The Elf Service, Episode 4

Marion Krimble attends (but does not enjoy) a charity ball at the Metropolitan hotel

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.

The Metropolitan Hotel was one of those hotels that everyone went to but at which no one seemed to stay.

All hotels are an odd mix of the public and the private. They are spaces where people come and go, only ever transient and at their most anonymous: strangers in a strange building, in a strange town; just passing through and of no fixed abode. But they are also home, floor after floor of temporary tiny homes, little private spaces where, in the midst of all that coming and going, private dramas can play out and private rests be taken, secret parties held and secret griefs nursed.

The Metropolitan was the epitome of this. The lobby teemed day and night - indeed you could spend a whole day in the hotel without ever wondering about all those private little lives stacked above and around you.

One might stop in at the coffee bar by the north doors for a pastry and an espresso to start the day, read the papers in the smoking room and spend a little time and a lot of money browsing the shops in the arcade that led to the south doors. Lunch in the restaurant and a thé dansant in the ballroom, cocktails on the roof and a late night in the cellar. If you were really industrious and planned your day carefully enough, you might even manage some work. Maybe write a letter in the library. But then the Metropolitan had its own cinema, even. It was easy to get distracted.

It was a place where people dawdled on their way to a rendezvous, and a place where people met on their way to dawdle. One might pop in to see the barber in the lobby for just a quick shave or spend a whole afternoon in the tea room letting the hours drift past to the chinking of spoons on china and the low murmur of gossip.

Or one might, in the time between afternoon tea and the theatre, attend a charity event in the ballroom. Indeed, here came Mr Marion Krimble, secretary of the city board of charity supervision, floating across the lobby of the Metropolitan on his way to a charity dinner in support of the Association for the Saving and Supervision of Historical and Outstanding Landmarks, an group that was almost never known by its initials, a-s-s-h-o-l, at least not by its members.

Krimble was not there, of course, to do something as frivolous as eat dinner, nor was he there in anything as serious as an official capacity, the board had functionaries for that. Krimble was there for the same reasons as the ladies were attending the Society for the Support of Distressed Gentlewomen, because it was a place he should be seen and all the people he wanted to see would be there.

Walter Burns, for example, the Editor of The Argus newspaper. He was there. He didn’t want to be there, he wasn’t enjoying himself being there, but he was there. Mrs Burns, the editor of Mr Burns, had insisted upon a front page splash, and so here he was, trussed up in a bowtie his theatre critic had had to tie for him, trying to look charitable and instead looking furtive.

The floor in the ballroom had been dotted about in round tables draped with napery and punctuated with floral displays that made talking across the table impossible. Instead everyone had to move from seat to seat and table to table if they wanted to talk to anyone. 

What’s more, someone with a wilful streak had been put in charge of the seating and had chosen to be imaginative with it and create unexpected and stimulating collections of people at each table. People had not expected to be stimulated at such an event and had taken exception to this unlooked for creativity.

So move they did. A constantly cycling maelstrom of people, hopping between seats, milling between tables, migrating in great sweeps between the hall and the bar.

And in the middle of it all, a still rock in a churning sea, Walter Burns, fiddling with his napkin.

There was barely a person in the room the Argus hadn’t written about and who didn’t want to talk to the editor about what had been written, and Burns didn’t want to talk to a single one of them. It was one of the reasons why he hadn’t wanted to come. That, and that he had thought it would be boring. He had been right about both reasons. All he could do was keep his head down and try not to let anyone catch his eye.

Mr Marion Krimble, however, had a way of intruding on one’s consciousness that defied denial. He was so thoroughly physically present, so relentlessly evident, that one couldn’t avoid him. His mere existence forced you to notice him. Moreover, he had little time for social niceties. He was not going to wait for you to catch his eye, to be asked to join a table, to be invited into a conversation. He was just going to come trickling up through the crowd, pull up a chair and start talking. Whether you liked it or not.

Walter Burns didn’t like it.

“Surprised to see you here, Burns,” said Krimble.

“Surprised to be here,” said Burns, ruefully, but Krimble was not listening.

“Interested in charity? You should be. Interesting business,” Krimble liked to think he spoke in a business-like manner. Burns thought it sounded like the gnomic telegrams his foreign correspondents liked to send: “Gunmen in streets. President shot. Send whiskey.” That kind of thing.

“This Santa letter business,” said Krimble, “This Irving Jefferson chap. That’s an interesting business.”

“Ha! The Elf Service! You hear what he called it?” said Burns, “The Elf Service. Kid knows how to get headlines, I’ll say that for him.”

“Entirely my point,” said Krimble.

“Oh dear,” said Burns, “You have a point, do you?”

“Publicity man, this Jefferson,” said Krimble.

“Is he now?” said Burns, mildly interested.

“I can tell,” said Krimble, “I’m sure of it.”

“But you don’t know,” said Burns.

“Publicity man,” said Krimble again, “Not a charity man. No history of it. Never heard of him. Highly suspicious. Is he trustworthy? I suspect not. Will the charity be competently run? I doubt it. Will the Argus investigate? I hope so.”

Walter Burns, on the other hand, thought not. Far from Krimble’s suspicions and rumours, Burns had a very firm idea of who got to decide whether the Argus investigated anything or not. He did. He was the editor, not Krimble.

“Well, why don’t you write a letter to Santa and see if the Elf Service can arrange it for you,” said Burns, “It’s a Christmas story, Krimble. Here for a month and then it's gone. Relax, enjoy the season, enjoy this… event. If you can.”

Before Krimble could press his suit further, a tall man in a slightly too large dinner jacket and a slightly too tailored goatee beard stepped up to the lectern on the stage at the head of the ballroom.

“Oh good,” said Burns, relieved at the interruption, “They’re starting.”

“Good evening,” said the man, “I am Professor Jasper Ewing and I would like to open tonight with a few words about the work the Association is doing on the old slaughterhouse.”

“Oh God,” said Burns in despair, “They’re starting.”

But Krimble had gone.

Where Krimble had gone was the bar. Not to drink, of course. Marion Krimble did drink but only when socially required and never more than two glasses. He had learned from bitter experience that after two glasses of anything he was liable to try and be friendly to people and he wasn’t very good at it, not having had the opportunity to practice much.

He was not alone in the bar. The few unsupervised husbands had made their escape and were hoping that no one would come looking for them until at least the first speech was over. It was already sounding like it was working up to be a long speech. The mood of the husbands relaxed a little.

One of them, at the far end, as deep into the shadows as he could get - and he was a man adept at lurking in shadows - was Captain of Police Bernard Ohls. It was a testament to his sense of duty that when Krimble inserted himself next to him, Ohls squared his shoulders and accepted his fate like a professional.

“Good evening, Councillor Krimble,” he said, “Not enjoying the speech?”

“Irving Jefferson,” said Krimble, dispensing, as ever, with the niceties, “Know him?”

“This Santa Claus letter fellow?” said Ohls, “No professionally, no. I read about him in the paper, though. Elf Service, did he call it? He’ll go far.”

“Precisely,” said Krimble, “Precisely. Publicity man, you see? Not a professional charity organiser. Amateur? Certainly. Slipshod? Most probably. Corrupt? That would be a matter for the law.”

“I am off duty, Councillor,” said Ohls, stoically.

“Misuse of funds?” said Krimble, “Fraud? Misrepresentation? Theft?”

“It's nice to have time off duty,” said Ohls, swirling his drink in his glass, “A break from all the paperwork, you know. Sorting the evidence, taking witness statements, establishing what crimes have been committed. All the boring stuff that goes into building a case, you know.”

 “In my professional opinion,” said Krimble, “Irving Jefferson could stand some investigating.”

“What I ought to be investigating,” said Captain Ohls, standing up from the bar, “Is whether my wife wants a drink.”

“I am simply offering some advice,” said Krimble, “From one professional to another.”

“My profession,” said Ohls, “Depends on yours. A public minded citizen tells us of a crime; that’s when we investigate. You ask McNulty here.”

The barman who had come to take Ohls’ empty glass jumped back guiltily.

“You think I didn’t recognise you, McNulty,” said Ohls, “With that… what is that on your face? Is that supposed to be a beard? Is that what you call an honest occupation? Growing that?

“You take McNulty here, Krimble, here’s a fellow who knows about fraud and theft. Used to go round old ladies posing as a tramp, begging meals, but really casing the place. Oh, he’d eat the food too, just that he’d be back later to rob what he hadn't scarfed.”

“I paid my dues,” said McNulty, warily.

“You did, you did,” said Ohls, “There’s my point, Krimble. You take this wily, resourceful fellow. You think a fellow like that doesn’t have something going on? Doesn’t know what’s what around this town? Of course he does. But until I have proof, until I have a crime, I can’t touch him, Krimble.

“Not that I would want to. Good night, gentlemen.” And Ohls trudged back to face the speech.

McNulty watched him go with a look of mixed revulsion and fear, like a weasel watching a wolf pass by, but Krimble was watching McNulty.

“Mr McNulty,” said Krimble, “A word with you.”

McNulty turned his hunted look on Krimble. Krimble attempted to soften his tone.

“As a professional to… ah… a professional,” said Krimble, “Mr McNulty, say you were to observe a man. Scrutinise him. Could you spot a - what would you call it - a scam? A racket? A fraud?”

“There’s no scam I don’t know,” said McNulty with a touch of pride and then remembered himself, “Not that I do that no more.”

“Of course,” said Krimble, “And I’m sure you are desirous of earning an honest income.”

McNulty seemed desirous.

“There is a man, Mr McNulty,” said Krimble, “I am sure he is running a scam but I need evidence. I need someone to scrutinise. I need someone to observe. For a consideration. A monetary consideration. Do you understand?”

McNulty understood.