Cynthia Manson (ed)

by Merry Murder

  Whiteboy smiled and Slick’s face grew a little red.

  “Let’s just say for the sake of conversation,” Whiteboy suggested, “that Slick and me came by a whole lot of money some way or other we’re unwilling to disclose since that would tend to incriminate us. And then let’s say we used that money to buy a whole lot of stuff for those kids back of us. And let’s say we got cash receipts for everything in the bags. Where’s that leave us, Officer Hockaday?”

  “It leaves you with one leg up, temporarily. Which can be a very uncomfortable way of standing. Let’s just say that I’m likely to be hard on your butts from now on.”

  “Well, that’s about right. Just the way I see it.” He lit a cigarette, a Dunhill. Then he turned back a cuff and looked at his wristwatch, the kind of piece that cost him plenty of either nerve or money. Whiteboy was moving up well for himself.

  “You’re off duty now, aren’t you. Hock? And wouldn’t you be just about out of overtime allowance for the year?”

  “Whiteboy, you better start giving me something besides lip. That is, unless you want forty-eight hours up at Riker’s on suspicion. You better believe there isn’t a judge in this whole city on straight time or overtime or any kind of time tonight or tomorrow to take any bail application from you.”

  Whiteboy smiled again. “Yeah, well, I figure the least I owe you is to help you see this thing my way. Think of it like a special tax, you know? Around this time of year, I figure the folks who can spare something ought to be taxed. So maybe that’s what happened, see? Just taxation.”

  “Same scam as the one Robin Hood ran?”

  “Yeah, something like that. Only Slick and me ain’t about to start living out of town in some forest.”

  “You owe me something more, Whiteboy.”

  “What?”

  “From now on. you and Slick are my two newest snitches. And I’ll be expecting regular news.”

  There is such a thing as honor among thieves. This is every bit as true as the honor among Congressmen you read about in the newspapers all the time. But when enlightened self-interest rears its ugly head, it’s also true that rules of gallantry are off.

  “Okay, Hock, why not?” Whiteboy shook my hand. Slick did, too, and when he smiled his chin dimple spread flat. Then the three of us went over to the Christmas tree and everybody there seemed relieved.

  We started pulling merchandise out of the bags and handing things over to disbelieving kids and their parents. Everything was the best that money could buy. too. Slick’s taste in things was top-drawer. And just like Whiteboy said, there were sales slips for it all. which meant that this would be a time when nobody could take anything away from these people.

  I came across a pair of ladies’ black-leather gloves from Lord & Taylor, with grey-rabbit-fur lining. These I put aside until all the kids had something, then I gave them to Frances before I went home for the night. She kissed me on the cheek and wished me a happy Christmas again.

  BUT ONCE A YEAR. . . THANK GOD! – Joyce Porter

  Nobody, with one glittering exception, ever enjoyed the Christmas party which the Totterbridge & District Conservative & Unionist Club traditionally gave every year for the children of its members. The ladies who organised and ran the party naturally hated every minute of it, while the guests (all under the age of ten) invariably professed themselves bored out of their tiny minds by the lousy tea, the lousy entertainment, and the even lousier presents. Only the Honourable Constance Morrison-Burke stood up to be counted when it came to asserting that the kiddies’ Christmas party was a simply spiffing “do” and well worth all the trouble and heartbreak.

  The Honourable Constance’s enthusiasm might ring strange in the ears of those aware of her intense dislike of small children and her vehement objection to lavishing on them vast sums of money which might be better spent on comforts for Britain’s impoverished aristocracy. The explanation is, however, quite simple: it was only at the Conservative Club’s Christmas party that the Honourable Constance got the chance to play Father Christmas, all the Conservative menfolk having chickened out of this particular privilege many years ago.

  The Honourable Constance (or the Hon. Con as she was generally known in the small provincial town in which she lived) was famous for always wearing the trousers, literally and figuratively, so that yet another breeches role was in itself no great attraction for her. What did draw her irresistibly to the part were those bushy white whiskers. To tell the truth, the Hon. Con rather fancied herself in a moustache and full beard, claiming that it brought out the colour of her eyes, and she spent the fortnight before the party swaggering around her house in Upper Waxwing Drive arrayed in the complete get-up. Her ho-ho-hoing was so exuberant that Miss Jones went down daily with one of her sick headaches. Miss Jones, who also lived in the house in Upper Waxwing Drive, was the Hon. Con’s dearest chum, confidante, dogsbody, doormat, better half, and who knows what else besides. It was she who had extracted a solemn promise from the Hon. Con (“see that wet, see that dry, cross my heart and hope to die”) that she wouldn’t wear her Santa Claus whiskers out in the street, no matter how much breaking in they required.

  The Hon. Con was not of course so bedazzled that she overlooked the grimmer side of the picture. Bringing good will and Christmas cheer to a pack of some seventy-five infant savages is no joking matter, and the Hon. Con took every reasonable precaution for her own protection. She would like to have equipped herself with an electric cattle prod or a lion-tamer’s whip and a kitchen chair, but she knew the Ladies’ Organising Committee would never stand for that so she settled for something less exotic. Like heavy boots with reinforced toe-caps, a pair of cricket pads to protect the old shins, and a small rubber truncheon stuffed down the leg of her red trousers just in case she was obliged to move on to the offensive.

  On the day of the party the Hon. Con and Miss Jones set off in good time. This was partly because the Hon. Con, arrayed in full festive rig, had trouble even getting into the Mini, never mind actually driving it, and partly because they had to attend a final briefing in the main or Margaret Thatcher Hall of the Conservative Club.

  The lady helpers were all somewhat anxious and on edge as they gathered round their leader, Mrs. Rose Johnson, Chairperson of the Ladies’ Organising Committee. Mrs. Johnson, however, rattled through the battle orders with an air of quiet confidence which, though completely spurious, did help to steady the troops. Indeed, some of the ladies felt so much better that they even started grumbling about the allocation of duties. Mrs. Johnson sighed. This happened every year, no matter how often she reminded them that all the various jobs were distributed strictly by lot. She knew as well as anybody that some posts were more, well, dangerous than others, but what could she or anybody else do about it? Trying to keep track of what people had done in previous years was simply too complicated, and considerable concessions had already been made in respect of the so-called latrine fatigues. Nowadays only bona fide mothers were stationed in the cloakrooms as, when it came to overexcited kids and the undoing of buttons, a certain deftness had been found essential if disasters were to be avoided.

  Taking everything into consideration, Mrs. Johnson felt that everybody should be reasonably satisfied with the arrangements, but it came as no very great surprise that one person in particular wasn’t. As the meeting came to an end and the ladies, with exhortations to stand firm and unflinching ringing in their ears, began dispersing to their battle lines, the imposing figure of Lady Fowler could be seen swimming doughtily against the stream. She trapped Mrs. Johnson by the platform.

  “God damn and blast it, Rose,” she exclaimed—her husband had been knighted for services to the fish-paste and tinned pilchard industry which may account for the forcefulness of her language—”you’ve bloody well done it again!”

  Mrs. Johnson tried, and failed, to move what was obviously going to be a bruising encounter away from the platform on which a dejected group of total strangers was huddled, listening gloomily to eve
ry word. “Done what, dear?”

  “Given that bloody Lyonelle Lawn bitch the best goddamn job again! That’s three bloody years on the trot!”

  Mrs. Johnson ruffled unhappily through her sheaf of papers. “The best job, dear? Oh, I’d hardly call being stuck by the fire exit at the end of that draughty old corridor ‘the best job,’ would you?”

  “Compared with being stuck for two solid hours in the middle of World War Three,” snarled Lady Fowler, “yes, I damned well would! Last year I was on serving bloody teas and this year I’ve copped marshalling the little bastards up to collect their presents—and that’s in addition to being on sentry-go out here all the time the entertainment’s going on. I suppose you know one of the little sods bit me last time? Why the hell don’t I ever get one of these cushy jobs where—with luck—you don’t even see a blasted kid from start to finish?”

  “The Committee draw the names out of a hat, dear,” protested Mrs. Johnson feebly, noting with chagrin that the Hon. Con and that peculiar little woman of hers had moved up and were now avidly eavesdropping on the other side. “It’s all absolutely fair and aboveboard.”

  Lady Fowler blew heavily down her nose. “Damned funny it’s always Lyonelle Lawn who comes up smelling of roses!”

  Mrs. Johnson bridled. “I hope you are not accusing me of indulging in some kind of favouritism, Felicity!” she snapped. “I can’t think why you should imagine that I would do Lyonelle Lawn, of all people, any favours. You know she’s definitely got planning permission to build that bungalow at the bottom of their garden, in spite of our objections? It’ll ruin our view of the river and knock thousands off the price of our house.” Mrs. Johnson gave a bitter laugh. “Lyonelle Lawn is hardly my blue-eyed girl.”

  “Maybe you’re over-compensating,” suggested Lady Fowler unkindly. “You know, being especially bloody kind to the cow because you hate her so much. Understandable, but damned tough luck on your friends.”

  “Oh, don’t be so ridiculous!” Mrs. Johnson looked round for something or somebody upon which to vent her pent-up irritation. She found it on the platform where those peculiar-looking folk were still hanging aimlessly around. Mrs. Johnson pounced on them with relief. “I say, isn’t it about time you people were getting yourselves ready?” she called. “You know—make-up and costumes and things? The kiddies will be here any minute now and we don’t want to start running late.”

  Silently, sullenly, and led, somewhat improbably, by a midget, the group began shuffling off backstage.

  Lady Fowler watched them go before awarding herself the last word. “I don’t know why we bother hiring outside entertainers, Rose,” she observed. “Your pet, Lyonelle Lawn, is supposed to have been an actress of sorts, isn’t she? I’m sure she’d be delighted to put on a show for us. Belly dancing, was it? Or striptease? Anyhow, something frightfully artistic, I’m sure. I hear they loved her in those ghastly workingmen’s clubs up North.”

  The Hon. Con looked at her watch as Lady Fowler and Mrs. Johnson went somewhat icily their separate ways. “Oh, well, suppose it’s time I went and sorted those dratted old presents out.”

  Miss Jones, who didn’t approve of eavesdropping—at least not in such a blatant manner—thought it was more than time. She would like to have chided the Hon. Con for such ill-bred behaviour, but she knew what the answer would be so she saved her breath.

  The Hon. Con, being the daughter of a peer of the realm as well as the finest private detective in Totterbridge, was naturally a law unto herself. What in common people like you and me would have been idle curiosity was in her case a serious, in-depth research project into behavioural patterns. Private detectives were by definition great students of human nature and everything was grist to their mill.

  Untrammelled by the demands of husband and children, blessed with a considerable independent income and spared even from having to bother with all those time-consuming little domestic chores by the selfless devotion of Miss Jones, the Hon. Con did occasionally find it hard to fill up her day. At first she had thrown herself into charitable work, until the protests from the poor, the sick and the deprived became too vociferous to be ignored. Then she had gone in for sport, demolishing two tennis clubs, wrecking the entire local league for crown green bowling, and implanting the kiss of death on mixed hockey. Her sallies into the world of art fared little better, though the charge that she set back the cause of modern music in Totterbridge by fifty years is exaggerated.

  It came, therefore, as a great relief all round (except to the police) when the Hon. Con discovered, almost by chance, that she was a natural private detective. Her progress to the very heights of her chosen profession would have been meteoric had it not been for some petty jealousy on the part of the official forces of law and order, and for the acute shortage of really juicy crimes in the Totterbridge area. Had there been even a modest sufficiency of spy rings, mass murders, kidnapings, and bank robberies to keep her going, you wouldn’t have found the Hon. Con pottering around in a blooming old Santa Claus outfit, oh dear me, no! However, there wasn’t so she was.

  “Were that mangey crew hanging about on the stage really the entertainers?” asked the Hon. Con.

  Miss Jones nodded. Although laying no claims to being either a master private detective or even a student of human nature, Miss Jones always seemed to know what was going on.

  “Thought we were going to have a film show this year.”

  “You have to have the lights out for a film show, dear. Mrs. Johnson felt we just daren’t risk it.”

  “What happened to that conjuror fellow?”

  “He refused to come again, dear. After what they did to his rabbit.”

  The Hon. Con jerked her head in the direction of the stage. “So what are this lot supposed to be doing?”

  “They’re a kind of mini-circus, dear. You know, clowns and a juggler and a tightrope walker, I think. And that midget, of course.”

  “No animals?”

  “They apparently have a performing dog, dear, but Mrs. Johnson thought we hadn’t better tempt fate.”

  The Hon. Con pondered the situation and pronounced her verdict. “The kids’ll eat ‘em alive.” She looked at her watch again. “You’d better be getting your skates on, Bones. It’s only five minutes to D-day.”

  Miss Jones managed a brave little smile before trotting off to her post. She was on duty by the door which led from the Margaret Thatcher Hall to the corridor in which the two cloakrooms were located. It was her job to ensure that no more children at any one time passed through those portals than the facilities could cope with. It was no sinecure as almost everything seemed to get those Conservative toddlers right in the bladder.

  Two o’clock struck like a death knell and the Totter-bridge & District Conservative & Unionist Club’s annual Christmas party got under way with both bangs and whimpers. Viewed as a whole, this year’s effort was better than some but worse than most.

  It was unfortunate that the proceedings opened with the professional entertainers. They were not a success and the Hon. Con, tucked away in the manager’s office, listened to the howls and cat-calls coming from the Margaret Thatcher Hall with gloomy satisfaction. Her predictions were coming true and she could only hope that the little swine would have run out of steam by the time it came to distribute the presents.

  The trouble was that the children, reared on a healthy diet of slick TV sex and violence, just couldn’t take a real man tossing three colored balls in the air while balancing a plate on his nose. The contortionist came on, received several suggestions as to how he might enliven his act, and switched frantically into his fire-eating routine. This did cause a momentary lull but, when it became apparent that he wasn’t about to set himself on fire and burn to death, the hostilities were resumed. The midget fared no better, being told by one juvenile wit that he ought to be in a preserving bottle at the Royal College of Surgeons. But it was the lady tightrope walker who really whipped things up. Her appearance was greeted by a hail of sh
oes, the only offensive weapons that the mites could lay their tiny paws on, thanks to the foresight of the Ladies’ Organising Committee, who had frisked every child on arrival.

  The lady tightrope walker, having been given the bird in better places than Totterbridge and being in any case well insulated from the slings and arrows by gin, would probably have weathered the storm if the midget hadn’t tried to come to the rescue. He rushed onstage lugging a large packing case stuffed with cheap animal masks made of paper which he proceeded to fling out at the audience by the handful. It was reminiscent of some ignoble savage attempting to placate his gods, and about as successful.

  True, the children ceased baying for the lady tightrope walker’s blood but only in order to husband their strength for the furious internecine struggle which now flared up over items so abysmally undesirable that, in calmer times, they wouldn’t even have been removed from the cornflakes box.

  Mrs. Johnson viewed the melee with resignation and a faint touch of hope that it might die down of its own accord. Only when blood began to flow and some of the smaller children had gone not so much to the wall as halfway through it did she acknowledge that the moment for desperate measures had arrived.

  “Plan B, ladies!” she screamed. “Plan B! Quickly, now!”

  The ladies took a deep breath, squared their shoulders, clenched their fists, and dived in.

  Plan B was simple and consisted only of taking the cheap paper masks away from the little kids and giving them to the big kids, who were going to get them anyhow in the end. It merely speeded up the natural order of things and was justified only by the fact that it worked. Gradually the turmoil quietened. The circus performers had long ago beaten a cowardly retreat and so it was, as ever, to Mrs. Carmichael that Mrs. Johnson turned in her hour of need. Mrs. Carmichael was a pianist with an inexhaustible repertoire of your old favourites and mine, and the touch of a baby elephant. But she was used to soothing the savage beast and the children were ready for a change. In a matter of seconds they were gleefully bawling out highly obscene versions to the stream of popular songs which flowed from Mrs. Carmichael’s leaden fingers.