Марджери Аллингем - Mystery for Christmas and Other Stories

“Waldo Rogers certainly isn’t Santa’s idea of a nice little boy,” said Santa. “What do you think, Mother?” Mrs. Santa agreed.

“Sticks-and-stones then?” asked Hardnoggin hopefully.

But the jolly old man hesitated. “Santa always likes to check the list twice before deciding,” he said.

Hardnoggin groaned. Santa was always bollixing up his production schedules by going easy on bad little girls and boys.

A new film began. “Next on the list,” said Bigtoes, “is Nancy Ruth Ashley, age four and a half...”

Two hours and seven martinis later, Santa’s jolly laughter and Mrs. Santa’s jolly laughter and Mrs. Santa’s giggles filled the room. “She’s a little dickens, that one,” chuckled Santa as they watched a six-year-old fill her father’s custom-made shoes with molasses, “but Santa will find a little something for her.” Hardnoggin groaned. That was the end of the list and so far no one had been given sticks-and-stones. They rolled the film on Waldo Rogers again. “Santa understands some cats like having their tails pulled,” chuckled Santa as he drained his glass. “And what the heck are Sugar Gizmos?”

Bandylegs, who had just excused himself from the meeting, paused on his way up the aisle. “They’re a delicious blend of toasted oats and corn,” he shouted, “with an energy-packed coating of sparkling sugar. As a matter of fact, Santa, the Gizmo people are thinking of featuring you in their new advertising campaign. It would be a great selling point if I could say that Santa had given a little boy sticks-and-stones because he wouldn’t eat his Sugar Gizmos.”

“Here now, Fergy,” said the jolly old man, “you know that isn’t Santa’s way.”

Bandylegs left, muttering to himself.

“Santa,” protested Hardnoggin as the jolly old man passed his glass down the line for a refill, “let’s be realistic. If we can’t draw the line at Waldo Rogers, where can we?”

Santa reflected for a moment. “Suppose Santa let you make the decision, Garth, my Boy. What would little Waldo Rogers find in his stocking on Christmas morning?”

Hardnoggin hesitated. Then he said, “Sticks-and-stones.”

Santa looked disappointed. “So be it,” he said.

The lights dimmed again as they continued their review of the list. Santa’s eighth martini came down the line from elf to elf. As Bigtoes passed it to Santa, the fumes caught him — the smell of gin and something else. Bitter almonds. He struck the glass from Santa’s hand.

Silent and dimly lit, Storeroom Number 14 seemed an immense, dull suburb of split-level, ranchtype Dick and Jane Doll dollhouses. Bigtoes stepped into the papier-mâché shrubbery fronting Unit 24, Row 58 as an elf watchman on a bicycle pedaled by singing “Colossal Carlotta,” a current hit song. Bigtoes hoped he hadn’t made a mistake by refraining from picking Hardnoggin up.

Bandylegs had left before the cyanide was put in the glass. Mrs. Santa, of course, was above suspicion. So that left Director General Hardnoggin and Traffic Manager Brassbottom. But why would Brassbottom first save Santa from the bomb only to poison him later? So that left Hardnoggin. Bigtoes had been eager to act on this logic, perhaps too eager. He wanted no one to say that Santa’s Security Chief had let personal feelings color his judgment. Bigtoes would be fair.

Hardnoggin had insisted that Crouchback was the villain. All right, he would bring Crouchback in for questioning. After all, Santa was now safe, napping under a heavy guard in preparation for his all-night trip. Hardnoggin — if he was the villain — could do him no harm for the present.

As Bigtoes crept up the fabric lawn on all fours, the front door of the dollhouse opened and a shadowy figure came down the walk. It paused at the street, looked this way and that, then disappeared into the darkness. Redpate had been right about the skulking. But it wasn’t Crouchback — Bigtoes was sure of that.

The Security Chief climbed in through a dining-room window. In the living room were three elves, one on the couch, one in an easy chair, and, behind the bar, Dirk Crouchback, a distinguished-looking elf with a salt-and-pepper beard and graying temples. The leader of SHAFT poured himself a drink and turned. “Welcome to my little ménage-à-trois, Rory Bigtoes,” he said with a surprised smile. The two other elves turned out to be Dick and Jane dolls.

“I’m taking you in, Crouchback,” said the Security Chief.

The revolutionary came out from behind the bar pushing a .55mm howitzer (1/32 scale) with his foot. “I’m sorry about this,” he said. “As you know we are opposed to the use of violence. But I’d rather not fall into Hardnoggin’s hands just now. Sit over there by Jane.” Bigtoes obeyed. At that short range the howitzer’s plastic shell could be fatal to an elf.

Crouchback sat down on the arm of Dick’s easy chair. “Yes,” he said, “Hardnoggin’s days are numbered. But as the incidents of last night and today illustrate, the Old Order dies hard. I’d rather not be one of its victims.”

Crouchback paused and took a drink. “Look at this room, Bigtoes. This is Hardnoggin’s world. Wall-to-wall carpeting. Breakfast nooks. Cheap materials. Shoddy workmanship.” He picked up an end table and dropped it on the floor. Two of the legs broke. “Plastic,” said Crouchback contemptuously, flinging the table through the plastic television set. “It’s the whole middle-class, bourgeois, suburban scene.” Crouchback put the heel of his hand on Dick’s jaw and pushed the doll over. “Is this vapid plastic nonentity the kind of grownup we want little boys and girls to become?”

“No,” said Bigtoes. “But what’s your alternative?”

“Close down the Toyworks for a few years,” said Crouchback earnestly. “Relearn our ancient heritage of handcrafted toys. We owe it to millions of little boys and girls as yet unborn!”

“All very idealistic,” said Bigtoes, “but—”

“Practical, Bigtoes. And down to earth,” said the SHAFT leader, tapping his head. “The plan’s all here.”

“But what about Acme Toy?” protested Bigtoes. “The rich kids would still get presents and the poor kids wouldn’t.”

Crouchback smiled. “I can’t go into the details now. But my plan includes the elimination of Acme Toy.”

“Suppose you could,” said Bigtoes. “We still couldn’t handcraft enough toys to keep pace with the population explosion.”

“Not at first,” said Crouchback. “But suppose population growth was not allowed to exceed our rate of toy production?” He tapped his head again.

“But good grief,” said Bigtoes, “closing down the Toyworks means millions of children with empty stockings on Christmas. Who could be that cruel?”

“Cruel?” exclaimed Crouchback. “Bigtoes, do you know how a grownup cooks a live lobster? Some drop it into boiling water. But others say, ‘How cruel!’ They drop it in cold water and then bring the water to a boil slowly. No, Bigtoes, we have to bite the bullet. Granted there’ll be no Christmas toys for a few years. But we’d fill children’s stockings with literature explaining what’s going on and with discussion-group outlines so they can get together and talk up the importance of sacrificing their Christmas toys today so the children of the future can have quality handcrafted toys. They’ll understand.”

Before Bigtoes could protest again, Crouchback got to his feet. “Now that I’ve given you some food for thought I have to go,” he said. “That closet should hold you until I make my escape.”

Bigtoes was in the closet for more than an hour. The door proved stronger than he had expected. Then he remembered Hardnoggin’s cardboard interior walls and karate-chopped his way through the back of the closet and out into the kitchen.