Abigail Browining - Murder Most Merry

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. Whiteboy. 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 overtime 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 THEFT OF THE CHRISTMAS STOCKING – Edward D. Hoch

It always seemed more like Christmas with snow in the air, even if there were only fat white flakes that melted as they hit the sidewalk. Walking briskly along Fifth Avenue at noon on Christmas Eve, Nick Velvet was aware of the last-minute crowds clutching red-and-green shopping bags that must have delighted the merchants. When he turned in at the building on the corner of Fifty-fourth Street, he wasn’t surprised to see that the pre-Christmas festivities had spread even here, within the confines of one of Manhattan’s most exclusive private clubs.

The slender, sour-faced man behind the desk inside the door eyed Nick for an instant and asked, “Are you looking for the Dellon-Simpson Christmas party?”

“Mr. Charles Simpson,” Nick confirmed. “I have an appointment with him here.”

The guardian of the door consulted his list. “You’d be Mr. Velvet?”

“That’s right.”

“You’ll find Mr. Simpson in the library, straight ahead. He’s expecting you.”

Nick crossed the marble floor, past a curving staircase that led up to a surprisingly noisy party, and entered the library through tall oak doors that shut out virtually all sound. Inside was a club-room from a hundred years ago, complete with an elderly member dozing in front of the fireplace.

“Mr. Velvet?” a voice asked, and Nick turned and saw a figure rising from the shadow of an oversized wing chair.

“That’s correct. You’d be Charles Simpson?”

“I would be.” By the flickering firelight. Nick could make out a tall man with a noble face and furry white sideburns. He looked to be a vigorous sixty or so and his handshake was a grip of steel. “Thank you for coming.”

“I’m keeping you from your firm’s Christmas party.”

“Nonsense. Business before pleasure, even on Christmas Eve. I want you to steal something for me, Mr. Velvet.”

“That’s my business. You understand the conditions? Nothing of value, and my fee—”

“I was told in advance. But it must be done tonight. Is that a problem?”

“No. What’s the object?”

Simpson’s face crinkled into a tight-lipped smile. “A Christmas stocking. I want you to steal the Christmas stocking hanging from the fireplace at my granddaughter’s. Any time after midnight.”

“Does it contain something valuable?”

“The gift inside will be valueless, but I want that, too.”

“Where does she live?”

“With her mother in a duplex apartment on upper Fifth Avenue.” He produced a piece of paper from his pocket. “Here’s the address. I warn you, the building has tight security.”