Murder Most Merry

THE THEFT OF SANTA’S BEARD – Edward D. Hoch

The New York stores had closed at nine that evening, disgorging gift-laden Christmas shoppers by the hundreds. Most were too busy shifting the weight of their parcels and shopping bags to bother digging for coins as they passed the bell-ringing Santa on the corner. He was a bit thin and scraggly compared to the overstuffed Santas who worked the department stores and bounced tiny children on their knees while asking for their Christmas lists. His job was only to ring a little hand-held bell and accept donations in a chimney-shaped container.

This Santa’s name was Russell Bajon and he’d come to the city expecting better things. After working at a variety of minimum-wage jobs and landing a couple of short-lived acting roles off Broadway, he’d taken the Santa Claus job for the holidays. There was no pay, but they supplied his meals and a place to sleep at night. And there were good fringe benefits, enough to keep him going till he was back on his feet with a part in a decent play.

After another fifteen minutes the crowd from the stores had pretty well scattered. There were still people on the dark streets, as there would be for most of the night, but those remaining hurried by his chimney without even a glance. He waited a few more minutes and then decided to pack up. The truck would be coming by shortly to collect the chimney and give him a ride back to the men’s dorm where he slept.

He was bending over the chimney with its collection basket when someone bumped him from behind. He straightened and tried to turn, but by that time the thin copper wire was cutting into his throat.

By the time the second Santa Claus had been strangled to death, the tabloids had the story on page one. No Clues to Claus Killer, one of them trumpeted, while another proclaimed, Santa Strangler Strikes Again. Nick Velvet glanced over the articles with passing interest, but at that point they were nothing to directly affect him.

“Where was the latest killing?” Gloria asked as she prepared breakfast.

“In the subway. An elderly Santa on his way to work.”

She shook her head. “What’s this world coming to when somebody starts strangling Santa Clauses?”

The next morning Nick found out. He was seated in the office of the Intercontinental Protection Service, across the desk from a man named Grady Culhane. The office was small and somewhat plain, not what Nick had expected from the pretentious name. Culhane himself was young, barely past thirty, with black hair, thick eyebrows, and an Irish smile. He spread his hands flat on the uncluttered desktop and said, I understand you steal things of little or no value.”

“That’s correct,” Nick replied. “My standard fee is twenty-five thousand dollars, unless it’s something especially hazardous.”

“This should be simple enough. I want you to steal the beard from a department store Santa Claus. It’s the Santa at Kliman’s main store, and it must be done tomorrow before noon. Santa’s hours there are noon to four and five to eight.”

“What makes it so valuable to you?”

“Nothing. It’s worth no more than any other false white beard. I just need it tomorrow.”

“I usually get half the money down and the other half after the job,” Nick said. “Is that agreeable?”

“Sure. It’ll have to be a check. I don’t have that much cash on hand.”

“So long as I can cash it at your bank.”

He made out the check and handed it over. “Here’s a sketch map I drew of Kliman’s fourth floor. This is the dressing room Santa uses.”

“So the beard is probably there before noon. Why don’t you just walk in and steal it?” Nick wondered. “Why do you need me?”

“You ever been in Kliman’s? They’ve got security cameras all over the store, including hidden ones in the dressing rooms. This is only Santa’s room during the Christmas season. The rest of the year it’s used by the public, and the camera is probably still operational. I can’t afford to be seen stealing the beard or anything else.”

“What about me?”

“That’s your job. That’s what I’m paying you for.”

“Fair enough,” Nick agreed, folding the check once and slipping it into his pocket. “I’ll be back here tomorrow with the beard.”

Nothing had been said about the two Santa Claus killings, but somehow, as Nick Velvet left the building, he had the feeling he was becoming involved in something a lot more complex than a simple robbery.

The Santa Claus killings were still big news the following morning, and Nick read the speculations about possible motives as he traveled into midtown on the subway. The second man to die, Larry Averly, was a retired plumber who’d been earning some spare cash as a holiday Santa Claus. The first victim, Bajon, had died on Monday evening, the fourteenth, while the second death came the following morning. Nick had the feeling the press was almost disappointed that another killing had not followed on Wednesday. Now it was Thursday, eight days before Christmas, and the street before Kliman’s block-long department store was crowded with shoppers.

He entered the store with the first wave of customers when the doors opened at ten, making his way up the escalator to the fourth floor. After a half-hour of lingering in the furniture department, he wandered over to the dressing-room door that Grady Culhane had indicated on his map. When no one was looking, he slipped inside.

His first task was to locate the closed-circuit television camera. He found it without difficulty—a circular lens embedded in the very center of a round wall clock. Not wanting to blot out the view entirely and arouse the suspicion of possible observers, Nick moved a coat rack in front of the clock, blocking most of the little room. Then he quickly opened a pair of lockers. But there was no Santa Claus costume, no beard, in either one. He’d been hoping that the store’s Santa changed into his costume on the premises, but it looked as if he might come to work already dressed, like the street Santa who’d been strangled in the subway.

If that was the case, however, Culhane wouldn’t have told him to come to this room. It was already nearly eleven and Nick decided to wait till noon to see what happened. He positioned himself behind the clothes rack, but at the far end, away from the television camera. Exactly at eleven-thirty, the door opened and someone came in. He could see a tall, fairly broad-shouldered person carrying a large canvas tote bag. There was a flash of red as a Santa Claus suit came into view.

Nick Velvet breathed a sigh of relief. The white beard came out of the bag and he saw the prize within his grasp. He stepped from his hiding place, ready to deliver a knockout blow if necessary. “Keep quiet and give me the beard,” he said.

The figure turned and Nick froze in his tracks. Santa was a woman.

She was probably in her late thirties, large boned but not unattractive, with dark brown hair that was already partly covered by the Santa Claus wig and cap. Nick’s sudden appearance seemed not to have frightened her but only angered her as any unexpected interruption might. “You just made the mistake of your life, mister,” she told him in a flat tone of voice.

“I don’t want to hurt you. Give me that beard.”

“I have a transmitter in my pocket. I’ve already called for help.”

He realized suddenly that she thought he was the Santa strangler. “I’m not here to hurt you,” he tried to assure her.

But it was too late for assurances. The dressing-room door burst open and Nick faced two men with drawn revolvers. “Freeze!” the first man ordered, crouching in a shooter’s stance. “Police!”

“Look, this is all a mistake.”

“And you made it, mister!” The second man moved behind Nick to frisk him.

Nick decided it was time for a bit of his own electronic technology. He brought his left arm down enough to hit the small transmitter in his breast pocket. Immediately there was a sharp crack from the direction of the furniture department, and billowing smoke could be seen through the open dressing-room door. The first man turned his head and Nick kicked the gun from his hand, poking his elbow back simultaneously to catch the second detective in the ribs. As he went out the door he made a grab for the white beard the lady Santa was holding in her hand, but he missed by several inches.

“Stop or I’ll shoot!” one of the detectives yelled, but Nick knew he wouldn’t. The floor was crowded with shoppers, and the cloud from Nick’s well-placed smoke bomb was already enveloping everyone.

Five minutes later he was out of the store and safely away, but without the beard he’d been hired to steal.

Later that afternoon Nick returned to the office of the Intercontinental Protection Service. Grady Culhane was not in a pleasant mood. “That was you at the store this morning, wasn’t it?” he asked pointedly. “The radio says someone set off a smoke bomb and two shoppers were slightly injured in the panic.”

“I’m sorry if anyone was hurt. You didn’t tell me Santa Claus was a woman. That threw off my timing and enabled a couple of detectives to get the drop on me.”

“What about the beard?”

“I didn’t get it.”

Culhane cursed. “That means Santa will be back in place as soon as they get the smoke cleared out and things back to normal.”

Nick was beginning to see at least a portion of the scheme. “You wanted the beard stolen so Santa couldn’t appear.”

“Sure. It was easier than stealing the whole costume, except that you bungled it.”

“They could have found another beard quickly enough,” Nick argued.

Grady Culhane shook his head. “They don’t sell them in the store. I checked. The delay would have been an hour or two, and that was all I needed.”

“For what?”

He eyed Nick uncertainly for a moment before deciding to yield. “All right, I’ll tell you about it. But I want something in return. I want that beard tomorrow, and no slip-ups this time!”

“You’ll have it, so long as you play square with me. What’s this all about? Does it involve the Santa Claus killings?”

The dark-haired young man reached into a desk drawer and extracted a sheet of paper which he passed across the desk to Nick. It was a copy of a crudely printed extortion letter addressed to the president of Kliman’s department store: “Tuesday, December 15—I have just come from killing my second Santa Claus of the Christmas season. The deaths of Bajon and Averly were meant as a demonstration. A third Santa Claus will die in your store, in full view of the children, unless you are prepared to pay me one million dollars in cash within forty-eight hours, by noon Thursday.” There was no signature.

“Sounds like a crackpot,” Nick decided, returning the letter. “He doesn’t even give directions for paying the money.”

“This letter was hand-delivered by a messenger service Tuesday afternoon. A second letter came yesterday, with instructions. They haven’t shown me that one.”

“You’ve been hired by Kliman’s store?”

Culhane nodded. “Frankly, it’s the first major client I’ve had. Even though the police have been called in, the store is paying me as a personal bodyguard for Santa.”

“Or Mrs. Santa.”

He smiled. “She’s an unemployed actress named Vivian Delmos. I just met her yesterday after I talked with you. There are some female Santas around. They’re good with children. If their voices are deep enough and the suit is padded enough, no one knows the difference. I didn’t know the cops would be guarding her too.”

“How much are they paying you?” Nick asked.

“That’s proprietary information.” the young man answered stiffly.

“I figure fifty thousand, at least, if you can afford to pay me twenty-five.”

“I don’t get a thing if the Santa strangler kills her.”

“You thought he’d strike right at noon, so you needed me to keep her from going out there then. That means they decided not to pay.”

“It’s not just them. There are other stores involved. The killer is trying to shake down the largest stores in New York.”

“The police must have a description from the messenger company that delivered this note.”

Grady Culhane shook his head. “They deny any knowledge of it. One of their messengers was probably stopped in the street and paid to deliver it. Naturally he won’t admit it now and risk losing his job.”

“What happens after the smoke is cleared out?”

“The Delmos woman puts on her beard and goes back out there. I’ll probably have to be standing next to her, and I’m too big for those elves’ costumes.”

“Don’t worry,” Nick promised. “This time I’ll get the beard.”

On his second visit to the store Nick Velvet wore a grey wig and a matching false moustache. He was taking no chances on coming face-to-face with one of those detectives again. In the atrium at the center of the main floor where Santa’s throne was in place, a sign announced that he would not return until noon the following day due to the illness of one of his reindeer. Nick found a pay telephone and called Culhane at his office.

“You’re off the hook until tomorrow,” he said.

I just heard from the store.”

“Do you still want the beard?”

“Of course—unless the police come up with the extortionist by then.”

Nick hung up and decided he should know more than he did about the Santa Claus killings. He went down to the subway newsstand and bought all the local papers. It wasn’t the lead item anymore but the unsolved killings still filled several columns inside each paper. The first victim, Russell Bajon, was a young homeless man—a would-be actor—who’d been staying at the men’s dorm maintained by a charitable organization. He’d been collecting money for the charity at one of their Christmas chimneys when he’d been strangled. One of the other Santas, a man named Chris Stover, had come by in a van a few minutes later to find a crowd gathering around the fallen man. No one admitted to having seen the actual killing.

The second victim had followed less than twelve hours later, on Tuesday morning. Larry Averly lived in a rundown hotel on the fringes of Greenwich Village, a place where Nick had grown up. His Christmas job as a Santa Claus for a local radio station’s holiday promotion involved coming to work in costume that day. since they were doing a remote broadcast from the Central Park skating rink. He’d been heading for a subway exit near the park when the killer struck. This time two people saw the attack and scared him off, but not in time to save the victim. The killer was described as a white man of uncertain age wearing a bulky coat. Averly hadn’t been carrying any identification in his shabby wallet and it had taken police most of the day to trace his room key to the hotel where he’d been staying. The radio station had hired him through an employment agency and didn’t even know his name. They’d finally learned it just in time for the six o’clock news.

The papers, of course, carried nothing about the extortion plot. That would have been enough to get the story back on page one. Nick read them all and then tossed them aside. He had his own problem to consider. Stealing Santa’s beard the following day would be next to impossible in Kliman’s store, but the alternatives were equally impossible. He knew Vivian Delmos carried her costume to work in a large canvas bag, but he wasn’t about to mug her on the way to work. Still...

Culhane had mentioned that the lady Santa Claus was an unemployed actress. Nick phoned Actors’ Equity and had her address within minutes. Vivian Delmos resided on East Forty-ninth Street. He called her number and got the expected answering machine. Next he phoned Gloria to say that he wouldn’t be home till late.

The address on Forty-ninth was past Third Avenue, in an apartment building across the street from the Turtle Bay block. The Delmos woman must have been successful at some stage of her career to afford the moderately high rents in the neighborhood. There was no answer to Nick’s ring so he took up a position down the block on the other side of the street. Within twenty minutes he saw Vivian Delmos appear, walking briskly and carrying her canvas bag. He crossed the street to intercept her at her door, but she was a bit faster than he’d realized. She was halfway through the door by the time he reached it.

Blocking its closing with his hand, he began, “Miss Delmos—”

She turned, recognized him instantly, and acted without a word, yanking on his wrist and pulling him inside but off balance. He felt himself falling forward as she twisted his arm behind him. Then he was on the floor, his cheek pressed against the hall carpeting, while she pulled painfully on the arm. Her foot was on his neck.

“Mister, you just made your second big mistake. I hope you don’t mind a broken arm.”

“Wait a minute! I just want to talk!”

“How’d you find me? Did you follow me home?”

“Through Equity.”

“Got a job for me?” She gave his arm a painful wrench. “I’m real good in action parts.”

“I don’t doubt it! Please let me up.”

“Nice and slow,” she warned, relaxing the pressure on his arm. “We’re going upstairs while I call the police.”

“All right.”

She led him ahead of her up the stairs, keeping a grip on his arm. They paused outside a door at the top while she put down the canvas bag and got out her key. “Inside!”

The apartment was large but plainly furnished, as if in some sort of limbo while awaiting its permanent decor. “I’m not trying to kill you,” Nick assured her. “When you saw me earlier I was only trying to steal your beard.”

“My what?”

“The beard from your Santa Claus outfit.”

She released his arm and gave him a shove toward the sofa. “What’s your name?”

“Nick Velvet. I steal things.” He decided to stay on the sofa for the moment. Facing her now, he had a chance to confirm his earlier impressions. She was into early middle age but still had a good figure. By the strength she’d shown in overpowering him, he guessed that she worked out regularly. It had been an unlucky day from the start.

“I’m Vivian Delmos, but I guess you know that. You called me by name.” She walked to the phone without taking her eyes off him.

“I was hired to steal your beard.” he told her. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“The people at Kliman’s weren’t too happy when you set off that smoke bomb.”

“I only did it to escape. If I hadn’t needed it I’d have returned later and removed it.”

“What does all this have to do with the Santa strangler?”

“The killings are part of an extortion plot against the big department stores. My job was to keep you from being the next victim.”

“By stealing my beard?” She gave a snort of disbelief. “Kliman’s wanted to replace me with a cop but I wouldn’t let them. I finally convinced everyone I could take care of myself, but they still made me carry that beeper. And this noon after you tried to attack me—”

“Steal your beard,” Nick corrected.

“—steal my beard, they canceled Santa’s appearances for the rest of the day. I lost a day’s pay because of you!”

“Give me the beard and stay home tomorrow, too. I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for it.”

“Are you whacky or something?”

“Just a good businessman. I’m getting too old to be tossed around by a woman who works out at the gym every day.”

“Three times a week,” she corrected. “I’m an actress and I find it a good way to keep fit.”

Nick worked his shoulder a bit, getting the kinks out. “It sure doesn’t keep me fit. How about it? A thousand dollars?”

“They’ll find another beard for me, or use the cop after all.” She’d moved away from the phone at least, and Nick was thankful for that.

“It’s the easiest money you’ll ever make. Far easier than doing some off-Broadway play eight times a week.”

“How’d you know I was off-Broadway?” she asked, immediately suspicious.

“I guessed. What difference does it make?”

“You didn’t—” she began and then cut herself short. “Look, I’ll agree to your condition if you do one thing for me.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to go down to the men’s dorm at the Outreach Center and pick up Russell Bajon’s belongings.”

“Bajon? The first victim?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you know him?”

“Slightly. We appeared in a play together.”

Nick shook his head. “I don’t understand any of this. What right do you have to his belongings?”

“As much right as anyone. The paper says he left no family.”

“But why would you want his things?”

“Just to remember him by. He was a nice guy.”

“Why can’t you get them yourself?”

“I don’t want people to see me there.”

It was a weak reason, and her whole story was weak, but Nick was into it now. Unless he wanted to risk seriously injuring her, it seemed the only way to get the beard. “All right. I’ll go down there now and then I’ll be back for the beard.”

Outside it had started to snow a little, but somehow it didn’t seem much like the week before Christmas.

The Outreach Center was a sort of nondenominational mission located on the West Side near the river. Some of their operating expenses came from the city, but much of the money was from private donors. The Center gave homeless people a safe place to sleep if they were afraid of the city shelters, but certain rules applied. Drugs, alcohol, and weapons were forbidden, and guests of the Center were expected to earn their keep. In December that often meant dressing up in a Santa Claus suit and manning one of the Center’s plywood chimneys with a donation bag inside.

The first person Nick saw as he entered the front door of the Outreach Center was a young man in sweater and jeans seated at an unpretentious card table. “I’ve come to pick up Russell Bajon’s belongings,” Nick told him. “The family sent me.”

The young man seemed indifferent to the request. Apparently people who stayed at the men’s dorm weren’t expected to have anything worth stealing. “I’ll get Chris.”

Nick waited in the bare hallway until the young man returned with an older worker with thinning hair, wearing a faded Giants sweatshirt. “I’m Chris Stover. What can I do for you?”

“Russell Bajon’s family sent me for his belongings.”

The man frowned. “Didn’t know he had a family. There sure wasn’t much in the way of belongings. We were going to throw them out.”

“Could I see them?”

Stover hesitated and then led him down the corridor to a storage room. For all its drabness, the dormitory building seemed to be well fitted for its clients, with a metal railing along the wall and smoke alarms in the ceiling. Nick stood by the door as Stover pulled out some boxes from one shelf in the storage room. “If I’d been five minutes earlier, Russ might be alive today,” he said.

“I think I saw your name in the paper—”

“Sure! I placed him there and I was picking him up. When I rounded the corner I saw a crowd of people gathering. He was dead by the time I got to him.”

“Nobody saw anything?”

“I guess not. Who pays attention in New York? I swear once I was driving by Radio City Music Hall about six in the morning, when they were having their Christmas show. Some guy was walking two camels around the block for their morning exercise and hardly anyone even noticed.” He slit open the tape on one of the boxes and peered inside. “Nothing but clothing in here.”

“I’ll just take it along anyway.”

When he opened the second box he frowned a bit. “Well, there are some letters in this one, and a couple of books.” He looked up at Nick. “Maybe I should have some sort of authorization to release these.”

“I can give you his sister’s phone number.” He’d worked that out with Vivian in advance. “You can check with her.”

“Never heard about a sister,” the man muttered. Then, “Our director is away today. I better wait till he gets back. Come back tomorrow.”

“Sure thing.” Nick turned to leave, his hand unobtrusively on the door’s latchbolt. Stover shut the door and they walked back down the corridor together.

“See you later,” the man told him and disappeared into a little office.

Immediately Nick turned and vaulted onto the handrail that ran along the wall, steadying himself with one hand against the ceiling, With his other hand he reached toward one of the smoke alarms. This model had a plastic button in the center of the unit for testing the battery, and he shoved a thin dime between the button and the casing, keeping it depressed. Immediately a loud blaring noise filled the hall. He jumped down to the floor as people began to look out of the rooms.

Some headed immediately for the exits while others stood around looking for some sign of smoke. Nick slipped into the storeroom just as Chris Stover emerged from his office to join the others. There was little chance of getting out with two boxes so Nick settled for the one containing the letters and books. He peeked down the hall and saw that Stover had gotten a ladder from somewhere to examine the blaring alarm. Perhaps he had noticed the edge of the dime holding the button in.

Nick went out the storeroom window as the smoke alarm was suddenly silenced.

Vivian Delmos seemed just a bit surprised to see him back so soon. “I thought you were going to get me Russell Bajon’s things.”

“I did. They’re in this box. There was another box with a few pants and shirts, but I figured this was what you wanted.”

“I’ll know soon enough.”

She opened the box and began looking through the objects, setting aside a worn pair of shoes and some socks and handkerchiefs. When she came to the books she examined them more carefully. One was a paperback edition of some of Shakespeare’s tragedies, the others were a small dictionary and a book on acting. But she soon tossed these aside too, and turned only briefly to the letters, shaking the envelopes to make certain nothing small was hidden in them.

“You got the wrong box,” she grumbled.

“I’m sorry.”

She seemed to relent then. “No, what I’m looking for probably wasn’t in the other box either. Somebody told me Bajon was involved with a shoplifting ring, stealing watches and jewelry from fancy stores during the Christmas season. I thought if he had anything in his belongings—”

“—that you’d take it?”

She flushed a bit at Nick’s words. “I’m no thief. When Russell and I were in the play together I loaned him a few hundred dollars. I could use that money now. I figured anything I found among his belongings would pay the debt.”

“Any jewelry or valuables he had were probably removed by whoever went through his clothes.” As he spoke he was looking down at one of the envelopes that had been in the box. It was addressed to Russell Bajon at the Outreach Center. The return address bore only the surname of the sender: Averly.

It took him a few seconds to realize the significance of the name. The Santa strangler’s second victim had been named Larry Averly. Nick slipped the letter out of the envelope and read the few lines quickly: “Russ—I was happy to do you the favor. No need to send me any more money. Keep some of the pie for yourself. Merry Christmas! Larry.” The note was undated, but the envelope had been postmarked December second.

Nick returned the letter to its envelope and slipped it into his pocket. It told him nothing, except that the two victims might have known each other. Maybe Bajon had replaced Averly as one of the Santas.

“Thanks for your efforts anyway,” Vivian Delmos said.

“I did what I could.”

When he didn’t move, she asked, “Are you waiting for something more?”

“Yes.”

“What’s that?”

“Your beard.”

That evening Nick returned to Grady Culhane’s little office off Times Square. The young security man seemed uneasy as soon as he walked in the door. “I was hoping you wouldn’t come here,” he said.

Nick opened the paper bag he was carrying. “Why’s that? I’ve brought you the beard.”

“The beard was yesterday. Things have moved beyond that now. The cops are all over the place.”

“What do you mean?”

“The extortion payoff. The money was left exactly as instructed, on the upper deck of the ferry that left Staten Island at three o’clock, before the evening rush hour. The police had it covered from every angle, even if he’d tossed the package overboard to a waiting boat.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. When the ferry docked in Manhattan some little old lady picked up the package and turned it in to lost and found.”

“She got to it before the extortionist.”

“Maybe,” Culhane answered gloomily.

“What’s the matter?”

“The Outreach Center reported that someone was snooping around the first victim’s things this afternoon, and stole a box.”

“That was me.”

“I was afraid it might be. That means the cops are after you.”

“How come?”

“They figure the killer was at the Outreach Center and that’s why he couldn’t pick up the extortion money from the three o’clock ferry.”

“I certainly don’t go around strangling Santas!” Nick objected. “You didn’t even hire me till after the killings.”

“I know, but try to tell them that! They need a fall guy. right away, or the city could lose millions in Christmas sales this final week. Who wants to bring the kids to see Santa Claus if he might be dead?”

A thought suddenly struck Nick. “You seemed nervous when I came in. Are they watching this office?”

“I had to tell them you were the one who set off the smoke bomb in the store yesterday. They were spending too much time on that angle and I tried to show them it was a dead end by admitting my part in it. Instead they got to thinking you were involved somehow.”

“Just give me the rest of my money and I’m out of here.”

“I don’t have it right now.”

Nick decided he’d overstayed his welcome. “I’ll be in touch,” he promised as he headed for the door.

They were waiting in the hall. A tall black man with a badge in one hand and a gun in the other barked, “Police! Up against the wall!”

His name was Sergeant Rynor and he was no more friendly within the confines of the precinct station. “You deny you were at the Outreach Center between three and four this afternoon, Mr. Velvet?”

“I told you I want a lawyer,” Nick answered.

“He’ll be here soon enough. And when he arrives we’re going to run a lineup. Then we’ll talk about the Santa Claus killings.”

Ralph Aarons was a dapper Manhattan attorney whom Nick had used on rare occasions. He wasn’t in the habit of getting in legal jams, especially in the New York area. Aarons made a good appearance, but he was hardly the sort to defend an accused serial Santa strangler.

“They’ve got a witness named Stover,” the lawyer told him. “If he can place you at the Outreach Center, it may be trouble.”

“We’ll see,” Nick said. He’d been thinking hard while he waited for Aarons to arrive.

Sergeant Rynor appeared in the doorway. “We’re ready for you, Velvet. Up here on stage, please.”

There were five other men. and Nick took the third position. The others were about his age and size but with different coloring and appearance. He guessed at least two of them were probably detectives. Chris Stover was brought in and escorted into a booth with a one-way glass. Over a loudspeaker, each of them was asked to step forward in turn. Then it was over. Apparently it had taken only a moment for Stover to identify him.

As Nick was being led away, Chris Stover and the other detectives came out of the booth. Nick paused ten feet from him and pointed dramatically. “That’s the man!” his voice thundered like the wrath of God. “He’s the one who killed the Santas and I can prove it!”

Nick couldn’t prove it, and Chris Stover should have snorted and kept on walking. But he was taken off guard, startled into a foolish action. Perhaps in that unthinking instant he imagined the whole lineup had been merely a trick to unmask him. He gave one terrified glance at Nick and then tried to run, shoving two detectives out of the way in his dash for freedom.

It was Sergeant Rynor who finally grabbed him, before he even got close to the door.

‘ We’re holding him,” the black detective told Nick Velvet ten minutes later in the interrogation room, “but you’d better have a good story. Are you trying to tell us that Chris Stover is the extortionist who’s been threatening the city’s department stores for the past several days?”

“I don’t think there was ever a real extortion plot. It was a matter of a big threat being used as a smokescreen to hide a smaller but no less deadly crime— the murders of Russell Bajon and Larry Averly.”

“You’d better explain that.”

Nick leaned back in the chair and collected his thoughts. “Grady Culhane told me about the extortion threats and even showed me a copy of the first letter. It was delivered to Kliman’s president on Tuesday afternoon, shortly after the second strangling of a Santa Claus. Those two killings were meant to appear to be random acts against two random Santas, committed as a demonstration that the extortionist meant business. But the note mentioned the names of the two victims—Bajon and Averly. You didn’t identify the second victim until later that day, and the killer had no chance to steal identification from his victim. The strangler knew the names of Bajon and Averly because these killings weren’t random at all. He deliberately selected these victims, not as part of an extortion plot but for another motive altogether.”

Rynor was making notes now, along with taping Nick’s interrogation. Ralph Aarons. perhaps sensing things were going well for Nick, made no attempt to interrupt. “What other motive?” the detective asked.

“I learned earlier today that Bajon might have been involved in a shoplifting ring. And I also have a letter here that the second victim sent to Bajon two weeks ago. Not only did they know each other, but Averly had arranged for Bajon to take over some money-making enterprise from him. I think you’ll find that Averly used to act as a Santa Claus for the Outreach Center. This year he passed the job on to Bajon, who became involved with the shoplifting.”

“You’re telling me that a man dressed in a bulky and highly visible Santa Claus costume was shoplifting?”

“No. I’m telling you that Santa stood on the corner with his collection chimney and the shoplifters came out of the stores with watches, rings, and other jewelry, and dropped them in the chimney. If the man was caught, there was no evidence on him, and the store detectives never considered Santa as an accessory.”

“It’s just wild enough to be true. But why would Stover kill them?”

“Bajon must have been skimming off the loot, or threatening to blackmail Stover. Once he decided to kill Bajon. he knew he had to kill Averly too, because the older man knew what was going on. When I guessed about Santa’s chimney being used for shoplifting loot, Chris Stover became the most likely brains behind the operation. After all, he was the one who picked up the Santas and chimneys each night. He was the one who told them where to stand. Only Monday night he parked the van in the next block and walked up and strangled Bajon, then hurried back to the van and acted like he was just driving up.”

“Maybe,” Sergeant Rynor said thoughtfully. “It could have been like that. The extortion letter was just a red herring to cover the real motive. He never had any intention of going after that money on the Staten Island ferry.”

“Can you prove all this?” Aarons asked, his legal mind in gear.

“We’ll get a search warrant for Stover’s office and room at the Center. If we find any shoplifted items there, I think he’ll be ready to talk, and name the rest of the gang.”

Nick knew he wasn’t off the hook unless they found what they were looking for, but he came up lucky. The police uncovered dozens of jewelry items, along with a spool of wire that matched the wire used to kill the two Santas. After that, Chris Stover ceased his denials.

The way things turned out, Nick never did collect the balance of his fee from Grady Culhane. Some people just didn’t have any Christmas spirit.