The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

by Martin H. Greenberg et al (Ed)

  “Ah, it is a portion of The Old Curiosity Shop not used in the published versions of that book,” said Pons.

  “You know it, sir!” cried our client with evident delight.

  “Indeed, I do. And I recognize the script.”

  “You do?” Snawley rubbed his hands together in his pleasure.

  “Where did you acquire it?”

  Snawley blinked at him. “It was offered to me by a gentleman who had fallen on evil days and needed the money—a trifle over a month and a half ago.”

  “Indeed,” said Pons. “So you got it at a bargain?”

  “I did, I did. The circumstances made it possible. He was desperate. He wanted five hundred pounds—a ridiculous figure.”

  “I see. You beat him down?”

  “Business is business, Mr. Pons. I bought it at two hundred pounds.”

  Pons took one of the sheets and held it up against the candles.

  “Take care, sir! Take care!” said our client nervously.

  Pons lowered the sheet. “You have had it authenticated?”

  “Authenticated? Sir, I am an authority on Dickens. Why should I pay some ‘expert’ a fee to disclose what I already know? This is Dickens’s handwriting. I have letters of Dickens by which to authenticate it. Not an i is dotted otherwise but as Dickens dotted his i’s, not a t is crossed otherwise. This is Dickens’s script, word for word, letter for letter.”

  Offended, our client almost rudely picked up his treasure and restored it to box and cabinet. As he came back to his chair, he reminded Pons, “But you did not come here to see my collection. There is that fellow outside. How will you deal with him?”

  “Ah, I propose to invite him to dinner,” answered Pons. “No later than tomorrow night—Christmas Eve. Or, rather, shall we put it that you will invite him here for dinner at that time?”

  Our client’s jaw dropped. “You are surely joking,” he said in a strangled voice.

  “It is Christmas, Mr. Snawley. We shall show him some of the spirit of the season.”

  “I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I can’t afford to make idle people merry,” replied Snawley sourly. “Least of all that fellow out there. It is an ill-conceived and ill-timed jest.”

  “It is no jest, Mr. Snawley.”

  Pons’s eyes danced in the candlelight.

  “I will have none of it,” said our client, coming to his feet as if to dismiss us.

  “It is either that,” said Pons inexorably, “or my fee.”

  “Name it, then! Name it—for I shall certainly not lay a board for that infernal rogue,” cried our client raising his voice.

  “Five hundred pounds,” said Pons coldly.

  “Five hundred pounds!” screamed Snawley.

  Pons nodded, folded his arms across his chest, and looked as adamant as a rock.

  Our client leaned and caught hold of the table as if he were about to fall. “Five hundred pounds!” he whispered. “It is robbery! Five hundred pounds!” He stood for a minute so, Pons unmoved the while, and presently a crafty expression came into his narrowed eyes. He began to work his lips out and in, as was his habit, and he turned his head to look directly at Pons. “You say,” he said, still in a whisper, “it is either five hundred pounds or—a dinner…”

  “For four. The three of us and that lusty bawler out there,” said Pons.

  “It would be less expensive,” agreed our client, licking his lips.

  “Considerably. Particularly since I myself will supply the goose,” said Pons with the utmost savior faire.

  “Done!” cried Snawley at once, as if he had suddenly got much the better of a bad bargain. “Done!” He drew back. “But since I have retained you, I leave it to you to invite him—for I will not!”

  “Dinner at seven, Mr. Snawley?”

  Our client nodded briskly. “As you like.”

  “I will send around the goose in the morning.”

  “There is no other fee, Mr. Pons! I have heard you aright? And you will dispose of that fellow out there?’ He inclined his head toward the street.

  “I daresay he will not trouble you after tomorrow night,” said Pons.

  “Then, since there is no further fee, you will not take it amiss if I do not drive you back? There is an underground nearby.”

  “We will take it, Mr. Snawley.”

  Snawley saw us to the door, the bracket of candles in his hand. At the threshold Pons paused.

  “There must be nothing spared at dinner, Mr. Snawley,” he said. “We’ll want potatoes, dressing, vegetables, fruit, green salad, plum pudding—and a trifle more of that Amontillado.”

  Our client sighed with resignation. “It will be done, though I may rue it.”

  “Rue it you may,” said Pons cheerfully. “Good night, sir. And the appropriate greetings of the season to you.”

  “Humbug! All humbug!” muttered our client, retreating into his house.

  We went down the walk through the now much-thinned snowfall, and stood at its juncture with the street until the object of our client’s ire came around again. He was a stocky man with a good paunch on him, cherry-red cheeks and a nose of darker red, and merry little eyes that looked out of two rolls of fat, as it were. Coming close, he affected not to see us, until Pons strode out into his path, silencing his bawling of walnuts.

  “Good evening, Mr. Auber.”

  He started back, peering at Pons. “I don’t know ye, sir,” he said.

  “But it is Mr. Auber, isn’t it? Mr. Micah Auber?”

  Auber nodded hesitantly.

  “Mr. Ebenezer Snawley would like your company at dinner tomorrow night at seven.”

  For a long moment, mouth agape, Auber stared at him. “God bless my soul!” he said, finding his voice, “Did he know me, then?”

  “No,” said Pons, “but who else would be walking here affecting to be a hawker of such wares if not Micah Auber, on hand in case anything turned up?”

  “God bless my soul!” said Auber again, fervently.

  “You will meet us at the door, Mr. Auber, and go in with us,” said Pons. “Good evening, sir.”

  “I will be there,” said Auber.

  “And leave off this bawling,” said Pons over his shoulder.

  We passed on down the street, and Auber, I saw, looking back, went scuttling off in the other direction, in silence.

  We hurried on through the snow. The evening was mellow enough so that much of it underfoot had melted, and the falling flakes dissolved on our clothing. But Pons set the pace, and it was not until we were in the underground, on the way back to our quarters, that I had opportunity to speak.

  “How did you know that fellow was Micah Auber?” I asked.

  “Why, that is as elementary a deduction as it seems to me possible to make,” replied Pons. “Consider—Snawley’s valuables consist of his collection, which is primarily of Dickensians. Our client acquired his most recent treasure a trifle over six weeks ago. With a fortnight thereafter Micah Auber writes, asking to see his collection. Having had no reply, and assessing our client’s character correctly by inquiry or observation—perhaps both—Auber has adopted this novel method of attracting his attention. His object is clearly to get inside that house and have a look at our client’s collection.”

  “But surely this is all very roundabout,” I cried.

  “I fancy Snawley himself is rather roundabout—though not so roundabout as Auber. They are all a trifle mad, some more so than others. This pair is surely unique, even to the dress of the period!”

  “How could Auber know that Snawley had acquired that manuscript?”

  “I fancy it is for the reason that Snawley has laid claim to possession of the largest Dickens collection in London…”

  “In the world,” I put in.

  “And because the manuscript was undoubtedly stolen from Auber’s collection,” finished Pons. “Hence Auber’s persistence. We shall have a delightful dinner tomorrow evening, I fancy.”

  III


  Pons spent some time next day looking through references and making a telephone call or two, but he was not long occupied at this, and went about looking forward to dinner that evening, and from time to time throughout the day hummed a few bars of a tune, something to which he was not much given, and which testified to the warmth of his anticipation.

  We set out early, and reached Ebenezer Snawley’s home at a quarter to seven, but Micah Auber had preceded us to the vicinity; for we had no sooner posted ourselves before Snawley’s door than Auber made his appearance, bearing in upon us from among a little group of yew trees off to one side of the driveway, where he had undoubtedly been standing to wait upon our coming. He approached with a skip and a hop, and came up to us a little short of breath. Though he was dressed for dinner, it was possible to see by the light of the moon, which lacked but one day of being full, that his clothing was as ancient as our client’s.

  “Ah, good evening, Mr. Auber,” Pons greeted him. “I am happy to observe that you are in time for what I trust will be a good dinner.”

  “I don’t know as to how good it will be. Old Snawley’s tight, mighty tight,” said Auber.

  Pons chuckled.

  “But, I don’t believe, sir, we’ve been properly introduced.”

  “We have not,” said Pons. “My companion is Dr. Lyndon Parker, and I am Solar Pons.”

  Auber acknowledged both introductions with a sweeping bow, then brought himself up short. “Solar Pons, did ye say?” He savored the name, cocked an eye at Pons, and added, “I have a knowledge of London ye might say is extensive and peculiar. I’ve heard the name. Give me a moment—it’ll come to me. Ah, yes, the detective. Well, well, we are well met, sir. I have a need for your services, indeed I do. I’ve had stolen from me a val’able manuscript—and I have reason to believe our host has it. A prize, sir, a prize. A rare prize.”

  “We shall see, Mr. Auber, we shall see,” said Pons.

  “I will pay a reasonable sum, sir, for its recovery—a reasonable sum.”

  Pons seized hold of the knocker and rapped it sharply against the door. Almost at once our client’s voice rose.

  “Pip! Pip! The door! The gentlemen are here.”

  We could hear Pip Scratch coming down the hall, and then the door was thrown open. The only concession Pip had made to the occasion was a bracket of seven candles instead of three.

  “A Merry Christmas to you, Pip,” said Pons.

  “Thank you, sir. And to you, gentlemen,” said Pip in a scarcely audible whisper, as if he feared his master might hear him say it.

  “Come in! Come in! Let us have done with it,” called our client from the study.

  The table was laid in the study, and the wine glasses were filled to the brim. Snawley stood at its head, frock-coated, and wearing a broad black tie with a pin in it at the neck, though he was as grizzled as ever, and his eyes seemed to be even more narrowed as he looked past Pons toward Auber with no attempt to conceal his distaste.

  “Mr. Snawley,” said Pons with a wave of his hand toward Auber, “let me introduce our lusty-voiced friend.”

  “A voice not meant for singing,” put in our client.

  “Mr. Auber,” finished Pons.

  Snawley started back as if he had been struck. “Micah Auber?” he cried.

  “The same,” said Auber, bowing, his bald head gleaming in the candlelight, and all in the same movement producing a monocle on a thing black cord, which he raised to one eye and looked through at our client, who was still so thunderstruck that he was incapable of speech. “Ye do me the honor to ask me to dine.”

  All Snawley could think to say in this contretemps was, “To save five hundred pounds!”

  “As good a reason as any,” said Auber urbanely.

  At this juncture Pip Scratch made his appearance, bearing a large platter on which rested the goose Pons had had sent over that morning, all steaming and brown and done to a turn. He lowered it to the table and set about at once to carve it, while our host, recovering himself, though with as sour an expression as he could put upon his face, waved us to our seats.

  Pons seized his glass of Amontillado and raised it aloft. “Let us drink to the success of your various enterprises!”

  “Done,” said Auber.

  “And to a Merry Christmas!” continued Pons.

  “Humbug!” cried Snawley.

  “I would not say so, Mr. Snawley,” said Auber. “Christmas is a very useful occasion.”

  “Useful?” echoed our client. “And for whom, pray?”

  “Why, for us all,” answered Auber with spirit. “It is a season for forbearance, perseverance, and usefulness.”

  “Humbug!” said Snawley again. “If I had my way, I should have every Christmas merrymaker boiled in his own pudding!”

  “Ye need a bit more sherry, Mr. Snawley. Come, man, this dinner cannot have cost ye that much!”

  So it went through that Christmas Eve dinner, with the two collectors exchanging hard words, and then less hard words, and then softer words, mellowed by the wine for which Pons kept calling. The goose was disposed of in large part, and the dressing, and the potatoes, the carrots, the fruit, the green salad—all in good time, and slowly—and finally came the plum pudding, brought flaming to the table; while the hours went by, eight o’clock struck, then nine—and it was ten before we sat there at coffee and brandy, and by this time both Snawley and Auber were mellow, and Pip Scratch, who had cleared the table of all but the coffee cups and liqueur glasses, had come in to sit down away a little from the table, but yet a party to what went on there.

  And it was then that Auber, calculating that the time was right for it, turned to our client and said, “And now, if ye’ve no mind, I’d like a look at your collection of Dickens, Mr. Snawley.”

  “I daresay you would,” said Snawley. “I have the largest such in the world.”

  “It is you who says it.”

  “I wait to hear you say it, too!”

  Auber smiled and half closed his eyes. “If it is all that matters to ye, I will agree to it.”

  “Hear! Hear!” cried Snawley, and got a little unsteadily to his feet and went over to his shelves, followed like a shadow by the faithful Pip, and with Auber’s eyes on him as if he feared that Snawley and his collection might escape him after all.

  Snawley unlocked his cabinet and handed Pip a book or two, and carried another himself. They brought them to the table, and Snawley took one after the other of them and laid them down lovingly. They were inscribed copies of David Copperfield, Edwin Drood, and The Pickwick Papers. After Auber had fittingly admired and exclaimed over them, our client went back for more, and returned this time with copies of The Monthly Magazine containing Sketches by Boz, with interlineations in Dickens’s hand.

  Pip kept the fire going on the hearth, and between this task and dancing attendance upon his master, he was continually occupied, going back and forth, to and fro, with the firelight flickering on his bony face and hands, and the candle flames leaping up and dying away to fill the room with grotesque shadows, as the four of us bent over one treasure after another, and the clock crept around from ten to eleven, and moved upon midnight. A parade of books and papers moved from the cabinet to the table and back to the cabinet again—letters in Dickens’s hand, letters to Dickens from his publishers, old drawings by Cruikshank and ‘Phiz’ of Dickens’ characters—Oliver Twist, Fagin, Jonas Chuzzlewit, Mr. Bumble, Little Amy Dorrit, Uriah Heep, Caroline Jellyby, Seth Pecksniff, Sam Weller, Samuel Pickwick, and many another—so that it was late when at last Snawley came to his recently acquired treasure, and brought this too to the table.

  “And this, Mr. Auber, is the crown jewel, you might say, of my collection,” he said.