Crime at Christmas (35 page)

Bandylegs,
who had just excused himself from the meeting, paused on his way up the aisle.
'They're a delicious blend of toasted oats and corn,' he shouted, 'with an
energy-packed coating of sparkling sugar. As a matter of fact, Santa, the Gizmo
people are thinking of featuring you in their new advertising campaign. It
would be a great selling point if I could say that Santa had given a little boy
Sticks-and-Stones because he wouldn't eat his Sugar Gizmos.'

'Here now,
Fergy,' said the jolly old man, 'you know that isn't Santa's way.'

Bandylegs
left, muttering to himself.

'Santa,'
protested Hardnoggin as the jolly old man passed his glass down the line for a
refill, 'let's be realistic. If we can't draw the line at Waldo Rogers, where
can we?'

Santa
reflected for a moment. 'Suppose Santa let you make the decision, Garth, my
boy. What would little Waldo Rogers find in his stocking on Christmas morning?'

Hardnoggin
hesitated. Then he said, 'Sticks-and-Stones.'

Santa
looked disappointed. 'So be it,' he said.

The lights
dimmed again as they continued their review of the list. Santa's eighth martini
came down the line from elf to elf. As Bigtoes passed it to Santa, the fumes
caught him—the smell of gin and something else. Bitter almonds. He struck the
glass from Santa's hand.

Silent and
dimly lit, Storeroom Number 14 seemed an immense, dull suburb of split-level,
ranch-type Dick and Jane Doll doll-houses. Bigtoes stepped into the papier-mâché
shrubbery fronting Unit 24, Row 58 as an elf watchman on a bicycle pedalled by
singing 'Colossal Carlotta,' a current hit song. Bigtoes hoped he hadn't made a
mistake by refraining from picking Hardnoggin up.

Bandylegs
had left before the cyanide was put in the glass. Mrs Santa, of course, was
above suspicion. So that left Director General Hardnoggin and Traffic Manager
Brassbottom. But why would Brassbottom first save Santa from the bomb only to
poison him later? So that left Hardnoggin.

Bigtoes had
been eager to act on this logic, perhaps too eager. He wanted no one to say
that Santa's Security Chief had let personal feelings color his judgment.
Bigtoes would be fair.

Hardnoggin
had insisted that Crouchback was the villain. All right, he would bring
Crouchback in for questioning. After all, Santa was now safe, napping under a
heavy guard in preparation for his all-night trip. Hardnoggin—if
he
was the villain—could do him no
harm for the present.

As Bigtoes
crept up the fabric lawn on all fours, the front door of the dollhouse opened
and a shadowy figure came down the walk. It paused at the street, looked this
way and that, then disappeared into the darkness. Redpate had been right about
the skulking. But it wasn't Crouchback—Bigtoes was sure of that.

The
Security Chief climbed in through a dining-room window. In the living room were
three elves, one on the couch, one in an easy chair, and, behind the bar, Dirk
Crouchback, a distinguished-looking elf with a salt-and-pepper beard and greying
temples. The leader of SHAFT poured himself a drink and turned. 'Welcome to my
little ménage-a-trois, Rory Bigtoes,' he said with a surprised smile. The two
other elves turned out to be Dick and Jane dolls.

'I'm taking
you in, Crouchback,' said the Security Chief.

The
revolutionary came out from behind the bar pushing a ,55mm. howitzer (1/32
scale) with his foot. 'I'm sorry about this,' he said. 'As you know we are
opposed to the use of violence. But I'd rather not fall into Hardnoggin's hands
just now. Sit over there by Jane.' Bigtoes obeyed. At that short range the
howitzer's plastic shell could be fatal to an elf.

Crouchback
sat down on the arm of Dick's easy chair. 'Yes,' he said, 'Hardnoggin's days
are numbered. But as the incidents of last night and today illustrate, the Old
Order dies hard. I'd rather not be one of its victims.'

Crouchback
paused and took a drink. 'Look at this room, Bigtoes. This is Hardnoggin's
world. Wall-to-wall carpeting. Breakfast nooks. Cheap materials. Shoddy
workmanship.' He picked up an end table and dropped it on the floor. Two of the
legs broke. 'Plastic,' said Crouchback contemptuously, flinging the table
through the plastic television set. 'It's the whole middle-class, bourgeois,
suburban scene.' Crouchback put the heel of his hand on Dick's jaw and pushed
the doll over. 'Is this vapid plastic nonentity the kind of grownup we want
little boys and girls to become?'

'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 hung-over.'

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 god speed.

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.

Suddenly
Bigtoes broke into a run.

He had
remembered Brassbottom's pretext for taking Santa into the Map Room.

Taking the
steps three at a time, Bigtoes burst into the Control Room. Crouchback was
standing over the remains of the radio equipment with a monkey wrench in his
hand. 'Too late, Bigtoes,' he said triumphantly. 'Santa's as good as dead.'

Bigtoes
grabbed the phone and ordered the operator to put through an emergency call to
the Strategic Air Command in Denver, Colorado. But the telephone cable had been
cut. 'Baby Polar bears like to teethe on it,' said the operator.

Santa Claus
was doomed. There was no way to call him back or to warn the Americans.

Crouchback
smiled. 'In eleven minutes Santa will pass over the DEW Line. But at the wrong
place, thanks to Traffic Manager Brassbottom. The American ground-to-air
missiles will make short work of him.'

'But why?'
demanded Bigtoes.

'Nothing
destroys a dissident movement like a modest success or two,' said Crouchback.
'Ever since Santa came out for unilateral disarmament, I've felt SHAFT coming
apart in my hands. So I had to act. I've nothing against Santa personally,
bourgeois sentimentalist that he is. But his death will be a great step forward
in our task of forming better children for a better world. What do you think
will happen when Santa is shot down by American missiles?'

Bigtoes
shaded his eyes. His voice was thick with emotion. 'Every good little boy and
girl in the world will be up in arms. A Children's Crusade against the United
States.'

'And with
the Americans disposed of, what nation will become the dominant force in the
world?' said Crouchback.

'So that's
it—you're a Marxist-Leninist elf!' shouted Bigtoes.

'No!' said
Crouchback sharply. 'But I'll use the Russians to achieve a better world. Who
else could eliminate Acme Toy? Who else could limit world population to our
rate of toy production? And they have agreed to that in writing, Bigtoes. Oh, I
know the Russians are grownups too and just as corrupt as the rest of the
grownups. But once the kids have had the plastic flushed out of their systems
and are back on quality hand-crafted toys, I, Dirk Crouchback, the New Santa
Claus, with the beautiful and beloved Carlotta Peachfuzz at my side as the New
Mrs. Santa, will handle the Russians.'

'What about
Brassbottom?' asked Bigtoes contemptuously.

'Brassbottom
will be Assistant New Santa,' said Crouchback quickly, annoyed at the
interruption. 'Yes,' he continued, 'the New Santa Claus will speak to the
children of the world and tell them one thing: Don't trust anyone over thirty
inches tall. And that will be the dawning of a new era full of happy laughing
children, where grownups will be irrelevant and just wither away!'

'You're
mad, Crouchback. I'm taking you in,' said Bigtoes.

'I'll offer
no resistance,' said Crouchback. 'But five minutes after Santa fails to appear
at his first pit stop, a special edition of
The Midnight Elf
will hit the streets announcing
that he has been the victim of a conspiracy between Hardnoggin and the CIA. The
same mob of angry elves that breaks into Security headquarters to tear
Hardnoggin limb from limb will also free Dirk Crouchback and proclaim him their
new leader. I've laid the groundwork well. A knowing smile here, an innuendo
there, and now many elves inside SHAFT and out believe that on his return Santa
intended to make me Director General.'

Crouchback
smiled. 'Ironically enough, I'd never have learned to be so devious if you
Security people hadn't fouled up your own plans and assigned me to a
refrigerator in the Russian Embassy in Ottawa. Ever since they found a CIA
listening device in their smoked sturgeon, the Russians had been keeping a
sharp eye open. They nabbed me almost at once and flew me to Moscow in a
diplomatic pouch. When they thought they had me brainwashed, they trained me in
deviousness and other grownup revolutionary techniques. They thought they could
use me, Bigtoes. But Dirk Crouchback is going to use them!'

Bigtoes
wasn't listening. Crouchback had just given him an idea—one chance in a
thousand of saving Santa. He dived for the phone.

'We're in
luck,' said Charity, handing Bigtoes a file. 'His name is Colin Tanglefoot, a
stuffer in the Teddy Bear Section. Sentenced to a year in the cooler for
setting another stuffer's beard on fire. Assigned to a refrigerator in the DEW
Line station at Moose Landing. Sparks has got him on the intercom.'

Bigtoes
took the microphone. 'Tanglefoot, this is Bigtoes,' he said.

'Big deal,'
said a grumpy voice with a head cold.

'Listen,
Tanglefoot,' said Bigtoes, 'in less than seven minutes Santa will be flying
right over where you are. Warn the grownups not to shoot him down.'

'Tough,'
said Tanglefoot petulantly. 'You know, old Santa gave yours truly a pretty raw
deal.'

'Six
minutes, Tanglefoot.'

'Listen,'
said Tanglefoot. 'Old Valentine Woody is ho-ho-hoing around with that
"jollier than thou" attitude of his, see? So as a joke I tamp my pipe
with the tip of his beard. It went up like a Christmas tree.'

'Tanglefoot—'

'Yours
truly threw the bucket of water that saved his life,' said Tanglefoot. 'I
should have got a medal.'

'You'll get
your medal!' shouted Bigtoes. 'Just save Santa.'

Tanglefoot
sneezed four times. 'Okay,' he said at last. 'Do or die for Santa. I know the
guy on duty—Myron Smith. He's always in here raiding the cold cuts. But he's
not the kind that would believe a six-inch elf with a head cold.'

'Let me
talk to him then,' said Bigtoes. 'But move—you've got only four minutes.'

Tanglefoot
signed off. Would the tiny elf win his race against the clock and avoid the
fate of most elves who revealed themselves to grownups—being flattened with the
first object that came to hand? And if he did, what would Bigtoes say to Smith?
Grownups—suspicious, short of imagination, afraid—grownups were difficult
enough to reason with under ideal circumstances. But what could you say to a
grownup with his head stuck in a refrigerator?

An enormous
squawk came out of the intercom, toppling Sparks over backward in his chair.
'Hello there, Myron,' said Bigtoes as calmly as he could. 'My name is Rory
Bigtoes. I'm one of Santa's little helpers.'

Silence.
The hostile silence of a grownup thinking. 'Yeah? Yeah?' said Smith at last.
'How do I know this isn't some Commie trick? You bug our icebox, you plant a
little pinko squirt to feed me some garbage about Santa coming over and then,
whammo, you slip the big one by us, nuclear warhead and all, winging its way
into Heartland, U.S.A.'

'Myron,'
pleaded Bigtoes, 'we're talking about Santa Claus, the one who always brought
you and the other good little boys and girls toys at Christmas.'

'What's he
done for me lately?' said Smith unpleasantly. 'And hey! I wrote him once asking
for a Slugger Nolan Official Baseball Mitt. Do you know what I got?'

'An
inflatable rubber duck,' said Bigtoes quickly.

Silence.
The profound silence of a thunderstruck grownup. Smith's voice had an amazed
belief in it. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Yeah.'

Pit Stop
Number One. A December cornfield in Iowa blazing with landing lights. As
thousands of elfin eyes watched on their television screens, crews of elves in
coveralls changed the runners on Santa's sleigh, packed fresh toys aboard, and
chipped the ice from the reindeer antlers. The camera panned to one side where
Santa stood out of the wind, sipping on a hot buttered rum. As the camera
dollied in on him, the jolly old man, his beard and eyebrows caked with frost,
his cheeks as red as apples, broke into a ho-ho-ho and raised his glass in a
toast.