Марджери Аллингем - Mystery for Christmas and Other Stories

“Embezzling?” Kelso scribbled in his notebook. Fortunately Briggs couldn’t see it, because Kelso had written: “Comic book character.”

“Embezzling, sergeant. Somebody’s been skimming money right off the top. It amounts to over a hundred thousand to date. And not only that, I think I know who it was.”

Kelso allowed a theatrical pause before asking, “Who?”

Briggs leaned closer, looking immensely satisfied with himself, and whispered loudly: “Arnold Wundt.”

“Wundt?” Kelso frowned, not even pretending surprise.

“Right. Listen, sergeant. Wundt was an accountant, and a good one. He was, in fact, in charge of accounting. But as the assistant manager, and I’ve got a degree in accounting myself—” he cleared his throat loudly “—I’m not only qualified but also duty-bound to check Wundt’s work. And I caught him at it, sergeant. Now, if you ask me, someone else caught him at it, too. Someone who maybe tried to blackmail him and then, when he couldn’t bleed him any more, got rid of him.”

Kelso nodded slowly, as if considering what Briggs had said.

The little bug was a waste of time. It was too hot in the office and he was hungry for lunch.

“You don’t happen to know where Mr. Anderson is, do you?” he asked, trying to sound polite.

“I think he was going to meet with Wundt about something,” Briggs said, smiling his bug-smile. “I haven’t seen him since about nine thirty, when he left to go downstairs. Come to think of it, he said he was on his way to gift wrap. Yes, I’m certain. Gift wrap. About nine thirty.” Briggs seemed to emphasize the last words, and gave Kelso a meaningful look.

Suddenly Kelso realized what Briggs reminded him of. Not a bug at all, but a toy he’d gotten one year for Christmas, a rubber or plastic likeness of Froggy the Gremlin, pop eyes, leering smile. Briggs was Froggy the Gremlin with oversized glasses. And probably about as bright.

“I appreciate your help,” Kelso told him, trying not to sound sarcastic. “Well, have a nice day.”

“Merry Christmas, sergeant,” said Froggy. “A very merry Christmas.”

Kelso winced and left the office. The blonde cheerleader beamed at him and said, “Merry Christmas, sergeant.”

“Same to you,” he replied, as though returning an insult, and hurried for the elevators.

“I wasn’t able to find out a damn thing,” Detective Sergeant Meyer said. “As far as anybody knows, Wundt reported to his office in accounting this morning at nine sharp, as usual. He works alone. Nobody saw him or noticed him again till the gift wrap girl found his body behind her counter at a quarter to ten, when she was coming back from the ladies’ room.” The small detective shrugged. “That’s it. Nobody saw anything, nobody knows anything. Everybody liked Wundt, but not very well. Nobody disliked him. He was a nothing, a zero.”

“He was a Santa Claus,” said Kelso.

They sat in the store’s cafeteria, the noon crowd chattering and munching around them. Meyer glared at his meatloaf and said:

“Yeah, he was a Santa Claus. Why can’t people make meatloaf any more? My grandmother used to make delicious meatloaf. This stuff is still red in the center. Don’t they cook it?”

“I thought you only ate kosher.”

“Nuts. I eat anything. Jewish food happens to taste better, but that doesn’t mean I can’t eat what I want. I’m enlightened.”

“Ah.” Kelso nodded. “I wonder if Arnold Wundt’s playing Santa had anything to do with his murder.”

“He was scheduled to fill in for the regular Santa this morning,” Meyer said. “The store’s been having Santa in a booth for the kids every morning at ten and every afternoon at two and five, each shopping day till Christmas. What a zoo. I’m glad I don’t have kids. All my friends with kids are raising schizophrenics. All of them have split personalities — half Jewish, half Christian. I tell you, it’s hell having a kid in this country if you’re a Jew at Christmas.”

“Schizophrenic doesn’t mean split personality,” Kelso pointed out. “I’ve taken some psych courses. It means—”

“Forget what it means.” Meyer stabbed at his meatloaf.

Over the hubbub drifted the faint sounds of “Sleigh Ride.” At a nearby table two little girls sang “Jingle Bells,” egged on by their overweight mother, who seemed to think her mission was to entertain the other shoppers with her offspring and their whining voices.

“Who was supposed to have been Santa this morning?” Kelso asked.

“Huh? Oh, you mean whose place did Wundt take?” Meyer thought for a moment. “The assistant manager. Guy named Briggs.”

“Froggy the Gremlin,” Kelso murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing. So Briggs was supposed to have been Santa Claus.”

“I’m taking this meatloaf back. It’s inedible. You’d think with all their peace on earth and good will they could cook a piece of meatloaf enough to make it edible.” Meyer got up and carried his plate through the milling crowd to the food line, and returned a few minutes later with the same plate, scowling.

“What happened?” Kelso asked.

“They told me to eat it,” he said. “They told me I ordered meatloaf and I got meatloaf. They told me Merry Christmas.”

“Greetings of the season,” Kelso told him.

Meyer muttered something under his breath. The two little girls sang “Deck the Halls” at the top of their lungs.

Meyer became convinced that the murderer was the gift wrap girl, a tall brunette named Claudia Collins. She stood several inches taller than Meyer, something which, Kelso knew, infuriated him; she was sullen, even while wrapping customers’ gifts, which infuriated everybody; and she was the only employee who would admit to having been in or near the gift wrap area at or about the time of the murder, nine thirty that morning.

“I’m going to question her some more,” Meyer announced as he and Kelso left the cafeteria.“I’m not letting some dumb broad spoil my holiday. If she stabbed that accountant, I’ll get it out of her.”

“By the way,” Kelso said, resisting the urge to light his pipe. “When I talked to Briggs this morning, he accused Arnold Wundt of embezzling over a hundred thousand dollars from the store.”

Meyer shot him a dark look. “You’re kidding. How would Briggs know that?”

“He says he’s got an accounting degree, and checked Wundt’s work.”

“Huh.” Meyer’s wheels turned. They stopped turning. “Claudia Collins probably found out about Wundt’s embezzling. She probably tried to extort some money from him. He pulled a knife on her, and she managed to stab him with it. Well, I’m going to find her. You check around the store. Keep your eyes and ears open, and let me know if you hear anything else.”

“Have a good time,” Kelso said.

Meyer nodded solemnly, as though it had been a serious wish. “I will.”

They parted. Kelso watched the detective shove his way into the crowd until it engulfed him; then someone grabbed his arm.

“George!”

He turned. Susan Over street’s wide brown eyes smiled at him. She was running one hand through wavy blonde hair and using the other to hold a shopping bag crammed with packages.

“Hi.”

“Isn’t this hectic? I’ve already got five of the things on my list. Listen, go with me to the children’s department, up on three, so we can find something for Peggy and Timmy. Then—”

“Hold on a minute, Susan. I can’t—”

“Did you find that aftershave for your uncle? There’s a sale in men’s stuff. By the way, tonight we’ve got the eggnog party at my Aunt Eleanor’s house, and she says—”

“Susan!”

“Huh? What is it?”