Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  With a satisfied smile, Freddie descended, replaced the chair and quietly re-entered the secret room, carefully pulling the shelves into position behind him.

  • • •

  Two hours later, John, entering to announce supper, found his master’s guest sprawled on the couch asleep.

  And around the lips of the sleeping Freddie a faintly amused smile played.

  XXI. THE SQUID COUNTERS

  The Duke of Framlingham, carrying a “crush” hat in one hand and wearing an opera cloak over his well-fitting evening dress, entered the study and switched on the lights.

  “Ah, Elveden,” he said cheerfully, “going to lose a little more beauty sleep?”

  He addressed the remark to the back of an arm-chair situated close to the safe.

  From the depths came a grunt and the Inspector’s head bobbed into view.

  “We can only wait,” he said. “Sooner or later he’ll rise to the bait.”

  “These poetic frenzies,” sighed the Duke. “You have made that remark four nights running, Inspector.”

  Elveden restrained, with great difficulty, a strong inclination to swear. His Grace was a little trying at times.

  His host crossed to the sideboard and returned with a decanter and siphon, which he deposited on a small table close to the Inspector.

  “Make yourself at home,” he invited. “I believe the whisky is excellent. Masters would know. Personally I prefer a drink.”

  He made a second journey and added a tumbler, matches and a box of cigars to the little array on the table.

  “The cigars are irreproachable,” he said. “There again Masters’ judgment would be more reliable. He smokes one every night. Don’t tell him that I am aware of his little failing. It might make the poor fellow feel embarrassed.”

  The Duke’s eyes twinkled humorously.

  At that moment the subject of his remarks appeared in the doorway.

  “Will there be anything further tonight, sir?” Masters enquired.

  “No, I shall be dining out and I shall probably be returning late. You won’t want Masters, will you, Elveden? No? That’s all then, Masters. Don’t wait up.”

  “Very good, your Grace.” The butler bowed and retired.

  “I’ll look you up before I tumble in, Elveden,” the Duke said from the doorway, “and if by any chance you find it necessary to see me, a ‘phone call at the Nocturnes will get me. My intention is to frivol unrestrainedly there for some hours with Jimmy Craven and Miss Richmond.”

  “And Sir Marcus?” suggested Elveden sweetly.

  His Grace raised his eyebrows.

  “A natural delicacy prompted me to withhold that,” he answered in dignified tones. “It occurred to me that something happened the last time you met him, to rupture the passionate affection you felt for Sir Marcus.”

  “Something did,” the Inspector retorted grimly.

  “I am looking forward eagerly,” said the Duke with a beatific smile, “to a restoration of amicable relations between Sir Marcus and yourself at your next encounter.”

  “Which is not far distant,” Elveden answered slowly. “And I don’t think that your optimism touching a possible reunion between Sir Marcus and myself is justified.”

  He sank back in his chair.

  Framlingham, with a puzzled “good-night,” turned on his heel and, switching off the light, left the room, a decidedly mystified man.

  Elveden smiled grimly to himself and settled down to his vigil. Glancing at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch, he saw that it was just half-past eight.

  He shifted one foot so that it touched the safe door and, drawing a revolver from his pocket, laid it on his lap and waited.

  Settling himself a little more comfortably, he closed his eyes.

  The Inspector lost less sleep than the Duke thought.

  When he next opened his eyes it was a little before a quarter to one. The room was in absolute darkness and the silence could almost be felt.

  He glanced hastily in the direction of the safe and saw, or rather felt, that it was still locked. Not that he was greatly perturbed by his lapse from wakefulness. A light sleeper, he would have awakened at sounds which would have left a normal sleeper undisturbed.

  Shifting his foot, which had become a little cramped, he sat on, motionless, awaiting developments. Apparently this was to be another fruitless vigil, a repetition of the three previous nights.

  He was certain that the Duke had not returned, since the opening of the door in the hall outside would have awakened him instantly.

  Nor was he wrong. Almost as the reflection passed through his mind, he heard the front door open and close with a decided slam.

  He sat up alertly and then sank back with a smile.

  From the hall came the sound of a lordly voice raised in song.

  It warbled distinctly: “And—for—bon-nie—Ann-ie—Laurie——“ The song broke off abruptly and someone stumbled.

  “Curse the (hie) mat,” came a mutter from the hall, and then the solo continued.

  Elveden smiled. Judging from the blundering progress and curses, His Grace was in an elevated mood.

  Someone stumbled heavily against a chair and knocked it over. The song ceased.

  Feeling for the table in the darkness, Elveden poured himself out a drink.

  The minutes passed in absolute silence and the Inspector, setting down his glass, debated the advisability of going to the assistance of the Duke, who in all probability, was reposing on the floor.

  Listening intently and failing to hear anything suggesting activity in the hall, Elveden was on the point of rising to investigate, when a faint draught and the unmistakable creak of an opening door made him stiffen in his chair.

  In the same second a small disk of white light appeared on the wall opposite the door. Sliding silently further down into the depths of his chair, the Inspector watched the circle of light intently and his hand closed over his automatic.

  A torch?

  What on earth had happened? Whose torch was it? The Duke’s? Surely not. He had no need to play those tricks in his own house.

  In a flash the meaning of the abruptly terminated song and the second fall dawned on the Inspector. His lips tightened.

  The circle of light was moving round the room. Finally, after a complete tour of the walls, it came to rest on the safe, a few feet to the left of Elveden.

  Silently and slowly, the Inspector slid to the floor and dropped down in a crouch on the right-hand side, shielded by the chair.

  The light still rested on the safe and with a faint smile Elveden began to crawl away from the chair, making a detour and heading quietly towards the torchlight, feeling, rather than seeing, his way, through the darkness.

  Not a sound disturbed the silence of the room. The curtains were drawn and the Inspector was reasonably certain that he could not be seen.

  Warily he crawled forward another pace.

  The torch still played unmovingly on the safe, as he edged still farther towards it.

  Curious, that. Whoever held that torch was waiting a long time. Why didn’t the fellow make a move?

  Without warning, the room was flooded with light.

  “A new form of exercise, Inspector?” inquired a mocking voice, and at the same moment the barrel of a revolver dug sharply into Elveden’s back.

  The Inspector gritted his teeth and remained perfectly still.

  From where he was kneeling, not far from the wall, he could see the torch. It was resting on the table just inside the doorway, and he bit his lip as he realized the utter simplicity of the ruse that had misled him.

  “Get up, Inspector,” invited the mocking voice coolly. “You don’t show to advantage groveling on the floor. And take care to keep your hands above your head, my friend.”

  Elveden rose meekly to his feet, the barrel of the gun still touching his ribs to remind him that a false move would be unwise.

  A slim black-gloved hand reached up and removed the automati
c from Elveden’s extended right hand.

  “A much more convenient arrangement,” said the voice of his unseen opponent.

  “You may turn round now, and for your own sake do nothing rash, my friend!”

  Elveden obeyed and found himself looking into the repellent waxen mask of the Squid for the first time.

  The two eyes in the mask regarded him ironically.

  “I think we may dispense with introductions,” said the Squid calmly. “I am here to take up the ridiculous gauntlet you were foolish enough to throw down.”

  Elveden studied his opponent warily and the eyes in the mask watched him with equal intentness.

  “So you walked into the net?” asked Elveden, with rather more confidence than he felt.

  “Bluff,” said the Squid acidly, “is distinctly overrated when not employed in that diverting pastime known as Poker. Your bluff wouldn’t deceive an imbecile.”

  He motioned significantly with his pistol.

  “Have the goodness to step back a few paces,” he directed coldly, and, pocketing Elveden’s automatic, he advanced as the other retreated.

  They came to a standstill before the safe. The house above them remained still. No sound disturbed them. Apparently the servants had not heard His Grace’s arrival or were perhaps so familiar with his lapses from sobriety that they were leaving him to his own devices.

  And what of the Duke? Elveden’s glance wandered casually to the closed door.

  The Squid intercepted the glance and his eyes glittered mockingly.

  “His Grace,” he said coldly, “is drunk and incapable. Decidedly incapable! Stand away from that safe!”

  Elveden looked at the sinister black figure and decided that, although valor was an attribute of the Gods, the more mortal discretion was not without its attractions.

  He moved aside obediently. It was a humiliating position. The result of his trap—defeat.

  The Squid advanced a step and dropped on one knee before the safe. His revolver tilted at a sharp angle and the Inspector found himself gazing down the barrel.

  The Squid drew a small red diary from his jacket pocket and waved it defiantly.

  “His Grace is apt to be a little careless in matters of vital interest to himself,” he said coldly.

  He glanced swiftly down at the diary and then back at the Inspector. His hand moved out to the brass dial in the center of the safe. The little indicator began to swing backwards and forwards.

  “Seven forward—back three—five forward—back two—three forward—ah!”

  His voice ceased and the door swung open under his hand.

  “Don’t move, Inspector,” he said silkily, and his free hand reached into the safe. It came away holding a string of diamonds, that glittered and twinkled in the light. The Baraipur diamonds!

  He dropped them into his pocket and reached into the safe for the second time, withdrawing a bundle of bonds which he transferred to another pocket.

  He rose to his feet and his mocking eyes held those of the furious Inspector unwaveringly.

  “The beauty of bonds,” he said evenly, “is that they are untraceable. They will also serve to recompense me for an otherwise wasted evening. At some future date I shall give myself the pleasure of setting to work to find our drunken friend’s little collection, which I believe rivals my own in more ways than one.”

  Motioning the Inspector to stand away from the table, he stepped forward and poured himself out a drink.

  He raised his glass mockingly.

  “To our next meeting, Inspector. I shall return the paste decoys in due course.”

  Elveden’s sudden start provoked a mocking laugh.

  “Over-advertisement is very foolish, Inspector. Do you realize that from the moment you started to concoct this amiable, but not over-brilliant scheme with our inebriated friend at present—er—reclining in the hall, the cards were all stacked against you?”

  The Squid drained his glass at a gulp and set it down.

  “That whisky,” he said, “was excellent. And should you lower your hands another fraction of an inch, Inspector, there will be a nasty accident.”

  Elveden bit his lip and raised his hands to their full extent. The slow and furtive lowering had not, as he supposed, escaped attention.

  “Returning to the subject of diamonds,” resumed the Squid softly. “Allow me to draw your attention to the humorous side of the affair. You will doubtless appreciate it even more fully than I do myself.”

  His eyes twinkled amusedly.

  The Inspector remained silent. There was little that he could say. The Squid held all the cards.

  “As I was telling Mr. Leicester the other day—ah, that is news, I see. Yes, I have been entertaining Mr. Leicester for some considerable time and shall probably continue to do so unless I decide to—ah—remove him for good. He had the misfortune to intrude at an inopportune moment, some time ago. Most regrettable. I shall be sorry to be instrumental in cutting short so promising a career.”

  His eyes caught and held the Inspector’s.

  “Don’t forget what I said about your hands,” he warned, and Elveden scowled.

  “However, we digress,” continued the Squid. “As I was telling Mr. Leicester, some years ago I took the trouble to examine the Maharajah’s diamonds with a view to acquiring them.”

  His glance became a little colder.

  “Naturally, I discovered the deception he had played, and in consequence the little trap you have so carefully laid struck me as childish.”

  Elveden gritted his teeth, but preserved silence.

  “Furthermore,” pursued the Squid, “I knew the Maharajah’s failing for crime in any shape or form. Also that, as a result of his charming duplicity, the diamonds had fallen into your hands. I trust that the Commissioner did not make the mistake of trying to realize on them? But, of course, the Yard has its experts who would detect the deception.”

  He chuckled and the Inspector restrained his rising temper with an effort.

  “You have not, however, heard the cream of the joke,” went on the Squid.

  “The Maharajah, for whom you are so diligently searching at the moment, happens to be one of my most valued aides. Humorous, is it not?”

  He chuckled with enjoyment and then abruptly became serious.

  “I have wasted enough time on you, my well-meaning but brainless friend,” he said acidly and stepped back cautiously to the door.

  Elveden took a half-step forward and the revolver shifted menacingly.

  Standing with his back to the door, the Squid felt for the key. Removing it, he opened the door and transferred it to the other side of the lock.

  Standing in the doorway, a grim black-clad figure, he bowed slightly.

  “My compliments to the Commissioner,” he said mockingly, and in a flash had bounded out into the hall and slammed the door.

  The key turned in the lock ten seconds before Elveden hurled himself forward.

  With a muttered curse the Inspector seized the nearest chair and, raising it, battered on the door. Blow after blow fell and from above came the sound of someone stirring; servants, he judged, and yelled for assistance.

  The precious seconds flew by and the stout panels did not give beneath the furious onslaught.

  Dropping the damaged chair, Elveden glared round the study and, espying the window leading out to the drive at the back of the house, leapt across the room and opened it.

  Vaulting over the sill, he dropped on to the gravel path beneath and raced round the side of the house. Confronted by a locked door, he was forced to climb it, muttering expletives all the time.

  Dropping down on the other side, he dashed down to the gates and, feeling in his pockets, produced a police whistle.

  A frenzied siren rang out in the cold morning air.

  XXII. TELLS SOMEWHAT OF A DUCAL SPLEEN

  Masters, followed by the cook, a footman and various other members of the Duke’s household, made his way gingerly down the stairs.


  It was barely five minutes since he had been roused from his sleep by the violent barrage on the ground floor and the excited yells of Inspector Elveden.

  Hastily bundling on a few clothes, he had arrived on the landing to find the others congregated outside his door, whispering nervously and showing no inclination to descend and discover what was the cause of the disturbance.

  Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Masters braced himself and made his way in the direction of the light switch.

  From out of the darkness the little group waiting nervously at the top of the stairs heard a sudden grunt and the sound of a heavy fall. There followed an emphatic and heartfelt “Damn!”

  Masters was only human.

  Staggering to his feet, he hastily switched on the light and gazed down at the bundle on the floor over which he had measured his length.

  Lying on his side, gagged, and with his hands and ankles manacled, was His Grace of Framlingham. His eyes glared up furiously at the startled butler and from behind the gag he mouthed inarticulate curses. Beside him on the floor lay his cloak and gloves. A few feet away his crush hat was living up to its name. Lying open on its side, it had broken the butler’s fall.

  With a startled gasp, Masters dropped on his knees beside the prostrate Duke and removed the restraining gag with fingers that trembled nervously.

  Putting his arm round his master’s shoulders, he raised the unfortunate man to a sitting position.

  His Grace glared first at the servants and then at the manacles on his wrist. The sight seemed to sober him.

  For some moments there was an awed silence, while a struggle raged in the ducal soul—the struggle of man and gentleman. And the man won.

  Four expletives, all beginning with the second letter of the alphabet, burst from his lips and were succeeded by a fluent stream that included every descriptive word in the language and repeated none.

  The cook, with a decidedly heightened color, scurried back up the stairs with her hands over her ears and vanished to her bedroom.

  Masters hurriedly motioned to the first footman to assist him, and between them they carried the lordly blasphemer into his study and deposited him on a chair.