Cynthia Manson (ed) (24 page)

She came right to the point. I could
see Michaels liked that; some of these women throw a big act and it’s an hour
before you know what’s been stolen. “It’s my emeralds and rubies,” she said.
“They’re gone. There are some other pieces missing too, but I don’t so much
care about them. The emeralds and the rubies are the important thing. You’ve
got to find them.”

“Necklaces?” Michaels asked.

“A necklace.”

“Of emeralds
and
rubies?”
Michaels knows his jewelry. His old man is in the business and tried to bring
him up in it. but he joined the force. He knows a thing or two just the same,
and his left eyebrow does tricks when he hears or sees something that isn’t
kosher. It was doing tricks now.

“I know that may sound strange,
Lieutenant, but this is no time for discussing the esthetics of jewelry. It
struck me once that it would be exciting to have red and green in one necklace,
and I had it made. They’re perfectly cut and matched, and it could never be
duplicated.”

Michaels didn’t look happy. “You
could drape it on a Christmas tree,” he said. But Beverly Benson’s Christmas
tree was a cold white with the little animals holding blue lights.

Those Benson eyes were generally
lovely and melting. Now they flashed. “Lieutenant, I summoned you to find my
jewelry, not to criticize my taste. If I wanted a cultural opinion, I should
hardly consult the police.”

“You could do worse.” Michaels said.
“Now tell us all about it.”

She took us into the library. The
other men Michaels sent off to guard the exits, even if there wasn’t much
chance of the thief still sticking around. The Lieutenant told me once, when we
were off duty. “Tom,” he said, “you’re the most useful man in my detail. Some
of the others can think, and some of them can act; but there’s not a damned one
of them can just stand there and look so much like the Law.” He’s a little guy
himself and kind of on the smooth and dapper side; so he keeps me with him to
back him up, just standing there.

There wasn’t much to what she told
us. Just that she was giving this Disney Christmas party, like I said, and it
was going along fine. Then late in the evening, when almost everybody had gone
home, they got to talking about jewelry. She didn’t know who started the talk
that way, but there they were. And she told them about the emeralds and rubies.

“Then Fig—Philip Newton, you
know—the photographer who does all those marvelous sand dunes and magnolia
blossoms and things—” (her voice went all sort of tender when she mentioned
him. and I could see Michaels taking it all in) “Fig said he didn’t believe it.
He felt the same way you do. Lieutenant, and I’m sure I can’t see why. ‘It’s
unworthy of you, darling, ‘ he said. So I laughed and tried to tell him they
were really beautiful—for they are, you know—and when he went on scoffing I
said. ‘All right, then, I’ll show you. ‘ So I went into the little dressing
room where I keep my jewel box, and they weren’t there. And that’s all I know.”

Then Michaels settled down to
questions. When had she last seen the necklace? Was the lock forced? Had there
been any prowlers around? What else was missing? And suchlike.

Beverly Benson answered impatiently,
like she expected us to just go out there like that and grab the thief and say,
“Here you are, lady.” She had shown the necklace to another guest early in the
party—he’d gone home long ago. but she gave us the name and address to check.
No, the lock hadn’t been forced. They hadn’t seen anything suspicious, either.
There were some small things missing, too—a couple of diamond rings, a star
sapphire pendant, a pair of pearl earrings—but those didn’t worry her so much.
It was the emerald and ruby necklace that she wanted.

That left eyebrow went to work while
Michaels thought about what she’d said. “If the lock wasn’t forced, that lets
out a chance prowler. It was somebody who knew you. who’d had a chance to lift
your key or take an impression of it. Where’d you keep it?”

“The key? In my handbag usually.
Tonight it was in a box on my dressing table.”

Michaels sort of groaned. “And women
wonder why jewels get stolen! Smith, get Ferguson and have him go over the box
for prints. In the meantime, Miss Benson, give me a list of all your guests
tonight. We’ll take up the servants later. I’m warning you now it’s a
ten-to-one chance you’ll ever see your Christmas tree ornament again unless a
fence sings; but we’ll do what we can. Then I’ll deliver my famous little
lecture on safes, and we’ll pray for the future.”

When I’d seen Ferguson, I waited for
Michaels in the room where the guests were. There were only five left, and I
didn’t know who they were yet. They’d all taken off their masks; but they still
had on their cartoon costumes. It felt screwy to sit there among them and
think: This is serious, this is a felony, and look at those bright funny
costumes.

Donald Duck was sitting by himself,
with one hand resting on his long-billed mask while the other made steady grabs
for the cigarette box beside him. His face looked familiar; I thought maybe I’d
seen him in bits.

Three of them sat in a group: Mickey
Mouse. Snow White, and Dopey. Snow White looked about fourteen at first, and it
took you a while to realize she was a woman and a swell one at that. She was a
little brunette, slender and cool-looking—a simple real kind of person that didn’t
seem to belong in a Hollywood crowd. Mickey Mouse was a hefty blond guy about
as tall as I am and built like a tackle that could hold any line; but his face
didn’t go with his body. It was shrewd-like, and what they call sensitive.
Dopey looked just that—a nice guy and not too bright.

Then over in another corner was a
Little Pig. I don’t know do they have names, but this was the one that wears a
sailor suit and plays the fiddle. He had bushy hair sticking out from under the
sailor cap and long skillful-looking hands stretched in front of him. The
fiddle was beside him, but he didn’t touch it. He was passed out—dead to the
world, close as I could judge.

He and Donald were silent, but the
group of three talked a little.

“I guess it didn’t work,” Dopey said.

“You couldn’t help that, Harvey.”
Snow White’s voice was just like I expected—not like Snow White’s in the
picture, but deep and smooth, like a stream that’s running in the shade with
moss on its banks. “Even an agent can’t cast people.”

“You’re a swell guy, Madison,”
Mickey Mouse said. “You tried, and thanks. But if it’s no go, hell, it’s just
no go. It’s up to her.”

“Miss Benson is surely more valuable
to your career.” The running stream was ice cold.

Now maybe I haven’t got anything
else that’d make me a good detective, but I do have curiosity, and here’s where
I saw a way to satisfy it. I spoke to all of them and I said, “I’d better take
down some information while we’re waiting for the Lieutenant.” I started on
Donald Duck. “Name?”

“Daniel Wappingham.” The voice was
English. I could tell that much. I don’t have such a good ear for stuff like
that, but I thought maybe it wasn’t the best English.

“Occupation?”

“Actor.”

And I took down the address and the
rest of it. Then I turned to the drunk and shook him. He woke up part way but
he didn’t hear what I was saying. He just threw his head back and said loudly.
“Waltzes! Ha!” and went under again. His voice was guttural—some kind of
German, I guessed. I let it go at that and went over to the three.

Dopey’s name was Harvey Madison;
occupation, actor’s representative— tenpercenter to you. Mickey Mouse was
Philip Newton; occupation, photographer. (That was the guy Beverly Benson
mentioned, the one she sounded that-away about.) And Snow White was Jane
Newton.

“Any relation?” I asked.

“Yes and no,” she said, so soft I
could hardly hear her.

“Mrs. Newton,” Mickey Mouse stated,
“was once my wife.” And the silence was so strong you could taste it.

I got it then. The two of them
sitting there, remembering all the little things of their life together, being
close to each other and yet somehow held apart. And on Christmas, too. when you
remember things. There was still something between them even if they didn’t
admit it themselves. But Beverly Benson seemed to have a piece of the man. and
where did Dopey fit in?

It sort of worried me. They looked
like swell people—people that belonged together. But it was my job to worry
about the necklace and not about people’s troubles. I was glad Michaels came in
just then.

He was being polite at the moment,
explaining to Beverly Benson how Ferguson hadn’t got anywhere with the prints
and how the jewels were probably miles away by now. “But we’ll do what we can,”
he said. “We’ll talk to these people and find out what’s possible. I doubt,
however, if you’ll ever see that necklace again. It was insured, of course.
Miss Benson?”

“Of course. So were the other
things, and with them I don’t mind. But this necklace I couldn’t conceivably
duplicate. Lieutenant.”

Just then Michael’s eye lit on Donald
Duck, and the eyebrow did tricks worth putting in a cartoon. “We’ll take you
one by one,” he said. “You with the tail-feathers, we’ll start with you. Come
along, Smith.”

Donald Duck grabbed a fresh
cigarette, thought a minute, then reached out again for a handful. He whistled
off key and followed us into the library.

“I gave all the material to your
stooge here, Lieutenant,” he began. “Name, Wappingham. Occupation, actor.
Address—”

Michaels was getting so polite it
had me bothered. “You won’t mind, sir,” he purred, “if I suggest a few
corrections in your statement?”

Donald looked worried. “Don’t you
think I know my own name?”

“Possibly. But would you mind if I
altered the statement to read: Name, Alfred Higgins. Occupation, jewel
thief—conceivably reformed?”

The Duck wasn’t so bad hit as you
might have thought. He let out a pretty fair laugh and said, “So the fat’s in
the fire at last. But I’m glad you concede the possibility of my having
reformed.”

“The possibility, yes.” Michaels
underlined the word. “You admit you’re Higgins?”

“Why not? You can’t blame me for not
telling you right off; it wouldn’t look good when somebody had just been up to
my old tricks. But now that you know— And by the way. Lieutenant, just how do
you know?”

“Some bright boy at Scotland Yard
spotted you in an American picture. Sent your description and record out to us
just in case you ever took up your career again.”

“Considerate of him, wasn’t it?”

But Michaels wasn’t in a mood for
bright chatter any longer. We got down to work. We stripped that duck costume
off the actor and left him shivering while we went over it inch by inch. He
didn’t like it much.

At last Michaels let him get dressed
again. “You came in your car?”

“Yes.”

“You’re going home in a taxi. We
could hold you on suspicion, but I’d sooner play it this way.”

“Now I understand,” Donald said,
“what they mean by the high-handed American police procedure.” And he went back
into the other room with us.

All the same that was a smart move
of Michaels’. It meant that Wappingham-Higgins-Duck would either have to give
up all hope of the jewels (he certainly didn’t have them on him) or lead us
straight to them, because of course I knew a tail would follow that taxi and
camp on his doorstep all next week if need be.

Donald Duck said goodnight to his
hostess and nodded to the other guests. Then he picked up his mask.

“Just a minute,” Michaels said.
“Let’s have a look at that.”

“At this?” he asked innocent-like
and backed toward the French window. Then he was standing there with an automatic
in his hand. It was little but damned nasty-looking. I never thought what a
good holster that long bill would make.

“Stay where you are, gentlemen,” he
said calmly. “I’m leaving undisturbed,
if
you don’t mind.”

The room was frozen still. Beverly Benson
and Snow White let out little gasps of terror. The drunk was still dead to the
world. The other two men looked at us and did nothing. It was Donald’s round.

Or would’ve been if I hadn’t played
football in high school. It was a crazy chance, but I took it. I was the
closest to him, only his eyes were on Michaels. It was a good flying tackle and
it brought him to the ground in a heap consisting mostly of me. The mask
smashed as we rolled over on it and I saw bright glitters pouring out.

Ferguson and O’Hara were there by
now. One of them picked up his gun and the other snapped on the handcuffs. I
got to my feet and turned to Michaels and Beverly Benson. They began to say
things both at once about what a swell thing I’d done and then I keeled over.

When I came to I was on a couch in a
little dark room. I learned later it was the dressing room where the necklace
had been stolen. Somebody was bathing my arm and sobbing.

I sort of half sat up and said,
“Where am I?” I always thought it was just in stories people said that, but it
was the first thing popped into my mind.