'Uncle Bob!' screamed Tommy. 'Did you see it? The funny eyes. You remember. You said The Colonel. . .'
Detective Superintendent Pollard, Criminal Investigation Department, quickly turned to the boy and hushed him.
Then, in a flash, he charged.
He was a big man. He avoided the children, but parents scattered before him like skittles. There was a crash as he jumped up on the platform.
'I don't think you'd like that one, my dear,' he said pleasantly to the little girl, and nodded towards the box held out in Father Christmas's hand.
In a low voice he added: 'Better give me the diamonds, Colonel. As for you, Shorty. . .’
The little girl lifted sweet and innocent eyes.
'Coppers!' she whispered, showing her teeth. 'He's a copper, Colonel; that's what the so-and-so is.'
'When a man is called Shorty,' said Pollard in the same low tone, 'it may not mean much. But when a woman is called that, as we ought to have realized, she must be almost a dwarf. I suppose your little-girl clothes, and the blonde wig, were in that parcel? And you changed in the dress-shop? Nobody would notice a 12-year-old; the police weren't to blame for that mistake.
'But we were to be blamed about you, Colonel,' he added. 'Omnium's opens at nine; we thought everybody had to be on duty then. And yet, as you can see by a sign over the pay-box back there, this grotto doesn't open until eleven. You could slosh Van Bele and get back on time. Your Father Christmas suit was left in the phone-box and all you had to do was nip into it while the crowd barged around outside and our men were still trying to push their way through, and then simply step out of the booth. It was a risk, but it worked. In any case, when the police finally reached the phone-box they weren't looking for Santa Claus with all the trimmings, they were trying to spot The Colonel in smart suit and overcoat.'
In that paralysed scene, the bright-coloured box was still held out in Father Christmas's hand. 'Cut and run for it, Shorty!' he chuckled. 'I hate to spoil the kids' Christmas, but I'll get this copper before they get me.'
'Think so?' smiled Pollard. 'You haven't a chance against me and you know it. I can't help you. But it's Christmas—and I can help Shorty get away. Fair?'
'Turn it up, copper!' sneered the sweet-faced girl—and yet an edge of hope appeared in her face.
'Give me the box,' Pollard said. 'If the diamonds are inside, she hasn't officially received them. She can go now and take her chance of being picked up later. Fair?'
Father Christmas looked warily at Pollard before exchanging a knowing glance with the girl.
Then, without a word, he handed over the box to Pollard.
As he did so, he noticeably sagged with relief behind his beard.
Then his rich, soothing, cultured voice rang out.
'Ladies and gentlemen!' carolled Father Christmas. 'This gentleman is particularly anxious to have this box. I hope he finds in it what he's looking for.
'Personally, I'd rather give the little girl another box. Here it is. Now hurry down the steps, and out of this store. Others are waiting.'
At the sight of a monocled Father Christmas, a ripple of laughter spread out over the grotto, carrying with it the spirit of Christmas as children crowded forward.
Tommy, pushing forward, hardly noticed that Elsa was no longer watching Father Christmas.
She was looking at Pollard—and in her eyes shone admiration—and unconcealed adoration!
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3 - Santa-San Solves It by JAMES MELVILLE
THE FIRST time I came across a book by James Melville (real name Peter Martin, b. 1931) I was reviewing crime fiction for one of the literary monthlies and had had it up to the back of my throat, and beyond, with oddball and/or exotically ethnic sleuths.
As each new parcel arrived I knew I was doomed yet again to deal with a fresh crop of antique-dealer detectives, pet-shop owner detectives, mortuary attendant detectives; a dreadful parade of Philippinos, Basques, Romanys, Liechtensteiners, and pure-bred lnuits—all of whom would (naturally) bring their own special talents or peculiar native wit to bear on the knotty and murderous problems posed by their creators (most of whom, you bet, would have had but a passing acquaintance with the profession or country of their choice, merely bowing to one of the unwritten rules of mystery fiction: make your manhunter colourful). So a Japanese detective—all those incomprehensible rituals, all that tedious inscrutability—was the last thing I needed.
But I was wrong. The book was Melville's third novel, A Sort of Samurai (1981), and from the first page I was entranced. So entranced that I didn't offload it on my usual bookshop (at the reviewer's perk of a third of the published price) but kept it, located the first two, and have bought each new Melville—on publication, with my own money (greater love hath no fan)—ever since.
Melville writes police procedural, and a good deal of the charm of the series lies in the fact that the police, led by Superintendent Tetsuo Otani of the Hyogo Prefecture, with full supporting cast, proceed in an utterly alien manner. To the Occidental eye, anyhow.
If that were all, Melville's series would be just the same as any other foreign-cop series—often, merely irritatingly different. But James Melville is a fine writer with a dry sense of humour and a neat (as neat as a netsuke, to use the shorthand of my reviewing days) line in subtle characterization. And he loves Japan. As you read, you begin to, too.
There's precious little blood in an Otani story, few car-chases, and the level of violence is abysmally low. But who cares? All these ingredients may be had elsewhere, in abundance. The manners and mores of Japanese society are described so compellingly, the mysteries to be solved posed in such a delicate and ironical manner, the running cast of characters is brought so sharply to life (I'm currently fascinated by the relationship between the highly intelligent and attractive young policewoman Junko Migishima and her somewhat put-upon husband, who is experiencing at first-hand precisely what the phrase 'new women' means) that, in short, Otani is just the ticket for the palate bruised and brutalized by the crash and rush of the average modern detective novel.
When I asked James Melville to write an original Otani story for Crime At Christmas he was distinctly apprehensive. 'I've never written a short story before', he said. You'd never know it. He really ought to write more. . .
TRY IT just once more,' Inspector Kimura said encouragingly. 'Your "Jingle Bells" is fine.'
'Hardly surprising. Everybody knows Jinguru Beru; you can't get away from the wretched tune. Television, department stores, coffee shops. They've been playing it twenty-four hours a day since November.'
'True. So you've no worries on that account. All the children will join in at the top of their voices and you'll hardly be heard anyway. No, it's the "Ho! Ho! Ho!" you need to work on.'
Superintendent Tetsuo Otani glowered first at his trusted lieutenant and then at his shoes. 'Ho! Ho! Ho!', he said in an undertone, sounding like an embarrassed Englishman repeating the word 'whore'. 'It's no good, I can't and won't say it. It's not as if it means anything, anyway.'
'Of course you can, Chief, you can't let the Rotarians down. But do try to look a bit more cheerful. It's a Christmas party you're going to, not a funeral. And you'll only be centre stage for twenty minutes or so after all.'
'Half an hour at least, the chairman of the social work sub-committee said. Dressed up like an idiot. All this Santa Claus business is a foreign idea anyway,' Otani complained. 'I don't see why they picked on me. There are two or three foreign Rotarians in other clubs in Kobe who'd probably have been only too glad to volunteer. And lots in Osaka. Ho Ho Ho indeed.'
Kimura sucked in his breath and shook his head. Nothing could be done with the superintendent when he had made up his mind to be mulish. 'Oh, well,' he said, 'I expect it'll be all right if you ring your bell while you say it. And the beard will cover up your expression, I suppose. Now, can I talk for a minute about Mrs Bencivenni?'
Otani sat back in his chair, his black look replaced by o
ne of mild interest. 'I've heard that name somewhere recently,' he said. 'She's. . . yes, of course, isn't she the women who runs the place?'
'The children's home where your Rotary Club is paying for the Christmas party, yes, but she doesn't exactly run it, she's the president of the committee of management. Fund-raisers, in effect. There are several foreign ladies on it. Goes back to the origins of the place during the occupation, when most of the kids were mixed-blood.'
'Babies bar-girls had by American GI's, you mean. I always felt sorriest for the ones who were half black. Incredible to think some of them must be getting on for forty now. Can't be much of a life for them here, neither the one thing nor the other. We Japanese have a bad record with misfits, Kimura.'
Otani sighed and Kimura nodded briefly, still after years of close association capable of being surprised on occasion by subversive remarks from a man he usually thought of as being a thoroughly old-fashioned Japanese with predictable prejudices. 'Well, it's an odd coincidence that I should be going to this charity place of hers, I suppose, but worrying about foreigners is your job. Why do you want me to hear about this Bencivenni woman of yours?'
'Funny you should mention mixed-blood children, Chief. You must be psychic. Mrs Bencivenni was one of them herself, brought up in that self-same children's home. It was called the Nada Orphanage in those days. Her father couldn't have been black, though, she's fair skinned, looks quite European. Good-looking woman, in fact, speaks perfect Japanese. Middle to late thirties.'
'In that case be specially careful, Kimura. You know how susceptible you are. The lady has a husband, I presume?'
'She does indeed. Luciano Bencivenni, an American citizen, aged fifty-six, known as Luke. He's the problem.'
'Ah. Bigger than you, is he? Inclined to be jealous?'
Kimura cast an ostentatious glance heavenwards and pressed on, privately relieved that Otani seemed to be regaining his normal equable humour. 'Mr Bencivenni used to be a bank official, but has been in business on his own account for a number of years as a personal financial consultant. In practice he's a kind of all-round adviser to the western community here in the Kobe-Osaka area. Prepares tax returns for Americans, sells life insurance, arranges long-term investment plans for children's school and college fees and so forth. He's the agent for a number of American and British insurance companies. And Mrs Bencivenni thinks he's planning to kill her.' Kimura paused, wondering whether his chief's renowned poker face would be proof against such an artfully sprung surprise. It was.
'Does she indeed? How do you know?'
'She turned up downstairs here at headquarters yesterday and asked to speak to a senior officer in confidence about a matter involving the foreign community. I interviewed her and she told me herself.'
'Do you believe her?'
'Well, she's certainly not off her head, and she's obviously worried sick. What she told me was disturbing enough for me to organize a certain amount of digging, and I think you ought to know what we've come up with.'
'Stand still!' Hanae commanded, and Otani froze. She very seldom used that particular tone of voice, and when she did it was advisable to do her bidding. The Father Christmas outfit had been delivered to the house earlier that day, by Hanae's friend Mrs Hamada, who was also married to a Rotarian and who from time to time spoke vaguely of connections in show business. Hanae took it for granted that it was these which gave her access to such colourful fancy dress.
Over a cup of coffee they had unpacked the exotic garments, shaken out the folds, and agreed that the ensemble must have been made for a giant. They'd both giggled helplessly when Mrs Hamada tied a doubled-up zabuton cushion to her tummy and sportingly modelled the voluminous tunic, and after subsiding agreed that it would need a huge tuck in the back. The eighteen inches or so of excess length presented no problem: it could be hitched up as though the garment were a kimono.
Three safety-pins later, Hanae rose from her knees, stepped back and surveyed her husband. 'It won't take long to tack up,' she said, obviously having forgiven him for fidgeting.
'Why don't you just leave the safety-pins in? You won't be able to see them under that sash thing.'
Hanae decided to ignore such a heretical suggestion, and eased the ungainly garment off Otani's shoulders. 'Why didn't you tell me that some of the other Rotary wives are going to be helping on the day? I'd have been glad to take some cakes or something along.'
Something remarkably like a blush darkened Otani's naturally swarthy face. 'Because I shall feel quite enough of a fool as it is without you being there to watch,' he mumbled.
'Ah. I thought it might have been that you wanted the glamorous Mrs Bencivenni all to yourself.'
Otani gazed at her in amazement as he slowly lowered himself to the tatami matting, reached for the sake flask on the low lacquer table and refilled his cup. 'What on earth do you know about Mrs Bencivenni?' he enquired as Hanae looked down at him, her arch little smile fading rapidly. 'Have you met her?'
'No. Er, have you?'
'No. So there's no need to look so tragic. But I have been hearing quite a lot about her recently. From Kimura. Presumably you and Mrs Hamada have been discussing her too. What did she say? Sit down and have some sake.'
A little over two hours later Otani slid the shoji screen in the upstairs room to one side and gazed pensively through the glazed panel behind it at his favourite night view, of the great sweep of Osaka Bay. It was crisp and clear outside, with only a few rags of cloud occasionally obscuring a moon almost at the full. The huddle of tiled roofs with their solar water-heating panels and the forest of television aerials on the houses lower down the foothills of Mount Rokko which offended his eye by day were effectively obliterated, while the navigation lights on ships a mile or so away from where he stood twinkled cheerfully and a distant glow to the left marked the coast of Wakayama Prefecture.
Nothing Hanae had passed on from the gossipy Mrs Hamada contradicted what Kimura had told him about Judy Bencivenni, but his mental picture of the lady was nevertheless now subtly different. Kimura's team had assembled an impressive file of papers about her and her husband. Mrs Bencivenni's real first name as registered by her Japanese mother was Midori, but by the time she won a scholarship to the elite Canadian Academy in Kobe she was Judy, and Judy she remained through its junior and senior high school departments. A Kobe Carnival Queen at eighteen, she had been photographed by the Kobe Shimbun newspaper, whose files yielded a print showing a startlingly pretty girl and a two-paragraph 'interview' in which she spoke touchingly of the loving care she had known at the Kobe Orphanage and her determination to do anything she could to help those less fortunate than herself.
The record showed that she had honoured that pledge. Judy had been a star student both academically and on the sports field, but the orphanage budget could not afford college fees for her and there are no scholarships for higher education in Japan. Her looks and talents stood her in good stead, though, and after graduation from the Canadian Academy she had landed a good job as a bilingual secretary with the American Consulate-General.
She maintained a continuing connection as a volunteer helper with what had by then become known as the International Children's Home. Being technically a stateless alien, at twenty-two she applied for Japanese nationality and was turned down; but strings must have been pulled by her American employers because within six months she had been able to obtain an American passport and move to the United States. During six years there she kept in touch by letter with the children's home, and indeed—according to Mrs Hamada, who was on the committee of management—was reputed to have donated two or three hundred dollars every Christmas to pay for presents for the children. Mrs Hamada thought that she was working at this time as a secretary for Japan Air Lines in Los Angeles, but wasn't sure.
Kimura's file showed that Mr Luke Bencivenni arrived in Japan as a member of the staff of an American bank in 1978, accompanied by his wife Arlene, who drowned while swimming in Lake Chuzenji near Nikk
o the following summer. After the tragedy Bencivenni returned briefly to America but remained with the bank, being transferred to its Osaka branch. That Christmas he went for a brief holiday to Hawaii, returning with a new bride, the former Judy Nakano.
Kobe Prefectural Police might not have picked up the connection had not the second Mrs Bencivenni almost at once plunged herself into a round of charitable activities which meant that she soon began to figure in the gossip columns of the English-language press (which was routinely scanned by Kimura's staff in the Foreign Residents' Liaison Section). The fact that she was beautiful and had excellent dress sense helped, as did her husband's early retirement from the bank and the rapid expansion of the consultancy business he started immediately afterwards. He did very well, and within a year or two the Bencivennis were leading Figures in the western community in Kobe.
Inevitably, such a socially prominent alumna of the children's home as Judy was soon elected to its committee of management, and she had been its president for the past two years; by all accounts an effective manager of committee business and a tireless drummer-up of financial support. Mrs Hamada had told Hanae that it was Mrs Bencivenni's idea to approach the Kobe South Rotary Club to which Otani belonged for a contribution, and Mrs Hamada herself—confound her—who hit upon the idea of a lavish Christmas party financed and organized by the Rotarians.
Otani sighed, turned away from the window, dropped his yukata on the tatami and slid under the futon. Hanae was as usual tranquil and immobile, wearing her own yukata which if he knew her would still be mysteriously uncreased when she got up the next morning.
'And I'm stuck with the job of being Santa Claus,' he grumbled. Then he raised himself on one forearm. 'What I don't understand is why he should want to kill her. According to both Kimura and your Mrs Hamada they're successful and popular. Luxury apartment, no children—not of their own, anyway. I suppose Bencivenni might have had some by his previous marriage, but there's no note of any and even if he had they'd be adults by now. And he's got this very attractive wife.' A thought struck him. 'Ha-chan, he's a good bit older than her. I wonder, did Mrs Hamada hint that she might be having an affair?'
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