Directly ahead was the Cosmetics Department, where bright-haired young women presided over glass coffins filled with a treasure trove of beauty enhancers sufficient to see Cleopatra safely into the next world.
“Can I help you, madam?”
“I don’t think so, dear, unless you have any rejuvenating cream.”
“You might try Softie-Boss, our double-action moisture balm.”
“Another time. I really must get to the China Department”
“Straight ahead, madam; across from the Men’s Department. You do know our sale starts tomorrow?”
“I keep abreast of world events.”
Well done, Hilda. Cool as a cucumber.
The ex—Father Christmas headed past and I mentally wished him luck returning whatever was in his carrier bag. Probably a ho-hum present or, worse, one of the ho-ho sort ...
Perhaps not the best time to remember the year I received my fourth umbrella and how accommodating Bossam’s had been about an exchange. Rounding the perfume display, I reminded myself that no bridges had been burned or boats cast out to sea. I had a full half hour before closing time to change my mind.
Courage, Hilda.
There is a cozyness to Bossam’s that ridicules the melodramatic—other than at the January Sale. It is a family-owned firm, founded after the First World War and securely anchored in a tradition of affordability and personal service. The present owner, Mr. Leslie Bossam, had kept a restraining hand on progress. Nymphs and shepherds still cavort on the plastered ceilings. The original lift, with its brass gate, still cranks its way from the basement to the first floor. No tills are located on the varnished counters of the Haberdashery Department, which comprised the first store. When you make a purchase, the salesperson reaches overhead, untwists the drum of a small container attached to a trolley wire, inserts the payment, reattaches the drum and sends it zinging down the wire to the Accounts window, where some unseen person extracts the payment and sends a receipt and possible change, zinging back. A little bit of nostalgia, which appears to operate with surprising efficiency. Perhaps if I had presented my case, in person, to Mr. Bossam . . . ?
“In need of assistance, madam?” A black moth of a saleswoman came fluttering up to me as I reached the China Department.
“Thank you, I’m just looking.”
The absolute truth. I was looking to see where best to hide the next morning, so as not to be spotted by the staff before the shop doors opened, at which moment I trusted all eyes would be riveted to the in-rushing mob, permitting me to step from the shadows—in order to be first at the counter. The Ladies’ Room was handy, but fraught with risk. Ditto the Stock Room; which left the stairwell, with its landing conveniently screened by glass doors. Yes, I felt confident I could manage nicely; if I didn’t land in the soup before getting properly started.
Parading toward me was Mr. Leslie Bossam. His spectacles glinting, his smile as polished as his bald head under the white lights.
“Madam, may I be of service?”
One last chance to operate within the system. While the black moths fluttered around the carousel of Royal Doulton figures, I pressed my case.
“My sympathy, madam. A dreadful blow when one loses a treasured family friend. My wife and I went through much the same thing with a Willow Pattern soup tureen earlier this year. I wish I could make an exception regarding the Meadow Rose teapot, but the question then becomes, Where does one draw the line? At Bossam’s every customer is a valued customer.”
Standing there, wrapped in his voice, I found my- -self neither surprised nor bitterly disappointed. The game was afoot and I felt like a girl for the first time since I used to watch the other children playing hopscotch and hide-and-seek. My eyes escaped from Mr. Bossam across the aisle to Gentlemen’s Apparel, where the ex-Father Christmas hovered among sports jackets. He still had his carrier bag and it seemed to me he held it gingerly. Did it contain something fragile . . . like a teapot? The thought brought a smile to my face; but it didn’t linger.
“Rest assured, madam, we are always at your service.” Mr. Bossam interrupted himself to glance at the clock mounted above the lift. Almost five-thirty. Oh, dear! Was he about to do the chivalrous thing and escort me to the exit?
“Good heavens!”
“I beg your pardon, madam?”
“I see someone I know, over in Gentlemen’s Apparel. Excuse me, if I hurry over for a word with him.”
“Certainly, madam!” Mr. Bossam exhaled graciousness until he followed my gaze, whereupon he turned into a veritable teakettle, sputtering and steaming to the boil.
“Do my spectacles deceive me? That man . . . that-embezzler on the premises! I warned him I would have him arrested if he set one foot ...”
Mr. Bossam rushed across the aisle, leaving me feeling I had saved my own neck by handing a fellow human being over to the Gestapo. No, it didn’t help to tell myself the man was a criminal. What I was doing was certainly illegal. Slipping through the glass doors onto the stairwell, I fully expected to be stopped dead by a voice hurled hatchet-fashion, That’s not the exit, madam. But nothing was said; no footsteps came racing after me as I opened the door marked “Staff Only” and hurried down the flight of steps to “Storage.”
Electric light spattered a room sectioned off by racks of clothing and stacks of boxes into a maze. “Better than the one at Hampton Court,” my nephew Willie had enthused one afternoon when he ended up down here while looking for the Gentlemen’s. When I caught up with him he was exiting the staff facility. And, if memory served, the Ladies’ was right next door, to my left, on the other side of that rack of coats. No time to dawdle. As far as I could tell, I had the area to myself, but at any moment activity was bound to erupt. The staff would be working late on behalf of The Sale, and no doubt crates of merchandise would be hauled upstairs before I was able to settle down in peace with Murder at the Vicarage.
These old legs of mine weren’t built for speed. I was within inches of the Ladies’ Room door, when I heard footsteps out there . . . somewhere in that acre of storage. Footsteps that might have belonged to the Loch Ness Monster climbing out onto land for the first time. Furtive footsteps that fear magnified to giant proportions.
“Anyone there?” came a booming whisper.
Huddled among the wool folds of the coat rack, I waited. But the voice didn’t speak again. And when my heart steadied, I pictured some nervous soul tiptoeing into the bowels of the store to search through the maze for some carton required double-quick by an irritable section manager/Silence. Which might mean Whoever had located what was needed and beaten a hasty retreat? But it wouldn’t do to count my chickens. Stepping out from the coats, my foot skidded on something. Jolted, I looked down to see a handbag. For a flash I thought it was mine, that I had dropped it blindly in my panic. But, no; my black hold-all was safely strung over my arm.
Stealthily entering the Ladies’ Room, I supposed the bag belonged to the attendant who took care of the lavatory. I remembered her from visits to spend a penny; a bustling woman with snapping black eyes who kept you waiting forever while she polished off the toilet seat and straightened the roll of paper, then stood over you like a hawk while you washed and dried your hands—just daring you to drop coppers into the dish. Even a sixpence seemed stingy as you watched her deposit the damp towel, slow-motion, into the bin.
Fortune smiled. The Hawk wasn’t inside the Ladies’, buffing up the brass taps; for the moment the pink-tiled room was empty. Opening my handbag, I withdrew the piece of cardboard and roll of adhesive tape. Moments later one of the three lavatory stalls read “Out Of Order.”
Installed on my porcelain throne—the door bolted and my handbag placed on the tank, I opened my book; but the words wouldn’t sit still on the page. With every creak and every gurgle in the pipes I was braced to draw my knees up so that my shoes would not show under the gap. Every time I looked at my watch I could have sworn the hands had gone backward. Only six-thirty?
I had
no idea how late people would stay working before The Sale. But one thing I did know—my feet were going to sleep. Surely it wasn’t that much of a risk to let myself out of my cell and walk around—just in here, in the Ladies’. After I had warmed my hands on the radiator, I felt reckless. The sort of feeling, I suppose, that makes you itch to stick your finger through the bars of the lion’s cage. Hovering over to the door, I pushed it open—-just a crack.
Standing at the rack of coats was the Ladies’ Room attendant—yes, the one I mentioned. The Hawk. Unable to move, even to squeeze the door shut, I saw her button her coat and bend to pick up a handbag and a Bossam’s carrier bag. Now she was the one who stiffened; I could see it in the set of her broad shoulders and the tilt of her head. T could almost hear her thinking ... Is someone here? Someone watching?
Shrugging, she headed around a stack of boxes taller than she.
Gone.
I was savoring the moment, when the lights went out. The dark was blacker than the Yorkshire moors on a moonless night. Believe me, I’m not usually a nervous Nellie, but there are exceptions—as when the mouse ran over my foot. Instead of celebrating the likelihood of now having the store to myself by breaking open my bottle of milk, I was suddenly intensely aware of how mousy I was in relationship to three floors of mercantile space. To my foolish fancy every cash register, every bolt of fabric, every saucepan in Housewares . . . was aware of my unlawful presence. All of them watching, waiting for me to make a move. I couldn’t just stand here, I slipped out the door, then hadn’t the courage to go any farther in the dark.
“Lord, forgive us our trespasses.”
Opening my handbag, I dug around for my torch and felt my hand atrophy. A light beam pierced the dark and came inchworming toward me.
I grabbed for cover among the coats in the rack, felt it sway and braced myself as it thundered to the floor.
“Ruddy hell.”
The light had a voice ... a man’s voice. It was closing in on me fast. Intolerable—the thought of facing what was to be, defenseless. Somehow I got out my torch and pressed the button.
“On guard!” came the growly voice as the golden blades of light began to fence; first a parry, then a thrust until . . . there was Retribution—impaled on the end of my blade.
“What brings you here, madam?”
“I got locked in at closing.”
“Herrumph! If I believe that, I’m . . .”
“Father Christmas?”
“If you know what I am,” he grumped, “you can guess why I’m here.”
He was prickly as a porcupine with that mustache, but my torch moved up to his eyes and they were sad. Here was a man who had done a good deal more wintering than summering during his life. How, I wondered, had he escaped the clutches of Mr. Bossam?
“So, why are you here?” My voice was the one I had used for Mother when she was failing. It came echoing back to me from the blackness beyond our golden circle, but I wasn’t afraid. ‘You won’t remember me, Mr. Hoskins.’”
“Well, Mr. Hoskins, I remember you. About a year ago I left my purse on the counter at the fishmonger’s and you came after me with it. So you see—whatever your reasons for being here, I cannot believe they are wholeheartedly wicked. Foolish and sentimental like mine, perhaps. I’m jumping the queue on The Sale, so to speak. I’m after a teapot in the Meadow Flower pattern ...”
A ho-hoing laugh that would have done credit to Saint Nicholas himself.
“Don’t tell me you’re after it too?”
“No fears on that score, dear madam.” He played his torch over my face in a way I might have taken to be flirtation if we weren’t a pair of old fogies. “I came here to blow the place up.”
Alone with the Mad Bomber! I admit to being taken aback by Mr. Hoskins’s confession. But, having survived life with five brothers and their escapades, I managed to keep a grip on myself . . . and my torch.
“I’ve frightened you.”
“Don’t give it a thought.”
He opened the door to the Ladies’, and I jumped to the idea that he was about to barricade me inside, but I misjudged him. He switched on the light and propped the door open.
“All the better to see me?” I switched off my torch but kept it at the ready.
Looking as defiantly sheepish as one of my brothers
after he had kicked a ball through a window, Mr.
Hoskins said, “The least I can do is explain, Mrs. “
“Miss . . . Finnely.”
Dragging forward a carton, he dusted it off with his gloves and offered me a seat.
“Thank you. Now you pull up a chair, and tell me all about it.”
“Very kind.” A smile appeared on his face—looking a little lost. He sat down, and with the rack of coats as a backdrop, began his story.
“Thirty-five years I gave B. & L. Shipping, then one day there it is—I’m turned out to pasture. Half kills me, but I’ll get another job—part-time, temporary— anything. When I read that Bossam’s was looking for a Father Christmas, I thought, why not? Wouldn’t do this crusty old bachelor any harm to meet up with today’s youth. Educational. But funny thing was I enjoyed myself. Felt I was doing a bit of good, especially knowing the entrance fees to the North Pole were donated by Bossam’s to buy toys for needy kiddies.
“The person bringing the child would deposit two shillings in Frosty the Snowman’s top hat. Each evening I took the hat to Mr. Bossam and he emptied it.. A few days before Christmas I entered his office to find him foaming at the mouth. He told me he had suspected for some time that the money was coming up short and had set the store detective to count the number of visitors to the North Pole. The day’s money did not tally. No reason for you to believe me, Miss Finnely, but I did not embezzle that money.”
“I do believe you. Which means someone else helped themselves.”
“Impossible.”
“Think, Mr. Hoskins.” I patted his shoulder as he sat hunched over on the carton. Dear me, he did remind me of my brother Will. “When did you leave the money unattended?”
“I didn’t.”
“Come now, what about your breaks?”
“Ah, there I had a system. When I left the Pole, I took the top hat with me and came down here to the Gents’. Before going off for a bite to eat, I’d hide it in the fresh towel hamper, about halfway down.”
“Someone must have seen you.”
“Miss Finnely”—he was pounding his fists on his knees—”I’m neither a thief nor a complete dolt. I made sure I had the place to myself.”
“Hmmmm
“My good name lost! I tell you, Miss Finnely, the injustice burned a hole in my gut. Went off my rocker. As a young chap I was in the army for a while and learned a bit about explosives. I made my bomb, put it in a Bossam’s carrier bag, so it would look like I was making a return, and . . .”
Mr. Hoskins stood up. Calmly at first, then with growing agitation, he shifted aside coats on the rack, setting it rocking as he stared at the floor.
“Miss Finnely, upon my word: I put it here and . . . it’s gone. Some rotter has pinched my bomb!”
“Cousin Hilda.” I was bouncing about on my chair. “I know who took the deadly carrier bag.”
“Who, girly dear?”
“The Ladies’ Room attendant. You saw her pick one up when she put on her coat. She didn’t mistake that bag for her own. Remember how she stiffened and looked all around? Crafty old thing! I’ll bet you twenty chocolate biscuits she was one of those . . . what’s the word?”
“Kleptomaniacs.”
“She stole the Father Christmas money!”
“So Mr. Hoskins and I concluded. She must have seen him going into the Gentlemen’s with the top hat and coming out empty-handed.” Cousin Hilda rose to draw the curtains.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“What?” I flew from my chair as though it were a trampoline.
“We agreed the woman had brought about her
own punishment. A real growth experience, I would say— opening up that carrier bag to find the bomb. What she wouldn’t know was that some specialized tinkering was required to set it off. And she was in no position to ring up the police.”
Before I could ask the big question, the door opened and in came Albert the lodger with the tea tray. We weren’t presently speaking because I had beaten him that afternoon playing Snap.
“Cousin Hilda,” I whispered—not wishing to betray her Dark Secret, “do you know what happened to Mr. Hoskins?”
“Certainly.” She took the tray from the curmudgeon. “Albert, I was just telling Giselle how you and I met.”
“Oh!” I sat down with a thump. That was what she had meant about the high price of sin.
“One lump or two, girly dear?”
The teapot had pink and yellow roses.
BILL CRIDER - THE SANTA CLAUS CAPER
Bill Crider’s wife, Judy, says he’s fun to live with. He’s certainly fun to read, as mystery fans have’ been discovering in increasing numbers ever since his first Sheriff Rhodes story appeared in 1986, and as you’re about to discover right now.
Bill’s a mystery fan himself He started writing articles and reviews for fanzines (publications intended specifically for aficionados, in case the word is unfamiliar to you) and gradually worked his way up to books. Now he’s averaging two a year. As if this weren’t enough to keep him busy, he’s also chairman of the English Department at Alvin Community College in Alvin, Texas, where he lives. Daughter Angela and son Allen are both students at the University of Texas. Oh, and Bill has published a children’s book called A Vampire Named Fred.
Pum-pum-pum-pum- puuum-pum—pum-pum-pum-pum-pum.”
R. M. “Boss” Napier, Chief of the Pecan City, Texas, police, puffed his cheeks and pummed the words to the theme from his favorite TV show, “Hawaii Five-CD.” Still available every evening, thanks to cable. He accompanied himself by patting his hands on the edge of his battered wooden desk.
Thinking of white sand beaches, blue skies and bluer waves, he resolutely resisted turning to look out the window at his back. Had he done so, he would have seen that the dark sky in the north was getting darker still, turning a deep blue that was almost black as the norther that was sweeping down on Pecan City got closer and closer.
Christmas Stalkings Page 11
