“Yes I have,” Burns said. He threw the red cap on top of the pile he had made of the Santa outfit. “I’ve found out I don’t have a flair for investigative work after all. I quit.”
The first performance of A
Christmas Carol
was very well received. Many of the prominent members of the community were in attendance, including Franklin Miller, the president of Hartley Gorman College, who took the time to congratulate Burns on his reading.
“Excellent, Burns, excellent,” Miller said, shaking Burns’s hand. “This has been just wonderful for college-and-community relations.”
His remarks didn’t make Burns feel any better. Elaine had been ignoring him ever since the episode at Cameron’s, though Burns had tried to put the best face possible on things when he explained to her why he had given up the job. He could tell that she was disappointed in him, however, and there was no telling what Napier might have said to her about why Burns was off the job.
Burns looked over the departing audience and saw several other people he knew. There was Marion Everson, editor of Pecan City’s almost-daily newspaper; Gene Vale, president of the Chamber of Commerce; and several HGC faculty members, including Mai Tomlin and Earl Fox.
Even Jay Cameron was there. It was eight-thirty, and the store owner would just have time to get to his place of business before closing time for one last check of the premises. The shoplifters still had not been caught. Cameron, however, had not been sorry to see Burns resign as Santa. It was as if he was more willing to suffer his losses than to have Burns make another scene. Burns didn’t blame him for feeling that way.
Then Burns had a thought. He walked over to where Napier was graciously accepting the congratulations of an admiring Elaine Tanner and several others for his sensitive interpretation of Tiny Tim.
Burns waited until Napier looked his way and indicated that he would like a word with the Chief. Napier shook a few more hands, laughed, and made his way to Burns, looking back to smile at Elaine over his shoulder.
Burns tried not to grind his teeth. “I think I’ve cracked the case,” he said when Napier reached him.
“What case?” Napier said.
“You know what case.” “Oh,
that
case. I thought you quit.” “I did, but I’ve been thinking about it.” “Thinking about it. You cracked it by thinking about it? Like Sherlock Holmes?” Burns smiled. “More like G.
Auguste
Dupin
.” Napier thought about that. “Who?” he said. “Never mind,” Burns said. “Just meet me at Cameron’s at nine o’clock.”
“Tonight?” Napier said, looking at his watch. “Right. In fact, why don’t we go in your car?” “You’re not going to make more trouble, are you?” “Who, me?” Burns said. “Of course not.” “You better not,” Napier said. “If you do, I’ll sic Mrs.
Branton
on you.” “Ha ha,” Burns said. But he wasn’t being jolly.
Burns and Napier sat in the squad car. Not wanting to alert anyone to their presence, Napier refused to leave the motor on and run the heater. He even rolled his window down a half inch and made Burns do the same so the windows wouldn’t fog over.
Burns was freezing. He rubbed his hands together and stuck them between his thighs to warm them.
Napier hummed the theme from “Hawaii Five-O,” tapping on the steering wheel to keep time.
“I wish you wouldn’t hum that song,” Burns said. “It bothers me.”
“Those Five-O guys are my heroes,” Napier said, thinking of warm surf and swaying palm trees. “You better be right about this, Burns. You know that?”
“I’m right. How much did you say the store lost the day I was there?”
“Four thousand. Little more. You stretch that out over three or four weeks, it mounts up.”
The last customers left the store. Mrs.
Branton
and Larry. This time Mrs.
Branton
was carrying a bulging shopping bag. A salesclerk locked the door behind her.
“There she is,” Burns said. “She sure does have a heavy purse.”
“But she’s not a thief,” Napier said.
“I know that now,” Burns said.
They waited in the car while balances were checked against the stock, Cameron no doubt moaning over his latest losses. The clerks began to trickle out.
Finally Cameron himself came out. The store was dark now, and Cameron carefully checked the door before he started across the parking lot to his car. He was wearing a bulky topcoat over his expensive suit.
“Now?” Napier said.
“Now or never,” Burns said, opening his door and getting out.
They met Cameron just as he reached his car.
“Good evening, Chief, Dr. Burns,” Cameron said. “I enjoyed your performance this evening.”
Napier thanked him.
“And what brings you my way?” Cameron said.
“Well,” Napier said, “Burns has this crazy idea that he knows who’s been stealing from your store.”
“He does?” Cameron said. “That’s good news.”
“Not so good,” Napier said. “He thinks it’s you.”
Cameron seemed to pale under the glow of the lamps that lighted the parking lot. “Me?” he said.
“You,” Burns said. “Chief Napier said it couldn’t be your employees. You were too careful for that. And I sat there all day and never saw anyone take a thing. I thought I did, but I didn’t And neither did any of your
professionals. So if no one was taking anything, that left only one person, one person who visited every department and had every opportunity to take whatever he wanted. You.”
“I don’t see how you could think such a thing,” Cameron said, tucking his coat around him.
“Why don’t you show us what’s under the coat?” Napier said. “If there’s nothing, then Burns was just wrong. Again.”
“Of course he’s wrong. I never heard of anything so outrageous. Why would I steal from my own store?”
“Money,” Burns said. “The store’s in trouble, but if you stole from yourself, you could collect twice. Once from the insurance company and once from the fence you sold the merchandise to. It makes sense to me.”
“Me too,” Napier said. “Open the coat.” He reached out as if to pull open the front of the topcoat, and Cameron jerked away. A small bag dropped on the asphalt of the parking lot.
Burns grabbed it before Cameron could bend down. He opened it and looked inside. “Watches,” he said. “Did you remember to pay for these, Mr. Cameron?”
Napier didn’t appear interested in the watches. “Got anything else under that coat, Cameron?” he said.
Cameron looked at Burns, then at Napier. His face set itself for a second, then collapsed. He opened the coat to reveal several other sacks of merchandise tucked here and there.
Napier shook his head. “Looks like you were right, Burns. I hate to admit it, but maybe you do have a flair for this kind of thing, after all.”
Burns smiled. “Book him, Tim-o,” he said.
It started when she broke her leg. There she was in the Italian Dolomites with nothing to read while her companions were out skiing. So she thought up a mystery to entertain herself and wrote it down.
That was the start of something beautiful. Since then, Patricia
Moyes
has written enough excellent mysteries (seventeen at last count) to set her among the greats in traditional mystery fiction. Not bad for someone who never set out to be a serious writer.
Born in County
Wicklow
, Ireland, Patricia
Moyes
has been a flight officer in the
WAAF,
company secretary to Peter Ustinov Productions, has written movie scripts and an adaption of Jean Anouilh’s
Time Remembered,
which was successfully produced in London and New York. She has lived in Britain, Switzerland, Holland, Washington, D.C., and now lives in the British Virgin Islands. Perhaps it’s not too surprising that, after such an eventful life, she’s written us a story about a housewife who just sits quietly at home and does needlepoint.
Good King Wenceslas looked out
On the feast of Stephen
. . .
The young voices were ragged and precariously off-key, but all the same Mrs. Runfold found them touching. She laid down her needlepoint embroidery and said, “Poor little things. They must be perishing with cold out there at this hour of night. I shall ring for Parker and tell him to give them five pounds and some hot soup.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” replied her husband. He rustled his newspaper angrily. “They’re nothing but a confounded nuisance, and it’s not even Christmas Eve yet.” He got up from his chair by the fire and pressed a bell. This produced, before the end of the carol, an extremely correct and unhurried butler.
“You rang, sir?”
“Yes, Parker, I did. Give those damned children fifty pence, and tell them to go away and not dare come back.”
“Very good, sir.”
Parker bowed slightly and withdrew. The voices straggled into silence as the big front door closed. Mary Runfold sighed and resumed her embroidery. She had learned, after thirty years of marriage, not to argue with her husband. Besides, Dr. Carlton had warned Robert against getting upset or angry, because of his heart condition. Mrs. Runfold changed the subject.
“How nice,” she said, as her needle flicked deftly in and out of the canvas, “to think that all the family will be home for Christmas.”
“You think so?”
“Well, of course, dear. It will be lovely to see the girls and their husbands.”
Robert Runfold snorted. “I suppose you realize, Mary, that either one of those young men would cheerfully kill me if he thought he could get away with it?”
The needle stopped in midair. “Robert! What a terrible thing to say! How can you even think such a thing?
“Don’t be silly, Mary. You know I’m right.”
Timidly, Mrs. Runfold said, “Well, dear, perhaps if you were to advance them just a little money ...”
“You know perfectly well that on principle I don’t believe in giving young people money. Let them stand on their own feet.”
“Yes, dear.” The needle resumed its activity.
Defensively, Robert Runfold said, “They’ve both had expensive training and should be able to support themselves and their wives. All right, so Derek wants to buy his own pharmacy and have Anne give up her job and start a family. Let him, by all means. It’s no concern of mine.”
“But—”
“And as for Philip, it’s absolutely disgraceful the way he’s allowed himself to get into debt. Veterinary surgeons are very well paid these days.”
“He’s been giving free treatment to pets of people who can’t afford his regular fees, Robert.”
“More fool he. Alison should have stopped him. Shown a little common sense.”
In the silence that followed, the grandfather clock in the big drawing room struck nine, and a glowing log tumbled slowly down into the fire basket.
Runfold went on. “Which reminds me, Mary. I’ve been meaning to say this. I want you personally to supervise everything I eat and drink over Christmas.”
“Well, naturally, dear, I discuss all the menus with Mrs. Benson—”
“That’s not what I mean. Derek and Philip both have access to prohibited drugs. They both know about my shaky heart. It would be perfectly easy for either of them to slip something into my food—or my glass.”
Mary Runfold gave a little nervous laugh. “Oh, come now, Robert You don’t seriously believe that either of them would do such a thing.”
“I’m taking no chances.”
Gently, Mrs. Runfold said, “If you’re really so suspicious, why did you invite them for Christmas?”
Runfold grunted. “I wanted to see the girls. And I knew you’d enjoy a family Christmas.”
“Thank you, dear.” There was no irony in his wife’s voice. “That was very thoughtful.”
“In any case,” Robert went on, “I am asking you to serve personally anything that I eat or drink. And tell Mrs. Benson that nobody but you may go into the kitchen over Christmas—particularly the four young people.”
“Of course I’ll do that, if it’s what you want, Robert.”
“Thank you, Mary.” Robert Runfold smiled at his wife over his newspaper—that warm, sweet smile which transformed his face, and which had won her heart so many years ago. She gave a little sigh, knowing that she would always love, honor, and obey him, even though he might not be perfect. Charm is every bit as potent in a man as in a woman. She just wished that he would smile more often.