Марджери Аллингем - Mystery for Christmas and Other Stories

There was just one thing wrong with the picture. And that was the sight of Whiteboy. I spotted him on Broadway again, lumbering down the mostly blackened, empty street with a big bag on his back like he was St. Nicholas himself.

I stayed out of sight and tailed him slowly back a few blocks to where I’d lost him in the first place, to the statue of Greeley. I had a clear view of him as he set down his bag on a bench and talked to the same bunch of grey, shapeless winos who’d cut me off the chase. Just as before, they passed a bottle. Only this time Whiteboy gave it to them. After everyone had a nice jolt, they talked quickly for a couple of minutes, like they had someplace important to go.

I hung back in the darkness under some scaffolding. Snow fell between the cracks of planks above me and piled on my shoulders as I stood there trying to figure out their act. It didn’t take me long.

When they started moving from the statue over to Thirty-second Street, every one of them with a bag slung over his shoulder, I hung back a little. But my crisis of conscience didn’t last long. I followed Whiteboy and his unlikely crew of elves — and wasn’t much surprised to find the blond shoulder-bag dipper with the cashmere coat when we got to where we were all going. Which was the Martinique. By now, the spindly little spruce I’d felt sorry for that afternoon was full of bright lights and tinsel and had a star on top. The same old coots I’d seen when I helped Frances and her kids there were standing around playing with about a hundred more hungry-looking kids.

Whiteboy and his helpers went up to the tree and plopped down all the bags. The kids crowded around them. They were quiet about it, though. These were kids who didn’t have much experience with Norman Rockwell Christmases, so they didn’t know it was an occasion to whoop it up.

Frances saw me standing in the dimly lit doorway. I must have been a sight, covered in snow and tired from walking my post most of eight hours. “Hock!” she called merrily.

And then Whiteboy spun around like he had before and his jaw dropped open. He and the pretty guy stepped away from the crowd of kids and mothers and the few broken-down men and walked quickly over to me. The kids looked like they expected all along that their party would be busted up. Frances knew she’d done something very wrong hailing me like she had, but how could she know I was a cop?

“We’re having a little Christmas party here, Hock. Anything illegal about that?” Whiteboy was a cool one. He’d grown tougher and smarter in a year and talked to me like we’d just had a lovely chat the other day. We’d have to make some sort of deal, Whiteboy and me, and we both knew it.

“Who’s your partner?” I asked him. I looked at the pretty guy in cashmere who wasn’t saying anything just yet.

“Call him Slick.”

“I like it,” I said. “Where’d you and Slick get all the stuff in the bags?”

“Everything’s bought and paid for, Hock. You got nothing to worry about.”

“When you’re cute, you’re irritating, White-boy. You know I can’t turn around on this empty-handed.”

Then Slick spoke up. “What you got on us, anyways? I’ve just about had my fill of police harassment today, Officer. I was cooperative earlier, but I don’t intend to cooperate a second time.”

I ignored him and addressed Whiteboy. “Tell your friend Slick how we all appreciate discretion and good manners on both sides of the game.”

Whiteboy smiled and Slick’s face grew a little red.

“Let’s just say for the sake of conversation,” Whiteboy suggested, “that Slick and me came by a whole lot of money some way or other we’re unwilling to disclose since that would tend to incriminate us. And then let’s say we used that money to buy a whole lot of stuff for those kids back of us. And let’s say we got cash receipts for everything in the bags. Where’s that leave us, Officer Hockaday?”

“It leaves you with one leg up, temporarily. Which can be a very uncomfortable way of standing. Let’s just say that I’m likely to be hard on your butts from now on.”

“Well, that’s about right. Just the way I see it.” He lit a cigarette, a Dunhill. Then he turned back a cuff and looked at his wristwatch, the kind of piece that cost him plenty of either nerve or money. Whiteboy was moving up well for himself.

“You’re off duty now, aren’t you, Hock? And wouldn’t you be just about out of overtime allowance for the year?”

“Whiteboy, you better start giving me something besides lip. That is, unless you want forty-eight hours up at Riker’s on suspicion. You better believe there isn’t a judge in this whole city on straight time or over time or any kind of time tonight or tomorrow to take any bail application from you.”

Whiteboy smiled again. “Yeah, well, I figure the least I owe you is to help you see this thing my way. Think of it like a special tax, you know? Around this time of year, I figure the folks who can spare something ought to be taxed. So maybe that’s what happened, see? Just taxation.”

“Same scam as the one Robin Hood ran?”

“Yeah, something like that. Only Slick and me ain’t about to start living out of town in some forest.”

“You owe me something more, Whiteboy.”

“What?”

“From now on, you and Slick are my two newest snitches. And I’ll be expecting regular news.”

There is such a thing as honor among thieves. This is every bit as true as the honor among Congressmen you read about in the newspapers all the time. But when enlightened self-interest rears its ugly head, it’s also true that rules of gallantry are off.

“Okay, Hock, why not?” Whiteboy shook my hand. Slick did, too, and when he smiled his chin dimple spread flat. Then the three of us went over to the Christmas tree and everybody there seemed relieved.

We started pulling merchandise out of the bags and handing things over to disbelieving kids and their parents. Everything was the best that money could buy, too. Slick’s taste in things was top-drawer. And just like Whiteboy said, there were sales slips for it all, which meant that this would be a time when nobody could take anything away from these people.

I came across a pair of ladies’ black-leather gloves from Lord & Taylor, with grey-rabbit-fur lining. These I put aside until all the kids had something, then I gave them to Frances before I went home for the night. She kissed me on the cheek and wished me a happy Christmas again.

The police in the first prowl car on the scene got out a tarpaulin. A traffic policeman threw it over the body and herded the crowd back. They moved uneasily in the gray slush. Some of them looked up from time to time.

In the newspaper picture the window would be marked with a bold X. A dotted line would descend from the X to the spot where the covered body now lay. Some of the spectators, laden with tinsel- and evergreen-decorated packages, turned away, suppressing a nameless guilt.

But the curious stayed on. Across the street, in the window of a department store, a vast mechanical Santa rocked back and forth, slapping a mechanical hand against a padded thigh, roaring forever, “Whaw haw ho ho ho. Whaw haw ho ho ho,” The slapping hand had worn the red plush from the padded thigh.

The ambulance arrived, with a brisk intern to make out the DOA. Sawdust was shoveled onto the sidewalk, then pushed off into the sewer drain. Wet snow fell into the city. And there was nothing else to see. The corner Santa, a leathery man with a pinched, blue nose, began to ring his hand bell again.

Daniel Fowler, one of the young Assistant District Attorneys, was at his desk when the call came through from Lieutenant Shinn of the Detective Squad. “Dan? This is Gil. You heard about the Garrity girl yet?”