The Twelve Crimes of Christmas (7 page)

She
laughed, a friendly little tinkle like a bell.

I
think I looked bewildered. That was my idea, after it had got through my ears
to the switchboard inside and been routed. I was too busy handling my face to
look at Wolfe, but he was probably even busier, since she was looking straight
at him. I moved my eyes to him when he spoke.

“If
I understand you, Miss Quon, I’m at a loss. If you think you saw me this
afternoon in a Santa Claus costume, you’re mistaken.”

“Oh,
I’m sorry!” she exclaimed. “Then you haven’t told them?”

“My
dear madam.” His voice sharpened. “If you must talk in riddles, talk to Mr.
Goodwin. He enjoys them.”

“But
I
am
sorry, Mr. Wolfe. I should have explained first how I know.
This morning at breakfast Kurt told me you had phoned him and arranged to
appear at the party as Santa Claus, and this afternoon I asked him if you had
come and he said you had and you were putting on the costume. That’s how I
know. But you haven’t told the police? Then it’s a good thing I haven’t told
them either, isn’t it?”

“This
is interesting,” Wolfe said coldly. “What do you expect to accomplish by this
fantastic folderol?”

She
shook her pretty little head. “You, with so much sense. You must see that it’s
no use. If I tell them, even if they don’t like to believe me they will investigate.
I know they can’t investigate as well as you can, but surely they will find
something.”

He
shut his eyes, tightened his lips, and leaned back in his chair. I kept mine
open, on her. She weighed about a hundred and two. I could carry her under one
arm with my other hand clamped on her mouth. Putting her in the spare room
upstairs wouldn’t do, since she could open a window and scream, but there was a
cubbyhole in the basement, next to Fritz’s room, with an old couch in it. Or,
as an alternative, I could get a gun from my desk drawer and shoot her.
Probably no one knew she had come here.

Wolfe
opened his eyes and straightened up. “Very well. It is still fantastic, but I
concede that you could create an unpleasant situation by taking that yarn to
the police. I don’t suppose you came here merely to tell me that you intend to.
What do you intend?’

“I
think we understand each other,” she chirped.

“I
understand only that you want something. What?”

“You
are so direct,” she complained. “So very abrupt, that I must have said
something wrong. But I do want something. You see, since the police think it
was the man who acted Santa Claus and ran away, they may not get on the right
track until it’s too late. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

No
reply.

“I
wouldn’t want it,” she said, and her hands on her lap curled into little fists.
“I wouldn’t want whoever killed Kurt to get away, no matter who it was, but you
see, I know who killed him. I have told the police, but they won’t listen until
they find Santa Claus, or if they listen they think I’m just a jealous cat, and
besides, I’m an Oriental and their ideas of Orientals are very primitive. I was
going to make them listen by telling them who Santa Claus was, but I know how
they feel about you from what I’ve read, and I was afraid they would try to
prove it was you who killed Kurt, and of course it could have been you, and you
did run away, and they still wouldn’t listen to me when I told them who did
kill him.”

She
stopped for breath. Wolfe inquired. “Who did?”

She
nodded. “I’ll tell you. Margot Dickey and Kurt were having an affair. A few
months ago Kurt began on me, and it was hard for me because I—I—” She frowned
for a word, and found one. “I had a feeling for him. I had a strong feeling.
But you see, I am a virgin, and I wouldn’t give in to him. I don’t know what I
would have done if I hadn’t known he was having an affair with Margot, but I did
know, and I told him the first man I slept with would be my husband. He said he
was willing to give up Margot, but even if he did he couldn’t marry me on
account of Mrs. Jerome, because she would stop backing him with her money. I
don’t know what he was to Mrs. Jerome, but I know what she was to him.”

Her
hands opened and closed again to be fists. “That went on and on, but Kurt had a
feeling for me too. Last night late, it was after midnight, he phoned me that
he had broken with Margot for good and he wanted to marry me. He wanted to come
and see me, but I told him I was in bed and we would see each other in the
morning. He said that would be at the studio with other people there, so
finally I said I would go to his apartment for breakfast, and I did, this
morning. But I am still a virgin, Mr. Wolfe.”

He
was focused on her with half-closed eyes. “That is your privilege, madam.”

“Oh,”
she said. “Is it a privilege? It was there, at breakfast, that he told me about
you, your arranging to be Santa Claus. When I got to the studio I was surprised
to see Margot there, and how friendly she was. That was part of her plan, to be
friendly and cheerful with everyone. She has told the police that Kurt was
going to marry her, that they decided last night to get married next week. Christmas
week. I am a Christian.”

Wolfe
stirred in his chair. “Have we reached the point? Did Miss Dickey kill Mr.
Bottweill?”

“Yes.
Of course she did.”

“Have
you told the police that?”

“Yes.
I didn’t tell them all I have told you, but enough.”

“With
evidence?”

“No.
I have no evidence.”

“Then
you’re vulnerable to an action for slander.”

She
opened her fists and turned her palms up. “Does that matter? When I know I’m
right? When I
know
it?
But she was so clever, the way she did it, that there can’t be any evidence.
Everybody there today knew about the poison, and they all had a chance to put
it in the bottle. They can never prove she did it. They can’t even prove she is
lying when she says Kurt was going to marry her, because he is dead. She acted
today the way she would have acted if that had been true. But it has got to be
proved somehow. There has got to be evidence to prove it.”

“And
you want me to get it?”

She
let that pass. “What I was thinking, Mr. Wolfe, you are vulnerable too. There
will always be the danger that the police will find out who Santa Claus was,
and if they find it was you and you didn’t tell them—”

“I
haven’t conceded that,” Wolfe snapped.

“Then
we’ll just say there will always be the danger that I’ll tell them what Kurt
told me, and you did concede that that would be unpleasant. So it would be
better if the evidence proved who killed Kurt and also proved who Santa Claus
was. Wouldn’t it?”

“Go
on.”

“So
I thought how easy it would be for you to get the evidence. You have men who do
things for you, who would do anything for you, and one of them can say that you
asked him to go there and be Santa Claus, and he did. Of course it couldn’t be
Mr. Goodwin, since he was at the party, and it would have to be a man they
couldn’t prove was somewhere else. He can say that while he was in the dressing
room putting on the costume he heard someone in the office and peeked out to
see who it was, and he saw Margot Dickey get the bottle from the desk drawer
and put something in it and put the bottle back in the drawer, and go out. That
must have been when she did it, because Kurt always took a drink of Pernod when
he came back from lunch.”

Wolfe
was rubbing his lip with a fingertip. “I see,” he muttered.

She
wasn’t through. “He can say,” she went on, “that he ran away because he was
frightened and wanted to tell you about it first. I don’t think they would do
anything to him if he went to them tomorrow morning and told them all about it,
would they? Just like me. I don’t think they would do anything to me if I went
to them tomorrow morning and told them I had remembered that Kurt told me that
you were going to be Santa Claus, and this afternoon he told me you were in the
dressing room putting on the costume. That would be the same kind of thing,
wouldn’t it?”

Her
little carved mouth thinned and widened with a smile. “That’s what I want,” she
chirped. “Did I say it so you understand it?”

“You
did indeed,” Wolfe assured her. “You put it admirably.”

“Would
it be better, instead of him going to tell them, for you to have Inspector
Cramer come here, and you tell him? You could have the man here. You see, I
know how you do things, from all I have read.”

“That
might be better,” he allowed. His tone was dry but not hostile. I could see a
muscle twitching beneath his right ear, but she couldn’t. “I suppose, Miss
Quon, it is futile to advance the possibility that one of the others killed
him, and if so it would be a pity—”

“Excuse
me, I interrupt.” The chirp was still a chirp, but it had hard steel in it. “I
know she killed him.”

“I
don’t. And even if I bow to your conviction, before I could undertake the
stratagem you propose I would have to make sure there are no facts that would
scuttle it. It won’t take me long. You’ll hear from me tomorrow. I’ll want—”

She
interrupted again. “I can’t wait longer than tomorrow morning to tell what Kurt
told me.”

“Pfui.
You can and will. The moment you disclose that, you no longer have a whip to
dangle at me. You will hear from me tomorrow. Now I want to think. Archie?”

I
left my chair. She looked up at me and back at Wolfe.

For
some seconds she sat, considering, inscrutable of course, then stood up.

“It
was very exciting to be here,” she said, the steel gone, “to see you here. You
must forgive me for not phoning. I hope you will be early tomorrow.” She turned
and headed for the door, and I followed.

After
I had helped her on with her hooded coat, and let her out, and watched her
picking her way down the seven steps, I shut the door, put the chain bolt on,
returned to the office, and told Wolfe, “It has stopped snowing. Who do you
think will be best for it, Saul or Fred or Orrie or Bill?”

“Sit
down,” he growled. “You see through women. Well?”

“Not
that one. I pass. I wouldn’t bet a dime on her one way or the other. Would you?”

“No.
She is probably a liar and possibly a murderer. Sit down. I must have
everything that happened there today after I left. Every word and gesture.”

I
sat and gave it to him. Including the question period, it took an hour and
thirty-five minutes. It was after one o’clock when he pushed his chair back,
levered his bulk upright, told me good night, and went up to bed.

VI

At
half past two the following afternoon, Saturday, I sat in a room in a building
on Leonard Street, the room where I had once swiped an assistant district
attorney’s lunch. There would be no need for me to repeat the performance,
since I had just come back from Ost’s restaurant, where I had put away a
plateful of pig’s knuckles and sauerkraut.

As
far as I knew, there had not only been no steps to frame Margot for murder;
there had been no steps at all. Since Wolfe is up in the plant rooms every
morning from nine to eleven, and since he breakfasts from a tray up in his
room, and since I was expected downtown at ten o’clock, I had buzzed him on the
house phone a little before nine to ask for instructions and had been told that
he had none. Downtown Assistant DA Farrell, after letting me wait in the
anteroom for an hour, had spent two hours with me, together with a stenographer
and a dick who had been on the scene Friday afternoon, going back and forth and
zigzag, not only over what I had already reported, but also over my previous
association with the Bottweill personnel. He only asked me once if I knew
anything about Santa Claus, so I only had to lie once, if you don’t count my
omitting any mention of the marriage license. When he called a recess and told
me to come back at two-thirty, on my way to Ost’s for the pig’s knuckles I
phoned Wolfe to tell him I didn’t know when I would be home, and again he had
no instructions. I said I doubted if Cherry Quon would wait until after New
Year’s to spill the beans, and he said he did too and hung up.

When
I was ushered back into Farrell’s office at two-thirty he was alone—no
stenographer and no dick. He asked me if I had had a good lunch, and even
waited for me to answer, handed me some typewritten sheets, and leaned back in
his chair.

“Read
it over,” he said, “and see if you want to sign it.”

His
tone seemed to imply that I might not, so I went over it carefully, five full
pages. Finding no editorial revisions to object to, I pulled my chair forward
to a corner of his desk, put the statement on the desk top, and got my pen from
my pocket.

“Wait
a minute,” Farrell said. “You’re not a bad guy even if you are cocky, and why
not give you a break? That says specifically that you have reported everything
you did there yesterday afternoon.”

“Yeah,
I’ve read it. So?”

“So
who put your fingerprints on some of the pieces of paper in Bottweill’s
wastebasket?”

“I’ll
be damned,” I said. “I forgot to put gloves on.”