Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  A huge head, hairless and immovable, the only living things in it were the cold hard eyes. For a moment they faced each other and in that moment John realized that the head was of wax.

  Instinctively he knew that the intruder was the Squid.

  “Good evening, Mr. Richmond,” said a dull flat voice and John, watching the pistol in the other’s hand, made no reply, but covertly shifted the hand farthest from the Squid, a little nearer his hip pocket.

  “I think,” pursued the other softly, “you have something in which I am particularly interested at the moment. Have the goodness to give it—ah!” John’s hand flashed into view with a Browning automatic, and two shots rang out simultaneously.

  A strangled grunt—and silence.

  With swift strides the Squid crossed to John and, stooping picked up the ebony walking-stick.

  In the chair, a red stain spreading slowly on the blanket wrapped around him, Richmond lolled back, curiously inert, eyes glazed and staring, a meaningless smile on his lips.

  With one glance at the dying man, the Squid turned to the window, and tensed suddenly at a sudden rush of footsteps outside the door. Almost immediately it was flung violently open.

  On the threshold stood Sir Marcus, horror in his eyes. Behind was the scared face of Fenton.

  “My God, you swine!” gasped the baronet as he caught sight of John, still and silent in the chair, and without warning he leapt straight at the intruder.

  A short laugh broke from the Squid and his gun spoke for the second time. Sir Marcus seemed to be wrenched back in the middle of a stride. For a moment he hung suspended in the air and then reeled backwards into the arms of the panic-stricken Fenton.

  With a harsh laugh the Squid leapt for the window and vanished over the sill. He dropped softly on to the grass of the short garden dividing house from road, and sped swiftly to the gate, and the waiting taxi.

  Wrenching open the door he flung himself inside and was carried away at the instant.

  It had all taken place so swiftly that the few spectators had not realized what was happening until the taxi vanished from sight.

  Police whistles shrilled frantically, and a constable appeared suddenly, running full tilt towards the house.

  At the same moment the door opened and a wild-eyed Fenton appeared in the porch, shouting at the top of his voice.

  Dashing down the short path, the butler arrived on the pavement just as a small gray touring car drew up by the curb.

  The driver, a young man whose face the butler could not see, leant forward and spoke quickly.

  “Did he get him?”

  “Get him? Get who? I don’t know——“ Fenton’s terror-stricken face worked convulsively.

  “Answer me, damn you!” snarled the other. “What happened to John Richmond? Quick, before that cursed policeman gets here!”

  “My master and Mister Richmond are both wounded or dead. I don’t know which,” stammered the butler, wringing his hands. “My God, this is terrible....A man with a huge head—dressed in black—fired the shots—”

  But he was addressing thin air. Far up the road a gray roadster sped in pursuit of the taxi and the bewildered butler, turning to stare after it, came face to face with a policeman.

  With a gasp of relief Fenton clutched him by the arm.

  “This way,” he shouted, oblivious of the staring knot of idlers.

  “Quick—it will be too late—my poor master——”

  He dashed back by the way he had come, closely followed by the policeman. Two more blue-coated men appeared, one following his colleague and Fenton, the other holding in check the fast gathering crowd that strove to enter the garden.

  II. THE SQUID AND B 29

  The Squid’s taxi vanished into Belgrave Street, taking the corner on two wheels. A policeman on point duty whipped out a notebook and took the number. A little way along Belgrave Street it swung suddenly up a turning on the right and tore into Grosvenor Place and, keeping the same pace, raced for Hyde Park Corner.

  The luck was with the Squid. As the taxi reached the open square, the traffic stream from Grosvenor Square received the policeman’s signal and turned into Piccadilly, occasioning more than one curious stare as it raced on its way to Piccadilly Circus.

  Here the luck was with the Squid again. Swinging into line with a steady stream, the taxi rounded the Circus and shot along Coventry Street, crossed Charing Cross Road and whirled down Long Acre, slowing steadily and turning off sharp into Endell Street.

  Half-way down the street it slowed almost to a standstill and the Squid leapt out, crossed the pavement and bounded up the steps of a ramshackle tenement house. As he reached the door, the taxi, gathering speed again, sped off toward New Oxford Street. Half-way down the street it slipped into a side turning, and under cover of the darkness the chauffeur got out and hastily changed a number plate for which half the police force of London were looking.

  A brief second’s fumbling with a key, and the Squid was inside the house. Closing the door, he crossed a dimly lighted hall and bounded up the stairs three at a time. Crossing a second landing, he continued on to a third and up the last flight of stairs.

  The last landing was a small place, unlighted save by the moon striving to peer through a dirt-grained skylight.

  Only two doors led off this landing and the Squid made for the one on the left.

  Producing a second key, he went into the dark room beyond, closing and locking the door softly behind him.

  For a moment he stood there in the darkness, breathing heavily. Then he stepped forward and groped his way to the rickety table that he knew to be situated in the center of the room.

  His slow advance brought him into contact with a chair and with a savage curse he kicked it out of his path.

  Reaching the table, he laid the ebony stick upon it and felt in his pockets for matches.

  Lighting one, he crossed to the gas jet by the side of the mantelpiece and in a few seconds a pale sickly light illuminated the room.

  A dingy place, uncarpeted, with walls from which what paper was left, a faded yellow atrocity, was peeling, revealing damp patches where the rain’s invasion had found vulnerable places in the brickwork.

  The room boasted only two chairs, a table and a big plain deal cupboard. The ceiling was damp and discolored and the one window, cracked and grimy, looked out on to a rusty iron fire-escape, from the platform of which an unprepossessing vista was afforded of housetops, chimneys in a bad state of repair, and untidy back yards.

  Crossing to this window, the Squid opened it to an accompaniment of protesting creaks and, climbing out on to the fire-escape, surveyed the four flights of iron stairs thoughtfully.

  Apparently satisfied, he climbed back into the room and walked to the cupboard. Opening it with another key from his bunch, he took down a brown suit from a hanger and laid it on the table. That done, and still moving with the same effortless ease and swiftness, he removed from his hip pocket an automatic pistol and from his jacket pocket a small torch, the only impedimenta he carried.

  Laying these on the table, he swiftly divested himself of his clothes, folding them neatly and quickly.

  With a brief glance at the watch on his wrist, he changed into the brown suit.

  Gathering up his discarded suit, muffler and overcoat, he replaced them in the cupboard and locked it. The hideous mask he left on his head.

  His quick change completed, he walked to the table and, picking up the ebony stick, eyed it thoughtfully, turning it this way and that and running his fingers along its smooth surface in search of anything that might aid in discovering what he knew it concealed.

  A slight twist of the knob revealed the fact that it unscrewed, and in a few moments it lay in his hand. A brief examination showed him that the top of the stick was solid and that the knob itself, of solid silver, contained nothing.

  Tossing it aside, he turned his attention to the ferrule, and in a moment had it unscrewed.

  A sigh of sati
sfaction broke from him as he observed the hollowed-out center of the stick.

  Feeling in his pocket, he produced a long slender pencil and, inserting it in the hollow, twisted it slowly and then withdrew it while pressing the tip hard against the side.

  No crackle of crisp paper answered him and with a sharp curse he tried again. The result was the same. Stepping beneath the light of the gas jet, he held up the stick and strove to look down the hollow, even playing his torch on it to facilitate matters.

  There was nothing, and with an uncontrollable oath he hurled the stick from him.

  It fell against the door and, rolling along the floor, wedged itself in the corner. For a few seconds the eyes in the huge mask glittered with suppressed passion and then, as though struck by another thought, the Squid crossed the room and picked up the stick.

  Holding each end he bent it across his knee and strove to break it.

  The stick was strong and the beads of perspiration were standing on his forehead as he strained, before, with a sudden snap that almost unbalanced him, it broke in two.,

  Feverishly he examined the pieces. The snap had come at the termination of the hollow and one half at least was solid wood.

  Turning, he held up the second half to look the length of the groove, and in that second he observed something else.

  Standing with his back to the window, was a tall slim young man in gray, lithe, elegant, wearing a gray felt hat and a silk mask that hid his face, except for the eyes.

  “What did you expect to find?” asked the stranger coolly, and with a short gasp the Squid allowed the stick to fall from his fingers.

  The eyes in his huge waxen mask glittered evilly, but he said nothing. Five paces divided him from the table on which his pistol lay. On the other side of the table, three feet away from it, the man in gray allowed his eyes to fall on the weapon and an amused smile played across his lips.

  It was within easy reach and appeared to afford him a kind of grim pleasure.

  For some seconds they surveyed each other, warily noting details, and then the Squid spoke.

  “May I ask,” he purred softly, “the object of this unwelcome intrusion and also why you prefer the window to the door?”

  A short laugh broke from the man in gray.

  “You know why I am here,” he answered coldly and, stepping round the table, seated himself on the corner nearest the Squid, a move that the other watched with interest.

  “So you got Richmond, you swine?” he continued, in the same level tone.

  The Squid leant back against the door.

  “You speak in riddles, young man. Riddles bore me—and that is fatal!”

  “Don’t lie,” interposed the other, and his voice took on a mocking note. “Apparently he was a little sharper in the matter of the letter.” His eyes rested ironically on the broken stick.

  “In half an hour,” he continued slowly, “you will be paying for that, but much can happen in half an hour—much.”

  “Such as?” suggested the Squid, softly.

  The man in gray rose.

  “I am about to give you the father and mother of a whaling!” he said coolly.

  Leisurely unbuttoning his coat, he peeled it off, still watching the Squid warily.

  As he tossed his coat aside, something fell from one of the pockets and lay between them on the floor.

  A silver cigarette case.

  The man in gray stooped swiftly to retrieve it and in that second the Squid launched himself forward.

  The other straightened swiftly to meet him. stepped back and planted a blow on his assailant’s shoulder.

  With a savage snarl the Squid reeled and walked into a smashing blow that hurled him back whence he had come.

  As he crashed against the wall, the lithe stranger followed like a panther and smote hard.

  The Squid ducked smartly and the gray-gloved fist hit the wall. With a short laugh the Squid sent a right hook that flung his adversary to his knees in the corner, and gathering himself, he dived straight at the fallen man.

  A swift writhe and the man avoided the dive, closing with his assailant as the other landed.

  For a moment there was a swift scurry of blows and then they hurtled apart and came to their feet, panting and wary, the gray man with his back to the door and the Squid with his back to the window.

  He in gray dropped to an ugly crouch and poised himself tensely. Almost within touching distance, the Squid, breathing heavily, watched the maneuver with satirical eyes and closed suddenly.

  A vicious jabbing right licked out to meet him, and with a grunt he staggered backward, clutching at the table for support.

  As he rested there for a second, the hand behind him encountered the automatic.

  A malignant glare lit his eyes and warned the other.

  The man in gray’s right hand flashed down to his pocket as the Squid brought his left hand forward.

  A report rang out from the Squid’s gun, but no sound accompanied the jet of flame from the gray man’s pistol.

  The Squid clasped his wrist suddenly and stared across the smoke haze at his opponent.

  “Playing for safety?” he jeered thickly, and stared down at the gun held in his bleeding hand.

  “I took the liberty of substituting my own gun with one cartridge in it for your full one. You had your chance and,” he laughed shortly and reached up to the wall above him, “that’s what you did. Kids with pea-shooters at six yards range would be more dangerous!”

  The Squid stared somberly at the mark made by his bullet and then down at the round burn in the pocket of the man in gray, still exuding a faint wisp of smoke.

  “To prove which,” he rejoined coolly, “you removed my chance, mister coward.”

  He transferred his empty pistol to his right hand and stared thoughtfully at the flesh wound in the left wrist.

  “Some day, friend,” he murmured, “I shall repay this with interest.”

  “Not unless there are firearms in hell. In ten minutes you’ll be on your way to Bow Street, Squid.”

  “No,” corrected the other. “No, really, I think not.”

  He weighed the revolver in his hand and abruptly his eyes fixed themselves on the cigarette case that had fallen and given him his chance to open the attack.

  It lay on the floor, the light playing on the shining silver, but it had another interest for the Squid.

  In the center the plain surface was relieved by a raised circle of silver; this had slipped aside, revealing a white enamel surface, bearing the legend “B 29” in tiny blue enamel characters.

  “B 29,” said the Squid, reflectively. “I shall not forget, my friend!”

  “You will find three weeks’ wait before the drop a powerful stimulant to memory,” nodded the other, stepping forward and producing his automatic.

  They faced each other silently.

  The gaze of neither shifted and it seemed as if they would stand interminably glaring at each other, when a sudden rush of footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs outside. Almost immediately a heavy hand thudded on the door.

  “Open this door!” demanded a harsh voice.

  B 29’s glance became mocking.

  “You see, my friend,” he murmured, and stepped back two more paces and felt behind him for the door.

  The key was not in the lock.

  “Give me that key,” he demanded, returning, as a second thunderous knocking was followed by another brusque command.

  The Squid reached his wounded hand into his pocket and tendered the key.

  Stepping back, the Secret Service man walked to the door and turned slightly to locate the lock.

  His gaze shifted only for a second, but it was enough.

  The empty gun left the Squid’s hand and he ducked swiftly.

  The man in gray fired as the heavy pistol struck him on the head.

  A laugh answered and the Squid leapt back, bounded to the window and hurled himself through it.

  B 29, staggering, fell a
gainst the door, one hand raised to his face, while with the other he fumbled at the handle behind.

  As he turned the key the door flew open and two policemen blundered forward into the room.

  “The window,” gasped the man in gray faintly and reeling went down in a heap, an ugly red patch welling on his mask above the eye.

  The foremost of the policemen leapt to the window, shouting directions as he moved.

  “Downstairs, Bickers!—the fire escape! Hurry!”

  The second man pushed his way through the little knot of idlers that had materialized from nowhere and dashed down the crazy stairs.

  Out on the platform of the fire-escape the first policeman peered down into the night.

  And, staring into the blackness, he was not quite sure if his nerves were playing him tricks, or if he really heard a faintly mocking voice say: “Not this time, my friend!”

  THE SEQUEL

  III. JERRY THE LAG

  The Strand looked at its best in the early morning sun. On either side of the road pleasure seekers and workers jostled each other cheerfully: animated conversation and an occasional laugh drifted across the hum of the traffic: newsboys yelled: motors hooted.

  Inspector Elveden felt in keeping with the spirit of the morning and had dressed with scrupulous care.

  Newly shaven, he strode through the crowd, clad in a well-fitting suit of dark brown. The down-turned brim of his brown hat shaded his dark handsome face and the light foulard handkerchief flaunting defiantly from his breast pocket matched the perfectly knotted tie against the fawn background of his shirt. Dark-brown suede shoes—lending an almost effeminate touch—completed the picture. More than one person turned to stare after the tall figure of the Scotland Yard man as he strode along apparently oblivious of his surroundings.

  Pausing opposite “Romano’s,” he bought a paper from a raucous-voiced urchin who had just descended—somewhat hurriedly, owing to the advent of the conductor—from a passing omnibus.

  With a groan of mock despair he noticed that the Mail’s “splash” story concerned itself, as usual, with the exploits of the Squid and, continuing his stroll, he read the account of the latest challenge to the law, a bank robbery. It was reported under the heading: