Christmas Stalkings Read online

  “Not that either. He passed out cold.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “There was nothing left for me to do but get into the Santa Claus suit myself. I put it on as quickly as I could and left, locking the door behind me. I hope the guests won’t be disappointed.”

  “Why should they be? All you did was promise them a surprise, and the sight of you in that Santa Claus suit would surprise anybody.”

  He looked at her suspiciously. “I’m sure they’re expecting something more—well—dramatic.” He wriggled and some of his stuffing slid, making it look as if he were about to give birth at any moment. “I’m aware that the suit doesn’t fit as well as it might. I tried to eke it out with pillows, but there weren’t enough on hand.”

  “Come back in here,” she said, pulling him into the room behind the hanging. “As I was passing through, I noticed a pile of pillows back in the corner that should do nicely.”

  “Those are Madungu cushions. Very rare and valuable, since the Madungus are extinct.”

  “They won’t be any less rare and valuable through having served as Santa Claus’s belly and may perhaps gain added historical interest” Despite his protestations, she stuffed him with the Madungu cushions until he was round and tight.

  “Poor Matthew,” Peter said. “He will be so disappointed at having missed the party. I wish I could— no, I daren’t let him out later because, even though he may have sobered up somewhat, there’s no guarantee that he will be any less violent.”

  “You can tell him about it later,” she said. If there was a later. She hadn’t given up her mission. In fact, it would be much easier now. She’d let Peter introduce her; then, when Santa Claus was distributing his gifts, she’d slip upstairs, dispose of Zimwi, and return to the party. With any luck, that meant his body wouldn’t be discovered until the party was over and the guests, including herself, long gone.

  Peter offered her his arm. “Shall we make a grand entrance together?”

  “Santa Claus and Annie Oakley?”

  “Oh, is that who you’re supposed to be? I thought you were an elf.”

  “An elf with a gun?”

  “This is New York. Even the elves are likely to carry guns.”

  They stood together at the head of the main staircase that led down to the first floor. The guests— ancient Egyptians, cave persons, Eskimos, Hindu deities, and a variety of ethnic entities she could not identify, gathered below with expectant cries. There was a drumroll followed by a flourish of trumpets.

  “Ladies and gentlemen . . .” Peter began and stopped. Obviously it had just occurred to him that the speech he had prepared would not work. It had been designed to introduce Santa Claus, not to be spoken by Santa Claus. Peter looked helplessly at Susan.

  “Improvise,” she whispered, hoping she would not have to make his speech for him.

  But there turned out to be no need for a speech. At that moment a bloodcurdling scream came from the back of the building, a scream so terrible that it made Susan’s flesh crawl; and if it did that to a Melville, what must it be doing to the guests clustered below? This was followed by a crash that seemed to shake the building to its foundations.

  It took a while before anybody was able to find out what had happened. Apparently Zimwi had come to and, determined to go to the party, had set out in his dressing gown. He could not reach the stairs because the door to the apartment was locked, and so, forgetting the warning that had been given him, overlooking the sign outside (or, as Susan always suspected, unable to read it; she had never thought much of missionary schools), he had opened the door to the elevator and plunged down the shaft to the basement. A lighter man might possibly have survived, but for a man of Matthew Zimwi’s weight, the fall was inevitably fatal.

  “The medical examiner tells me that he died instantly,” the detective in charge told them after the body had been cleared away. “He couldn’t have suffered.”

  “Oh, I am glad to hear that,” Dr. Froehlich, who had joined the executive group unasked, said, clasping her hands as if in prayer. “Such a sad end to such bright hopes!”

  “I’m afraid your Christmas has been spoiled,” the detective said.

  Susan gave the sad smile that the police—a sentimental lot—would expect under the circumstances, but her heart was full of cheer. She had not, after all, had to break her rule of not killing anyone over the holidays, and although she felt a bit disappointed at not having killed Zimwi herself, still, there were plenty of other evil individuals she intended to dispatch as soon as the new year began. She was not going to begrudge an act of God, especially at Christmas.

  “I guess this means the party is over,” Peter said sadly.

  “I don’t see why,” she said. “They’ve taken the body out through the basement, so the guests have been spared any actually grisly sights, although, heaven knows, in their profession they should be used to them. Anthropologists,” she said, in reply to the detective’s questioning look.

  “Ah,” he said.

  “None of the guests was actually acquainted with him, and accidents are always happening at parties.”

  “They are, indeed,” the detective said. “I could tell you stories of accidents at parties . . .”

  She smiled at him. “So I don’t see any reason why the party can’t go on as planned—or almost as planned, anyhow. And I hope that you and your men will join us in a glass of eggnog or glogg or whatever seasonal libation the caterers have laid on for the occasion.”

  “There are reporters outside and it’s snowing,” Dr. Froehlich said. “Shouldn’t I ask them to come in and join us?”

  “This is a private party,” Susan said. “Let them stand out in the snow.”

  If she was going to get adverse publicity out of this—and she knew she would—she might as well have a little revenge first. She wished she could tell Dr. Froehlich to go out and join them in the snow but it would mean a scene, and she detested scenes. After New Year’s she would make Peter fire Dr. Froehlich. Maybe Susan would think of some way of saving Peter’s face. And then again, maybe she wouldn’t.

  ERIC WRIGHT - TWO IN THE BUSH

  In Canada, crime writing is a fairly recent phenomenon, yet mystery writers are already being taken far more seriously by the mainstream literary establishment there than in many other countries. Eric Wright’s first book won him a City of Toronto Prize for an important contribution to Canadian literature. Since then, he’s received international recognition in a number of ways, but here’s one that really takes the frosted bun:

  The Globe and Mail, Canada’s most prestigious newspaper, ran an article lamenting the dearth of truly memorable characters in today’s fiction. It asked how many readers could identify these landmark figures in literature: Uriah Heep, Mr. Micawber, Eliza Doolittle, Charlie Salter, and Fagin. Eric’s portrayal of a Toronto policeman’s everyday life in its many vicissitudes is far subtler than’ Dickens’s or Shaw’s splashy portraits, but no less unforgettable.

  You won’t meet Charlie Salter in this story, but you’ll see why Eric got put on the list.

  From the day The Boozer became my cell mate and first told me about Clyde Parker, it took us nearly a year to set him up. In the end, though, the long delay turned out to be for the best because when we did catch up with him, the timing, Christmas Eve, was perfect

  Clyde Parker was the owner of a pub on King Street East. The Old Bush was a beer parlor, not a “men only” parlor but not the kind of place that ladies felt comfortable in, either, and as the man said, those that came in left, or they did not remain ladies very long. It had graduated from being one of the worst holes in the east end of the city to being quaint, one of the last unrenovated survivors of the days when drink was as feared as polyunsaturated fat is now. The Old Bush was such a relic that it was discovered a few years ago by a wine columnist who wrote an article about it which brought in a few people who were looking for an authentic experience, but they didn’t come back once they’d got it The re
gular patrons stared at them.

  If there was only one or two of these tourists they’d leave them alone, but if six or eight of them came in, someone would give a signal and the pub would go quiet as the regular patrons stared at them. They didn’t like that. A lot of old-timers used the place, and you could generally count on finding a few rounders there on a weeknight.

  It was The Boozer who put us on to the fact that Clyde Parker, the owner, might be whispering into the ear of the coppers. I say “might” because we weren’t sure for a long time, which was why we didn’t go for Parker in a heavy way as soon as Boozer had tipped us. We had to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  The Boozer had just done a nice little job over in Rosedale. At the time he was paying a window cleaner to let him know of any empties he came across, and one day he reported that the inhabitants of a certain house on Crescent Road had gone on vacation, and access was relatively simple. The Boozer duly dropped by at 3 a.m. with a few copies of The Globe and Mail in case anyone was about, let himself in the back door, and helped himself to a sackful of small stuff—silver, jewelry, and such, including a real piece of luck, a twenty-ounce gold bar he found in a desk drawer. The Boozer claimed it was about the cleanest little job he’d ever done. He worked with Toothy Maclean on lookout. Utterly reliable, Toothy was. So when they came for The Boozer, three days later, he had a long think and the only one he could see shopping him was Clyde Parker.

  See, the night after the job, The Boozer had called in at the Bush for a few draft ales, and to pay for his beer he off-loaded a few trinkets, cuff links and such, on Old Perry. Old Perry paid him about a tenth of what they were worth, which in itself was about a tenth of what you’d have to pay in a store, but The Boozer was thirsty and he had plenty of goods left. Old Perry made his living by having the money in his pocket when you were thirsty, and we’d all dealt with him. We’d have known years ago if he was a nark. The other alternative, Toothy Maclean, was unthinkable. Then The Boozer remembered that Clyde Parker had been hovering round when he passed the stuff over to Old Perry, so he began to wonder. He confided in me and the two of us did some asking around and we came up with three others who’d been fingered not long after they’d brushed up against Parker. So that’s how it was; we didn’t have any proof, but we were pretty sure.

  The Boozer wanted to send a message to the outside to have Parker done, but I talked him out of it. Not too heavy, I told him, because we might be wrong, and anyway, let’s do it ourselves, let’s be there when it happens. I was beginning to get an idea; though, when The Boozer asked, I said I didn’t know yet. We had plenty of time to think about it. I got The Boozer calmed down, but he said if I didn’t get a good idea, then he’d torch the Bush as soon as he got out.

  I wanted something a bit subtler than that. I wanted to hurt Parker in his pride and his wallet at the same time, I wanted to cost him money and make him look foolish, and, if possible, I wanted him to know who’d done it without him being able to do anything about it. It wouldn’t be easy getting past all those pugs that Parker used as waiters to look out for him.

  About three-quarters of the way through our term—me and The Boozer had both of us still a couple of months to do—I got an idea. Or rather, I got the last piece of an idea I’d been putting together for a few months. Ideas are like that with me.

  The first part of the idea came from a cell mate I’d had at the beginning of my stretch. He’d got ninety days for impersonating a Salvation Army man. You know, going door to door, soliciting contributions and giving you a blessing with the receipt. What he’d done, he’d got a Salvation Army cap one night from the hostel when no one was watching, and another night he got a pad of receipts off the desk in the office, and with a black raincoat and a shirt and tie he looked the part perfectly. He said he picked up five hundred a night, easy, in a district like Deer Park. A lot of people gave him checks, of course, which he threw away, but he didn’t count on them calling the office when the checks didn’t go through. (A lot of people deserve to be inside.) Two months later the coppers were waiting for him. He should have worked it for a week, then stayed off the streets for at least six months, as a Sally Ann collector, I mean. There’s plenty of other things he could have been doing. But he got greedy and silly and they caught up with him taking up a collection round the Bunch of Grapes on Kingston Road. So that’s where I got a bit of an idea.

  I got the second part of my idea at a prison concert. You had to attend, and there was this citizen on the bill, singing a lot of old-fashioned songs. “Sons of Toil and Sorrow” was one. “A Bachelor Gay Am I” was another. In prison, I ask you. Some of the younger cons thought he’d made the songs up himself. And it wasn’t just the choice of song. He couldn’t sing. He was terrible—loud and embarrassing, hooting and hollering away, the veins sticking out all over his neck as he tried to get near the notes. The others nick-named him Danny Boy, which he said was his signature tune. I thought, you should stick to hymns, buddy, because he reminded me exactly of a carol singer who used to sing with a Salvation Army band when I was a kid.

  Then I realized that I had it.

  All I needed was a trumpet player and someone on the accordion, and we were all set

  Me and The Boozer were both sprung in October and we moved in together. My wife had visited me once to tell me not to try going home again, ever, and Boozer had no home, so we found this little apartment on Queen Street near the bail and parole unit where we had to appear from time to time.

  We were both on welfare, of course, at first; then we both found jobs of the kind that offered no temptation, and that no one else wanted. The Boozer got taken on at a car wash, and I found a situation in a coal-and-wood yard, filling fifty-pound sacks with coal. Neither of us needed the work. Boozer had gone down protesting his innocence, so he still had his loot stashed away, but he couldn’t touch it for a few months because they were watching him. As for me, I was always the saving kind.

  Did I tell you what I got shipped for? I sell hot merchandise on the streets. You’ve seen me, or someone like me, if you’ve ever gone shopping along the Danforth. I’m the one who jumps out of a car and opens a suitcase full of Ralph Lauren sweatshirts that I am prepared to let go for a third of the price, quick, before the cops come. You buy them because you think they’re stolen, which is the impression I’m trying to create, but in point of fact I buy them off a Pakistani jobber on Spadina for five dollars each. I’d

  pay ten if they weren’t seconds and the polo player looked a bit more authentic. I’ve sold them all—fake Chanel Number 5, fake Gucci, Roots, the lot. Anything to appeal to the crook in you. Sometimes the odd case of warmish goods does come my way, but I prefer to deal in legit rubbish if I can get it.

  So there I was, unloading a suitcaseful of shirts that had withstood a warehouse fire, good shirts if a bit smoky, and the fuzz nabbed me for being an accomplice to a dip.

  I was working the dim-sum crowd on the corner of Spadina and Dundas on a Sunday morning and I was just heading for my car to load up again, when someone shouted his wallet was gone, and then another shouted, and then another. Before you knew it, two martial-arts experts grabbed me and the cops were called and I got twelve months. I never even saw the dip.

  But to get back to my story. First I had to get a couple of musicians. That wasn’t easy until I bumped into one in the lineup at the bail and parole unit, a guy I’d known inside who played in the prison band. He played trumpet or cornet really, when he wasn’t doing time for stealing car radios. He found me a trombone player. Then I had a real piece of luck because right after that 1 ran into the original authentic terrible hymn singer from the prison concert.

  At first he wouldn’t hear of it, but I went to work on him and he saw the virtue in what we were planning and promised to think it over. The next time we met, he agreed. I should have known.

  We decided we could manage without an accordion player.

  Now we had to get some uniforms. All we really needed were the c
aps. The trumpet player used to be a legit chauffeur and he still had his old black jacket, and he thought he could put his hand on some others. The owner of the limousine fleet kept a bundle of uniforms in his garage storeroom, and Digger Ray assured us that getting access to them would not be a problem. Digger Ray was the trombone player. He was Australian and his specialty was playing the fake sucker in crooked card games, but he’d done a few B and E jobs. Toothy Maclean lifted the caps for us while The Boozer created a disturbance during prayers at the Salvation Army shelter. (He started crying and repenting right in the middle of a prayer and Toothy got all the caps from the office while they were comforting him.)

  Now The Boozer had to line up three or four cooperating citizens who would be unknown to Clyde Parker, fellas who didn’t use the Old Bush. It wasn’t easy, but Boozer came up with three guys who hardly ever drank—not too common among his acquaintance, I can tell you—and once they heard about it they were keen to be included. So we were set. Now I had to go to work. I had the trickiest job of all.

  I was the obvious person to approach Clyde Parker because I’d only been in the Bush once, years ago. I hate the place, always have. It’s the kind of beer parlor where there’s a civil war being fought at every table and the waiters are hired to break up fights, and if you stay until midnight someone will throw up all over your shoes. I like a nice pub, myself.

  So Parker didn’t know me and when I approached him he was very wary, at first. I went in two or three times until I was sure who he was, then I got talking to him. Had he heard, I asked, of this fake Salvation Army band that was going around the pubs collecting? He hadn’t, but if they came near the Old Bush, he’d be ready, he said. He nodded to indicate a couple of his waiters who were lounging against the wall, waiting for orders. I don’t know where he finds them, but they look as if he has to chain them up when the pub is closed. No, no, I said, there’s a better way than that, and then I told him.