Dear Lord, no! Miss Hefron thought. “Our pleasure, Ma’am,” she said brightly.
“Look at all these pretty things!” A velvet-lined tray stood open on the counter.
“They’re horoscope brooches, Ma’am. An advertised special. We still have Virgo and Capricorn and—”
“Capricorn? Of course! I bought one of those for—”
Mrs. Whistler stopped speaking. Her eyes rolled wildly as she grasped the counter for support. With a crash the tray of costume jewelry fell to the floor, and Mrs. Whistler collapsed on top of it. Before Miss Hefron could reach the stricken customer, Mrs. Whistler had miraculously recovered. Struggling to her feet, she replaced the tray awkwardly.
Mrs. Whistler’s eyelids fluttered. “I’ve just been on my feet too long—a little dizzy spell. No more shopping today!”
Slowly Mrs. Whistler made her way toward the doors of the store, clutching her straw shopping bag firmly. For a dreadful moment she believed nothing was going to happen to her; then her spirits soared as a strong hand gripped her elbow. An ash-blond woman with a flashing gold tooth was beside her.
“Let’s just step right up to the mezzanine office, honey.”
Mrs. Whistler seemed bewildered. “Pardon? I can’t look at anything else today.”
The steely grip of the woman’s talons tightened. “Step along, honey, d’ya hear? We’ll straighten this out and everything will be hunky-dory.”
Mrs. Whistler felt herself propelled toward a service elevator, whisked upstairs, and forcibly ushered into an austere office.
“Sit down, honey,” said the woman. “I’m Miss Vought, Store Security. I didn’t catch your name.”
“No,” said Mrs. Whistler. “You didn’t.”
Miss Vought flipped the switch of an intercom. “Miss Gilford, this is Vought. Tell Mr. Schlag I’ve landed a real pro.”
Miss Vought rested her thin hips on the edge of the desk and inserted a cigarette between her raspberry lips. “Relax, honey. You’ll sign a little statement and breeze out of here in no time.”
“I don’t understand.”
Miss Vought laughed unpleasantly. “You’re fabulous, honey. Just fabulous. That get-up you’re wearing would fool anybody.”
Dudley P. Schlag, drawn up to his full five feet one, strutted into the office, his pointed lapels bristling. Joyce Gifford, notebook in hand, followed. He did not see the astonished look that flashed across his secretary’s face.
“We got the cool goods,” Miss Vought told him. She rummaged in Mrs. Whistler’s shopping bag and brought forth a Capricorn brooch set with tiny rhinestones. “Counter Eighteen. Pulled the old fainting act, glammed this. I had my eye on her for twenty minutes. She cased perfume first, then checked out novelties, finally wound up in jewelry.”
“Kindly put down my brooch, young lady.” said Mrs. Whistler, sweetly but firmly. “You might drop it.”
“You’re fabulous, honey,” said Miss Vought, “fabulous.”
“Name and address?” said Mr. Schlag.
“I live in New York. I’m Mrs. Whistler.”
“Occupation?”
“I,” said Mrs. Whistler, “am a Senior Citizen.”
“All right, Grandma,” said Schlag. “What about the brooch?”
“I bought it this morning. I don’t remember the name of the store. I don’t know your city very well.”
“Where’s the sales slip?”
“Of course!” Mrs. Whistler smiled brightly. “The name will be on the sales slip, and I’m careful about saving them.” Then her face clouded. She seemed near tears. “But it was in my purse. And someone stole my purse just an hour or so ago.”
“Tragic,” said Schlag.
“I reported it to the police, of course.”
Mr. Schlag spoke into the intercom. “Mrs. Luden, call police headquarters and ask if a stolen purse was reported by a…Mrs. Whistler.” He smiled thinly.
“It won’t wash, honey,” said Miss Vought. “There were six Capricorn brooches when you staged your tumble at Counter Eighteen. But only five when you left.”
“You double-checked?” asked Schlag.
“Sure. While she was ankling for the door.”
Thoughtfully Schlag cracked his knuckles, then spun violently on Mrs. Whistler. “Those brooches were a plant, Grandma,” he said. “That’s why they were on the open counter.”
“Gracious,” said Mrs. Whistler. “You mean you were deliberately tempting people? Why, that’s wicked!”
“My secretary will type out a little statement,” he said, “saying you admit taking the brooch. You’ll sign it, and then you can leave.”
“Dear me,” said Mrs. Whistler. “I almost believe you are accusing me of stealing. Why, I can’t sign anything. It would be a lie.” She stood up abruptly, snatching the brooch from Miss Vought. “Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Whistler, taking a step toward the door.
Miss Vought and Schlag swooped like hawks, seizing her. “No, you don’t, sister!” Miss Vought pried the brooch from Mrs. Whistler’s fingers. “That’s evidence!”
“You’re under arrest!” shouted Schlag, then howled in pain as Mrs. Whistler’s teeth sank into his hand.
Joyce Gifford sat in paralyzed shock, unable to move.
“The cooler for you, honey!” cried Miss Vought, restraining Mrs. Whistler with a hammerlock. “We’ve got the goods to fry you, and we’ll see that they throw away the key!”
In less than an hour Mrs. Whistler had been booked, mugged, and fingerprinted.
At 2:15 P.M. a nervous, bedraggled Santa Claus elbowed through the crowded first floor aisles of MacTavish’s. Like the Pied Piper, he acquired pursuing children at every step. “A bike!” “A beach ball!” “A ’rector set!”
For a moment he leaned against Counter 18, warding off his tormentors. “Oh, Lord,” he whispered hoarsely to Miss Hefron. “What a hell of a way to make a living!”
“Aren’t you on the fourth floor?” she asked.
“Coffee break,” Santa groaned. His closed hand rested near the tray of horoscope brooches. A customer called to Miss Hefron and she turned away. Only for a moment—
At 4:25 P.M. Mr. Schlag glared across his desk at a resolute young man who returned his hostile look unflinchingly. “I, sir, am John R. Creighton, attorney-at-law.” A business card was slammed onto the desk. “You, sir, are being sued for five hundred thousand dollars!”
“I beg your pardon?” The young attorney’s piercing eyes were utterly unnerving. Mr. Schlag’s mouth felt dry.
“My client,” continued John Creighton, “a distinguished American actress, is suffering torment in the Los Angeles jail on trumped-up charges of shoplifting. You, sir, are responsible for this malicious accusation.” The attorney’s voice grew hollow. “May the Lord pity you, Mr. Schlag, for the courts never will!”
Schlag’s confidence returned. He spoke quickly into the intercom. “Send Miss Vought up, please. And come in yourself, Miss Gifford—with your notebook.” He turned back to the lawyer. “You’re wasting your time, Mr. Creighton. This is clear-cut theft, and we’ll prosecute to the fullest.”
“Take notes, Miss Gifford,” snapped Schlag.
“Yes, sir.” Joyce glanced at Johnny without batting an eyelash.
Five minutes later Schlag was summing up the evidence. “The brooches were counted. Only five remained. Then your client, this Mrs. Whistler—” he smirked at the name “—told a preposterous tale about a stolen purse with a sales slip from some imaginary store. We checked with the police and caught her flat-footed in her lie.”
“I see,” said Johnny slowly. “Who would have believed it?”
Joyce looked anxiously at Johnny. He looked humble and defeated as her eyes pleaded with him to do something.
At last he spoke. “Maybe we could check the brooches one more time?”
“Certainly.” The four marched downstairs to Counter 18, Joyce tagging behind in despair. “Miss Hefron,” said Schlag, “has the number of brooches o
n this tray changed since our incident with the thief?”
Johnny Creighton stared at the glittering jewelry. “The tray was knocked over,” he said softly. “I wonder… Would you please pick up the tray? There’s just a chance…”
Joyce lifted the tray from the counter. A Capricorn brooch, its clasp open, fell to the floor with a twinkle of light. “Under the tray!” exclaimed Johnny. “Who would have believed it!”
Miss Hefron was wide-eyed. “When they spilled! One got caught in the velvet underneath!”
Johnny’s tone was ominous. “I count six brooches, Mr. Schlag. Shall we return to your office?”
On the mezzanine steps, Schlag hesitated, then raced on toward the door marked Manager. A moment later he was shouting into the phone. “You’ve already gone to press? But I only gave you that shoplifter story a couple of hours ago! You can’t kill it?”
He hung up quickly as Johnny entered the office, followed by a smiling Joyce Gifford and a tense Miss Vought.
Taking the phone, Johnny dialed a number. “Police Headquarters? Missing Property, please… Yes, I’m calling about a black leather purse with identification for a Mrs. Whistler… Oh, it’s been turned in? Fine!”
Johnny smiled at the store manager. “It was turned in an hour ago. By a child—a mere street urchin. A touching development, I think.”
“Lemme talk to them!” Schlag snatched the phone. “That purse—is there a store sales slip in it?” During the moment’s pause the receiver trembled against Schlag’s ash-colored ear. “Yes? From Teague’s? For $8.85?” His voice sank to a hopeless whisper. “Officer, at the bottom of that slip has a special tax been added…like for jewelry.”
Fifteen seconds later the phone was in its cradle and Dudley P. Schlag had collapsed in his swivel chair.
Johnny Creighton spoke softly but menacingly. “No doubt you’ll soon learn that Mrs. Whistler reported the theft of her purse. Perhaps the officers didn’t report to headquarters immediately. And I’m sure a clerk at Teague’s will remember Mrs. Whistler’s buying a brooch this morning. We are charging you with false arrest and imprisonment, slander, physical assault—”
“Assault? No one touched her!”
“You’re lying!” Joyce Gifford slammed her notebook shut. “You both attacked her! I saw the whole brutal thing. You twisted her arm until she screamed and Mr. Schlag tried to kick her. It’s a wonder the poor old lady isn’t dead!” She stepped close to Johnny. “And I’ll swear to that, Mr.…is it Leighton?”
At 6:10 four people sat in Schlag’s office. Joyce Gifford was not present. She had left MacTavish’s, never to return. Next to the store manager was Walter Matson, legal counsel for MacTavish’s. Johnny Creighton was seated beside Mrs. Whistler, whose hands were folded in her lap. A faraway look on her sweet face revealed signs of recent suffering.
Johnny was concluding his remarks. “On Monday we will sue for five hundred thousand dollars. Mrs. Whistler will be an appealing plaintiff, don’t you think?”
“Five hundred thousand!” Attorney Matson’s face was faintly purple. “You’re out of your mind!”
“I agree.” Mrs. Whistler put a gentle hand on Johnny’s arm. “Let’s end this unpleasantness without a lot of fuss. I’ll drop this whole thing in exchange for two little favors. I’ve been through a shocking experience. And I hate to say it, but it’s entirely your fault, Mr. Schlag. So I expect MacTavish’s to pay me six thousand four hundred and eight dollars and eighty-five cents. Also, I met a charming woman today—in jail, of all places. Her name is Mrs. Blainey, and—”
“A shoplifter!” Schlag interrupted. “We’ve got a confession.”
“You could drop the charges,” said Mrs. Whistler. “I just couldn’t be happy knowing she was in prison.” Mrs. Whistler smiled brightly. “And when I’m unhappy, only one thing consoles me. Money—lots of it. Five hundred thousand dollars of it.”
“Relax, Dudley,” said the lawyer. “You’ve had it.”
Joyce met them at the door of the apartment. She threw her arms first around Mrs. Whistler, then around Johnny. “You were just wonderful,” she said. “Johnny, I never saw you like that before!”
Johnny blushed modestly. “Routine,” he said.
They celebrated in a small candlelit restaurant. Johnny raised his glass. “Merry Christmas for the Blainey family! Sixty-four hundred will pay off the mortgage on their house.”
Mrs. Whistler nodded. “And I’m getting back the eight eighty-five I spent for that dreadful brooch this morning.” She frowned. “Oh, dear! I forgot about the rent for the Santa costume.”
“What Santa costume?” Joyce asked. But Johnny quickly changed the subject.
THE NECKLACE OF PEARLS
by Dorothy L. Sayers
Dorothy Leigh Sayers was perhaps the best English mystery writer of the 1920s. She invented a sort of crossbreed between the novel and the detective story. Lord Peter Wimsey had his debut in 1923, in Whose Body. His popularity was firmly established by Sayers’s second book (1926), Clouds of Witness.
A long list of Wimsey stories, two non-Wimsey mysteries and three excellent anthologies are evidence that Miss Sayers was an expert in the field of crime literature. She never thought much, however, of her mystery career, preferring to pursue her real interest, religious (Church-of-England) literature. In 1947 she announced that she would write no more detective stories.
Sir Septimus Shale was accustomed to assert his authority once in the year, and once only. He allowed his young and fashionable wife to fill his house with diagrammatic furniture made of steel, to collect advanced artists and antigrammatical poets, to believe in cocktails and relativity and to dress as extravagantly as she pleased; but he did insist on an old-fashioned Christmas. He was a simple-hearted man who really liked plum pudding and cracker mottoes, and he could not get it out of his head that other people, “at bottom,” enjoyed these things also. At Christmas, therefore, he firmly retired to his country house in Essex, called in the servants to hang holly and mistletoe upon the cubist electric fittings, loaded the steel sideboard with delicacies from Fortnum & Mason, hung up stockings at the heads of the polished walnut bedsteads, and even, on this occasion only, had the electric radiators removed from the modernist grates and installed wood fires and a Yule log. He then gathered his family and friends about him, filled them with as much Dickensian good fare as he could persuade them to swallow, and, after their Christmas dinner, set them down to play “Charades” and “Clumps” and “Animal, Vegetable, and Mineral” in the drawing-room, concluding these diversions by “Hide-and-Seek” in the dark all over the house. Because Sir Septimus was a very rich man, his guests fell in with this invariable program, and if they were bored, they did not tell him so.
Another charming and traditional custom which he followed was that of presenting to his daughter Margharita, a pearl on each successive birthday—this anniversary happening to coincide with Christmas Eve. The pearls now numbered twenty, and the collection was beginning to enjoy a certain celebrity and had been photographed in the Society papers. Though not sensationally large—each one being about the size of a marrow-fat pea—the pearls were of very great value. They were of exquisite color and perfect shape and matched to a hair’s-weight. On this particular Christmas Eve, the presentation of the twenty-first pearl had been the occasion of a very special ceremony. There was a dance and there were speeches. On the Christmas night, following, the more restricted family party took place, with the turkey and the Victorian games. There were eleven guests in addition to Sir Septimus and Lady Shale and their daughter, nearly all related or connected to them in some way: John Shale, a brother with his wife and their son and daughter, Henry and Betty; Betty’s fiancé, Oswald Truegood a young man with parliamentary ambitions; George Comphrey, a cousin of Lady Shale’s, aged about thirty and known as a man about town; Lavinia Prescott, asked on George’s account; Joyce Trivett, asked on Henry Shale’s account; Richard and Beryl Dennison, distant relations of Lady Shale, who lived a
gay and expensive life in town on nobody precisely knew what resources; and Lord Peter Wimsey, asked, in a touching spirit of unreasonable hope, on Margharita’s account. There were also, of course, William Norgate, secretary to Sir Septimus, and Miss Tomkins, secretary to Lady Shale, who had to be there because, without their calm efficiency, the Christmas arrangements could not have been carried through.
The Twelve Crimes of Christmas Page 9
