“No,” said Bigtoes. “But what’s your alternative?”
“Close down the Toyworks for a few years,” said Crouchback earnestly. “Relearn our ancient heritage of handcrafted toys. We owe it to millions of little boys and girls as yet unborn!”
“All very idealistic,” said Bigtoes, “but—”
“Practical, Bigtoes. And down to earth,” said the SHAFT leader, tapping his head. “The plan’s all here.”
“But what about Acme Toy?” protested Bigtoes. “The rich kids would still get presents and the poor kids wouldn’t.”
Crouchback smiled. “I can’t go into the details now. But my plan includes the elimination of Acme Toy.”
“Suppose you could,” said Bigtoes. “We still couldn’t handcraft enough toys to keep pace with the population explosion.”
“Not at first,” said Crouchback. “But suppose population growth was not allowed to exceed our rate of toy production?” He tapped his head again.
“But good grief,” said Bigtoes, “closing down the Toyworks means millions of children with empty stockings on Christmas. Who could be that cruel?”
“Cruel?” exclaimed Crouchback. “Bigtoes, do you know how a grownup cooks a live lobster? Some drop it into boiling water. But others say, ‘How cruel!’ They drop it in cold water and then bring the water to a boil slowly. No, Bigtoes, we have to bite the bullet. Granted there’ll be no Christmas toys for a few years. But we’d fill children’s stockings with literature explaining what’s going on and with discussion-group outlines so they can get together and talk up the importance of sacrificing their Christmas toys today so the children of the future can have quality handcrafted toys. They’ll understand.”
Before Bigtoes could protest again, Crouchback got to his feet. “Now that I’ve given you some food for thought I have to go,” he said. “That closet should hold you until I make my escape.”
Bigtoes was in the closet for more than an hour. The door proved stronger than he had expected. Then he remembered Hardnoggin’s cardboard interior walls and karate-chopped his way through the back of the closet and out into the kitchen.
Security headquarters was a flurry of excitement as Bigtoes strode in the door. “They just caught Hardnoggin trying to put a bomb on Santa’s sleigh,” said Charity, her voice shaking.
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.