Murder Most Merry

by ed. Abigail Browining

  “Let’s have your watch, then,” said Gemma. “And the ingot.”

  Geoff took out his wallet and emptied it.

  The heap of money and valuables markedly increased when Pauline returned. She’d found some family heirlooms, including their grandmother’s diamond-studded choker, worth several thousand alone. With her own pieces and the travellers’ cheques, the collection must have come close to the value demanded in the note. She scooped everything into a denim bag with bamboo handles and said, “I’ll get my coat.”

  Gemma told her, “Not you, sweetie. That’s a job for one of the men.”

  Andy said, “Give the bag to me.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” said Gemma. “You’re way over the limit with all the brandy you’ve had. Besides, you don’t know the way.”

  They turned to look at Geoff. He knew the way. He had said so.

  “I’ll go,” he said, rising quite positively from the armchair. He looked a trifle unsteady in the upright position, but he’d been seated a long time. Maybe the brandy hadn’t gone to his head. He had certainly drunk less than Andy.

  Gemma still felt it necessary to ask, “Will you be all right?”

  Geoff nodded. He had spoken. There was no need for more words.

  Pauline asked, “Would you like me to come?”

  Andy said, “The instruction was clear. If you believe it, Geoffs got to go alone.”

  In the hall, Pauline helped Geoff on with his padded jacket. “If you see anyone, don’t take them on, will you? We just want you and Reg safely back.”

  Geoff looked incapable of taking anyone on as he shuffled across the gravel to his old Cortina, watched from the door by the others. He placed the bag on the passenger seat and got in.

  “Is he sober?” Gemma asked.

  “He only had a couple,” said Andy.

  “He looked just the same when he arrived,” said Pauline. “He’s had a hard time lately. So many businesses going bust. They don’t need accountants.”

  Gemma said, “If anything happened to him just because Reg is acting the fool, I’d commit murder, I don’t mind saying.”

  They heard the car start up and watched it trundle up the drive.

  When the front door closed again, Gemma asked, “What time is it?”

  “Twenty past,” said Pauline. “He should just about make it.”

  Andy said, “I don’t know why you two are taking this seriously. If I believed for a moment it was a genuine ransom demand I wouldn’t have parted with three hundred pounds and a Rolex. I assure you.”

  “So what would you have done, cleverclogs?” said Gemma.

  This wrongfooted Andy. He spread his hands wide as if the answer were too obvious to go into.

  “Let’s hear it,” said Gemma. “Would you have called the police and put my brother’s life at risk?”

  “Certainly I’d have called them,” said Andy, recovering his poise. “They have procedures for this sort of emergency. They’d know how to handle it without putting anyone’s life at risk.”

  “For example?”

  “Well, they’d observe the pickup from a distance. Probably they’d attach some tiny bugging device to the goods being handed over. They might coat some of the banknotes with a dye that responds to ultraviolet light.”

  Gemma turned to Pauline. “I’m wondering if we should call them.”

  Andy said, “It’s too late. The police would have no option but to come down like a ton of bricks. Someone would get hurt.”

  Pauline said, “Oh God, no. Let’s wait and see what happens.”

  “We won’t have long to wait. That’s one thing,” said Andy. “You don’t mind if I switch on the telly, Pauline?”

  They sat in silence watching a cartoon film about a snowman.

  Before it finished, Pauline went to the window and pulled back the curtain to look along the drive.

  “See anything?” asked Gemma.

  “No.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Twenty-five minutes. Chilton Leys is only ten minutes from here, if that. He ought to be back by now.”

  “Stop fussing, you two.” said Andy. “You give me the creeps.”

  Just after six, Pauline announced, “A car’s coming. I can see the headlights.”

  “Okay,” said Andy from his armchair. “What are we going to do about Reg when he pisses himself laughing and says it was a hoax?”

  Pauline ran to the front door and opened it. Gemma was at her side.

  “That isn’t Geoffs Cortina.” said Gemma. “It’s a bigger car.”

  Without appearing to hurry. Andy joined them at the door. “That’s Reg’s Volvo. Didn’t I tell you he was all right?”

  The car drew up beside Andy’s and Reg got out, smiling. He was alone. “Where’s the red carpet, then?” he called out. “Merry Christmas, everyone. Wait a mo. I’ve got some prezzies in the back.” He dipped into his car again.

  “You’d think nothing had happened,” muttered Gemma.

  Laden with presents, Reg strutted towards them. “Who gets to kiss me first, then?” He appeared unfazed, his well-known ebullient self.

  Andy remarked. “He’s walking normally. We’ve been suckered.”

  Gemma said, “You bastard, Reg. Don’t come near me, you sadist.”

  Pauline shouted, “Dickhead.”

  Reg’s face was a study in bewilderment.

  Andy said, “Where’s Geoff?”

  “How would I know?” answered Reg. “Hey, what is this? What am I supposed to have done?”

  “Pull the other one, matey,” said Andy.

  “You’ve ruined Christmas for all of us,” said Pauline, succumbing to tears.

  “I wish I knew what you were on about,” said Reg. “Shall we go inside and find out?”

  “You’re not welcome,” Pauline whimpered.

  “Okay, okay,” said Reg. “It’s a fair cop and I deserve it after all the stunts I pulled. Who thought of unloading all this on me? Andy, I bet.”

  Suddenly Gemma said in a hollow voice, “Andy, I don’t think he knows what this is about.”

  “What?”

  “I know my own brother. He isn’t bluffing. He didn’t expect this. Listen, Reg did anyone kidnap you?”

  “Kidnap me?”

  “We’d better go inside, all of us,” said Gemma.

  “Kidnap me?” repeated Reg, when they were in Pauline’s living room. “I’m gobsmacked.”

  Pauline said, “Andy found this parcel on my doorstep and—”

  “Shut up a minute.” said Andy. “You’re playing into his hands. Let’s hear his story before we tell him what happened here. You’ve got some answering to do, Reg. For a start, you’re a couple of hours late.”

  Reg frowned. “You haven’t been here all afternoon?”

  “Of course we have. We were here by four o’clock.”

  “You didn’t get the message, then?”

  “What message?”

  “I’ve been had then. Geoff phoned at lunchtime to say that Pauline’s heating was off. A problem with the boiler. He said the party had been relocated to his place at five.”

  Pauline said. “There’s nothing wrong with my boiler.”

  “Shut up and listen.” said Gemma.

  Reg continued. “I turned up at Geoffs house and there was a note for me attached to the door. Hold on—I should have it here.” He felt in his pocket. “Yes, here it is.” He handed Gemma an envelope with his name written on it.

  She took out the note and read to the others,” ‘Caught YOU this year. Now go to Pauline’s and see what reception you get.‘ It’s Geoffs handwriting.”

  “He’s a slyboots,” said Reg, “but I deserve it. He was pretty annoyed by the turkey episode last year.”

  “You’re not the only victim,” said Gemma.

  “Were you sent on a wild-goose chase?”

  “No. But I think he may have tricked us. He must have. He led us to believe you were kidnapped
. That’s why he went to this trouble to keep you away.”

  “Crafty old devil.”

  “He took ten grand off us,” said Andy.

  “What?”

  “He persuaded us to put up a ransom for you.”

  “Now who are you kidding?”

  “It’s true.” said Gemma. “We put together everything we had, cash, jewellery, family heirlooms, and Geoff went off to deliver it to the kidnappers.”

  “Strike me pink!”

  “And he isn’t back yet,” said Andy.

  Pauline said, “Geoff wouldn’t rob his own family.”

  “Don’t count on it,” said Reg. “He doesn’t give a toss for any of us.”

  “Geoff?”

  “Did you know he’s emigrating?”

  “No.”

  “It’s true,” said Reg. “He’s off to Australia any day now. I picked this up on the grapevine through a colleague in the bank. I think the accident made him reconsider his plan, so to speak.”

  “What accident?”

  “There you are, you see. I only heard about that from the same source. Old Geoff was in hospital for over a week at the end of September and the last thing he wanted was a visit from any of us.”

  “A road accident?”

  “No. he did it himself. You know how keen he is on the garden. He’s got this turfed area sloping down to the pond. He ran the mower over his foot and severed his big toe.”

  THE THEFT OF SANTA’S BEARD – Edward D. Hoch

  The New York stores had closed at nine that evening, disgorging gift-laden Christmas shoppers by the hundreds. Most were too busy shifting the weight of their parcels and shopping bags to bother digging for coins as they passed the bell-ringing Santa on the corner. He was a bit thin and scraggly compared to the overstuffed Santas who worked the department stores and bounced tiny children on their knees while asking for their Christmas lists. His job was only to ring a little hand-held bell and accept donations in a chimney-shaped container.

  This Santa’s name was Russell Bajon and he’d come to the city expecting better things. After working at a variety of minimum-wage jobs and landing a couple of short-lived acting roles off Broadway, he’d taken the Santa Claus job for the holidays. There was no pay, but they supplied his meals and a place to sleep at night. And there were good fringe benefits, enough to keep him going till he was back on his feet with a part in a decent play.

  After another fifteen minutes the crowd from the stores had pretty well scattered. There were still people on the dark streets, as there would be for most of the night, but those remaining hurried by his chimney without even a glance. He waited a few more minutes and then decided to pack up. The truck would be coming by shortly to collect the chimney and give him a ride back to the men’s dorm where he slept.

  He was bending over the chimney with its collection basket when someone bumped him from behind. He straightened and tried to turn, but by that time the thin copper wire was cutting into his throat.

  By the time the second Santa Claus had been strangled to death, the tabloids had the story on page one. No Clues to Claus Killer, one of them trumpeted, while another proclaimed, Santa Strangler Strikes Again. Nick Velvet glanced over the articles with passing interest, but at that point they were nothing to directly affect him.

  “Where was the latest killing?” Gloria asked as she prepared breakfast.

  “In the subway. An elderly Santa on his way to work.”

  She shook her head. “What’s this world coming to when somebody starts strangling Santa Clauses?”

  The next morning Nick found out. He was seated in the office of the Intercontinental Protection Service, across the desk from a man named Grady Culhane. The office was small and somewhat plain, not what Nick had expected from the pretentious name. Culhane himself was young, barely past thirty, with black hair, thick eyebrows, and an Irish smile. He spread his hands flat on the uncluttered desktop and said, I understand you steal things of little or no value.”

  “That’s correct,” Nick replied. “My standard fee is twenty-five thousand dollars, unless it’s something especially hazardous.”

  “This should be simple enough. I want you to steal the beard from a department store Santa Claus. It’s the Santa at Kliman’s main store, and it must be done tomorrow before noon. Santa’s hours there are noon to four and five to eight.”

  “What makes it so valuable to you?”

  “Nothing. It’s worth no more than any other false white beard. I just need it tomorrow.”

  “I usually get half the money down and the other half after the job,” Nick said. “Is that agreeable?”

  “Sure. It’ll have to be a check. I don’t have that much cash on hand.”

  “So long as I can cash it at your bank.”

  He made out the check and handed it over. “Here’s a sketch map I drew of Kliman’s fourth floor. This is the dressing room Santa uses.”

  “So the beard is probably there before noon. Why don’t you just walk in and steal it?” Nick wondered. “Why do you need me?”

  “You ever been in Kliman’s? They’ve got security cameras all over the store, including hidden ones in the dressing rooms. This is only Santa’s room during the Christmas season. The rest of the year it’s used by the public, and the camera is probably still operational. I can’t afford to be seen stealing the beard or anything else.”

  “What about me?”

  “That’s your job. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

  “Fair enough,” Nick agreed, folding the check once and slipping it into his pocket. “I’ll be back here tomorrow with the beard.”

  Nothing had been said about the two Santa Claus killings, but somehow, as Nick Velvet left the building, he had the feeling he was becoming involved in something a lot more complex than a simple robbery.

  The Santa Claus killings were still big news the following morning, and Nick read the speculations about possible motives as he traveled into midtown on the subway. The second man to die, Larry Averly, was a retired plumber who’d been earning some spare cash as a holiday Santa Claus. The first victim, Bajon, had died on Monday evening, the fourteenth, while the second death came the following morning. Nick had the feeling the press was almost disappointed that another killing had not followed on Wednesday. Now it was Thursday, eight days before Christmas, and the street before Kliman’s block-long department store was crowded with shoppers.

  He entered the store with the first wave of customers when the doors opened at ten, making his way up the escalator to the fourth floor. After a half-hour of lingering in the furniture department, he wandered over to the dressing-room door that Grady Culhane had indicated on his map. When no one was looking, he slipped inside.

  His first task was to locate the closed-circuit television camera. He found it without difficulty—a circular lens embedded in the very center of a round wall clock. Not wanting to blot out the view entirely and arouse the suspicion of possible observers, Nick moved a coat rack in front of the clock, blocking most of the little room. Then he quickly opened a pair of lockers. But there was no Santa Claus costume, no beard, in either one. He’d been hoping that the store’s Santa changed into his costume on the premises, but it looked as if he might come to work already dressed, like the street Santa who’d been strangled in the subway.

  If that was the case, however, Culhane wouldn’t have told him to come to this room. It was already nearly eleven and Nick decided to wait till noon to see what happened. He positioned himself behind the clothes rack, but at the far end, away from the television camera. Exactly at eleven-thirty, the door opened and someone came in. He could see a tall, fairly broad-shouldered person carrying a large canvas tote bag. There was a flash of red as a Santa Claus suit came into view.

  Nick Velvet breathed a sigh of relief. The white beard came out of the bag and he saw the prize within his grasp. He stepped from his hiding place, ready to deliver a knockout blow if necessary. “Keep quiet and give me the beard,�
�� he said.

  The figure turned and Nick froze in his tracks. Santa was a woman.

  She was probably in her late thirties, large boned but not unattractive, with dark brown hair that was already partly covered by the Santa Claus wig and cap. Nick’s sudden appearance seemed not to have frightened her but only angered her as any unexpected interruption might. “You just made the mistake of your life, mister,” she told him in a flat tone of voice.

  “I don’t want to hurt you. Give me that beard.”

  “I have a transmitter in my pocket. I’ve already called for help.”

  He realized suddenly that she thought he was the Santa strangler. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he tried to assure her.

  But it was too late for assurances. The dressing-room door burst open and Nick faced two men with drawn revolvers. “Freeze!” the first man ordered, crouching in a shooter’s stance. “Police!”

  “Look, this is all a mistake.”

  “And you made it, mister!” The second man moved behind Nick to frisk him.

  Nick decided it was time for a bit of his own electronic technology. He brought his left arm down enough to hit the small transmitter in his breast pocket. Immediately there was a sharp crack from the direction of the furniture department, and billowing smoke could be seen through the open dressing-room door. The first man turned his head and Nick kicked the gun from his hand, poking his elbow back simultaneously to catch the second detective in the ribs. As he went out the door he made a grab for the white beard the lady Santa was holding in her hand, but he missed by several inches.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!” one of the detectives yelled, but Nick knew he wouldn’t. The floor was crowded with shoppers, and the cloud from Nick’s well-placed smoke bomb was already enveloping everyone.

  Five minutes later he was out of the store and safely away, but without the beard he’d been hired to steal.

  Later that afternoon Nick returned to the office of the Intercontinental Protection Service. Grady Culhane was not in a pleasant mood. “That was you at the store this morning, wasn’t it?” he asked pointedly. “The radio says someone set off a smoke bomb and two shoppers were slightly injured in the panic.”