Abigail Browining - Murder Most Merry

“He’s a slyboots,” said Reg, “but I deserve it. He was pretty annoyed by the turkey episode last year.”

“You’re not the only victim,” said Gemma.

“Were you sent on a wild-goose chase?”

“No. But I think he may have tricked us. He must have. He led us to believe you were kidnapped. That’s why he went to this trouble to keep you away.”

“Crafty old devil.”

“He took ten grand off us,” said Andy.

“What?”

“He persuaded us to put up a ransom for you.”

“Now who are you kidding?”

“It’s true.” said Gemma. “We put together everything we had, cash, jewellery, family heirlooms, and Geoff went off to deliver it to the kidnappers.”

“Strike me pink!”

“And he isn’t back yet,” said Andy.

Pauline said, “Geoff wouldn’t rob his own family.”

“Don’t count on it,” said Reg. “He doesn’t give a toss for any of us.”

“Geoff?”

“Did you know he’s emigrating?”

“No.”

“It’s true,” said Reg. “He’s off to Australia any day now. I picked this up on the grapevine through a colleague in the bank. I think the accident made him reconsider his plan, so to speak.”

“What accident?”

“There you are, you see. I only heard about that from the same source. Old Geoff was in hospital for over a week at the end of September and the last thing he wanted was a visit from any of us.”

“A road accident?”

“No. he did it himself. You know how keen he is on the garden. He’s got this turfed area sloping down to the pond. He ran the mower over his foot and severed his big toe.”

THE THEFT OF SANTA’S BEARD – Edward D. Hoch

The New York stores had closed at nine that evening, disgorging gift-laden Christmas shoppers by the hundreds. Most were too busy shifting the weight of their parcels and shopping bags to bother digging for coins as they passed the bell-ringing Santa on the corner. He was a bit thin and scraggly compared to the overstuffed Santas who worked the department stores and bounced tiny children on their knees while asking for their Christmas lists. His job was only to ring a little hand-held bell and accept donations in a chimney-shaped container.

This Santa’s name was Russell Bajon and he’d come to the city expecting better things. After working at a variety of minimum-wage jobs and landing a couple of short-lived acting roles off Broadway, he’d taken the Santa Claus job for the holidays. There was no pay, but they supplied his meals and a place to sleep at night. And there were good fringe benefits, enough to keep him going till he was back on his feet with a part in a decent play.

After another fifteen minutes the crowd from the stores had pretty well scattered. There were still people on the dark streets, as there would be for most of the night, but those remaining hurried by his chimney without even a glance. He waited a few more minutes and then decided to pack up. The truck would be coming by shortly to collect the chimney and give him a ride back to the men’s dorm where he slept.

He was bending over the chimney with its collection basket when someone bumped him from behind. He straightened and tried to turn, but by that time the thin copper wire was cutting into his throat.

By the time the second Santa Claus had been strangled to death, the tabloids had the story on page one. No Clues to Claus Killer, one of them trumpeted, while another proclaimed, Santa Strangler Strikes Again. Nick Velvet glanced over the articles with passing interest, but at that point they were nothing to directly affect him.

“Where was the latest killing?” Gloria asked as she prepared breakfast.

“In the subway. An elderly Santa on his way to work.”

She shook her head. “What’s this world coming to when somebody starts strangling Santa Clauses?”

The next morning Nick found out. He was seated in the office of the Intercontinental Protection Service, across the desk from a man named Grady Culhane. The office was small and somewhat plain, not what Nick had expected from the pretentious name. Culhane himself was young, barely past thirty, with black hair, thick eyebrows, and an Irish smile. He spread his hands flat on the uncluttered desktop and said, I understand you steal things of little or no value.”

“That’s correct,” Nick replied. “My standard fee is twenty-five thousand dollars, unless it’s something especially hazardous.”

“This should be simple enough. I want you to steal the beard from a department store Santa Claus. It’s the Santa at Kliman’s main store, and it must be done tomorrow before noon. Santa’s hours there are noon to four and five to eight.”

“What makes it so valuable to you?”

“Nothing. It’s worth no more than any other false white beard. I just need it tomorrow.”

“I usually get half the money down and the other half after the job,” Nick said. “Is that agreeable?”

“Sure. It’ll have to be a check. I don’t have that much cash on hand.”

“So long as I can cash it at your bank.”

He made out the check and handed it over. “Here’s a sketch map I drew of Kliman’s fourth floor. This is the dressing room Santa uses.”

“So the beard is probably there before noon. Why don’t you just walk in and steal it?” Nick wondered. “Why do you need me?”

“You ever been in Kliman’s? They’ve got security cameras all over the store, including hidden ones in the dressing rooms. This is only Santa’s room during the Christmas season. The rest of the year it’s used by the public, and the camera is probably still operational. I can’t afford to be seen stealing the beard or anything else.”

“What about me?”

“That’s your job. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

“Fair enough,” Nick agreed, folding the check once and slipping it into his pocket. “I’ll be back here tomorrow with the beard.”

Nothing had been said about the two Santa Claus killings, but somehow, as Nick Velvet left the building, he had the feeling he was becoming involved in something a lot more complex than a simple robbery.

The Santa Claus killings were still big news the following morning, and Nick read the speculations about possible motives as he traveled into midtown on the subway. The second man to die, Larry Averly, was a retired plumber who’d been earning some spare cash as a holiday Santa Claus. The first victim, Bajon, had died on Monday evening, the fourteenth, while the second death came the following morning. Nick had the feeling the press was almost disappointed that another killing had not followed on Wednesday. Now it was Thursday, eight days before Christmas, and the street before Kliman’s block-long department store was crowded with shoppers.

He entered the store with the first wave of customers when the doors opened at ten, making his way up the escalator to the fourth floor. After a half-hour of lingering in the furniture department, he wandered over to the dressing-room door that Grady Culhane had indicated on his map. When no one was looking, he slipped inside.

His first task was to locate the closed-circuit television camera. He found it without difficulty—a circular lens embedded in the very center of a round wall clock. Not wanting to blot out the view entirely and arouse the suspicion of possible observers, Nick moved a coat rack in front of the clock, blocking most of the little room. Then he quickly opened a pair of lockers. But there was no Santa Claus costume, no beard, in either one. He’d been hoping that the store’s Santa changed into his costume on the premises, but it looked as if he might come to work already dressed, like the street Santa who’d been strangled in the subway.