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Another group crossed the street before us, singing:

For Christ is born of Mary,

And gathered all above,

While mortals sleep, the angels keep

Their watch of wondering love.

The light changed, and we drove on, saying little as we left the fine homes behind, as the electric lamp over Gribbon’s mansion was lost behind black factory chimneys.

“You sure the address is right?” said the chauffeur uncertainly.

“I guess the guy knows his own address,” said Hackleman.

“This was a bad idea,” said the manufacturer, looking at his watch. “Let’s call up Gribbon or Fleetwood or whatever his name is, and tell him he’s the big winner. The hell with this.”

“I agree,” said the mayor. “But, as long as we’re this far along, let’s see it through.”

The limousine turned down a dark street, banged over a chuckhole, and stopped. “This is it gentlemen,” said the chauffeur.

We were parked before an empty, leaning, roofless house, whose soundest part was its splintered siding, a sign declaring it to be unfit for human habitation.

“Are rats and termites eligible for the contest?” said the mayor.

“The address checks,” said the chauffeur defensively.

“Turn around and go home,” said the mayor.

“Hold it,” said the real estate man. “There’s a light in the barn in back. My God, I came all this way to judge and I’m going to judge.”

“Go see who’s in the barn,” said the mayor to the chauffeur.

The chauffeur shrugged, got out, and walked through the snow-covered rubbish to the barn. He knocked. The door swung open under the impact of his fist. Silhouetted by a frail, wavering light from within, he sank to his knees.

“Drunk?” said Hackleman.

“I don’t think so,” murmured the mayor. He licked his lips. “I think he’s praying—for the first time in his life.” He got out of the car, and we followed him silently to the barn. When we reached the chauffeur, we went to our knees beside him.

Before us were the three missing figures. Joseph and Mary sheltered against a thousand drafts the sleeping infant Jesus in his bed of straw. The only illumination came from a single oil lantern, and its wavering light made them live, alive with awe and adoration.

On Christmas morning, the paper told the people where the holy family could be found.

All Christmas Day the people streamed to the cold, lonely barn to worship.

A small story inside announced that Mr. Sprague Fleetwood had won the Annual Christmas Outdoor Lighting Contest with thirty-two electric motors, two miles of wire, and nine hundred and seventy-six lightbulbs, not counting neon, and an Army surplus weather balloon.

Hackleman was on the job at his desk, critical and disillusioned as ever.

“It’s a great, great story,” I said.

“I’m good and sick of it,” said Hackleman. He rubbed his hands. “What I’m looking forward to is January when the Christmas bills come in. A great month for homicides.”

“Well, there’s still got to be a follow-up on the Christmas story. We still don’t know who did it.”

“How you going to find out who did it? The name on the entry blank was a phony, and the guy who owns the barn hasn’t been in town for ten years.”

“Fingerprints,” I said. “We could go over the figures for fingerprints.”

“One more suggestion like that, and you’re fired.”

“Fired?” I said. “What for?”

“Sacrilege!” said Hackleman grandly, and the subject was closed. His mind, as he said, was on stories in the future. He never looked back.

Hackleman’s last act with respect to the theft, the search, and Christmas was to send me out to the barn with a photographer on Christmas night. The mission was routine and trite, and it bored him.

“Get a crowd shot from the back, with the figures facing the camera,” said Hackleman. “They must be pretty damn dusty by now, with all the sinners tramping through. Better go over ’em with a damp cloth before you make the shot.”

(illustration credit 9)

OUT, BRIEF CANDLE

Annie Cowper thought of the letters from Schenectady as having come like a sweet, warm wind at the sunset of her life. The truth was that she