The Twelve Crimes of Christmas (37 page)

“You saw how he was dressed?” inquired Pons.

“He is not in fashion,” replied Snawley, with a
great deal of sniffing.

I suppressed my laughter, for the man in the
street was no more out of the fashion than our client.

“I have seen enough of him for the time being,”
said Pons.

Snawley immediately turned and called out. “Pip!
Pip! Bring the lights!”

And Pip Scratch, as if he had been waiting in
the wings, immediately came hurrying into the room with the candelabrum he had
taken out at his employer’s command, set it down once more on the table, and
departed.

“Mr. Snawley,” said Pons as we sat down again
near the table, Pons half turned so that he could still look out on occasion
through the bay windows toward the street-lamp, “I take it you are constantly
adding to your collection?”

“Very cautiously, sir—
ve-ry
cautiously. I have so much now I scarcely know where to house it. There is very
little—
ve-ry
little I do not have. Why, I doubt that I add
two or three items a year.”

“What was your last acquisition, Mr. Snawley?”

Once again our client’s eyes narrowed
suspiciously. “Why do you ask that, Mr. Pons?”

“Because I wish to know.”

Snawley bent toward Pons and said in a voice
that was unusually soft for him, almost as with affection, “It is the most
precious of all the items in my collection. It is a manuscript in Dickens’s
hand!”

“May I see it?”

Our client got up, pulled out of his pocket a
keyring, and walked toward the locked cabinet I had previously noticed. He
unlocked it and took from it a box that appeared to be of ebony, inlaid with
ivory, and brought it back to the table. He unlocked this, in turn, and took
from it the manuscript in a folder. He laid it before Pons almost with
reverence, and stood back to watch Pons with the particular pride of possession
that invariably animates the collector.

Pons turned back the cover.

The manuscript was yellowed, as with age, but
the paper was obviously of good quality.
Master Humphrey’s Clock
was written at the top, and the signature of
Charles Dickens meticulously below it, and below that, in the same script,
began the text of the manuscript, which consisted of at least a dozen pages.

“Ah, it is a portion of
The Old Curiosity Shop
not used in the published versions of that
book,” said Pons.

“You know it, sir!” cried our client with
evident delight.

“Indeed, I do. And I recognize the script.”

“You do?” Snawley rubbed his hands together in
his pleasure.

“Where did you acquire it?”

Snawley blinked at him. “It was offered to me
by a gentleman who had fallen on evil days and needed the money—a trifle over a
month and a half ago.”

“Indeed,” said Pons. “So you got it at a
bargain?”

“I did, I did. The circumstances made it
possible. He was desperate. He wanted five hundred pounds—a ridiculous figure.”

“I see. You beat him down?”

“Business is business, Mr. Pons. I bought it at
two hundred pounds.”

Pons took one of the sheets and held it up against
the candles.

“Take care, sir! Take care!” said our client
nervously.

Pons lowered the sheet. “You have had it
authenticated?”

“Authenticated? Sir, I am an authority on
Dickens. Why should I pay some ‘expert’ a fee to disclose what I already know?
This is Dickens’s handwriting. I have letters of Dickens by which to
authenticate it. Not an
i
is dotted otherwise but as
Dickens dotted his
i’s,
not a
t
is crossed otherwise. This is Dickens’s script, word for word, letter for
letter.”

Offended, our client almost rudely picked up
his treasure and restored it to box and cabinet. As he came back to his chair,
he reminded Pons, “But you did not come here to see my collection. There is
that fellow outside. How will you deal with him?”

“Ah, I propose to invite him to dinner,”
answered Pons. “No later than tomorrow night—Christmas Eve. Or, rather, shall
we put it that you will invite him here for dinner at that time?”

Our client’s jaw dropped. “You are surely
joking,” he said in a strangled voice.

“It is Christmas, Mr. Snawley. We shall show
him some of the spirit of the season.”

“I don’t make merry myself at Christmas and I
can’t afford to make idle people merry,” replied Snawley sourly. “Least of all
that fellow out there. It is an ill-conceived and ill-timed jest.”

“It is no jest, Mr. Snawley.”

Pons’s eyes danced in the candlelight.

“I will have none of it,” said our client,
coming to his feet as if to dismiss us.

“It is either that,” said Pons inexorably, “or
my fee.”

“Name it, then! Name it—for I shall certainly
not lay a board for that infernal rogue,” cried our client raising his voice.

“Five hundred pounds,” said Pons coldly.

“Five hundred pounds!” screamed Snawley.

Pons nodded, folded his arms across his chest,
and looked as adamant as a rock.

Our client leaned and caught hold of the table
as if he were about to fall. “Five hundred pounds!” he whispered. “It is
robbery! Five hundred pounds!” He stood for a minute so, Pons unmoved the
while, and presently a crafty expression came into his narrowed eyes. He began to
work his lips out and in, as was his habit, and he turned his head to look
directly at Pons. “You say,” he said, still in a whisper, “it is either five
hundred pounds or—a dinner…”

“For four. The three of us and that lusty
bawler out there,” said Pons.

“It
would
be less expensive,” agreed
our client, licking his lips.

“Considerably. Particularly since I myself will
supply the goose,” said Pons with the utmost
savior faire.

“Done!” cried Snawley at once, as if he had
suddenly got much the better of a bad bargain. “Done!” He drew back. “But since
I have retained you, I leave it to you to invite him—for I will not!”

“Dinner at seven, Mr. Snawley?”

Our client nodded briskly. “As you like.”

“I will send around the goose in the morning.”

“There is no other fee, Mr. Pons! I have heard
you aright? And you will dispose of that fellow out there?’ He inclined his
head toward the street.

“I daresay he will not trouble you after
tomorrow night,” said Pons.

“Then, since there is no further fee, you will
not take it amiss if I do not drive you back? There is an underground nearby.”

“We will take it, Mr. Snawley.”

Snawley saw us to the door, the bracket of
candles in his hand. At the threshold Pons paused.

“There must be nothing spared at dinner, Mr.
Snawley,” he said. “We’ll want potatoes, dressing, vegetables, fruit, green
salad, plum pudding—and a trifle more of that Amontillado.”

Our client sighed with resignation. “It will be
done, though I may rue it.”

“Rue it you may,” said Pons cheerfully. “Good
night, sir. And the appropriate greetings of the season to you.”

“Humbug! All humbug!” muttered our client,
retreating into his house.

We went down the walk through the now much-thinned
snowfall, and stood at its juncture with the street until the object of our
client’s ire came around again. He was a stocky man with a good paunch on him,
cherry-red cheeks and a nose of darker red, and merry little eyes that looked
out of two rolls of fat, as it were. Coming close, he affected not to see us,
until Pons strode out into his path, silencing his bawling of walnuts.

“Good evening, Mr. Auber.”

He started back, peering at Pons. “I don’t know
ye, sir,” he said.

“But it
is
Mr. Auber, isn’t it? Mr. Micah Auber?”

Auber nodded hesitantly.

“Mr. Ebenezer Snawley would like your company
at dinner tomorrow night at seven.”

For a long moment, mouth agape, Auber stared at
him. “God bless my soul!” he said, finding his voice, “Did he know me, then?”

“No,” said Pons, “but who else would be walking
here affecting to be a hawker of such wares if not Micah Auber, on hand in case
anything turned up?”

“God bless my soul!” said Auber again,
fervently.

“You will meet us at the door, Mr. Auber, and
go in with us,” said Pons. “Good evening, sir.”

“I will be there,” said Auber.

“And leave off this bawling,” said Pons over
his shoulder.

We passed on down the street, and Auber, I saw,
looking back, went scuttling off in the other direction, in silence.

We hurried on through the snow. The evening was
mellow enough so that much of it underfoot had melted, and the falling flakes
dissolved on our clothing. But Pons set the pace, and it was not until we were
in the underground, on the way back to our quarters, that I had opportunity to
speak.

“How did you know that fellow was Micah Auber?”
I asked.

“Why, that is as elementary a deduction as it
seems to me possible to make,” replied Pons. “Consider—Snawley’s valuables
consist of his collection, which is primarily of Dickensians. Our client
acquired his most recent treasure a trifle over six weeks ago. With a fortnight
thereafter Micah Auber writes, asking to see his collection. Having had no
reply, and assessing our client’s character correctly by inquiry or
observation—perhaps both—Auber has adopted this novel method of attracting his
attention. His object is clearly to get inside that house and have a look at
our client’s collection.”

“But surely this is all very roundabout,” I
cried.

“I fancy Snawley himself is rather
roundabout—though not so roundabout as Auber. They are all a trifle mad, some
more so than others. This pair is surely unique, even to the dress of the
period!”

“How could Auber know that Snawley had acquired
that manuscript?”

“I fancy it is for the reason that Snawley has
laid claim to possession of the largest Dickens collection in London
…”

“In the world,” I put in.

“And because the manuscript was undoubtedly
stolen from Auber’s collection,” finished Pons. “Hence Auber’s persistence. We
shall have a delightful dinner tomorrow evening, I fancy.”

III

Pons spent some time next day looking through
references and making a telephone call or two, but he was not long occupied at
this, and went about looking forward to dinner that evening, and from time to
time throughout the day hummed a few bars of a tune, something to which he was
not much given, and which testified to the warmth of his anticipation.

We set out early, and reached Ebenezer Snawley’s
home at a quarter to seven, but Micah Auber had preceded us to the vicinity;
for we had no sooner posted ourselves before Snawley’s door than Auber made his
appearance, bearing in upon us from among a little group of yew trees off to
one side of the driveway, where he had undoubtedly been standing to wait upon
our coming. He approached with a skip and a hop, and came up to us a little
short of breath. Though he was dressed for dinner, it was possible to see by
the light of the moon, which lacked but one day of being full, that his
clothing was as ancient as our client’s.

“Ah, good evening, Mr. Auber,” Pons greeted him.
“I am happy to observe that you are in time for what I trust will be a good
dinner.”

“I don’t know as to how good it will be. Old
Snawley’s tight, mighty tight,” said Auber.