Carol-Lynn Waugh - The Twelve Crimes of Christmas

“Let’s just step right up to the mezzanine office, honey.”

Mrs. Whistler seemed bewildered. “Pardon? I can’t look at anything else today.”

The steely grip of the woman’s talons tightened. “Step along, honey, d’ya hear? We’ll straighten this out and everything will be hunky-dory.”

Mrs. Whistler felt herself propelled toward a service elevator, whisked upstairs, and forcibly ushered into an austere office.

“Sit down, honey,” said the woman. “I’m Miss Vought, Store Security. I didn’t catch your name.”

“No,” said Mrs. Whistler. “You didn’t.”

Miss Vought flipped the switch of an intercom. “Miss Gilford, this is Vought. Tell Mr. Schlag I’ve landed a real pro.”

Miss Vought rested her thin hips on the edge of the desk and inserted a cigarette between her raspberry lips. “Relax, honey. You’ll sign a little statement and breeze out of here in no time.”

“I don’t understand.”

Miss Vought laughed unpleasantly. “You’re fabulous, honey. Just fabulous. That get-up you’re wearing would fool anybody.”

Dudley P. Schlag, drawn up to his full five feet one, strutted into the office, his pointed lapels bristling. Joyce Gifford, notebook in hand, followed. He did not see the astonished look that flashed across his secretary’s face.

“We got the cool goods,” Miss Vought told him. She rummaged in Mrs. Whistler’s shopping bag and brought forth a Capricorn brooch set with tiny rhinestones. “Counter Eighteen. Pulled the old fainting act, glammed this. I had my eye on her for twenty minutes. She cased perfume first, then checked out novelties, finally wound up in jewelry.”

“Kindly put down my brooch, young lady.” said Mrs. Whistler, sweetly but firmly. “You might drop it.”

“You’re fabulous, honey,” said Miss Vought, “fabulous.”

“Name and address?” said Mr. Schlag.

“I live in New York. I’m Mrs. Whistler.”

“Occupation?”

“I,” said Mrs. Whistler, “am a Senior Citizen.”

“All right, Grandma,” said Schlag. “What about the brooch?”

“I bought it this morning. I don’t remember the name of the store. I don’t know your city very well.”

“Where’s the sales slip?”

“Of course!” Mrs. Whistler smiled brightly. “The name will be on the sales slip, and I’m careful about saving them.” Then her face clouded. She seemed near tears. “But it was in my purse. And someone stole my purse just an hour or so ago.”

“Tragic,” said Schlag.

“I reported it to the police, of course.”

Mr. Schlag spoke into the intercom. “Mrs. Luden, call police headquarters and ask if a stolen purse was reported by a… Mrs. Whistler.” He smiled thinly.

“It won’t wash, honey,” said Miss Vought. “There were six Capricorn brooches when you staged your tumble at Counter Eighteen. But only five when you left.”

“You double-checked?” asked Schlag.

“Sure. While she was ankling for the door.”

Thoughtfully Schlag cracked his knuckles, then spun violently on Mrs. Whistler. “Those brooches were a plant, Grandma,” he said. “That’s why they were on the open counter.”

“Gracious,” said Mrs. Whistler. “You mean you were deliberately tempting people? Why, that’s wicked!”

“My secretary will type out a little statement,” he said, “saying you admit taking the brooch. You’ll sign it, and then you can leave.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs. Whistler. “I almost believe you are accusing me of stealing. Why, I can’t sign anything. It would be a lie.” She stood up abruptly, snatching the brooch from Miss Vought. “Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Whistler, taking a step toward the door.

Miss Vought and Schlag swooped like hawks, seizing her. “No, you don’t, sister!” Miss Vought pried the brooch from Mrs. Whistler’s fingers. “That’s evidence!”

“You’re under arrest!” shouted Schlag, then howled in pain as Mrs. Whistler’s teeth sank into his hand.

Joyce Gifford sat in paralyzed shock, unable to move.

“The cooler for you, honey!” cried Miss Vought, restraining Mrs. Whistler with a hammerlock. “We’ve got the goods to fry you, and we’ll see that they throw away the key!”

In less than an hour Mrs. Whistler had been booked, mugged, and fingerprinted.

At 2:15 P.M. a nervous, bedraggled Santa Claus elbowed through the crowded first floor aisles of MacTavish’s. Like the Pied Piper, he acquired pursuing children at every step. “A bike!” “A beach ball!” “A ’rector set!”

For a moment he leaned against Counter 18, warding off his tormentors. “Oh, Lord,” he whispered hoarsely to Miss Hefron. “What a hell of a way to make a living!”

“Aren’t you on the fourth floor?” she asked.

“Coffee break,” Santa groaned. His closed hand rested near the tray of horoscope brooches. A customer called to Miss Hefron and she turned away. Only for a moment-

At 4:25 P.M. Mr. Schlag glared across his desk at a resolute young man who returned his hostile look unflinchingly. “I, sir, am John R. Creighton, attorney-at-law.” A business card was slammed onto the desk. “You, sir, are being sued for five hundred thousand dollars!”

“I beg your pardon?” The young attorney’s piercing eyes were utterly unnerving. Mr. Schlag’s mouth felt dry.

“My client,” continued John Creighton, “a distinguished American actress, is suffering torment in the Los Angeles jail on trumped-up charges of shoplifting. You, sir, are responsible for this malicious accusation.” The attorney’s voice grew hollow. “May the Lord pity you, Mr. Schlag, for the courts never will!”

Schlag’s confidence returned. He spoke quickly into the intercom. “Send Miss Vought up, please. And come in yourself, Miss Gifford-with your notebook.” He turned back to the lawyer. “You’re wasting your time, Mr. Creighton. This is clear-cut theft, and we’ll prosecute to the fullest.”

“Take notes, Miss Gifford,” snapped Schlag.

“Yes, sir.” Joyce glanced at Johnny without batting an eyelash.

Five minutes later Schlag was summing up the evidence. “The brooches were counted. Only five remained. Then your client, this Mrs. Whistler-” he smirked at the name “-told a preposterous tale about a stolen purse with a sales slip from some imaginary store. We checked with the police and caught her flat-footed in her lie.”

“I see,” said Johnny slowly. “Who would have believed it?”

Joyce looked anxiously at Johnny. He looked humble and defeated as her eyes pleaded with him to do something.

At last he spoke. “Maybe we could check the brooches one more time?”

“Certainly.” The four marched downstairs to Counter 18, Joyce tagging behind in despair. “Miss Hefron,” said Schlag, “has the number of brooches on this tray changed since our incident with the thief?”

Johnny Creighton stared at the glittering jewelry. “The tray was knocked over,” he said softly. “I wonder… Would you please pick up the tray? There’s just a chance…”

Joyce lifted the tray from the counter. A Capricorn brooch, its clasp open, fell to the floor with a twinkle of light. “Under the tray!” exclaimed Johnny. “Who would have believed it!”

Miss Hefron was wide-eyed. “When they spilled! One got caught in the velvet underneath!”

Johnny’s tone was ominous. “I count six brooches, Mr. Schlag. Shall we return to your office?”

On the mezzanine steps, Schlag hesitated, then raced on toward the door marked Manager. A moment later he was shouting into the phone. “You’ve already gone to press? But I only gave you that shoplifter story a couple of hours ago! You can’t kill it?”