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“All right, all right, all right,” said Hackleman irritably. “Forget it. Never mind.” He was more nervous than I’d ever seen him be before. He drummed on his desk with his fingers, and jumped at unexpected sounds.

“You have something special against him?” I asked. It wasn’t like Hackleman to go after anyone with such zeal. Ordinarily, he never seemed to care whether justice or crime won out. What interested him were the good news stories that came out of the conflict. “After all, the guy really is going straight.”

“Forget it,” said Hackleman. Suddenly, he broke his pencil in two, stood up, and strode out, hours before his usual departure time.

The next day was my day off. I would have slept till noon, but a paper boy was selling extras under my bedroom window. The headline was huge and black, and spelled one terrible word: KIDNAPPED! The story below said that plaster images of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph had been stolen from Mr. J. Sprague Fleetwood, and that he had offered a reward of one thousand dollars for information leading to their return before the judging of the Annual Christmas Outdoor Lighting Contest on Christmas Eve.

Hackleman called a few minutes later. I was to come to the office at once to help trace down the clues that were pouring in.

The police complained that, if there were any clues, hordes of amateur detectives had spoiled them. But there was no pressure at all on the police to solve the robbery. By evening the search had become a joyful craze that no one escaped—that no one wanted to escape. And the search was for the people to make, not for the police.

Throngs went from door to door, asking if anyone had seen the infant Jesus.

Movie theaters played to empty houses, and a local radio giveaway program said mournfully that nobody seemed to be home in the evenings to answer the telephone.

Thousands insisted on searching the only stable in the city, and the owner made a small fortune selling them hot chocolate and doughnuts. An enterprising hotel bought a full-page ad, declaring that if anyone found Jesus and Mary and Joseph, here was an inn that would make room for them.

The lead story in every edition of the paper dealt with the search and every edition was a sellout.

Hackleman remained as sarcastic and cynical and efficient as ever.

“It’s a miracle,” I told him. “By taking this little story and blowing it up big, you’ve made Christmas live.”

Hackleman shrugged apathetically. “Just happened to come along when news was slow. If something better comes along, and I hope it will, I’ll drop this one right out of sight. It’s about time somebody was running berserk with an automatic shotgun in a kindergarten isn’t it?”

“Sorry I opened my mouth.”

“Have I remembered to wish you a merry Saturnalia?”

“Saturnalia?”

“Yeah—a nasty old pagan holiday near the end of December. The Romans used to close the schools, eat and drink themselves silly, say they loved everybody, and give each other gifts.” He answered the phone. “No, ma’am, we haven’t found Him yet. Yes, ma’am, there’ll be an extra if He turns up. Yes, ma’am, the stable’s already been checked pretty carefully. Thank you. Goodbye.”

* * *

The search was more a spontaneous, playful pageant than an earnest hunt for the missing figures. Realistically, the searchers didn’t have much of a chance. They made a lot of noise, and went only where they thought it would be pleasant or interesting to go. The thief, who was apparently a nut, would have had little trouble keeping his peculiar loot out of sight.

But the searchers were so caught up in the allegory of what they were doing that a powerful expectation grew of its own accord, with no help from the paper. Everyone was convinced that the holy family would be found on Christmas Eve.

But on that eve, no new star shone over the city save the five-hundred-watt lamp hung from a balloon over the mansion of J. Sprague Fleetwood, alias Mad Dog Gribbon, the victim of the theft.

The mayor, the president of a big manufacturing company, and the chairman of the Real Estate