by Peter Baron
“I myself seldom miss,” continued the Squid, watching his companion narrowly. “In fact, I can recall only one instance in which I made an error where marksmanship was concerned. I shot to wound. A fatal mistake. Always shoot to kill, Mr. Leicester.”
“I do,” said Freddie cheerfully. “Every time I handle a popgun, my life is in danger.”
“Ah,” the Squid nodded understandingly. “You must practice, Mr. Leicester—not here, you understand—but I think you will find it beneficial. Practice makes perfect—corpses. I keep my eye in, as they say, by occasional shots at a chosen target—frequently a human target—and I find that my aim is as good now as it was ten years ago. Better, in fact. My error with regard to B 29 taught me a lesson.”
“B 29?” said Freddie politely. “A tram conductor, perhaps?” The Squid did not rise to the bait.
“An exceedingly foolish young man,” he said slowly. “And incidentally, the only person who jeered at my marksmanship and lived to remember it. Had circumstances been other than they were at the time I might have repaid him for his untimely sarcasm.”
He sighed and pushed the cigarette box closer to his guest. “Shall we smoke, Mr. Leicester?” he invited hospitably.
XVII. JOHN THE BUTLER
On the following morning John again appeared, in answer to Freddie’s ring, with shaving water and utensils. As before, he entered the room cautiously and stood on guard at the door while Freddie shaved.
Concluding, Freddie turned to the butler with a pleasant smile.
“And now,” he said lightly, “we will delve a little more searchingly into the pressing matter of the Leicester habiliments.”
“Sir?”
“I say, now we approach the delicate subject of clothing the captive,” Freddie explained. “I take it that Tussaud does not wish me to live and die in these pajamas?”
John bowed gravely and retired for a few moments, carefully closing the door, to return with a second suit of pajamas, this time green, which he laid on the table.
Freddie stared blankly, first at the pajamas, then at the butler.
“But, my dear old freak,” he protested in a pained voice, “why the battalions of nighties? Fearfully fetching and all that sort of thing, of course, but what’s the plan of campaign? Are we a ‘back to nature’ society or something equally scaly?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Sun baths, nude studies and all that kind of rot.”
“The master’s instructions, sir,” apologized John, smiling slightly. “You will appreciate the fact that it has certain advantages, sir.”
“For Plasticine Percy, yes,” said Freddie, reasoning sorrowfully. “I see his point. Meantersay, I can’t very well trek round the countryside in silk undies, but look at it from my point of view. Dashed drafty, my dear old Claude.”
John shook his head regretfully and Freddie, frowning sadly, donned the green pajamas.
“Natty,” said Freddie, surveying his reflection with a little more enthusiasm, “but apt to clash a little with the dressing-gown, I think. I look rather like a tangerine bursting into bud. I suppose one couldn’t hope for something less talkative in dressing-gowns, Clarence?”
“I am afraid not, sir,” replied John, “and my name is John. The effect is quite tasteful. Breakfast is ready when you are, sir.”
“Lead me to it,” said Freddie gladly. “There is a gnawing at my vitals.”
They proceeded downstairs to the breakfast room and Freddie discovered that the table was laid for one.
“Where,” he demanded, “is William the Waxwork?”
“You allude to the master, sir? He was called away early this morning,” said John, standing on the far side of the table and operating with the coffee pot.
Freddie selected some toast and ate thoughtfully.
“Would it be a breach of etiquette for me to ask where I jolly well am, old scream?” he asked. “And while we are on the subject, a bit more milk.”
“For you to ask, no, sir,” retorted John calmly and, retiring, he locked the door.
“Cold,” mused Freddie. “Bally chilly, in fact.”
He smiled vacuously and devoted his attention to the newspaper, which bore the previous day’s date.
“Daring Robbery,” headed the account of the Squid’s latest activity and Freddie read the article with intense interest.
“A daring robbery was carried out at the offices of the Incorporated Trust Company in the early hours of this morning,” he read. “Four steel doors and the main door leading to the vaults were negotiated by oxy-acetylene jets. It is estimated that the total loss, consisting solely of jewels deposited by the company’s clients, amounts to something over £60,000. Bonds and other securities were left untouched. From the nature of the robbery, it is believed to be the work of the notorious Squid. A policeman on duty in Kingsway stated that, while attempting to arrest an apparently drunken man, he was struck on the head and rendered unconscious. He was found, lying in an adjacent area, by an Inspector of Police. Two people have stated that they observed a large black motor-lorry drive out of Parker Street, which runs into Kingsway at the side of the Company’s offices, at twenty to three, which lends color to the police theory that the robbery was the Squid’s work. The van has been a prominent feature in other robberies of a similar nature.”
There followed a long account of the Squid’s previous robberies, and Freddie turned to another page.
On the third news page a small announcement caused him no little amusement. It ran:
“Mr. Frederick Herbert Leicester, the wealthy clubman and nephew of the Duke of Framlingham, has disappeared. Mr. Leicester was recently detained by the police following the theft of Sir Marcus Loseley’s tiara. After explanations, however, he was released. For two days after his release Mr. Leicester frequented his usual resorts, but since yesterday he has not put in an appearance. The Duke puts forward the theory that the incident may have played on the young man’s mind. Mr. Craven, an intimate of Mr. Leicester, says that the missing man was in perfect health when he met him on the day of his disappearance.”
Freddie read the description of himself which followed with critical eyes and then tossed aside the newspaper and concluded his breakfast.
As he finished, the door opened to admit John, who stood aside to allow a tall weedy footman to enter and clear the table away. It was the first intimation Freddie had received that the house had other occupants.
“Who is Sunny Sam?” he asked, as the footman made his exit.
“The first footman, sir,” replied John respectfully. “We have a staff of four men here, sir, to meet the various domestic, and other, contingencies.”
His pointed look left Freddie in no doubt as to his meaning. Still dangling his revolver, John turned to Freddie deferentially.
“Is there anything particular you would wish to do, sir?”
“Is there anything in particular I am allowed to do?” asked Freddie, sarcastically. “And talking of the weather, my dear old cod, have the goodness to turn the young battery somewhere else. I have an unpleasant premonition that something might happen if you continue to treat it as a dessert spoon. A little more caution, my friend; those things go off sometimes.”
The butler looked pained.
“You are in no danger, sir. And now, in the matter of entertainment, sir. The library, billiard room, music room and tennis court are at your disposal.”
Freddie shuddered and eyed him sorrowfully.
“Have you,” he asked bitterly, “ever extracted any bloodcurdling thrills from a game of solo tennis? I meantersay, ask yourself, laddie. It can’t be done.”
“I should be pleased to give you a set, sir.”
“A set of clothes would be more appropriate,” said Freddie.
“Really, my dear Lancelot——”
“John, sir.”
“As I was saying, really, my dear John, tennis in pajamas is not exactly the thing,” murmured Freddie, shivering.
“And free access to the old bod for the piercing zephyrs,” sighed Freddie. “No, laddie, as my illustrious friend, John Ruskin, once remarked under similar circumstances—not in these pants. A very trite observation. Lead me to the Hall of Harmony.”
“After you, sir,” said John, standing aside.
“Irreproachable,” sighed Freddie, sauntering out, “but inconvenient.”
John conducted him to the music room.
A large room, softly carpeted and hung with plush curtains of purple. Comfortable chairs stood about, and the windows were long oblong panes set high up in the wall, close to the ceiling. A Steinway occupied one side of the room and on the other stood a huge cabinet gramophone, flanked by rows of record shelves. Directly opposite the door was a four-valve wireless set, encased in a walnut cabinet. John touched an electric switch and flooded the room with a soft subdued light. Whistling untunefully, Freddie sauntered to the gramophone and, selecting a record at random, set the turntable in motion and dropped into a comfortable chair.
The strains of a “Blues,” played as only the orchestra of the inimitable Paul Whiteman could play it, filled the room.
“You are fond of music, John?” suggested Freddie, courteously.
“Of music, yes, sir,” agreed the butler, picking up a box of cigarettes. “Of the discordant oscillation they misterm syncopation—decidedly no, sir. You will smoke, sir?”
“Ah, a budding Beecham,” nodded Freddie, accepting a cigarette. Rising to his feet, he changed the record and “The Erl King” materialized under the faultless touch of Lamond, its rumbling chords filling the room like distant thunder.
“Allow me, sir,” said John, moving to the gramophone. “May I trouble you to stand beneath the windows?”
Freddie rose wonderingly and retreated to the wall beneath the windows.
The reason necessitating the move was not immediately apparent. John, standing by the gramophone, was altering the pitch of the record.
Apparently satisfied, he seated himself at the Steinway, laying his revolver on the top, and accompanied Lamond note for note until the final harmony spent itself.
“Verily, a coming Cortot,” said Freddie encouragingly. “Feel inclined to slam the ivories for a bit longer, friend John?”
Friend John obeyed politely, periodically forestalling Freddie’s sidling movements to the door, and carefully ensuring that the length of the grand should remain between them. Freddie’s hope that the artist in John might obliterate the warder was a vain one. The butler’s lynx eyes never left his face and at the slightest sign of a hostile move, the butler’s hands moved up, sometimes in the middle of a chord, to toy suggestively with the revolver.
Freddie spent a pleasant morning, listening to the touch of a master. Having lunched in solitary state, as at breakfast, he summoned John again.
“Laddie,” he said, “subject to your forceful guidance, I will hie me to the Abode of Literature.”
The butler bowed and conducted Freddie to the library, retiring himself on a plea of domestic duties. The door closed behind him and the key turned in the lock.
It was the first time Freddie had been left alone, save at night, and he did not propose to waste the time; nevertheless, he spent the first ten minutes lying sprawled on the cushions of a comfortable divan facing the huge fireplace, to all intents and purposes asleep.
Above the fireplace hung a full-length portrait of the Squid himself, wearing his mask. It was the work of a master and through half-closed eyes Freddie appraised it, but not solely as a work of art.
The brush of the artist had captured exactly the waxen pallor and fixity of expression of the mask, but, as in the grotesque original, there were two living things in the portrait—the eyes.
Betraying no sign that he was aware of those watchful eyes, Freddie lay inert on the divan for fifteen minutes.
At the expiration of that time, he rose silently to his feet. The eyes of the portrait were then eyes of paint.
With a half smile Freddie moved silently round the room.
With the exception of the fireplace, the entire wall space was monopolized by shelves on which were innumerable books, covering two centuries. Even the back of the door was provided with shelves.
Walking round and occasionally removing books to tap the walls, the unwilling guest occupied himself for two hours, with frequent periods of inactivity during which he paused to study attentively the eyes of the portrait.
On the other side of the wall on which the portrait hung, lay the gun room.
In walking to the library in the morning, he had caught a glimpse of it through the half-open door. Someone, probably John, was able to watch any movement in the library. There were probably similar devices for watching other rooms.
At half-past four the footman entered with a tray containing tea and petit-fours.
John brought up the rear.
Tea concluded, Freddie demanded a cigarette and directed John to “remove the debris forthwith.”
As soon as the butler and footman had retired, Freddie extinguished his cigarette, stretched himself out at ease on the divan once again, and slept.
For ten minutes.
Only the impassive eyes of an oil painting watched him as he rose to his feet and continued his search.
It was well that the eyes of the portrait did not come to life during the next two hours.
At six o’clock, Freddie, smiling in a satisfied way, rang a bell set in the wall by the fireplace and summoned John.
“Tempus fugits, does it not?” he demanded blandly, as the butler put in an appearance.
John seemed to be a trifle out of his depth.
“May I ask you to interpret, sir?” he suggested.
Freddie salaamed.
“‘Tis the hour of evening fare, effendi,” he said dramatically. “The mastication period draws on apace, yes?”
“The evening meal will be laid at seven, sir,” John informed him. “Will you go to your room, sir?”
“Laddie, you have said it,” murmured Freddie. “I will change for dinner and eke remove the soil from my person. Lead on, Macduff.”
“Yes, sir,” said John obediently, “and my name is John.”
Freddie looked covertly at the portrait and, taking advantage of John’s back, winked pleasantly.
A procession of two wended its way to Freddie’s bedroom.
XVIII. JIMMY INVESTIGATES
Monsieur Blatz bowed deeply as Inspector Elveden strode into the Nocturnes and came to a stand in front of the alcove from which the manager watched the lobby.
“This is an unexpected honor, M’sieu l’Inspecteur,” he murmured with an ingratiating smile.
“Is it?” asked Elveden, looking round the lobby.
“But yes, M’sieu,” Blatz answered suavely. “It is but rarely that the Nocturnes entertains the law.”
The memory of a certain fruitless raid on the club still lingered pleasantly in the memory of Monsieur Blatz.
“The law,” said Elveden evenly, “is seldom entertained by the Nocturnes, M’sieu. It is rarely even interested, and frequently bored.”
The smile that accompanied the words failed to remove their sting. Nevertheless, Monsieur Blatz veiled the anger in his small eyes with heavy lids.
“In what capacity does it function tonight?” he asked silkily.
“That of interest,” answered Elveden. “Great interest.”
The manager thought it over and watched the Inspector covertly. The remark was a little disturbing.
“I under stand that Sir Marcus Loseley is in the club,” said Elveden.
“He is dining with His Grace of Framlingham, Miss Richmond and Mr. Craven in the restaurant,” Blatz supplied obligingly.
The Inspector nodded and made his way to the restaurant. As he hesitated on the threshold, his quick eyes picked out the group he sought and, maneuvering betw
een the tables, he made his way across the room and halted before the party at the far end.
The Duke was the first to notice him.
“Oh, my prophetic soul, the Inspector!” he misquoted calmly. “Here, in this den of infamy? Why?”
The Inspector bowed to Leslie and nodded briefly to the others.
“Good evening,” he said.
His Grace, observing the coolness of the Inspector’s regard for Sir Marcus, tactfully intervened.
“It cannot be to inspect,” he said. “Can it be to revel? Ah, we have it! Even the long arm of the law must raise itself occasionally to assuage an inspectorial thirst!”
He smiled benevolently and raised his own glass with a prodigious wink.
But the Inspector’s attention was elsewhere.
“Can I have the pleasure of a few words with you, Sir Marcus?”
“The fewer, the more pleasurable,” replied Sir Marcus, through tightened lips. He made no attempt to move.
“In private,” supplemented the Inspector, in no way perturbed.
“Thank you, I am quite comfortable here,” retorted the Baronet icily, adding pointedly, “with witnesses!”
“As you please,” said Elveden. “I have an idea that you might possibly assist me in my search for Mr. Leicester.”
Three faces showed blank astonishment. The fourth showed black rage. Loseley half rose in his seat, to sink back again as the Duke laid a restraining hand on his arm.
Jimmy forestalled Sir Marcus’ outburst.
“Wrong number,” he said flippantly. “This is a grub shack, not the lost property office.”
Framlingham nodded approvingly.
“Well taken,” he agreed, “but the question remains, where is that blighted boy?”
“Pardon me, your Grace,” interrupted Elveden smoothly. “I have no time to waste.”
“The Ducal head sinks in the slime of reproof,” sighed the owner.
“I am waiting, Sir Marcus,” continued the Inspector.
“At your own invitation,” answered Sir Marcus. “Don’t let me detain you.”
The Inspector flushed slightly.
“I think I can do all the detaining necessary,” he said pointedly. “You decline to assist?”