“Does he usually announce in advance that he’s going to swipe the crown jewels?”
“No.” Ellery frowned. “To my knowledge, this is the first such instance. Since he’s never done anything without a reason, that visit to Bondling’s office this morning must be part of his greater plan. I wonder if-”
The telephone in the living room rang clear and loud.
Nikki looked at Ellery. Ellery looked at the telephone.
“Do you suppose-?” began Nikki. But then she said, “Oh, it’s too absurd.”
“Where Comus is involved,” said Ellery wildly, “nothing is too absurd!” and he leaped for the phone. “Hello!”
“A call from an old friend,” announced a deep and hollowish male voice. “Comus.”
“Well,” said Ellery. “Hello again.”
“Did Mr. Bondling,” asked the voice jovially, “persuade you to ‘prevent’ me from stealing the Dauphin’s Doll in Nash’s tomorrow?”
“So you know Bondling’s been here.”
“No miracle involved, Queen. I followed him. Are you taking the case?”
“See here, Comus,” said Ellery. “Under ordinary circumstances I’d welcome the sporting chance to put you where you belong. But these circumstances are not ordinary. That doll represents the major asset of a future fund for orphaned children. I’d rather we didn’t play catch with it. Comus, what do you say we call this one off?”
“Shall we say,” asked the voice gently, “Nash’s Department Store-tomorrow?”
THUS THE EARLY morning of December twenty-fourth finds Messrs. Queen and Bondling, and Nikki Porter, huddled on the iron sidewalk of Forty-third Street, before the holly-decked windows of the Life Bank & Trust Company, just outside a double line of armed guards. The guards form a channel between the bank entrance and an armored truck, down which Cytherea Ypson’s Dollection flows swiftly. And all about gapes New York, stamping callously on the aged, icy face of the street, against the uncharitable Christmas wind.
Now is the winter of his discontent, and Mr. Queen curses.
“I don’t know what you’re beefing about,” moans Miss Porter. “You and Mr. Bondling are bundled up like Yukon prospectors. Look at me.”
“It’s that rat-hearted public relations tripe from Nash’s,” says Mr. Queen murderously. “They all swore themselves to secrecy, Brother Rat included. Honor! Spirit of Christmas!”
“It was all over the radio last night,” whimpers Mr. Bondling. “And in this morning’s papers.”
“I’ll cut his creep’s heart out. Here! Velie, keep those people away!”
Sergeant Velie says good-naturedly from the doorway of the bank, “You jerks stand back.” Little does the Sergeant know the fate in store for him.
“Armored trucks,” says Miss Porter bluishly. “Shotguns.”
“Nikki, Comus made a point of informing us in advance that he meant to steal the Dauphin’s Doll in Nash’s Department Store. It would be just like him to have said that in order to make it easier to steal the doll en route.”
“Why don’t they hurry?” shivers Mr. Bondling. “Ah!” Inspector Queen appears suddenly in the doorway. His hands clasp treasure. “Oh!” cries Nikki. New York whistles.
It is magnificence, an affront to democracy. But street mobs, like children, are royalists at heart.
New York whistles, and Sergeant Thomas Velie steps menacingly before Inspector Queen, Police Positive drawn, and Inspector Queen dashes across the sidewalk, between the bristling lines of guards.
Queen the Younger vanishes, to materialize an instant later at the door of the armored truck.
“It’s just immorally, hideously beautiful, Mr. Bondling,” breathes Miss Porter, sparkly-eyed.
Mr. Bondling cranes, thinly.
ENTER Santa Claus, with bell.
Santa. Oyez, oyez. Peace, good will. Is that the dollie the radio’s been yappin’ about, folks?
Mr. B. Scram.
Miss P. Why, Mr. Bondling.
Mr. B. Well, he’s got no business here. Stand back, er, Santa. Back!
Santa. What eateth you, my lean and angry friend? Have you no compassion at this season of the year?
Mr. B. Oh… Here! (Clink.) Now will you kindly…?
Santa. Mighty pretty dollie. Where they takin’ it, girlie?
Miss P. Over to Nash’s, Santa.
Mr. B. You asked for it. Officer!!!
Santa. (Hurriedly) Little present for you, girlie. Compliments of old Santy. Merry, merry.
Miss P. For me?? (EXIT Santa, rapidly, with bell.) Really, Mr. Bondling, was it necessary to…?
Mr. B. Opium for the masses! What did that flatulent faker hand you, Miss Porter? What’s in that unmentionable envelope?
Miss P. I’m sure I don’t know, but isn’t it the most touching idea? Why, it’s addressed to Ellery. Oh! Elleryyyyyy!
Mr. B. (EXIT excitedly) Where is he? You-! Officer! Where did that baby-deceiver disappear to? A Santa Claus…!
Mr. Q. (Entering on the run) Yes? Nikki, what is it? What’s happened?
Miss P. A man dressed as Santa Claus just handed me this envelope. It’s addressed to you.
Mr. Q. Note? (He snatches it, withdraws a miserable slice of paper from it on which is block-lettered in pencil a message which he reads aloud with considerable expression.) “Dear Ellery, Don’t you trust me? I said I’d steal the Dauphin in Nash’s emporium today, and that’s exactly where I’m going to do it. Yours-” Signed…
Miss P. (Craning) “Comus.” That Santa?
Mr. Q. (Sets his manly lips. An icy wind blows)
EVEN THE MASTER had to acknowledge that their defenses against Comus were ingenious.
From the Display Department of Nash’s they had requisitioned four miter-jointed counters of uniform length. These they had fitted together, and in the center of the hollow square thus formed they had erected a platform six feet high. On the counters, in plastic tiers, stretched the long lines of Miss Ypson’s babies. Atop the platform, dominant, stood a great chair of handcarved oak, filched from the Swedish Modern section of the Fine Furniture Department; and on this Valhalla-like throne, a huge and rosy rotundity, sat Sergeant Thomas Velie, of police headquarters, morosely grateful for the anonymity endowed by the scarlet suit and the jolly mask and whiskers of his appointed role.
Nor was this all. At a distance of six feet outside the counters shimmered a surrounding rampart of plate glass, borrowed in its various elements from The Glass Home of the Future display on the sixth-floor rear, and assembled to shape an eight-foot wall quoined with chrome, its glistening surfaces flawless except at one point, where a thick glass door had been installed. But the edges fitted intimately, and there was a formidable lock in the door, the key to which lay buried in Mr. Queen’s right trouser pocket.
It was 8:54 A.M. The Queens, Nikki Porter, and Attorney Bondling stood among store officials and an army of plainclothesmen on Nash’s main floor, surveying the product of their labors.
“I think that about does it,” muttered Inspector Queen at last. “Men! Positions around the glass partition.”
Twenty-four assorted gendarmes in mufti jostled one another. They took marked places about the wall, facing it and grinning up at Sergeant Velie. Sergeant Velie, from his throne, glared back.
“Hagstrom and Piggott-the door.”