The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  Jane looked at Dan. He nodded and she slid off the stool.

  As they went up the stairs, Jane said, “I seem to be known here.”

  “Notorious female. I suspect he wants a witness.”

  Vincent Servius was standing at a small corner bar mixing himself a drink when they entered. He turned and smiled. “Fowler, Miss Raymer. Nice of you to stop by. Can I mix you something?”

  Dan refused politely, and they sat down.

  Vince was a compact man with cropped, prematurely white hair, a sunlamp tan, and beautifully cut clothes. He had not been directly concerned with violence in many years. In that time he had eliminated most of the traces of the hoodlum.

  The over-all impression he gave was that of the up-and-coming clubman. Golf lessons, voice lessons, plastic surgery, and a good tailor—these had all helped; but nothing had been able to destroy a certain aura of alertness, ruthlessness. He was a man you would never joke with. He had made his own laws, and he carried the awareness of his own ultimate authority around with him, as unmistakable as a loaded gun.

  Vince went over to the fieldstone fireplace, drink in hand, and turned, resting his elbow on the mantel.

  “Very clever, Fowler. ‘Only if you happen to have an opinion.’ I have an opinion. The kid is no good. That’s my opinion. He’s a cheap punk. I didn’t admit that to myself until he tried to put the hook on that loan company. He was working for me at the time. I was trying to break him in here—buying foods.

  “But now I’m through, Fowler. You can tell Jim Heglon that for me. Terrafierro will back it up. Ask him what I told him. I said, ‘Defend the kid. Get him off if you can and no hard feelings if you can’t. If you get him off, I’m having him run out of town, out of the state. I don’t want him around.’ I told George that.

  “Now there’s this Garrity thing. It looks like I went out on a limb for the kid. Going out on limbs was yesterday, Fowler. Not today and not tomorrow. I was a sucker long enough.”

  He took out a crisp handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “I go right up in the air,” he said. “I talk too loud.”

  “You can see how Heglon is thinking,” Dan said quietly. “And the police, too.”

  “That’s the hell of it. I swear I had nothing to do with it.” He half smiled. “It would have helped if I’d had a tape recorder up here last month when the Garrity girl came to see what she could sell me.”

  Dan leaned forward. “She came here?”

  “With bells on. Nothing coy about that kid. Pay off, Mr. Servius, and I’ll change my identification of your brother.”

  “What part of last month?”

  “Let me think. The tenth it was. Monday the tenth.”

  Jane said softly, “That’s why I got the impression she wouldn’t sell out, Dan. I had lunch with her later that same week. She had tried to and couldn’t.”

  Vince took a sip of his drink. “She started with big money and worked her way down. I let her go ahead. Finally, after I’d had my laughs, I told her even one dollar was too much. I told her I wanted the kid sent up.

  “She blew her top. For a couple of minutes I thought I might have to clip her to shut her up. But after a couple of drinks she quieted down. That gave me a chance to find out something that had been bothering me. It seemed too pat, kind of.”

  “What do you mean, Servius?” Dan asked.

  “The setup was too neat, the way the door happened to be open a crack, and the way she happened to be working late, and the way she happened to see the kids come out.

  “I couldn’t get her to admit anything at first, because she was making a little play for me, but when I convinced her I wasn’t having any, she let me in on what really happened. She was hanging around waiting for the manager of that loan outfit to quit work.

  “They had a system. She’d wait in the accountant’s office with the light out, watching his door. Then, when the manager left, she’d wait about five minutes and leave herself. That would give him time to get his car out of the parking lot. He’d pick her up at the corner. She said he was the super-cautious, married type. They just dated once in a while. I wasn’t having any of that. Too rough for me, Fowler.”

  There was a long silence. Dan asked, “How about friends of your brother, Servius, or friends of Kelly and Castrella?”

  Vince walked over and sat down, facing them. “One—Johnny didn’t have a friend who’d bring a bucket of water if he was on fire. And two—I sent the word out.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I like things quiet in this end of the state. I didn’t want anyone helping those three punks. Everybody got the word. So who would do anything? Now both of you please tell Heglon exactly what I said. Tell him to check with Terrafierro. Tell him to have the cops check their pigeons. Ask the kid himself. I paid him a little visit. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got another appointment.”

  They had finished their steaks before Dan was able to get any line on Connie Wyant. On the third telephone call, he was given a message. Lieutenant Wyant was waiting for Mr. Fowler at 311 Leeds Street, Apartment 6A, and would Mr. Fowler please bring Miss Raymer with him.

  They drove back to the city. A department car was parked in front of the building. Sergeant Levandowski was half asleep behind the wheel. “Go right in. Ground floor in the back. 6A.”

  Connie greeted them gravely and listened without question to Dan’s report of the conversation with Vince Servius. After Dan had finished, Connie nodded casually, as though it was of little importance, and said, “Miss Raymer, I’m not so good at this, so I thought maybe you could help. There’s the Garrity girl’s closet. Go through it and give me an estimate on the cost.”

  Jane went to the open closet. She began to examine the clothes. “Hey!” she exclaimed.

  “What do you think?” Connie asked.

  “If this suit cost a nickel under two hundred, I’ll eat it. And look at this coat. Four hundred, anyway.” She bent over and picked up a shoe. “For ages I’ve dreamed of owning a pair of these. Thirty-seven fifty, at least.”

  “Care to make an estimate on the total?” Connie asked her.

  “Gosh, thousands. I don’t know. There are nine dresses in there that must have cost at least a hundred apiece. Do you have to have it accurate?”

  “That’s close enough, thanks.” He took a small blue bankbook out of his pocket and flipped it to Dan. Dan caught it and looked inside. Loreen Garrity had more than eleven hundred dollars on hand. There had been large deposits and large withdrawals—nothing small.

  Connie said, “I’ve been to see her family.

  They’re good people. They didn’t want to talk mean about the dead, so it took a little time. But I found out our Loreen was one for the angles—a chiseler—no conscience and less morals. A rough, tough cookie to get tied up with.

  “From there, I went to see the Kistners. Every time the old lady would try to answer a question, Kistner’d jump in with all four feet. I finally had to have Levandowski take him downtown just to get him out of the way. Then the old lady talked.

  “She had a lot to say about how lousy business is. How they’re scrimping and scraping along, and how the girl couldn’t have a new formal for the Christmas dance tomorrow night at the high school gym.

  “Then I called up an accountant friend after I left her. I asked him how Kistner had been doing. He cussed out Kistner and said he’d been doing fine; in fact, he had stolen some nice retail accounts out from under the other boys in the same racket. So I came over here and it looked like this was where the profit was going. So I waited for you so I could make sure.”

  “What can you do about it?” Dan demanded, anger in his voice, anger at the big puffy man who hadn’t wanted to lie to the police.

  “I’ve been thinking. It’s eleven o’clock. He’s been sitting down there sweating. I’ve got to get my Christmas shopping done tomorrow, and the only way I’ll ever get around to it is to break him fast.”

  Jane had been listening, wide-eyed.
“They always forget some little thing, don’t they?” she asked. “Or there is something they don’t know about. Like a clock that is five minutes slow, or something. I mean, in the stories …” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

  “Give her a badge, Connie,” Dan said with amusement.

  Connie rubbed his chin. “I might do that, Dan. I just might do that. Miss Raymer, you got a strong stomach? If so, maybe you get to watch your idea in operation.”

  It was nearly midnight, and Connie had left Dan and Jane alone in a small office at headquarters for nearly a half hour. He opened the door and stuck his head in. “Come on, people. Just don’t say a word.”

  They went to the Interrogation Room. Kistner jumped up the moment they came in. Levandowski sat at the long table, looking bored.

  Kistner said heatedly, “As you know, Lieutenant, I was perfectly willing to cooperate. But you are being high-handed. I demand to know why I was brought down here. I want to know why I can’t phone a lawyer. You are exceeding your authority, and I—”

  “Siddown!” Connie roared with all the power of his lungs.

  Kistner’s mouth worked silently. He sat down, shocked by the unexpected roar. A tired young man slouched in, sat at the table, flipped open a notebook, and placed three sharp pencils within easy reach.

  Connie motioned Dan and Jane over toward chairs in a shadowed corner of the room. They sat side by side, and Jane held Dan’s wrist, her nails sharp against his skin.

  “Kistner, tell us again about how you came back to the office,” Connie said.

  Kistner replied in a tone of excruciating patience, as though talking to children, “I parked my car in my parking space in the lot behind the building. I used the back way into the lobby. I went up—”

  “You went to the cigar counter.”

  “So I did! I had forgotten that. I went to the cigar counter. I bought three cigars and chatted with Barney. Then I took an elevator up.”

  “And talked to the elevator boy.”

  “I usually do. Is there a law?”

  “No law, Kistner. Go on.”

  “And then I opened the Men’s Room door with my key, and I was in there perhaps three minutes. And then when I came out, the man I described brushed by me. I went to the office and found the window open. I was shutting it and I heard—”

  “All this was at two o’clock, give or take a couple of minutes?”

  “That’s right, Lieutenant.” Talking had restored Kistner’s self-assurance.

  Connie nodded to Levandowski. The sergeant got up lazily, walked to the door, and opened it. A burly, diffident young man came in. He wore khaki pants and a leather jacket.

  “Sit down,” Connie said casually. “What’s your name?”

  “Paul Hilbert, officer.”

  The tired young man was taking notes.

  “What’s your occupation?”

  “I’m a plumber, officer. Central Plumbing, Incorporated.”

  “Did you get a call today from the Associated Bank Building?”

  “Well, I didn’t get the call, but I was sent out on the job. I talked to the super, and he sent me up to the seventeenth floor. Sink drain clogged in the Men’s Room.”

  “What time did you get there?”

  “That’s on my report, officer. Quarter after one.”

  “How long did it take you to finish the job?”

  “About three o’clock.”

  “Did you leave the Men’s Room at any time during that period?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “I suppose people tried to come in there?”

  “Three or four. But I had all the water connections turned off, so I told them to go down to sixteen. The super had the door unlocked down there.”

  “Did you get a look at everybody who came in?”

  “Sure, officer.”

  “You said three or four. Is one of them at this table?”

  The shy young man looked around. He shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Thanks, Hilbert. Wait outside. We’ll want you to sign the statement when it’s typed up.”

  Hilbert’s footsteps sounded loud as he walked to the door. Everyone was watching Kistner. His face was still, and he seemed to be looking into a remote and alien future, as cold as the back of the moon.

  Kistner said in a husky, barely audible voice, “A bad break. A stupid thing. Ten seconds it would have taken me to look in there. I had to establish the time. I talked to Barney. And to the elevator boy. They’d know when she fell. But I had to be some place else. Not in the office.

  “You don’t know how it was. She kept wanting more money. She wouldn’t have anything to do with me, except when there was money. And I didn’t have any more, finally.

  “I guess I was crazy. I started to milk the accounts. That wasn’t hard; the clients trust me. Take a little here and a little there. She found out. She wanted more and more. And that gave her a new angle. Give me more, or I’ll tell.

  “I thought it over. I kept thinking about her being a witness. All I had to do was make it look like she was killed to keep her from testifying. I don’t care what you do to me. Now it’s over, and I feel glad.”

  He gave Connie a long, wondering look. “Is that crazy? To feel glad it’s over? Do other people feel that way?”

  Connie asked Dan and Jane to wait in the small office. He came in ten minutes later; he looked tired. The plumber came in with him.

  Connie said, “Me, I hate this business. I’m after him, and I bust him, and then I start bleeding for him. What the hell? Anyway, you get your badge, Miss Raymer.”

  “But wouldn’t you have found out about the plumber anyway?” Jane asked.

  Connie grinned ruefully at her. He jerked a thumb toward the plumber. “Meet Patrolman Hilbert. Doesn’t know a pipe wrench from a faucet. We just took the chance that Kistner was too eager to toss the girl out the window—so eager he didn’t make a quick check of the Men’s Room. If he had, he could have laughed us under the table. As it is, I can get my Christmas shopping done tomorrow. Or is it today?”

  Dan and Jane left headquarters. They walked down the street, arm in arm. There was holly, and a big tree in front of the courthouse, and a car went by with a lot of people in it singing about We Three Kings of Orient Are. Kistner was a stain, fading slowly.

  They walked until it was entirely Christmas Eve, and they were entirely alone in the snow that began to fall again, making tiny, perfect stars of lace that lingered in her dark hair.

  CRIME’S CHRISTMAS CAROL

  Norvell Page

  ALREADY A PROLIFIC WRITER for such pulp magazines as Black Mask, Dime Mystery, and others, Norvell Page began to write novels for the hero pulp The Spider, under the house name Grant Stockbridge, in 1933. Created to compete with The Shadow, the first two issues of the magazine were written by R. T. M. Scott, then turned over to the twenty-nine-year-old Page, who gave the ruthless and fearless vigilante a mask and a disguise (as a fang-toothed hunchback named Richard Wentworth). A series of horrific villains were hunted down and killed by Wentworth, who then branded his prey on the forehead with a seal of a spider. At his most prolific, Page wrote more than one hundred thousand words a month, half for the Spider novels and the rest for a wide range of fiction. “Crime’s Christmas Carol” was first published in the May 1939 issue of Detective Tales.

  Crime’s Christmas Carol

  NORVELL PAGE

  ANNA HELPED TOM PUT ON HIS COAT and, as always, the thread-bare lightness of it twisted something inside of her. The wind rattling the windows had such a hungry, thin sound. It surged in around the loose frames in spite of all the newspaper stuffing; it made the little red bows she had pinned up in place of Christmas wreaths whirl and dance.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, Mr. Mann,” Anna said.

  Tom twisted his young thin face around and winked. “And what wouldn’t you do, Mrs. Mann, seeing as how it’s Christmas Eve?”

  “Well,” Anna made it cheerful, “I wou
ldn’t rob a bank. I don’t think I would.”

  “Sure?”

  “Certain sure, Mr. Mann. Why, we’re practically rolling in money. I’ve got ninety-seven cents!”

  “Let me see all this wealth, woman.” Tom stared down at the handful of silver and coppers, poked doubtfully at a slick-faced nickel. “I might be able to use that in a subway turnstile—if I went through a subway turnstile.”

  Anna said firmly, “Mr. Osterschmidt is going to take that lead nickel back. He gave it to me.”

  Tom stared at her and made his eyes open wide. “Don’t tell me that we’re going to have meat for Christmas, Mrs. Mann!”

  Anna tried to keep her smile. Tom’s lips were stretched tight; maybe they were smiling. He began to swear in a thin, faltering voice. He turned sharply away and slammed out of the room. Anna ran after him into the drafty hall.

  “Tom,” she cried. “Tom, you didn’t kiss me good-bye!”

  That would always stop him. But this time … he didn’t stop. His feet kept thumping down the three flights of rickety stairs, getting fainter and fainter. The front door banged. It made empty echoes clatter through the cold ancient house.

  “Oh, Tom,” Anna whispered. “Tom, don’t do anything … anything foolish. Please, God, he mustn’t!” She took a deep breath then, and smiled a little to herself. Of course, Tom wouldn’t. He was just trying for a job, any job now that the shop where he’d been working part-time was closed down. It would open again, maybe, in February.… Anna’s hand knotted about her ninety-seven cents.…

  Anna scoured their little room and closet kitchenette until the shabby furniture shone, and three hours were gone. She spent an hour stuffing more paper around those rattling windows. And there wasn’t another thing to do—except think. Anna stared about her with frightened eyes. Hours before she could expect Tom home again; hours …

  At last she dragged on her thin coat and ran down the steps. The bitter wind of the street was welcome. Tom was out in this somewhere, wasn’t he? Why should anybody be warm and comfortable when Tom was cold? People had such silly smiles on their faces, arms full of packages, yelling at one another, “Merry Christmas!”