The Saturnalia is, in any case, the victor, and the Christmas we now celebrate is only formally Jesus’ birthday. For many, that aspect of it is quickly disposed of with minimum fuss. It is the Saturnalia on which our attention is fixed-the gift-giving, the holiday cheer, the time of good feeling, the eating, drinking, celebrating.
In fact, in the modern United States we have a much bigger and better Saturnalia than ever the Romans did. From the moment Thanksgiving is over, all the traditional Christmas decorations begin to blossom forth in businesses, homes and streets, and we all enjoy (or sometimes suffer) an intense four-week celebration. Even the permitted sexual license survives-in attenuated form-in the tradition of kissing under the mistletoe. What we celebrate is a purely pagan festival presided over by Santa Claus-a comparatively modern invention, frozen into his present form in 1822, with the publication of “A Visit from St. Nicholas,” by Clement C. Moore.
Another modern myth that has grown up around Christmas is that it is a time of universal benevolence in which even the hardest heart will soften, a theme immortalized forever in Charles Dickens’s “A Christmas Carol,” first published in 1843.
As a result, whenever some despicable thing is done during the month of December, the general reaction is a disapproving “and at Christmastime, too,” as though it would be less despicable if done at any other time.
This, you may be sure, has not escaped the attention of crime writers. In their search for graphic wrongdoing, they need not stress violence or sex if they do not wish to; they need only place the deed in the month of December and draw attention to Christmas.
Consequently, we bring you a dozen fictional transgressions and misdeeds that are somehow associated with Christmas. If by any chance you feel a bit cloyed at that time of year and need a salutary counterweight to the saccharinity of the season (and which of us does not, now and then), here is the book for you.
So stretch out beside the Christmas tree and read.
CHRISTMAS PARTY by Rex Stout
America’s best-known fictional detective is most likely Rex Stout’s corpulent creation, Nero Wolfe. His New York brownstone, its inhabitants, his lifestyle and idiosyncracies are nearly as familiar to the reader as are Holmes’s digs at 221B Baker Street.
Stout was in love with the English language and a stickler (as is Nero Wolfe) for its correct usage. He used it gracefully, ingeniously and with good humor.
I
“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. I tried to sound sorry. “But I told you two days ago, Monday, that I had a date for Friday afternoon, and you said all right. So I’ll drive you to Long Island Saturday or Sunday.”
Nero Wolfe shook his head. “That won’t do. Mr. Thompson’s ship docks Friday morning, and he will be at Mr. Hewitt’s place only until Saturday noon, when he leaves for New Orleans. As you know, he is the best hybridizer in England, and I am grateful to Mr. Hewitt for inviting me to spend a few hours with him. As I remember, the drive takes about an hour and a half, so we should leave at twelve-thirty.”
I decided to count ten, and swiveled my chair, facing my desk, so as to have privacy for it. As usual when we have no important case going, we had been getting on each other’s nerves for a week, and I admit I was a little touchy, but his taking it for granted like that was a little too much. When I had finished the count I turned my head, to where he was perched on his throne behind his desk, and darned if he hadn’t gone back to his book, making it plain that he regarded it as settled. That was much too much. I swiveled my chair to confront him.
“I really am sorry,’’ I said, not trying to sound sorry, “but I have to keep that date Friday afternoon. It’s a Christmas party at the office of Kurt Bottweill-you remember him, we did a job for him a few months ago, the stolen tapestries. You may not remember a member of his staff named Margot Dickey, but I do. I have been seeing her some, and I promised her I’d go to the party. We never have a Christmas office party here. As for going to Long Island, your idea that a car is a death trap if I’m not driving it is unsound. You can take a taxi, or hire a Baxter man, or get Saul Panzer to drive you.”
Wolfe had lowered his book. “I hope to get some useful information from Mr. Thompson, and you will take notes.”
“Not if I’m not there. Hewitt’s secretary knows orchid terms as well as I do. So do you.”
I admit those last three words were a bit strong, but he shouldn’t have gone back to his book. His lips tightened. “Archie. How many times in the past year have I asked you to drive me somewhere?”
“If you call it asking, maybe eighteen or twenty.”
“Not excessive, surely. If my feeling that you alone are to be trusted at the wheel of a car is an aberration, I have it. We will leave for Mr. Hewitt’s place Friday at twelve-thirty.”
So there we were. I took a breath, but I didn’t need to count ten again. If he was to be taught a lesson, and he certainly needed one, luckily I had in my possession a document that would make it good. Reaching to my inside breast pocket, I took out a folded sheet of paper.
“I didn’t intend,” I told him, “to spring this on you until tomorrow, or maybe even later, but I guess it will have to be now. Just as well, I suppose.”
I left my chair, unfolded the paper, and handed it to him. He put his book down to take it, gave it a look, shot a glance at me, looked at the paper again, and let it drop on his desk.
He snorted. “Pfui. What flummery is this?”
“No flummery. As you see, it’s a marriage license for Archie Goodwin and Margot Dickey. It cost me two bucks. I could be mushy about it, but I won’t. I will only say that if I am hooked at last, it took an expert. She intends to spread the tidings at the Christmas office party, and of course I have to be there. When you announce you have caught a fish it helps to have the fish present in person. Frankly, I would prefer to drive you to Long Island, but it can’t be done.”
The effect was all I could have asked. He gazed at me through narrowed eyes long enough to count eleven, then picked up the document and gazed at it. He flicked it from him to the edge of the desk as if it were crawling with germs, and focused on me again.
“You are deranged,” he said evenly and distinctly. “Sit down.”
I nodded. “I suppose,” I agreed, remaining upright, “it’s a form of madness, but so what if I’ve got it? Like what Margot was reading to me the other night-some poet, I think it was some Greek-‘O love, resistless in thy might, thou triumphest even-’ ”
“Shut up and sit down!”
“Yes, sir.” I didn’t move. “But we’re not rushing it. We haven’t set the date, and there’ll be plenty of time to decide on adjustments. You may not want me here any more, but that’s up to you. As far as I’m concerned, I would like to stay. My long association with you has had its flaws, but I would hate to end it. The pay is okay, especially if I get a raise the first of the year, which is a week from Monday. I have grown to regard this old brownstone as my home, although you own it and although there are two creaky boards in the floor of my room. I appreciate working for the greatest private detective in the free world, no matter how eccentric he is. I appreciate being able to go up to the plant rooms whenever I feel like it and look at ten thousand orchids, especially the odontoglossums. I fully appreciate-”