The Twelve Crimes of Christmas (25 page)

But on this December twenty-fourth, in Nash’s,
the normal bedlam was augmented by the vast shrilling of thousands of Children.
It may be, as the Psalmist insists, that happy is the man that hath his quiver
full of them; but no bowmen surrounded Miss Ypson’s darlings this day, only
detectives carrying revolvers, not a few of whom forbore to use same only by
the most heroic self-discipline. In the black floods of humanity overflowing
the main floor, little folks darted about like electrically charged minnows,
pursued by exasperated maternal shrieks and the imprecations of those whose
shins and rumps and toes were at the mercy of hot, happy little limbs; indeed,
nothing was sacred, and Attorney Bondling was seen to quail and wrap his
greatcoat defensively about him against the savage innocence of childhood. But
the guardians of the law, having been ordered to simulate store employees,
possessed no such armor; and many a man earned his citation that day for unique
cause. They stood in the very millrace of the tide; it churned about them,
shouting, “Dollies!
Dollies
!
”
until the very word lost its familiar meaning and became the insensate scream
of a thousand Loreleis beckoning strong men to destruction below the eye-level
of their diamond Light.

But they stood fast.

And Comus was thwarted. Oh, he tried. At 11:18
A
.
M
.
a tottering old man holding
fast to the hand of a small boy tried to wheedle Detective Hagstrom into
unlocking the glass door “so my grandson, here—he’s terrible nearsighted—can
get a closer look at the pretty dollies.” Detective Hagstrom roared, “Rube!”
and the old gentleman dropped the little boy’s hand violently and with
remarkable agility lost himself in the crowd. A spot investigation revealed
that, coming upon the boy, who had been crying for his mommy, the old gentleman
had promised to find her. The little boy, whose name—he said—was Lance
Morganstern, was removed to the Lost and Found Department; and everyone was satisfied
that the great thief had finally launched his attack. Everyone, that is, but
Ellery Queen. He seemed puzzled. When Nikki asked him why, he merely said: “Stupidity,
Nikki. It’s not in character.”

At
1
:46
P
.
M
., Sergeant Velie sent up a distress signal.
Inspector Queen read the message aright and signaled back: “O.K. Fifteen
minutes.” Sergeant Santa C. Velie scrambled off his perch, clawed his way over
the counter, and pounded urgently on the inner side of the glass door. Ellery
let him out, relocking the door immediately, and the Sergeant’s redclad figure
disappeared on the double in the general direction of the main-floor gentlemen’s
relief station, leaving the dauphin in solitary possession of the dais.

During the sergeant’s recess Inspector Queen
circulated among his men, repeating the order of the day.

The episode of Velie’s response to the summons
of Nature caused a temporary crisis. For at the end of the specified fifteen
minutes he had not returned. Nor was there a sign of him at the end of a half
hour. An aide dispatched to the relief station reported back that the sergeant
was not there. Fears of foul play were voiced at an emergency staff conference
held then and there, and counter-measures were being planned even as, at 2:35
P
.
M
., the familiar Santa-clad bulk of the sergeant
was observed battling through the lines, pawing at his mask.

“Velie,” snarled Inspector Queen, “where have
you been?”

“Eating my lunch,” growled the Sergeant’s
voice, defensively. “I been taking my punishment like a gook soldier all day,
Inspector, but I draw the line at starvin’ to death, even in line of duty.”

“Velie—!” choked the inspector; but then he
waved his hand feebly and said, “Ellery, let him back in there.”

And that was very nearly all. The only other
incident of note occurred at 4:22
P
.
M
. A well-upholstered woman with a red face
yelled, “Stop! Thief! He grabbed my pocketbook! Police!” about fifty feet from
the Ypson exhibit. Ellery instantly shouted,
“It’s a trick! Men, don’t take your eyes
off that doll!”

“It’s Comus disguised as a woman,” exclaimed
Attorney Bondling, as Inspector Queen and Detective Hesse wrestled the female
figure through the mob. She was now a wonderful shade of magenta. “What are you
doing?”
she screamed. “Don’t arrest
me!
—catch
that crook who stole my pocketbook!” “No dice, Comus,” said the inspector. “Wipe
off that makeup.” “McComas?” said the woman loudly. “My name is Rafferty, and
all these folks saw it. He was a fat man with a mustache.” “Inspector,” said
Nikki Porter, making a surreptitious scientific test. “This is a female. Believe
me.” And so, indeed, it proved. All agreed that the mustachioed fat man had
been Comus, creating a diversion in the desperate hope that the resulting
confusion would give him an opportunity to steal the little dauphin.

“Stupid, stupid,” muttered Ellery, gnawing his fingernails.

“Sure,” grinned the inspector. “We’ve got him
nibbling his tail, Ellery. This was his do-or-die pitch. He’s through.”

“Frankly,” sniffed Nikki, “I’m a little
disappointed.”

“Worried,” said Ellery, “would be the word for
me.”

I
NSPECTOR
QUEEN WAS
too
case-hardened a sinner’s nemesis to lower his guard at his most vulnerable
moment. When the 5:30 bells bonged and the crowds began struggling toward the
exits, he barked: “Men, stay at your posts. Keep watching that doll!” So all hands
were on the
qui
vive
even as the store
emptied. The reserves kept hustling people out. Ellery, standing on an
information booth, spotted bottlenecks and waved his arms.

At 5:50
P
.
M
. the main floor was declared out of the battle
zone. All stragglers had been herded out. The only persons visible were the
refugees trapped by the closing bell on the upper floors, and these were
pouring out of elevators and funneled by a solid line of detectives and
accredited store personnel to the doors. By 6:05 they were a trickle; by 6:10 even
the trickle had dried up. And the personnel itself began to disperse.

“No, men!” called Ellery sharply from his
observation post. “Stay where you are till all the store employees are out!”
The counter clerks had long since disappeared.

Sergeant Velie’s plaintive voice called from
the other side of the glass door. “I got to get home and decorate my tree.
Maestro, make with the key.”

Ellery jumped down and hurried over to release
him. Detective Piggott jeered, “Going to play Santa to your kids tomorrow
morning, Velie?” at which the sergeant managed even through his mask to project
a four-letter word distinctly, forgetful of Miss Porter’s presence, and stamped
off toward the gentleman’s relief station.

“Where you going, Velie?” asked the inspector,
smiling.

“I got to get out of these x-and-dash Santy
clothes somewheres, don’t I?” came back the sergeant’s mask-muffled tones, and
he vanished in a thunderclap of his fellow-officers’ laughter.

“Still worried, Mr. Queen?” chuckled the
inspector.

“I don’t understand it.” Ellery shook his head.
“Well, Mr. Bondling, there’s your dauphin, untouched by human hands.”

“Yes. Well!” Attorney Bondling wiped his
forehead happily. “I don’t profess to understand it, either, Mr. Queen. Unless
it’s simply another case of an inflated reputation…” He clutched the inspector
suddenly. “Those men!” he whispered.
“Who are they?”

“Relax, Mr. Bondling,” said the inspector good-naturedly.
“It’s just the men to move the dolls back to the bank. Wait a minute, you men!
Perhaps, Mr. Bondling, we’d better see the dauphin back to the vaults
ourselves.”

“Keep those fellows back,” said Ellery to the
headquarters men, quietly, and he followed the inspector and Mr. Bondling into
the enclosure. They pulled two of the counters apart at one corner and strolled
over to the platform. The dauphin was winking at them in a friendly way. They
stood looking at him.

“Cute little devil,” said the inspector.

“Seems silly now,” beamed Attorney Bondling. “Being
so worried all day.”

“Comus must have had
some
plan,” mumbled Ellery.

“Sure,” said the inspector. “That old man
disguise. And that purse-snatching act.”

“No, no, Dad. Something clever. He’s always
pulled something clever.”

“Well, there’s the diamond,” said the lawyer
comfortably. “He didn’t.”

“Disguise…” muttered Ellery. “It’s always been
a disguise. Santa Claus costume—he used that once—this morning in front of the
bank…. Did we see a Santa Claus around here today?”

“Just Velie,” said the inspector, grinning. “And
I hardly think—”

“Wait a moment, please,” said Attorney Bondling
in a very odd voice.

He was staring at the Dauphin’s Doll.

“Wait for what, Mr. Bondling?”

“What’s the matter?” said Ellery, also in a
very odd voice.

“But…
not possible…” stammered Bondling. He snatched
the doll from its black velvet repository.
“No!”
he howled.
“This isn’t the dauphin! It’s a fake—a
copy!”

Something happened in Mr. Queen’s head—a little
click!
like the sound of a switch. And there was
light.

“Some of you men!” he roared.
“After Santa Claus!”

“After who, Ellery?” gasped Inspector Queen.

“Don’t stand here!
Get him!”
screamed Ellery, dancing up and down. “The man
I just let out of here! The Santa who made for the men’s room!”

Detectives started running, wildly.

“But Ellery,” said a small voice, and Nikki
found that it was her own, “that was Sergeant Velie.”

“It was
not
Velie, Nikki! When Velie ducked out just before two o’clock,
Comus waylaid him!
It was Comus who came back in Velie’s Santa
Claus rig, wearing Velie’s whiskers and mask!
Comus has been on this platform all
afternoon!”
He
tore the dauphin from Attorney Bondling’s grasp. “Copy… He did it, he did it!”

“But Mr. Queen,” whispered Attorney Bondling, “his
voice. He spoke to
us…
in
Sergeant Velie’s voice.”

“Yes, Ellery,” Nikki heard herself saying.

“I told you yesterday Comus is a great mimic,
Nikki Lieutenant Farber! Is Farber still here?”

The jewelry expert, who had been gaping from a
distance, shook his head and shuffled into the enclosure.

“Lieutenant,” said Ellery in a strangled voice.
“Examine this diamond…. I mean,
is
it a diamond?”

Inspector Queen removed his hands from his face
and said froggily, “Well, Gerry?”

Lieutenant Farber squinted once through his
loupe. “The hell you say. It’s strass—”

“It’s what?” said the inspector piteously.

“Strass, Dick—lead glass—paste. Beautiful job
of imitation—as nice as I’ve ever seen.”

“Lead me to that Santa Claus,” whispered
Inspector Queen.

But
Santa Claus was being led to him. Struggling in the
grip of a dozen detectives,
his red coat ripped off, his red pants around his ankles, but his whiskery mask
still on his face, came a large shouting man.

“But I tell you,” he was roaring, “I’m Sergeant
Tom Velie! Just take the mask off—that’s all!”