“Shall we say,” asked the voice gently, “Nash’s Department Store—tomorrow?”
Thus the early morning of December twenty-fourth finds Messrs. Queen and Bondling, and Nikki Porter, huddled on the iron sidewalk of Forty-third Street before the holly-decked windows of the Life Bank & Trust Company, just outside a double line of armed guards. The guards form a channel between the bank entrance and an armored truck, down which Cytherea Ypson’s Dollection flows swiftly. And all about gapes New York, stamping callously on the aged, icy face of the street against the uncharitable Christmas wind.
Now is the winter of his discontent, and Mr. Queen curses.
“I don’t know what you’re beefing about,” moans Miss Porter. “You and Mr. Bondling are bundled up like Yukon prospectors. Look at me.”
“It’s that rat-hearted public relations tripe from Nash’s,” said Mr. Queen murderously. “They all swore themselves to secrecy, Brother Rat included. Honor! Spirit of Christmas!”
“It was all over the radio last night,” whimpers Mr. Bondling. “And in this morning’s papers.”
“I’ll cut his creep’s heart out. Here! Velie, keep those people away!”
Sergeant Velie says good-naturedly from the doorway of the bank, “You jerks stand back.” Little does the Sergeant know the fate in store for him.
“Armored trucks,” says Miss Porter bluishly. “Shotguns.”
“Nikki, Comus made a point of informing us in advance that he meant to steal the Dauphin’s Doll in Nash’s Department Store. It would be just like him to have said that in order to make it easier to steal the doll en route.”
“Why don’t they hurry?” shivers Mr. Bondling. “Ah!”
Inspector Queen appears suddenly in the doorway. His hands clasp treasure.
“Oh!” cries Nikki.
New York whistles.
It is magnificence, an affront to democracy. But street mobs, like children, are royalists at heart.
New York whistles, and Sergeant Thomas Velie steps menacingly before Inspector Queen, Police Positive drawn, and Inspector Queen dashes across the sidewalk between the bristling lines of guards with the Dauphin’s Doll in his embrace.
Queen the Younger vanishes, to materialize an instant later at the door of the armored truck.
“It’s just immorally, hideously beautiful, Mr. Bondling,” breathes Miss Porter, sparkly-eyed.
Mr. Bondling cranes, thinly.
ENTER Santa Claus, with bell.
Santa. Oyez, oyez. Peace, good will. Is that the dollie the radio’s been yappin’ about, folks?
Mr. B. Scram.
Miss P. Why, Mr. Bondling.
Mr. B. Well, he’s got no business here. Stand back, er, Santa. Back!
Santa. What eateth you, my lean and angry friend? Have you no compassion at this season of the year?
Mr. B. Oh … Here! (Clink.) Now will you kindly …?
Santa. Mighty pretty dollie. Where they takin’ it, girlie?
Miss P. Over to Nash’s, Santa.
Mr. B. You asked for it. Officer!!!
Santa (hurriedly). Little present for you, girlie.
Compliments of Santy. Merry, merry.
Miss P. For me? (EXIT Santa, rapidly, with bell.)
Really, Mr. Bondling, was it necessary to …?
Mr. B. Opium for the masses! What did that flatulent faker hand you, Miss Porter? What’s in that unmentionable envelope?
Miss P. I’m sure I don’t know, but isn’t it the most touching idea? Why, it’s addressed to Ellery. Oh! Elleryyyyyy!
Mr. B (EXIT excitedly). Where is he? You—! Officer! Where did that baby-deceiver disappear to? A Santa Claus …!
Mr. Q (entering on the run). Yes? Nikki, what is it? What’s happened?
Miss P. A man dressed as Santa Claus just handed me this envelope. It’s addressed to you.
Mr. Q. Note? (He snatches it, withdraws a miserable slice of paper from it on which is block-lettered in pencil a message which he reads aloud with considerable expression.) “Dear Ellery, Don’t you trust me? I said I’d steal the Dauphin in Nash’s emporium today and that’s exactly where I’m going to do it. Yours—” Signed …
Miss P (craning). “Comus.” That Santa?
Mr. Q. (Sets his manly lips. An icy wind blows.)
Even the master had to acknowledge that their defenses against Comus were ingenious.
From the Display Department of Nash’s they had requisitioned four miter-jointed counters of uniform length. These they had fitted together, and in the center of the hollow square thus formed they had erected a platform six feet high. On the counters, in plastic tiers, stretched the long lines of Miss Ypson’s babies. Atop the platform, dominant, stood a great chair of hand-carved oak, filched from the Swedish Modern section of the Fine Furniture Department; and on this Valhalla-like throne, a huge and rosy rotundity, sat Sergeant Thomas Velie of Police Headquarters, morosely grateful for the anonymity endowed by the scarlet suit and the jolly mask and whiskers of his appointed role.
Nor was this all. At a distance of six feet outside the counters shimmered a surrounding rampart of plate glass, borrowed in its various elements from The Glass Home of the Future display on the sixth floor rear, and assembled to shape an eight foot wall quoined with chrome, its glistening surfaces flawless except at one point, where a thick glass door had been installed. But the edges fitted intimately and there was a formidable lock in the door, the key to which lay buried in Mr. Queen’s right trouser pocket.
It was 8:54 a.m. The Queens, Nikki Porter, and Attorney Bondling stood among store officials and an army of plainclothesmen on Nash’s main floor surveying the product of their labors.
“I think that about does it,” muttered Inspector Queen at last. “Men! Positions around the glass partition.”
Twenty-four assorted gendarmes in mufti jostled one another. They took marked places about the wall, facing it and grinning up at Sergeant Velie. Sergeant Velie, from his throne, glared back.
“Hagstrom and Piggott—the door.”
Two detectives detached themselves from a group of reserves. As they marched to the glass door, Mr. Bondling plucked at the Inspector’s overcoat sleeve. “Can all these men be trusted, Inspector Queen?” he whispered. “I mean, this fellow Comus—”
“Mr. Bondling,” replied the old gentleman coldly, “you do your job and let me do mine.”
“But—”
“Picked men, Mr. Bondling! I picked ’em myself.”
“Yes, yes, Inspector. I merely thought I’d—”
“Lieutenant Farber.”
A little man with watery eyes stepped forward.
“Mr. Bondling, this is Lieutenant Geronimo Farber, Headquarters jewelry expert. Ellery?”
Ellery took the Dauphin’s Doll from his greatcoat pocket, but he said, “If you don’t mind, Dad, I’ll keep holding on to it.”
Somebody said, “Wow,” and then there was silence.
“Lieutenant, this doll in my son’s hand is the famous Dauphin’s Doll with the diamond crown that—”
“Don’t touch it, Lieutenant, please,” said Ellery. “I’d rather nobody touched it.”
“The doll,” continued the Inspector, “has just been brought here from a bank vault which it ought never to have left, and Mr. Bondling, who’s handling the Ypson estate, claims it’s the genuine article. Lieutenant, examine the diamond and give us your opinion.”
Lieutenant Farber produced a loupe. Ellery held the dauphin securely, and Farber did not touch it.
Finally, the expert said: “I can’t pass an opinion about the doll itself, of course, but the diamond’s a beauty. Easily worth a hundred thousand dollars at the present state of the market—maybe more. Looks like a very strong setting, by the way.”
“Thanks, Lieutenant. Okay, son,” said the Inspector. “Go into your waltz.”
Clutching the dauphin, Ellery strode over to the glass gate and unlocked it.
“This fellow Farber,” whispered Attorney Bon
dling in the Inspector’s hairy ear. “Inspector, are you absolutely sure he’s—?”
“He’s really Lieutenant Farber?” The Inspector controlled himself. “Mr. Bondling, I’ve known Gerry Farber for eighteen years. Calm yourself.”
Ellery was crawling perilously over the nearest counter. Then, bearing the dauphin aloft, he hurried across the floor of the enclosure to the platform.
Sergeant Velie whined, “Maestro, how in hell am I going to sit here all day without washin’ my hands?”
But Mr. Queen merely stooped and lifted from the floor a heavy little structure faced with black velvet consisting of a floor and a backdrop, with a two-armed chromium support. This object he placed on the platform directly between Sergeant Velie’s massive legs.
Carefully, he stood the Dauphin’s Doll in the velvet niche. Then he clambered back across the counter, went through the glass door, locked it with the key, and turned to examine his handiwork.
Proudly the prince’s plaything stood, the jewel in his little golden crown darting “on pale electric streams” under the concentrated tide of a dozen of the most powerful floodlights in the possession of the great store.
“Velie,” said Inspector Queen, “you’re not to touch that doll. Don’t lay a finger on it.”
The Sergeant said, “Gaaaaa.”
“You men on duty. Don’t worry about the crowds. Your job is to keep watching that doll. You’re not to take your eyes off it all day. Mr. Bondling, are you satisfied?” Mr. Bondling seemed about to say something, but then he hastily nodded. “Ellery?”
The great man smiled. “The only way he can get that bawbie,” he said, “is by well-directed mortar fire or spells and incantations. Raise the portcullis!”
Then began the interminable day, dies irae, the last shopping day before Christmas. This is traditionally the day of the inert, the procrastinating, the undecided, and the forgetful, sucked at last into the mercantile machine by the perpetual pump of Time. If there is peace upon earth, it descends only afterward; and at no time, on the part of anyone embroiled, is there good will toward men. As Miss Porter expresses it, a cat fight in a bird cage would be more Christian.
But on this December twenty-fourth, in Nash’s, the normal bedlam was augmented by the vast shrilling of thousands of children. It may be, as the Psalmist insists, that happy is the man that hath his quiver full of them; but no bowmen surrounded Miss Ypson’s darlings this day, only detectives carrying revolvers, not a few of whom forbore to use same only by the most heroic self-discipline. In the black floods of humanity overflowing the main floor little folks darted about like electrically charged minnows, pursued by exasperated maternal shrieks and the imprecations of those whose shins and rumps and toes were at the mercy of hot, happy little limbs; indeed, nothing was sacred, and Attorney Bondling was seen to quail and wrap his greatcoat defensively about him against the savage innocence of childhood. But the guardians of the law, having been ordered to simulate store employees, possessed no such armor; and many a man earned his citation that day for unique cause. They stood in the millrace of the tide; it churned about them, shouting, “Dollies! Dollies!” until the very word lost its familiar meaning and became the insensate scream of a thousand Loreleis beckoning strong men to destruction below the eye-level of their diamond Light.
But they stood fast.
And Comus was thwarted. Oh, he tried. At 11:18 a.m. a tottering old man holding to the hand of a small boy tried to wheedle Detective Hagstrom into unlocking the glass door “so my grandson here—he’s terrible nearsighted—can get a closer look at the pretty dollies.” Detective Hagstrom roared, “Rube!” and the old gentleman dropped the little boy’s hand violently and with remarkable agility lost himself in the crowd. A spot investigation revealed that, coming upon the boy, who had been crying for his mommy, the old gentleman had promised to find her. The little boy, whose name—he said—was Lance Morganstern, was removed to the Lost and Found Department; and everyone was satisfied that the great thief had finally launched his attack. Everyone, that is, but Ellery Queen. He seemed puzzled. When Nikki asked him why, he merely said: “Stupidity, Nikki. It’s not in character.”
At 1:46 p.m., Sergeant Velie sent up a distress signal. He had, it seemed, to wash his hands. Inspector Queen signaled back: “O.K. Fifteen minutes.” Sergeant Santa C. Velie scrambled off his perch, clawed his way over the counter, and pounded urgently on the inner side of the glass door. Ellery let him out, relocking the door immediately, and the Sergeant’s red-clad figure disappeared on the double in the general direction of the main-floor gentlemen’s relief station, leaving the dauphin in solitary possession of the dais.
During the Sergeant’s recess, Inspector Queen circulated among his men repeating the order of the day.
The episode of Velie’s response to the summons of Nature caused a temporary crisis. For at the end of the specified fifteen minutes he had not returned. Nor was there a sign of him at the end of a half hour. An aide dispatched to the relief station reported back that the Sergeant was not there. Fears of foul play were voiced at an emergency staff conference held then and there and counter-measures were being planned even as, at 2:35 p.m., the familiar Santa-clad bulk of the Sergeant was observed battling through the lines, pawing at his mask.
“Velie,” snarled Inspector Queen, “where have you been?”
“Eating my lunch,” growled the Sergeant’s voice, defensively. “I been taking my punishment like a good soldier all this damn day, Inspector, but I draw the line at starvin’ to death even in the line of duty.”
“Velie—!” choked the Inspector; but then he waved his hand feebly and said, “Ellery, let him back in there.”
And that was very nearly all. The only other incident of note occurred at 4:22 p.m. A well-upholstered woman with a red face yelled, “Stop! Thief! He grabbed my pocketbook! Police!” about fifty feet from the Ypson exhibit. Ellery instantly shouted, “It’s a trick! Men, don’t take your eyes off that doll!” “It’s Comus disguised as a woman,” exclaimed Attorney Bondling, as Inspector Queen and Detective Hesse wrestled the female figure through the mob. She was now a wonderful shade of magenta. “What are you doing?” she screamed. “Don’t arrest me!—catch that crook who stole my pocketbook!” “No dice, Comus,” said the Inspector. “Wipe off that makeup.” “McComas?” said the woman loudly. “My name is Rafferty, and all these folks saw it. He was a fat man with a mustache.” “Inspector,” said Nikki Porter, making a surreptitious scientific test. “This is a female. Believe me.” And so, indeed it proved. All agreed that the mustachioed fat man had been Comus, creating a diversion in the desperate hope that the resulting confusion would give him an opportunity to steal the little dauphin.
“Stupid, stupid,” muttered Ellery, gnawing his fingernails.
“Sure,” grinned the Inspector. “We’ve got him nibbling his tail, Ellery. This was his do-or-die pitch. He’s through.”
“Frankly,” sniffed Nikki, “I’m a little disappointed.”
“Worried,” said Ellery, “would be the word for me.”
Inspector Queen was too case-hardened a sinner’s nemesis to lower his guard at his most vulnerable moment. When the 5:30 bells bonged and the crowds began struggling toward the exits, he barked: “Men, stay at your posts. Keep watching that doll!” So all hands were on the qui vive even as the store emptied. The reserves kept hustling people out. Ellery, standing on an Information booth, spotted bottlenecks and waved his arms.
At 5:50 p.m. the main floor was declared out of the battle zone. All stragglers had been herded out. The only persons visible were the refugees trapped by the closing bell on the upper floors, and these were pouring out of elevators and funneled by a solid line of detectives and accredited store personnel to the doors. By 6:05 they were a trickle; by 6:10 even the trickle had dried up. And the personnel itself began to disperse.
“No, men!” called Ellery sharply from his observation post. “Stay where you are till all the store employees are out!�
�� The counter clerks had long since disappeared.
Sergeant Velie’s plaintive voice called from the other side of the glass door. “I got to get home and decorate my tree. Maestro, make with the key.”
Ellery jumped down and hurried over to release him. Detective Piggott jeered, “Going to play Santa to your kids tomorrow morning, Velie?” at which the Sergeant managed even through his mask to project a four-letter word distinctly, forgetful of Miss Porter’s presence, and stamped off toward the gentlemen’s relief station.
“Where you going, Velie?” asked the Inspector, smiling.
“I got to get out of these x-and-dash Santy clothes somewheres, don’t I?” came back the Sergeant’s mask-muffled tones, and he vanished in a thunder-clap of his fellow-officers’ laughter.
“Still worried, Mr. Queen?” chuckled the Inspector.
“I don’t understand it.” Ellery shook his head. “Well, Mr. Bondling, there’s your dauphin, untouched by human hands.”
“Yes. Well!” Attorney Bondling wiped his forehead happily. “I don’t profess to understand it, either, Mr. Queen. Unless it’s simply another case of an inflated reputation …” He clutched the Inspector suddenly. “Those men!” he whispered. “Who are they?”
“Relax, Mr. Bondling,” said the Inspector good-naturedly. “It’s just the men to move the dolls back to the bank. Wait a minute, you men! Perhaps, Mr. Bondling, we’d better see the dauphin back to the vaults ourselves.”
“Keep those fellows back,” said Ellery to the Headquarters men, quietly, and he followed the Inspector and Mr. Bondling into the enclosure. They pulled two of the counters apart at one corner and strolled over to the platform. The dauphin was winking at them in a friendly way. They stood looking at him.
“Cute little devil,” said the Inspector.
“Seems silly now,” beamed Attorney Bondling. “Being so worried all day.”
“Comus must have had some plan,” mumbled Ellery.
“Sure,” said the Inspector. “That old man disguise. And that purse-snatching act.”
The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Page 12
