft shoe and the dark lantern. And now he’ll have to exchange them all for a number and a grilled door. Well, well, it couldn’t have happened at a more appropriate season; there’s an old English proverb that says the Devil makes his Christmas pie of lawyer’s tongues. Nikki, pass the pastrami.”

  BY THE CHIMNEY WITH CARE

  by Nick O’Donohoe

  Nick O’Donohoe has worked as a surveyor, an English teacher and as an operator of a puppet show. He is presently working on his dissertation, in the Humanities Doctoral Program at Syracuse University. He plays the guitar and a poor game of poker and is teaching part-time at Virginia Polytechnic Institute. In addition to his Nathan Phillips-Roy Cartley series of short stories, he has completed two novels and is working on a third. He is very fond of his cat, who is sometimes fond of him.

  It was the one day a week I could sleep late—so naturally the phone rang. I muttered, “Go away,” and tried to sleep through it. Nobody would keep trying me forever.

  But the phone kept ringing, and suddenly there was a furry black tail swishing back and forth in my face. I sat up and dumped the cat off my chest. “Thanks a bunch, Marlowe.” He sneered. “You my answering service these days?” He stood on the bed, lashing his tail and waiting.

  I gave in and picked up the phone. “Cartley and Phillips, home office. And Phillips speaking.”

  “Nathan.” It was Cartley’s voice, as rasping as I’ve ever heard it. “Nate, I’ve got my living room blocked off, and I want to keep the kids out. It’s that time of the year, you know.” He was trying to sound lighthearted; I’ve heard lighter pile-drivers.

  I’m slow at that hour. “And you want help in the living room, right? Ho-ho-ho! But it’s a whole week before—”

  “Can’t say, Nate, there’s an extension phone,” he broke in sharply.

  A high-pitched giggle came on the line. “Hi, Uncle Roy! Are you talking to Nathan?”

  I got the idea, finally. “Who is this? Amy? Paul?” After two outraged denials I had it easy. “Aw, I knew it was you, Howie. Listen, I’ll be right over. Who said you could listen in on us?”

  “I can be a detective, too.”

  I tried to sound injured. “Why are you bugging me, Howie? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Not yet.” He was triumphantly confident. I was going to be a crook, and the kids would catch me. That always happened when they visited Uncle Roy before Christmas. I loved it.

  I said goodbye and stumbled into the bathroom, where I nearly brushed my teeth with Ben-Gay. After that I drove over. By the time I hit the boulevard around Lake of the Isles I was awake enough to wonder why Roy had wanted me over right now.

  At the front door I was surrounded; I knelt to hug Amy and Paul, then twisted my right arm forward just enough to shake hands with Howie. “Hi, Howie. Old enough to know better, yet?”

  “Getting older,” he said, trying to look world-weary and not doing badly—for a ten-year-old. “Have you been behaving yourself, Nathan?” he added.

  I narrowed my eyes and curled my lip. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” I wasn’t sure what kind of a bad guy to be just yet. “Only person I’ll talk to here is my accomplice.” I stood up and called to Roy, “Merry Christmas, almost. We have plans to make in the living room?”

  “Sure.” I looked at him and suddenly knew we weren’t going to wrap presents. He edged through the living-room door, blocking the view with his body; I did the same. A haze of cigarette smoke drifted out over our heads. As I came through, Roy glanced behind me nervously. I shut the door quickly, braced it with the doorstop and turned around.

  I spun back around, hung my coat over the doorknob to block the keyhole, then walked quickly over and shut the front curtains. Roy sat down in one of the chairs.

  “Good thinking,” he said, and rubbed his face. “God, I haven’t been able to think of a thing.”

  “Who is he?” I said. It was all I could think of to say.

  “What do you mean, ‘who is he?’ ” Roy said irritably. “Don’t look at his chest; concentrate on his face.”

  It was hard. My eyes were drawn to the knife wound. He was up against the chimney, his knees folded under him, his body somehow suspended upright. The flesh on his face was sagging. It made him look weary beyond belief.

  Then I pictured the same face, slouched forward in the back seat of a squad car. “Gam Gillis!”

  “Right.”

  “What’s he doing here? You don’t even have a safe.”

  Roy gestured at the fireplace, below the body. “He’s hung on the damper. Look at his jacket. The collar must be hooked in back, and all his weight’s on it. When the collar button pops off, down he’ll go.” Cartley felt his pockets methodically, then drummed his fingers against one knee in frustration. “Nate, you got any cigarettes?”

  “Sorry.” For the first time in my life, I wished I smoked. Roy was a wreck. “Want me to go for some?”

  “No, I want you to take the kids somewhere while the police are here.”

  “When are they coming?” He suddenly looked stricken.

  “Jesus, Roy, you forgot to call?”

  He wiped at his face, nodding. I picked up the phone and began dialing. “By the way, who do you think put Gillis here?”

  “Who else? Petlovich.”

  “Oh,” I said—but it was a big “oh”; Roy and I had gotten Gillis to turn state’s evidence on Petlovich two years ago, over a jewelry theft we’d been checking out for an insurance company. “You think Petlovich left Gillis as a message. In other words—” I stopped. I didn’t want any other words.

  Just then the police answered. “Give me Lieutenant Pederson, please.” While I waited, I asked Roy, “You gonna tell your wife?”

  “Hell, no! Her mother sprained her ankle at just the right time. Maybe this’ll be over before she’s back.”

  “What about the kids—can you send them someplace?”

  “Not a chance. My brother goes wilderness camping in California. The National Guard couldn’t get hold of him.” He felt his pockets again, automatically.

  Just then the phone said, “Homicide. Pederson here.”

  “Good to hear you. This is Nathan Phillips. How’s Minneapolis’s second finest?”

  He answered levelly, “Phillips, any time you give me your full name and say it’s good to hear me, something’s Up. What’s up?”

  I must have been as rattled as Roy. “There’s been a murder at Roy’s house. James Gillis, an ex-con; you can look up his connection with us. Oh, and bring a pack of cigarettes?”

  Roy called out “Camels,” just as Pederson said, “Camels, right? Sure thing. Wait a minute, aren’t Jack’s kids Visiting Roy now?”

  “Yeah. Can you hurry?”

  “You bet.” He added too casually, “Did Roy do it?”

  “I…” I turned to look at Roy. “Uh, Roy’s okay,” I said carefully. “No. No, of course not. You’ll see.” I hoped he would. “See you when you get here.” I hung up.

  “Thanks, Nate. Now let’s go collect the kids.” He stared at the fireplace. So had I, on and off. We w
ere both watching the collar-button hole stretching.