Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  “Unfortunately,” shrugged the manager, “Mademoiselle is in bed with influenza.”

  “Loose female,” said Framlingham primly, “virgins should sleep alone. Mademoiselle, was she? Mademoiselle who? Not the one with a name like asthma?”

  “Mademoiselle Dorakakoff, of the Russian Ballet,” supplied Monsieur Blatz.

  “I knew it was something bronchial,” the Duke said.

  He looked up suddenly.

  “Is that Mr. Craven?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the dance floor.

  Monsieur Blatz nodded in return.

  “He arrived with Miss Richmond earlier in the evening. I think your Grace was dining at the time.”

  “Yes, I frequently am. Fade out, my friend. They are coming this way.”

  Monsieur Blatz tactfully effaced himself and the Duke rose to intercept Jimmie and Leslie, who were passing him on their way to another table.

  “You would have ignored me, Leslie,” he said reproachfully, setting a chair for her. “Such is the ingratitude of woman.”

  Leslie seated herself and accepted a cigarette.

  “Aren’t you going to admire my new dress, Erb,” she pouted, and he studied it with mock concentration.

  “One admires the jewel, not the setting,” he excused courteously.

  “Considering your passion for gems, you haven’t been very fluent, then,” she countered, exhaling a cloud of blue-gray smoke.

  “I haven’t had a chance to flirt with you yet,” the Duke complained bitterly. “Jimmy takes the advantage of a younger man and monopolizes your dances. Chiefly,” he added, after considering them and reading the signs correctly, “because he can find no other excuse for holding you in his arms in public.”

  Leslie reddened.

  “Slander!” said Jimmie. “Erb, I shall sue you.”

  “You’d lose your case, my friend. No judge ever gives a duke or a typist an unfavorable verdict. It would be a breach of etiquette.”

  He turned to Leslie.

  “I have just time to wear out your shoes for you. May I have the next?”

  She looked shyly at the reporter.

  “Sorry, Erb,” she answered. “It’s booked.”

  As a matter of fact it was not—until that moment.

  “Very well,” said the Duke in dignified tones, “I abandon you to the mercies of the Press corn-crusher.”

  He frowned and, rising to his feet, called for his bill. Looking round the room, he said dismally: “Has anyone seen that somnolent slab, Freddie, this evening? I suppose I shall have to collect him sooner or later. An hour ago I left him in the lobby. Returning, I find he has sidled off somewhere or other, probably on a diamond hunt!”

  There was no response. Jimmy and Leslie, oblivious of the world around them, were bending their heads close together and the reporter’s ardent eyes and Leslie’s flushed face told their own tale. He groaned.

  “Oi,” he said. “Disengage! I’m just going.”

  “Go quietly,” advised Jimmy sweetly and resumed his conversation with Leslie.

  His Grace went in search of Freddie.

  • • •

  “Nobody—hie—loves—me—but—my—daddeeeeee.”

  Constable West started violently as a raucous voice broke into song with rather more power than purity of tone, not twenty yards away.

  Turning slowly, the outraged officer beheld the tottering figure of one who strove to ascend the steps of the Incorporated Trust Company’s Offices in Kingsway.

  The street was practically deserted at that hour of the morning and Constable West had been reckoning on a little rest from the arduous duty of walking around the streets, with occasional interludes of flashing his lamp.

  With a sigh he strode purposefully towards the reveler.

  The singer was clad in evening dress. His white silk muffler had wound itself round his face and his crush hat was set at a crazy angle on his head. In one hand he brandished a walking-stick vigorously as he essayed the steps for the second time.

  Failing to pass the first two, he retired slowly and, in defiance of the approaching West’s protests, wheeled abruptly and charged violently up the flight. Reaching the top he staggered, swayed perilously and, finally collapsing, floundered down the whole flight into the arms of the waiting constable.

  “Dam’ the esch-lator. I repeat dam’ esch—esch——Officer—that esch—’s danger to the public. Take it into cushtody.”

  “Yes, sir,” agreed the constable soothingly. “Now suppose you push off home to the missus like a good chap.”

  “Suppose I do,” agreed the other thoughtfully. “Yesh—home—missus. I’ll show her—wheresh booking offish?”

  Constable West, still supporting the hilarious one, strove to obtain a glimpse of his face.

  The other, betraying signs of wishing to ascend the steps again, struggled violently to extricate himself from the constable’s grip.

  “Un-hand me, offisher,” he commanded grandly. “I repeat unhand me, ‘sh liberty to ‘temp familiarity with married female. Shall squeam!”

  He did and struggled violently.

  His wildly flailing arms dislodged the constable’s helmet and, propping the overjoyed one against the wall, West bent down to grope for his missing headgear.

  In that second a revolver butt descended on his unprotected head and, with a faint moan, he measured his length on the pavement.

  Shadowy figures materialized at once and the erstwhile “drunk” became suddenly sober.

  Within five minutes, the constable was lying, gagged, bound and stripped of his uniform, in a nearby area and a policeman, whom the Inspector of that section would not have recognized, was patrolling his beat.

  XVI. FREDDIE HIBERNATES

  When Freddie Leicester opened his eyes, it was broad daylight.

  For some moments he lay quite still and then the fact that he was on his back gave him food for thought. Sitting up, he found himself on a strange bed in a strange room.

  A hasty glance down at himself revealed the fact that he was clad in a suit of beige-colored silk pajamas, which was curious, since beige was not a color he affected in pajama suits. Jade, often, pale mauve occasionally, pink rarely, but beige, never.

  He winced suddenly as an agonizing pain shot through his head and, sitting on the edge of the bed, he strove to piece together whatever series of happenings had culminated in this sequel.

  Slowly the events of the previous night came back and, still holding a hand to his agonized head, he got to his feet and looked round the room.

  It was small, and ventilated by only one window of frosted glass, from which a pane was missing. Across the front of the window iron bars prevented any attempt of escape. Opposite the bed stood a wash-hand stand and on it lay a comb, brush, soap and towel. A cracked jug, standing in a china basin, contained water. Beside the wash-hand stand stood a small table with a large mirror above it, and against the wall stood a chair.

  The only door was at the foot of the bed, facing the table.

  A brief examination of the door showed that it was locked and, standing there thinking confusedly, Freddie noticed a pair of red bedroom slippers lying on the floor at the foot of the bed. Stooping down he put them on mechanically. Glancing into the mirror, he smiled wryly and a cheerful unshaven face grinned back at him.

  He crossed to the wash-hand-stand, sluiced his face and hands, and taking up the brush, reduced his hair to some semblance of order, wincing each time the bristles touched the back of his head.

  His toilet finished, he walked to the door again and studied it reflectively.

  Set in the wall on the right hand side was an electric bell-push.

  Testing the stoutness of the door, he stepped back and charged it violently, bouncing back like a piece of india-rubber. With a rueful grin, he stood aside caressing his damaged shoulder, and pressed the bell.

  That done, he hastily crossed the room and, taking up the brush, placed himself at the side of the door and
waited.

  He had not long to wait. In a few minutes he heard the sound of approaching footsteps coming along what sounded like uncarpeted boards.

  A key was turned in the lock and the door swung open.

  For some seconds Freddie waited tensely, still holding the brush. No one entered the room.

  Freddie’s slightly puzzled expression vanished as he read the solution from the corner of his eye.

  His position was reflected in the mirror over the table, as was also the position of the man who stood outside.

  An impassive-faced man, gray haired and dressed in the morning clothes of a butler. In one hand the newcomer held a revolver and there was the faintest suspicion of amusement in his eyes.

  He spoke in a formal well modulated voice.

  “You rang, sir?”

  Freddie lowered his brush with a grin, and stepped into view.

  “I admit the soft impeachment,” he said brightly. “Could one obtain the wherewithal to remove the fungi at present obscuring one’s charms?”

  He touched his chin pointedly and added: “Would you mind turning the artillery the other way, old scream! I should-’just hate the old cannon to go into action while I was on the landscape! Meantersay—things do happen, and all that sort of thing, you know.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the butler, without altering the direction in which the revolver pointed. “Will you have the goodness to step farther back into the room? Forgive the liberty I take in asking, but I feel sure you will appreciate my need of caution in view of—er—recent events.”

  Freddie smiled vaguely.

  “Oh, you mean the brush episode?” he suggested pleasantly. “Forget it, old lad. Rub it out. I was swatting flies.”

  “Exactly, sir,” agreed the butler respectfully, and waited patiently until Freddie had moved.

  That done, he stopped, still directing the barrel of his pistol at Freddie and drew a tray, containing hot water and shaving utensils, towards him.

  Standing up, he entered the room and kicked the door shut behind him.

  Proffering the tray, he placed his back to the door and toyed suggestively with the revolver.

  Freddie took the tray and walked with it to the wash-hand stand.

  “Thank you, Cuthbert,” he said gravely.

  “John, sir,” corrected the butler.

  “Nice name,” approved Freddie, busied with lathering his face. “Always liked it myself.”

  He started operations with the razor and for some time there was silence.

  Presently: “Touching the matter of the flagging tissues, old lad?” he asked. “When do we put it across the hen fruit and brown fluid?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “I say when do we feed the old face?” explained Freddie. “Breakfast, laddie. Eggs, rolls, coffee and such-like.”

  “Lunch, sir,” said John, “is being delayed until you are ready. The master is waiting for you downstairs.”

  “Lunch?” asked Freddie. “Do I understand that I have missed the matutinal resuscitation, old soul?”

  “You have missed breakfast, sir. It is now nearly one o’clock.”

  “Ah,” murmured Freddie. “And now flitting to the more mundane matter of the worsteds, whipcords and saxonies.”

  “Sir?”

  “I say ‘clothes,’” Freddie interrupted obligingly. “Lead me to something wearable.”

  The butler smiled apologetically.

  “I am afraid that that is impossible, sir,” he stated placidly.

  “The master’s instructions were that you should retain the pajamas. You will find a dressing-gown behind the wash-hand stand. Beyond that I cannot assist you. I trust that you understand, sir.”

  “Most certainly,” nodded Freddie, bringing to light a bright orange silk dressing-gown. “Bit futuristic, what? Never mind, Clarence. We will bear up.”

  “Very good, sir,” replied John, “and my name is not Clarence, it is John. May I ask you to precede me?”

  He stood aside and Freddie with a broad grin walked out into the corridor beyond, along which, at the butler’s invitation, he walked.

  The corridor terminated in a flight of stairs, leading down to a landing.

  Three more similar flights of stairs and landings they traversed before reaching a wide hall. All the windows on the route, Freddie noticed, were made of frosted glass and heavily barred like the one in the bedroom.

  In the hall Freddie turned inquiringly to the butler, who motioned deferentially with his pistol to a door on the right.

  Freddie entered and found himself in a low-ceilinged room, paneled in oak and apparently windowless, but retaining a certain coziness of effect. The room was lighted with electric light.

  At a table in the center, lunch was set for two and he saw that the second person was already seated.

  He found himself gazing into the cold expressionless mask of the Squid.

  The Squid rose courteously.

  “Please be seated, Mr. Leicester,” he invited cordially. “You must be more than hungry after your enforced abstinence and—er—trying experience.”

  Freddie nodded cheerfully and dropped into the other chair. He noticed that the length of the table divided him from his host.

  “First let me offer my sincere regrets for the summary treatment you received last night. I can assure you that such inhospitable receptions are infrequent and pain me greatly.”

  “The pain,” said Freddie, “was all mine.”

  He rubbed the back of his head tenderly.

  The Squid’s eyes twinkled humorously.

  “You are, I see, a man after my own heart, Mr. Leicester,” he murmured approvingly. “John: the soup.”

  Freddie eyed the Squid curiously.

  “How the deuce do you propose to lap up the consommé with that waxwork veiling your beauty?” he asked pleasantly.

  “Very simple, my young friend. Read, mark, learn and inwardly digest, particularly the last. I can promise you that the soup will be above reproach. My chef is little short of a wizard where soups are concerned.”

  It was excellent soup and Freddie gave it his undivided attention. The fish that followed was also excellent, but during that course Freddie found time to watch his host.

  As the Squid had said, it was a simple matter to eat. The mask was hinged and moved as the Squid’s jaw moved. It did not appear to hamper its wearer in the slightest degree. For ventilation, Freddie noticed on a closer examination that there were a number of small, almost invisible, holes drilled all over the wax surface. The Squid did not resume conversation until the coffee, a delectable finale to a splendid lunch, had arrived.

  “This,” he said, waving his hand round the room, “is where I hibernate during periods of—er——”

  “Trade slackness?” suggested Freddie, inanely.

  “Let us say, of exceptional police activity,” answered the Squid, smoothly, “which brings me to the question of your disposal. I am afraid that you will also have to hibernate for some few days. I can offer you tennis, billiards, limited golf, an extensive library and, above all, irreproachable wine.”

  “Everything, in fact, except the jolly old freedom of the earth, what?” said Freddie.

  The Squid inclined his head.

  “I find myself liking you more and more, Mr. Leicester.”

  “And that,” said Freddie casually, “is dashed funny, is it not? I meantersay, the way acquaintanceship affects people. Personally, I find you perfectly poisonous, my dear old Squid. Quaint, what?”

  The sentiment did not appear to disturb the other in the slightest.

  “In the circumstances, a very natural feeling. Nevertheless, as I said before, I find myself almost liking you.”

  “Pity you didn’t find it out earlier,” grinned Freddie. “Or is this your little way of showing esteem? Fearful domino on the think-box you gave me, you know!”

  He rubbed his head again, and resumed with a look of interest: “What was the object of the li
ttle party, last night?”

  “A meeting of the Society for Discussing Ways and Means,” answered the Squid cryptically. “Am I to take it that you think me fool enough to believe your assurance that you slept through the meeting?”

  “My dear old screech——“ Freddie protested and fell silent as the Squid raised his hand.

  “In either case it is quite immaterial,” said the Squid, as though dismissing the subject, “but it may interest you to know that the result of our little conference was a very pleasant—and profitable—evening.”

  “Oh, we clicked, did we?”

  “Clicked? Forgive me——“ murmured the Squid with a puzzled expression.

  “We got away with the goods—brought home the bacon?” explained Freddie.

  “Exactly,” agreed the other, his eyes glinting with amusement. “We—er—as you put it, brought home the bacon. You will find an interesting account of it in the papers this morning. The directors of the firm I visited last night are loud in their condemnation of the police slackness.”

  He sipped his coffee.

  “To digress for a moment, Mr. Leicester. I am sure that you will appreciate a little piece of advice I propose giving you. Firstly, without outside aid, which I think we need not count on, it is absolutely impossible for anyone to escape from this house. Secondly, an attempt to do so would have fatal results. When I say fatal, I mean for yourself. You will doubtless have noticed that John has contracted an affection for a revolver?”

  He nodded thoughtfully and continued in the same gentle musing tone.

  “I feel impelled to warn you that in moments of extreme emotion, he is apt to become a little abandoned in his use of the weapon. I recollect perfectly the disastrous results that attended the last attempt to escape made by one of my guests.” He nodded reminiscently and continued sadly:

  “The poor fellow died before we could fetch a doctor. Tragic, Mr. Leicester. And all due to a misunderstanding and John’s regrettable impulsiveness.”

  Freddie smiled blandly but made no comment.