Maud clicked her tongue in disapproval.

Polly began to giggle.

"I can't begin to understand the workings of your mysterious ways," Frank insisted on going on, "because if there really is someone up there he should have made d.a.m.ned sure my brother Ted was sitting at this table today."

Maud said, "That's enough, Frank! Sit down."

Frank said, "Amen. Where's the carving knife?"

Wendy handed it to him, and he attended to the task, cutting thick slices and heaping them on the plates held by his mother. "That's for Polly. She likes it steaming hot."

Polly giggled again.

The plates were distributed around the table.

Not to be outdone in convivial wit, Polly said, "You've gone overboard on the breast, Frankie dear. I thought you were a leg man."

Maud said tersely, "You should know."

"Careful, Mum," Frank cautioned, wagging the knife. "Goodwill to all men."

Polly said, "Only if they behave themselves."

A voice piped up, "Bill Slater says that-"

"Be quiet, Norman!" Wendy ordered.

They ate in heavy silence, save for Frank's animalistic chewing and swallowing. The first to finish, he quickly filled his gla.s.s with more beer.

"Dad?"

"Yes, son."

"Would we have won the war without the Americans?"

"The Yanks?" Frank scoffed. "Bunch of part-timers, son. They only came into it after men like me and your Uncle Ted had done all the real fighting. Just like the other war, the one my old Dad won. They waited till 1917. Isn't that a fact, Mum? Americans? Where were they at Dunkirk? Where were they in Africa? I'll tell you where they were-sitting on their fat backsides a couple of thousand miles away."

"From what I remember, Frank," Maud interjected. "You were sitting on yours in the snug-bar of the Valiant Trooper."

"That was different!" Frank protested angrily. "Ted and I didn't get called up until 1943. And when we were, we did our share. We chased Jerry all the way across Europe, right back to the bunker. Ted and me, brothers in arms, fighting for King and country. Ready to make the ultimate sacrifice. If Dad could have heard what you said just then, Mum, he'd turn in his grave."

Maud said icily, "That would be difficult, seeing that he's in a pot on my mantelpiece."

Polly burst into helpless laughter and almost choked on a roast potato. It was injudicious of her.

"Belt up, will you?" Frank demanded. "We're talking about the sacred memory of your dead husband. My brother."

"Sorry, Frank." Polly covered her mouth with her hands. "I don't know what came over me. Honest."

"You have no idea, you women," Frank went on. "G.o.d knows what you got up to, while we were winning the war."

"Anyway," said Norman, "Americans have chewing gum. And jeeps."

Fortunately, at this moment Frank was being distracted.

Wendy whispered in Norman's ear and they both began clearing the table, but Maud put her hand over Wendy's. She said, "Why don't you sit down? You've done more than enough. I'll fetch the pudding and custard. I'd like to get up for a while. It's beginning to get a little warm in here."

Polly offered to help. "It is my pudding, after all." But she didn't mean to get up because, unseen by the others, she had her hand on Frank's thigh.

Maud said, "I'll manage."

Norman asked, "Is it a proper pudding?"

"I don't know what you mean by proper," said Polly. "It used up most of my rations when I made it. They have to mature, do puddings. This one is two years old. It should be delicious. There was only one drawback. In 1944, I didn't have a man at home to help me stir the ingredients." She gave Frank a coy smile.

Ignoring it, Wendy said, "When Norman asked if it was a proper pudding, I think he wanted to know if he might find a lucky sixpence inside."

With a simper, Polly said, "He might, if he's a good boy, like his dad. Of course it's a proper pudding."

Frank quipped, "What about the other sort? Do you ever make an improper pudding?"

Before anyone could stop him, Norman said, "You should know, Dad." His reflexes were too quick for his drunken father's, and the swinging blow missed him completely.

"You'll pay for that remark, my son," Frank shouted. "You'll wash your mouth out with soap and water and then I'll beat your backside raw."

Wendy said quickly, "The boy doesn't know what he's saying, Frank. It's Christmas. Let's forgive and forget, shall we?"

He turned his anger on her. "And I know very well who puts these ideas in the boy's head. And spreads the filthy rumours all over town. You can have your Christmas Day, Wendy. Make the most of it, because tomorrow I'm going to teach you why they call it Boxing Day."

Maud entered the suddenly silent front room carrying the dark, upturned pudding decorated with a sprig of holly. "Be an angel and fetch the custard, Norman."

The boy was thankful to run out to the kitchen.

Frank glanced at the pudding and then at Polly and then grinned. "What a magnificent sight!" He was staring at her cleavage.

Polly beamed at him, fully herself again, her morale restored by the humiliation her sister-in-law had just suffered. "The proof of the pudding ..." she murmured.

"We'll see if 1944 was a vintage year," said Frank.

Maud sliced and served the pudding, giving Norman an extra large helping. The pudding was a delicious one, as Polly had promised, and there were complimentary sounds all round the table.

Norman sifted the rich, fruity ma.s.s with his spoon, hoping for one of those coveted silver sixpenny pieces. But Frank was the first to find one.

"You can have a wish. Whatever you like, lucky man," said Polly in a husky, suggestive tone.

Frank's thoughts were in another direction. "I wish," he said sadly, holding the small coin between finger and thumb, "I wish G.o.d's peace to my brother Ted, rest his soul. And I wish a Happy Christmas to all the blokes who fought with us and survived. And G.o.d rot all our enemies. And the b.l.o.o.d.y Yanks, come to that."

"That's about four wishes," Polly said, "and it won't come true if you tell everyone."

Wendy felt the sharp edge of a sixpence in her mouth, and removed it unnoticed by the others. She wished him out of her life, with all her heart.

Norman finally found his piece of the pudding's buried treasure. He spat the coin onto his plate and then examined it closely. "Look at this!" he said in surprise. "It isn't a sixpence. It doesn't have the King's head."

"Give it here." Frank picked up the silver coin. "Jesus Christ! He's right. It's a dime. An American dime. How the h.e.l.l did that get in the pudding?"

All eyes turned to Polly for an explanation. She stared wide-eyed at Frank. She was speechless.

Frank was not. He had reached his own conclusion. "I'll tell you exactly how it got in there," he said, thrusting it under Polly's nose. "You've been stirring it up with a Yank. There was a GI base down the road, wasn't there? When did you say you made the pudding? 1944?"

He rose from the table, spittle flying as he ranted. Norman slid from his chair and hid under the table, clinging in fear to his mother's legs. He saw his father's heavy boots turned towards Polly, whose legs braced. The hem of her dress was quivering.

Frank's voice boomed around the small room. "Ted and I were fighting like b.l.o.o.d.y heroes while you were having it off with Americans. Wh.o.r.e!"

Norman saw a flash of his father's hand as it reached into the fireplace and picked up a poker. He heard the women scream, then a sickening thump.

The poker fell to the floor. Polly's legs jerked once and then appeared to relax. One of her arms flopped down and remained quite still. A drop of blood fell from the table edge. Presently there was another. Then it became a trickle. A crimson pool formed on the wooden floor.

Norman ran out of the room. Out of the house. Out into the cold afternoon, leaving the screams behind. He ran across the street and beat on a neighbour's door with his fists. His frantic cries of "Help, murder!" filled the street. Within a short time an interested crowd in party hats had surrounded him. He pointed in horror to his own front door as his blood-stained father charged out and lurched towards him.

It took three men to hold Frank Morris down, and five policemen to take him away. The last of the policemen didn't leave the house until long after Norman should have gone to bed. His mother and his grandmother sat silent for some time in the kitchen, unable to stay in the front room, even though Polly's body had been taken away.

"He's not going to come back, is he, Mum?"

Wendy shook her head. She was only beginning to think about what happened next. There would be a trial, of course, and she would try to shield Norman from the publicity. He was so impressionable.

"Will they hang him?"

"I think it's time for your bed, young man," Maud said. "You've got to be strong. Your mum will need your support more than ever now."

The boy asked, "How did the dime get in the pudding, Grandma Morris?"

Wendy snapped out of her thoughts of what was to come and stared at her mother-in-law.

Maud went to the door, and for a moment it appeared as if she was reaching to put on her coat prior to leaving, but she had already promised to stay the night. Actually she was taking something from one of the pockets.

It was a Christmas card, a little bent at the edges now. Maud handed it to Wendy. "It was marked 'private and confidential' but it had my name, you see. I opened it thinking it was for me. It came last week. The address was wrong. They made a mistake over the house number. The postman delivered it to the wrong Mrs. Morris."

Wendy took the card and opened it.

"The saddest thing is," Maud continued to speak as Wendy read the message inside, "he is the only son I have left, but I really can't say I'm sorry it turned out this way. I know what he did to you, Wendy. His father did the same to me for nearly forty years. I had to break the cycle. I read the card, love. I had no idea. I couldn't let this chance pa.s.s by. For your sake, and the boy's."

A tear rolled down Wendy's cheek. Norman watched as the two women hugged. The card drifted from Wendy's lap and he pounced on it immediately. His eager eyes scanned every word.

My Darling Wendy, Since returning home, my thoughts are filled with you, and the brief time we shared together. It's kind of strange to admit, but I sometimes catch myself wishing the Germans made you a widow. I can't stand to think of you with any other guy.

My heart aches for news of you. Not a day goes by when I don't dream of being back in your arms. My home, and my heart, will always be open for you.

Take care and keep safe, Nick Nick Saint, (Ex-33rd US Reserve) 221C Plover Avenue Mountain Home Idaho P.S. The dime is a tiny Christmas present for Norman to remember me by.

Norman looked up at his grandmother and understood what she had done, and why. He didn't speak. He could keep a secret as well as a grown-up. He was the man of the house now, at least until they got to America.

THE ADVENTURE OF THE DAUPHIN'S DOLL.

Ellery Queen.

IN A BRILLIANT MARKETING DECISION, the cousins who collaborated under the pseudonym Ellery Queen (Frederic Dannay and Manfred B. Lee) also named their detective Ellery Queen. They reasoned that if readers forgot the name of the author or the name of the character, they might remember the other. It worked, as Ellery Queen is counted among the handful of best-known names in the history of mystery fiction. More than a dozen movies, as well as several radio and television shows, were based on Queen books. "The Adventure of the Dauphin's Doll" was first published in the December 1948 issue of Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.

The Adventure of the Dauphin's Doll.

ELLERY QUEEN.

THERE IS A LAW AMONG STORYTELLERS, originally pa.s.sed by Editors at the cries (they say) of their const.i.tuents, which states that stories about Christmas shall have children in them. This Christmas story is no exception; indeed, misopedists will complain that we have overdone it. And we confess in advance that this is also a story about Dolls, and that Santa Claus comes into it, and even a Thief; though as to this last, whoever he was-and that was one of the questions-he was certainly not Barabbas, even parabolically.

Another section of the statute governing Christmas stories provides that they shall incline towards Sweetness and Light. The first arises, of course, from the orphans and the never-souring savor of the annual Miracle; as for Light, it will be provided at the end, as usual, by that luminous prodigy, Ellery Queen. The reader of gloomier temper will also find a large measure of Darkness, in the person and works of one who, at least in Inspector Queen's hara.s.sed view, was surely the winged Prince of that region. His name, by the way, was not Satan, it was Comus; and this is paradox enow, since the original Comus, as everyone knows, was the G.o.d of festive joy and mirth, emotions not commonly a.s.sociated with the Underworld. As Ellery struggled to embrace his phantom foe, he puzzled over this non sequitur in vain; in vain, that is, until Nikki Porter, no scorner of the obvious, suggested that he might seek the answer where any ordinary mortal would go at once. And there, to the great man's mortification, it was indeed to be found: On page 262b of Volume 6, Coleb to Damasci, of the 175th Anniversary edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. A French conjuror of that name-Comus-performing in London in the year 1789 caused his wife to vanish from the top of a table-the very first time, it appeared, that this feat, uxorial or otherwise, had been accomplished without the aid of mirrors. To track his dark adversary's nom de nuit to its historic lair gave Ellery his only glint of satisfaction until that blessed moment when light burst all around him and exorcised the darkness, Prince and all.

But this is chaos.

Our story properly begins not with our invisible character but with our dead one.

Miss Ypson had not always been dead; au contraire. She had lived for seventy-eight years, for most of them breathing hard. As her father used to remark, "She was a very active little verb." Miss Ypson's father was a professor of Greek at a small Midwestern university. He had conjugated his daughter with the rather bewildered a.s.sistance of one of his brawnier students, an Iowa poultry heiress.

Professor Ypson was a man of distinction. Unlike most professors of Greek, he was a Greek professor of Greek, having been born Gerasymos Aghamos Ypsilonomon in Polykhnitos, on the island of Mytilini, "where," he was fond of recalling on certain occasions, "burning Sappho loved and sung"-a quotation he found unfailingly useful in his extracurricular activities; and, the h.e.l.lenic ideal notwithstanding, Professor Ypson believed wholeheartedly in immoderation in all things. This hereditary and cultural background explains the professor's interest in fatherhood-to his wife's chagrin, for Mrs. Ypson's own breeding prowess was confined to the barnyards on which her income was based-a fact of which her husband sympathetically reminded her whenever he happened to sire another wayward chick; he held their daughter to be nothing less than a biological miracle.

The professor's mental processes also tended to confuse Mrs. Ypson. She never ceased to wonder why instead of shortening his name to Ypson, her husband had not sensibly changed it to Jones. "My dear," the professor once replied, "you are an Iowa sn.o.b." "But n.o.body," Mrs. Ypson cried, "can spell it or p.r.o.nounce it!" "This is a cross," murmured Professor Ypson, "which we must bear with Ypsilanti." "Oh," said Mrs. Ypson.

There was invariably something Sibylline about his conversation. His favorite adjective for his wife was "ypsiliform," a term, he explained, which referred to the germinal spot at one of the fecundation stages in a ripening egg and which was, therefore, exquisitely a propos. Mrs. Ypson continued to look bewildered; she died at an early age.

And the professor ran off with a Kansas City variety girl of considerable talent, leaving his baptized chick to be reared by an eggish relative of her mother's, a Presbyterian named Jukes.

The only time Miss Ypson heard from her father-except when he wrote charming and erudite little notes requesting, as he termed it, lucrum-was in the fourth decade of his odyssey, when he sent her a handsome addition to her collection, a terra cotta play doll of Greek origin over three thousand years old which, unhappily, Miss Ypson felt duty-bound to return to the Brooklyn museum from which it had unaccountably vanished. The note accompanying her father's gift had said, whimsically: "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes."

There was poetry behind Miss Ypson's dolls. At her birth the professor, ever harmonious, signalized his devotion to fecundity by naming her Cytherea. This proved the Olympian irony. For, it turned out, her father's philo-progenitiveness throbbed frustrate in her mother's stony womb; even though Miss Ypson interred five husbands of quite adequate vigor, she remained infertile to the end of her days. Hence it is cla.s.sically tragic to find her, when all pa.s.sion was spent, a sweet little old lady with a vague if eager smile who, under the name of her father, pattered about a vast and echoing New York apartment playing enthusiastically with dolls.

In the beginning they were dolls of common clay: a Billiken, a kewpie, a Kathe Kruse, a Patsy, a Foxy Grandpa, and so forth. But then, as her need increased, Miss Ypson began her fierce sack of the past.

Down into the land of Pharaoh she went for two pieces of thin desiccated board, carved and painted and with hair of strung beads, and legless-so that they might not run away-which any connoisseur will tell you are the most superb specimens of ancient Egyptian paddle doll extant, far superior to those in the British Museum, although this fact will be denied in certain quarters.

Miss Ypson unearthed a foremother of "Let.i.tia Penn," until her discovery held to be the oldest doll in America, having been brought to Philadelphia from England in 1699 by William Penn as a gift for a playmate of his small daughter's. Miss Ypson's find was a wooden-hearted "little lady" in brocade and velvet which had been sent by Sir Walter Raleigh to the first English child born in the New World. Since Virginia Dare had been born in 1587, not even the Smithsonian dared impugn Miss Ypson's triumph.

On the old lady's racks, in her plate-gla.s.s cases, might be seen the wealth of a thousand childhoods, and some riches-for such is the genetics of dolls-possessed by children grown. Here could be found "fashion babies" from fourteenth century France, sacred dolls of the Orange Free State Fingo tribe, Satsuma paper dolls and court dolls from old j.a.pan, beady-eyed "Kalifa" dolls of the Egyptian Sudan, Swedish birch-bark dolls, "Katcina" dolls of the Hopis, mammoth-tooth dolls of the Eskimos, feather dolls of the Chippewa, tumble dolls of the ancient Chinese, Coptic bone dolls, Roman dolls dedicated to Diana, pantin dolls which had been the street toys of Parisian exquisites before Madame Guillotine swept the boulevards, early Christian dolls in their creches representing the Holy Family-to specify the merest handful of Miss Ypson's Briarean collection. She possessed dolls of pasteboard, dolls of animal skin, spool dolls, crab-claw dolls, eggsh.e.l.l dolls, cornhusk dolls, rag dolls, pine-cone dolls with moss hair, stocking dolls, dolls of bisque, dolls of palm leaf, dolls of papier-mache, even dolls made of seed pods. There were dolls forty inches tall, and there were dolls so little Miss Ypson could hide them in her gold thimble.

Cytherea Ypson's collection bestrode the centuries and took tribute of history. There was no greater-not the fabled playthings of Montezuma, or Victoria's, or Eugene Field's; not the collection at the Metropolitan, or the South Kensington, or the royal palace in old Bucharest, or anywhere outside the enchantment of little girls' dreams.