“Where are they?”
“In the boot of my car. Why?”
“Do you mind if I have a look at them?”
“Not if you want to.”
They went out to the yard at the back of the shop where Colin’s old Escort was parked. He opened the boot and brought out a pair of worn grey Wellingtons. Roberts studied them. They were size ten.
“All right, thanks,” he said.
Colin just grinned. “Do you think I took Jason’s turkeys?” he asked.
Roberts didn’t answer.
Miss Crindle heard about the theft the next morning when she was doing her last-minute Christmas shopping. It seemed to justify her fears, and she decided that she must talk to Tom Roberts.
“You think the turkeys the Renwicks and the others got were the ones somebody stole from Jason Richards’ shed, don’t you?” she asked him.
“I can’t say. Miss Crindle,” the policeman replied cautiously.
“Of course you can, everybody else is.” Miss Crindle swept his objection aside. “And you suspect you know who it was, don’t you?”
Roberts eyed his visitor. Muffled up in what looked like two or three layers of jumpers and cardigans under her coat, she looked bigger than ever. It would have been easy to put her down as a silly busybody, but Roberts knew better. Miss Crindle was an intelligent woman. And if she took a keen interest in what went on in Much Cluning, she was no mischief-maker. “We’re pursuing our inquiries,” he said.
“So I should hope,” she told him briskly. “Although I must confess, my sympathies are rather with the thief.” She paused, then continued with obvious embarrassment, “I thought I should tell you, I saw Father Christmas last night.”
Roberts gaped at her. For a moment he wondered if she had suddenly gone queer. “I’m sorry?” he stammered.
“Somebody dressed as Santa Claus left the parcels. I happened to look out of my window about one o’clock and I saw them going round behind the Renwicks’ house. I didn’t say anything about it, there didn’t seem any point, and I’ve no wish to be thought mad, but if the birds were stolen—”
“You’ve no idea who it was?” Roberts asked, recovering a little.
“None,” Miss Crindle answered firmly. “I can’t even say if it was a man or a woman. I suppose you know George Townley saw them, too, two or three days ago?”
Roberts nodded. “It looks as if whoever took the turkeys was wearing red,” he said grimly. “He left this caught on the hedge where he pushed through.” He took out his notebook and showed Miss Crindle the fragment of cloth.
She studied it with interest. “It looks like a piece from a Santa Claus costume,” she observed. She gave the policeman a shrewd look. “I suppose you think it was Colin Loates?”
This time Tom Roberts wasn’t startled, he knew half the village would be supposing the same thing. “It wasn’t him,” he said.
“Oh?” Miss Crindle couldn’t quite conceal her curiosity.
Roberts was undecided how much he should reveal. He knew the old girl had helped the police when Ralph Johns was murdered and the Chief Inspector had a high regard for her. And he could do with some help now. “The thief left footprints from the hedge across to the shed,” he explained. “They were sixes or sevens, and Colin takes tens. I’ve seen his boots. Besides, when George Townley saw his Santa Claus, they were towing Colin’s car out of a ditch along the Leobury road.”
Miss Crindle hadn’t known that, but she was rather glad. “Have you any idea who it may have been?” she inquired.
“No,” Roberts admitted.
Miss Crindle was afraid she had. and after Roberts had gone she walked across the road. The Renwicks had few visitors—even the milkman called only every other day—and the footprints in the snow along the side of the cottage were still as clear as when they were made. She studied them thoughtfully, then she went to see Harriet Richards.
She didn’t beat about the bush. “What do you know about Father Christmas and Jason’s stolen turkeys?” she demanded.
“Me?” The girl looked surprised. “Nothing, Miss Crindle.”
“Harriet,” Miss Crindle told her sternly, “your eyelid’s twitching. That’s the second time it’s done it in the last four days.”
For some unaccountable reason Harriet blushed.
“Theft is a crime,” Miss Crindle continued. “It can have very serious consequences. Sometimes for the wrong person. You may disapprove of Jason but, even if you aren’t having anything to do with Colin now. you wouldn’t want him to get into trouble, would you?”
“No,” Harriet said.
Miss Crindle nodded. “Good. What size Wellingtons do you take?”
“Sevens.”
“And where were you at one o’clock the night before last?”
Harriet smiled, and for the first time that morning there was a hint of her old mischief. “At Leobury,” she answered. “I went to see Pat Dellar. It started to freeze hard, there was a lot of slush on the road, and I stayed the night.”
Miss Crindle gazed at the girl for quite a long time. Then, “Think about it, my dear,” she said.
On her way home, she met Mary Powis and Billy.
“I’ve seen Father Christmas,” the little boy announced triumphantly.
“Billy!” his mother reproved him. “You thought you saw him on Monday, and you know he doesn’t come out until Christmas Eve. And only after dark then.” She smiled apologetically at Miss Crindle.
But Miss Crindle was interested. “Where did you see him, Billy?” she asked.
“By Brackett’s Wood,” Billy replied.
“What time was it?”
“I don’t know. But it got dark soon.”
“You aren’t the only person who saw him,” Miss Crindle said. “I saw him, too. and so did Mr. Townley.” It was too much, she thought.
When she got home, she phoned Pat Dellar, who was one of her old pupils. Pat confirmed that Harriet had spent last night there.
Miss Crindle asked after her parents, they talked for a minute or two longer, and when Miss Crindle put down the phone she sat for some time, thinking. It was clear that Colin hadn’t stolen the turkeys. There was only one set of footprints and he couldn’t have worn size six or seven boots. Moreover, he hadn’t been the Father Christmas Billy Powis and George Townley had seen. Nor could Harriet have played Santa Claus—she had been miles away when the parcels had been delivered the night before last. So who had?
After twenty minutes, Miss Crindle came to a decision. She made two telephone calls, then put on another cardigan and her coat and went to see Sheila Richards.
“It was all a mistake.” Jason said, looking uncomfortable.
PC. Roberts eyed him stolidly. He was quite sure it hadn’t been a mistake, but if Jason was going to maintain it had, there wasn’t much he could do.
“The turkeys had been put aside,” Jason went on. It would have been obvious to the most obtuse listener that his heart wasn’t in it. “They hadn’t been stolen at all.”
“I see, sir,” Roberts said. He was tempted to add something about wasting police time being an offense, but decided against it. “So you don’t want us to take any further action?”
“No.” Jason almost writhed. Further action was what he wanted above almost everything else, but Sheila had made it all too clear that if he didn’t drop the whole business she would leave him. She wasn’t given to making idle threats, and Jason had believed her. For all his faults, he loved his wife.
It was Miss Crindle who was responsible. He didn’t know what she had told Sheila, but whatever it was it had had a marked effect.
In fact, Miss Crindle had said quite simply that she knew who had taken the turkeys and that she hoped Jason’s wife would be able to persuade him to drop the whole matter. She looked down at Sheila’s feet. Sheila was nearly six feet tall, and her feet were much larger than her sister-in-law’s. “It was Colin, wasn’t it?” Sheila said.
Miss Crindle smiled enigm
atically.
“But—” Sheila looked distraught ”—Jason was sure it was Harry. He said she’d talked about the Renwicks and the Randalls and Josie Gardner a few days ago. She said he ought to give them turkeys.”
“It was,” Miss Crindle said.
“But it can’t have been,” Sheila protested. “Harry was staying with Pat the night the parcels were left.”
“That wasn’t her.” Miss Crindle agreed.
“Then who?”
“Colin. It was Harriet’s idea. She was very angry with Jason and she thought she’d teach him a lesson and help some people to have a better Christmas at the same time. She suggested it to Colin and he jumped at the idea.”
“But they’d fallen out,” Sheila objected. “She told me they had a terrible row. I still don’t see.”
“They took it in turns to cover each other,” Miss Crindle told her. “First, while Colin was being towed out of that ditch, Harriet was making sure she was seen in her Santa Claus getup at the other end of the village. They wanted people to talk about Santa Claus being about.”
“It’s the sort of daft idea that would appeal to them.” Sheila agreed miserably. “They’ve never grown up, either of them.”
“We can do with a touch of youthful spirits sometimes.” Miss Crindle said. “They didn’t look on what they were doing as stealing.”
“I tried to phone her that afternoon. Mum said she was out.”
Miss Crindle nodded. “She knew Jason didn’t lock the shed. She went there that night, took the four smallest turkeys, and carried them across the meadow to Colin, who was waiting in his car. She’s a strong girl and it wasn’t very far. Colin hid them until the next night, then, while Harriet was safe at the Dellars’, he delivered them. He couldn’t have stolen them, because the footprints in the snow were too small, and Harriet couldn’t have delivered them because she was miles away. There was only one set of prints in the meadow and only one round the Renwicks’. Nobody was looking for two people working alternately.”
Sheila stared at her. “Except you,” she said. “Whatever made you think of it?”
“Well—” Miss Crindle hesitated, then she smiled. “First, their quarrel was a little too public. Harriet and Colin may be high-spirited, but they wouldn’t want to have a real argument with half the village looking on. It was almost as if it were being staged for other people’s benefit. And when I saw Harriet just afterward, she didn’t seem upset at all. Then her eyelid started twitching. It did it again when she told me she didn’t know anything about the turkeys. I knew she was involved then.”
“Oh,” Sheila said, understanding.
“It’s always done that when she’s telling fibs, ever since she was a little girl at school,” Miss Crindle said. “When you’re a teacher as long as I was, you don’t forget things like that. Then, the footprints at the Renwicks’ aren’t the same size as the others—they must be tens, at least. I tackled Harriet just now, and she told me the truth.”
“Oh,” Sheila said again. Uneasily she added, “I wonder what Jason’s going to say.”
“I’m sure you can manage him,” Miss Crindle told her.
Mrs. Grundy laughed. “Then I’ll have to get another one,” she said cheerfully. “Really, Mr. Richards, it doesn’t matter at all. To be frank, a ten-pound turkey would have been far too big for just my husband and me. I’m sure Mrs. Gardner and her children will enjoy it much more. But I must insist you let me pay you for it.”
Jason met her eye, then looked away. “No,” he said gruffly. “That’s all right, Mrs. Grundy, I’ve written those four birds off. They’re a present from us. After all, it’s Christmas.”
Mrs. Grundy nearly fainted.
MYSTERY FOR CHRISTMAS – Anthony Boucher
That was why the Benson jewel robbery was solved—because Aram Melekian was too much for Mr. Quilter’s temper.
His almost invisible eyebrows soared, and the scalp of his close-cropped head twitched angrily. “Damme!” said Mr. Quilter. and in that mild and archaic oath there was more compressed fury than in paragraphs of uncensored profanity. “So you, sir, are the untrammeled creative artist, and I am a drudging, hampering hack!”
Aram Melekian tilted his hat a trifle more jauntily. “That’s the size of it, brother. And if you hamper this untrammeled opus any more. Metropolis Pictures is going to be suing its youngest genius for breach of contract.”
Mr. Quilter rose to his full lean height. “I’ve seen them come and go,” he announced; “and there hasn’t been a one of them, sir, who failed to learn something from me. What is so creative about pouring out the full vigor of your young life? The creative task is mine, molding that vigor, shaping it to some end.”
“Go play with your blue pencil,” Melekian suggested. “I’ve got a dream coming on.”
“Because I have never produced anything myself, you young men jeer at me. You never see that your successful screen plays are more my effort than your inspiration.” Mr. Quilter’s thin frame was aquiver.
“Then what do you need us for?”
“What—Damme, sir, what indeed? Ha!” said Mr. Quilter loudly. “I’ll show you. I’ll pick the first man off the street that has life and a story in him. What more do you contribute? And through me he’ll turn out a job that will sell. If I do this, sir, then will you consent to the revisions I’ve asked of you?”
“Go lay an egg,” said Aram Melekian. “And I’ve no doubt you will.”
Mr. Quilter stalked out of the studio with high dreams. He saw the horny-handed son of toil out of whom he had coaxed a masterpiece signing a contract with F. X. He saw a discomfited Armenian genius in the background busily devouring his own words. He saw himself freed of his own sense of frustration, proving at last that his was the significant part of writing.
He felt a bumping shock and the squealing of brakes. The next thing he saw was the asphalt paving.
Mr. Quilter rose to his feet undecided whether to curse the driver for knocking him down or bless him for stopping so miraculously short of danger. The young man in the brown suit was so disarmingly concerned that the latter choice was inevitable.
“I’m awfully sorry,” the young man blurted. “Are you hurt? It’s this bad wing of mine. I guess.” His left arm was in a sling.
“Nothing at all, sir. My fault. I was preoccupied...”
They stood awkwardly for a moment, each striving for a phrase that was not mere politeness. Then they both spoke at once.
“You came out of that studio,” the young man said. “Do you” (his tone was awed) “do you work there?”
And Mr. Quilter had spotted a sheaf of eight and a half by eleven paper protruding from the young man’s pocket. “Are you a writer, sir? Is that a manuscript?”
The young man shuffled and came near blushing. “Naw. I’m not a writer. I’m a policeman. But I’m going to be a writer. This is a story I was trying to tell about what happened to me— But are you a writer? In there?”
Mr. Quilter’s eyes were aglow under their invisible brows. “I, sir,” he announced proudly, “am what makes writers tick. Are you interested?”
He was also, he might have added, what makes detectives tick. But he did not know that yet.
The Christmas trees were lighting up in front yards and in windows as Officer Tom Smith turned his rickety Model A onto the side street where Mr. Quilter lived. Hollywood is full of these quiet streets, where ordinary people live and move and have their being, and are happy or unhappy as chance wills, but both in a normal and unspectacular way. This is really Hollywood— the Hollywood that patronizes the twenty-cent fourth-run houses and crowds the stores on the Boulevard on Dollar Day.
To Mr. Quilter, saturated at the studio with the other Hollywood, this was always a relief. Kids were playing ball in the evening sun, radios were tuning in to Amos and Andy, and from the small houses came either the smell of cooking or the clatter of dish-washing.
And the Christmas trees, he knew, had been decorated not for
the benefit of the photographers from the fan magazines, but because the children liked them and they looked warm and friendly from the street.
“Gosh, Mr. Quilter,” Tom Smith was saying, “this is sure a swell break for me. You know, I’m a good copper. But to be honest I don’t know as I’m very bright. And that’s why I want to write, because maybe that way I can train myself to be and then I won’t be a plain patrolman all my life. And besides, this writing, it kind of itches-like inside you.”
“Cacoëthes scribencli.” observed Mr. Quilter, not unkindly. “You see, sir, you have hit, in your fumbling way. on one of the classic expressions for your condition.”
“Now that’s what I mean. You know what I mean even when I don’t say it. Between us, Mr. Quilter...”
Mr. Quilter, his long thin legs outdistancing even the policeman’s, led the way into his bungalow and on down the hall to a room which at first glance contained nothing but thousands of books. Mr. Quilter waved at them. “Here, sir, is assembled every helpful fact that mortal need know. But I cannot breathe life into these dry bones. Books are not written from books. But I can provide bones, and correctly articulated, for the life which you, sir— But here is a chair. And a reading lamp. Now, sir, let me hear your story.”
Tom Smith shifted uncomfortably on the chair. “The trouble is,” he confessed. “it hasn’t got an ending.”
Mr. Quilter beamed. “When I have heard it, I shall demonstrate to you. sir, the one ending it inevitably must have.”
“I sure hope you will, because it’s got to have and I promised her it would have and— You know Beverly Benson?”
“Why. yes. I entered the industry at the beginning of talkies. She was still somewhat in evidence. But why... ?”
“I was only a kid when she made Sable Sin and Orchids at Breakfast and all the rest, and I thought she was something pretty marvelous. There was a girl in our high school was supposed to look like her. and I used to think, Gee, if I could ever see the real Beverly Benson!’ And last night I did.”
“Hm. And this story, sir. is the result?”
“Yeah. And this too.” He smiled wryly and indicated his wounded arm. “But I better read you the story.” He cleared his throat loudly. “The Red and Green Mystery,” he declaimed. “By Arden Van Arden.”
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