Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  The reporter interpreted her tone correctly. He nodded obediently and they continued their walk. Freddie, humming lightly, walked on the outside, apparently without a care, but the faces of both Leslie and Jimmy showed marked preoccupation and restraint. But for differing reasons. They had not gone far when a voice behind them said, “Good morning, Miss Richmond. Can I have a few words with you, Mr. Leicester?”

  Turning, the trio found Inspector Elveden directly behind them.

  Freddie bowed with exaggerated courtesy.

  “Excuse me, Leslie, my child,” he said lightly. “Prison acquaintance of mine beseeches favor of discourse.”

  Leslie nodded abstractedly and walked on with Jimmy. The latter’s brows were contracted in a puzzled frown.

  He had got nothing out of Freddie, and Jerry the Lag had not reappeared. Added to which, Elveden had unexpectedly put in an appearance. Interest seemed to center exclusively around the flat in Prince of Wales Terrace. Jimmy bit his lip. He had forgotten to ask Freddie about that flat. It was the first intimation he had had that Freddie owned a flat in the West End. It was all very puzzling.

  Twenty yards behind, the Inspector and Freddie sauntered in their wake.

  “I wasn’t aware you had a flat up in this part of the world, Mr. Leicester,” prompted the Inspector, interested in the set of his tie.

  “No?” Freddie smiled equably. “I took it to be near Harrods’. The diamonds there are well spoken of, they tell me. Thought it might be handy when I had need of a few Koh-i-Noors.”

  “In plain English,” said the Inspector without glancing up, “I can mind my own business.”

  Probably Freddie had not heard. In any case he did not answer.

  “And talking of flats,” continued Elveden quietly. “You have had a frequent visitor there lately, haven’t you? I refer to Jerry the Lag.”

  And this time he looked up, to meet a disarming smile.

  “Dashed curious,” murmured Freddie interestedly. “Bally rum, if you follow me, old lad? What I mean to say—look here, who is this Jerry the wag?”

  “Lag,” Elveden corrected politely.

  “You know,” said Freddie gracefully, “but that still leaves me shivering in the coldness of doubt. Meantersay—is he a Prime Minister or something? Bootlegger, perhaps? No? Well, it sets the jolly old molars on edge, you know, when every dashed Johnnie you meet says something about Jerry the Lag. Becoming a kind of byword like ‘Do you Pelmanise?’—if you understand.”

  “Who else has asked you about Jerry?”

  “James of the house of Craven was harping somewhat definitely on the subject,” Freddie supplied. “He swore by all the gods that this Jerry person had trickled into my flat ten minutes or so before I left it. Dashed ridiculous, I mean, and all that sort of thing. A chappie can’t filter in and out of another chappie’s home for long without getting it where the body joins the head.” Elveden watched him narrowly.

  “You mean you don’t know him?” he asked, and Freddie gasped painfully.

  “Stickler, ain’t you? Suppose, instead of working at cross purposes, we get together in this matter and sort of pool the old gray matter. Describe this bird, my dear old cop.”

  Elveden obliged.

  As he concluded, a light dawned in Freddie’s eyes. He clapped his companion enthusiastically on the back.

  “Eureka,” he said brightly. “The think-box revolves. You mean the jolly old pane polisher, what?”

  “Pane polisher?” asked Elveden.

  “Glass burnisher,” Freddie explained patiently. “Casement cleaner, oriel furbisher.”

  “Window cleaner?”

  “Crude, but descriptive,” answered Freddie.

  There was a momentary silence and the Inspector’s tie claimed his attention again.

  “We don’t seem to get much farther, do we?” he asked with an apologetic smile. “Shall I put a hypothetical case?”

  “Certainly,” agreed Freddie blankly. “What is a hypothetical case, and where does one put it?”

  “This is a good example of one,” answered Elveden with an enigmatical smile. “A, who is a well-known crook, is observed outside a house one night, eyeing it with a professional eye. You follow? The same night, that house is robbed and B is caught on the premises. I am not boring you? A has temporarily vanished from his old haunts and B, after being detained on suspicion, is eventually released. I trust I am making things clear?

  Subsequently A is observed entering B’s flat—there is nothing criminal in that, but it hints at a connection between A and B, I think?”

  “Certainly,” murmured Freddie politely. “Point debated, motion agreed on.”

  The Inspector eyed him.

  “That is the case,” he said slowly.

  “Dashed interesting,” agreed Freddie with a vacant stare. “Talking of conundrums, have you heard the one about the hen and the egg?”

  They continued their walk. Freddie was not in a communicative mood.

  XII. JOHN RICHMOND’S MESSAGE

  The little round-faced bespectacled man looked up from the alphabetical chart he was studying at the table and smiled at the newcomer.

  “Good morning, Mr. Elveden,” he said pleasantly, fixing his bird-like eyes on the Inspector.

  Inspector Elveden nodded and dropped into a chair by the open window.

  “Morning, Mr. Lanning,” he said briefly. “Any luck with the cipher, yet?”

  “Let me see, that will be—ah yes, quite so.”

  The little man adjusted his glasses and, rummaging about in the papers strewn all over the table, he produced the slip which Sir Marcus had given the Inspector and which Elveden in turn had handed on to the little code expert of the Yard.

  Mr. Lanning studied the message thoughtfully, took off his spectacles, wiped and replaced them.

  “Well?” asked Elveden, watching the operation with a faintly amused smile.

  “Exactly,” murmured Mr. Lanning, “This code of yours, Mr. Elveden...ridiculously simple...extraordinarily so, if I may take the liberty—it is a wonder that you did not succeed in elucidating it yourself. Yes. Quite so.”

  The Inspector smiled. Possibly the code did present little difficulty and on the other hand possibly it did not. Elveden was familiar with the little man’s habit of depreciating himself and more often than not the little problems that Lanning termed “ridiculously easy” were, in Elveden’s more direct parlance, “damned tricky.”

  He waited patiently. No one ever presumed to hurry Mr. Lanning. It was futile.

  “Ridiculously easy,” murmured Mr. Lanning, “extraordinarily so.” He looked over his glasses at the Inspector. “I tried all the well-known and most intricate combinations before I realized that the message was written in one of the simplest—if not the simplest—ciphers known to this department.”

  Elveden nodded encouragingly. Lanning was off and required no advice or outside comment on the subject that was nearest his heart—the deciphering of code messages.

  The old man gave his glasses another brief examination and came straight to the point, for which the Inspector was thankful.

  “Reading from left to right,” said Mr. Lanning, “we have the words: PRAY PHEERS INST CLOD NICE ELAN LEES DO INNS LOOK STEP LIES YE TRIBAL READ. A truly curious collection of words. The division of the words has no bearing on the message, however. In some cases one word of the original message has been distributed over three words of code, and the code words do not correspond to words of the same length from the original. The message was obviously written in a hurry and designed only to baffle the layman.”

  He stroked his chin and passed the slip of paper to the Inspector.

  “Only one letter in every two is relevant,” he continued, “the rest have been added to confuse. I trust that my diagram has made it clear.”

  Elveden looked at the slip and read:

  • • •

  The Inspector stared thoughtfully at the message. So that was the reason for the robbery o
f the tiara? A concealed paper? Did that support the theory that the Squid had been responsible? In any case there might be others interested. Excluding himself, four people had seen the message. Sir Marcus, Jimmy Craven, Freddie Leicester and the Duke of Framlingham. He wrinkled his brows. Freddie Leicester? Well, Freddie had been arrested in the very room in which the robbery had taken place. Then, why had Sir Marcus refused to bring a charge?

  His preoccupation had not passed unnoticed by the little cipher expert and, feeling Lanning’s eyes on him, the Inspector rose to his feet.

  “Thanks, Mr. Lanning. You’ve been a great help.” And with a curt nod he left the room.

  Thyme’s Bank had begun to interest him greatly. The newspaper statement had mentioned that the tiara was deposited at the bank and whoever had executed the robbery had been unaware of that. Now, of course, it was public property, and if, as he was inclined to think, the Squid was taking a hand in the game—well, diamonds had a fascination for him and the fact that they lay in the strong room of a bank was not likely to deter him.

  Head down, hands deep in his pockets, Inspector Elveden strode down the Strand and proceeded along Fleet Street, pausing at last before the solid main entrance of Thyme’s Bank.

  Entering, he walked to the long counter and spoke through the brass grille to a sleek-haired clerk.

  “I wish to have a few words with the manager.”

  “Yes, sir. Have you an appointment?”

  “I have not,” answered the Inspector, indifferently. “I’m afraid, sir——“ the other was beginning, when Elveden cut him short with unusual curtness.

  “You’re not! I am Inspector Elveden of Scotland Yard. Give Mr. Thyme my compliments and that message.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The clerk collapsed like a pricked bubble and walked the length of the counter to Mr. Thyme’s door.

  Two minutes later he conducted the Inspector across the white tessellated floor and ushered him into the manager’s sanctum.

  As the door closed behind the Inspector, a short, corpulent man with a cherubic face, rose from behind a massive oak desk and held out a wellmanicured hand.

  “Inspector Elveden?” asked Mr. Thyme in a gentle voice. “You wished to speak to me, I believe? Please take a seat.”

  He sat down himself and motioned to a chair drawn up before the desk. Elveden sank into it.

  In those few seconds Elveden’s appraising eyes summed up the man before him.

  Immaculate to the smallest detail—about fifty-three years old—and the living incarnation of the Cheerybles—the likeness pleased the Inspector. It was to be hoped that Mr. Thyme would be as genial and obliging as the celebrated Dickensian characters.

  “Mr. Thyme,” he said, briskly, “I believe that Sir Marcus Loseley is one of your clients?”

  Mr. Thyme nodded courteously. As a rule he was reticent where his clients or their interests were concerned, but in this case it would be of little avail. All England, thanks to the newspapers, knew that Sir Marcus had deposited his famous heirloom at the bank.

  “That is so,” he acknowledged.

  “And I understand that the Loseley tiara is deposited here?” continued the Inspector slowly.

  Mr. Thyme understood so too. A loyal reticence about his client’s affairs was quite useless.

  “I should like, if possible, to have a look at the tiara,” pursued Elveden.

  Mr. Thyme sat back and pursed his lips.

  “May I ask for what purpose?” he inquired gently.

  “That, of course, is my business,” answered the Inspector.

  Mr. Thyme nodded.

  “Naturally, forgive me,” he murmured, contritely. “You have a written authorization, I take it?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” answered the Inspector, “but I think it might be managed without that. As I merely wished to examine the tiara, I imagined that we could dispense with a warrant.”

  Mr. Thyme looked genuinely distressed.

  “Unfortunately,” he apologized, “it is impossible for me to allow you to see the tiara without a letter authorizing me to do so, from the owner, Sir Marcus. I am extremely sorry, Inspector, but you appreciate my position? I mean no offense when I say that we have to be extremely careful in these matters. If anything should happen to the tiara while it is in my possession, Sir Marcus would hold me responsible. An order from the Commissioner of Police would, of course, relieve me of any responsibility, but I think it would be easier to approach Sir Marcus. He could have no objection, my dear sir.”

  The Inspector nodded and rose to his feet.

  “Very well, I will obtain Sir Marcus’ written order,” he replied, and with a brief nod to the manager, left the room.

  Mr. Thyme watched with thoughtful eyes his tall figure stride down the length of the bank.

  In Fleet Street, Elveden hailed a bus going to Victoria and went on top with a slight frown. He had hoped that Mr. Thyme would have proved willing to assist. Enough time had been wasted already. Descending at Victoria Street, he made his way towards Sir Marcus’ house. In answer to his knock, Fenton appeared almost at once to announce that his master was out.

  “He has been out all the morning, sir. I think he mentioned that he might be calling on His Grace of Framlingham for lunch.”

  Elveden grunted and, turning his back unceremoniously, retraced his steps.

  With a vexed expression he chartered a taxi and directed the chauffeur to drive to Upper Berkeley Street. For once in a way the usually urbane Inspector was a little put out.

  Sitting back in the taxi, he frowned angrily at the inoffensive back of the chauffeur. Why the devil should he have to waste an entire morning chasing people all over the globe in their interests? The odds were ten to one that Sir Marcus was out on one of his periodical book searches and would not remember his promise to lunch with the Duke.

  Still scowling, the Inspector descended at the house. Contrary to his expectations, Masters informed him that Sir Marcus was in the library with the Duke and Freddie, and the Inspector was shown in without delay.

  The three men were seated, smoking.

  “What ho, the jolly old law!” said Freddie, cheerfully. “Whose doin’s have I prigged lately?”

  The Inspector ignored the remark and walked straight across the room to the Baronet.

  “I have had that code message translated, Sir Marcus,” he said. “It reads: Taper concealed in Loseley tiara.’”

  The Baronet looked at the Duke and Freddie inquiringly.

  “Paper?” he said blankly. “What paper?”

  “That is what I want to find out,” said Elveden patiently. “I have already been to your bank—I forget whom I saw——”

  “I know a bank to which the mild Thyme goes,” His Grace parodied cheerfully, and, catching the glance of disapproval which Elveden directed at him, relapsed into silence.

  “I say I have been to your bank,” continued Elveden in measured tones, “and the manager declined to allow me to see the tiara without your consent and written authorization. Have you any objection to giving me one?”

  “None at all,” answered Loseley. “If it will save any trouble, I will accompany you.”

  “That would be more convenient,” agreed Elveden. “Can you do so now?”

  “Certainly,” said Sir Marcus.

  “Not before lunch, Marcus,” the Duke pleaded. “Have a heart. I am going into the bank myself after lunch. It’ll keep till then, won’t it, Inspector?”

  “I should prefer to do it now,” replied Elveden vexedly.

  “Very well,” nodded the Baronet. “Will you come too, Erb?”

  “That’s because he wants to borrow my car,” grunted his friend. “All right, I’ll come. What does it matter if I starve, you callous brute? Come on and get it over.”

  “I will also confer my society on the meeting,” said Freddie sweetly. “After all, I may as well see the dashed tiara, considering that I was accused of purloining the beastly thing.”


  They left the house, and the smooth-running Lanchester carried them swiftly back to Thyme’s bank.

  Descending, the Duke gave his chauffeur instructions to wait, and they entered and made straight for the manager’s room.

  The sleek-haired clerk who strove to intercept them retired discomfited when he recognized Erb.

  “There are times,” said the Duke audibly, “when a dukedom has its uses,” and the clerk’s complexion changed to an unbecoming magenta.

  Mr. Thyme rose to meet his distinguished guests with just the right amount of cordial deference. To the Inspector he vouchsafed a somewhat distant nod.

  As soon as they seated themselves Mr. Thyme gave His Grace priority.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked politely.

  The Duke crossed his legs placidly. “What,” he asked, “divides me from abject pauperism?”

  “Two yards,” grinned Freddie, seated next to him.

  “You will have your joke!” said Mr. Thyme, mildly. “I believe your capital is something like two hundred thousand pounds at the moment.”

  “Good enough,” said His Grace. “I can afford that little car.”

  “How much do you require?” asked Thyme. “A thousand, fifteen hundred——?”

  “Whoa,” shouted the Duke. “I shall be broke and receiving unemployment benefit in a moment. I want a car, not a Pullman saloon. I shall require six hundred.”

  “Pounds or saloons?” Freddie offered.

  “From the maniac beside me,” said the Duke scathingly, “Mr. Storer Clouston drew his portrait of the ‘Lunatic at Large.’ Six hundred pounds, Thyme. I have taken a fancy to a Chrysler. Two-seaters make me feel so dashing.”

  Mr. Thyme nodded dutifully. Where possible he liked to deal personally and advise his clients direct, but there were occasions when he found the personal element a little trying.

  This was one of them.

  “And you, Sir Marcus?” he asked.

  “I called in to have a look at the tiara,” answered the Baronet. “Mr. Elveden here wishes to glance at it for a moment.”

  Elveden, who had stood by, betraying none of the anger he felt at the delay, nodded.