Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  “Simple,” said Framlingham thoughtfully, “very simple. Who is the Indian joker?”

  “The Maharajah of Baraipur is the name of the gentleman—er—willing to sell,” said Elveden. “At least he was the Maharajah of Baraipur until the Government deposed him. I have here the two announcements which are to go to the press, and they merely await your signature.”

  Withdrawing an envelope from his pocket, he extracted two sheets of notepaper with a small typewritten notice in the center of each, and handed them to the Duke. His Grace sat up and read them aloud:

  “We understand that the Maharajah of Baraipur arrived in England today to negotiate for the sale of his famous heirloom ‘the Baraipur necklace,’ an exceedingly valuable circlet of diamonds. It is rumored that the Duke of Framlingham, who is, among other things, a notable diamond collector, is a likely purchaser.”

  The Duke grunted noncommittally and turned to the second sheet:

  “We learn that the Duke of Framlingham has concluded negotiations with the young Maharajah of Baraipur for the latter’s string of diamonds, at a price of eight thousand pounds. This will be a notable addition to His Grace’s already famous collection.”

  He returned the envelope and the two announcements and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

  “Unless I am mistaken,” he said slowly, “I seem to have heard the Maharajah’s name mentioned somewhere or other. I am sure of it. That precludes the possibility of its being a fake title. In which case, what is the poor josser going to get out of this deal?”

  He eyed Elveden enquiringly.

  “The Maharajah will get nothing out of the deal,” said Elveden with a cynical smile. “The title, as you suggest, is a genuine one, but at the present moment the Maharajah has excellent reasons for not wishing to put himself in the limelight. There is no fear of his coming forward to contradict the statement. I might say, no such luck. As a matter of fact, the gentleman is ‘wanted’ badly in various circles!”

  The Duke nodded understandingly. “And the diamonds?” he asked.

  “Paste,” replied Elveden. “That is how they came into our hands. The Maharajah crossed over on the boat to Dover with a charming young American, Miss Mary Van Dessack. The lady became infatuated with him, and foolishly agreed to purchase the diamonds. She paid a fabulous sum and then discovered the deception. That was after she had left the boat, and two days after the check had been presented. She communicated with us and agreed to remain silent while we tried to run the Indian to earth in London. Needless to say, we failed. In any case, it is quite immaterial. It is exceedingly unlikely that the Squid is aware that the diamonds are spurious, and we hope by these advertisements to draw his attention to you.”

  “Very kind of you. It begins to percolate. Apparently I am to give the Squid the chance of raiding my house for these paste diamonds? A beautiful thought. I am to allow him the freedom of the place to carry off whatever he fancies? Not that he’d get much. The silver is plated and insured. However, it is an admirable scheme.”

  He eyed the Inspector sarcastically.

  Elveden sat back and looked at him enquiringly.

  “Does the idea commend itself to your Grace? I may say that we decided to approach you in virtue of the fact that you are a noted collector and a wealthy man.”

  “‘A common illusion,” sighed the Duke forgivingly. “Yes, the scheme is all right. I was thinking more particularly of the hitches that will probably arise in its execution.”

  “It will be executed without any hitches,” Elveden assured him.

  “Yes, so might I be,” grumbled the Duke. “This Squid is a child of violence, I understand, and I dislike violence.”

  The Inspector grimaced expressively.

  “I think you may leave the Squid to us, your Grace. As soon as these notifications appear, I shall take up my station in this house.”

  “That will be nice,” murmured His Grace.

  Elveden smiled pleasantly.

  “If it is any comfort for you to know it, sooner or later the Squid’s fascination for diamonds was bound to lead him to your collection. We prefer him to be led when we are prepared. As a matter of fact, it has long been a wager at the Yard as to when he would fix on you as a victim.”

  This caused Framlingham a moderate spasm of amusement. “You may rest assured that my collection is safe,” he chuckled. “One does not spend a fortune, and a lifetime, collecting diamonds for the pleasure of seeing some confounded fly-by-night steal them when he sees fit. On one point you may rest assured: no thief would lay hands on my collection, and this paste necklace will certainly not join it. That is asking too much.”

  “Then I may take it that you agree?” said Elveden, rising to his feet.

  The Duke nodded.

  “You will be doing us a great service,” the Inspector said, preparing to depart.

  “For which,” said His Grace ironically, “were I not already unfortunately a peer, I should doubtless be knighted. All right, my friend, close the door quietly, and if you see Masters anywhere about send him in with that chunk of Labrador I asked for many moons ago!”

  XX. THE SQUID ACCEPTS

  Dinner had reached the liqueur stage. As usual, John stood a few paces from his master’s chair, an effective discouragement to any ideas Freddie might have had of trying conclusions with the Squid.

  The Squid himself had been silent for some time, toying idly with his glass and regarding his guest with impassive eyes.

  At last the waxen lips of the mask moved.

  “Mr. Leicester,” he said slowly, “your uncle is not only an extravagant, but a foolish, man.”

  Freddie raised his eyebrows.

  “Absolutely,” he agreed. “The traits are hereditary. I’m a bit of a goer myself, particularly with other people’s liqueurs.”

  He eyed his empty glass thoughtfully.

  The Squid motioned to John to refill it.

  “And foolish,” he supplemented. “To drink three Cointreaus after dinner is something of a feat, Mr. Leicester. Too much alcohol clogs and retards the action of the brain.”

  “If you have one,” murmured Freddie lightly. “I’m not troubled with encumbrances of that sort. We were chewing my ducal kinsman up, I believe?”

  The Squid nodded and, feeling in the breast pocket of his lounge coat, he produced a newspaper cutting which he handed to his companion.

  “That interesting announcement states that your uncle has just purchased the Maharajah of Baraipur’s string of diamonds for eight thousand pounds.”

  Freddie read the cutting and returned it to his host.

  “Eight thousand bucks!” he whistled. “A tolerably fruity lash-out, what?”

  The Squid sipped his liqueur appreciatively.

  “Very,” he agreed, setting down his glass, “if there is any truth in the statement.”

  “Oh, I daresay the Press laddies have got the thing right,” drawled Freddie. “Erb, like yourself, is a collector of the jolly little crystals, although,” he coughed tactfully, “his modus operandi is a little more—er—conventional.”

  “Your point, Mr. Leicester,” the other agreed gracefully. “Touching my failing for—the ‘jolly little crystals’ I think you said?—I must give myself the pleasure of dispossessing His Grace of the necklace at the earliest moment and probably of divers other items of his collection. I have contemplated a descent on the Duke for some months, but I have deferred it through lack of inside information. Also I have reason to believe that your uncle is less of a fool than he looks. I trust you will forgive me for that candid remark. I do not think that His Grace’s collection is merely waiting for the first man who decides to have it. Nevertheless, on one point I am adamant. The necklace! That I shall obtain at all costs.”

  He placed his finger-tips together and his eyes became thoughtful.

  “Not,” he added, “that the transaction will be in any way profitable.”

  Freddie looked up enquiringly.

  “We become
involved,” he said. “Suppose we broadcast the gospel? Let’s have it, my dear old soul. The receivers oscillate with interest.”

  “You are perhaps acquainted with the Maharajah, Mr. Leicester?” asked the Squid. “Or you have met him? No? Then you have probably heard of him?”

  “Unfortunately,” admitted Freddie ruefully, “the little ray of Oriental sunshine has not, to date, lightened my life.”

  “Darkened your door would be more apt,” said the Squid. “The Maharajah on the death of his father came into a considerable fortune. His tastes were a little extravagant, even for a young man, and in the course of a year he—well——”

  “Decorated the metrop with vermilion?” suggested Freddie.

  “I do not follow the simile,” answered the Squid, “but I have no doubt that we mean the same thing. At the end of a year the Maharajah had nothing to remind him of his fortune but a multitude of debts and the family heirloom.”

  “Bit free with the shekels, what?” Freddie said helpfully.

  “Exactly. The heirloom was a magnificent string of diamonds. This necklace was sold privately to a dealer in stones and the money it realized was used to stave off the Prince’s creditors.”

  Freddie nodded encouragingly.

  “Mind urging the Nicotiana tabacum and rice paper into this latitude?” he said, and, as the Squid pushed the cigarette box in his direction: “You seem to have the Indian johnnie’s history off pat.”

  “I have,” agreed the Squid. His eyes wandered round to where John stood impassively in attendance. “For a very good reason, and one that I do not choose to disclose.”

  He took a cigarette himself and lighted it.

  “The heirloom was replaced by a paste imitation,” he continued. “This I discovered some time afterwards, when I had occasion to examine it with a view to acquiring it.”

  Freddie stared at his host blankly.

  “So poor old Erb has copped the rotten end of the deal?”

  “Not exactly,” demurred the Squid. “I imagine that His Grace is a party to the deal.”

  “Dash it all,” bleated Freddie. “My uncle and all that sort of thing, you know. Soul of honor, infra dig. and such-like bilge. Family escutcheon unmarred by foul practices and what not. Besides, Erb has no need to footle about like that. The man’s rolling in doubloons—positively reeks of the bally stuff.”

  “You misunderstand me,” purred the Squid. “It is not His Grace’s custom to advertise when he makes a purchase. He does not let all the world know what he is heading for as a rule. This case is an exception, and as such I mistrust it.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Freddie vaguely. “Only thing to do. Absolutely no choice. Plain course and all that sort of thing. Er—why do you mistrust it?”

  “This affair,” said the Squid, tapping the newspaper cutting, “is nothing but a crude, vulgar and badly constructed invitation to me to place myself in Dartmoor. And Dartmoor,” he added reflectively, “is a singularly unattractive place. You follow my line of reasoning?”

  “Absolutely,” replied Freddie. “With reservations, that is, I mean—perhaps it would be a little clearer if you explained exactly what you do mean.”

  The Squid made a gesture of impatience.

  “Simply that this blatant advertising is a trap. Knowing my predilection for collecting diamonds, the police invite me to try and collect this string and at the same time place my head in the noose.”

  He laughed ironically and drew at his cigarette.

  “The whole thing is almost absurdly childish in its simplicity. I see in it the clumsy hands of my friends at Scotland Yard, for whose methods I have the most profound contempt. This idea of theirs wouldn’t deceive a cat burglar from Brixton, let alone the Squid.”

  “Perhaps they’re not out to deceive cat burglars from Brixton,” Freddie suggested helpfully.

  “It is an insult,” said the Squid harshly. “A slur on my professional capabilities. Naturally I shall reply in the only manner possible.”

  “Nobbling the sparklers?” asked Freddie.

  “Precisely. A vulgar phrase but expressive. A point of honor is involved. It is almost annoying. I had counted on a brief respite from my labors owing to a little successful maneuvering at the Trust Company’s offices. You read the case, Mr. Leicester?”

  Freddie nodded and selected another cigarette.

  The Squid puffed at his cigarette for some time and then extinguished it. He signaled to John.

  “Have the car ready in five minutes. I shall be leaving at once. Leave that gun with me.”

  As John left the room, the Squid turned to Freddie.

  “Unfortunately that hundred up at billiards will have to be postponed, Mr. Leicester,” he said, regretfully. “I shall have to go earlier than I expected. You understand my exceedingly difficult position?”

  Freddie smiled cheerfully.

  “I could not love thee half so well, loved I not diamonds more,” he misquoted.

  “Mr. Leicester,” said the Squid, rising and walking to the door, “I am convinced from your ready understanding that we are going to be great friends in the near future.”

  He nodded courteously and retired, closing and locking the door behind him.

  A few moments later Freddie heard the faint retreating hum of a high-powered car.

  “I shall spend a quiet hour browsing in the Abode of Literature, John,” he announced as the butler reappeared.

  John nodded respectfully and, accompanying Freddie to the library, retired and left him to his own devices, having as usual first locked him in.

  For ten minutes Freddie made no move, contenting himself as on previous occasions with now and again watching the Squid’s portrait beneath covertly lowered lids.

  At the expiration of that time he rose to his feet and crossed the room, coming to a standstill before a section of the bookshelves facing the back of the couch. Running his fingers down the center partition, he came to a stop over a small knot of wood, and pressed slowly.

  The little knot sank into the partition and Freddie seized the bottom of the nearest shelf and pulled it steadily towards him.

  Immediately the whole section of the wall moved outwards, revealing a small door. The door was closed and its height would not allow a man of more than five feet to enter without stooping.

  Turning the handle, Freddie found that the door opened inwards, and, opening it softly, he stood still for some time, endeavoring to catch any sound that might betray occupancy of the hidden room.

  Apparently satisfied, he pulled the section of bookshelves into place behind him and, running his hand along the left-hand wall, found and pressed down the electric light switch.

  With a pleased smile he looked round the room. He had discovered its existence the day before, but had not had time to investigate and had deemed it unwise to visit the library too often, since John or the other servants, who were probably aware of the existence of the secret room, might become suspicious. It was square in shape, without windows, and low-ceilinged.

  An expensive paper of purple with panels of a lighter shade covered the walls. The pile carpet, thick and soft and giving no betraying sound as he walked, was also of a dark purple. The room was furnished simply. A low divan, covered with bolster-shaped cushions of black silk, scarred and tasseled with gold and scarlet, stood almost opposite the white-bricked fireplace. In one corner was a gate-legged table of ebony, with a purple silk runner. In another corner stood a tall reading lamp, with a shade that matched the lighter panels of purple on the walls. The one chair, a deep arm-chair, was upholstered in the same rich purple. Even the bowl of the electric light was of a dull shade of the prevailing color and threw out a subdued light.

  Over the square fireplace hung an oval gilt mirror, its glistening frame catching and reflecting the tiny pin-points of light from the lamp above.

  Freddie crossed the room and, seating himself on the divan, looked round interestedly.

  So this was the Squid’s jol
ly little funk-hole, what? His last resort, and yet...

  A puzzled expression crossed Freddie’s face. He looked round the room again. Surely this elaborately constructed little den had another exit? It could hardly have been devised purely as a hiding place. From what little he knew of the Squid, that wily bird was not likely to favor burying himself in a room from which there was no other escape. Once the room was discovered, he would be trapped, whereas out in the house he would at least stand a sporting chance of escape.

  Obviously the room must have an emergency exit.

  “And that exit I must find,” mused Freddie to himself. Rising to his feet, he crossed softly and swiftly to the door. Opening it, he pushed back the shelves a trifle and peered into the library.

  The eyes in the portrait were still the dull eyes of oil paint.

  He slipped into the library and stood debating. He had about two hours to Spare. At the end of that time John would arrive to announce supper, but during the interim it was quite possible that someone might take it into his head to have a look at the library through the eyes of the portrait.

  And that, reflected Freddie, would just about put the little tin hat on the whole jolly old binge.

  Stepping into the library, he hastily divested himself of his dressing-gown, and, picking up two cushions, draped it around them, laying the completed effect on the couch and turning it slightly in such a way that anyone looking through the spy-hole would see it at an angle.

  That done, he laid one arm of the dressing-gown along the arm of the couch and stepped back to view the effect.

  Still uncertain, he placed a chair before the mantelpiece and, stepping on it, mounted the ledge.

  In that position his eyes were on the same level as those of the picture. Seen in that dim light—the room was almost in darkness—the blurred and indistinct figure on the couch was a fair representation of a man, the head apparently sunk on the chest and shielded by the thrown-out arm.