Марджери Аллингем - Mystery for Christmas and Other Stories

“I can’t go shopping with you. Haven’t you heard about the murder?”

“Murder! What murder?”

“One of the employees, the head of accounting. They found him this morning, stabbed, in a Santa Claus suit. I’m on duty till further notice.”

“But you had the afternoon off.”

“I know. But now I don’t.”

“Well, darn.”

A tall gray-haired man in an expensive suit and tie stepped out of the crowd. “Sergeant Kelso?”

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m James Anderson, the store manager.” He offered a firm hand. “Sorry I missed you this morning.”

“Glad to meet you, Mr. Anderson.” He glanced at Susan. “This woman’s been following me around the store, but I don’t think she’s done anything illegal. Did you pay for those items, miss?”

Susan smiled sweetly. “This man seems to think he’s a policeman, Mr. Anderson, but I’ve seen him following other women around the store. I think he may be dangerous. Excuse me.”

Kelso smiled blandly at the manager’s quizzical look. “Just a little joke, Mr. Anderson. Uh, could we talk in your office?”

“Certainly.”

They took the elevator up to eight, passed the cheerleader, and entered the office where Kelso had interviewed Briggs. Anderson sat down behind the polished desk and folded his hands. “Have you come up with anything, sergeant?” He looked grave.

Kelso started to answer, then hesitated. The office door was slightly ajar. By moving a little to his left he could just see the toes of someone’s shoes.

“We haven’t come up with anything officially,” he said.

Anderson looked interested. “But, unofficially?”

“Unofficially, Mr. Anderson, I believe we know who murdered Arnold Wundt.” Kelso took out his pipe and some matches. There was an ashtray on the manager’s desk. “At least, I believe I know who murdered him. He was to have played Santa Claus this morning, right?”

“No, I believe that would have been Mr. Briggs.”

“But apparently Wundt took his place for some reason.”

“Oh. Right. I remember now. Briggs had a meeting to attend. But who was it, sergeant? Who killed Wundt, and why?”

Kelso got his pipe going and puffed at it a couple of times. “I’ve sent some of my men over to Headquarters to get an accountant for me. When they get back, the accountant will check some things, and then I’ll make an arrest. I really don’t want to name names till the accountant gets here.”

“I see.”

The door opened and Briggs stepped into the office, eyes popping behind his thick lenses. “Mr. Anderson — oh, excuse me, I didn’t know you were with someone. Oh, hello, Sergeant Kelso.”

Kelso nodded. His pipe went out.

“What is it, Briggs?”

“It’s about Santa Claus this afternoon, Mr. Anderson. The customers are really upset about missing him this morning, and it’s one thirty now. They’re already lining up for the two P.M. Santa.”

“Can’t you do it, Briggs?” Anderson’s tone was sharp.

“No, sir. I’m afraid not. That is, I’d very much like not to. It’s occurred to me that it might be dangerous.”

“What?”

“I mean, sir — suppose the killer knew I was to play Santa at ten this morning. Suppose the killer found Santa behind the gift wrap counter. Everybody looks alike in that outfit, with the pillow and whiskers and all. The killer would have assumed it was me, and stabbed him. But by now he probably knows it was the wrong person.”

“Is that possible, Sergeant Kelso? Could the murderer have been after Briggs here, instead of Wundt?”

“It’s possible,” Kelso said, trying hard to suppress laughter. He was imagining a coldblooded killer stalking Froggy the Gremlin.

“Well, who are we going to get? We’ve got to have someone.”

“I’ve played Santa at the police Christmas party a few times,” Kelso said. “I could do it.”

Anderson stared, then slowly nodded. Briggs smiled his face-breaking smile, his pop eyes dancing with delight behind his glasses.

“It’s not exactly in the line of duty for a police officer,” Anderson said. “But we could certainly use you.”

“I’d be glad to help out. I tend to put on a few pounds over the holidays.” Kelso patted his stomach. “I won’t even need much of a pillow.”

“Good.” The manager stood up, all business. “Briggs, get Sergeant Kelso a Santa suit and show him the booth. Thank you, sergeant, I won’t forget this.”

Kelso let himself be led away by the assistant manager. When they were out in the hall he said:

“Excuse me, is the Santa Claus outfit at the booth?”

Briggs nodded. “Yes, down on the main floor.”

“I’ll meet you there,” Kelso said. “I’ve got to go the men’s room.”

Briggs nodded, beaming, and Kelso hurried down the hall.

The killer stood in line, waiting for Santa. With his left hand he held the hand of a little boy whom he’d talked into standing in line with him, a third grader named Kevin whose mother worked in Credit and Lay away. The killer had paid Kevin five dollars and told him he wanted to talk to Santa but, as an adult, was embarrassed to go without a child. Kevin had taken the money and agreed to help.

In front of the killer and Kevin stood a fat woman whose two small girls had just finished singing “Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer” in strident voices and were starting “Silent Night,” encouraged by their mother. Ahead of them an attractive black woman waited her turn, whispering to a frightened little boy. Just inside a white cardboard fence surrounding a cardboard sleigh and eight cardboard reindeer, a jolly Santa sat on a red chair, holding a small girl on his knee while the girl’s mother, presumably, looked on. There was so much noise in the store, with all the talking and laughter and music and the whining of the fat lady’s daughters, that the killer couldn’t make out what was being said by the jolly Santa and the small girl, but it didn’t matter to him.

The killer’s other hand was inside his suitcoat pocket, gripping the handle of a small automatic pistol, fully loaded. He smiled as if thoroughly enjoying himself and nodded once in a while at little Kevin, who kept chattering something about a Star Wars toy. He wanted to tell little Kevin that he was an obnoxious brat, but he kept smiling and pretended to be having a good time.

The killer’s name was Briggs.

For over a year he’d been embezzling money from the department store, but last week that fool, Arnold Wundt, had caught him at it. Wundt had threatened to go to the police unless Briggs replaced every cent he’d taken. He’d had to kill him, of course.

And now this detective, this Kelso, seemed to have gotten wise to him. An accountant was coming. Kelso would manage to link the embezzlement to Wundt’s murder. Briggs couldn’t let that happen.

He hadn’t planned to kill Wundt in the Santa suit; it had just happened that way. But now the cops, except Kelso, were looking for a Santa Claus connection. He’d kill Kelso in the Santa suit and add to the confusion.

His fingers tightened on the automatic as the attractive black woman stepped forward and boosted her little boy onto Santa’s knee.

“Ho ho ho,” said the jolly Santa in a strangely rasping voice, but Briggs wasn’t fooled by the disguise.

Next in line were the two singing brats; then it would be the killer’s turn.

Briggs watched little Kevin step up to the red-painted chair.

“Ho ho ho,” rasped the voice.

He had to admit that the disguise was good — with the full white beard and drooping mustache, the red hat pulled low over the forehead, steel-rimmed spectacles on the nose, and the padding in the suit, the character bore little resemblance to Sergeant Kelso. But Briggs knew it was.