Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  “Yes,” nodded the baronet, shrewdly, “and in view of all these advantages you are going to bring her home in your car?”

  “His what?” demanded Freddie. “Is the girl insured?”

  “You are implying a slur on the capabilities of my car?” suggested Jimmy, frigidly.

  “Far be it from me to stoop so low. I was thinking of its driver, old egg.”

  Jimmy laughed good-naturedly.

  “All right, Frederick, I’ll take you for a spin one day.”

  “Thank you, I have no wish to die unshriven,” grinned Freddie, and ducked to avoid a cushion hurled at his head.

  “Good night, sir,” said Jimmy, nodding to Sir Marcus. “Don’t trouble to call Fenton. I can find my way out all right.”

  With a cheery nod he turned and left the room, Freddie watching his retreat with thoughtful eyes.

  “You know, there’s something behind this devoted attention,” he said weightily. “I mean, I believe the poor old cod is going down for the count. Positively I do. Dan Cupid versus Common Sense. They all get the K.O. sooner or later, Marky, and I’m afraid he’ll join the Marital League, what?”

  Sir Marcus smiled. “Possibly.”

  “Anyway he’s a damned lucky cuss,” ruminated Freddie. Marky, sling the old formula across again. I have the glimmerings of a fearfully fruity idea.”

  Sir Marcus passed the slip of paper obediently. Secretly he had no very great hopes that Freddie’s opinion would be justified.

  At that moment Fenton reappeared to announce:

  “His Grace the Duke of Framlingham.”

  “Ah, my ducal relation!” sighed Freddie. “He thinks he was invited to breakfast!” And he nodded cheerfully to His Grace who had followed Fenton into the room.

  Sir Marcus rose and the two friends clasped hands warmly. The Duke surveyed his nephew without any visible signs of pleasure.

  “So you’re here, you social scab?” he grunted, dropping into the seat vacated a few moments previously by Jimmy Craven.

  “You have dined, I trust?” asked Sir Marcus.

  “Yes, at the club with old Mulberry Beak,” the Duke nodded disconsolately. “That’s Sir Morberry Peak. Fearful bore. Wanted to transfer his account to my bank, you know, and the manager was conservative enough to want a reference, so Mulberry Beak tacked himself on and I couldn’t think of any reasonable excuse for braining him with a bottle of Clicquot.”

  He turned to Sir Marcus: “Well, are you back for good or is this another flying visit. Never saw such a man. Always here, or there, or somewhere else.”

  “From you,” answered his friend, “that is a curious remark. People in glass houses, you know. How was Paris when you left it?”

  “Still there, and very Parisian,” sighed His Grace placidly. “There was rather a charming young thing I met——”

  Freddie coughed diplomatically.

  “Delete the beery liaisons and taproom memoirs,” he said, reprovingly. “Try and employ your ducal mind to more advantage. Here, take a nibble at this.”

  He passed the code message.

  His Grace studied it for a moment and then looked at Sir Marcus. “Possibly,” he suggested, “one might get some idea of what that fool meant if a more responsible person outlined the general plan of campaign.”

  “Have a drink,” replied Loseley, motioning to the decanter, “and listen to a story you might have heard earlier if you had not chosen to arrive with the milk.”

  His Grace poured himself a drink and listened to the story Sir Marcus had already told once that evening, occasionally glancing down at the paper he held.

  “Police job,” he stated emphatically at the conclusion.

  Sir Marcus nodded: “I was telling Freddie here and Jimmy Craven that I intended placing the matter in the hands of the Yard.”

  “Who is Jimmy Craven?”

  “If you will bury yourself abroad at every opportunity,” grunted his friend, “you can’t expect to be au fait. He’s a reporter friend of Freddie’s.”

  “Freddie needs a keeper, not a reporter,” commented His Grace. “By the way, where is Leslie?”

  “Visiting at Esher,” Loseley answered. “At the moment she should be——”

  “Returning with aspirant in chief,” Freddie interpolated blandly.

  “Perhaps some day,” said His Grace, transfixing his nephew with a cold eye, “that crack-brained numskull will acquire the art of intelligent conversation. Aspirant for what, fool?”

  “Not for a fool,” said Freddie, sweetly, “for the jolly old Richmond mitt. The fair maiden’s hand as it were, my dear old screech.”

  The Duke snorted.

  “Looks as if we are going to lose her, Marky,” he said sadly. “Is this Raven serious?”

  “Craven,” corrected Marcus, “Jimmy Craven. Quite a nice boy.”

  “H’m,” grunted His Grace. “Let me have another look at that cipher, Marky.”

  VII. BLACK GLOVE

  Jerry the Lag shuffled into the “Shaftesbury” public house in Charing Cross Road and lurched up to the bar. The fat barman momentarily ceased polishing a glass and waddled to where the Lag stood waiting.

  “The usual, Jerry?”

  The old Lag nodded curtly.

  “Anything fer me?” he asked in an undertone.

  The barman looked cautiously round the bar and reached down swiftly beneath the counter. His hand came up holding a letter and Jerry deftly palmed the envelope. It was so swiftly done that none but the keenest eyes could have seen the transaction.

  The eyes, say, of a reporter.

  Seated at a corner table by the wall and partially shielded by the curve of the bar, Jimmy Craven had seen a betraying flutter of white as something, a letter he judged, changed hands.

  Jerry pocketed the letter and smiled thoughtfully. His own eyes were fairly keen.

  “Black Glove came up in a cab twenty minutes ago,” whispered the barman as he handed Jerry his drink. “I saw that there beckonin’ black glove o’ his and went out and took the thing myself.”

  Jerry nodded and, picking up his glass, moved away to a table by the window, taking care that no one was sitting behind him.

  Covertly he took out the envelope and, slitting it, drew forth the message printed in block capitals:

  “TONIGHT. OUTSIDE THE COLISEUM.

  EIGHT-THIRTY.”

  Leaving the envelope on the table in a prominent position, the Lag carefully tore the message into tiny pieces and dropped them covertly on the floor. He glanced at the clock. It was just eight o’clock; he had half-an-hour to spare.

  Eight-thirty outside the Coliseum. What was it this time? With an unpleasant leer he emptied his glass and sat for some moments thinking.

  Few of the denizens of the underworld knew Black Glove’s identity and fewer still ever entered that taxi of his. But Jerry was one of the few. Jerry caught the barman’s eye on him and smiled. During the course of a week, and particularly when there was “anything doing” the barman handed many such messages across the bar to one or other of the nine men who made the public house their rendezvous. It was probably worth his while, Jerry reflected, although the barman was no doubt in complete ignorance of what he was doing. Jerry grinned. The fat barman was not of the type who asked questions. More than one banknote had passed into the pockets of his capacious waistcoat.

  Taking a stub of pencil from his pocket, Jerry wrote one word on the envelope and then, very ostentatiously, put it in his pocket.

  That done, he rose to his feet, shuffled to the bar and ordered another drink. In the act of raising his refilled glass, he paused.

  Someone clapped him heartily on the back and a cheerful voice behind him spoke.

  “Well, Jerry, old warrior!”

  Turning, the Lag scowled up into the pleasant humorous eyes of Jimmy Craven.

  “You again?” he growled. “Now what are you diggin’ fer? Lumme, some o’ you blokes ‘as a easy time o’ it, don’t yer? Fair cushy, I calls i
t. Nothin’ else ter do but waste other people’s time.”

  The reporter smiled affably, no whit put out by the other’s surly tone. “Drink up, Jerry, and have one on me,” he invited.

  The Lag moistened his lips enthusiastically and accepted, draining his own glass at a gulp.

  “‘Ere’s lookin’ at yer,” he said calmly. “It’s safer!”

  Jimmy signaled to the fat barman and motioned to the glasses. “Decant.”

  “Flush tonight, ain’t yer?” asked the Lag quizzically, as their glasses were refilled.

  “Drink, brother,” said Jimmy cheerfully, “and question not the source.”

  “And blimey, you got a sauce,” grunted the Lag. “I ain’t no one-an’ t’other o’ yourn. Less familiarity, an’ all.”

  He replaced his glass and looked at the clock. It was nearly twenty past eight.

  “Got an important engagement wiv a genelman at ‘arf past.”

  “I’ll walk down with you,” offered Jimmy casually, replacing his own glass.

  “Not much you won’t,” returned Jerry sourly. “I said wiv a genelman. You’d feel kinder outa place, you would.”

  He wiped a grimy hand across his lips and with a curt nod to the reporter shuffled away out of the bar.

  Jimmy, waiting only to examine an envelope which he had abstracted from the Lag’s pocket, followed suit with a grim smile. The envelope was empty, but on the back of it had been scrawled one word: “Sold.”

  Pocketing it, Jimmy hurried out of the “Shaftesbury” and looked eagerly around. The Lag was nowhere in sight.

  For a moment the reporter stood there undecided, looking to right and left. Then, with a muttered imprecation, he set off in the direction of Charing Cross.

  Jerry, forsaking the shelter of an adjacent doorway, surveyed the retreating back amusedly for a few moments and then followed leisurely in his wake. He was well aware that several people were interested unduly in his movements, among them Inspector Elveden and Jimmy Craven, and their efforts never failed to amuse. They were both harmless and he humored them up to a point. From a safe distance he watched Jimmy turn round by the Cavell Monument and make for Leicester Square. So much for the newspaper sleuth. Jerry smiled ironically and lit a cigarette.

  Taking up his position opposite the theater, he leaned back against the wall and smoked tranquilly, watching the constant coming and going of a little stream of people by the advance booking office.

  He had been waiting barely three minutes when a taxi drew up outside the restaurant close to the theater.

  As he watched, a black-gloved hand showed for a minute at the window nearest Jerry. The Squid’s punctuality was a byword.

  Tossing aside his half-finished cigarette, the Lag shuffled across the road and came to a standstill beside the Squid’s taxi.

  “Get in,” said a dull flat voice and Jerry opened the door and stepped inside, closing it behind him quickly.

  The taxi was in complete darkness and all the blinds were down. As he took his seat, a revolver barrel dug into his ribs.

  “Eaton Place,” instructed the voice of the man by his side, and the taxi moved forward.

  Jerry had been for many such journeys with the Squid and the presence of the pistol against his ribs did not greatly worry him. The Squid took no risks and, in any case, Jerry was not fool enough to try conclusions with him in a taxi. The chauffeur, he knew, was one of the gang.

  Jerry sat with his hands before him, careful not to violate any of the Squid’s rules. One there had been who had broken two rules in one night. He had come to a meeting with a gun in his pocket and he had brought friends with him. That had been Billy Home.

  The Squid had not attended the meeting and Billy had not lived to go to another.

  They had found him the next morning in Wapping—dead. Very horribly dead.

  The Squid dealt swiftly with “squeakers.” Very swiftly, and no one knew how he got his information until he struck. After that, the knowledge was valueless. Without seeing the face of the man beside him, Jerry could guess at its outline—the high hairless dome, broad forehead, cold eyes and menacingly fixed expression: the somber black clothes and the black-gloved hands, too.

  Once again the dull voice broke the silence.

  “To-morrow night,” said the Squid, “you will acquire the Loseley tiara. I have uses for it.”

  Jerry acquiesced understandingly. He had wondered how long the famous heirloom was destined to remain in the possession of its present owner. Diamonds had a fascination for the Squid, and the tiara was a perfect example of its kind. Apparently it was due to take a trip to Amsterdam. There the stones would be removed and recut. After that the tiara and jewels would be returned to the Squid, the former melted into a nugget. As a tiara it would have ceased to exist. And the Squid’s collection would have increased—valuably.

  Jerry refrained from mentioning what was in his mind.

  “Where’s this ti-hara kep’?”

  “In Sir Marcus Loseley’s study,” rejoined the Squid. “You will find the safe set in the woodwork underneath the overmantel. The woodwork is decorated with roses of carven wood. Press the fourth from the right. You will leave everything else, but you will disorder the room artistically in order to create the impression that you had a long search. Remember, nothing but the tiara. It would be unfortunate if you made any mistakes, Jerry. Very unfortunate—for you.”

  Jerry agreed.

  “You will receive the usual ten per cent,” droned the Squid, as the taxi turned into Victoria Street. “I shall apprise you of the meeting place, date and time as soon as I see a notice in the papers announcing Sir Marcus Loseley’s loss.”

  The taxi slid into Eaton Square and continued on, slowing down, till it reached Eaton Place.

  “Get out,” ordered the Squid. “You will find a survey of the house useful, I think. And remember, Jerry, no bungling.”

  The Lag denoted that he understood and, opening the door, stepped out on to the pavement.

  Almost at once the door slammed and the taxi moved away from the curb, gathering impetus as it moved towards Cliveden Place.

  Standing on the pavement, Jerry watched the little red tail-light disappear and then turned his attention to the house outside which he stood.

  A big house with double bay windows, divided from the gateway by a short gravel path and a flight of steps that led up to the high ceilinged portico. Farther to the right, a small gateway led to a downward flight of stairs which terminated in a small dark area. Servants’ quarters, he reflected.

  Lighting a cigarette, he puffed at it thoughtfully and then turned away, walking head down, engrossed in his own thoughts.

  He had taken barely three paces when he collided violently with someone walking in the opposite direction. A tall, dark, slender young man, who stopped and regarded him interestedly.

  “Why in ‘ell can’t yer look where yer goin’?” exploded Jerry irately, and then stopped.

  “Oh, it’s you, is it?” he growled.

  Inspector Elveden smiled engagingly.

  “Good evening, Jerry,” he said softly. “Thinking of forsaking the straight and narrow so soon?”

  He stared pointedly at the Loseley home and equally pointedly at the Lag.

  “A little light catburglary?” he inquired politely.

  Jerry scowled and put his hands in his pockets.

  “Some o’ you blokes up at the Yard is getting a sight too keen,” he said truculently. “Yer gettin’ so sharp, yer can see things as ‘asn’t ‘appened yet!”

  The Inspector was amused. There was something diverting in Jerry’s aggressive innocence.

  “We can see things that might happen,” he corrected gently and his calm eyes challenged those of the Lag.

  “Yus, arter they ‘appen,” sneered the Lag. “Pertickerly when the Squid’s ‘andlin’ the ‘appenin’ part o’ the deal. ‘E’s coot, ‘e is, Mister Elv’den, an’ don’t yer fergit it. One o’ these days yer goin’ ter wake
up an’ find yerself dead, if yer ain’t careful!”

  The Inspector listened unmoved and Jerry found his cool smile annoying.

  “Remember what I told you,” advised Elveden.

  “You ain’t never tole me nuthin’ worth rememberin’ yet,” riposted the Lag.

  “This is an exception, then,” answered the other. “Think over what I said about putting the Chief wise.”

  “Turnin’ King’s evidence is a mug’s gime,” said Jerry, and spat contemptuously. “Not,” he hastened to add, “that I could tell anything.”

  “Of course not,” agreed Elveden with sufficient irony to cause the Lag a momentary suspicion, “but if you ever should have anything to tell——“ He left the sentence unfinished.

  “The blokes what squeal,” continued Jerry weightily, “is astin’ fer it and they comes up again it pronto, most times. I knows the law and if they can land a bloke, they will. They ‘ears what ‘es got ter say. Then it’s: ‘Thank you very much. Two years.’ They caught many a poor dam’ fool like that.”

  He produced a half-smoked cigarette from his waistcoat pocket and ignited it from the butt of the one he had been smoking.

  “And anuther thin’, Mister Elv’den,” continued Jerry, tapping the other on the chest with a grimy forefinger, “if the ‘split’ falls dahn an’ ‘urts itself—it’s flowers an’ a burial fer someone. No one tries ter queer the Squid’s pitch twice. ‘E’s got a nasty way o’ payin’ ‘is score, ‘e ‘as, so I’ve ‘eard.”

  Elveden listened impassively to the Lag’s exposition. When an old timer had any reason for wishing to avoid a subject, he would talk for hours—on some other subject.

  “An’ anuther thin’, Mister Elv’den, if I wuz you—which Gawd ferbid—I’d keep that meddlin’ snitch o’ yourn outer this business. I’m only goin’ on ‘earsay, o’ course, but the Squid don’t take over kindly to Inspectors, good bad or perlice, they tell me!”

  He leered unpleasantly up into his listener’s face and encountered the same calm eyes and disarming smile.

  “Can’t say as I blames ‘im either,” he continued humorously. “Only I ain’t fond ‘o violence, I ain’t. Peaceful is me middle monicker. If I don’ like a thing I keeps away from it. If he don’t like a thing—he outs it, suddingly.”