Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  “The constable who tried to stop the Squid’s taxi,” answered Elveden, and looked away.

  After a moment he turned again to the reporter.

  “Better give me full details,” he suggested.

  Craven looked up miserably.

  “According to Fenton,” he said in a dull voice, “Sir Marcus received a message from Masters, the Duke of Framlingham’s butler, asking him to go over there at once and——”

  “Did Fenton take the message?” asked Elveden sharply. “Only the first few words,” Jimmy replied. “Masters said that he wanted to speak to Sir Marcus on a matter of the greatest importance—no, urgency.”

  “Go on,” invited Elveden, his eyes gleaming oddly. “Apparently Sir Marcus left in his car at once,” said Jimmy. “Five minutes later Miss Richmond received a message from him written on a visiting card—wait a minute——”

  He rummaged in his pocket and produced the card.

  Elveden read the scrawled message and smiled cynically.

  “This is Sir Marcus’s writing, I suppose?” he asked.

  “Or a damn good imitation of it,” answered Jimmy. “There was a taxi waiting for Miss Richmond at the door and she was just getting in when I turned the corner. She waited a moment for me, and I suddenly saw a pair of black-gloved hands reach out and drag her inside.”

  He ran his fingers through his long hair distractedly.

  “I managed to board it,” he continued ruefully, “and caught a glimpse of a fellow with a huge head holding her. Then I got a clump on the jaw that pitched me into the gutter. I ran after the taxi for some way, saw the accident, and went back to the house to telephone you.”

  He buried his head in his hands again.

  With an ominous tightening of his lips, Elveden took up the telephone at his elbow.

  “Put me in touch with the Duke of Framlingham’s house,” he directed. “Upper Berkeley Street, isn’t it?”

  He turned to the reporter and, receiving confirmation, said: “Yes, that’s right, and get a move on.”

  Jimmy sat back in his chair miserably and listened despondently to the stream of questions Elveden fired into the telephone.

  Replacing the receiver, Elveden turned to him with a curious smile.

  “Masters says he gave no such message,” he said. “His Grace is not in the house. He says that Sir Marcus called some time ago and, on learning that no one had telephoned, left immediately for his own home.”

  He toyed idly with his pen.

  “I should very much like to know Sir Marcus’s movements during the past three-quarters of an hour,” he said, thoughtfully.

  “And I shall be pleased to explain them,” said a cold voice from the doorway.

  Turning, the Inspector was confronted by the haggard face of Sir Marcus Loseley.

  He had been ushered in unannounced.

  He seemed to have aged considerably in the past hour. His face was drawn and deep lines furrowed his brow. Nevertheless, he faced the Inspector’s keen regard unflinchingly.

  “You know what has happened, Sir Marcus?”

  “I think my presence here answers that question,” retorted the other.

  “Then perhaps you will be good enough to explain your movements for the past hour,” said Elveden.

  “At exactly a quarter to seven,” said Sir Marcus, “I was summoned to the Duke of Framlingham’s house by his butler,

  Masters. He told me over the telephone that something terrible had happened——”

  “Terrible?” inquired Elveden.

  “Since you heard, why ask?” Sir Marcus’s tone was frigid. “He declined to explain over the telephone, and I hurried out immediately.”

  Elveden nodded, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the other’s face.

  “On my arrival,” Sir Marcus pursued, “Masters denied having telephoned me, or having telephoned anyone. Furthermore, the Duke was not in the house and had not been there all day. I at once suspected trickery.”

  “Naturally,” said Elveden smoothly.

  “On reaching the road,” went on Sir Marcus, ignoring the sneer, “I discovered that my car had vanished.”

  “And your chauffeur?”

  “I drove myself,” he answered curtly. “My chauffeur had the night off, as I did not expect to use my car at all. That is all there is to explain.”

  “For a man in a hurry—and I take it you were in a hurry—you seem to have taken a long time to make the journey to Berkeley Street and back and then on here,” said Elveden slowly.

  “I was unfortunately unable to get a taxi at once.”

  “And your car is still missing?”

  “It is not,” was the surprising answer. “I found it awaiting me outside my house when I returned from Berkeley Street. I drove here in it. For some reason, which I cannot explain, it was returned.”

  At that moment the door opened to admit the sergeant again.

  “Well?” demanded the Inspector, looking up sharply.

  “Taxi answering the description reported abandoned in Putney Vale, sir,” said the sergeant formally.

  “Any witnesses to testify?”

  “Yes, sir. Taxi was seen to drive up at a quarter past eight and come to a stand beside a private car. Two men got out, carrying a young lady, apparently unconscious. The lady was transferred to the private car, which drove away immediately. The witness said that the chauffeur said the girl was being taken to a private hospital, sir.”

  “Did the witness get the number of the car?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Did he describe the car?” demanded Elveden testily.

  The sergeant reddened with embarrassment. “The witness said it was a motor car, sir,” he answered apologetically, and seeing the Inspector’s angry eyes, added hastily: “The witness wasn’t a him, sir; it was a her.”

  Elveden gritted his teeth and turned to Sir Marcus and Jimmy. “I am afraid we can do nothing for the present,” he said. “I will communicate with you if anything develops.”

  As they passed out of the room, Elveden glared at the sergeant.

  “Damn all women!” he snarled. “Get me on to Putney Vale!”

  XXIV. FREDDIE PLAYS BILLIARDS

  Freddie sipped the excellent coffee and took up the paper. He was in excellent spirits that evening. His schemes were about to mature and friend William the Waxwork was about to receive the most paralyzing shock he had ever sustained. Furthermore...

  Freddie’s meditations broke off abruptly, and he studied the front page with amazed attention. Flaming headlines told this story:

  BARONET’S WARD ABDUCTED

  Policeman Killed by Captors’ Car

  Miss Leslie Richmond, the pretty twenty-five-year-old ward of Sir Marcus Loseley, was forcibly abducted last evening under mysterious and sensational circumstances and P.C. Essex, who made a gallant attempt to hold up the taxi-cab in which she was spirited away, was run down—deliberately, it is alleged—and killed. The taxi got clear away, and up to the time of going to press no arrest has been made.

  A bogus telephone call and a false message, in which the handwriting of Sir Marcus Loseley was cleverly forged, played a vital part in this extraordinary drama, in which certain indications lead the police to suspect the hand of the notorious “Squid.”

  The abduction was a piece of work which for cool daring has rarely been surpassed. Lured by a message purporting to be in the handwriting of her guardian, Miss Richmond prepared to visit the house of the Duke of Framlingham in Upper Berkeley Street, a taxi having arrived for the purpose at the residence of herself and Sir Marcus Loseley at Eaton Place. About to step into the taxi, Miss Richmond caught sight of a friend, Mr. James Craven, on his way to dine with her. She had scarcely paused to await him before someone secreted in the taxi suddenly seized her and lifted her bodily into the vehicle, which was promptly driven off.

  Mr. Craven, who had witnessed the whole drama, raced after the taxi and leapt on to the footboard. A blow in the face, however, di
slodged him and sent him sprawling into the road. Regaining his feet, he continued to pursue the fleeting taxi.

  P.C. Essex, on duty at the corner of Cliveden Place, had seen some of the events and, blowing his whistle, placed himself in the taxi’s path. Eyewitnesses assert that the driver made no attempt to avoid him, but drove ruthlessly ahead, and the unfortunate constable was flung to the ground and died almost instantaneously from a broken neck.

  All other efforts to stop the taxi failed. Police cordons were thrown across the main roads, and hundreds of cars were held up. But the wanted cab eluded all pursuers.

  Now comes the astonishing sequel.

  Sir Marcus Loseley declares that he sent no message to his ward, but that he himself was lured from his home by a bogus telephone message purporting to come from the Duke of Framlingham’s butler. That individual, Mr. Walter Masters, asserts that he did not telephone to Sir Marcus. Neither did the Duke, who was not at home at the time and had no knowledge of any of the incidents.

  Sir Marcus, who drove to the Duke’s in his own car, found it missing when he left. On his arrival home, however, he was astonished to find his car undamaged at his door.

  Mr. Craven declares that the occupant of the taxi wore “black gloves.” It is this circumstance that makes the police confident that the outrage was another coup on the part of the elusive “Squid.”

  Turning the paper over, Freddie found a “Stop Press” paragraph which read:

  WARD’S ABDUCTION

  A taxi answering the description of that used in the abduction of Miss Richmond has been found abandoned in Putney Vale. A woman has now come forward who asserts that she saw the taxi drive up and two men occupants carry an apparently unconscious young woman from the cab to a private car, which was then driven away.

  Freddie laid down the paper and whistled thoughtfully. Leslie abducted. He frowned, and absentmindedly placed his coffee cup on the dessert dish. This was the limit. Assuming that it was the Squid who had abducted Leslie, she would in all probability be brought to this house and kept there pending the maturing of the Squid’s plans. And that knocked Freddie’s plans for escape very definitely on the head.

  Meantersay, poor girl couldn’t be left in the lurch. Dashed rotten posish. Have to stand by with all hands on deck to fortify the emplacement pending a strategic retreat, reflected Freddie. It was an unforeseen complication and one that would hamper his movements considerably.

  He was still debating when the placid John entered.

  “Is there anything particular you would wish to do, sir?” he enquired, repeating a formula that Freddie had heard every morning, afternoon and evening since his capture.

  “I have it in mind to subject the balls to a fearful battering,” replied Freddie cheerfully.

  “Sir?”

  “I said that I intended to have a hundred up at billiards,” explained Freddie.

  “Certainly, sir,” said John, standing aside to allow Freddie to precede him.

  Freddie rose and made his way to the billiard room, escorted by John and the revolver.

  “By the way,” said Freddie, as John switched on the light, “I see that William the Waxwork has collected Miss Richmond.”

  John smiled inquiringly.

  “I refer to the abduction mentioned in this evening’s paper,” Freddie explained.

  Contrary to his usual custom, John became confidential, even enthusiastic.

  “Yes, sir,” he admitted. “I read the report myself. A very neat capture and, as usual, brilliantly hall-marked by the master’s effective methods.”

  “Exactly,” murmured Freddie. “I take it that in the ensuing bustle we may count on an early visit from William? I mean—he’ll have to lie doggo for a bit, what?”

  To his surprise the butler nodded.

  “I expect the master late tonight, sir. Will there be anything further?”

  Freddie took a cue from the rack and balanced it thoughtfully.

  “A palatable gargle seems indicated,” he said, and forestalled the inevitable inquiry. “Don’t say ‘sir’ interrogatively. I allude to the pressing need for a cocktail.”

  “Very good, sir,” said John, and withdrew.

  Frederick settled himself down to the serious business of practicing a few cannons.

  He also settled himself down to the more serious business of perfecting a most attractive little plan that had commended itself to him.

  His meditations were interrupted by the arrival of John with the cocktail.

  “Magnificent man and splendid fellow,” said Freddie, taking the cocktail and quaffing it. “And now, comrade, what do you say to a little mutual dalliance with the red? Or a spot of communal trifling with the white?”

  “Billiards, sir?” asked John. “I should be delighted to have a hundred up.”

  He stepped back and, closing the door, locked it and placed the key in his pocket.

  Freddie eyed the operation reproachfully.

  “It would almost seem as though you wished to infer distrust of little Fred,” he said disapprovingly. “The wrong attitude, old friend. Most reprehensible, in fact.”

  “Most, sir,” agreed John, and selected a cue.

  Freddie, chalking his cue, eyed the butler thoughtfully. This was the first time they had played billiards together and he wondered if John was, as worthy an exponent of the game as he was of everything else he attempted.

  Also he was a little curious to see how John proposed to keep him covered and also make his shots. A lot depended on that point.

  He had already noticed with secret amusement that John had placed the width of the table between them, and when the butler took his first shot the problem was solved.

  Freddie at the moment was standing deliberately a few feet from the position John would have to take.

  The butler saw the move and smiled grimly.

  “May I trouble you to take the other side of the table, sir?” he asked. “I dislike being cramped when making a shot—of any kind!”

  Their eyes met, and Freddie grinned openly. An answering smile crept round the butler’s lips.

  Waiting patiently until Freddie had taken up the required position, John laid his revolver on the cushion, close to his hand and, leaning forward, divided his attention between his opponent and the shot.

  Freddie realized that the butler could snatch his revolver in a second should he see the need for it, and with a sigh he settled down to watch John’s first break.

  The game they were going to play would not be so much a contest of skill as a test of endurance.

  For half an hour they played steadily; Freddie, no mean opponent, waiting his opportunity and silently praying that John would not notice the fact that his shots were being deliberately placed for reasons other than the mere winning of the game.

  Nevertheless, his face remained as vacuous as ever as he maneuvered for the position on which the success of his plan depended. The minutes flew by and the clock struck nine. Each second brought the Squid’s return nearer.

  Slowly and unhurriedly John concluded a number of shots, pausing between each to watch Freddie move to the position he indicated, and at last stood back with a break of thirty.

  Freddie’s heart thumped violently. The moment he had been awaiting so long had at last arrived.

  John stood back and marked his score. That done, he prepared to watch his captive, one hand holding his cue, the other resting lightly on his revolver which lay on the cushion.

  With an inward exultation, Freddie saw that the very revolver which protected the butler was to prove his undoing. In order to cover the revolver with his hand in such a manner as to facilitate grasping it quickly, the butler had allowed his fingers to droop over the cushion, a mistake that no experienced player would make in other circumstances.

  Under cover of deliberating his shot, Freddie covertly studied John’s position. The butler stood about two feet from the table and a further two feet divided him from the wall.

  Freddie l
aid his cue across the table and studied the balls. His mouth went dry during the operation. Should the butler but realize his intentions, the chance would be lost.

  But the gods smiled on Freddie. At that moment John looked up at the clock opposite and Freddie made his shot.

  It was a hard shot without any spin to detract from its speed and the ball struck John squarely on the fingers of the left hand.

  With a sharp exclamation of agony, the butler whipped his injured fingers away so swiftly that the movement dislodged the pistol.

  As the pistol clattered to the floor—an unsuspected stroke of good luck—Freddie dropped his cue.

  John, stooping hastily to retrieve his weapon, saw his danger too late. Freddie launched himself forward suddenly and the startled butler was flung back, dazed and breathless, pinned to the wall by the table.

  Freddie dived across, and his fingers closed over the butler’s throat, checking the astonished cry that rose to John’s lips.

  For a tense second they faced each other and John realized that Freddie’s vacant smile had been replaced by a purposeful glare.

  With a despairing effort the butler flung up his hands and strove to tear away the steel grip from his throat.

  “Not this time, my dear John,” said Freddie grimly, smiling into the red face of the half-strangled butler. His grip tightened viciously.

  Looking into those eyes, John knew that despite the other’s awkward position he had met his match. The veins stood out upon the butler’s forehead like blue ridges, his eyes bulged and his mouth sagged. Freddie smiled into his eyes. Placing his heel against the farthermost edge of the table to steady himself, he drew the butler’s head slowly towards him.

  “Sorry, my friend,” he said slowly. “Needs must when the devil drives,” and the butler’s head went back against the wall.

  On the second John sagged limply in Freddie’s hands.

  Without relaxing his grip, Freddie drew himself across the table and regained his feet.

  Pushing the table away from the wall, he allowed the unconscious butler to slide to the floor and, stooping, picked up the automatic.

  Laying it on the table, he bent down and proceeded to strip off John’s suit.