Cynthia Manson (ed)

by Merry Murder

  “No time for that. Get these clothes off, talk later.”

  “You got the rocks?”

  “Yes, but Stace has been hit. By the American detective. I don’t think it’s bad, though.”

  “Whatsisname, Lester, he okay?”

  “There was trouble. Stace caught him with a bullet.”

  Straight said nothing more. He was not one to complain about something that couldn’t be helped. His feelings showed only in the controlled savagery with which he maneuvered the Jag.

  While Straight drove, Mr. Payne was taking off his own Santa Claus outfit and helping Stacey off with his. He stuffed them, with the wigs and beards and noses, back into the suitcase. Stacey winced as the robe came over his right arm, and Mr. Payne gave him a handkerchief to hold over it. At the same time he suggested that Stacey hand over the jewels, since Mr. Payne would be doing the negotiating with the fence. It was a mark of the trust that both men still reposed in Mr. Payne that Stacey handed them over without a word, and that Straight did not object or even comment.

  They turned into the quiet Georgian terrace where Lambie lived. “Number Fifteen, right-hand side,” Mr. Payne said.

  Jim Baxter and Eddie Grain had been hanging about in the street for several minutes. Lucille had learned from Lester what car Straight was driving. They recognized the Jag immediately, and strolled toward it. They had just reached the car when it came to a stop in front of Lambie’s house. Stacey and Mr. Payne got out.

  Jim and Eddie were not, after all, too experienced. They made an elementary mistake in not waiting until Straight had driven away. Jim had his flick knife out and was pointing it at Mr. Payne’s stomach.

  “Come on now, Dad, give us the stuff and you won’t get hurt,” he said.

  On the other side of the car Eddie Grain, less subtle, swung at Stacey with a shortened length of bicycle chain. Stacey, hit round the head, went down, and Eddie was on top of him, kicking, punching, searching.

  Mr. Payne hated violence, but he was capable of defending himself. He stepped aside, kicked upward, and knocked the knife flying from Jim’s hand. Then he rang the doorbell of Lambie’s house. At the same time Straight got out of the car and felled Eddie Grain with a vicious rabbit punch.

  During the next few minutes several things happened simultaneously. At the end of the road a police whistle was blown, loudly and insistently, by an old lady who had seen what was going on. Lambie, who also saw what was going on and wanted no part of it, told his manservant on no account to answer the doorbell or open the door.

  Stacey, kicked and beaten by Eddie Grain, drew his revolver and fired four shots. One of them struck Eddie in the chest, and another hit Jim Baxter in the leg. Eddie scuttled down the street holding his chest, turned the corner, and ran slap into the arms of two policemen hurrying to the scene.

  Straight, who did not care for shooting, got back into the Jag and drove away. He abandoned the Jag as soon as he could, and went home.

  When the police arrived, with a bleating Eddie in tow, they found Stacey and Jim Baxter on the ground, and several neighbors only too ready to tell confusing stories about the great gang fight that had just taken place. They interrogated Lambie, of course, but he had not seen or heard anything at all.

  And Mr. Payne? With a general melee taking place, and Lambie clearly not intending to answer his doorbell, he had walked away down the road. When he turned the corner he found a cab, which he took to within a couple of hundred yards of his shop. Then, an anonymous man carrying a shabby suitcase, he went in through the little side entrance.

  Things had gone badly, he reflected as he again became Mr. Rossiter Payne the antiquarian bookseller, mistakes had been made. But happily they were not his mistakes. The jewels would be hot, no doubt; they would have to be kept for a while, but all was not lost.

  Stace and Straight were professionals—they would never talk. And although Mr. Payne did not, of course, know that Lester was dead, he realized that the young man would be able to pose as a wounded hero and was not likely to be subjected to severe questioning.

  So Mr. Payne was whistling There’s a Silver Lining as he went down to greet Miss Oliphant.

  “Oh, Mr. Payne,” she trilled. “You’re back before you said. It’s not half-past eleven.”

  Could that be true? Yes, it was.

  “Did the American collector—I mean, will you be able to sell him the manuscripts?”

  “I hope so. Negotiations are proceeding, Miss Oliphant. They may take some time, but I hope they will reach a successful conclusion.”

  The time passed uneventfully until 2: 30 in the afternoon when Miss Oliphant entered his little private office. “Mr. Payne, there are two gentlemen to see you. They won’t say what it’s about, but they look—well, rather funny.”

  As soon as Mr. Payne saw them and even before they produced their warrant cards, he knew that there was nothing funny about them. He took them up to the flat and tried to talk his way out of it, but he knew it was no use. They hadn’t yet got search warrants, the Inspector said, but they would be taking Mr. Payne along anyway. It would save them some trouble if he would care to show them—

  Mr. Payne showed them. He gave them the jewels and the Santa Claus disguises. Then he sighed at the weakness of subordinates. “Somebody squealed, I suppose.”

  “Oh, no. I’m afraid the truth is you were a bit careless.”

  “I was careless.” Mr. Payne was genuinely scandalized.

  “Yes. You were recognized.”

  “Impossible!”

  “Not at all. When you left Orbin’s and got out into the street, there was a bit of a mixup so that you had to wait. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, but I was completely disguised.”

  “Danny the shoeshine man knows you by name, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, but he couldn’t possibly have seen me.”

  “He didn’t need to. Danny can’t see any faces from his basement, as you know, but he did see something, and he came to tell us about it. He saw two pairs of legs, and the bottoms of some sort of red robes. And he saw the shoes. He recognized one pair of shoes, Mr. Payne. Not those you’re wearing now, but that pair on the floor over there.”

  Mr. Payne looked across the room at the black shoes— shoes so perfectly appropriate to the role of shabby little clerk that he had been playing, and at the decisive, fatally recognizable sharp cut made by the bicycle mudguard in the black leather.

  AUGGIE WREN’S CHRISTMAS STORY - Paul Auster

  I heard this story from Auggie Wren. Since Auggie doesn’t come off too well in it, at least not as well as he’d like to, he’s asked me not to use his real name. Other than that, the whole business about the lost wallet and the blind woman and the Christmas dinner is just as he told it to me.

  Auggie and I have known each other for close to eleven years now. He works behind the counter of a cigar store on Court Street in downtown Brooklyn, and since it’s the only store that carries the little Dutch cigars I like to smoke, I go in there fairly often. For a long time I didn’t give much thought to Auggie Wren. He was the strange little man who wore a hooded blue sweatshirt and sold me cigars and magazines, the impish, wisecracking character who always had something funny to say about the weather or the Mets or the politicians in Washington, and that was the extent of it.

  But then one day several years ago he happened to be looking through a magazine in the store, and he stumbled across a review of one of my books. He knew it was me because a photograph accompanied the review, and after that things changed between us. I was no longer just another customer to Auggie, I had become a distinguished person. Most people couldn’t care less about books and writers, but it turned out that Auggie considered himself an artist. Now that he had cracked the secret of who I was, he embraced me as an ally, a confidant, a brother-in-arms. To tell the truth, I found it rather embarrassing. Then, almost inevitably, a moment came when he asked if I would be willing to look at his photographs. Given his enthusiasm and goo
d will, there didn’t seem to be any way I could turn him down.

  God knows what I was expecting. At the very least, it wasn’t what Auggie showed me the next day. In a small, windowless room at the back of the store, he opened a cardboard box and pulled out twelve identical black photo albums. This was his life’s work, he said, and it didn’t take him more than five minutes a day to do it. Every morning for the past twelve years, he had stood at the corner of Atlantic Avenue and Clinton Street at precisely 7 o’clock and had taken a single color photograph of precisely the same view. The project now ran to more than four thousand photographs. Each album represented a different year, and all the pictures were laid out in sequence from January 1 to December 31, with the dates carefully recorded under each one.

  As I flipped through the albums and began to study Auggie’s work, I didn’t know what to think. My first impression was that it was the oddest, most bewildering thing I had ever seen. All the pictures were the same. The whole project was a numbing onslaught of repetition, the same street and the same buildings over and over again, an unrelenting delirium of redundant images. I couldn’t think of anything to say to Auggie, so I continued turning pages, nodding my head in feigned appreciation. Auggie himself seemed unperturbed, watching me with a broad smile on his face, but after I’d been at it for several minutes, he suddenly interrupted me and said, “You’re going too fast. You’ll never get it if you don’t slow down.”

  He was right, of course. If you don’t take the time to look, you’ll never manage to see anything. I picked up another album and forced myself to go more deliberately. I paid closer attention to details, took note of shifts in the weather, watched for the changing angles of light as the seasons advanced. Eventually, I was able to detect subtle differences in the traffic flow, to anticipate the rhythm of the different days (the commotion of workday mornings, the relative stillness of weekends, the contrast between Saturdays and Sundays). And then, little by little, I began to recognize the faces of the people in the background, the passersby on their way to work, the same people in the same spot every morning, living an instant of their lives in the field of Auggie’s camera.

  Once I got to know them, I began to study their postures, the way they carried themselves from one morning to the next, trying to discover their moods from these surface indications, as if I could imagine stories for them, as if I could penetrate the invisible dramas locked inside their bodies. I picked up another album. I was no longer bored, no longer puzzled as I had been at first. Auggie was photographing time, I realized, both natural time and human time, and he was doing it by planting himself in one tiny corner of the world and willing it to be his own by standing guard in the space he had chosen for himself. As he watched me pore over his work, Auggie continued to smile with pleasure. Then, almost as if he had been reading my thoughts, he began to recite a line from Shakespeare. “Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,” he muttered under his breath, “time creeps on its petty pace.” I understood then that he knew exactly what he was doing.

  That was more than two thousand pictures ago. Since that day, Auggie and I have discussed his work many times, but it was only last week that I learned how he acquired his camera and started taking pictures in the first place. That was the subject of the story he told me, and I’m still struggling to make sense of it.

  Earlier that same week, a man from The New York Times called me and asked if I would be willing to write a short story that would appear in the paper on Christmas morning. My first impulse was to say no, but the man was very charming and persistent, and by the end of the conversation I told him I would give it a try. The moment I hung up the phone, however, I fell into a deep panic. What did I know about Christmas? I asked myself. What did I know about writing short stories on commission?

  I spent the next several days in despair, warring with the ghosts of Dickens, O. Henry, and other masters of the Yuletide spirit. The very phrase “Christmas story” had unpleasant associations for me, evoking dreadful outpourings of hypocritical mush and treacle. Even at their best, Christmas stories were no more than wish-fulfillment dreams, fairy tales for adults, and I’d be damned if I’d ever allowed myself to write something like that. And yet, how could anyone propose to write an unsentimental Christmas story? It was a contradiction in terms, an impossibility, an out-and-out conundrum. One might just as well try to imagine a racehorse without legs, or a sparrow without wings.

  I got nowhere. On Thursday I went out for a long walk, hoping the air would clear my head. Just past noon, I stopped in at the cigar store to replenish my supply, and there was Auggie, standing behind the counter as always. He asked me how I was. Without really meaning to, I found myself unburdening my troubles to him. “A Christmas story?” he said after I had finished. “Is that all? If you buy me lunch, my friend, I’ll tell you the best Christmas story you ever heard. And I guarantee that every word of it is true.”

  We walked down the block to Jack’s, a cramped and boisterous delicatessen with good pastrami sandwiches and photographs of old Dodgers teams hanging on the walls. We found a table at the back, ordered our food, and then Auggie launched into his story.

  “It was the summer of ’72,” he said. “A kid came in one morning and started stealing things from the store. He must have been about nineteen or twenty, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more pathetic shoplifter in my life. He’s standing by the rack of paperbacks along the far wall and stuffing books into the pockets of his raincoat. It was crowded around the counter just then, so I didn’t notice him at first. But once I noticed what he was up to, I started to shout. He took off like a jackrabbit, and by the time I managed to get out from behind the counter, he was already tearing down Atlantic Avenue. I chased after him for about half a block, and then I gave up. He’d dropped something along the way, and since I didn’t feel like running anymore, I bent down to see what it was.

  “It turned out to be his wallet. There wasn’t any money inside, but his driver’s license was there along with three or four snapshots. I suppose I could have called the cops and had him arrested. I had his name and address from the license, but I felt kind of sorry for him. He was just a measly little punk, and once I looked at those pictures in his wallet, I couldn’t bring myself to feel very angry at him. Robert Goodwin. That was his name. In one of the pictures, I remember, he was standing with his arm around his mother or grandmother. In another one, he was sitting there at age nine or ten dressed in a baseball uniform with a big smile on his face. I just didn’t have the heart. He was probably on dope now, I figured. A poor kid from Brooklyn without much going for him, and who cared about a couple of trashy paperbacks anyway?

  “So I held on to the wallet. Every once in a while I’d get a little urge to send it back to him, but I kept delaying and never did anything about it. Then Christmas rolls around and I’m stuck with nothing to do. The boss usually invites me over to his house to spend the day, but that year he and his family were down in Florida visiting relatives. So I’m sitting in my apartment that morning, feeling a little sorry for myself, and then I see Robert Goodwin’s wallet lying on a shelf in the kitchen. I figure what the hell, why not do something nice for once, and I put on my coat and go out to return the wallet in person.

  “The address was over in Boerum Hill, somewhere in the projects. It was freezing out that day, and I remember getting lost a few times trying to find the building. Everything looks the same in that place, and you keep going over the same ground thinking you’re somewhere else. Anyway, I finally get to the apartment I’m looking for and ring the bell. Nothing happens. I assume no one’s there, but I try again just to make sure. I wait a little longer and just when I’m about to give up, I hear someone shuffling to the door. An old woman’s voice asks who’s there, and I say I’m looking for Robert Goodwin. ‘Is that you, Robert?’ the old woman says, and then she undoes about fifteen locks and opens the door.

  “She has to be at least eighty, maybe ninety, years old, and the first thing I notice
about her is that she’s blind. ‘I knew you’d come, Robert,’ she says. ‘I knew you wouldn’t forget your Granny Ethel on Christmas.’ And then she opens her arms as if she’s about to hug me.

  “I didn’t have much time to think, you understand. I had to say something real fast, and before I knew what was happening, I could hear the words coming out of my mouth. ‘That’s right, Granny Ethel,’ I said. ‘I came back to see you on Christmas.’ Don’t ask me why I did it. I don’t have any idea. Maybe I didn’t want to disappoint her or something, I don’t know. It just came out that way, and then this old woman was suddenly hugging me there in front of the door, and I was hugging her back.

  “I didn’t exactly say that I was her grandson. Not in so many words, at least, but that was the implication. I wasn’t trying to trick her, though. It was like a game we’d both decided to play—without having to discuss the rules. I mean, that woman knew I wasn’t her grandson Robert. She was old and dotty, but she wasn’t so far gone that she couldn’t tell the difference between a stranger and her own flesh and blood. But it made her happy to pretend, and since I had nothing better to do anyway, I was happy to go along with her.

  “So we went into the apartment and spent the day together. The place was a real dump, I might add, but what else can you expect from a blind woman who does her own housekeeping? Every time she asked me a question about how I was, I would lie to her. I told her I’d found a good job working in a candy store, I told her I was about to get married, I told her a hundred pretty stories, and she made like she believed every one of them. ‘That’s fine, Robert,’ she would say, nodding her head and smiling. ‘I always knew things would work out for you.’

  “After a while, I started getting pretty hungry. There didn’t seem to be much food in the house, so I went out to a store in the neighborhood and brought back a mess of stuff. A precooked chicken, vegetable soup, a bucket of potato salad, a chocolate cake, all kinds of things. Ethel had a couple of bottles of wine stashed in her bedroom, and so between us we managed to put together a fairly decent Christmas dinner. We both got a little tipsy from the wine, I remember, and after the meal was over we went out to sit in the living room, where the chairs were more comfortable. I had to take a pee, so I excused myself and went to the bathroom down the hall. That’s where things took yet another turn. It was ditsy enough doing my little jig as Ethel’s grandson, but what I did next was positively crazy, and I’ve never forgiven myself for it.