The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Part 97

I moved away from the mantel, starting to walk around the room, but never taking my eyes off them.

"You could save all of us a lot of time and trouble by just confessing," I said.

"Which one of us are you talking to?" Gwen said. "I can't see your eyes in the dark."

"I'm talking to the real killer," I said.

"Maybe you killed her," David Styles said, "and you're trying to frame one of us."

This was pretty much how it went for the next fifteen minutes, me getting closer and closer to the real killer, making him or her really sweat it out, while I continued to pace and throw out accusations.

I guess the thing that spoiled it was the blood-red splash of light in the front window, Cliff Sykes, Jr.'s, personal patrol car pulling up to the curb, and then Cliff Sykes, Jr., racing out of his car, gun drawn.

I heard him on the porch, I heard him in the hall, I heard him at the door across the hall.

Moments after the door opened, Bobbi Thomas wailed, "All right! I killed her! I killed her! I caught her sleeping with my boyfriend!"

I opened the door and looked out into the hall.

Judge Whitney stood next to Cliff Sykes, Jr., and said, "There's your killer, Sykes. Now you get down to that jail and let my nephew go!"

And with that, she turned and stalked out of the apartment house.

Then I noticed the Christmas kitten in Bobbi Thomas's arms. "What's gonna happen to the kitty if I go to prison?" she sobbed.

"Probably put her to sleep," the ever-sensitive Cliff Sykes, Jr., said.

At which point, Bobbi Thomas became semi-hysterical.

"I'll take her, Bobbi," I said, and reached over and picked up the kitten.

"Thanks," Bobbi said over her shoulder as Sykes led her out to his car.

Each of the people in Linda Palmer's apartment took a turn at glowering at me as he walked into the hall and out the front door.

"See you, Miss Marple," said David Styles.

"So long, Sherlock," smirked Gwen Dawes.

Her boyfriend said something that I can't repeat here.

And Millie Styles said, "Charlie Chan does it a lot better, McCain."

When Sophie (I'm an informal kind of guy, and Sophia is a very formal kind of name) and I got back to my little apartment over a store that Jesse James had actually shot up one time, we both got a surprise.

A Christmas tree stood in the corner resplendent with green and yellow and red lights, and long s.h.i.+ning strands of silver icing, and a sweet little angel right at the very tip-top of the tree.

And next to the tree stood the beautiful and elegant Pamela Forrest, gorgeous in a red sweater and jeans. Now, in the Sh.e.l.l Scott novels I read, Pamela would be completely naked and beckoning to me with a curling, seductive finger.

But I was happy to see her just as she was.

"Judge Whitney was afraid you'd be kind of down about not solving the case, so she asked me to buy you a tree and set it up for you."

"Yeah," I said. "I didn't even have Bobbi on my list of suspects. How'd she figure it out anyway?"

Pamela immediately lifted Sophie from my arms and started doing Eskimo noses with her. "Well, first of all, she called the cleaners and asked if any of the rugs that Bobbi had had cleaned had had red stains on it-blood, in other words, meaning that she'd probably killed Linda in her apartment and then dragged her back across to Linda's apartment. The blood came from Sophia's paws most likely, when she walked on the white throw rug." She paused long enough to do some more Eskimo nosing. "Then second, Bobbi told you that she'd stayed home and watched Gunsmoke. But Gunsmoke had been preempted for a Christmas special and wasn't on that night. And third-" By now she was rocking Sophie in the cradle of her arm. "Third, she found out that the boyfriend that Bobbi had only mentioned briefly to you had fallen under Linda's spell. Bobbi came home and actually found them in bed together-he hadn't even been gentleman enough to take it across the hall to Linda's apartment." Then: "Gosh, McCain, this is one of the cutest little kittens I've ever seen."

"Makes me wish I was a kitten," I said. "Or Sherlock Holmes. She sure figured it out, didn't she?"

Pamela carried Sophie over to me and said, "I think your daddy needs a kiss, young lady."

And I have to admit, it was pretty nice at that moment, Pamela Forrest in my apartment for the very first time, and Sophie's sweet little sandpaper tongue giving me a lot of sweet little kitty kisses.

THE SANTA CLAUS CLUB.

Julian Symons.

MUCH LIKE HIS CLOSE FRIEND H. R. F. Keating, Julian Symons was an outstanding scholar of mystery fiction as well as one of its foremost pract.i.tioners. In addition to biographies of Edgar Allan Poe, Arthur Conan Doyle, and a critical study of Das.h.i.+ell Hammett, he wrote an excellent history of the genre, b.l.o.o.d.y Murder (1972, t.i.tled Mortal Consequences in the United States), in which he also defined the genre as he thought it ought to be, insisting that it move away from pure puzzle-solving to a greater reliance on psychological elements of crime. He has been honored with lifetime achievement awards from the Mystery Writers of America, the (British) Crime Writers' a.s.sociation, and the Swedish Academy of Detection. "The Santa Claus Club" was first published in the December 1960 issue of Suspense; it was first collected in Francis Quarles Investigates (London, Panther, 1965).

The Santa Claus Club.

JULIAN SYMONS.

IT IS NOT OFTEN, IN REAL LIFE, that letters are written recording implacable hatred nursed over the years, or that private detectives are invited by peers to select dining clubs, or that murders occur at such dining clubs, or that they are solved on the spot by a process of deduction. The case of the Santa Claus Club provided an example of all these rarities.

The case began one day, a week before Christmas, when Francis Ouarles went to see Lord Acrise. He was a rich man, Lord Acrise, and an important one, the chairman of this big building concern and director of that and the other insurance company, and consultant to the Government on half a dozen matters. He had been a harsh, intolerant man in his prime, and was still hard enough in his early seventies, Quarles guessed, as he looked at the beaky nose, jutting chin, and stony blue eyes.

They sat in the study of Acrise's house just off the Brompton Road.

"Just tell me what you think of these," Lord Acrise said.

These were three letters, badly typed on a machine with a worn ribbon. They were all signed with the name James Gliddon. The first two contained vague references to some wrong done to Gliddon by Acrise in the past. They were written in language that was wild but unmistakably threatening. You have been a whited sepulchre for too long, but now your time has come ... You don't know what I'm going to do, now I've come back, but you won't be able to help wondering and worrying ... The mills of G.o.d grind slowly, but they're going to grind you into little bits for what you've done to me.

The third letter was more specific. So the thief is going to play Santa Claus. That will be your last evening alive. I shall be there, Joe Acrise, and I shall watch with pleasure as you squirm in agony.

Ouarles looked at the envelopes. They were plain and cheap. The address was typed, and the word Personal was on top of each envelope.

"Who is James Gliddon?" he asked.

The stony eyes glared at him. "I'm told you're to be trusted. Gliddon was a school friend of mine. We grew up together in the slums of Nottingham. We started a building company together. It did well for a time, then went bust. There was a lot of money missing. Gliddon kept the books. He got five years for fraud."

"Have you heard from him since then? I see all these letters are recent."

"He's written half a dozen letters, I suppose, over the years. The last one came-oh, seven years ago, I should think. From the Argentine." Acrise stopped, then added abruptly, "Snewin tried to find him for me, but he'd disappeared."

"Snewin?"

"My secretary. Been with me twelve years."

He pressed a bell. An obsequious, fattish man, whose appearance somehow put Quarles in mind of an enormous mouse, scurried in.

"Snewin-did we keep any of those old letters from Gliddon?"

"No sir. You told me to destroy them."

"The last ones came from the Argentine, right?"

"From Buenos Aires, to be exact, sir."

Acrise nodded, and Snewin scurried out.

Quarles said, "Who else knows this story about Gliddon?"

"Just my wife."

"And what does this mean about you playing Santa Claus?"

"I'm this year's chairman of the Santa Claus Club. We hold our raffle and dinner next Monday."

Then Quarles remembered. The Santa Claus Club had been formed by ten rich men. Each year they met, every one of them dressed up as Santa Claus, and held a raffle. The members took it in turn to provide the prize that was raffled-it might be a case of Napoleon brandy, a modest cottage with some exclusive salmon fis.h.i.+ng rights attached to it, or a Constable painting. Each Santa Claus bought one ticket for the raffle, at a cost of one thousand guineas. The total of ten thousand guineas was given to a Christmas charity. After the raffle the a.s.sembled Santa Clauses, each accompanied by one guest, ate a traditional English Christmas dinner.

The whole thing was a combination of various English characteristics: enjoyment of dressing up, a wish to help charities, and the desire also that the help given should not go unrecorded.

"I want you to find Gliddon," Lord Acrise said. "Don't mistake me, Mr. Quarles. I don't want to take action against him, I want to help him. I wasn't to blame, don't think I admit that, but it was hard that Jimmy Gliddon should go to jail. I'm a hard man, have been all my life, but I don't think my worst enemies would call me mean. Those who've helped me know that when I die they'll find they're not forgotten. Jimmy Gliddon must be an old man now. I'd like to set him up for the rest of his life."

"To find him by next Monday is a tall order,"

Quarles said. "But I'll try."

He was at the door when Acrise said, "By the way, I'd like you to be my guest at the Club dinner on Monday night ..."

There were two ways of trying to find Gliddon: by investigation of his career after leaving prison, and through the typewritten letters. Quarles took the job of tracing the past, leaving the letters to his secretary, Molly Player.

From Scotland Yard he found out that Gliddon had spent nearly four years in prison, from 1913 to late 1916. He had joined a Nottinghams.h.i.+re regiment when he came out, and the records of this regiment showed that he had been demobilised in August, 1919, with the rank of Sergeant. In 1923 he had been given a sentence of three years for an attempt to smuggle diamonds. Thereafter all trace of him in Britain vanished.

Quarles made some expensive telephone calls to Buenos Aires, where the letters had come from seven years earlier. He learned that Gliddon had lived in that city from a time just after the Second World War until 1955. He ran an import-export business, and was thought to have been living in other South American Republics during the war. His business was said to have been a cloak for smuggling, both of drugs and of suspected n.a.z.is, whom he got out of Europe into the Argentine. In 1955 a newspaper had accused Gliddon of arranging the entry into the Argentine of a n.a.z.i war criminal named Hermann Breit. Gliddon disappeared. A couple of weeks later a battered body was washed up just outside the city.

"It was identified as Senor Gliddon," the liquid voice said over the telephone. "But you know, Senor Quarles, in such matters the police are sometimes unhappy to close their files."

"There was still some doubt?"

"Yes. Not very much, perhaps. But in these cases there is often a measure of doubt."

Molly Player found out nothing useful about the paper and envelopes. They were of the sort that could be bought in a thousand stores and shops in London and elsewhere. She had no more luck with the typewriter.

Lord Acrise made no comment on Quarles's recital of failure. "See you on Monday evening, seven-thirty, black tie," he said, and barked with laughter. "Your host will be Santa Claus."

"I'd like to be there earlier."

"Good idea. Any time you like. You know where it is? Robert the Devil Restaurant ..."

The Robert the Devil Restaurant is situated inconspicuously in Mayfair. It is not a restaurant in the ordinary sense of the word, for there is no public dining-room, but simply several private rooms accommodating any number of guests from two to thirty. Perhaps the food is not quite the best in London, but it is certainly the most expensive.

It was here that Quarles arrived at half-past six, a big, suave man, rather too conspicuously elegant perhaps in a midnight-blue dinner jacket. He talked to Albert, the maitre d'hotel, whom he had known for some years, took an un.o.btrusive look at the waiters, went into and admired the sparkling kitchens.

Albert observed his activities with tolerant amus.e.m.e.nt.

"You are here on some sort of business, Mr. Quarles?"

"I am a guest, Albert. I am also a kind of bodyguard. Tell me, how many of your waiters have joined you in the past twelve months?"

"Perhaps half a dozen. They come, they go."

"Is there anybody at all on your staff-waiters, kitchen staff, anybody-who has joined you in the past year, and who is over sixty years old?"

"No. There is not such a one."

The first of the guests came just after a quarter-past seven. This was the brain surgeon Sir James Erdington, with a guest whom Quarles recognized as the Arctic explorer, Norman Endell. After that they came at intervals of a minute or two: a junior minister in the Government; one of the three most important men in the motor industry; a general elevated to the peerage to celebrate his retirement; a theatrical producer named Roddy Davis, who had successfully combined commerce and culture.

As they arrived, the hosts went into a special robing room to put on their Santa Claus clothes, while the guests drank sherry.

At seven-twenty-five Snewin scurried in, gasped, "Excuse me, place names, got to put them out," and went into the dining-room. Through the open door Quarles glimpsed a large oval table, gleaming with silver, bright with roses.

After Snewin came Lord Acrise, jutting-nosed and fearsome-eyed. "Sorry to have kept you waiting," he barked, and asked conspiratorially, "Well?"

"No sign."

"False alarm. Lot of nonsense. Got to dress up now."

He went into the robing room with his box-each of the hosts had a similar box, labelled "Santa Claus"-and came out again bewigged, bearded, and robed. "Better get the business over, and then we can enjoy ourselves. You can tell 'em to come in," he said to Albert.

This referred to the photographers, who had been cl.u.s.tered outside, and now came into the room specially provided for holding the raffle. In the centre of the room was a table, and on the table stood this year's prize, two exquisite T'ang horses. On the other side of the table were ten chairs arranged in a semi-circle, and on these sat the Santa Clauses. Their guests stood inconspicuously at the side.

The raffle was conducted with the utmost seriousness. Each Santa Claus had a numbered slip. These slips were put into a tombola, and Acrise put in his hand and drew out one of them. Flash bulbs exploded.

"The number drawn is eight," Acrise announced, and Roddy Davis waved the counterfoil in his hand.

"Isn't that wonderful? It's my ticket." He went over to the horses, picked up one. "I'm bound to say that they couldn't have gone to anybody who'd have appreciated them more."

Quarles, standing near the general, whose face was as red as his robe, heard him mutter something uncomplimentary. Charity, he reflected, was not universal, even in a gathering of Santa Clauses. Then there were more flashes, the photographers disappeared, and Quarles's views about the nature of charity were reinforced when, as they were about to go into the dining-room, Sir James Erdington said, "Forgotten something, haven't you, Acrise?"

With what seemed dangerous quietness Acrise answered, "Have I? I don't think so."