The Twelve Crimes of Christmas (5 page)

He
had already seen me, but I wouldn’t make a point of it. Kiernan, however, had a
point to make, and made it: he had to leave last so he could lock up. It was so
arranged. The three women, Leo Jerome, and Stebbins and I took the elevator
down, leaving the two dicks with Kiernan and Hatch. Down on the sidewalk, as
they headed in different directions, I could see no sign of tails taking after
them. It was still snowing, a fine prospect for Christmas and the street
cleaners. There were two police cars at the curb, and Purley went to one and
opened the door and motioned to me to get in.

I
objected. “If I’m invited downtown too I’m willing to oblige, but I’m going to
eat first. I damn near starved to death there once.”

“You’re
not wanted downtown, not right now. Get in out of the snow.”

I
did so, and slid across under the wheel to make room for him. He needs room. He
joined me and pulled the door shut.

“If
we’re going to sit here,” I suggested, “we might as well be rolling. Don’t
bother to cross town, just drop me at Thirty-fifth.”

He
objected. “I don’t like to drive and talk. Or listen. What were you doing there
today?”

“I’ve
told you. Having fun. Three kinds of champagne. Miss Dickey invited me.”

“I’m
giving you another chance. You were the only outsider there. Why? You’re
nothing special to Miss Dickey. She was going to marry Bottweill. Why?”

“Ask
her.”

“We
have asked her. She says there was no particular reason, she knew Bottweill
liked you, and they’ve regarded you as one of them since you found some
tapestries for them. She stuttered around about it. What I say, any time I find
you anywhere near a murder, I want to know. I’m giving you another chance.”

So
she hadn’t mentioned the marriage license. Good for her. I would rather have
eaten all the snow that had fallen since noon than explain that damn license to
Sergeant Stebbins or Inspector Cramer. That was why I had gone through the
wastebasket. “Thanks for the chance,” I told him, “but I can’t use it. I’ve
told you everything I saw and heard there today.” That put me in a class with
Mrs. Jerome, since I had left out my little talk with Margot. “I’ve told you
all I know about those people. Lay off and go find your murderer.”

“I
know you, Goodwin.”

“Yeah,
you’ve even called me Archie. I treasure that memory.”

“I
know you.” His head was turned on his bull neck, and our eyes were meeting. “Do
you expect me to believe that guy got out of that room and away without you
knowing it?”

“Nuts.
I was kneeling on the floor, watching a man die, and they were around us.
Anyway, you’re just talking to hear yourself. You don’t think I was accessory
to the murder or to the murderer’s escape.”

“I
didn’t say I did. Even if he was wearing gloves—and what for if not to leave no
prints?—I don’t say he was the murderer. But if you knew who he was and didn’t
want him involved in it, and let him get away, and if you let us wear out our
ankles looking for him, what about that?”

“That
would be bad. If I asked my advice I would be against it.”

“Goddam
it,” he barked, “do you know who he is?”

“No.”

“Did
you or Wolfe have anything to do with getting him there?”

“No.”

“All
right, pile out. They’ll be wanting you downtown.”

“I
hope not tonight. I’m tired.” I opened the door. “You have my address.” I
stepped out into the snow, and he started the engine and rolled off.

It
should have been a good hour for an empty taxi, but in a Christmas-season
snowstorm it took me ten minutes to find one. When it pulled up in front of the
old brownstone on West Thirty-fifth Street it was eight minutes to eight.

As
usual in my absence, the chain-bolt was on, and I had to ring for Fritz to let
me in. I asked him if Wolfe was back, and he said yes, he was at dinner. As I
put my hat on the shelf and my coat on a hanger I asked if there was any left
for me, and he said plenty, and moved aside for me to precede him down the hall
to the door of the dining room. Fritz has fine manners.

Wolfe,
in his oversized chair at the end of the table, told me good evening, not snapping
or barking. I returned it, got seated at my place, picked up my napkin, and
apologized for being late. Fritz came, from the kitchen, with a warm plate, a
platter of braised boned ducklings, and a dish of potatoes baked with mushrooms
and cheese. I took enough. Wolfe asked if it was still snowing and I said yes.
After a good mouthful had been disposed of, I spoke.

“As
you know, I approve of your rule not to discuss business during a meal, but I’ve
got something on my chest and it’s not business. It’s personal.”

He
grunted. “The death of Mr. Bottweill was reported on the radio at seven o’clock.
You were there.”

“Yeah.
I was there. I was kneeling by him while he died.” I replenished my mouth. Damn
the radio. I hadn’t intended to mention the murder until I had dealt with the
main issue from my standpoint. When there was room enough for my tongue to work
I went on, “I’ll report on that in full if you want it, but I doubt if there’s
a job in it. Mrs. Perry Porter Jerome is the only suspect with enough jack to
pay your fee, and she has already notified Purley Stebbins that she won’t be
abused. Besides, when they find Santa Claus that may settle it. What I want to report
on happened before Bottweill died. That marriage license I showed you is for
the birds. Miss Dickey has called it off. I am out two bucks. She told me she
had decided to marry Bottweill.”

He
was sopping a crust in the sauce on his plate. “Indeed,” he said.

“Yes,
sir. It was a jolt, but I would have recovered, in time. Then ten minutes later
Bottweill was dead. Where does that leave me? Sitting around up there through
the routine, I considered it. Perhaps I could get her back now, but no thank
you. That license has been destroyed. I get another one, another two bucks, and
then she tells me she has decided to marry Joe Doakes. I’m going to forget her.
I’m going to blot her out.”

I
resumed on the duckling. Wolfe was busy chewing. When he could he said, “For
me, of course, this is satisfactory.”

“I
know it is. Do you want to hear about Bottweill?”

“After
dinner.”

“Okay.
How did you make out with Thompson?”

But
that didn’t appeal to him as a dinner topic either. In fact, nothing did.
Usually he likes table talk, about anything from refrigerators to Republicans,
but apparently the trip to Long Island and back, with all its dangers, had
tired him out. It suited me all right, since I had had a noisy afternoon too
and could stand a little silence. When we had both done well with the duckling
and potatoes and salad and baked pears and cheese and coffee, he pushed back
his chair.

“There’s
a book,” he said, “that I want to look at. It’s up in your room—
Here
and Now,
by Herbert Block. Will you bring it down, please?”

Though
it meant climbing two flights with a full stomach, I was glad to oblige, out of
appreciation for his calm acceptance of my announcement of my shattered hopes.
He could have been very vocal. So I mounted the stairs cheerfully, went to my
room, and crossed to the shelves where I keep a few books. There were only a
couple of dozen of them, and I knew where each one was, but
Here and Now
wasn’t there. Where it should have been was a gap. I
looked around, saw a book on the dresser, and stepped to it. It was
Here and Now,
and lying on top of it was a pair of white cotton
gloves.

I
gawked.

IV

I
would like to say that I caught on immediately, the second I spotted them, but
I didn’t. I had picked them up and looked them over, and put one of them on and
taken it off again, before I fully realized that there was only one possible
explanation. Having realized it, instantly there was a traffic jam inside my
skull, horns blowing, brakes squealing, head-on collisions. To deal with it I
went to a chair and sat. It took me maybe a minute to reach my first clear
conclusion.

He
had taken this method of telling me he was Santa Claus, instead of just telling
me, because he wanted me to think it over on my own before we talked it over
together.

Why
did he want me to think it over on my own? That took a little longer, but with
the traffic under control I found my way through to the only acceptable answer.
He had decided to give up his trip to see Thompson, and instead to arrange with
Bottweill to attend the Christmas party disguised as Santa Claus, because the
idea of a woman living in his house—or of the only alternative, my leaving—had
made him absolutely desperate, and he had to see for himself. He had to see
Margot and me together, and to talk with her if possible. If he found out that
the marriage license was a hoax he would have me by the tail; he could tell me
he would be delighted to welcome my bride and watch me wriggle out. If he found
that I really meant it he would know what he was up against and go on from
there. The point was this, that he had shown what he really thought of me. He
had shown that rather than lose me he would do something that he wouldn’t have
done for any fee anybody could name. He would rather have gone without beer for
a week than admit it, but now he was a fugitive from justice in a murder case
and needed me. So he had to let me know, but he wanted it understood that that
aspect of the matter was not to be mentioned. The assumption would be that he
had gone to Bottweill’s instead of Long Island because he loved to dress up
like Santa Claus and tend bar.

A
cell in my brain tried to get the right of way for the question, considering
this development, how big a raise should I get after New Year’s? but I waved it
to the curb.

I
thought over other aspects. He had worn the gloves so I couldn’t recognize his
hands. Where did he get them? What time had he got to Bottweill’s and who had
seen him? Did Fritz know where he was going? How had he got back home? But
after a little of that I realized that he hadn’t sent me up to my room to ask
myself questions he could answer, so I went back to considering whether there
was anything else he wanted me to think over alone. Deciding there wasn’t,
after chewing it thoroughly, I got
Here and Now
and the gloves from the dresser, went to the stairs and descended, and entered
the office.

From
behind his desk, he glared at me as I crossed over.

“Here
it is,” I said, and handed him the book. “And much obliged for the gloves.” I
held them up, one in each hand, dangling them from thumb and fingertip.

“It
is no occasion for clowning,” he growled.

“It
sure isn’t.” I dropped the gloves on my desk, whirled my chair, and sat. “Where
do we start? Do you want to know what happened after you left?”

“The
details can wait. First where we stand. Was Mr. Cramer there?”

“Yes.
Certainly.”

“Did
he get anywhere?”

“No.
He probably won’t until he finds Santa Claus. Until they find Santa Claus they
won’t dig very hard at the others. The longer it takes to find him the surer
they’ll be he’s it. Three things about him: nobody knows who he was, he beat
it, and he wore gloves. A thousand men are looking for him. You were right to
wear the gloves, I would have recognized your hands, but where did you get
them?”

“At
a store on Ninth Avenue. Confound it. I didn’t know a man was going to be
murdered!”

“I
know you didn’t. May I ask some questions?”

He
scowled. I took it for yes. “When did you phone Bottweill to arrange it?”

“At
two-thirty yesterday afternoon. You had gone to the bank.”

“Have
you any reason to think he told anyone about it?”

“No.
He said he wouldn’t.”

“I
know he got the costume, so that’s okay. When you left here today at
twelve-thirty did you go straight to Bottweill’s?”

“No.
I left at that hour because you and Fritz expected me to. I stopped to buy the
gloves, and met him at Rusterman’s, and we had lunch. From there we took a cab
to his place, arriving shortly after two o’clock, and took his private elevator
up to his office. Immediately upon entering his office, he got a bottle of
Pernod from a drawer of his desk, said he always had a little after lunch, and
invited me to join him. I declined. He poured a liberal portion in a glass,
about two ounces, drank it in two gulps, and returned the bottle to the drawer.”

“My
God.” I whistled. “The cops would like to know
that.”

“No
doubt. The costume was there in a box. There is a dressing room at the rear of
his office, with a bathroom—”

“I
know. I’ve used it.”

“I
took the costume there and put it on. He had ordered the largest size, but it
was a squeeze and it took a while. I was in there half an hour or more. When I
reentered the office it was empty, but soon Bottweill came, up the stairs from
the workshop, and helped me with the mask and wig. They had barely been
adjusted when Emil Hatch and Mrs. Jerome and her son appeared, also coming up
the stairs from the workshop. I left, going to the studio, and found Miss Quon
and Miss Dickey and Mr. Kiernan there.”