The aisles were filled to overflowing. The big loud speakers were on and the strains of a soft and cheery Christmas carol filled the air. But the jolly music did nothing for the anxious mob. They bumped and pulled. They surged and sweated. Already the area straight ahead, the allotted space before the Toy House, was completely jammed. They backed up into the overflow section and some of the mamas began to explore the merchandise on the convenient counters while waiting for the moment to pull junior up for the interview with Santa.
I was studying the seething crowd, wondering when Greg Wilkinson would appear back there in his Santa outfit. I was meditating about a cup of hot coffee. It would have been good to relax now, to slurp some java and reconsider the events of the morning. My brain is a slow riser. My head comes awake only after habit hits hard. Coffee usually jerks me out of my battle with Morpheus.
Right now, something else fought to rouse my foggy brain.
It was a man, on the far side of the toy aisle.
He drifted, crablike, to the toys. He picked up a rag doll and fingered it. He wore a striped suit and a somber felt. He could have been somebody’s daddy, on the prowl for an early selection for little Eustacia’s Christmas. He could have been a casual shopper, only examining the merchandise. But he wasn’t.
He was Arthur Malman!
I started after him. He must have seen me a little before I located him. Because suddenly he moved out and away from me, aiming for the edge of the crowd, where he knew he could easily lose me. I began to run, but it would have meant mass mayhem to continue this tactic. There was a chance I could cut him off before he gained the far side of the big room, but there was no way of my knowing he would continue in that direction. I muttered a short obscenity at my Irish ancestors for their lack of height. A normally tall man would have been able to follow Malman through the mob. Instead, I was hamstrung by my lack of visibility. My eyes picked up nothing but an eye-level view of shoulders and chins as I waded slowly through the shoppers.
When I reached the far edge of the room, Malman was gone. Instead, I ran head on into Vivian Debevoise.
“Looking for somebody, shamus?” she asked.
“The name is Conacher,” I said. “You’ve been reading too many two-bit novels.”
“Pardon me for breathing.”
“You breathe too loud. What are you doing down here?”
“Must I tell you?” She colored and gave me the hot edge of her nasty mouth. We were pressed together by the crowd, up close enough so that I could almost count the pores on her face. She had pores. She was no longer the chick she fancied herself. A lot of cosmetic varnish hid the seams and shallows from casual inspection. We were almost close enough for fondling each other at the moment. She pulled back and away from me and pointed to a bright gold badge on the high curve of her right breast. “I thought you might have finished grade school,” she sniffed. “Or can’t you read, Conacher?”
The gold badge said: Member of Advertising. Her name was lettered out in large letters: Vivian Debevoise—Office of Mr. Wilkinson. It was all part of Wilkinson’s perpetual pitch for attention. I recalled the gimmick as I stared at Vivian. Wilkinson had appointed all the members of his staff observers during the initial days of the promotion scheme. He must have included Vivian as a courtesy. She would have been all alone up in the Advertising Department, if he had not given her a badge.
“You’re observing the mob,” I said. “My apologies for forgetting the deal, Vivian.”
“Well, that’s better,” she said, forcing a smile. “Maybe I’m a little upset, Conacher. Crowds always did give me the heaves.”
“Then why stand around?”
“Greg’s orders. He wants me at this side of the hall.”
“What are you observing?”
“Buying habits.” She sighed. “We’re trying to find out how many of this bunch will buy toys while waiting for Saint Nick.”
“These kids are going to go nuts if Greg doesn’t come out soon.”
“Come out?” she asked.
“Didn’t you know? He’s doubling for Santa Claus.”
She stared at me in surprise. She was working hard to retain her usual calm, but couldn’t quite make it. Something bothered her enough to make her sniff delicately at the sudden news about Greg Wilkinson.
“That’s a real surprise,” Vivian said. The sniff came again, a delayed flaring of the nostrils that gave her face a slightly zany pitch while it was going on. Any excess flushing colored her pale cheeks and brought out the full measure of her personal discomfort. “When did bright boy decide to play Santa?”
I didn’t have time for an answer. The crowd was buzzing with a delayed reaction to the wait for Saint Nick’s appearance up on the porch of the Toy House. One of the mothers disengaged herself from the clot of humanity and came roaring over to Vivian.
“When are they going to bring out Santa Claus?” she shrilled. “Take a look at my child. She’s ready to throw a fit. If anything happens to her, I’ll sue the store.”
“He’ll be out in a minute, madam,” said Vivian.
But he didn’t come out in a minute. The steady roar of frustration became a cacophony of screams, shouts and mutterings. Some of the kids began to catcall and stamp their feet. Others clapped their hands in a mad rhythm. The scene was blossoming into a nightmare of impatience. Frenzied mothers gripped the moist hands of their offspring and struggled in vain to control them. A little more of this sweaty wait, and mayhem might break loose here. I moved away from Vivian, around the wall toward the Toy House.
The spotlights hit the tinseled façade with a dramatic aura. But no Saint Nick appeared on the tiny porch.
A sudden silence fell over the mob as Larry Pettigrew stepped out and held up his hands.
“Let’s take it easy, kids,” he beamed.
“Santee Claws!” bellowed the children. “We want Santee Claws!”
“Patience now,” continued Pettigrew. “I just met Santa. Santa told me to tell all the children that he’s been a little delayed. He’s loading all the presents into his bag back there in his little Toy House. But he’ll be right out, kids. In just a few minutes more.”
A shrill shriek of annoyance went up from the crowd as Larry Pettigrew stepped down behind the display of pine trees. I circled the Toy House and found Midge Doughty where I expected her to be, near the south escalator, where she could view the scene quietly.
“What cooks?” I asked.
“I’m keeping my eyes open, as ordered.” She gave me her usual X-ray treatment. “I wish I could say the same for you, boss. You’ve added more luggage to the bags under yours. Out late again last night?”
“Research.”
“What’s her name?”
“Have you been around the Toy House?” I asked, changing the subject with my usual subtlety. “Anything cooking back there?”
“They’re all waiting for Wilkinson to come out in his fancy Santa outfit. They’re delighted with the prospect of knifing him verbally.”
“Useless information. Anything concrete?”
“Only a few heads around here.”
“Stay where you are,” I told her, and walked off into the crowd.
The advertising contingent stood in a cluster behind the rim of phony woods near the Toy House. I counted faces. They were all present, every maggoty soul of them.
“What’s holding up Saint Nick?” I asked.
“Probably stage fright,” said Chester. His face still bore the marks of his fight with Wilkinson. He had a pretty mouse under his right eye. Helen Sutton had patched his head neatly, under a small slice of adhesive.
“He’s not the type,” I said.
“Just what type do you think he is?” Lila Martin asked. “Don’t you detectives keep such things in special files?”
“How did you guess? I have all kinds of files.
I put the ladies on pink cards, don’t you know?”
“Clever boy.” Lila gave me the edge of her classic nose, as cool as though we had never come any closer than a ten-foot wall, a yard thick. Something had shifted her emotional gears since the other night. “I’d love to see your index file some time. You have a card on me, no doubt?”
“Perfumed.”
Chester Carpenter laughed at the crack. “An imported scent, Conacher? Or a standard brand?”
“There are no good odors,” said Lila, “in standard brands. I favor the imported types.”
“Only a trained nose can tell the difference,” Chester said. “Sometimes even the best of them stinks to high heaven.”
“You need a new nose, perhaps, Chester.”
“Maybe so. Or maybe you need a new smell, Lila.”
Lila said nothing. But her eyes burned Carpenter with a sullen stare. She let him simmer for a while. Then she strolled over to him and put her hand on his chin, enjoying his embarrassment.
“Why, Chester,” she cooed, “somebody must have hit you with a meat axe last night. Where did you get that lovely, lovely right eye?”
Chester didn’t answer. He shrugged her off and moved away angrily. Helen Sutton followed him, tortured by his discomfort. I walked away from the scene. It was impossible for these advertising maggots to remember anything but their personal idiocies, even in a moment of emergency. I went into the Toy House, through the little living room they had made for Santa, complete with all the furniture he would need for comfortable living during the holiday season. I crossed through the kitchen and passed the bedroom to the rear door. Here the exit led directly into the locker room behind the house, a convenient arrangement so that Santa could walk back for an occasional rest period while the kiddies wandered through the Toy House. There was the usual big metal door that led into the locker room. I pushed it open and walked inside.
It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. Then the long row of greenish lockers came into view against the wall. Only one pale light glowed on the far side, enough to show me the other door that led into the corridor adjoining the Sporting Goods Department.
Once inside, I froze.
Halfway down the low bench, his body sprawled so that he lay with his face to the ceiling, was Santa Claus. I edged forward and touched him. But before my hand reached the crimson velvet of his costume, death spoke to me. Death spoke to me through the tight stillness of the body, the clutching fingers and the great bloody blot on the asphalt tiling, against the dim edge of his head.
Somebody had shot Greg Wilkinson between the eyes. His face was completely gone, a gory, unbelievable mess. The sight of him did things to my stomach. The poor slob had been alive and worried only a half hour ago. The memory of last night clawed at my gut, despite the fact that Wilkinson never really charmed me. I had been sitting on the edge of this slaughter.
Suddenly, I needed air.
I backed out of there fast.
CHAPTER 13
The checkup was over. The boys from Lunt’s office were long finished with the fingerprint dusting, the photographs and the incidental routine. A couple of plainclothesmen stood in the corner of the locker room, jawing with Lunt. I heard snatches of their dialogue:
“—you want the doors kept closed to the street, Chief?”
“—the customers are making a big stink out of the deal. People don’t like to be locked in a big dump like this.”
“—we got two men on each door. That makes fourteen.”
“—inside, about a dozen of our boys. Most of them starting at the top and working down, behind the store operators and the watchmen.”
“—every department is being searched.”
“—no, we didn’t go into the executive offices, but I’ll phone up and tell a couple of men to do a job there, too.”
And Lunt wearily answering the questions and barking orders at the men:
“—let them open the street doors, Moran. No point in keeping the crowd bottled up.”
“—I want more men in the store. Not in uniform. Say about ten more, just to be safe. Phone Tomack, at the office.”
“—of course we’ve got to examine the executive floor. They’ve got closets up there, haven’t they? I want this place searched from here to there and in between. That includes the supply rooms, the cellars and the sub-cellars.”
A cop came in from Headquarters, sweating heavily. He handed Lunt a slice of official paper. The dapper lieutenant studied it seriously. The news on the report seemed to make him happy. He stuffed it away and came over to me.
“Good news?” I asked.
“Maybe, Conacher. Fingerprint report that means a hell of a lot. Whose prints do you think the boys found on that corridor door?”
“Arthur Malman’s?”
“Bright lad,” said Lunt. He sat down and grabbed one of the lousy tuna sandwiches sent down from the Cumber cafeteria. He munched the morsel, but he wasn’t tasting it. He was tasting something much more pleasant and satisfying. He was relishing the fingerprint report as if it were caviar and champagne. “Sort of closes the deal, doesn’t it?”
“Not in my book, it doesn’t,” I said.
“You don’t like Malman for the murder?”
“He doesn’t make sense, Lunt. Maybe I know his history a bit better than you do.”
“Enlighten me,” Lunt said testily. No city dick on earth likes to be put in the back seat. Even if he can’t drive. “What do you know that I can’t guess?”
“Just this. Malman has no record as a killer, or even a spoiler. Malman is a quiet little guy with a big fat brain full of robbery. I’ve seen Malman’s record a dozen times down in Safe and Loft. They’ve never caught him with anything heavier than his two skinny fists. He wouldn’t know what to do with a gun. What’s more, Malman would consider it beneath him to use one. He’s the aristocrat of heist men, a character who specializes in making the arrangements for larceny. That’s the beginning and the end of it for Malman.”
“He still might have killed, for a reason.”
“Never. If there was any killing to be done, Pate would get the call from him. If Malman wanted to rub out Wilkinson, you’d find Pate’s prints on that knob. Pate would kill his mother for a small fee.”
“But you didn’t see Pate,” Lunt insisted. “You saw Malman in the aisles. And you saw Malman last night.”
One of his men came in and interrupted. There was another piece of paper to be read. Lunt scratched his head and blew his nose and went through the gestures of inner irritation. He balled the paper in his fist and threw it away.
“You’re right about Malman,” he said grudgingly. “Safe and Loft reports him inactive during the past year or so. Of course that doesn’t mean anything to a big brain like Malman. He was out of town in the woods somewhere. But he could have been active on all kinds of larceny here in the city by using Pate as his representative. Still, I’d like to get my mitts on him.”
“He won’t be easy to locate.”
Lunt swore under his breath. He was the current big wheel from homicide, one of the youngest dicks in city history, an expert. He was a sharp-looking police lieutenant, something out of a Madison Avenue ad agency, smooth and well dressed in the studied way all the bright boys clothe themselves; black silk tie and tweedy coat and an off-shade shirt that made his sunburned kisser look handsome. We got along all right, despite the fact that Lunt considered most private cops characters out of the cheap movies.
Lunt had questioned everybody thoroughly, in sessions that took him into the middle of the afternoon. He got nowhere in a hurry. Who the hell would want to murder Greg Wilkinson among the staff? Now be nursed his temper as he figured the movements of the murderer carefully.
“He came in through the other door,” Lunt said. “He walked through the corridor adjoining the Sporting Goo
ds Department. The way Wilkinson’s body was lying proves it. The killer shot him from about five feet and then scrammed the way he came in. The damned locker room is as soundproof as a vault, which made the killing a setup. You couldn’t hear a blast of dynamite from in there.”
“What about the lights?” I asked.
“There’s a switchbox out in that hall. When you walked in here there was only one light burning, right?”
“That little one in the corner.”
“It figures,” said Lunt. “The murderer turned the others out when he moved in. All of them. He blew the lights in the whole corridor, the bastard.”
“Still think it was Malman?”
“I’ve got two squads out for him, Conacher.”
“You’ll need half your force. Malman is an expert at losing himself. He’s done it before.”
“You could dig him up, I’ll bet,” Lunt said affably. “You’re the best skip-trace lad in town, aren’t you?”
“It’s my business.”
“You could dig him up,” Lunt said again.
“I might, if I had the time.”
“What’s going to hold you up?”
“My work here,” I said. He knew what I meant. He had a good memory for dramatic incidents. He couldn’t possibly forget the way I blew my top down in his office, the day he gave me the news about Chuck, the day he showed me the pictures of my partner, impaled on the spiked fence. “I’m still operating on my own in this store, Lunt. I’m still trying to prove that Chuck Rosen was pushed off that penthouse terrace, remember?”
“You may be playing it stubborn,” Lunt said. “Rosen was loaded with liquor, according to the autopsy. He could have had an accident up there, like I’ve suggested.”
“We’ve been through that routine before. I won’t buy it.”
“I was only trying to get you out in the air where you belong, Conacher.” His smile was friendly and free of any malice.
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