The Elf Service, Episode 12

In which Maddie Sharp learns some sorry truths about Irving Jefferson

All over the city children post letters to Santa Claus and they go undelivered and unanswered. Until Irving Jefferson founds the Elf Service, that is. The Elf Service is the story of charity, journalism and mayhem, the extraordinary story of an extraordinary young man, his extraordinary plan to make Christmas happen for the children of his city and all the extraordinary ways in which that plan goes extraordinarily wrong.

“Over!” Walter Burns, editor of the Argus, threw a copy of that morning’s edition on his desk with a slap like a dead fish hitting a slab, “It’s on every front page in the city and you tell me it’s over!”

The editor of the Argus was not happy. But then he was never happier than when he wasn’t happy. Running a paper was his livelihood but complaining about it was his passion, his calling. No one could rail and rant like Walter Burns. A whole lifetime of composing headlines had given him a talent for explosive and exhilarating expostulations. The only reason he worked late, staff suspected, was that Mrs Burns wouldn’t allow shouting in the house, and so he had to get his daily quota done in the office.

“A Santa Building!” A copy of the Post followed the copy of the Argus, “Family reunions!” A copy of the Courier slammed down, “Over is it?” The copy of the Telegram hit the desk so hard it bounced up and smacked Burns in the face.

“Hard hitting news,” said Maddie Sharp, unperturbed by this outburst.

“Every editor of every paper,” Burns’ voice rattled the glass in his office door, making his own name, painted on it in gold, vibrate in sympathy, “Every journalist of every editor of every paper, thinks this is a front page story except the one hack who broke it in the first place!”

“It's over and you know it,” said Maddie, “This is pure publicity, the desperate puffery of a man who can see Christmas approaching and with it, the end of his face on the front page. It’s all just puff.”

“Puff!” Burns gathered up the papers and threw them into the air over his head, so that they flapped heavily down around him like shot birds, “A whole building he’s making of puff! A father of puff for a lost orphan! A Christmas of puff!”

“Sure it is,” said Maddie, “And I’ll prove it to you.”

“Oh, don’t feel you need to do any work,” said Burns, “You wouldn’t want to do anything that might make me happy.”

“Now we both know neither of us want that,” said Maddie on her way out of the door, “Though I must admit I’m curious to see what it might look like.”

The door closed behind her and Burns smiled a secret smile to himself, then inhaled, ready to shout as the door opened again.

“And just in case you were congratulating yourself on your reverse psychology working,” said Maddie, “I was looking into it already.”

And she was gone.

Where she was gone were the council offices.

City Hall was up in the Old Town, where it had always been, but it was a soot blackened, crenellated thing that looked like the sort of grim fortress in which princesses were locked up. Children ran past it holding their breath and no one wanted to work in it, so the main council offices were in the New Town in one of those sepulchral mausoleums like the Post Office.

But those weren’t where Maddie was going. Way down at the bottom of the hill, down by the docks on the river, a new business district was starting to sprout up, and among the new buildings was a featureless, gleaming white block of council offices.

For many council officials being sent to this new building was like being sent into exile in some remote border town, constantly besieged by the pirates from the harbour, far away from the civilised buildings of the New Town or the haunted antiquity of the Old.

But for some this new development was a vision of the future. A whole new idea of what the city could be. And one of those people was Councillor Marion Krimble.

And it was Krimble that Maddie was on her way to see.

Part of what Krimble liked about the new offices, Maddie suspected, is that few journalists ever bothered making their way all the way down there. Few anybody did, in fact, and he could get on with whatever he was getting on with without anyone noticing or interfering.

But be an office ever so new and removed, there was no place that Maddie Sharp couldn’t get into if she wanted to and the great advantage of huge anonymous office like that was that once you were in and wandering the corridors, everyone just assumed you were supposed to be there.

Krimble was not such an enemy of tradition, it transpired, that he was going to refuse a corner office at the top of the building. Maddie trudged up echoing staircases that smelled of new paint and wandered down long, lino laid corridors, poking her nose into open doors just out of a sense of professional obligation. Finally she found a tiny, rattling lift and took a ride up to the top floor with a young man who, despite the cramped conditions, managed not to notice her at all. She wasn’t sure whether to feel slighted or smug.

The floors up here were carpeted and there was a muffled air of restraint. Somewhere someone spoke in a low tone and a door opened and quickly closed, embarrassed by the sound of typing that banged out. Through a window at the far end of the corridor, the river glittered in the cold sun, winding away under the dramatic spans of the bridge.

Maddie was just considering her next move when a door opened at the other end of the corridor and Krimble’s voice said, clearly,

“...Keep me informed. Everything. Understand?”

Maddie turned and was delighted to be presented with the sight of the unflappable Councillor Krimble flapped. He saw Maddie and stopped and, for a brief, happy moment, she thought he was going to jump back in the office and hide.

The reason for this reaction was the man coming out of the office in front of the Councillor. A mournful, middle-aged man with a scrubby beard, holding a shapeless hat in his hand like an apology. A man whose photograph had been on the front page of every one of those newspapers Burns had been throwing around his office.

“Mr McNulty,” said Maddie, cheerfully, “Councillor Krimble, how convenient.”

Krimble put a hand on McNulty’s arm, pulling him back behind him and stepped forward into the corridor.

“Miss Sharp, isn’t it?” said Krimble, collecting himself, “Of the Argus? Convenient indeed.”

Councillor Krimble might not have liked to be looked over, but he also did not like to be overlooked. He was not afraid of a front page himself, in fact he knew it to be a requisite of his career.

“Most convenient,” he said, “Like a story, Miss Sharp? A good one?”

“Even a bad one,” said Maddie.

There were big arched windows on two sides of Krimble’s office. One looked downstream over the river. From up here the water looked almost blue, fading into the far purple of mountains at the edge of the sea.

Maddie felt it was significant that he had placed his desk in front of the other window, which looked out over the city. Below them the small streets straggled up the hill towards the New Town, above which towered the crag of the Old Town, dark in the distance. In order to frame himself against the city he had to turn his back on it.

What he turned his face to, she noticed, was a big glass-fronted cabinet against the wall opposite the window. It was full of trophies and medals and Maddie knew without looking that everyone one of them would have the Councilor’s name on.

Krimble trotted round his desk to where he felt more safely in command of the room and waved Maddie and McNulty to chairs.

“McNulty has a story,” he said, “He told it to me. You should hear it. About the Elf Service.”

Maddie smiled and nodded and did not say anything and McNulty waded into the silence.

“I aren’t the girl’s father,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Leastways I don’t think so,” he said, hurriedly, “Not that I know of.”

“Attack of conscience, McNulty,” said Krimble, trying to grasp control of the conversation.

“I’m awful sorry,” said McNulty, turning his hat over convulsively.

“Attack of conscience,” said Krimble, “Came to me to confess.”

Maddie look concerned.

“He has defrauded the Elf Service,” said Krimble.

“I’m awful sorry,” said McNulty apparently for lack of anything more useful to say.

“He has misrepresented himself,” said Krimble. Maddie suspected that an accurate representation of Mr McNulty would not be terribly flattering.

“Jefferson, of the Elf Service, has claimed this man is the father of an orphan child,” said Krimble, seeing that McNulty had no more to offer, “He is not. He is a conman. He is known to the police as such, I believe.” 

“I paid my dues,” said McNulty.

“And he has admitted his guilt. To me,” said Krimble, and then added with an air of magnanimous dignity, “The city shall not press charges.”

“Not going to press charges,” said Maddie, “Just going to ruin a little girl’s Christmas?”

“Not the city,” said Krimble, “Jefferson. Of the Elf Service.”

“Not McNulty?” said Maddie.

“I’m awful sorry,” said McNulty.

“Not McNulty,” said Krimble, “Jefferson. An amateur. City is full of criminals, con men. With an eye to the main chance. Give them an inch and they will take the mile. Jefferson has given them the inch. Not professional, not at all. Whole project is open to exploitation. Corruption too. This needs to be taken seriously.”

Was there anything that Krimble didn’t take seriously, Maddie wondered.

“I’m awful…” said McNulty, but Maddie cut him off.

“Don’t apologise to me,” she said, “Apologise to that little girl. Again.”

Walter Burns was, as Maddie had expected, not happy.

“Pulled the wool over our eyes,” he brandished the newspaper with a picture of Jefferson at her, “My eyes! Me, editor of the Argus! I put him on the front page and how does he repay me?”

“By getting conned,” said Maddie.

“By conning the whole city!” said Burns.

“Nuts,” said Maddie.

“Nuts?” said Burns.

“Nuts,” she said again, “Look, much as it pains me to say it, Krimble’s right, this city is full of shysters and fast-talkers, it’s hardly a secret. Hell, we’re even proud of it. Half of the reason that Jefferson’s on the front page is that he’s managed to talk himself there. We like a man on the make.”

“He’s making fools of us,” said Burns.

“He’s being made a fool of,” said Maddie, “It was bound to happen. His whole scheme depends on the good will of others and the moment you start depending on good will, someone bad will make good on it.”

“When did you get so cynical?” said Burns.

“Since I started working for you,” said Maddie.

“So, I taught you something, eh?” said Burns.

“You taught me to be cynical about everything you say,” said Maddie, “Including that. Listen, let me talk to Jefferson before you publish, let’s get his side of the story.”

“When did you get so big-hearted?” said Burns.

“Since I had to sit in a room and listen to Krimble gloat,” she said, “I might think he’s right, but I don’t think he’s ok. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, he’s a pill. He’s never liked Jefferson from the start. Doesn’t like his organisation, doesn’t like his popularity, doesn’t like him. He’s been looking for a way to get to him the whole time and he thinks he’s found it. I’d like to not give him the satisfaction, if I can.”

“If you can find a way to disappoint Marion Krimble,” said Burns, “I’d be a very happy man.”

“I thought we’d agreed we didn’t want that,” said Maddie, on the way out the door.