The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  “ ’ims nice mans; ’ims let Bil-lee play wif ’ims watch!”

  As Billie had broken the watch his acknowledgment of The Hopper’s courtesy in letting him play with it brought a grin to The Hopper’s face.

  Now that Billie had been returned and his absence satisfactorily accounted for, the two connoisseurs showed signs of renewing their quarrel. Responsive to a demand from Billie, The Hopper got down on the floor to assist in the proper mating of Noah’s animals. Billie’s father was scrutinizing him fixedly and The Hopper wondered whether Muriel’s handsome young husband had recognized him as the person who had vanished through the window of the Talbot home bearing the plum-blossom vase. The thought was disquieting; but feigning deep interest in the Ark he listened attentively to a violent tirade upon which the senior Talbot was launched.

  “My God!” he cried bitterly, planting himself before Wilton in a belligerent attitude, “every infernal thing that can happen to a man happened to me yesterday. It wasn’t enough that you robbed me and tried to murder me—yes, you did, sir!—but when I was in the city I was robbed in the subway by a pick-pocket. A thief took my bill-book containing invaluable data I had just received from my agent in China giving me a clue to porcelains, sir, such as you never dreamed of! Some more of your work—Don’t you contradict me! You don’t contradict me! Roger, he doesn’t contradict me!”

  Wilton, choking with indignation at this new onslaught, was unable to contradict him.

  Pained by the situation, The Hopper rose from the floor and coughed timidly.

  “Shaver, go fetch yer chickies. Bring yer chickies in an’ put ’em on th’ boat.”

  Billie obediently trotted off toward the kitchen and The Hopper turned his back upon the Christmas tree, drew out the pocket-book, and faced the company.

  “I beg yer pardon, gents, but mebbe this is th’ book yer fightin’ about. Kind o’ funny like! I picked ut up on th’ local yistiddy afternoon. I wuz goin’ t’ turn ut int’ th’ agint, but I clean fergot ut. I guess them papers may be valible. I never touched none of ’em.”

  Talbot snatched the bill-book and hastily examined the contents. His brow relaxed and he was grumbling something about a reward when Billie reappeared, laboriously dragging two baskets.

  “Bil-lee’s dot chick-ees! Bil-lee’s dot pitty dishes. Bil-lee make dishes go ’ippity!”

  Before he could make the two jars go ’ippity, The Hopper leaped across the room and seized the basket. He tore off the towel with which he had carefully covered the stolen pottery and disclosed the contents for inspection.

  “ ’Scuse me, gents; no crowdin’,” he warned as the connoisseurs sprang toward him. He placed the porcelains carefully on the floor under the Christmas tree. “Now ye kin listen t’ me, gents. I reckon I’m goin’ t’ have somethin’ t’ say about this here crockery. I stole ’em—I stole ’em fer th’ lady there, she thinkin’ ef ye didn’t have ’em no more ye’d stop rowin’ about ’em. Ye kin call th’ bulls an’ turn me over ef ye likes; but I ain’t goin’ t’ have ye fussin’ an’ causin’ th’ lady trouble no more. I ain’t goin’ to stand fer ut!”

  “Robber!” shouted Talbot. “You entered my house at the instance of this man; it was you—”

  “I never saw the gent before,” declared The Hopper hotly. “I ain’t never had nothin’ to do with neither o’ ye.”

  “He’s telling the truth!” protested Muriel, laughing hysterically. “I did it—I got him to take them!”

  The two collectors were not interested in explanations; they were hungrily eyeing their property. Wilton attempted to pass The Hopper and reach the Christmas tree under whose protecting boughs the two vases were looking their loveliest.

  “Stand back,” commanded The Hopper, “an’ stop callin’ names! I guess ef I’m yanked fer this I ain’t th’ only one that’s goin’ t’ do time fer house breakin’.”

  This statement, made with considerable vigor, had a sobering effect upon Wilton, but Talbot began dancing round the tree looking for a chance to pounce upon the porcelains.

  “Ef ye don’t set down—the whole caboodle o’ ye—I’ll smash ’em—I’ll smash ’em both! I’ll bust ’em—sure as shootin’!” shouted The Hopper.

  They cowered before him; Muriel wept softly; Billie played with his chickies, disdainful of the world’s woe. The Hopper, holding the two angry men at bay, was enjoying his command of the situation.

  “You gents ain’t got no business to be fussin’ an’ causin’ yer childern trouble. An’ ye ain’t goin’ to have these pretty jugs to fuss about no more. I’m goin’ t’ give ’em away; I’m goin’ to make a Chris’mas present of ’em to Shaver. They’re goin’ to be little Shaver’s right here, all orderly an’ peace’ble, or I’ll tromp on ’em! Looky here, Shaver, wot Santy Claus brought ye!”

  “Nice dood Sant’ Claus!” cried Billie, diving under the davenport in quest of the wandering chicks.

  Silence held the grown-ups. The Hopper stood patiently by the Christmas tree, awaiting the result of his diplomacy.

  Then suddenly Wilton laughed—a loud laugh expressive of relief. He turned to Talbot and put out his hand.

  “It looks as though Muriel and her friend here had cornered us! The idea of pooling our trophies and giving them as a Christmas present to Billie appeals to me strongly. And, besides we’ve got to prepare somebody to love these things after we’re gone. We can work together and train Billie to be the greatest collector in America!”

  “Please, father,” urged Roger as Talbot frowned and shook his head impatiently.

  Billie, struck with the happy thought of hanging one of his chickies on the Christmas tree, caused them all to laugh at this moment. It was difficult to refuse to be generous on Christmas morning in the presence of the happy child!

  “Well,” said Talbot, a reluctant smile crossing his face, “I guess it’s all in the family anyway.”

  The Hopper, feeling that his work as the Reversible Santa Claus was finished, was rapidly retreating through the dining-room when Muriel and Roger ran after him.

  “We’re going to take you home,” cried Muriel, beaming.

  “Yer car’s at the back gate, all right-side-up,” said The Hopper, “but I kin go on the trolley.”

  “Indeed you won’t! Roger will take you home. Oh, don’t be alarmed! My husband knows everything about our conspiracy. And we want you to come back this afternoon. You know I owe you an apology for thinking—for thinking you were—you were—a—”

  “They’s things wot is an’ things wot ain’t, miss. Circumstantial evidence sends lots o’ men to th’ chair. Ut’s a heap more happy like,” The Hopper continued in his best philosophical vein, “t’ play th’ white card, helpin’ widders an’ orfants an’ settlin’ fusses. When ye ast me t’ steal them jugs I hadn’t th’ heart t’ refuse ye, miss. I wuz scared to tell ye I had yer baby an’ ye seemed so sort o’ trustin’ like. An’ ut bein’ Chris’mus an’ all.”

  When he steadfastly refused to promise to return, Muriel announced that they would visit The Hopper late in the afternoon and bring Billie along to express their thanks more formally.

  “I’ll be glad to see ye,” replied The Hopper, though a little doubtfully and shame-facedly. “But ye mustn’t git me into no more house-breakin’ scrapes,” he added with a grin. “It’s mighty dangerous, miss, fer amachures, like me an’ yer pa!”

  X

  Mary was not wholly pleased at the prospect of visitors, but she fell to work with Humpy to put the house in order. At five o’clock not one, but three automobiles drove into the yard, filling Humpy with alarm lest at last The Hopper’s sins had overtaken him and they were all about to be hauled away to spend the rest of their lives in prison. It was not the police, but the young Talbots, with Billie and his grandfathers, on their way to a family celebration at the house of an aunt of Muriel’s.

  The grandfathers were restored to perfect amity, and were deeply curious now about The Hopper, whom the peace-loving Muriel had
cajoled into robbing their houses.

  “And you’re only an honest chicken farmer, after all!” exclaimed Talbot, senior, when they were all sitting in a semicircle about the fireplace in Mary’s parlor. “I hoped you were really a burglar; I always wanted to know a burglar.”

  Humpy had chopped down a small fir that had adorned the front yard and had set it up as a Christmas tree—an attention that was not lost upon Billie. The Hopper had brought some mechanical toys from town and Humpy essayed the agreeable task of teaching the youngster how to operate them. Mary produced coffee and pound cake for the guests; The Hopper assumed the rôle of lord of the manor with a benevolent air that was intended as much to impress Mary and Humpy as the guests.

  “Of course,” said Mr. Wilton, whose appearance was the least bit comical by reason of his bandaged head,—“of course it was very foolish for a man of your sterling character to allow a young woman like my daughter to bully you into robbing houses for her. Why, when Roger fired at you as you were jumping out of the window, he didn’t miss you more than a foot! It would have been ghastly for all of us if he had killed you!”

  “Well, o’ course it all begun from my goin’ into th’ little house lookin’ fer Shaver’s folks,” replied The Hopper.

  “But you haven’t told us how you came to find our house,” said Roger, suggesting a perfectly natural line of inquiries that caused Humpy to become deeply preoccupied with a pump he was operating in a basin of water for Billie’s benefit.

  “Well, ut jes’ looked like a house that Shaver would belong to, cute an’ comfortable like,” said The Hopper; “I jes’ suspicioned it wuz th’ place as I wuz passin’ along.”

  “I don’t think we’d better begin trying to establish alibis,” remarked Muriel, very gently, “for we might get into terrible scrapes. Why, if Mr. Stevens hadn’t been so splendid about everything and wasn’t just the kindest man in the world, he could make it very ugly for me.”

  “I shudder to think of what he might do to me,” said Wilton, glancing guardedly at his neighbor.

  “The main thing,” said Talbot,—“the main thing is that Mr. Stevens has done for us all what nobody else could ever have done. He’s made us see how foolish it is to quarrel about mere baubles. He’s settled all our troubles for us, and for my part I’ll say his solution is entirely satisfactory.”

  “Quite right,” ejaculated Wilton. “If I ever have any delicate business negotiations that are beyond my powers I’m going to engage Mr. Stevens to handle them.”

  “My business’s hens an’ eggs,” said The Hopper modestly; “an’ we’re doin’ purty well.”

  When they rose to go (a move that evoked strident protests from Billie, who was enjoying himself hugely with Humpy) they were all in the jolliest humor.

  “We must be neighborly,” said Muriel, shaking hands with Mary, who was at the point of tears so great was her emotion at the success of The Hopper’s party. “And we’re going to buy all our chickens and eggs from you. We never have any luck raising our own.”

  Whereupon The Hopper imperturbably pressed upon each of the visitors a neat card stating his name (his latest and let us hope his last!) with the proper rural route designation of Happy Hill Farm.

  The Hopper carried Billie out to his Grandfather Wilton’s car, while Humpy walked beside him bearing the gifts from the Happy Hill Farm Christmas tree. From the door Mary watched them depart amid a chorus of merry Christmases, out of which Billie’s little pipe rang cheerily.

  When The Hopper and Humpy returned to the house, they abandoned the parlor for the greater coziness of the kitchen and there took account of the events of the momentous twenty-four hours.

  “Them’s what I call nice folks,” said Humpy. “They jes’ put us on an’ wore us like we wuz a pair o’ ole slippers.”

  “They wuzn’t uppish—not to speak of,” Mary agreed. “I guess that girl’s got more gumption than any of ’em. She’s got ’em straightened up now and I guess she’ll take care they don’t cut up no more monkey-shines about that Chinese stuff. Her husban’ seemed sort o’ gentle like.”

  “Artists is that way,” volunteered The Hopper, as though from deep experience of art and life. “I jes’ been thinkin’ that knowin’ folks like that an’ findin’ ’em humin, makin’ mistakes like th’ rest of us, kind o’ makes ut seem easier fer us all t’ play th’ game straight. Ut’s goin’ to be th’ white card fer me—jes’ chickens an’ eggs, an’ here’s hopin’ the bulls don’t ever find out we’re settled here.”

  Humpy, having gone into the parlor to tend the fire, returned with two envelopes he had found on the mantel. There was a check for a thousand dollars in each, one from Wilton, the other from Talbot, with “Merry Christmas” written across the visiting-cards of those gentlemen. The Hopper permitted Mary and Humpy to examine them and then laid them on the kitchen table, while he deliberated. His meditations were so prolonged that they grew nervous.

  “I reckon they could spare ut, after all ye done fer ’em, Hop,” remarked Humpy.

  “They’s millionaires, an’ money ain’t nothin’ to ’em,” said The Hopper.

  “We can buy a motor-truck,” suggested Mary, “to haul our stuff to town; an’ mebbe we can build a new shed to keep ut in.”

  The Hopper set the catsup bottle on the checks and rubbed his cheek, squinting at the ceiling in the manner of one who means to be careful of his speech.

  “They’s things wot is an’ things wot ain’t,” he began. “We ain’t none o’ us ever got nowheres bein’ crooked. I been figurin’ that I still got about twenty thousan’ o’ that bunch o’ green I pulled out o’ that express car, planted in places where ‘taint doin’ nobody no good. I guess ef I do ut careful I kin send ut back to the company, a little at a time, an’ they’d never know where ut come from.”

  Mary wept; Humpy stared, his mouth open, his one eye rolling queerly.

  “I guess we kin put a little chunk away every year,” The Hopper went on. “We’d be comfortabler doin’ ut. We could square up ef we lived long enough, which we don’t need t’ worry about, that bein’ the Lord’s business. You an’ me’s cracked a good many safes, Hump, but we never made no money at ut, takin’ out th’ time we done.”

  “He’s got religion; that’s wot he’s got!” moaned Humpy, as though this marked the ultimate tragedy of The Hopper’s life.

  “Mebbe ut’s religion an’ mebbe ut’s jes’ sense,” pursued The Hopper, unshaken by Humpy’s charge. “They wuz a chaplin in th’ Minnesoty pen as used t’ say ef we’re all square with our own selves ut’s goin’ to be all right with God. I guess I got a good deal o’ squarin’ t’ do, but I’m goin’ t’ begin ut. An’ all these things happenin’ along o’ Chris’mus, an’ little Shaver an’ his ma bein’ so friendly like, an’ her gittin’ me t’ help straighten out them ole gents, an’ doin’ all I done an’ not gettin’ pinched seems more ’n jes’ luck; it’s providential’s wot ut is!”

  This, uttered in a challenging tone, evoked a sob from Humpy, who announced that he “felt like” he was going to die.

  “It’s th’ Chris’mus time, I reckon,” said Mary, watching The Hopper deposit the two checks in the clock. “It’s the only decent Chris’mus I ever knowed!”

  A SCANDAL IN WINTER

  Gillian Linscott

  GILLIAN LINSCOTT IS A PROFESSIONAL WRITER who began as a journalist for The Guardian and the BBC before becoming a full-time author of mystery fiction. In that genre, she has shown range, with her major books being about the suffragette detective Nell Bray, for which she has won the (British) Crime Writers’ Association Ellis Peters Historical Dagger. She has also written stories set in ancient Egypt and is an aficionado of Sherlock Holmes, having written stories for such anthologies as Murder in Baker Street (New York, Carroll & Graf, 2001) and Sherlock Holmes in America (New York, Skyhorse, 2009). “A Scandal in Winter” was first published in another Holmes collection, Holmes for the Holidays, edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Jon L. Lellenberg,
and Carol-Lynn Waugh (New York, Berkley, 1996).

  A Scandal in Winter

  GILLIAN LINSCOTT

  AT FIRST SILVER STICK AND HIS Square Bear were no more to us than incidental diversions at the Hotel Edelweiss. The Edelweiss at Christmas and the new year was like a sparkling white desert island, or a very luxurious ocean liner sailing through snow instead of sea. There we were, a hundred people or so, cut off from the rest of the world, even from the rest of Switzerland, with only each other for entertainment and company. It was one of the only possible hotels to stay at in 1910 for this new fad of winter sporting. The smaller Berghaus across the way was not one of the possible hotels, so its dozen or so visitors hardly counted. As for the villagers in their wooden chalets with the cows living downstairs, they didn’t count at all. Occasionally, on walks, Amanda and I would see them carrying in logs from neatly stacked woodpiles or carrying out forkfuls of warm soiled straw that sent columns of white steam into the blue air. They were part of the valley like the rocks and pine trees but they didn’t ski or skate, so they had no place in our world—apart from the sleighs. There were two of those in the village. One, a sober affair drawn by a stolid bay cob with a few token bells on the harness, brought guests and their luggage from the nearest railway station. The other, the one that mattered to Amanda and me, was a streak of black and scarlet, swift as the mountain wind, clamourous with silver bells, drawn by a sleek little honey-coloured Haflinger with a silvery mane and tail that matched the bells. A pleasure sleigh, with no purpose in life beyond amusing the guests at the Edelweiss. We’d see it drawn up in the trampled snow outside, the handsome young owner with his long whip and blonde moustache waiting patiently. Sometimes we’d be allowed to linger and watch as he helped in a lady and gentleman and adjusted the white fur rug over their laps. Then away they’d go, hissing and jingling through the snow, into the track through the pine forest. Amanda and I had been promised that, as a treat on New Year’s Day, we would be taken for a ride in it. We looked forward to it more eagerly than Christmas.