Christmas Stalkings (24 page)

It was Peter who was approaching in the Santa Claus suit. She did not lower her gun. What a host of problems would be removed if she fired now. No more unwanted guests, no more intrusions on her privacy, no more screams from her manager about the Foundation’s excessive disbursements. Best of all, no more Dr. Froehlich.

“Who’s that behind the tapestry?” Peter demanded. “Come out, I see you.”

She had made the holes too big. But it didn’t matter. She could still shoot him, she thought, and make her escape as planned, possibly pausing at the apartment to shoot Zimwi as she left. Perhaps she could pot Dr. Froehlich on her way out and make a clean sweep.

It was a great temptation. But the Melvilles had been brought up to resist temptation. She lowered the gun and came out from behind the hanging.

“Susan! What on earth are you doing with that toy pistol? I hope you’re not planning to squirt me with water. If I get spots on the plush, I might not get back the full deposit for the costume.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” she said, putting the gun in her holster with a sigh of regret.

“It’s not like you to play such childish tricks. What if I had been Matthew?”

“I wouldn’t have come out. I was watching through the holes in the hanging, and when I saw the Santa suit I thought at first it was Mr. Zimwi. Where is he, anyway?”

“Dead to the world,” Peter said. “Don’t get alarmed; he’s just dead drunk. I’ve been trying to keep him sober, but somehow he got hold of a couple of bottles of whiskey—bribed one of the workmen, I wouldn’t be surprised. Can’t have Santa Claus staggering downstairs, I told him. I thought maybe we could wait and I could sober him up with a little coffee, but he kept insisting he was going to be Santa Claus right away and nobody was going to stop him. He picked up my spear. I was afraid he was going to attack me with it. Then—”

“You tore it from his grasp?” Perhaps she had misjudged Peter.

“Not exactly.”

Still she gave him the benefit of the doubt “You knocked him out?”

“Not that either. He passed out cold.”

“Oh,” she said.

“There was nothing left for me to do but get into the Santa Claus suit myself. I put it on as quickly as I could and left, locking the door behind me. I hope the guests won’t be disappointed.”

“Why should they be? All you did was promise them a surprise, and the sight of you in that Santa Claus suit would surprise anybody.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “I’m sure they’re expecting something more—well—dramatic.” He wriggled and some of his stuffing slid, making it look as if he were about to give birth at any moment. “I’m aware that the suit doesn’t fit as well as it might. I tried to eke it out with pillows, but there weren’t enough on hand.”

“Come back in here,” she said, pulling him into the room behind the hanging. “As I was passing through, I noticed a pile of pillows back in the corner that should do nicely.”

“Those are
Madungu
cushions. Very rare and valuable, since the
Madungus
are extinct.”

“They won’t be any less rare and valuable through having served as Santa Claus’s belly and may perhaps gain added historical interest” Despite his protestations, she stuffed him with the
Madungu
cushions until he was round and tight.

“Poor Matthew,” Peter said. “He will be so disappointed at having missed the party. I wish I could— no, I daren’t let him out later because, even though he may have sobered up somewhat, there’s no guarantee that he will be any less violent.”

“You can tell him about it later,” she said. If there was a later. She hadn’t given up her mission. In fact, it would be much easier now. She’d let Peter introduce her; then, when Santa Claus was distributing his gifts, she’d slip upstairs, dispose of Zimwi, and return to the party. With any luck, that meant his body wouldn’t be discovered until the party was over and the guests, including herself, long gone.

Peter offered her his arm. “Shall we make a grand entrance together?”

“Santa Claus and Annie Oakley?”

“Oh, is that who you’re supposed to be? I thought you were an elf.”

“An elf with a gun?”

“This is New York. Even the elves are likely to carry guns.”

They stood together at the head of the main staircase that led down to the first floor. The guests— ancient Egyptians, cave persons, Eskimos, Hindu deities, and a variety of ethnic entities she could not identify, gathered below with expectant cries. There was a
drumroll
followed by a flourish of trumpets.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . .” Peter began and stopped. Obviously it had just occurred to him that the speech he had prepared would not work. It had been designed to introduce Santa Claus, not to be spoken by Santa Claus. Peter looked helplessly at Susan.

“Improvise,” she whispered, hoping she would not have to make his speech for him.

But there turned out to be no need for a speech. At that moment a bloodcurdling scream came from the back of the building, a scream so terrible that it made Susan’s flesh crawl; and if it did that to a Melville, what must it be doing to the guests clustered below? This was followed by a crash that seemed to shake the building to its foundations.

It took a while before anybody was able to find out what had happened. Apparently Zimwi had come to and, determined to go to the party, had set out in his dressing gown. He could not reach the stairs because the door to the apartment was locked, and so, forgetting the warning that had been given him, overlooking the sign outside (or, as Susan always suspected, unable to read it; she had never thought much of missionary schools), he had opened the door to the elevator and plunged down the shaft to the basement. A lighter man might possibly have survived, but for a man of Matthew
Zimwi’s
weight, the fall was inevitably fatal.

“The medical examiner tells me that he died instantly,” the detective in charge told them after the body had been cleared away. “He couldn’t have suffered.”

“Oh, I am glad to hear that,” Dr. Froehlich, who had joined the executive group unasked, said, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “Such a sad end to such bright hopes!”

“I’m afraid your Christmas has been spoiled,” the detective said.

Susan gave the sad smile that the police—a sentimental lot—would expect under the circumstances, but her heart was full of cheer. She had not, after all, had to break her rule of not killing anyone over the holidays, and although she felt a bit disappointed at not having killed Zimwi herself, still, there were plenty of other evil individuals she intended to dispatch as soon as the new year began. She was not going to begrudge an act of God, especially at Christmas.

“I guess this means the party is over,” Peter said sadly.

“I don’t see why,” she said. “They’ve taken the body out through the basement, so the guests have been spared any actually grisly sights, although, heaven knows, in their profession they should be used to them. Anthropologists,” she said, in reply to the detective’s questioning look.

“Ah,” he said.

“None of the guests was actually acquainted with him, and accidents are always happening at parties.”

“They are, indeed,” the detective said. “I could tell you stories of accidents at parties . . .”

She smiled at him. “So I don’t see any reason why the party can’t go on as planned—or almost as planned, anyhow. And I hope that you and your men will join us in a glass of eggnog or
glogg
or whatever seasonal libation the caterers have laid on for the occasion.”

“There are reporters outside and it’s snowing,” Dr. Froehlich said. “Shouldn’t I ask them to come in and join us?”

“This is a private party,” Susan said. “Let them stand out in the snow.”

If she was going to get adverse publicity out of this—and she knew she would—she might as well have a little revenge first. She wished she could tell Dr. Froehlich to go out and join them in the snow but it would mean a scene, and she detested scenes. After New Year’s she would make Peter fire Dr. Froehlich. Maybe Susan would think of some way of saving Peter’s face. And then again, maybe she wouldn’t.

In Canada, crime writing is a fairly recent phenomenon, yet mystery writers are already being taken far more seriously by the mainstream literary establishment there than in many other countries. Eric Wright’s first book won him a City of Toronto Prize for an important contribution to Canadian literature. Since then, he’s received international recognition in a number of ways, but here’s one that really takes the frosted bun:

The Globe and Mail,
Canada’s most prestigious newspaper, ran an article lamenting the dearth of truly memorable characters in today’s fiction. It asked how many readers could identify these landmark figures in literature: Uriah
Heep
, Mr.
Micawber
, Eliza Doolittle, Charlie Salter, and Fagin. Eric’s portrayal of a Toronto policeman’s everyday life in its many vicissitudes is far subtler than’ Dickens’s or Shaw’s splashy portraits, but no less unforgettable.

You won’t meet Charlie Salter in this story, but you’ll see why Eric got put on the list.

From the day The Boozer became my cell mate and first told me about Clyde Parker, it took us nearly a year to set him up. In the end, though, the long delay turned out to be for the best because when we did catch up with him, the timing, Christmas Eve, was perfect

Clyde Parker was the owner of a pub on King Street East. The Old Bush was a beer parlor, not a “men only” parlor but not the kind of place that ladies felt comfortable in, either, and as the man said, those that came in left, or they did not remain ladies very long. It had graduated from being one of the worst holes in the east end of the city to being quaint, one of the last
unrenovated
survivors of the days when drink was as feared as polyunsaturated fat is now. The Old Bush was such a relic that it was discovered a few years ago by a wine columnist who wrote an article about it which brought in a few people who were looking for an authentic experience, but they didn’t come back once they’d got it The regular patrons stared at them.

If there was only one or two of these tourists they’d leave them alone, but if six or eight of them came in, someone would give a signal and the pub would go quiet as the regular patrons stared at them. They didn’t like that. A lot of old-timers used the place, and you could generally count on finding a few
rounders
there on a weeknight.

It was The Boozer who put us on to the fact that Clyde Parker, the owner, might be whispering into the ear of the coppers. I say “might” because we weren’t sure for a long time, which was why we didn’t go for Parker in a heavy way as soon as Boozer had tipped us. We had to give him the benefit of the doubt.

The Boozer had just done a nice little job over in Rosedale. At the time he was paying a window cleaner to let him know of any empties he came across, and one day he reported that the inhabitants of a certain house on Crescent Road had gone on vacation, and access was relatively simple. The Boozer duly dropped by at 3
a.m.
with a few copies of
The Globe and Mail
in case anyone was about, let himself in the back door, and helped himself to a
sackful
of small stuff—silver, jewelry, and such, including a real piece of luck, a twenty-ounce gold bar he found in a desk drawer. The Boozer claimed it was about the cleanest little job he’d ever done. He worked with Toothy Maclean on lookout. Utterly reliable, Toothy was. So when they came for The Boozer, three days later, he had a long think and the only one he could see shopping him was Clyde Parker.

See, the night after the job, The Boozer had called in at the Bush for a few draft ales, and to pay for his beer he off-loaded a few trinkets, cuff links and such, on Old Perry. Old Perry paid him about a tenth of what they were worth, which in itself was about a tenth of what you’d have to pay in a store, but The Boozer was thirsty and he had plenty of goods left. Old Perry made his living by having the money in his pocket when you were thirsty, and we’d all dealt with him. We’d have known years ago if he was a nark. The other alternative, Toothy Maclean, was unthinkable. Then The Boozer remembered that Clyde Parker had been hovering round when he passed the stuff over to Old Perry, so he began to wonder. He confided in me and the two of us did some asking around and we came up with three others who’d been fingered not long after they’d brushed up against Parker. So that’s how it was; we didn’t have any proof, but we were pretty sure.

The Boozer wanted to send a message to the outside to have Parker done, but I talked him out of it. Not too heavy, I told him, because we might be wrong, and anyway, let’s do it ourselves, let’s be there when it happens. I was beginning to get an idea; though, when The Boozer asked, I said I didn’t know yet. We had plenty of time to think about it. I got The Boozer calmed down, but he said if I didn’t get a good idea, then he’d torch the Bush as soon as he got out.