Instinctively, Ghote felt at his hip again. But thik hai, no pocket-maar had been light-fingered with his wallet.
“But, no, Manager sahib. No, no. I was not taking any note-case. Honest to God, no.”
Yet Moti Popatkar’s protestations had about them—there could be no doubting it—a ring of desperation.
“I am going to search you, here and now only,” the Manager stormed.
“No!”
“Yes, I am saying.”
And the Manager darted a hand into each of the big, sagging pockets of the shiny red robe one after the other. Only to withdraw from the second holding nothing more incriminating than a fluff-covered paan which Santa Claus had had no opportunity to pop into his mouth and chew.
“Open up robe,” the Manager demanded.
Ghote stood watching, a feeling of grey sadness creeping over him, as Moti Popatkar, now dulled into apathy, allowed Santa’s robe to be tugged open and eager fingers to dip into shirt pocket and trouser pockets beneath.
But they found nothing more in the way of evidence than the fluff-fuzzed paan already brought to light.
The Manager, furiously baffled, took a step back. Moti Popatkar behind his spreading white beard—distinctly pulled apart during the search—had still not regained anything of his customary good spirits.
The Manager turned to offer explanations to the complaining customer.
Ghote gave a deep sigh.
“Look into Santa’s sack, Manager sahib,” he said.
“Ah! Yes. Yes, yes.”
The big sack was jerked wide. The Manager plunged to his knees.
“Wait,” Ghote shouted suddenly.
The Manager turned and looked up.
“You should let a police officer handle this,” Ghote said.
He stepped up on to the platform and knelt in his turn beside the gaping sack. Then, very carefully, he felt about inside it, easing his fingers past bars of chocolate, little bags of sweets.
At last he rose to his feet.
Between the tip of the forefinger of his right hand and its thumb he was holding a crocodile-skin note-case frothed at the rim with big blue one-hundred rupee notes.
“Mine,” exclaimed the watching lady customer.
Beside her, her daughter burst into tears.
“Inspector,” the Manager said, “kindly charge-sheet this fellow.”
“Well, Manager sahib,” Ghote replied, “I am thinking I should not do that until I have evidences. Fingerprint evidences.”
“But … but we have caught him red-handed only.”
“Are you sure, Manager sahib? Were you actually observing this Santa placing the note-case inside his sack? And, more, did you not observe his manner when you were accusing? He was not at all his usual chirpy self. Now, if he was thinking that by hiding himself this note-case in his sack he would altogether trick you because you would not look there, I am believing he would have found something cheeky to be saying. It was because he was not that I was suddenly realising what must have happened.”
“And what was that, Inspector?” the rich customer demanded.
“Oh, madam, you could not be knowing, but just only as I was entering this store I was catching sight of one Ram Prasad, notorious pickpocket. And he also was catching sight of myself, and ek dum he was turning round and making his way more into the store. It was soon after, I am thinking, that he was dropping the note-case he had already lifted from your open handbag into this sack. This Santa must have spotted him doing that, but been unable to prevent, and Ram Prasad will have had the intention of removing his loot when he had seen that I myself had left the store. I do not have much of doubt that it will be his fingerprints, which we have had ten–twelve years upon the file, that will be found on his very nice shiny crocodile-skin surface.”
And it was then that, behind the bedraggled cottonwool of his beard, Santa sahib gave a wide, wide smile.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he chuckled.
THE CHRISTMAS TRAIN
Will Scott
LARGELY FORGOTTEN TODAY, Will Scott wrote more than two thousand stories in his career, beginning with short humorous tales for various British periodicals before turning to crime. Among his most interesting characters are the oddly named Giglamps, a combination hobo, detective, and rogue; Disher, an egregiously fat and pompous detective who once (and maybe more than once!) said, “It is the most boring thing in all the world, of course, but I am always right”; and Jeremiah Jones, also known as the Laughing Crook, who, in a long series of stories, consistently gets the better of Scotland Yard Inspector Beecham. “The Christmas Train” was first published in the December 23, 1933, issue of Passing Show.
The Christmas Train
WILL SCOTT
“YOU’RE SURE OF YOUR FACTS, MAXWELL?” Mr. Jeremiah Jones inquired.
“Positive, sir,” replied the sober Maxwell. “Mr. Hadlow Cribb landed this morning at Southampton. He has the jewels with him. Forty thousand pounds’ worth. The trouble is, you can’t get that lot through the Customs without somebody getting to know. And I got to know. It cost a bit!”
“Luxuries,” reflected Mr. Jones, with a grin, “are always expensive. But go on.”
“Mr. Hadlow Cribb leaves Liverpool Street tonight for his country home at Friars Topliss where he intends to spend Christmas,” Maxwell proceeded. “The jewels, of course, go with him. The train is due out at fourteen minutes past six.”
“Four hours,” murmured Mr. Jones, with a glance at his watch. “Busy train. It won’t be too easy. Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained. I wish I’d had a little experience of this kind of work.”
“I ought to add,” Maxwell resumed, “that Mr. Hadlow Cribb was accompanied up from Southampton by Marks.”
“Marks?” Mr. Jeremiah Jones’s eyebrows lifted quickly. “The new fellow in Beecham’s office?”
“Exactly,” said Maxwell with a sigh.
“Scotland Yard protection! No, it isn’t going to be too easy,” Mr. Jones repeated. “Can you get word to Dawlish?” he added as he reached for the telephone.
“Dawlish?”
Mr. Jones nodded.
“You mean—as it were—put him wise?”
“Very wise, in a tactful way.”
“I might,” said Maxwell doubtfully.
“Aren’t you sure?”
“I’m positive,” said Maxwell.
“Right. Then go and do it. Meet me here at five-thirty. Have everything ready—most important—mind you’ve got a bag that’s as near as blow it to the one Mr. Hadlow Cribb will carry his jewels in.”
“It shall be done,” Maxwell promised. And away he went.
Mr. Jones unhooked the receiver.
“That Scotland Yard?” he was saying presently. “Inspector Beecham? Say Mr. Jones—an old friend!”
A minute passed and then a sly smile spread across Mr. Jones’s cheerful face.
“That you, Beecham? How are you? Merry Christmas! Well, why not? Peace on earth, goodwill to all men, and that kind of thing.
“Listen, Beecham, my own—I’ve a Christmas box for you. You remember I promised you, if I could get it, the—er—inside dope, as it’s called—crude expression, I know, but it is called that, isn’t it? I thought you’d know … My dear fellow, I am getting on with it; do let me finish …
“About that hold-up at Clapham the other week, when the girl was knocked out. You know how I hate brutality. I mean, he could have drugged her quite as easily, couldn’t he?… But I’m telling you! I’ve got your man, address and everything.
“Listen, I shall be in the Baltic at four … No, no, Beecham, dear, I’d much rather see you personally … It’s your face. It brightens my day. Baltic at four. Better write it down. You’re so forgetful!”
After which Mr. Jones, with a happy chuckle, hooked the receiver, went to Liverpool Street, bought a couple of first-class train tickets, and proceeded to his accustomed corner in the dim saloon of the Baltic Hotel, off Piccadilly.
Promptly at four o’clock the stolid face of Detective-Inspector Beecham of Scotland Yard appeared in sight, and the Scotland Yard man took a seat beside Mr. Jones without a word.
“Compliments of the season!” said the latter brightly.
Beecham grunted.
“Cheer up!” Mr. Jones beamed.
“You owe me some information,” Beecham reminded him.
“I have it here,” said Mr. Jones, producing a pocket-book, which he placed on the table.
“When I say owe I mean owe,” Beecham added. “Don’t imagine you’re paying off a debt. You’re merely paying off arrears. You’ve slipped through my fingers so often that I take this without hesitation. I’ve a right to it. But it wipes nothing off. If I can get you tomorrow, I’ll get you!”
“Why not tonight?” Mr. Jones smiled.
“The first chance I get,” Beecham growled.
Mr. Jones pulled a slip of paper from his pocket-book and began to unfold it. If he heard the suppressed gasp at his side he took no notice of it. He proceeded to unfold the little slip. But it wasn’t the slip that had caused the Scotland Yard man to gasp. It was the sight of the two railway tickets. First class. To Friars Topliss.
“Here’s the address,” said Mr. Jones, passing the slip to the detective. You’ll find your man there. You’ll find the evidence too. And he richly deserves what’s coming to him. You can tell him I said so, if you like, when you explain I obtained the information against him and so did your job for you.”
“Anything else?” asked Beecham.
“Nothing,” said Mr. Jones, “unless you’ll let me call the waiter again, so that we can toast each other in the true festive——”
“I’ll be going,” said Beecham curtly as he rose.
“You have a heart of stone, dear Beecham,” sighed Mr. Jones. “And yet, on Christmas Eve, when you see your stocking and the chimney shaft—who knows?”
But Detective-Inspector Beecham was already on his way to the door—and Scotland Yard.
Back in his office the big man rang a bell and summoned his new assistant Marks to his side.
“Ah, Marks,” he said crisply. “About Mr. Hadlow Cribb. He’s being accompanied tonight on the train?”
“I’m going myself, sir,” said Marks.
“You needn’t trouble,” Beecham grunted.
“Not trouble, sir?”
“I’m going, myself!”
And as Beecham pecked the end off a big cigar he almost smiled his self-satisfaction.
The six-fourteen out of Liverpool Street faced the snow before it started. The snow blew in through the open end of the great building, covering the front of the engine and the sides of the passengers and the friends who were seeing them off. It was agreed by the majority that the weather was seasonable, but the vote was unanimous that the journey was certain to be long and uncomfortable.
In the laughing, grumbling, cheerful, and anxious holiday crowds a small greyish man passed unnoticed. The cheerful ones were too cheerful to take the slightest interest in a figure so small and grey; the anxious ones too anxious. He passed through to the train as though he and the inconspicuous black bag he carried did not in fact exist, and when he sank wheezily into the corner of a first-class compartment that compartment still seemed empty.
Whereas everybody, cheerful or anxious, had at least one glance to spare for the tall and handsome Mr. Jeremiah Jones, who, with the grave and dignified Maxwell at his heels, strode along the platform with an assurance which implied that if he had not bought the station at least he had a ten-day option upon it.
But since nobody had noticed the first greyish man, nobody noticed now that the inconspicuous black bag which Maxwell carried in the wake of Mr. Jones was the very twin brother of the inconspicuous black bag which the greyish man had carried a few moments before.
Except, that is, just one eager watcher with a black half-moon moustache, who now moved out of the obscurity of a dark corner and passed through the barrier not twenty feet behind Mr. Jones and Maxwell.
Mr. Jones and Maxwell passed the first-class compartment in which the greyish Mr. Hadlow Cribb sat with his forty thousand pounds’ worth of jewels, walked on until they were beyond the dining car and then selected a first-class compartment of their own.
But the eagerly watchful Detective-Inspector Beecham had a few quiet words with the guard at the other end of the train and sank back into obscurity once more, this time in the shadows of the guard’s van.
The train moved out of the station and Detective-Inspector Beecham moved out of the guard’s van together. The train moved out into the unfriendliness of the winter night, but Beecham moved out into the comparative cosiness of the corridor. This he traversed as far as the second coach where, having satisfied himself that Mr. Hadlow Cribb was still alone and his shabby case unmolested, he took up his stand round the angle of the passage at the end of the coach and watched.
Mile succeeded mile, minute succeeded minute. Detective-Inspector Beecham began to grow restless. The corridor windows were coated with snow. There was nothing to see and as little to do. Cheerful Christmasy shouts reached his ears from the ends of the train. He began to feel out of it. He began to feel bored. He shook himself and set out to walk the length of the train.
He passed through the dining car. He passed through two coaches beyond the dining car—satisfied that neither Mr. Jones nor Maxwell had seen him do so—before he pulled up, again round the angle of a passage at the end of a coach.
Again he had perforce to play a waiting game. Again he began to feel out of it and bored. But at last, about an hour out of Liverpool Street he was pleased to hear a door slide down the corridor and thrilled to see that the two men who came out of the first-class compartment and made off in the direction of the rear of the train were Mr. Jones and Maxwell. And Maxwell carried the second shabby little bag.
“Ah!” said Beecham softly to himself.
He let them get round the angle at the end of the coach; then he followed. He followed them through the next coach. He gave them three-quarters of a minute, then he plunged into the dining car prepared for the interesting bit in the rear section of the train.
But there he stopped.
And there Mr. Jones stopped, too. Stopped ordering turkey and Christmas pudding to stare up at Detective-Inspector Beecham and exclaim:
“Why, look who’s here! Who could have thought it? Maxwell—wish the gentleman a Merry Christmas!”
“A Merry Christmas to you, sir,” said Maxwell, with a respectful dip of the head to the detective.
“Sit down and join us,” Mr. Jones invited. “After all, it only comes once a year and you can mutter ‘Without prejudice’ under your breath as you drink my beer. Or shall it be port?”
Beecham sank wearily into the comfortable chair opposite the pair of them.
“I—” He stopped.
“Yes, dear fellow?” Mr. Jones prompted.
“Nothing,” the detective mumbled.
“Don’t tell me you’re going away for Christmas,” said Mr. Jones. “I understand you don’t believe in such tosh. Or am I wrong? Does that hard face of yours hide a heart that weeps after three glasses of rum punch and the sight of a holly berry?”
“The point is where are you going?” Beecham demanded.
“I don’t see that’s the point at all,” Mr. Jones smiled. “Waiter—or should it be steward? I travel so little—bring my friend Detective-Inspector Beecham, of Scotland Yard, turkey and plum pudding and all things seasonable to eat and drink. Beecham, I don’t think you know the steward, do you? The steward—Detective-Inspector Beecham. Of Scotland Yard, you know. My very good friend.”
The attendant departed smiling, while the detective, with a neck going steadily pinker, attempted the futility of looking out of the window.
“When I want to advertise …” he said fiercely.
“You never will,” Mr. Jones assured him. “Too well known to need it. Too deeply established in the affections
of the multitude to require such a cheap device. Advertise? You? When you have to civilization will have perished. What about the skating prospects for the holidays? I’d like your opinion.”
“What I’m never sure about,” said Beecham, turning a fierce glare on Mr. Jones, “is whether you’re a crafty fool or just a fool.”
“Shall we say a lucky fool?” suggested Mr. Jones.
“Luck, yes!” snapped Beecham.
“That shows,” said Mr. Jones, “how little you know me. You must get to know me better. Call round some time. Second Thursdays, you know. Tea. And cakes.”
To give the grim old man of Scotland Yard his due he almost enjoyed the turkey and plum pudding and the port that followed.
Despite his company he would have enjoyed the unusual even entirely had it not been for the business which found him there. As it was he said little. Nor did he do more than listen occasionally to the ceaseless flow of light-hearted chatter which poured from the lips of Mr. Jones.
He gave himself up to a waiting game and tried to calculate the number of miles that had pounded themselves out under the wheels of the train.
Mr. Jones glanced at his watch.
“Eight o’clock? The snow’s keeping us back. We were due in at Friars Topliss at five minutes to, surely?”
Beecham looked up at the mention of Friars Topliss, but still he said nothing. Mr. Jones offered a cigar, which was refused, and then lit one himself.
Ten minutes later the train began to slow down.
“Now where are we?” said Mr. Jones.
All down the dining car there was much rubbing of steamed windows, which answered no questions. An attendant, laden with Christmas fare on a tray passed quickly.
“Tell me, steward, where are we?” Mr. Jones inquired.
“Running into Etching Vale, sir,” replied the attendant. “Friars Topliss in twenty-five minutes.”
The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Page 108
