Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  The suspicion that Jerry knew more than he was prepared to divulge grew steadily, but the Inspector made no sign.

  “Think it over,” he repeated. “Which way are you going, Jerry?”

  “The hopposite way ter you,” grinned the Lag, and leant back against the wall.

  With an amused smile the Inspector strode on his way.

  VIII. CONCERNING THE LOSELEY TIARA

  “Aha, the last of the house of Craven imbibing corruption at one and six per glass. A commendable occupation. A fruity time-killer.”

  The drawling voice at his elbow interrupted Jimmy’s meditations and he turned to make room for the newcomer.

  Freddie Leicester, smiling vacantly, lounged against the bar of the Nocturnes.

  “What’ll you take?” asked Jimmy morosely.

  “What a boon to man is a friend who recognizes on sight the parched symptoms,” sighed Freddie ecstatically. “A little of the poison that you are absorbing will meet the case, friend James.”

  “Water this human blotting pad,” directed Jimmy, motioning to the barman and indicating his own glass. “Same again. Drink is his middle name.”

  “Always vertical till the third bottle, laddie,” protested Freddie in an injured tone. “But why the festive habiliments?”

  He touched Jimmy’s dinner jacket and eyed his friend wonderingly.

  “Show,” answered Jimmy, laconically.

  “Show what?” demanded Freddie vacantly.

  “Theater, fool,” was the polite answer. “Care to join us?”

  “Who is ‘us,’ old cod?” asked Freddie, sipping his drink with marked appreciation.

  “Leslie, Marcus and a blot on the landscape called Erb,” Jimmy supplied.

  “My uncle,” nodded Freddie, calmly, “and incidentally an error in grandparental taste.”

  “Sorry, Leslie did mention it. Where did he get that name? Smacks rather of Billingsgate.”

  “It affects you unpleasantly?” inquired Freddie, lounging elegantly. “Me too, I have always regarded it as something in the nature of a stab in the back. Unfortunately circumstances over which I have no control prevent my taking it up with his misguided parents. Where are you collecting the ducal incumbrance?”

  “Here. Duke, is he? You’ve never mentioned this secret sorrow before.”

  “I try to live it down,” sighed Freddie. “I thought he was due to bore Paris for a fruity period, but it was not to be. The young have many trials. He trickled back a few days ago and I had to try and look pleased and wag my tail. You will find His Grace——”

  “Disgrace?”

  “Equally applicable. I was saying, when you rudely butted in, that you will find him in part human, although in the main a gruesome affliction.”

  They drank in silence. Freddie sighed with satisfaction. “They ought to be here soon,” said Jimmy, glancing at the clock.

  “How about another quick one? No? Well, perhaps not,” said Freddie. “On what theater are you conferring the honor of the ducal audience?”

  “Court Royal, mystery play, I believe.”

  “Erb will be late then,” said Freddie. “That is, more so than his usual two hours. He once said he got all the mystery he wanted out of an omelette. When he’s at a show he’s never at his ease——”

  “Good thing not to be.”

  “Involved,” said Freddie in a tired voice. “Expound, James.”

  “I say it’s a good thing not to be a disease,” grinned Jimmy. “Low, positively low. Hints at a warped intellect. However the hour approaches. I must tear myself away. Matter of import demands my attention.”

  “It has my sympathy. What is it this time? Women?”

  “No, an inseparable clause to same,” answered Freddie. “Diamonds. I may drop in to see the last act of the mystery.”

  “God forbid,” murmured Jimmy piously.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said, ‘Please do,’” grinned Jimmy, shaking hands with his friend.

  • • •

  Freddie Leicester ran lightly up the steps of Sir Marcus Loseley’s house and knocked twice, loudly.

  Humming cheerfully, he waited until the placid Fenton appeared in the doorway.

  “Good evening, Mr. Leicester,” said the butler respectfully. “Sir Marcus and Miss Leslie are out. I believe they were going to a theater with Mr. Craven.”

  “That’s all right, laddie,” answered Freddie. “I have a notion that I left the old cigarette container here a few nights ago. Mind if I flit up to Marky’s study and retrieve the electro plate?”

  “Not at all, sir,” replied Fenton, standing aside to allow Freddie to enter and closing the door behind him. “If you will allow me, sir, I will get it myself.”

  “Don’t trouble, old soul,” said Freddie cheerfully. “Too many stairs; bad for the middle aged, you know.”

  He dug the butler playfully in the ribs.

  “No trouble, I assure you, sir,” said Fenton politely, but he was addressing thin air.

  Freddie, still humming cheerfully, was taking the stairs three at a time.

  Fenton gazed after him sorrowfully. Mr. Leicester was at all times a peculiar young gentleman, he reflected. While Sir Marcus was in town, Freddie frequently visited him and was more or less allowed the run of the house. More than once Fenton had found occasion during one of Freddie’s visits to doubt the other’s sanity.

  Fenton walked sedately away towards the domestic quarters and his pantry. It was a cold night and a small tot of whisky—a very small tot...

  Upstairs Freddie stood on the threshold of Sir Marcus Loseley’s study and stared blankly at the disordered scene that presented itself in the electric light flooding the room.

  In every direction chaos met his eye.

  Chairs, a bureau and a table were overturned in various parts of the room. The wall hangings had been stripped from the paneling, pictures displaced, drawers pulled out and emptied. Everything was indescribably disordered—and on the floor a conglomeration of sporting weapons, trophies, books and bric-a-brac lay in a confused mass.

  Freddie walked mechanically to the overturned chair he had occupied a few nights previously and, stooping down, picked up his cigarette case which had been displaced.

  Standing there, he noticed that the Baronet’s safe in the paneling above the fireplace was open. Neat stacks of bonds lay there untouched, a few bank-notes and a heap of silver, one or two little trinkets, a pile of documents and yet—the tiara, which he knew was always kept there, was missing.

  That explained it. The disordering of the room might be a blind.

  Mechanically he selected a cigarette and, lighting it, stood and stared about him.

  A slight draught made him turn and, descrying the open lattice window, he crossed the room and closed it. Apparently that was how the thieves had found entrance.

  For a moment he stood looking down at Eaton Place and drawing thoughtfully at his cigarette.

  After a further survey of the room, he ran his fingers through his hair and with a perplexed smile turned with the intention of summoning Fenton.

  It was unnecessary. Fenton, a little curious as to the reason for Freddie’s non-appearance, was already coming up the stairs.

  He appeared in the doorway with a look of polite inquiry on his face. The polite inquiry faded suddenly to give place to frozen horror.

  He stepped hastily into the room and glanced round on the wreckage with despairing eyes.

  “Has there been a robbery, sir?” he wailed, and wrung his hands anxiously.

  “Funny you should ask that,” murmured Freddie. “The same suspicion was vaguely forming in my mind. Er—yes—decidedly, there has been a robbery.”

  “But what are we to do, sir?” wailed the agonized butler, his eyes taking in every detail and growing wider with each new discovery. “What are we to do? What will Sir Marcus say?”

  Fenton was almost on the verge of tears and running round himself in bewildered circles, striving to take
in the full enormity of the outrage.

  “Sir Marcus,” said Freddie thoughtfully, “will probably say quite a lot, my dear old butlist, and most of it will be unfit for your cultured ears. Suppose, however, passing lightly over the wrath to come, you glue yourself to the old transmitter for a few eons and rummage about for a few of the lads in blue.”

  “Sir?” asked Fenton stupidly. Mr. Leicester always spoke in that curious way. He was a little trying—everything was rather difficult—a peculiar young gentleman—what ought he to do?

  “Telephone—Police,” said Freddie tersely.

  Fenton waddled hastily to the instrument and instructed the exchange to send a policeman round. Discovering his error, he at length got in touch with the police station.

  Piece by piece the Superintendent managed to extract the story from him, and finally bellowed a demand for the address only just in time to prevent the bemused butler from cutting off without giving it.

  Freddie, seated on the arm of a chair, looked round interestedly.

  “Anything gone?” he asked cheerfully. “Meantersay—er—well it’s not unlikely.”

  Fenton eyeing the room miserably, and mentally taking an inventory, suddenly caught sight of the open safe, and immediately cried out like a stuck pig.

  “The tiara!”

  “Where?” asked Freddie innocently.

  “It’s gone! Oh, Mr. Leicester, the tiara—the tiara, Mr. Leicester!”

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Freddie with a vacuous grin. “Sorry. We err. You mean someone has nicked the doin’s? Yes, exactly. Marky used to keep it in the larder, didn’t he?”

  He pointed to the safe, and Fenton nodded.

  “What shall I do? What shall I do?” wailed the butler, still wandering round aimlessly.

  “Change the record,” suggested Freddie and, helpfully, “What about a spot of clear up? Meantersay, things are a bit unsettled, what?”

  “No, sir,” said Fenton almost firmly. “Decidedly not, sir. The police like things untouched. Clews, sir. Fingerprints, sir. Footprints——”

  “Sir,” supplemented Freddie. “All right. As you were! Don’t dear up.”

  At that moment a loud knocking sounded on the door below. Fenton spun round agitatedly.

  “That will be the police, sir?”

  “Probably,” agreed Freddie, “or the postman. Steady, old jellyfish. Face ‘em like a man. Like me to come and hold the old mitts?”

  But Fenton had not heard. Galloping downstairs, he tore open the door, and poured out a confused tale to the sergeant standing on the step.

  As soon as the sergeant had sorted out the irrelevant from the relevant, and of the former there was much, he turned and instructed an invisible “Mathers” to “come on hup,” and followed the butler up the stairs to the study.

  Entering the room, the sergeant touched his hat to Freddie respectfully.

  “Good evening, Sir Marcus,” he said.

  “Is it?” asked Freddie absently. “Inclined to rain when I trotted in, and look here, my dear old peeler, I’m not the owner of this jolly little shack.”

  “Oh,” observed the sergeant, and his expression underwent a slight change.

  “Who is this gentleman?” he asked, rounding on the startled Fenton abruptly.

  “Mr. Leicester, sir,” said Fenton, agitatedly, “a friend of the master’s.”

  “Mm,” said the sergeant thoughtfully, and, bestowing a cold glance on the cheerful Freddie, he stalked across the room and began to make notes in a little book.

  Behind the butler in the doorway, Constable Mathers eyed his superior interestedly, and Mr. Leicester even more interestedly. Asked for an unbiased opinion, Constable Mathers would have stated that it was “a fair cop.”

  “What’s been taken?” demanded the sergeant, pausing in his examination and turning to Fenton.

  “As far as I can see, nothing but the Loseley tiara,” answered the butler, rubbing his hands together.

  “The Loseley what?” demanded the sergeant suspiciously.

  “A famous family heirloom,” Fenton hastened to add. “Set with diamonds. Very valuable. Extremely so. Sir Marcus kept it in that safe.”

  He indicated the safe, and the sergeant rubbed his chin. Not being altogether sure what a tiara was, he could not tell whether it was missing or not. He eyed the little trinkets suspiciously, but decided against expressing an opinion.

  “Nothing else has been taken from the safe,” Fenton babbled excitedly.

  “I have eyes,” snapped the sergeant; and, turning with such suddenness that Freddie rolled back with surprise into his chair, he demanded:

  “May I ask how long you have been here, sir?”

  Freddie gaped sheepishly. The fellow’s tone was dashed unfriendly. Dash it all—what the deuce...

  “Mr. Leicester called to find his cigarette case,” Fenton interpolated helpfully.

  “Mr. Leicester has a tongue, hasn’t he?” asked the sergeant coldly.

  “Er, yes,” mumbled Freddie. “I left it here a few nights ago. The case, you know, not the tongue. Ha, ha!”

  His humor failed to impress the sergeant.

  “You were in the room alone?”

  “Certainly,” interrupted Fenton eagerly. “Mr. Leicester is a frequent visitor. You surely don’t think...?”

  The sergeant transfixed him with a steely glance.

  “No,” he agreed icily. “I’m paid to know.”

  “How long were you in the room alone, sir?” he continued, turning to Freddie.

  “Oh, ‘bout ten and a half minutes,” Freddie answered after due consideration. “Possibly ten and three-quarters. I won’t quibble.”

  “Take you ten minutes to find your case, sir?” The tone was ominous.

  “No—er—no,” bleated Freddie. “ ‘Bout half a jiffy, only the room was in a bit of a mess—I mean, after all it is a bit mucked up, what?—and I stood and looked and—er—looked and stood. You see, one doesn’t often get the chance of seeing a room like this, sergeant dear.”

  He eyed the officer of the law pleadingly.

  “Sergeant Clarke,” corrected that gentleman with acidity. “Anything touched in this room?”

  “No,” answered Freddie. “You mustn’t mind Fenton. It’s excitement. He’ll get over it, dear lamb. Everything else is O.K.”

  He beamed indulgently on the indignant butler.

  “H’m. Where’s Sir Marcus—what’s his name?”

  “Loseley,” corrected Freddie cheerfully. “He’s at a show.”

  “Punch and Judy?” enquired the sergeant ironically.

  “No,” answered Freddie, “just a show. You know, a sort of—er—show.”

  “Mr. Leicester means a theater,” Fenton explained.

  Sergeant Clarke eyed Mr. Leicester unfavorably.

  “Oh, he is, is he? Well, I’m afraid Mr. Leicester will have to step down to the station with me.”

  He motioned to the constable.

  “Mathers,” he directed, “see that nothing is touched in this room, and take full particulars from—what did you say your name was?”

  “Fenton, sir,” answered the butler, cowed to a state of abject humility.

  Sergeant Clarke laid a gentle but firm hand on Freddie’s arm.

  “Now, sir,” he said. “If you please.”

  “Here, I say, I’m dashed well staying and all that sort of thing,” bleated Freddie. “I mean——”

  “You’re dashed well not staying, I mean,” the sergeant said firmly. “Better go quietly, sir.”

  Freddie went quietly.

  IX. CHARGE, “FIDDLESTICKS”

  Leslie was already in the lounge when Jimmy put in an appearance. He crossed hastily to her side.

  “Sorry if I kept you waiting,” he said contritely. “Ready, old thing?”

  She waved a reproving forefinger at him.

  “Ask me if I have been waiting long, you inhuman monster.”

  “Have you?” he asked obedient
ly.

  “Ten minutes, James,” she answered with severity. “Never keep a lady waiting, my lad. Hell knows no fury like a woman’s corns.”

  The reporter grinned and took her arm. Together they left the club, and Jimmy chartered a taxi, directing the chauffeur to drive to the “Court Royal” Theatre.

  “Where’s your friend ‘Erb?” Jimmy asked as they sat back in the darkness.

  “He’s coming on later with Marky. You’ll like him, Jimmy.”

  “I always did,” said Jimmy serenely. “Fine fellow Marky.”

  “Not Marky, stupid, Erb.”

  “I have no desire to like stupid Erb,” he replied.

  The taxi drew up outside the “Court Royal” in Shaftesbury Avenue and, descending, Jimmy paid the fare and escorted Leslie into the small but tasteful foyer.

  Leslie, a slim figure in an ermine cloak, her fair hair uncovered, drew many an admiring glance as she made her way to her seat.

  Once in the stalls, they gazed round the house interestedly, listening to the steady hum of conversation.

  “I suppose Marky will go up in the gods with Erb?” Jimmy suggested maliciously.

  “Don’t be unkind,” she reproved. “We shan’t see either of them till after the first act. As a matter of fact, I believe Marky was going up to Scotland Yard to get some stupid old code message translated. Probably some dirty scrap of paper that he discovered in one of his moldy old books.”

  Jimmy nodded absently. He knew better, but kept the information to himself.

  The abrupt lowering of the lights and sudden cessation of conversation warned them that the curtain was going up. Taking advantage of the darkness—there were no lights on the stage—Jimmy took possession of Leslie’s right hand, and she let him hold it during the first act of the mystery play, “Twelve O’clock.”

  As the curtain fell to the accompaniment of thunderous applause, they rose and sauntered into the foyer.

  Almost the first people they encountered were Sir Marcus and His Grace of Framlingham, talking “horses.”

  The two men bowed as Leslie approached.

  “Jimmy, I want to introduce you,” said Leslie. “Mr. Craven, the Duke of Framlingham.”