by Merry Murder
Bigtoes passed through to the Interrogation Room where Hardnoggin, gray and haggard, sat with his wrists between his knees. The Security elves hadn’t handled him gently. One eye was swollen, his beard was in disarray, and there was a dent in his megaphone. “It was a Christmas present for that little beast, Waldo Rogers,” shouted Hardnoggin.
“A bomb?” said Bigtoes.
“It was supposed to be a little fire engine,” shouted the Director General, “with a bell that goes clang-clang!” Hardnoggin struggled to control himself. “I just couldn’t be responsible for that little monster finding nothing in his stocking but sticks-and-stones. But a busy man hasn’t time for last-minute shopping. I got a—a friend to pick something out for me.”
“Who?” said Bigtoes.
Hardnoggin hung his head. “I demand to be taken to Santa Claus,” he said. But Santa, under guard, had already left his apartment for the formal departure ceremony.
Bigtoes ordered Hardnoggin detained and hurried to meet Santa at the elevator. He would have enjoyed shouting up at the jolly old man that Hardnoggin was the culprit. But of course that just didn’t hold water. Hardnoggin was too smart to believe he could just walk up and put a bomb on Santa’s sleigh. Or—now that Bigtoes thought about it—to finger himself so obviously by waiting until Bandylegs had left the Sticks-and-Stones session before poisoning Santa’s glass.
The villain now seemed to be the beautiful and glamorous Carlotta Peachfuzz. Here’s the way it figured: Carlotta phones Hardnoggin just before the bomb goes off in the Board Room, thus making him a prime suspect; Carlotta makes a rendezvous with Bandylegs that causes him to leave Sticks-and-Stones, thus again making Hardnoggin Suspect Number One; then when Bigtoes fails to pick up the Director General, Carlotta talks him into giving little Waldo Rogers a present that turns out to be a bomb. Her object? To frame Hardnoggin for the murder or attempted murder of Santa. Her elf spy? Traffic Manager Brassbottom. It all worked out—or seemed to...
Bigtoes met Santa at the elevator surrounded by a dozen Security elves. The jolly old eyes were bloodshot, his smile slightly strained. “Easy does it, Billy,” said Santa to Billy Brisket, the Security elf at the elevator controls. “Santa’s a bit hungover.”
Bigtoes moved to the rear of the elevator. So it was Brassbottom who had planted the bomb and then deliberately taken Santa out of the room. So it was Brassbottom who had poisoned the martini with cyanide, knowing that Bigtoes would detect the smell. And it was Carlotta who had gift-wrapped the bomb. All to frame Hardnoggin. And yet... Bigtoes sighed at his own confusion. And yet a dying Shortribs had said that someone was going to kill Santa.
As the elevator eased up into the interior of the Polar icecap, Bigtoes focused his mind on Shortribs. Suppose the dead elf had stumbled on your well-laid plan to kill Santa. Suppose you botched Shortribs’ murder and therefore knew that Security had been alerted. What would you do? Stage three fake attempts on Santa’s life to provide Security with a culprit, hoping to get Security to drop its guard? Possibly. But the bomb in the Board Room could have killed Santa. Why not just do it that way?
The elevator reached the surface and the first floor of the Control Tower building which was ingeniously camouflaged as an icy crag. But suppose, thought Bigtoes, it was important that you kill Santa in a certain way—say, with half the North Pole looking on?
More Security elves were waiting when the elevator doors opened. Bigtoes moved quickly among them, urging the utmost vigilance. Then Santa and his party stepped out onto the frozen runway to be greeted by thousands of cheering elves. Hippie elves from Pumpkin Corners, green-collar elves from the Toyworks, young elves and old had all gathered there to wish the jolly old man godspeed.
Santa’s smile broadened and he waved to the crowd. Then everybody stood at attention and doffed their hats as the massed bands of the Mushroom Fanciers Association, Wade Snoot conducting, broke into “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” When the music reached its stirring conclusion, Santa, escorted by a flying wedge of Security elves, made his way through the exuberant crowd and toward his sleigh.
Bigtoes’ eyes kept darting everywhere, searching for a happy face that might mask a homicidal intent. His heart almost stopped when Santa paused to accept a bouquet from an elf child who stuttered through a tribute in verse to the jolly old man. It almost stopped again when Santa leaned over the Security cordon to speak to some elf in the crowd. A pat on the head from Santa and even Roger Chinwhiskers, leader of the Sons and Daughters of the Good Old Days, grinned and admitted that perhaps the world wasn’t going to hell in a handbasket. A kind word from Santa and Baldwin Redpate tearfully announced—as he did every year at that time—that he was off the bee wine for good.
After what seemed an eternity to Bigtoes, they reached the sleigh. Santa got on board, gave one last wave to the crowd, and called to his eight tiny reindeer, one by one, by name. The reindeer leaned against the harness and the sleigh, with Security elves trotting alongside, and slid forward on the ice. Then four of the reindeer were airborne. Then the other four. At last the sleigh itself left the ground. Santa gained altitude, circled the runway once, and was gone. But they heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight: “Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!”
The crowd dispersed quickly. Only Bigtoes remained on the wind-swept runway. He walked back and forth, head down, kicking at the snow. Santa’s departure had gone off without a hitch. Had the Security Chief been wrong about the frame-up? Had Hardnoggin been trying to kill Santa after all? Bigtoes went over the three attempts again. The bomb in the Board Room. The poison. The bomb on the sleigh.
Suddenly Bigtoes broke into a run.
He had remembered Brassbottom’s pretext for taking Santa into the Map Room.
Taking the steps three at a time, Bigtoes burst into the Control Room. Crouchback was standing over the remains of the radio equipment with a monkey wrench in his hand. “Too late, Bigtoes,” he said triumphantly. “Santa’s as good as dead.”
Bigtoes grabbed the phone and ordered the operator to put through an emergency call to the Strategic Air Command in Denver, Colorado. But the telephone cable had been cut. “Baby Polar bears like to teethe on it,” said the operator.
Santa Claus was doomed. There was no way to call him back or to warn the Americans.
Crouchback smiled. “In eleven minutes Santa will pass over the DEW Line. But at the wrong place, thanks to Traffic Manager Brassbottom. The American ground-to-air missiles will make short work of him.”
“But why?” demanded Bigtoes.
“Nothing destroys a dissident movement like a modest success or two,” said Crouchback. “Ever since Santa came out for unilateral disarmament, I’ve felt SHAFT coming apart in my hands. So I had to act. I’ve nothing against Santa personally, bourgeois sentimentalist that he is. But his death will be a great step forward in our task of forming better children for a better world. What do you think will happen when Santa is shot down by American missiles?”
Bigtoes shaded his eyes. His voice was thick with emotion. “Every good little boy and girl in the world will be up in arms. A Children’s Crusade against the United States.”
“And with the Americans disposed of, what nation will become the dominant force in the world?” said Crouchback.
“So that’s it—you’re a Marxist-Leninist elf!” shouted Bigtoes.
“No!” said Crouchback sharply. “But I’ll use the Russians to achieve a better world. Who else could eliminate Acme Toy? Who else could limit world population to our rate of toy production? And they have agreed to that in writing, Bigtoes. Oh, I know the Russians are grownups too and just as corrupt as the rest of the grownups. But once the kids have had the plastic flushed out of their systems and are back on quality hand-crafted toys, I, Dirk Crouchback, the New Santa Claus, with the beautiful and beloved Carlotta Peachfuzz at my side as the New Mrs. Santa, will handle the Russians.”
“What about Brassbottom?” asked Bigtoes contemptuously.
> “Brassbottom will be Assistant New Santa,” said Crouchback quickly, annoyed at the interruption. “Yes,” he continued, “the New Santa Claus will speak to the children of the world and tell them one thing: Don’t trust anyone over thirty inches tall. And that will be the dawning of a new era full of happy laughing children, where grownups will be irrelevant and just wither away!”
“You’re mad, Crouchback. I’m taking you in,” said Bigtoes.
“I’ll offer no resistance,” said Crouchback. “But five minutes after Santa fails to appear at his first pit stop, a special edition of The Midnight Elf will hit the streets announcing that he has been the victim of a conspiracy between Hardnoggin and the CIA. The same mob of angry elves that breaks into Security headquarters to tear Hardnoggin limb from limb will also free Dirk Crouchback and proclaim him their new leader. I’ve laid the groundwork well. A knowing smile here, an innuendo there, and now many elves inside SHAFT and out believe that on his return Santa intended to make me Director General.”
Crouchback smiled. “Ironically enough, I’d never have learned to be so devious if you Security people hadn’t fouled up your own plans and assigned me to a refrigerator in the Russian Embassy in Ottawa. Ever since they found a CIA listening device in their smoked sturgeon, the Russians had been keeping a sharp eye open. They nabbed me almost at once and flew me to Moscow in a diplomatic pouch. When they thought they had me brainwashed, they trained me in deviousness and other grownup revolutionary techniques. They thought they could use me, Bigtoes. But Dirk Crouchback is going to use them!”
Bigtoes wasn’t listening. Crouchback had just given him an idea—one chance in a thousand of saving Santa. He dived for the phone.
“We’re in luck,” said Charity, handing Bigtoes a file. “His name is Colin Tanglefoot, a stuffer in the Teddy Bear Section. Sentenced to a year in the cooler for setting another stuffer’s beard on fire. Assigned to a refrigerator in the DEW Line station at Moose Landing. Sparks has got him on the intercom.”
Bigtoes took the microphone. “Tanglefoot, this is Bigtoes,” he said.
“Big deal,” said a grumpy voice with a head cold.
“Listen, Tanglefoot,” said Bigtoes, “in less than seven minutes Santa will be flying right over where you are. Warn the grownups not to shoot him down.”
“Tough,” said Tanglefoot petulantly. “You know, old Santa gave yours truly a pretty raw deal.”
“Six minutes, Tanglefoot.”
“Listen,” said Tanglefoot. “Old Valentine Woody is ho-ho-hoing around with that ‘jollier than thou’ attitude of his, see? So as a joke I tamp my pipe with the tip of his beard. It went up like a Christmas tree.”
“Tanglefoot—”
“Yours truly threw the bucket of water that saved his life,” said Tanglefoot. “I should have got a medal.”
“You’ll get your medal!” shouted Bigtoes. “Just save Santa.”
Tanglefoot sneezed four times. “Okay,” he said at last. “Do or die for Santa. I know the guy on duty—Myron Smith. He’s always in here raiding the cold cuts. But he’s not the kind that would believe a six-inch elf with a head cold.”
“Let me talk to him then,” said Bigtoes. “But move— you’ve got only four minutes.”
Tanglefoot signed off. Would the tiny elf win his race against the clock and avoid the fate of most elves who revealed themselves to grownups—being flattened with the first object that came to hand? And if he did, what would Bigtoes say to Smith? Grownups—suspicious, short of imagination, afraid—grownups were difficult enough to reason with under ideal circumstances. But what could you say to a grownup with his head stuck in a refrigerator?
An enormous squawk came out of the intercom, toppling Sparks over backward in his chair. “Hello there, Myron,” said Bigtoes as calmly as he could. “My name is Rory Bigtoes. I’m one of Santa’s little helpers.”
Silence. The hostile silence of a grownup thinking. “Yeah? Yeah?” said Smith at last. “How do I know this isn’t some Commie trick? You bug our icebox, you plant a little pinko squirt to feed me some garbage about Santa coming over and then, whammo, you slip the big one by us, nuclear warhead and all, winging its way into Heartland, U. S. A.”
“Myron,” pleaded Bigtoes. “We’re talking about Santa Claus, the one who always brought you and the other good little boys and girls toys at Christmas.”
“What’s he done for me lately?” said Smith unpleasantly. “And hey! I wrote him once asking for a Slugger Nolan Official Baseball Mitt. Do you know what I got?”
“An inflatable rubber duck,” said Bigtoes quickly.
Silence. The profound silence of a thunderstruck grownup. Smith’s voice had an amazed belief in it. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah.”
Pit Stop Number One. A December cornfield in Iowa blazing with landing lights. As thousands of elfin eyes watched on their television screens, crews of elves in coveralls changed the runners on Santa’s sleigh, packed fresh toys aboard, and chipped the ice from the reindeer antlers. The camera panned to one side where Santa stood out of the wind, sipping on a hot buttered rum. As the camera dollied in on him, the jolly old man, his beard and eyebrows caked with frost, his cheeks as red as apples, broke into a ho-ho-ho and raised his glass in a toast.
Sitting before the television at Security headquarters, a smiling Director General Hardnoggin raised his thimble-mug of ale. “My Santa, right or wrong,” he said.
Security Chief Bigtoes raised his glass. He wanted to think of a new toast. Crouchback was under guard and Carlotta and Brassbottom had fled to the Underwood. But he wanted to remind the Director General that SHAFT and the desire for something better still remained. Was automation the answer? Would machines finally free the elves to handcraft toys again? Bigtoes didn’t know. He did know that times were changing. They would never be the same. He raised his glass, but the right words escaped him and he missed his turn.
Charity Nosegay raised her glass. “Yes, Virginia,” she said, using the popular abbreviation for another elf toast; “yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”
Hardnoggin turned and looked at her with a smile. “You have a beautiful voice, Miss Nosegay,” he said. “Have you ever considered being in the talkies?”
CHRISTMAS COP – Thomas Larry Adcock
By the second week of December, when they light up the giant fir tree behind the statue of a golden Prometheus overlooking the ice-skating rink at Rockefeller Center, Christmas in New York has got you by the throat.
Close to five hundred street-corner Santas (temporarily sober and none too happy about it) have been ringing bells since the day after Thanksgiving; the support pillars on Macy’s main selling floor have been dolled up like candy canes since Hallowe’en; the tipping season arrives in the person of your apartment-house super, all smiles and open-palmed and suddenly available to fix the leaky pipes you’ve complained about since July; total strangers insist not only that you have a nice day but that you be of good cheer on top of it; and your Con Ed bill says Happy Holidays at the top of the page in a festive red-and-green dot-matrix.
In addition, New York in December is crawling with boosters, dippers, yokers, smash-and-grabbers, bindlestiffs on the mope, aggressive pros offering special holiday rates to guys cruising around at dusk in station wagons with Jersey plates, pigeon droppers and assorted other bunco artists, purveyors of all manner of dubious gift items, and entrepreneurs of the informal branch of the pharmaceutical trade. My job is to try and prevent at least some of these fine upstanding perpetrators from scoring against at least some of their natural Yuletide prey—the seasonal hordes of out-of-towners, big-ticket shoppers along Fifth Avenue, blue-haired Wednesday matinee ladies, and wide-eyed suburban matrons lined up outside Radio City Music Hall with big, snatchable shoulder bags full of credit cards.
I’m your friendly neighborhood plainclothesman. Very plain clothes. The guy in the grungy overcoat and watch cap and jeans and beat-up shoes and a week’s growth of black beard shambling along the street
carrying something in a brown paper bag—that ubiquitous New York bum you hurry past every day while holding your breath—might be me.
The name is Neil Hockaday, but everybody calls me Hock, my fellow cops and my snitches alike. And that’s no pint of muscatel in my paper bag, it’s my point-to-point shortwave radio. I work out of a boroughwide outfit called Street Crimes Unit-Manhattan, which is better known as the befitting S. C. U. M. patrol.
For twelve years, I’ve been a cop, the last three on S. C. U. M. patrol, which is a prestige assignment despite the way we dress on the job. In three years, I’ve made exactly twice the collars I did in my first nine riding around in precinct squad cars taking calls from sector dispatch. It’s all going to add up nicely when I go for my gold shield someday. Meanwhile, I appreciate being able to work pretty much unsupervised, which tells you I’m at least a half honest cop in a city I figure to be about three-quarters crooked.
Sometimes I do a little bellyaching about the department—and who doesn’t complain along about halfway through the second cold one after shift? —but mainly I enjoy the work I do. What I like about it most is how I’m always up against the elements of chance and surprise, one way or another.
That’s something you can’t say about most careers these days. Not even a cop’s, really. Believe it or not, you have plenty of tedium if you’re a uniform sealed up in a blue-and-white all day, even in New York. But the way my job plays, I’m out there on the street mostly alone and it’s an hour-by-hour proposition: fifty-eight minutes of walking around with my pores open so I don’t miss anything and two minutes of surprise.
No matter what, I’ve got to be ready because surprise comes in several degrees of seriousness. And when it does, it comes out of absolutely nowhere.
On the twenty-fourth of December, I wasn’t ready.
To me, it was a day like any other. That was wishful thinking, of course. To a holiday-crazed town, it was Christmas Eve and the big payoff was on deck—everybody out there with kids and wives and roast turkeys and plenty of money was anxious to let the rest of us know how happy they were.
