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“Bondling!” The inspector paled.

“I don’t get it,” complained Sergeant Velie.

“Ellery, you must be wrong,” said Nikki. “At the time Mr. Bondling grabbed the doll off the platform, the theft had already taken place. It was the worthless copy he picked up.”

“That,” said Ellery, reaching for another sandwich, “was the focal point of his illusion. How do we know it was the worthless copy he picked up? Why, he said so. Simple, eh? He said so, and like the dumb bunnies we were, we took his unsupported word as gospel.”

“That’s right!” mumbled his father. “We didn’t actually examine the doll till quite a few seconds later.”

“Exactly,” said Ellery in a munchy voice. “There was a short period of beautiful confusion, as Bondling knew there would be. I yelled to the boys to follow and grab Santa Claus-I mean the sergeant, here. The detectives were momentarily demoralized. You, Dad, were stunned. Nikki looked as if the roof had fallen in. I essayed an excited explanation. Some detectives ran; others milled around. And while all this was happening-during those few moments when nobody was watching the genuine doll in Bondling’s hand because everyone thought it was a fake-Bondling calmly slipped it into one of his greatcoat pockets and from the other produced the worthless copy which he’d been carrying there all day. When I did turn back to him, it was the copy I grabbed from his hand. And his illusion was complete.

“I know,” said Ellery dryly, “it’s rather on the let-down side. That’s why illusionists guard their professional secrets so closely; knowledge is disenchantment. No doubt the incredulous amazement aroused in his periwigged London audience by Comus the French conjuror’s dematerialization of his wife from the top of a table would have suffered the same fate if he’d revealed the trap door through which she had dropped. A good trick, like a good woman, is best in the dark. Sergeant, have another pastrami.”

“Seems like funny chow to be eating early Christmas morning,” said the sergeant, reaching. Then he stopped. Then he said, “Bondling,” and shook his head.

“Now that we know it was Bondling,” said the inspector, who had recovered a little, “it’s a cinch to get that diamond back. He hasn’t had time to dispose of it yet. I’ll just give downtown a buzz-”

“Wait. Dad” said Ellery.

“Wait for what?”

“Whom are you going to sic the hounds on?”

“What?”

“You’re going to call headquarters, get a warrant, and so on. Who’s your man?”

The inspector felt his head. “Why… Bondling, didn’t you say?”

“It might be wise,” said Ellery, thoughtfully searching with his tongue for a pickle seed, “to specify his alias.”

“Alias?” said Nikki. “Does he have one?”

“What alias, son?”

“Comus.”

“Comus!”

“Comus?”

“Oh, come off it,” said Nikki, pouring herself a shot of coffee, straight, for she was in training for the inspector’s Christmas dinner. “How could Bondling be Comus when Bondling was with us all day?-and Comus kept making disguised appearances all over the place…that Santa who gave me the note in front of the bank-the old man who kidnapped Lance Morganstern-the fat man with the mustache who snatched Mrs. Rafferty’s purse.”

“Yeah,” said the sergeant. “How?”

“These illusions die hard,” said Ellery. “Wasn’t it Comus who phoned a few minutes ago to rag me about the theft? Wasn’t it Comus who said he’d left the stolen dauphin-minus the diamond-on our doormat? Therefore Comus is Bondling.

“I told you Comus never does anything without a good reason,” said Ellery. “Why did ‘Comus’ announce to ‘Bondling’ that he was going to steal the Dauphin’s Doll? Bondling told us that-putting the finger on his alter ego-because he wanted us to believe he and Comus were separate individuals. He wanted us to watch for Comus and take Bondling for granted. In tactical execution of this strategy Bondling provided us with three ‘Comus’ appearances during the day-obviously confederates.

“Yes,” said Ellery, “I think Dad, you’ll find on backtracking that the great thief you’ve been trying to catch for five years has been a respectable estate attorney on Park Row all the time, shedding his quiddities and his quillets at night in favor of the soft shoe and the dark lantern. And now he’ll have to exchange them all for a number and a grilled door. Well, well, it couldn’t have happened at a more appropriate season; there’s an old English proverb that says the Devil makes his Christmas pie of lawyer’s tongues. Nikki, pass the pastrami.”

BY THE CHIMNEY WITH CARE by Nick O’Donohoe

Nick O’Donohoe has worked as a surveyor, an English teacher and as an operator of a puppet show. He is presently working on his dissertation, in the Humanities Doctoral Program at Syracuse University. He plays the guitar and a poor game of poker and is teaching part-time at Virginia Polytechnic Institute. In addition to his Nathan Phillips-Roy Cartley series of short stories, he has completed two novels and is working on a third. He is very fond of his cat, who is sometimes fond of him.

It was the one day a week I could sleep late-so naturally the phone rang. I muttered, “Go away,” and tried to sleep through it. Nobody would keep trying me forever.

But the phone kept ringing, and suddenly there was a furry black tail swishing back and forth in my face. I sat up and dumped the cat off my chest. “Thanks a bunch, Marlowe.” He sneered. “You my answering service these days?” He stood on the bed, lashing his tail and waiting.

I gave in and picked up the phone. “Cartley and Phillips, home office. And Phillips speaking.”

“Nathan.” It was Cartley’s voice, as rasping as I’ve ever heard it. “Nate, I’ve got my living room blocked off, and I want to keep the kids out. It’s that time of the year, you know.” He was trying to sound lighthearted; I’ve heard lighter pile-drivers.

I’m slow at that hour. “And you want help in the living room, right? Ho-ho-ho! But it’s a whole week before-”

“Can’t say, Nate, there’s an extension phone,” he broke in sharply.

A high-pitched giggle came on the line. “Hi, Uncle Roy! Are you talking to Nathan?”

I got the idea, finally. “Who is this? Amy? Paul?” After two outraged denials I had it easy. “Aw, I knew it was you, Howie. Listen, I’ll be right over. Who said you could listen in on us?”

“I can be a detective, too.”

I tried to sound injured. “Why are you bugging me, Howie? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Not yet.” He was triumphantly confident. I was going to be a crook, and the kids would catch me. That always happened when they visited Uncle Roy before Christmas. I loved it.

I said goodbye and stumbled into the bathroom, where I nearly brushed my teeth with Ben-Gay. After that I drove over. By the time I hit the boulevard around Lake of the Isles I was awake enough to wonder why Roy had wanted me over right now.

At the front door I was surrounded; I knelt to hug Amy and Paul, then twisted my right arm forward just enough to shake hands with Howie. “Hi, Howie. Old enough to know better, yet?”

“Getting older,” he said, trying to look world-weary and not doing badly-for a ten-year-old. “Have you been behaving yourself, Nathan?” he added.

I narrowed my eyes and curled my lip. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” I wasn’t sure what kind of a bad guy to be just yet. “Only person I’ll talk to here is my accomplice.” I stood up and called to Roy, “Merry Christmas, almost. We have plans to make in the living room?”

“Sure.” I looked at him and suddenly knew we weren’t going to wrap presents. He edged through the living-room door, blocking the view with his body; I did the same. A haze of cigarette smoke drifted out over our heads. As I came through, Roy glanced behind me nervously. I shut the door quickly, braced it with the doorstop and turned around.