DO YOUR CHRISTMAS SHOPLIFTING EARLY
Robert Somerlott is a versatile writer who has published numerous novels and short stories under his own name and under several pen names, including two novels that were alternate selections of the Book-of-the-Month Club. His shorter fiction has appeared in The Best American Short Stories, several college textbooks and in both the mystery-genre and “slick” magazines. Novels published under his own name include The Flamingos, The Inquisitor’s House, and most recently, Blaze.
Shortly after Mrs. Whistler retired from the stage, she discovered her true genius for escapades bordering on crime. But with modesty astounding in an actress, she has always managed to stay in the background. No one—except her son, Johnny Creighton—has ever suspected that Mrs. Whistler was the secret force behind several headline events that startled the country in the last few years.
For instance, millions of newspaper readers are aware that 267 animals staged a mass breakout from the St. Louis pound on Thanksgiving Day, 1959. Only Johnny Creighton knows that Mrs. Whistler engineered the escape. (The incident, headlined by newspapers as “Dog Days in Missouri,” triggered pound reform laws in that state.)
Johnny was also the only one to know every detail of how Mrs. Whistler brought the powerful MacTavish Department Store of Los Angeles to its knees in less than 24 hours. There exists no court transcript, and the only memento of this case is an unflattering mug shot of Mrs. Whistler taken at the Los Angeles jail. Despite the atrocious lighting, Mrs. Whistler looks exactly as she did in her farewell performance on Broadway as the artist’s mother in Arrangement in Gray, a role she became so identified with that she legally adopted the name of the character. In the photo she wears a dark dress; her white round collar is visible, but her lace cuffs are not. Her sweet expression of sublime patience was not marred by the ordeal she was suffering—an ordeal for which others would soon pay heavily.
Mrs. Whistler had no intention of getting involved in “The Affair of the Capricorn Brooch.” When she descended, unannounced, from the smoggy skies of Southern California on Friday, December 18, it was for the innocent purpose of spending the Christmas holiday with Johnny.
Still, the moment he heard the voice on the phone he had a premonition of trouble. Oddly enough, he was thinking about his mother when her call came through. He had been sitting in his two-by-four law office, daydreaming of pretty Joyce Gifford, who had almost, but not quite, agreed to marry him. How, he wondered, could he explain his mother to Joyce? Just then the phone rang.
“Johnny, dear,” said a gentle voice. “Surprise! It’s Mother.”
“Mother?” His first reaction was panic. “Where are you? What have you done?”
“I’m at the airport. I’ve come for Christmas.”
“Don’t make a move till I get there. And, Mother,” he pleaded, “don’t do anything!”
“Whatever do you mean, dear?” Mrs. Whistler was faintly reproachful.
As he battled through the freeway traffic, Johnny could not rid himself of the suspicion that his mother was up to something. But at the airport, and later in his apartment, her manner was so subdued that Johnny was totally unprepared for the events that followed. She’s getting old, he thought, she’s settling down at last. The idea brought relief—and a little sadness.
At 6:30 Joyce Gifford, her usually calm face white with anger, knocked at Johnny’s door.
Johnny greeted her with a quick hug. “Hi, darling. Merry Christmas!” He lowered his voice. “I want you to meet my mother. She just arrived from New York.”
In the living room an elderly lady was seated on the couch. Vainly, Joyce tried to remember where she’d seen her before—there was something hauntingly familiar about the black dress, the folded hands, the sad-sweet face.
“How do you do?” said the old lady. “I’m Mrs. Whistler.” Joyce nearly dropped her purse. “You’re upset, my dear,” she said. “I could tell the moment you came in.”
“Does it show that much? I’ve—I’ve had a horrible day!”
“Good Lord,” said Johnny, “what’s the matter?”
“Tomorrow I’m quitting my job at MacTavish’s. Mr. Schlag can find himself a secretary—if anybody alive can stand him! It was the most terrible scene! All over this poor pathetic woman they caught shoplifting.”
“Shoplifting?” Mrs. Whistler leaned forward. “Isn’t that interesting!”
Johnny saw the intent expression on his mother’s face. A danger signal flashed through him and he tried to interrupt. But it was too late.
“I just can’t tell you how horrible the whole thing was,” said Joyce.
“Try, my dear,” said Mrs. Whistler gently. “Try.”
During the first thirty-three years of its existence, MacTavish’s (“A Wee Penny Saved Is a Big Penny Earned”) had dealt with petty shoplifters in a routine way: first offenders were usually dismissed with threats of embarrassment. Otherwise respectable kleptomaniacs were delivered to their humiliated relatives. Suspected professionals were prosecuted relentlessly.
Then Dudley P. Schlag, nephew of a large stockholder, became manager, and things changed.
“Once a thief, always a thief!” he declared, beating his bony little fist on the desk top. He assumed personal charge of store security and would neglect any other duty for the pleasure of watching a terrified teen-ager squirm under his merciless, watery eye.
“There are no extenuating circumstances at MacTavish’s!” By political influence and exaggerated statistics he induced several local judges to cooperate in his crusade, and after each arrest Schlag called the newspapers to make sure the suspect was well publicized.
“He’s inhuman!” said Joyce Gifford, close to tears. “Of course, thieves should go to jail. But two weeks ago there was a teen-age girl—really a nice kid—who took a little piece of costume jewelry on a high-school dare. Mr. Schlag went to Juvenile Court himself and swore he’d seen her around the store several times—that this wasn’t really her first theft. And I’m sure that wasn’t true! A month ago they caught this old woman, a doctor’s wife. She’s been taking little things for years, and her husband always pays for them. She’s really pathetic. And Mr. Schlag had her taken to jail!”
Mrs. Whistler clucked sympathetically. “The quality of mercy is not strained,” she said.
“Today Miss Vought—she’s the meanest store detective—dragged in a woman who tried to take a cotton sweater from Infants’ Wear. Her name is Mrs. Blainey. She has an invalid husband, and she’s trying to support him and four children by doing domestic work. I just know she’d never stolen anything before. When Miss Vought searched her purse it was enough to make you cry. She had exactly forty-three cents. There was an unpaid gas bill and a notice that a mortgage payment on their house was overdue.”
“What happened to her?” asked Mrs. Whistler.
“Mr. Schlag told her that if she’d sign a confession the store wouldn’t prosecute. Well, she signed it, crying. Then he called the police. She’s in jail right now—at Christmastime! Her case comes up Monday—”
“And they’ll throw the book at her,” said Johnny slowly.
Joyce nodded. “Oh, that Mr. Schlag! There just isn’t anything bad enough that could happen to him!”
Mrs. Whistler smiled slightly. “Oh, I’m sure there is, my dear!”
Joyce turned to Johnny. “You’re a lawyer. What can be done about it?”
“Nothing.”
“But, Johnny,” she protested, “surely you can do something!”
“I don’t see what. I suppose I could appear in court for her on Monday. But it wouldn’t do any good. The sentencing is going to be routine. You’d just better forget the whole thing, Joyce.”
“Forget it? I can’t forget it!”
“Someone,” said Mrs. Whistler, “should take action.”
“They certainly should,” agreed Joyce.
Johnny was suddenly aware that both women were staring at him expectantly. There was a dreadful silence in the room. He had never seen Joyce so angry or so determined.
“Hold on, you two! What can I do about it? I’m just a guy who draws wills and sets up escrows. There just isn’t any use in getting mixed up in something that can’t—” Johnny’s voice trailed off when he saw the expression on Joyce’s face.
Mrs. Whistler glanced at the tiny watch pinned to her dress. “My goodness! If you young people will excuse me—” She took a step toward the guest room.
Johnny saw the gleam in her eye. He was on his feet in an instant. “Mother! You’re planning something!”
Mrs. Whistler smiled at Joyce. “Johnny’s always so worried about me. Isn’t that sweet? Good night, dears.” Mrs. Whistler closed her door behind her.
Johnny turned to Joyce accusingly. “You’ve set her off! I can tell by the look in her eye!”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“You don’t know her!” Johnny paced the floor. “Last year she took on Mr. Moses and the whole New York Park Department—singlehanded! Six months ago it was Internal Revenue!”
“Johnny Creighton, stop shouting at me! It isn’t my fault.”
“Oh, yes, it is! You got her started with this Mrs. Blainey story. It’s made to order for her—invalid husband, four kids, even an overdue mortgage payment! It’s right out of Charles Dickens. And tomorrow, you can bet, she’ll try to do something to MacTavish’s!”
Joyce stood up quickly. “Well, I’m glad somebody in your family has a little spunk! If she can teach MacTavish’s a lesson, more power to her!” Joyce looked at him coldly. “Johnny Creighton, you’re a stick-in-the-mud! So cautious it’s plain dull! You’re supposed to be an attorney, but—”
“What do you want? Perry Mason?”
Joyce gave him her coolest secretarial smile. “Perry Mason is a very attractive guy. Good night, Johnny!”
“Stick-in-the-mud!” he repeated softly. Slowly a grim expression came over Johnny’s pleasant face. “Mother,” he called. “Are you awake?”
Mrs. Whistler’s door opened instantly. “Yes, dear.”
Johnny’s voice was stiff with determination. “We’ve got some planning to do.”
“Planning?” Mrs. Whistler blinked at him. “Oh, darling, I’ve already done that.”
At six o’clock Saturday morning Mrs. Whistler bounced out of bed. Three times she stretched, bent, pressed her palms flat on the floor. Thirty minutes later she stood over the stove, dreamily preparing scrambled eggs for Johnny while she examined a full page ad that pictured items on sale at MacTavish’s. Her son, still in pajamas, sat at the breakfast bar, his face a mask of stony heroism. He was convinced his mother’s fantastic scheme would fail, but he was determined to go down fighting.
Mrs. Whistler pointed to a small item in the MacTavish ad. “One of these would do nicely,” she said. Johnny looked doubtful but nodded bravely. “If we can only think of some way to handle the last part!” Suddenly Mrs. Whistler smiled happily. “Santa Claus!” she exclaimed. “You’ll be Santa Claus!”
“Mother! No!”
“Johnny, dear.” Mrs. Whistler’s tone was stern. “Please don’t be stubborn.”
“I’ll go along with the rest of it, but I won’t be Santa Claus!”
Mrs. Whistler sighed. “Very well, darling.” She stirred the eggs thoughtfully. “Now, we’ll rent a nice red suit, and with whiskers no one will recognize you, and—”
Johnny groaned and surrendered.
At 8:15, as Joyce Gifford was leaving for her last day at MacTavish’s, her telephone rang.
“Good morning, Joyce, dear. This is Mrs. Whistler.”
“Why, good morning.”
“Joyce, I have a dreadful premonition that disaster is about to overtake poor Mr. Schlag. If you happen to see me later today—and you will—please don’t recognize me.
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t try, dear. Just don’t recognize me. Or Johnny, either.”
“Johnny? You don’t mean that Johnny’s actually going to—”
Mrs. Whistler chuckled. “Still waters run deep. Goodbye, my dear. See you later.”
At the height of the noon rush hour, Traffic Officer “Spud” Battersby trembled in the middle of a terrifying intersection, blowing a whistle, waving his arms, and narrowly avoiding death at every second. Suddenly Officer Battersby’s whistle nearly fell out of his mouth. A prim elderly lady carrying a straw shopping bag was calmly coming toward him, oblivious of the screaming brakes and blaring horns.
“My God!” he shouted. “Get back! You’ll be run over!”
A truck screeched to a halt six inches from the old lady. “Officer,” she said, “I want to report a crime.”
Battersby snatched her from the path of an oncoming cab. They huddled in the middle of the street. “You want to be killed?”
“Killed? Oh, no. No one’s been killed. But my purse was snatched not ten minutes ago.”
“Get out of here! Call the police station!” A red light changed and a wheeled onslaught avalanched by.
“My,” said the old lady, “you are busy, aren’t you?” She gave him a slip of paper. “If my purse is found, here’s my name and phone number.”
“Lady, please… Look out for that truck!”
“Merry Christmas, Officer!” Battersby shoved the paper into his pocket and managed to halt a hundred racing vehicles while the old lady made her unhurried way to the curb.
“Another nut!” he said. “A one-hundred-percent Los Angeles nut!”
At 12:45 Mrs. Whistler hesitated at the costume jewelry counter in MacTavish’s, smiling at Miss Hefron. the harassed and yule-weary salesgirl. “Everything’s lovely! I simply have to see every piece!”
Dear Lord, no! Miss Hefron thought. “Our pleasure, Ma’am,” she said brightly.
“Look at all these pretty things!” A velvet-lined tray stood open on the counter.
“They’re horoscope brooches, Ma’am. An advertised special. We still have Virgo and Capricorn and—”
“Capricorn? Of course! I bought one of those for—”
Mrs. Whistler stopped speaking. Her eyes rolled wildly as she grasped the counter for support. With a crash the tray of costume jewelry fell to the floor, and Mrs. Whistler collapsed on top of it. Before Miss Hefron could reach the stricken customer, Mrs. Whistler had miraculously recovered. Struggling to her feet, she replaced the tray awkwardly.
Mrs. Whistler’s eyelids fluttered. “I’ve just been on my feet too long—a little dizzy spell. No more shopping today!”
Slowly Mrs. Whistler made her way toward the doors of the store, clutching her straw shopping bag firmly. For a dreadful moment she believed nothing was going to happen to her; then her spirits soared as a strong hand gripped her elbow. An ash-blond woman with a flashing gold tooth was beside her.
“Let’s just step right up to the mezzanine office, honey.”
Mrs. Whistler seemed bewildered. “Pardon? I can’t look at anything else today.”
The steely grip of the woman’s talons tightened. “Step along, honey, d’ya hear? We’ll straighten this out and everything will be hunky-dory.”
Mrs. Whistler felt herself propelled toward a service elevator, whisked upstairs, and forcibly ushered into an austere office.
“Sit down, honey,” said the woman. “I’m Miss Vought, Store Security. I didn’t catch your name.”
“No,” said Mrs. Whistler. “You didn’t.”
Miss Vought flipped the switch of an intercom. “Miss Gilford, this is Vought. Tell Mr. Schlag I’ve landed a real pro.”
Miss Vought rested her thin hips on the edge of the desk and inserted a cigarette between her raspberry lips. “Relax, honey. You’ll sign a little statement and breeze out of here in no time.”
“I don’t understand.”
Miss Vought laughed unpleasantly. “You’re fabulous, honey. Just fabulous. That get-up you’re wearing would fool anybody.”
Dudley P. Schlag, drawn up to his full five feet one, strutted into the office, his pointed lapels bristling. Joyce Gifford, notebook in hand, followed. He did not see the astonished look that flashed across his secretary’s face.
“We got the cool goods,” Miss Vought told him. She rummaged in Mrs. Whistler’s shopping bag and brought forth a Capricorn brooch set with tiny rhinestones. “Counter Eighteen. Pulled the old fainting act, glammed this. I had my eye on her for twenty minutes. She cased perfume first, then checked out novelties, finally wound up in jewelry.”
“Kindly put down my brooch, young lady.” said Mrs. Whistler, sweetly but firmly. “You might drop it.”
“You’re fabulous, honey,” said Miss Vought, “fabulous.”
“Name and address?” said Mr. Schlag.
“I live in New York. I’m Mrs. Whistler.”
“Occupation?”
“I,” said Mrs. Whistler, “am a Senior Citizen.”
“All right, Grandma,” said Schlag. “What about the brooch?”
“I bought it this morning. I don’t remember the name of the store. I don’t know your city very well.”
“Where’s the sales slip?”
“Of course!” Mrs. Whistler smiled brightly. “The name will be on the sales slip, and I’m careful about saving them.” Then her face clouded. She seemed near tears. “But it was in my purse. And someone stole my purse just an hour or so ago.”
“Tragic,” said Schlag.
“I reported it to the police, of course.”
Mr. Schlag spoke into the intercom. “Mrs. Luden, call police headquarters and ask if a stolen purse was reported by a…Mrs. Whistler.” He smiled thinly.
“It won’t wash, honey,” said Miss Vought. “There were six Capricorn brooches when you staged your tumble at Counter Eighteen. But only five when you left.”
“You double-checked?” asked Schlag.
“Sure. While she was ankling for the door.”
Thoughtfully Schlag cracked his knuckles, then spun violently on Mrs. Whistler. “Those brooches were a plant, Grandma,” he said. “That’s why they were on the open counter.”
“Gracious,” said Mrs. Whistler. “You mean you were deliberately tempting people? Why, that’s wicked!”
“My secretary will type out a little statement,” he said, “saying you admit taking the brooch. You’ll sign it, and then you can leave.”
“Dear me,” said Mrs. Whistler. “I almost believe you are accusing me of stealing. Why, I can’t sign anything. It would be a lie.” She stood up abruptly, snatching the brooch from Miss Vought. “Good afternoon,” said Mrs. Whistler, taking a step toward the door.
Miss Vought and Schlag swooped like hawks, seizing her. “No, you don’t, sister!” Miss Vought pried the brooch from Mrs. Whistler’s fingers. “That’s evidence!”
“You’re under arrest!” shouted Schlag, then howled in pain as Mrs. Whistler’s teeth sank into his hand.
Joyce Gifford sat in paralyzed shock, unable to move.
“The cooler for you, honey!” cried Miss Vought, restraining Mrs. Whistler with a hammerlock. “We’ve got the goods to fry you, and we’ll see that they throw away the key!”
In less than an hour Mrs. Whistler had been booked, mugged, and fingerprinted.
At 2:15 P.M. a nervous, bedraggled Santa Claus elbowed through the crowded first floor aisles of MacTavish’s. Like the Pied Piper, he acquired pursuing children at every step. “A bike!” “A beach ball!” “A ’rector set!”
For a moment he leaned against Counter 18, warding off his tormentors. “Oh, Lord,” he whispered hoarsely to Miss Hefron. “What a hell of a way to make a living!”
“Aren’t you on the fourth floor?” she asked.
“Coffee break,” Santa groaned. His closed hand rested near the tray of horoscope brooches. A customer called to Miss Hefron and she turned away. Only for a moment—
At 4:25 P.M. Mr. Schlag glared across his desk at a resolute young man who returned his hostile look unflinchingly. “I, sir, am John R. Creighton, attorney-at-law.” A business card was slammed onto the desk. “You, sir, are being sued for five hundred thousand dollars!”
“I beg your pardon?” The young attorney’s piercing eyes were utterly unnerving. Mr. Schlag’s mouth felt dry.
“My client,” continued John Creighton, “a distinguished American actress, is suffering torment in the Los Angeles jail on trumped-up charges of shoplifting. You, sir, are responsible for this malicious accusation.” The attorney’s voice grew hollow. “May the Lord pity you, Mr. Schlag, for the courts never will!”
Schlag’s confidence returned. He spoke quickly into the intercom. “Send Miss Vought up, please. And come in yourself, Miss Gifford—with your notebook.” He turned back to the lawyer. “You’re wasting your time, Mr. Creighton. This is clear-cut theft, and we’ll prosecute to the fullest.”
“Take notes, Miss Gifford,” snapped Schlag.
“Yes, sir.” Joyce glanced at Johnny without batting an eyelash.
Five minutes later Schlag was summing up the evidence. “The brooches were counted. Only five remained. Then your client, this Mrs. Whistler—” he smirked at the name “—told a preposterous tale about a stolen purse with a sales slip from some imaginary store. We checked with the police and caught her flat-footed in her lie.”
“I see,” said Johnny slowly. “Who would have believed it?”
Joyce looked anxiously at Johnny. He looked humble and defeated as her eyes pleaded with him to do something.
At last he spoke. “Maybe we could check the brooches one more time?”
“Certainly.” The four marched downstairs to Counter 18, Joyce tagging behind in despair. “Miss Hefron,” said Schlag, “has the number of brooches on this tray changed since our incident with the thief?”
Johnny Creighton stared at the glittering jewelry. “The tray was knocked over,” he said softly. “I wonder… Would you please pick up the tray? There’s just a chance…”
Joyce lifted the tray from the counter. A Capricorn brooch, its clasp open, fell to the floor with a twinkle of light. “Under the tray!” exclaimed Johnny. “Who would have believed it!”
Miss Hefron was wide-eyed. “When they spilled! One got caught in the velvet underneath!”
Johnny’s tone was ominous. “I count six brooches, Mr. Schlag. Shall we return to your office?”
On the mezzanine steps, Schlag hesitated, then raced on toward the door marked Manager. A moment later he was shouting into the phone. “You’ve already gone to press? But I only gave you that shoplifter story a couple of hours ago! You can’t kill it?”
He hung up quickly as Johnny entered the office, followed by a smiling Joyce Gifford and a tense Miss Vought.
Taking the phone, Johnny dialed a number. “Police Headquarters? Missing Property, please… Yes, I’m calling about a black leather purse with identification for a Mrs. Whistler… Oh, it’s been turned in? Fine!”
Johnny smiled at the store manager. “It was turned in an hour ago. By a child—a mere street urchin. A touching development, I think.”
“Lemme talk to them!” Schlag snatched the phone. “That purse—is there a store sales slip in it?” During the moment’s pause the receiver trembled against Schlag’s ash-colored ear. “Yes? From Teague’s? For $8.85?” His voice sank to a hopeless whisper. “Officer, at the bottom of that slip has a special tax been added…like for jewelry.”
Fifteen seconds later the phone was in its cradle and Dudley P. Schlag had collapsed in his swivel chair.
Johnny Creighton spoke softly but menacingly. “No doubt you’ll soon learn that Mrs. Whistler reported the theft of her purse. Perhaps the officers didn’t report to headquarters immediately. And I’m sure a clerk at Teague’s will remember Mrs. Whistler’s buying a brooch this morning. We are charging you with false arrest and imprisonment, slander, physical assault—”
“Assault? No one touched her!”
“You’re lying!” Joyce Gifford slammed her notebook shut. “You both attacked her! I saw the whole brutal thing. You twisted her arm until she screamed and Mr. Schlag tried to kick her. It’s a wonder the poor old lady isn’t dead!” She stepped close to Johnny. “And I’ll swear to that, Mr.…is it Leighton?”
At 6:10 four people sat in Schlag’s office. Joyce Gifford was not present. She had left MacTavish’s, never to return. Next to the store manager was Walter Matson, legal counsel for MacTavish’s. Johnny Creighton was seated beside Mrs. Whistler, whose hands were folded in her lap. A faraway look on her sweet face revealed signs of recent suffering.
Johnny was concluding his remarks. “On Monday we will sue for five hundred thousand dollars. Mrs. Whistler will be an appealing plaintiff, don’t you think?”
“Five hundred thousand!” Attorney Matson’s face was faintly purple. “You’re out of your mind!”
“I agree.” Mrs. Whistler put a gentle hand on Johnny’s arm. “Let’s end this unpleasantness without a lot of fuss. I’ll drop this whole thing in exchange for two little favors. I’ve been through a shocking experience. And I hate to say it, but it’s entirely your fault, Mr. Schlag. So I expect MacTavish’s to pay me six thousand four hundred and eight dollars and eighty-five cents. Also, I met a charming woman today—in jail, of all places. Her name is Mrs. Blainey, and—”
“A shoplifter!” Schlag interrupted. “We’ve got a confession.”
“You could drop the charges,” said Mrs. Whistler. “I just couldn’t be happy knowing she was in prison.” Mrs. Whistler smiled brightly. “And when I’m unhappy, only one thing consoles me. Money—lots of it. Five hundred thousand dollars of it.”
“Relax, Dudley,” said the lawyer. “You’ve had it.”
Joyce met them at the door of the apartment. She threw her arms first around Mrs. Whistler, then around Johnny. “You were just wonderful,” she said. “Johnny, I never saw you like that before!”
Johnny blushed modestly. “Routine,” he said.
They celebrated in a small candlelit restaurant. Johnny raised his glass. “Merry Christmas for the Blainey family! Sixty-four hundred will pay off the mortgage on their house.”
Mrs. Whistler nodded. “And I’m getting back the eight eighty-five I spent for that dreadful brooch this morning.” She frowned. “Oh, dear! I forgot about the rent for the Santa costume.”
“What Santa costume?” Joyce asked. But Johnny quickly changed the subject.