Only then did Qwilleran become aware of a ladder leaning against the front edge of the marquee. "I can't bend my knees; my arms are numb; and I can't see! I'm not climbing up any damned ladder!"
"You've got to," said Wilfred in panic.
Hundreds of spectators were cheering, and the officials were looking over the edge of the marquee and shouting, "Come on up, Santa!" Qwilleran walked to the foot of the ladder with a stiff-legged gait, his knees splinted by the taut breeches. He looked up speculatively to the summit. "If I fall off this thing," he said threateningly to the nervous secretary, "both you and Hixie are fired!"
He managed to lift one foot to the first rung and grasp the siderails. Cheers! Then slowly he forced one knee after the other to bend, all the while maneuvering the long-toed boots and hoisting the two bed pillows ahead of him. More cheers! There was an occasional ripping sound - where, he was not sure - but the more the rips, the easier the climb. And the louder were the cheers. Gradually he felt his way to the top of the ladder, where helping hands reached out and hauled him onto the marquee.
There was a microphone, and the mayor said a few words of welcome, his speech slurred by the fortifying nips he had taken to keep warm. "And now... I give you... Santa Claus... in person!" he concluded.
Qwilleran was steered to the mike. "M-er-r-ry Christmas!" he bellowed. Then he turned away and said in a voice that went out over the speakers, "Get me outa here! How do I get down? I'm not going back down that stupid ladder!"
There were more cheers from the spectators. The store had a second-floor window through which the city officials had arrived, and Qwilleran climbed through it. Wilfred was waiting for him in the second-floor lingerie department. He said, "The dogs are being brought around to the front door."
"The hell with the dogs! I'm through! Find someone to drive me back to the theatre!"
"But they're expecting you at the courthouse, Mr. Qwilleran."
"What for?"
"Lap-sitting."
"Lap-sitting? What the devil is that?"
"They built a gingerbread house for you in front of the courthouse, and the kids sit on your lap and have their pictures taken."
"Oh, no, they don't!" Qwilleran said fiercely. "I refuse flatly! Enough is enough!"
"Mr. Qwilleran, sir, you gotta!"
They rode down on the elevator, and even before they landed on the main floor they heard a voice on the public address system: "Paging Santa Claus! Paging Santa Claus!"
"Where's a phone?" he snapped... "Yes?" he yelled into the mouthpiece.
"Hey, Qwill! How did it go?" It was Junior's enthusiastic voice.
"Don't ask!"
"The city desk just had a strange phone call, Qwilclass="underline" Celia Robinson in Florida, calling from a pay phone in a mall. She said she had to get in touch with you secretly. What's that all about? We never give out home phones, but she's calling back this afternoon to find out how to reach you. Extremely important, she says."
"Give her Polly's number," Qwilleran said, his voice" calm for the first time in two hours. "Tell her to call around eight o'clock tonight."
"Whatever you say. Are you all through with your Santa stunt?"
"No," Qwilleran said in a matter-of-fact way. "I have to go to the courthouse for lap-sitting."
-16-
IT WAS CUSTOMARY for Qwilleran and Polly to spend Saturday evening together, and this time the chief attraction was turkey leftovers, which she had prepared in a curry sauce with mushrooms, leeks and lentils. They could now call the bird a turkey.
"Do you think Mildred is still sensitive about her late husband?" Polly asked. "I hope not. She and Arch are very right for each other, and they should get on with their new life... Tell me about the parade, dear."
"I don't want to talk about it," he said in an even voice.
She knew better than to insist.
He said, "I'm expecting a phone call around eight o'clock, and I'd like to take it privately, if you don't mind."
"Of course I don't mind," she replied, although her lips tightened. He had not even told her who would be calling.
Exactly at eight o'clock the telephone rang, and he took the call in the bedroom with the door closed. Polly started the dishwasher.
The anguished voice of Celia Robinson blurted, "Oh, Mr. Qwilleran, I apologize for hanging up on you like that! What horrible things did you think of me? I didn't mean a word of what I said, but I was afraid somebody would be listening in. I'm making this call from a phone in a mall."
"Are you on a switchboard at the park? I thought the residents had private numbers."
"We do! We do! But Clayton thinks the whole park is bugged. I always thought he was kidding, but when you mentioned something illegal, I got worried. I thought it might be dangerous to talk to you. Is it true what you said? Are you an investigator?"
Experience warned him that she might be part of the ring, luring him to show his hand. Yet, a tremor in the roots of his moustache told him to risk the gamble. He had formulated a plan. He said, "I'm just a reporter with a suspicion that Junior's grandmother I was a victim of fraud."
"Oh, dear! Are you going to expose it?"
"There's insufficient evidence at present, and that's where you can help. You thought highly of Mrs. Gage; are you willing to playa harmless trick on those who robbed her? I believe your grandson would approve."
"Can I tell Clayton about it? I write him every week."
"You're not to confide in him or Mr. Crocus or anyone else. Consider yourself an undercover agent. You'll be rewarded for your time and cooperation, of course. In Pickax we have an eleemosynary foundation that's committed to the pursuit of justice."
"I never heard of one of those," she said, "but I'm honored that you'd ask me to help. Do you think I can do it?"
"No doubt about it, provided you follow orders."
"What if it doesn't work? What if I get caught?"
Qwilleran said, "Whether it succeeds or fails, no one will suspect you of duplicity, and you'll be kept in chocolate-covered cherries for life."
Celia howled with delight. "What do I do first?"
"You'll receive your briefing along with a check to cover expenses. Where do you receive your mail?"
"It comes to the park office, and we pick it up there. It's a good excuse to go for a walk and chat with our neighbors. Sometimes we pick up each other's mail."
"That being the case," he said, "I'll send your orders to the post office in care of general delivery."
"Oh, goody!" Celia said as the elements of intrigue dawned upon her. "Is this a sting?"
"You might call it that. Now go home and say nothing. I'll put the wheels in motion, and you should receive your assignment in two days, unless we have another Big Snow."
"Thank you, Mr. Qwilleran! This gives me a real boot!"
He emerged from the bedroom patting his moustache with satisfaction. He even said a kind word to Bootsie, who was sitting outside the door, and he was very good company for the rest of the evening.
The next day, as he worked on Celia's briefing, he thought, This may be the dumbest thing I ever did in my life - sending $5,000 to a stranger who may be a double agent. And yet...
The document that went into the mail read as follows:
FOR YOUR EYES ONLY! Memorize, shred, and flush.
TO: Agent 0013 1/2
FROM: Q
MISSION: Operation Greenback, Phase One
ASSIGNMENT: Your unmarried sister in Chicago has
died, leaving you sole heir to a large house, valuable
possessions, and financial assets. You wish to share
your new fortune with your neighbors by giving a
Christmas party in the clubhouse on December 11 or 12.
Notify the management that you will spend as much as
$5,000 on a caterer, florist, and live music. (A check for