‘Oh,‘ says she, ‘we’ve set yours aside for you—Jem’s bird, we call it. It’s the big white one over yonder. There’s twenty-six of them, which makes one for you, and one for us, and two dozen for the market.‘
‘Thank you, Maggie, ‘ says I; ‘but if it is all the same to you, I’d rather have that one I was handling just now.‘
‘The other is a good three pound heavier, ‘ said she, ‘and we fattened it expressly for you.‘
‘Never mind. I’ll have the other, and I’ll take it now,‘ said I.
‘Oh. just as you like. ‘ said she, a little huffed. ‘Which is it you want,
then?’
‘That white one with the barred tail, right in the middle of the flock.‘
‘Oh. very well. Kill it and take it with you.‘
“Well, I did what she said, Mr. Holmes, and I carried the bird all the way to Kilburn. I told my pal what I had done, for he was a man that it was easy to tell a thing like that to. He laughed until he choked, and we got a knife and opened the goose. My heart turned to water, for there was no sign of the stone, and I knew that some terrible mistake had occurred. I left the bird, rushed back to my sister’s, and hurried into the back yard. There was not a bird to be seen there.
‘Where are they all, Maggie?’ I cried.
‘Gone to the dealer’s, Jem.‘
‘Which dealer’s?’
‘Breckinridge, of Covent Garden.‘
‘But was there another with a barred tail?’ I asked, ‘the same as the one I chose?’
‘Yes, Jem; there were two barred-tailed ones, and I could never tell them apart.‘
“Well, then, of course I saw it all, and I ran off as hard as my feet would carry me to this man Breckinridge; but he had sold the lot at once, and not one word would he tell me as to where they had gone. You heard him yourselves tonight. Well, he has always answered me like that. My sister thinks that I am going mad. Sometimes I think that I am myself. And now—and now I am myself a branded thief, without ever having touched the wealth for which I sold my character. God help me! God help me!” He burst into convulsive sobbing, with his face buried in his hands.
There was a long silence, broken only by his heavy breathing, and by the measured tapping of Sherlock Holmes’s finger-tips upon the edge of the table. Then my friend rose and threw open the door.
“Get out!” said he.
“What, sir! Oh, Heaven bless you!”
“No more words. Get out!”
And no more words were needed. There was a rush, a clatter upon the stairs, the bang of a door, and the crisp rattle of running footfalls from the street.
“After all, Watson,” said Holmes, reaching up his hand for his clay pipe, “I am not retained by the police to supply their deficiencies. If Horner were in danger it would be another thing; but this fellow will not appear against him, and the case must collapse. I suppose that I am commuting a felony, but it is just possible that I am saving a soul. This fellow will not go wrong again; he is too terribly frightened. Send him to jail now, and you make him a jail-bird for life. Besides, it is the season of forgiveness. Chance has put in our way a most singular and whimsical problem, and its solution is its own reward. If you will have the goodness to touch the bell, Doctor, we will begin another investigation, in which, also, a bird will be the chief feature.”
THE EMBEZZLER’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT – Ennis Duling
Entire mornings could pass at the First National Bank without anyone speaking to Herb Cubbey about anything that wasn’t business. Checks were cashed, and money was entered in personal accounts at the window where Herb worked. Customers were rewarded with a nod and a barely audible thank you. At the end of the day his records were always in perfect order.
Twenty-five-year-old Sue Rigney, who worked two windows away, thought that Herb moved around the bank as if he were a frightened herbivore (she liked the pun) in a jungle of meateaters. He might have blended into a paneled wall, his brown bow tie and the pattern of his remaining hair serving as protective coloration. Like a mouse at the cat’s water dish, he poured water for tea, allowed it to steep weakly, and then darted away, leaving only the spore of the tea bag. Sue noticed that he used a tea bag more than once.
Sue had heard the other tellers and the secretaries discussing Herb’s personal life. He spent his evenings at home with his widowed mother, and that was the sum of his life. Probably he kept a goldfish, watched the same television shows each week, and made his mother breakfast in bed on Sundays.
The secretaries made occasional jokes about Herb’s saintly mother, but he was such little game that they usually found other targets such as the newly appointed assistant manager, Edward Bridgewright. who at thirty- three was exactly Herb’s age. In fact, they had both entered the bank’s employ at the same time, and while Herb remained at his original position. Bridgewright had risen to better things.
One morning before opening, a group of secretaries and tellers gathered near the coffee machine and talked about the Christmas presents they were giving their boyfriends and husbands. When Herb appeared, Sue, who at the moment had no boyfriend and wanted to keep the fact a secret, said, “What are you giving your mother for Christmas, Herb?”
Herb squeezed his tea bag between two spoons. “I really shouldn’t say.”
“Aw, come on, Herb,” Dot Levin said. After twenty years at the bank, she liked to play mother to the younger employees. “Your mother is such a wonderful woman.” Sue wished she hadn’t said anything.
“I know I shouldn’t tell you this,” Herb said, “but I’m giving her ten thousand dollars.” The water in his cup had turned a light amber. “Merry Christmas to you all.” He looked down at his cup as he balanced it in retreat.
“Did he say ten thousand?” Dot asked.
“Where would the little man get that kind of money?” said Jan Washington, a strikingly beautiful black woman.
At that moment Mr. Bridgewright stepped out of the elevator and marched toward the conversation. “Girls, girls, girls, this is no time to stand around and talk. Back to work!”
“This is my break time, Mr. Bridgewright,” Sue said.
He gave her one of his sincere smiles, the type she always saw before he asked her for a date.
“And Herb Cubbey has lots of money,” Paula Kimble said.
“No, he doesn’t. Work!”
Sue slipped away with the rest of them.
In the parking lot after closing. Herb’s money was again the topic of conversation. “Maybe the man lied,” Jan suggested.
“No!” Sue insisted. She thought that Herb deserved his privacy as much as anyone. She hated it when the others started to pry into her life.
“Herbert has never told a lie since he was born,” Paula said. “He’s afraid his mommy might slap his hand.”
“Then he inherited it,” Sue said.
John Franks from the trust department said, “I drove him home two years ago during the bus strike. He lives over in Bultman Village. You know those little bungalows built back in the Roaring Twenties. They looked better then, I imagine. He asked me in, and the old lady served me tea and biscuits. She looked like she was posing for a painting with her knitting. She kept telling me how hard it was to make ends meet and how her husband had been a wonderful man but didn’t have a head for money. No, Herb didn’t have any money then.”
“A rich uncle,” Sue said.
“A man like that with no idea in the world of how to spend money would be lucky enough to have an uncle leave him a bundle,” Dot said.
“Worry not, ladies,” John said. “I see Herb coming now. I’ll just ask him.”
As Herb walked by, he touched his hat. John said, “Sorry to hear about your relative dying like that, Mr. Cubbey. Your uncle, wasn’t it?”
Herb glanced down. “You must be mistaken, Mr. Franks. My family has excellent health, except for my father,
