Thomas Godfrey (Ed)

by Murder for Christmas

  “I’ll shoot better next time,” yelled Johnny; “and there’ll be a next time.” He backed rapidly out the door.

  Carson, the sheepman, spurred on to attempt further exploits by the success of his plate-throwing, was first to reach the door. McRoy’s bullet from the darkness laid him low.

  The cattlemen then swept out upon him, calling for vengeance, for, while the slaughter of a sheepman has not always lacked condonement, it was a decided misdemeanour in this instance. Carson was innocent; he was no accomplice at the matrimonial proceedings; nor had any one heard him quote the line “Christmas comes but once a year” to the guests.

  But the sortie failed in its vengeance. McRoy was on his horse and away, shouting back curses and threats as he galloped into the concealing chaparral.

  That night was the birthnight of the Frio Kid. He became the “bad man” of that portion of the State. The rejection of his suit by Miss McMullen turned him to a dangerous man. When officers went after him for the shooting of Carson, he killed two of them, and entered upon the life of an outlaw. He became a marvellous shot with either hand. He would turn up in towns and settlements, raise a quarrel at the slightest opportunity, pick off his man and laugh at the officers of the law. He was so cool, so deadly, so rapid, so inhumanly blood-thirsty that none but faint attempts were ever made to capture him. When he was at last shot and killed by a little one-armed Mexican who was nearly dead himself from fright, the Frio Kid had the deaths of eighteen men on his head. About half of these were killed in fair duels depending upon the quickness of the draw. The other half were men whom he assassinated from absolute wantonness and cruelty.

  Many tales are told along the border of his impudent courage and daring. But he was not one of the breed of desperadoes who have seasons of generosity and even of softness. They say he never had mercy on the object of his anger. Yet at this and every Christmastide it is well to give each one credit, if it can be done, for whatever speck of good he may have possessed. If the Frio Kid ever did a kindly act or felt a throb of generosity in his heart it was once at such a time and season, and this is the way it happened.

  One who has been crossed in love should never breathe the odour from the blossoms of the ratama tree. It stirs the memory to a dangerous degree.

  One December in the Frio country there was a ratama tree in full bloom, for the winter had been as warm as springtime. That way rode the Frio Kid and his satellite and co-murderer, Mexican Frank. The kid reined in his mustang, and sat in his saddle, thoughtful and grim, with dangerously narrowing eyes. The rich, sweet scent touched him somewhere beneath his ice and iron.

  “I don’t know what I’ve been thinking about, Mex,” he remarked in his usual mild drawl, “to have forgot all about a Christmas present I got to give. I’m going to ride over to-morrow night and shoot Madison Lane in his own house. He got my girl—Rosita would have had me if he hadn’t cut into the game. I wonder why I happened to overlook it up to now?”

  “Ah, shucks, Kid,” said Mexican, “don’t talk foolishness. You know you can’t get within a mile of Mad Lane’s house to-morrow night. I see old man Allen day before yesterday, and he says Mad is going to have Christmas doings at his house. You remember how you shot up the festivities when Mad was married, and about the threats you made? Don’t you suppose Mad Lane’ll kind of keep his eye open for a certain Mr. Kid? You plumb make me tired, Kid, with such remarks.”

  “I’m going,” repeated the Frio Kid, without heat, “to go to Madison Lane’s Christmas doings, and kill him. I ought to have done it a long time ago. Why, Mex, just two weeks ago I dreamed me and Rosita was married instead of her and him; and we was living in a house, and I could see her smiling at me, and—oh! h—I, Mex, he got her; and I’ll get him—yes, sir, on Christmas Eve he got her, and then’s when I’ll get him.”

  “There’s other ways of committing suicide,” advised Mexican. “Why don’t you go and surrender to the sheriff?”

  “I’ll get him,” said the Kid.

  Christmas Eve fell as balmy as April. Perhaps there was a hint of faraway frostiness in the air, but it tingled like seltzer, perfumed faintly with late prairie blossoms and the mesquite grass.

  When night came the five or six rooms of the ranch-house were brightly lit. In one room was a Christmas tree, for the Lanes had a boy of three, and a dozen or more guests were expected from the nearer ranches.

  At nightfall Madison Lane called aside Jim Belcher and three other cowboys employed on his ranch.

  “Now, boys,” said Lane, “keep your eyes open. Walk around the house and watch the road well. All of you know the ‘Frio Kid,’ as they call him now, and if you see him, open fire on him without asking any questions. I’m not afraid of his coming around, but Rosita is. She’s been afraid he’d come in on us every Christmas since we were married.”

  The guests had arrived in buckboards and on horseback, and were making themselves comfortable inside.

  The evening went along pleasantly. The guests enjoyed and praised Rosita’s excellent supper, and afterward the men scattered in groups about the rooms or on the broad “gallery,” smoking and chatting.

  The Christmas tree, or course, delighted the youngsters, and above all were they pleased when Santa Claus himself in magnificent white beard and furs appeared and began to distribute the toys.

  “It’s my papa,” announced Billy Sampson, aged six. “I’ve seen him wear ’em before.”

  Berkly, a sheepman, an old friend of Lane, stopped Rosita as she was passing by him on the gallery, where he was sitting smoking.

  “Well, Mrs. Lane,” said he, “I suppose by this Christmas you’ve gotten over being afraid of that fellow McRoy, haven’t you? Madison and I have talked about it, you know.”

  “Very nearly,” said Rosita, smiling, “but I am still nervous sometimes. I shall never forget that awful time when he came so near to killing us.”

  “He’s the most cold-hearted villain in the world,” said Berkly. “The citizens all along the border ought to turn out and hunt him down like a wolf.”

  “He has committed awful crimes,” said Rosita, “but—I—don’t— know. I think there is a spot of good somewhere in everybody. He was not always bad—that I know.”

  Rosita turned into the hallway between the rooms. Santa Claus, in muffling whiskers and furs, was just coming through.

  “I heard what you said through the window, Mrs. Lane,” he said. “I was just going down in my pocket for a Christmas present for your husband. But I’ve left one for you, instead. It’s in the room to your right.”

  “Oh, thank you, kind Santa Claus,” said Rosita, brightly.

  Rosita went into the room, while Santa Claus stepped into the cooler air of the yard.

  She found no one in the room but Madison.

  “Where is my present that Santa said he left for me in here?” she asked.

  “Haven’t seen anything in the way of a present,” said her husband, laughing, “unless he could have meant me.”

  The next day Gabriel Radd, the foreman of the X O Ranch, dropped into the post-office at Loma Alta.

  “Well, the Frio Kid’s got his dose of lead at last,” he remarked to the postmaster.

  “That so? How’d it happen?”

  “One of old Sanchez’s Mexican sheep herders did it!—think of it! the Frio Kid killed by a sheep herder! The Greaser saw him riding along past his camp about twelve o’clock last night, and was so skeered that he up with a Winchester and let him have it. Funniest part of it was that the Kid was dressed all up with white Angora-skin whiskers and a regular Santy Claus rig-out from head to foot. Think of the Frio Kid playing Santy!”

  The Feast of St. Stephen is celebrated on the 26th of December in many countries throughout Europe. St. Stephen became the first Christian martyr when he met a grizzly death at the hands of a barbaric crowd.

  On his day, it became the custom to open the alms boxes and distribute the contents to the poor.

  In England, where it is a le
gal holiday, the 26th is known as Boxing Day. It later became common practice for the apprentices of tradesmen to take boxes around to their master's customers to secure tips for their services of the previous year. Hence the name Boxing Day.

  This in turn led to the more widespread modern practice of the Christmas bonus. So ingrained is this custom that it is incorporated into many contracts.

  The diner pictured was one of a hardy band of gentlemen who attempted to abolish the custom of the Christmas bonus in Britain. His career as a reformer, however, was rather short-lived.

  Death on the Air - Ngaio Marsh

  New Zealand is traditionally regarded as a pastoral pair of islands tucked quietly away on the underside of the globe. When thought of at all, it conjures up visions of sheep and brightly colored birds, and more sheep and more brightly colored birds.

  Once in a while a star blazes in the southern sky to remind us of this fragment of the British Commonwealth. Such celestial lights have been tennis star Evonne Goolagong Cawley, soprano Kiri Te Kanawa of the Metropolitan Opera, Covent Garden and royal weddings, and Ngaio Marsh, New Zealand’s great lady of letters.

  She first appeared in the literary firmament with her first book, A Man Lay Dead, in 1934. She continued to shine there uneclipsed for nearly five decades.

  Although familiar with the English countryside and able to turn an English country house mystery with the best, she alone of the authors collected here grew up knowing Christmases that were not white but summery. Her achievement in capturing that cozy murder around a crackling fire is all the more remarkable.

  In ‘Death on the Air,’ her series character Roderick Alleyn tackles a locked room case involving a wireless enthusiast. The term wireless may date the story, but the vigor and freshness of her writing keep it alive and ageless.

  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 realized 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’ 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 realized that he wore a dinner-jacket. The room was now filled with the clamor 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 arm-chair, 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 clamor 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 door-handle being rattled and Guy Tonks’ 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—”

  “Galvanized,” 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 C. I. D. —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.”

  That was how it came about that Chief Detective-Inspector Roderick Alleyn spent his Christmas Day in harness. As a matter of fact he was on duty, and as he pointed out to Dr. Meadows, would have had to turn out and visit his miserable Tonkses in any case. When he did arrive it was with his usual air of remote courtesy. He was accompanied by a tall, thick-set officer—Inspector Fox—and by the divisional police-surgeon. Dr. Meadows took them into the study. Alleyn, in his turn, looked at the horror that had been Septimus.

  “Was he like this when he was found?”

  “No. I understand he was leaning forward with his hands on the ledge of the cabinet. He must have slumped forward and been propped up by the chair arms and the cabinet.”

  “Who moved him?”

  “Chase, the butler. He said he only meant to raise the arm. Rigor is well established.”

  Alleyn put his hand behind the rigid neck and pushed. The body fell forward into its original position.

  “There you are, Curtis,” said Alleyn to the divisional surgeon. He turned to Fox. “Get the camera man, will you, Fox?”

  The photographer took four shots and departed. Alleyn marked the position of the hands and feet with chalk, made a careful plan of the room and turned to the doctors.

  “Is it electrocution, do you think?”

  “Looks like it,” said Curtis. “Have to be a p.m. of course.”

  “Of course. Still, look at the hands. Burns. Thumb and two fingers bunched together and exactly the distance between the two knobs apart. He’d been tuning his hurdy-gurdy.”