Abigail Browining - Murder Most Merry

The first person Nick saw as he entered the front door of the Outreach Center was a young man in sweater and jeans seated at an unpretentious card table. “I’ve come to pick up Russell Bajon’s belongings,” Nick told him. “The family sent me.”

The young man seemed indifferent to the request. Apparently people who stayed at the men’s dorm weren’t expected to have anything worth stealing. “I’ll get Chris.”

Nick waited in the bare hallway until the young man returned with an older worker with thinning hair, wearing a faded Giants sweatshirt. “I’m Chris Stover. What can I do for you?”

“Russell Bajon’s family sent me for his belongings.”

The man frowned. “Didn’t know he had a family. There sure wasn’t much in the way of belongings. We were going to throw them out.”

“Could I see them?”

Stover hesitated and then led him down the corridor to a storage room. For all its drabness, the dormitory building seemed to be well fitted for its clients, with a metal railing along the wall and smoke alarms in the ceiling. Nick stood by the door as Stover pulled out some boxes from one shelf in the storage room. “If I’d been five minutes earlier, Russ might be alive today,” he said.

“I think I saw your name in the paper—”

“Sure! I placed him there and I was picking him up. When I rounded the corner I saw a crowd of people gathering. He was dead by the time I got to him.”

“Nobody saw anything?”

“I guess not. Who pays attention in New York? I swear once I was driving by Radio City Music Hall about six in the morning, when they were having their Christmas show. Some guy was walking two camels around the block for their morning exercise and hardly anyone even noticed.” He slit open the tape on one of the boxes and peered inside. “Nothing but clothing in here.”

“I’ll just take it along anyway.”

When he opened the second box he frowned a bit. “Well, there are some letters in this one, and a couple of books.” He looked up at Nick. “Maybe I should have some sort of authorization to release these.”

“I can give you his sister’s phone number.” He’d worked that out with Vivian in advance. “You can check with her.”

“Never heard about a sister,” the man muttered. Then, “Our director is away today. I better wait till he gets back. Come back tomorrow.”

“Sure thing.” Nick turned to leave, his hand unobtrusively on the door’s latchbolt. Stover shut the door and they walked back down the corridor together.

“See you later,” the man told him and disappeared into a little office.

Immediately Nick turned and vaulted onto the handrail that ran along the wall, steadying himself with one hand against the ceiling, With his other hand he reached toward one of the smoke alarms. This model had a plastic button in the center of the unit for testing the battery, and he shoved a thin dime between the button and the casing, keeping it depressed. Immediately a loud blaring noise filled the hall. He jumped down to the floor as people began to look out of the rooms.

Some headed immediately for the exits while others stood around looking for some sign of smoke. Nick slipped into the storeroom just as Chris Stover emerged from his office to join the others. There was little chance of getting out with two boxes so Nick settled for the one containing the letters and books. He peeked down the hall and saw that Stover had gotten a ladder from somewhere to examine the blaring alarm. Perhaps he had noticed the edge of the dime holding the button in.

Nick went out the storeroom window as the smoke alarm was suddenly silenced.

Vivian Delmos seemed just a bit surprised to see him back so soon. “I thought you were going to get me Russell Bajon’s things.”

“I did. They’re in this box. There was another box with a few pants and shirts, but I figured this was what you wanted.”

“I’ll know soon enough.”

She opened the box and began looking through the objects, setting aside a worn pair of shoes and some socks and handkerchiefs. When she came to the books she examined them more carefully. One was a paperback edition of some of Shakespeare’s tragedies, the others were a small dictionary and a book on acting. But she soon tossed these aside too, and turned only briefly to the letters, shaking the envelopes to make certain nothing small was hidden in them.

“You got the wrong box,” she grumbled.

“I’m sorry.”

She seemed to relent then. “No, what I’m looking for probably wasn’t in the other box either. Somebody told me Bajon was involved with a shoplifting ring, stealing watches and jewelry from fancy stores during the Christmas season. I thought if he had anything in his belongings—”

“—that you’d take it?”

She flushed a bit at Nick’s words. “I’m no thief. When Russell and I were in the play together I loaned him a few hundred dollars. I could use that money now. I figured anything I found among his belongings would pay the debt.”

“Any jewelry or valuables he had were probably removed by whoever went through his clothes.” As he spoke he was looking down at one of the envelopes that had been in the box. It was addressed to Russell Bajon at the Outreach Center. The return address bore only the surname of the sender: Averly .

It took him a few seconds to realize the significance of the name. The Santa strangler’s second victim had been named Larry Averly. Nick slipped the letter out of the envelope and read the few lines quickly: “Russ—I was happy to do you the favor. No need to send me any more money. Keep some of the pie for yourself. Merry Christmas! Larry.” The note was undated, but the envelope had been postmarked December second.

Nick returned the letter to its envelope and slipped it into his pocket. It told him nothing, except that the two victims might have known each other. Maybe Bajon had replaced Averly as one of the Santas.

“Thanks for your efforts anyway,” Vivian Delmos said.

“I did what I could.”

When he didn’t move, she asked, “Are you waiting for something more?”

“Yes.”

“What’s that?”

“Your beard.”

That evening Nick returned to Grady Culhane’s little office off Times Square. The young security man seemed uneasy as soon as he walked in the door. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come here,” he said.

Nick opened the paper bag he was carrying. “Why’s that? I’ve brought you the beard.”

“The beard was yesterday. Things have moved beyond that now. The cops are all over the place.”

“What do you mean?”

“The extortion payoff. The money was left exactly as instructed, on the upper deck of the ferry that left Staten Island at three o’clock, before the evening rush hour. The police had it covered from every angle, even if he’d tossed the package overboard to a waiting boat.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. When the ferry docked in Manhattan some little old lady picked up the package and turned it in to lost and found.”

“She got to it before the extortionist.”

“Maybe,” Culhane answered gloomily.

“What’s the matter?”

“The Outreach Center reported that someone was snooping around the first victim’s things this afternoon, and stole a box.”

“That was me.”

“I was afraid it might be. That means the cops are after you.”

“How come?”

“They figure the killer was at the Outreach Center and that’s why he couldn’t pick up the extortion money from the three o’clock ferry.”

“I certainly don’t go around strangling Santas!” Nick objected. “You didn’t even hire me till after the killings.”

“I know, but try to tell them that! They need a fall guy. right away, or the city could lose millions in Christmas sales this final week. Who wants to bring the kids to see Santa Claus if he might be dead?”