The Big Book of Christmas Mysteries Part 50

"Baby, you don't have to say 'please.' " Stone put his hands on her waist and brought her to him. "Come on ... give Santa a kiss."

Her slap sounded like a gunshot, and stung like h.e.l.l. He whisked the bill back out of her blouse.

"Some Christmas spirit you got," he said, and opened the door and pushed her into the outer office.

"What's the meaning of this?" the old man sputtered, and Stone wadded up the twenty, tossed it in the bucket, and shoved them both out the door.

"Squares," he muttered, returning to his rum.

Before long, the door opened and a woman in black appeared there, like a curvaceous wraith. Her hair was icy blonde, her thin lips blood-red, like cuts in her angular white Joan Crawford-ish face. It had been a while since she'd seen forty, but she was better preserved than your grandma's strawberry jam.

She fell immediately into his arms. "Merry Christmas, darling!"

"In a rat's a.s.s," he said coldly, pus.h.i.+ng her away.

"Darling ... what's wrong ...?"

"You been calling the office again! I told you not to do that. People are gonna get the wrong idea."

He'd been through this with her a million times: they were perfect suspects for Jake Marley's murder; neither of them had an alibi for the time of the killing-Stone was in his apartment, alone, and Maggie claimed she'd been alone at home, too.

But to cover for each other, they had lied to the cops about being together at Marley's penthouse, waiting for his return for a Christmas Eve supper.

"If people think we're an item," Stone told her, "we'll be prime suspects!"

"It's been a year...."

"That's not long enough."

She threw her head back and her blonde hair s.h.i.+mmered, and so did her diamond earrings. "I want to get out of black, and be on your arm, unashamed...."

"Since when were you ever ashamed of anything?" He shuddered, wis.h.i.+ng he'd never met Maggie Marley, let alone climbed in bed with her; now, he was in bed with her, for G.o.d knew how long, and in every sense of the word....

She touched his face with a gloved hand. "Are we spending Christmas Eve together, Richard?"

"Can't, baby. Gotta spend it with relatives."

"Who, your uncle and aunt?" She smirked in disbelief. "I can't believe you're going back to farm country, to see them.... You hate it there!"

"Hey, wouldn't be right not seein' 'em. Christmas and all."

Her gaze seemed troubled. "I'd hoped we could talk. Richard ... we may have a problem ..."

"Such as?"

"... Eddie's trying to blackmail me."

"Eddie? What does that slimy little b.a.s.t.a.r.d want?"

Eddie was Jake Marley's brother.

"He's in over his head with the Outfit," she said.

"What, gambling losses again? He'll never learn ..."

"He's trying to squeeze me for dough," she said urgently. "He's got photos of us, together ... at that resort!"

"So what?" He shrugged.

"Photos of us in our room at that resort ... and he's got the guest register."

Stone frowned. "That was just a week after Jake was killed."

"I know. You were ... consoling me."

Who was she trying to kid?

Stone said, "I'll talk to him."

She moved close to him again. "He's waiting for me now, at the Blue Spot Bar ... would you keep the appointment for me, Richard?"

And she kissed him. n.o.body kissed hotter than this dame. Or colder....

Half an hour later, Stone entered the smoky Rush Street saloon, where a thrush in a gown cut to her toenails was embracing the microphone, singing "White Christmas" off-key.

He found mustached weasel Eddie Marley sitting at the bar working on a Scotch-a bald little man in a bow tie and a plaid zoot suit.

"Hey, d.i.c.kie ... nice to see ya. Buy ya a snort?"

"Don't call me 'd.i.c.kie.' "

"Stoney, then."

"Grab your topcoat and let's talk in my office," Stone said, nodding toward the alley door.

A cat chasing a rat made garbage cans clatter as the two men came out into the alley. A cold Christmas rain was falling, puddling on the frozen remains of a snow and ice storm from a week before. Ducking into the recession of a doorway, Eddie got out a cigarette and Stone, a statue standing out in the rain, leaned in with a Zippo to light it for him.

For a moment, the world wasn't pitch dark. But only for a moment.

"I don't like to stick it to ya, Stoney ... but if I don't cough up five gees to the Outfit, I won't live to see '43! My brother left me high and dry, ya know."

"I'm all choked up, Eddie."

Eddie was shrugging. "Jake's life insurance paid off big-double indemnity. So Maggie's sittin' pretty. And the agency partners.h.i.+p reverted to you-so you're in the gravy. Where's that leave Eddie?"

Stone picked him up by the throat. The little man's eyes opened wide and his cigarette tumbled from his lips and sizzled in a puddle.

"It leaves you on your a.s.s, Eddie."

And the detective hurled the little man into the alley, onto the pavement, where he bounced up against some garbage cans.

"Ya shouldn'ta done that, ya bastid! I got the goods on ya!"

Stone's footsteps splashed toward the little man. "You got nothin', Eddie."

"I got photos! I got your handwritin' on a motel register!"

"Don't try to tell me the bedroom-d.i.c.k business. You bring me the negatives and the register page, and I'll give you five C's. First and last payment."

The weasel's eyes went very wide. "Five C's?!? I need five G's by tomorrow-they'll break my knees if I don't pay up! Have a heart-have some Christmas charity, fer chrissakes!"

Stone pulled his trenchcoat collar up around his face. "I gave at the office, Eddie. Five C's is all you get."

"What are ya-Scrooge? Maggie's rich! And you're rolling in your own dough!"

Stone kicked Eddie in the side and the little man howled.

"The negatives and the register page, Eddie. Hit me up again and you'll take a permanent swim in the Chicago river. Agreed?"

"Agreed! Don't hurt me anymore! Agreed!"

"Merry X-mas, moron," Stone said, and exited the alley, pausing near the street to light up his own cigarette. Christmas carols were being piped through department-store loud speakers: "Joy to the world!"

"In a rat's a.s.s," he muttered, and hailed a taxi. In the back seat, he sipped rum from a flask. The cabbie made holiday small talk and Stone said, "Make you a deal-skip the chatter and maybe you'll get a tip for Christmas."

Inside his Gold Coast apartment building, Stone was waiting for the elevator when he caught a strange reflection in a lobby mirror. He saw-or thought he saw-an imposing trenchcoated figure in a fedora standing behind him.

His late partner-Jake Marley!

Stone whirled, but ... no one was there.

He blew out air, glanced at the mirror again, seeing only himself. "No more rum for you, pal."

On the seventh floor, Stone unlocked 714 and slipped inside his apartment. The art moderne furnis.h.i.+ngs reflected his financial success; the divorce racket had made him d.a.m.n near wealthy. He tossed his jacket on a half-circle white couch, loosened his tie and headed to his well-appointed bar, already changing his mind about more rum.

He'd been lying, of course, about going to see his uncle and aunt. Christmas out in the sticks-that was a laugh! That had just been an excuse, so he didn't have to spend the night with that blood-sucking Maggie.

From the ice box he built a salami and swiss cheese on rye, smearing on hot mustard. Drifting back into the living room, where only one small lamp was on, he switched on his console radio, searching for sports or swing music or even war news, anything other than d.a.m.n Christmas carols. But that maudlin muck was all he could find, and he switched it off in disgust.

Settling in a comfy overstuffed chair, still in his shoulder holster, he sat and ate and drank. Boredom crept in on him like ground fog.

Katie was busy with family tonight, and even most of the hookers he knew were taking the night off.

What the h.e.l.l, he thought. I'll just enjoy my own good company....

Without realizing it, he drifted off to sleep; a noise woke him, and Sadie-his trusty .38-was in his hand before his eyes had opened all the way.

"Who's there?" he said, and stood. Somebody had switched off the lamp! Who in h.e.l.l? The room was in near darkness....

"Sorry, keed," a familiar voice said. "The light hurts my peepers."

Standing by the window was his late partner-Jake Marley.

"I must be dreamin'," Stone said rationally, after just the briefest flinch of a reaction, " 'cause, pal-you're dead as a doornail."

"I'm dead, all right," Marley said. "Been dead a whole year." Red neon, from the window behind him, pulsed in on the tall, trenchcoated fedora-sporting figure-a hawkishly handsome man with a grooved face and thin mustache. "But, keed-you ain't dreamin'."

"What sorta gag is this ...?"

Stone walked over to Marley and took a close look: no make-up, no mask-it was no masquerade. And the trenchcoat had four scorched holes st.i.tched across the front.

Bullet holes.

He put a hand on Marley's shoulder-and it pa.s.sed right through.

"Jesus!" Stone stepped back. "You're not dead-I'm dead drunk." He turned away. "Havin' the heebie-jeebies or somethin'. When I wake up, you better be gone, or I'm callin' Ripley...."

Marley smiled a little. "n.o.body can see me but you, keed. Talk about it, and they'll toss ya in the laughin' academy, and toss away the key. Mind if I siddown? Feet are killin' me."

"Your eyes hurt, your feet hurt-what kinda G.o.dd.a.m.n ghost are you, anyway?"

" 'Zactly what you said, keed," Marley said, and he slowly moved toward the sofa, dragging himself along, to the sound of metallic sc.r.a.ping. "The G.o.d-d.a.m.ned kind ... and I'll stay that way if you don't come through for me."

Below the trenchcoat, Marley's feet were heavily shackled, like a chain-gang prisoner.

"You think mine's heavy," Marley said, "wait'll ya see what the boys in the metal shop are cookin' up for you."

The ghost sat heavily, his shackles clanking. Stone kept his distance.

"What do ya want from me, Jake?"

"The near-impossible, keed-I want ya to do the right thing."

"The right thing?"

"Find my murderer, ya chowderhead! Jesus!" At that last exclamation, Marley cowered, glanced upward, muttering, "No offense, Boss," and continued: "You're a detective, Stoney-when a detective's partner's killed, he's supposed to do somethin' about it. That's the code."

"That's the bunk," Stone said. "I left it to the cops. They mucked it up." He shrugged. "End of story."

"Nooooo!" Marley moaned, sounding like a ghost for the first time, and making the hair stand up on Stone's neck. "I was your partner, I was your only friend ... your mentor ... and you let me die an unsolved murder while you took over my business-and my wife."

Stone flinched again; lighted up a Lucky. "You know about that, huh? Maggie, I mean."

"Of course I know!" Marley waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, her I don't care two cents about ... she always was a witch, with a capital 'b.' Having her in your life is punishment enough for any crime. But, keed-you and me, we're tied to each other! Chained for eternity ..."

Convinced he was dreaming, Stone snorted.

"Really, Jake? How come?"