The Twelve Crimes of Christmas (11 page)

“There
are
no
extenuating circumstances at MacTavish’s!” By political
influence and exaggerated statistics he induced several local judges to
cooperate in his crusade, and after each arrest Schlag called the newspapers to
make sure the suspect was well publicized.

“He’s
inhuman!” said Joyce Gifford, close to tears. “Of course, thieves should go to
jail. But two weeks ago there was a teen-age girl—really a nice kid—who took a
little piece of costume jewelry on a high-school dare. Mr. Schlag went to
Juvenile Court himself and swore he’d seen her around the store several times—that
this wasn’t really her first theft. And I’m sure that wasn’t true! A month ago
they caught this old woman, a doctor’s wife. She’s been taking little things
for years, and her husband always pays for them. She’s really pathetic. And Mr.
Schlag had her taken to jail!”

Mrs.
Whistler clucked sympathetically. “The quality of mercy is not strained,” she
said.

“Today
Miss Vought—she’s the meanest store detective—dragged in a woman who tried to
take a cotton sweater from Infants’ Wear. Her name is Mrs. Blainey. She has an
invalid husband, and she’s trying to support him and four children by doing
domestic work. I just know she’d never stolen anything before. When Miss Vought
searched her purse it was enough to make you cry. She had exactly forty-three
cents. There was an unpaid gas bill and a notice that a mortgage payment on
their house was overdue.”

“What
happened to her?” asked Mrs. Whistler.

“Mr.
Schlag told her that if she’d sign a confession the store wouldn’t prosecute.
Well, she signed it, crying. Then he called the police. She’s in jail right now—at
Christmastime! Her case comes up Monday—”

“And
they’ll throw the book at her,” said Johnny slowly.

Joyce
nodded. “Oh, that Mr. Schlag! There just isn’t anything bad enough that could
happen to him!”

Mrs.
Whistler smiled slightly. “Oh, I’m sure there is, my dear!”

Joyce
turned to Johnny. “You’re a lawyer. What can be done about it?”

“Nothing.”

“But,
Johnny,” she protested, “surely you can do
something!”

“I
don’t see what. I suppose I could appear in court for her on Monday. But it
wouldn’t do any good. The sentencing is going to be routine. You’d just better
forget the whole thing, Joyce.”

“Forget
it? I can’t forget it!”

“Someone,”
said Mrs. Whistler, “should take action.”

“They
certainly should,” agreed Joyce.

Johnny
was suddenly aware that both women were staring at him expectantly. There was a
dreadful silence in the room. He had never seen Joyce so angry or so
determined.

“Hold
on, you two! What can I do about it? I’m just a guy who draws wills and sets up
escrows. There just isn’t any use in getting mixed up in something that can’t—”
Johnny’s voice trailed off when he saw the expression on Joyce’s face.

Mrs.
Whistler glanced at the tiny watch pinned to her dress. “My goodness! If you
young people will excuse me—” She took a step toward the guest room.

Johnny
saw the gleam in her eye. He was on his feet in an instant. “Mother! You’re
planning something!”

Mrs.
Whistler smiled at Joyce. “Johnny’s always so worried about me. Isn’t that
sweet? Good night, dears.” Mrs. Whistler closed her door behind her.

Johnny
turned to Joyce accusingly. “You’ve set her off! I can tell by the look in her
eye!”

“What
on earth do you mean?”

“You
don’t know her!” Johnny paced the floor. “Last year she took on Mr. Moses and
the whole New York Park Department—singlehanded! Six months ago it was Internal
Revenue!”

“Johnny
Creighton, stop shouting at me! It isn’t my fault.”

“Oh,
yes, it is! You got her started with this Mrs. Blainey story. It’s made to
order for her—invalid husband, four kids, even an overdue mortgage payment! It’s
right out of Charles Dickens. And tomorrow, you can bet, she’ll try to
do
something to MacTavish’s!”

Joyce
stood up quickly. “Well, I’m glad somebody in your family has a little spunk!
If she can teach MacTavish’s a lesson, more power to her!” Joyce looked at him
coldly. “Johnny Creighton, you’re a stick-in-the-mud! So cautious it’s plain
dull! You’re supposed to be an attorney, but—”

“What
do you want? Perry Mason?”

Joyce
gave him her coolest secretarial smile. “Perry Mason is a very attractive guy.
Good night, Johnny!”

“Stick-in-the-mud!”
he repeated softly. Slowly a grim expression came over Johnny’s pleasant face. “Mother,”
he called. “Are you awake?”

Mrs.
Whistler’s door opened instantly. “Yes, dear.”

Johnny’s
voice was stiff with determination. “We’ve got some planning to do.”

“Planning?”
Mrs. Whistler blinked at him. “Oh, darling, I’ve already done
that.”

At
six o’clock Saturday morning Mrs. Whistler bounced out of bed. Three times she
stretched, bent, pressed her palms flat on the floor. Thirty minutes later she
stood over the stove, dreamily preparing scrambled eggs for Johnny while she
examined a full page ad that pictured items on sale at MacTavish’s. Her son,
still in pajamas, sat at the breakfast bar, his face a mask of stony heroism.
He was convinced his mother’s fantastic scheme would fail, but he was
determined to go down fighting.

Mrs.
Whistler pointed to a small item in the MacTavish ad. “One of these would do
nicely,” she said. Johnny looked doubtful but nodded bravely. “If we can only
think of some way to handle the last part!” Suddenly Mrs. Whistler smiled
happily. “Santa Claus!” she exclaimed. “You’ll be Santa Claus!”

“Mother!
No!”

“Johnny,
dear.” Mrs. Whistler’s tone was stern. “Please don’t be stubborn.”

“I’ll
go along with the rest of it, but I won’t be Santa Claus!”

Mrs.
Whistler sighed. “Very well, darling.” She stirred the eggs thoughtfully. “Now,
we’ll rent a nice red suit, and with whiskers no one will recognize you, and—”

Johnny
groaned and surrendered.

At
8:15, as Joyce Gifford was leaving for her last day at MacTavish’s, her
telephone rang.

“Good
morning, Joyce, dear. This is Mrs. Whistler.”

“Why,
good morning.”

“Joyce,
I have a dreadful premonition that disaster is about to overtake poor Mr.
Schlag. If you happen to see me later today—and you will—please don’t recognize
me.

“I
don’t understand.”

“Don’t
try, dear. Just don’t recognize me. Or Johnny, either.”

“Johnny?
You don’t mean that Johnny’s actually going to—”

Mrs.
Whistler chuckled. “Still waters run deep. Goodbye, my dear. See you later.”

At
the height of the noon rush hour, Traffic Officer “Spud” Battersby trembled in
the middle of a terrifying intersection, blowing a whistle, waving his arms,
and narrowly avoiding death at every second. Suddenly Officer Battersby’s
whistle nearly fell out of his mouth. A prim elderly lady carrying a straw
shopping bag was calmly coming toward him, oblivious of the screaming brakes
and blaring horns.

“My
God!” he shouted. “Get back! You’ll be run over!”

A
truck screeched to a halt six inches from the old lady. “Officer,” she said, “I
want to report a crime.”

Battersby
snatched her from the path of an oncoming cab. They huddled in the middle of
the street. “You want to be killed?”

“Killed?
Oh, no. No one’s been killed. But my purse was snatched not ten minutes ago.”

“Get
out of here! Call the police station!” A red light changed and a wheeled
onslaught avalanched by.

“My,”
said the old lady, “you are busy, aren’t you?” She gave him a slip of paper. “If
my purse is found, here’s my name and phone number.”

“Lady,
please
… Look out for that truck!”

“Merry
Christmas, Officer!” Battersby shoved the paper into his pocket and managed to
halt a hundred racing vehicles while the old lady made her unhurried way to the
curb.

“Another
nut!” he said. “A one-hundred-percent Los Angeles nut!”

At
12:45 Mrs. Whistler hesitated at the costume jewelry counter in MacTavish’s,
smiling at Miss Hefron. the harassed and yule-weary salesgirl. “Everything’s
lovely! I simply have to see every piece!”

Dear
Lord, no! Miss Hefron thought. “Our pleasure, Ma’am,” she said brightly.

“Look
at all these pretty things!” A velvet-lined tray stood open on the counter.

“They’re
horoscope brooches, Ma’am. An advertised special. We still have Virgo and
Capricorn and—”

“Capricorn?
Of course! I bought one of those for—”

Mrs.
Whistler stopped speaking. Her eyes rolled wildly as she grasped the counter
for support. With a crash the tray of costume jewelry fell to the floor, and
Mrs. Whistler collapsed on top of it. Before Miss Hefron could reach the
stricken customer, Mrs. Whistler had miraculously recovered. Struggling to her
feet, she replaced the tray awkwardly.

Mrs.
Whistler’s eyelids fluttered. “I’ve just been on my feet too long—a little
dizzy spell. No more shopping today!”

Slowly
Mrs. Whistler made her way toward the doors of the store, clutching her straw
shopping bag firmly. For a dreadful moment she believed nothing was going to
happen to her; then her spirits soared as a strong hand gripped her elbow. An
ash-blond woman with a flashing gold tooth was beside her.

“Let’s
just step right up to the mezzanine office, honey.”

Mrs.
Whistler seemed bewildered. “Pardon? I can’t look at anything else today.”

The
steely grip of the woman’s talons tightened. “Step along, honey, d’ya hear? We’ll
straighten this out and everything will be hunky-dory.”

Mrs.
Whistler felt herself propelled toward a service elevator, whisked upstairs,
and forcibly ushered into an austere office.

“Sit
down, honey,” said the woman. “I’m Miss Vought, Store Security. I didn’t catch
your name.”

“No,”
said Mrs. Whistler. “You didn’t.”

Miss
Vought flipped the switch of an intercom. “Miss Gilford, this is Vought. Tell
Mr. Schlag I’ve landed a real pro.”

Miss
Vought rested her thin hips on the edge of the desk and inserted a cigarette
between her raspberry lips. “Relax, honey. You’ll sign a little statement and
breeze out of here in no time.”

“I
don’t understand.”

Miss
Vought laughed unpleasantly. “You’re fabulous, honey. Just fabulous. That
get-up you’re wearing would fool anybody.”

Dudley
P. Schlag, drawn up to his full five feet one, strutted into the office, his
pointed lapels bristling. Joyce Gifford, notebook in hand, followed. He did not
see the astonished look that flashed across his secretary’s face.

“We
got the cool goods,” Miss Vought told him. She rummaged in Mrs. Whistler’s
shopping bag and brought forth a Capricorn brooch set with tiny rhinestones. “Counter
Eighteen. Pulled the old fainting act, glammed this. I had my eye on her for
twenty minutes. She cased perfume first, then checked out novelties, finally
wound up in jewelry.”

“Kindly
put down my brooch, young lady.” said Mrs. Whistler, sweetly but firmly. “You
might drop it.”

“You’re
fabulous, honey,” said Miss Vought, “fabulous.”

“Name
and address?” said Mr. Schlag.

“I
live in New York. I’m Mrs. Whistler.”

“Occupation?”

“I,”
said Mrs. Whistler, “am a Senior Citizen.”

“All
right, Grandma,” said Schlag. “What about the brooch?”

“I
bought it this morning. I don’t remember the name of the store. I don’t know
your city very well.”

“Where’s
the sales slip?”

“Of
course!” Mrs. Whistler smiled brightly. “The name will be on the sales slip,
and I’m careful about saving them.” Then her face clouded. She seemed near
tears. “But it was in my purse. And someone stole my purse just an hour or so
ago.”

“Tragic,”
said Schlag.

“I
reported it to the police, of course.”

Mr.
Schlag spoke into the intercom. “Mrs. Luden, call police headquarters and ask
if a stolen purse was reported by a…
Mrs. Whistler.”
He smiled thinly.

“It
won’t wash, honey,” said Miss Vought. “There were six Capricorn brooches when
you staged your tumble at Counter Eighteen. But only five when you left.”

“You
double-checked?” asked Schlag.

“Sure.
While she was ankling for the door.”

Thoughtfully
Schlag cracked his knuckles, then spun violently on Mrs. Whistler. “Those
brooches were a plant, Grandma,” he said. “That’s why they were on the open
counter.”