Mistletoe Mysteries Page 8

The old man looked pleased. “It came out later that Figge could prove he was in the billiard room all night, on one of the couches, because the accountant was there, too, for a lot of the time, certainly when Johnson was attacked.”

  “With Figge?”

  “No, no. With Mrs. Caruso, the American wife whose husband was away in Washington. The accountant had to give him an alibi because Figge could give a blow by blow account of how they’d spent the night while he was up at the other end of the room, pretending to be asleep. I told you he was a nasty piece of work. They’d locked themselves in, too, which the mess sergeant could testify to. He’d found the door locked when he made his rounds. The accountant left right away, before Sergeant Caruso came back. They wanted to keep it secret but there was too many people in the room when Figge was talking so we heard enough.

  “Now Captain Blood gets an idea. First he’d figured that it was Figge because of the parka, but now he figures that it must have been someone wearing Figge’s parka who had it in for Johnson and Figge. I thought that was pretty smart of him. Now he wanted laboratory tests done on the clothes of all those on his list because those caribou parkas shed a bit, and it should have left some hair. The Defense Research Board had a few botanists and biologists up there—one of them come to me one day and asked if he could get a blood sample from one of my dogs and I said sure, take as much as you like and the fella advanced on my lead dog with a needle in his hand before I caught him back. I was just teasing him. Another ten feet and he would have got his sample, all right, and so would they. These scientists had a bit of a laboratory but what Captain Blood wanted would have taken six months, I reckon, still, they started in. Meanwhile the Mountie started questioning us all again to find out who had it in for Johnson and Figge, the two of them, and they came up with a name. You know who?”

  “Sean Brady, the barber.”

  “That’s right. Well done. I could have told them that’s who they’d come up with.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “Because by now I could see they was sucking up swamp water, and I had my own ideas which I wanted to confirm for meself. I’d had enough of Captain Blood rushing off half cocked. So they settled on Sean, as I knew they would, and they went through his room with a magnifying glass, and checked him for bruises, all the time the laboratory was trying to find caribou hairs on his best suit. I knew they wouldn’t find anything, but as for Sean Brady, he would have done it if he’d had the guts, so I didn’t mind if they gave him a bit of a going over. They didn’t find anything but I told them they’d better keep Brady under protective custody, too, because Dupuis was looking to batter anyone to get even for his friend. While they were interviewing Brady I walked over to the hospital to pay my last respects to Johnson, and I offered to take his things back to Dupuis who was packing them all up in a box to send to his wife. Poor old Claud was in a hell of a state, so I stayed and had a long talk with him and calmed him down, and the next day he left on the train. And that was it. They never did figure out who was impersonating Figge. I did, though.”

  “Claud Dupuis, his friend.”

  “How did you figure that out?” One side of his mouth had dropped, in wonder apparently. You could see his right bottom canine.

  “I was just guessing,” I said, though it was more than that. Everybody was accounted for except Dupuis. “I don’t know how you figured it out, but I think I know why Dupuis did it.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The story of the two trappers. Dupuis and Johnson had been sharing a room for six months. They hated each other, and Dupuis hated Figge, like everyone else. So he put on Figge’s parka and went after Johnson, killing two birds with one stone.”

  The old man stared at me, forgetting even to drink. He looked stunned. “What are you talking about? Did you know these fellas? No? Well, I did. They were blood brothers, let me tell you.”

  I have never seen a man so angry. The vein running down the center of his skull looked ready to burst. In some way I had attacked the heart of his story and he needed to dispose of me before he could continue.

  “This is not the story of the two trappers,” he spat out. “What I’m telling you is true. Do you understand me? I knew them fellas.” He waited to see if I was properly cowed.

  I made conciliatory gestures. “So tell me. How did you figure it out?”

  He still said nothing for a long while, then he collected himself and took a swallow of beer. “Let’s start with ‘kaput,’” he said. “You don’t speak French? I thought we was all supposed to be bilingual these days. I do, and Ojibway, and Eskimo. You have to up here. Did I tell you Johnson was French? It wasn’t ‘kaput’ he said. I knew he wouldn’t be speaking German and the look on Dupuis’s face triggered me off, so I went to town and had a word with the priest, like I said, and sure enough the word is ‘capote.’ French. It means a special kind of parka, like Johnson’s. So I thought it was Figge meself, then, but when Figge came up with his alibi, I sorted it all out. As you say, only one fella was not quite accounted for, and when Captain Blood wanted to test everyone’s clothes, he gave me an idea. Of course, the two parkas and the pair of mukluks in the cloakroom helped.”

  “Why?”

  “Where was the other pair of boots? You couldn’t go out in weather like that in dancing shoes. Somebody had his boots on but not his parka.”

  “Dupuis? Took Figge’s parka and went after Johnson?”

  “That’s what an outsider might think, who didn’t know these fellas.” Once more he stared me down before he continued. “Not me, though. What I did realize right away is why Dupuis looked so strange when he heard the word ‘kaput.’ He knew what Johnson had really said and if he’d been innocent he’d have jumped in quick. But it was no surprise to him and he didn’t know how to react.”

  “So why did he go after Johnson?”

  “You haven’t figured it out? He didn’t. There was no way he would have gone after Johnson.” He looked at me fiercely. “No way. He went after Figge.”

  “But Figge was in the billiard room, listening to …”

  “So he was, but Dupuis didn’t know that. When he saw a fella going through the door wearing Figge’s coat he decided to settle a score, for himself and for his friend. Johnson had stolen back his own coat. They was all pretty drunk, remember. He beat up Johnson before he got a good look at him.”

  “Why didn’t he leave it at that? He could still discover him a bit later and watch the whole camp look for someone who had it in for Figge. Besides, he didn’t know that Figge had an alibi. It could have looked like a fight between Johnson and Figge over the coat. Why didn’t he leave it?”

  “Because of the blood. I told you there was a lot of blood on his parka. They wasn’t all that drunk, the others. Someone would have noticed. So he swapped parkas on Johnson and hid Figge’s parka where it could be found. Then he slipped back and got Johnson’s regular parka out of the cloakroom, where Johnson had left it when he decided to steal back his capote. So now Johnson was wearing an ordinary parka with blood on it and Dupuis wasn’t.”

  “You couldn’t prove it.”

  “That’s why I went to pay my last respects to Johnson in the hospital. When they left me alone with him, I found his suit, covered with caribou hair. Then I looked in his parka. It was an army surplus parka; the Canadian army had sold them to a lot of the construction workers so it was pretty well identical to a lot of others, and that’s why everyone put his name in them on a little white tag they put in for the purpose. Johnson’s had been torn out.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police?”

  “Because of the way Captain Blood was talking. He was wanting to charge someone with attempted murder or manslaughter but that wasn’t the way it was. Dupuis wasn’t a murderer. He just wanted to loosen a few of Figge’s teeth. It was a mistake. I felt sorry for him, so I told him what I knew, told him there being no name tag wouldn’t signify because the police would have ways of proving it was his coat. So he left.
He didn’t have to. I wouldn’t have said anything. Like I said, it was a misunderstanding. You take my point? He killed his friend by mistake.”

  I saw now why my easy comparison of his story with the tale of the two trappers had make him so angry.

  “I did tell the Mountie, though,” he said suddenly. “I waited a year, then I told him. You know what he said?”

  “What?”

  “He said considering I’d had a year all to myself in the cabin he’d have thought I could make up a better story than that. He didn’t want to be bothered, ye see, and besides, Dupuis had taken all the evidence with him. Now catch that waiter before I die of thirst.”

  “What about the poem?”

  “The one I recited? Are you staying at the hotel? Meet me here tomorrow, then, and I’ll tell it to you. I’m all talked out now. There’s the waiter now. Quick before he looks away.”

  I left him then, but I did come back next day to record his poem. I waited for an hour but he never appeared. The waiter told me to hang on, Duncan Bane was always there, he said, but I had a feeling that Bane would just as soon not talk to me anymore.

  JOHN LUTZ

  THE LIVE TREE

  John Lutz says he identifies with the grinchy dad in this story. He doesn’t really hate Christmas, but he’s irked by the fuss and bother of getting ready for it. His kids always used to demand a real tree but now that they’re grown up and in college, he’s fulfilled a long-held ambition and bought an artificial one.

  There’s nothing artificial about the tree in this story; but it’s certainly not the sort you’d pick up at your neighborhood farm and garden stand.

  John Lutz writes straightforward detective novels, but when it comes to the short stories he loves to do—and for which he’s won an Edgar Award—he’s full of surprises. In this holiday tale, we find out that even a fine upstanding Christmas tree can have an awfully curious twist to it.

  Clayton Blake was tired of Christmas, and it was still five days away. His four-year-old son, Andy, was curled on the sofa pouting, making Clayton feel about as small as one of Santa’s elves. But damn it, he was right about this.

  His wife, Blair, said, “You’re wrong about this, Clay. What would it hurt to buy one more real Christmas tree? It’s a big thing to Andy, and he’s still so young. He doesn’t understand how you feel about Christmas.”

  Clayton’s argument with Blair and Andy had left his nerves ragged. But he was still determined to buy a small artificial tree this year, keep god-awful Christmas fuss to a minimum. “How Andy feels doesn’t change what Christmas really is,” he said. “Nothing but a major marketing blitz that starts sometime in October. You know the retail stores make half their profits during the Christmas season?” He peaked his eyebrows in indignation. “Half! I mean, it’s reached the point where how well they can con us at Christmas determines how the entire economy’s gonna go. The world economy! Goddamn governments rise or fall on it.”

  Andy said, “Wanna weal tree.” It came out as a pitiful bleat.

  Blair looked as if she were suffering physical pain. Then she shook her head, her long blond hair swaying. A beautiful woman still in her thirties. Slightly myopic blue eyes. Bedroom eyes. “Tell Andy about the economy,” she said. “He’ll understand your position once the two of you have talked about gross national product and the trade imbalance.”

  There was a clatter on the porch. Stomping footsteps. The mail being delivered. Clayton was grateful for the interruption.

  He and Blair both strode to the front door to get the mail. When she saw what was happening she stopped and let Clayton step out onto the porch to collect it. As he pushed outside, the winter wind seemed to slice to his bones like icy razor blades.

  He was still cold after he came back in. Just those few seconds outside had chilled him to the quick. Temperature must be near zero. He really hated not only Christmas, but this time of year in general. Gray skies and gloom.

  “Twee,” Andy insisted.

  Clayton hardened his heart and ignored his son. Said with disappointment, “Looks like nothing but Christmas cards.” He dropped the stack of mail on the table in the foyer. Laughed without humor at the one envelope he was still holding. It was a longer envelope than the others, and he recognized the return address. The state penitentiary. This would be the yearly Christmas card from his brother Willy, who was serving time for mail fraud. Clayton said, “The usual card from Willy,” and tossed the envelope in with the unpaid bills piling up from Christmas shopping. ’Tis the season to be indebted.

  Blair said, “Even in prison, Willy’s got the Christmas spirit.”

  “Even in prison, Willy’s got you conned,” Clayton said. “Willy can con anybody he wants to, and from any distance.”

  “He might be a con man,” Blair said petulantly, “but he’s also a decent person.” Left hanging heavy in the air was the implication that Clayton was not a decent sort; he was the kind of miser who wouldn’t even let his family have a genuine Christmas tree. That irritated him. Wasn’t he an excellent provider? A faithful and sober husband? A good father to their son, if perhaps a stricter one than Blair would have liked? And how was Willy—a convicted criminal—a decent person? Wasn’t that just what a con artist needed you to believe—that he was basically decent?

  Blair began opening the Christmas cards, using a long red fingernail to pry beneath envelope flaps. “Well, when are you going to buy this artificial tree?” she asked resignedly, without meeting his gaze.

  “In a little while.”

  Still not looking up, she said, “Andy was looking forward to picking out a real one with us over at the lot on Elm Avenue.”

  Clayton didn’t answer. He actually didn’t even want to go to the trouble of buying and setting up even an artificial tree. Some of them were complicated and the branches didn’t fit right. What he really wanted was a window shade with a picture of a tree on it. He could pull it down during the holidays, then roll it up sometime around the new year. Better not tell Blair about that idea, though.

  Andy said, “Pweese, Daddy!” from the sofa.

  “You can get up now, son,” Clayton said just as the doorbell rang. “But behave. No more temper tantrums.”

  He took two steps to the door and opened it. Stood with his mouth hanging open, breathing in cold air.

  His brother, Willy, was standing on the porch.

  “Willy, how’d you—”

  “I’m let out on a good behavior program till after Christmas,” Willy said. “They’re doing that now for trusties convicted of nonviolent crimes.” He grinned. “Nobody’ll skip. Not this time of year. That’s why they call us trusties.”

  Clayton didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t actually all that glad to see his brother. They’d never gotten along well.

  “Willy!” Blair said behind Clayton. “For God’s sake, come on in!”

  “Yeah!” Clayton said, pulling out of his shock. “Get in here, Willy. Cold out there.”

  Willy the master criminal smiled. He was a shorter, bulkier version of Clayton, but with a face that perpetually beamed and a nose red from hanging over too many highball glasses. While Clayton’s features were lean and intense, giving him the look of a concerned headmaster, Willy resembled a life-coarsened department store Santa out of uniform and on his way to a bar. Clayton wondered if Willy had been drinking before coming here. Did Santa’s reindeer have antlers?

  Willy hadn’t moved. He said, “I got something with me.” Reached off to his left and tugged at an obviously heavy and resisting object.

  A Christmas tree came into view.

  Not only a tree, but a large one. Almost six feet tall and also big around.

  Not only a large tree, but a live one. Its roots still surrounded by a massive clump of earth that was wrapped in burlap tied with twine.

  What was going on here? Clayton wondered. Had Willy conned a tree from a nursery in the spirit of Christmas? He was capable of it, and that was sure how it appeared.

&n
bsp; Blair almost screamed, “A real tree!”

  “Weal twee!” Andy scampered across the living room and bounced off Clayton’s leg.

  Clayton cleared his throat and said, “This is your uncle Willy, son.”

  Andy said, “Wi-wee.”

  Willy was beaming down at Andy with an expression so tender it surprised Clayton. He’d been in prison since before Andy’s birth. “Finally get to see you, little buddy.”

  Clayton said, “Leave the tree on the porch for now and come inside, Willy. You’re so cold you’re white.” Except for the drinker’s nose.

  As Willy leaned the tree against the house and stepped through the door, Blair said, “You sure you’re feeling okay, Willy? You are kind of pale.”

  “Oh, yeah. Pri—where I been does that to the complexion. You know me, always healthy. Never even a cold.”

  Germs slain by alcohol, Clayton thought, but he kept the opinion to himself.

  Willy peeled off his coat. He was wearing a cheap blue suit. Scuffed black shoes. Prison issue.

  Willy handed his coat to Clayton and glanced around. “Good. I was hoping you hadn’t bought a tree yet. Wanted to surprise you. We gotta get it in a washtub with some water in it pretty soon. Then, after Christmas, you can plant it someplace in your yard. It’ll grow tall and strong right along with Andy, here.”

  Clayton wasn’t surprised to see that Andy, like all things warm-blooded, had taken an immediate liking to Willy. He was standing close and gazing up at him as if Willy were a life-size G.I. Joe. War toys, Clayton thought. At least Willy hadn’t brought Andy war toys.

  Blair bustled off to get Willy a cup of hot chocolate. Willy settled down on the sofa with Andy next to him. Old pals already.

  Clayton said, “Where you staying, Willy?”

  Willy waited until Blair had returned. He said, “Well, I thought maybe here. I gotta report back in right after Christmas.”

  Clayton had barely opened his mouth when Blair said, “Great, Willy. We’ve got a guest room.”

  Andy said, “Back in where, Uncle Wi-wee?”