The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  Loretta decided to ignore the fact that neither Wilma nor Ernie answered her, that neither bothered to brush the snow from their overshoes on the foyer mat that specifically invited guests to do that very thing, that they had no friendly holiday smiles to match her greeting.

  Wilma declined the invitation to sit down, to have a cup of tea or a Bloody Mary. She made her case clear. Ernie had been holding a two-million-dollar lottery ticket. He’d told Loretta about it at the Harmony Bar. Loretta had driven him home from the Harmony, gotten him into his room. Ernie had passed out and the ticket was gone.

  In 1945, before she became a full-time hoofer, Loretta had studied acting at the Sonny Tufts School for Thespians. Drawing on the long-ago experience, she earnestly and sincerely performed her well-practiced scenario for Wilma and Ernie. Ernie never breathed a word to her about a winning ticket. She only drove him home as a favor to him and to Lou. Lou couldn’t leave and anyhow Lou’s such a runt, he couldn’t fight Ernie for the car keys. “At least you agreed to let me drive,” Loretta said to Ernie indignantly. “I took my life in my hands just letting you snore your way home in my car.” She turned to Wilma and woman-to-woman reminded her: “You know how jealous Jimbo is of me, silly man. You’d think I was sixteen. But no way do I go into your house unless you’re there, Wilma. Ernie, you got smashed real fast at the Harmony. Just ask Lou. Did you stop anywhere else first and maybe talk to someone about the ticket?”

  Loretta congratulated herself as she watched the doubt and confusion on both their faces. A few minutes later they left. “I hope you find it. I’ll say a prayer,” she promised piously. She would not shake hands with them, explaining to Wilma about her dumb sister-in-law’s greenhouse harvest of poison ivy. “Come have a Christmas drink with Jimbo and me,” she urged. “He’ll be home about four o’clock Christmas Eve.”

  At home, sitting glumly over a cup of tea, Wilma said, “She’s lying. I know she’s lying but who could prove it? Fifteen winners have shown up already. One missing and with a year to claim.” Frustrated tears rolled unnoticed down Wilma’s cheeks. “She’ll let the whole world know she buys a ticket here, a ticket there. She’ll do that for the next fifty-one weeks and then bingo she’ll find the ticket she forgot she had.”

  Ernie watched his wife in abject silence. A weeping Wilma was an infrequent sight. Now as her face blotched and her nose began to run, he handed her his red bandana handkerchief. His sudden gesture caused a ceramic hummingbird to fall off the sideboard behind him. The beak of the hummingbird crumbled against the imitation marble tile in the breakfast nook of the kitchen and brought a fresh wail of grief from Wilma.

  “My big hope was that Wee Willie could give up working nights at McDonald’s and study and do her birds full-time,” Wilma sobbed. “And now that dream is busted.”

  Just to be absolutely sure, they went to the Friendly Shamrock near the Do-Shop-Here Mall in Paramus. The evening bartender confirmed that Ernie had been there the night before just around midnight, had two maybe three drinks but never said boo to nobody. “Just sat there grinning like the cat who ate the canary.”

  After a dinner which neither of them touched Wilma carefully examined Ernie’s undershirt, which still had the safety pin in place. “She didn’t even bother to unpin it,” Wilma said bitterly. “Just reached in and tore it off.”

  “Can we sue her?” Ernie suggested tentatively. The enormity of his stupidity kept building by the minute. Getting drunk. Talking his head off to Loretta.

  Too tired to even answer, Wilma opened the suitcase she had not yet unpacked and reached for her flannel nightgown. “Sure we can sue her,” she said sarcastically, “for having a fast brain when she’s dealing with a wet brain. Now turn off the light, go to sleep, and quit that damn scratching. You’re driving me crazy.”

  Ernie was tearing at his chest in the area around his heart. “Something itches,” he complained.

  A bell sounded in Wilma’s head as she closed her eyes. She was so worn out she fell asleep almost immediately, but her dreams were filled with lottery tickets floating through the air like snowflakes. From time to time she was pulled awake by Ernie’s restless movements. Usually Ernie slept like a hibernating bear.

  Christmas Eve dawned gray and cheerless. Wilma dragged herself around the house, going through the motions of putting presents under the tree. The two boxes from Wee Willie. If they hadn’t lost the winning ticket they could have phoned Wee Willie to come home for Christmas. Maybe she wouldn’t have come. Wee Willie didn’t like the middle-class trap of the suburban environment. In that case Ernie could have thrown up his job and they could have visited her in New Mexico soon. And Wilma could have bought the forty-inch television that had so awed her in Trader Horn’s last week. Just think of seeing J. R. forty inches big.

  Oh well. Spilt milk. No, spilt booze. Ernie had told her about his plans to put the lottery ticket in her pantyhose on the mantel of the fake fireplace if he hadn’t lost it. Wilma tried not to dwell on the thrill of finding the ticket there.

  She was not pleasant to Ernie, who was still hung over and had phoned in sick for the second day. She told him exactly where he could stuff his headache.

  In mid-afternoon, Ernie went into the bedroom and closed the door. After a while, Wilma became alarmed and followed him. Ernie was sitting on the edge of the bed, his shirt off, plaintively scratching his chest. “I’m all right,” he said, his face still covered with the hangdog expression that was beginning to seem permanent. “It’s just I’m so damn itchy.”

  Only slightly relieved that Ernie had not found some way to commit suicide, Wilma asked irritably, “What are you so itchy about? It isn’t time for your allergies to start. I hear enough about them all summer.”

  She looked closely at the inflamed skin. “For God’s sake, that’s poison ivy. Where did you manage to pick that up?”

  Poison ivy.

  They stared at each other.

  Wilma grabbed Ernie’s undershirt from the top of the dresser. She’d left it there, the safety pin still in it, the sliver of ticket a silent, hostile witness to his stupidity. “Put it on,” she ordered.

  “But …”

  “Put it on!”

  It was instantly evident that the poison ivy was centered in the exact spot where the ticket had been hidden.

  “That lying hoofer.” Wilma thrust out her jaw and straightened her shoulders. “She said that Big Jimbo was gonna be home around four, didn’t she?”

  “I think so.”

  “Good. Nothing like a reception committee.”

  At three-thirty they pulled in front of Loretta’s house and parked. As they’d expected, Jimbo’s sixteen-wheel rig was not yet there. “We’ll sit here for a few minutes and make that crook nervous,” Wilma decreed.

  They watched as the vertical blinds in the front window of Loretta’s house began to bob erratically. At three minutes of four, Ernie pointed a nervous hand. “There. At the light. That’s Jimbo’s truck.”

  “Let’s go,” Wilma told him.

  Loretta opened the door, her face again wreathed in a smile. With grim satisfaction Wilma noticed that the smile was very, very nervous.

  “Ernie. Wilma. How nice. You did come for a Christmas drink.”

  “I’ll have my Christmas drink later,” Wilma told her. “And it’ll be to celebrate getting our ticket back. How’s your poison ivy, Loretta?”

  “Oh, starting to clear up. Wilma, I don’t like the tone of your voice.”

  “That’s a crying shame.” Wilma walked past the sectional, which was upholstered in a red-and-black checkered pattern, went to the window, and pulled back the vertical blind. “Well, what do you know? Here’s Big Jimbo. Guess you two lovebirds can’t wait to get your hands on each other. Guess he’ll be real mad when I tell him I’m suing you for heartburn because you’ve been fooling around with my husband.”

  “I’ve what?” Loretta’s carefully applied purple-kisses lipstick deepened as her complexion faded to grayish wh
ite.

  “You heard me. And I got proof. Ernie, take off your shirt. Show this husband-stealer your rash.”

  “Rash,” Loretta moaned.

  “Poison ivy just like yours. Started on his chest when you stuck your hand under his underwear to get the ticket. Go ahead. Deny it. Tell Jimbo you don’t know nothing about a ticket, that you and Ernie were just having a go at a little hanky-panky.”

  “You’re lying. Get out of here. Ernie, don’t unbutton that shirt.” Frantically Loretta grabbed Ernie’s hands.

  “My what a big man Jimbo is,” Wilma said admiringly as he got out of the truck. She waved to him. “A real big man.” She turned. “Take off your pants too, Ernie.” Wilma dropped the vertical blind and hurried over to Loretta. “He’s got the rash down there,” she whispered.

  “Oh, my God. I’ll get it. I’ll get it. Keep your pants on!” Loretta rushed to the junior-sized dining room and flung open the china closet that contained the remnants of her mother’s china. With shaking fingers she reached for the sugar bowl. It dropped from her hands and smashed as she grabbed the lottery ticket. Jimbo’s key was turning in the door as she jammed the ticket in Wilma’s hand. “Now get out. And don’t say nothing.”

  Wilma sat down on the red-and-black checkered couch. “It would look real funny to rush out. Ernie and I will join you and Big Jimbo in a Christmas drink.”

  The houses on their block were decorated with Santa Clauses on the roofs, angels on the lawn, and ropes of lights framing the outside of the windows. With a peaceful smile as they arrived home, Wilma remarked how real pretty the neighborhood was. Inside the house, she handed the lottery ticket to Ernie. “Put this in my stocking just the way you meant to.”

  Meekly he went into the bedroom and selected her favorite pantyhose, the white ones with rhinestones. She fished in his drawer and came out with one of his dress-up argyle socks, somewhat lumpy because Wilma wasn’t much of a knitter but still his best. As they tacked the stockings to the mantel over the artificial fireplace, Ernie said, “Wilma, I don’t have poison ivy,” his voice sunk into a faint whisper, “down there.”

  “I’m sure you don’t but it did the trick. Now just put the ticket in my stocking and I’ll put your present in yours.”

  “You bought me a present? After all the trouble I caused? Oh, Wilma.”

  “I didn’t buy it. I dug it out of the medicine cabinet and put a bow on it.” Smiling happily, Wilma dropped a bottle of calamine lotion into Ernie’s argyle sock.

  DEATH ON THE AIR

  Ngaio Marsh

  ALTHOUGH SHE IS ONE OF THE TWENTIETH CENTURY’S greatest writers of pure detective stories, Ngaio Marsh’s first love was the theater, especially the plays of her native New Zealand. Her first name (pronounced Nigh-o) is the Maori name for a local flower. All of her thirty-two novels feature Scotland Yard’s Inspector Roderick Alleyn. Marsh was given the Grand Master Award by the Mystery Writers of America for lifetime achievement. Curiously, her autobiography, Black Beech and Honeydew (1965), barely mentions mystery fiction, though she devoted much of nearly a half century to writing it. “Death on the Air” was first published as “Murder at Christmas” in the December 1934 issue of The Grand Magazine.

  Death on the Air

  NGAIO MARSH

  ON THE 25TH OF DECEMBER AT 7:30 A.M. Mr. Septimus Tonks was found dead beside his wireless set.

  It was Emily Parks, an under-housemaid, who discovered him. She butted open the door and entered, carrying mop, duster, and carpet-sweeper. At that precise moment she was greatly startled by a voice that spoke out of the darkness.

  “Good morning, everybody,” said the voice in superbly inflected syllables, “and a Merry Christmas!”

  Emily yelped, but not loudly, as she immediately realised what had happened. Mr. Tonks had omitted to turn off his wireless before going to bed. She drew back the curtains, revealing a kind of pale murk which was a London Christmas dawn, switched on the light, and saw Septimus.

  He was seated in front of the radio. It was a small but expensive set, specially built for him. Septimus sat in an armchair, his back to Emily, his body tilted towards the radio.

  His hands, the fingers curiously bunched, were on the ledge of the cabinet under the tuning and volume knobs. His chest rested against the shelf below and his head leaned on the front panel.

  He looked rather as though he was listening intently to the interior secrets of the wireless. His head was bent so that Emily could see his bald top with its trail of oiled hairs. He did not move.

  “Beg pardon, sir,” gasped Emily. She was again greatly startled. Mr. Tonks’s enthusiasm for radio had never before induced him to tune in at seven-thirty in the morning.

  “Special Christmas service,” the cultured voice was saying. Mr. Tonks sat very still. Emily, in common with the other servants, was terrified of her master. She did not know whether to go or to stay. She gazed wildly at Septimus and realised that he wore a dinner-jacket. The room was now filled with the clamour of pealing bells.

  Emily opened her mouth as wide as it would go and screamed and screamed and screamed …

  Chase, the butler, was the first to arrive. He was a pale, flabby man but authoritative. He said: “What’s the meaning of this outrage?” and then saw Septimus. He went to the armchair, bent down, and looked into his master’s face.

  He did not lose his head, but said in a loud voice: “My Gawd!” And then to Emily: “Shut your face.” By this vulgarism he betrayed his agitation. He seized Emily by the shoulders and thrust her towards the door, where they were met by Mr. Hislop, the secretary, in his dressing-gown. Mr. Hislop said: “Good heavens, Chase, what is the meaning——” and then his voice too was drowned in the clamour of bells and renewed screams.

  Chase put his fat white hand over Emily’s mouth.

  “In the study if you please, sir. An accident. Go to your room, will you, and stop that noise or I’ll give you something to make you.” This to Emily, who bolted down the hall, where she was received by the rest of the staff who had congregated there.

  Chase returned to the study with Mr. Hislop and locked the door. They both looked down at the body of Septimus Tonks. The secretary was the first to speak.

  “But—but—he’s dead,” said little Mr. Hislop.

  “I suppose there can’t be any doubt,” whispered Chase.

  “Look at the face. Any doubt! My God!”

  Mr. Hislop put out a delicate hand towards the bent head and then drew it back. Chase, less fastidious, touched one of the hard wrists, gripped, and then lifted it. The body at once tipped backwards as if it was made of wood. One of the hands knocked against the butler’s face. He sprang back with an oath.

  There lay Septimus, his knees and his hands in the air, his terrible face turned up to the light. Chase pointed to the right hand. Two fingers and the thumb were slightly blackened.

  Ding, dong, dang, ding.

  “For God’s sake stop those bells,” cried Mr. Hislop. Chase turned off the wall switch. Into the sudden silence came the sound of the doorhandle being rattled and Guy Tonks’s voice on the other side.

  “Hislop! Mr. Hislop! Chase! What’s the matter?”

  “Just a moment, Mr. Guy.” Chase looked at the secretary. “You go, sir.”

  So it was left to Mr. Hislop to break the news to the family. They listened to his stammering revelation in stupefied silence. It was not until Guy, the eldest of the three children, stood in the study that any practical suggestion was made.

  “What has killed him?” asked Guy.

  “It’s extraordinary,” burbled Hislop. “Extraordinary. He looks as if he’d been——”

  “Galvanised,” said Guy.

  “We ought to send for a doctor,” suggested Hislop timidly.

  “Of course. Will you, Mr. Hislop? Dr. Meadows.”

  Hislop went to the telephone and Guy returned to his family. Dr. Meadows lived on the other side of the square and arrived in five minutes. He examined the body without
moving it. He questioned Chase and Hislop. Chase was very voluble about the burns on the hand. He uttered the word “electrocution” over and over again.

  “I had a cousin, sir, that was struck by lightning. As soon as I saw the hand——”

  “Yes, yes,” said Dr. Meadows. “So you said. I can see the burns for myself.”

  “Electrocution,” repeated Chase. “There’ll have to be an inquest.”

  Dr. Meadows snapped at him, summoned Emily, and then saw the rest of the family—Guy, Arthur, Phillipa, and their mother. They were clustered round a cold grate in the drawing-room. Phillipa was on her knees, trying to light the fire.

  “What was it?” asked Arthur as soon as the doctor came in.

  “Looks like electric shock. Guy, I’ll have a word with you if you please. Phillipa, look after your mother, there’s a good child. Coffee with a dash of brandy. Where are those damn maids? Come on, Guy.”

  Alone with Guy, he said they’d have to send for the police.

  “The police!” Guy’s dark face turned very pale. “Why? What’s it got to do with them?”

  “Nothing, as like as not, but they’ll have to be notified. I can’t give a certificate as things are. If it’s electrocution, how did it happen?”

  “But the police!” said Guy. “That’s simply ghastly. Dr. Meadows, for God’s sake couldn’t you——?”

  “No,” said Dr. Meadows, “I couldn’t. Sorry, Guy, but there it is.”

  “But can’t we wait a moment? Look at him again. You haven’t examined him properly.”

  “I don’t want to move him, that’s why. Pull yourself together, boy. Look here. I’ve got a pal in the CID—Alleyn. He’s a gentleman and all that. He’ll curse me like a fury, but he’ll come if he’s in London, and he’ll make things easier for you. Go back to your mother. I’ll ring Alleyn up.”