Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  Ten minutes later he stood up, clad in the butler’s clothes, and smiled down engagingly on the partially recovering John. The latter, gagged with a handkerchief, strove to free his wrists from the pajama cord that pinioned them behind his back.

  “No,” said Freddie pleasantly. “Decidedly no, old cod! Take my tip and chuck it. The more you strain, the tighter the jolly old knots will become.”

  John “chucked it.” His efforts had tightened the chafing cord until it was biting deeply into his flesh, and for the first time it dawned on the butler that the grinning youth who watched him was less of a fool than he looked.

  John’s swift glance revealed the fact that he was wearing Freddie’s pajamas and dressing gown, and also that his belt was tied round his ankles.

  With an amused smile Freddie rummaged in his pockets, and finding the key of the billiard room, walked softly to the door and unlocked it. Opening it, he peered cautiously out into the corridor outside.

  On the right from the servants’ quarters came the sound of a chair moving. The rest of the house was apparently silent.

  Freddie wondered where the “staff of four, to meet various domestic and other contingencies” were.

  Moving softly down the corridor, he came to a door and pushed it cautiously ajar. He found himself looking into the kitchen and what he saw there amused him.

  Seated with his back to Freddie was the sour-faced footman, making a hearty meal of cold ham and pickles. Propped up against the cruet in front of him was a copy of the current issue of the Sporting Times, which the footman was studying earnestly with a view to appreciating “Form for the two meetings.”

  Absorbed in his reading, he was unaware of Freddie’s silent entry behind him. Which was an advantageous circumstance—from Freddie’s point of view.

  Softly closing the door, Freddie moved silently toward the unsuspecting “race fan” clubbing his pistol in his hand.

  He struck once, and once only. It was sufficient! The footman’s head fell forward on his plate, his nose resting passively in the remains of the chutney.

  “And that,” said Freddie cheerfully, “is that!”

  Stooping over the inert footman, he removed his braces and tie, and bound him methodically, standing back after a time to survey his handiwork.

  Satisfied that the footman was helpless, Freddie crept out into the corridor and silently explored the rooms on the ground floor.

  Room after room he found deserted, and, moving with the noiseless tread peculiar to cats and some men of big build, he made his way toward the stair with a view to assuring himself that the upstairs rooms were unoccupied, or, in the event of their being occupied, seeing that the occupants were placed beyond the possibility of proving dangerous.

  Each protesting creak delayed him, and after a more than usually loud one he crouched back against the wall and cursed softly.

  At any moment the Squid might arrive, and Freddie wanted to be prepared for him. Satisfied that the sound had passed unnoticed by anyone, he made his way upstairs slowly.

  Downstairs in the billiard room John, with set face, slowly and painfully got his back to the wall and levered himself to a standing position. After pausing for breath he began to move slowly, from toes to heels, in the direction of a chair set beneath the electric light switch.

  Above him, but moving so silently that the butler could not determine his position, Freddie stole across the landing like a shadow to the first door of the corridor in which he found himself.

  Freddie knew that this particular part of the house overlooked the garden at the back. What he did not know, however,’was that any sounds outside from the front of the house would not penetrate to the rooms he was now exploring.

  And in that, John downstairs had the advantage.

  There were sounds.

  Faint footfalls that moved warily outside along the gravel path to the front door, and then paused.

  Hobbling slowly, John reached the switch.

  He had no time to lose. Freddie might return at any moment, and John knew that, above all, the Squid must be warned. And the footfalls outside had been those of the Squid! He was waiting...and in danger!

  John knew why the Squid was waiting.

  The Squid had pressed a button which would set a bulb glowing in the kitchen. Until someone in the kitchen pressed a second switch, which would light a red bulb above the front door, the Squid would not enter. And John doubted if anyone would press that switch. He had little doubt of the fate of the footman. Nevertheless, Freddie might be even now outside the house, or watching the Squid from a window, and the master had to be warned.

  With a silent prayer John bent his knees and jumped. He landed on the chair and swayed perilously. For a moment it seemed as if he would fall. The perspiration stood out on his forehead. Then, with an effort, he swayed sideways against the wall and leant there panting.

  Slowly he steadied himself and turned his back to the wall, feeling for the light switch with his bound hands. From outside came the sound of stealthily retreating footsteps.

  The Squid was puzzled by the non-appearance of the red light.

  Above sounded the scrape of a chair as Freddie made an unwary move. John’s hands moved feverishly in search of the switch and suddenly came in contact with it.

  Immediately the switch began to jerk upwards and downwards causing the light to flash off and on alternately.

  Directly outside the billiard room window the footsteps paused suddenly, and with a feeling of relief John worked at the switch.

  A series of short and long flashes lit up the window, lighting and darkening the drive outside.

  XXV. CHECK TO THE SQUID

  The Squid stepped back quietly from the gravel path to the grass that lined the drive. The eyes in the waxen mask had been fixed intently on the barred and glazed window of the library.

  Something had gone wrong. His signal had not been answered and he was already retreating when a succession of sharp flashes from the billiard room window caught his attention.

  As he stepped close to the window, the flashes started again. His astute brain grasped the idea at once.

  Watching intently, he translated the irregular flashes into words.

  “John speaking. Am tied up in billiard room. Footman is probably helpless. Leicester has escaped and is probably upstairs.”

  There was a pause, and then the message was repeated. The flashing stopped.

  The Squid picked up a small stone from the drive and, reaching up, tapped quietly on the window.

  A sharp flash answered him and, satisfied, he started to rap softly and swiftly.

  “With you immediately. Squid”—the stone tapped out.

  Stepping back cautiously, he sped along the grass and round the angle of the house.

  Within two minutes the footman, slowly recovering from the effects of the blow, was watching a dark shape climbing through the window of the scullery, which was just visible through the half-opened kitchen door.

  The Squid slipped across the scullery and into the kitchen, taking in the situation at a glance.

  Producing a penknife, he bent over the footman and began sawing through the tie which bound his hands.

  • • •

  On the floor above Freddie inspected the last room, a bedroom. Like the others it was empty, and with a sigh of satisfaction he sat down on the bed to think. Feeling in the pockets of John’s suit, he discovered a packet of cigarettes and some matches, and for a few moments he sat and smoked.

  Abruptly realizing that he was still in a tight corner and that there was little time to waste, he stood up and, moving less cautiously now that he thought he had the place to himself, crossed the room to a small table by the door. The momentary flare of his match had revealed among other things a telephone, and at that moment Freddie had need of a means of quick communication with the outside world. He seized the receiver, placed it to his ear and waited.

  In the kitchen below the Squid ceased operations over
the prostrate footman and looked up sharply at the small old-fashioned switchboard from which a persistent buzzing was coming.

  His eyes gleamed ironically and, motioning to the footman to lie still, he crossed silently to the switchboard and sat down in front of it. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was nearly ten o’clock. He adjusted the headphones carefully. That was fortunate. At that hour the exchange operators would be men, and Freddie Leicester would not be expecting a female voice to answer.

  “Number, please,” he said in a muffled, expressionless voice.

  “Get me the police station quickly,” said Freddie’s voice.

  “Police?” asked the Squid with twinkling eyes. “Where are you speaking from?”

  “I don’t know the address,” answered Freddie swiftly, “but that doesn’t matter. Put me on to the local station.”

  The Squid’s eyes were amused.

  Plugging in to another room he waited for a moment.

  After a suitable pause, he removed the plug. The resultant click would convince Freddie that he was connected.

  “Police station, Wandsworth,” said the Squid, altering his voice to a brisk authoritative tone. There could be no harm in Freddie knowing where he was, since there was little likelihood of his escaping.

  An exclamation of satisfaction floated across the line.

  “Send some men up here at once,” said Freddie. “I have been imprisoned in this house for a week. You have probably received instructions to keep a look-out for me. My name is Leicester, Frederick Herbert Leicester.”

  The Squid hissed with artistic surprise.

  “Why yes, sir,” he said eagerly. “All stations have your description. Can you tell us where you are?”

  “Wait a jiffy,”, said Freddie.

  The Squid waited amusedly. Over the wire came the sound of someone striking a match. He guessed that his “Subscriber” was studying the little enamel plate bearing the inscription: “Your number is——”

  “Hallo,” came Freddie’s voice again. “This is Wandsworth 6978. Tell the Superintendent that the Squid is expected here any moment.”

  The Squid gave voice to another artistic hiss of surprise.

  “The Squid, sir? Would you like to speak to the Superintendent?”

  “No time,” said Freddie. “For the love of Mike, hurry! He may arrive any minute. Got the number? Wandsworth 6978. Thanks. Get a move on!”

  Freddie rang off.

  With a low chuckle the Squid removed the earphones and resumed his liberation of the footman. As he finished they heard footsteps descending the stairs.

  The footsteps crossed the hall and entered the billiard room.

  John had regained the position in which Freddie had left him some minutes previously and from the floor he glared up angrily at his captor, careful to betray none of the exultation he felt.

  Freddie surveyed him blandly.

  “Bit cramped, old dear?” he asked. “Never mind, bear up. It’s all for the good of the jolly old cause. You’ll soon be in a nice warm cell.”

  He smiled engagingly. “We will now go and see if the other joker is still immersed in the ham and chutney,” he said, and retired.

  Pushing open the kitchen door, he entered. The footman still lay on the .floor. Freddie smiled thoughtfully. So far, so good. Now it only remained to...

  “Supposing you put your hands above your head, Mr. Leicester,” suggested a suave voice.

  Freddie spun round, reaching for his hip pocket, and glared into the placid immovable mask of the Squid, standing against the wall.

  A slight shift of the Squid’s automatic, and Freddie’s hand dropped away from his pocket. Silently he cursed himself for having pocketed the pistol after he had tied up the footman.

  “I cannot compliment you on the fit of your clothes, Mr. Leicester,” said the Squid smoothly. “Nor yet on your alertness. Your ideas are worthy of a better execution.”

  Freddie grinned vacantly. “Even the best of us slip up,” he said resignedly.

  “Allow me to contradict you,” said the Squid, his eyes lighting angrily. “The best of us do not ‘slip up,’ as you put it. I can assure you that I at the moment have no intention of doing so. Have the goodness to raise your hands a little higher.”

  He stepped forward and, running his hand over Freddie’s pockets, found and removed the automatic.

  He motioned to the footman, who had risen to his feet.

  “Go and release the butler. You will find him in the billiard room, I think.”

  “Incapable and in extenso,” nodded Freddie cheerfully.

  “My servants are never incapable,” said the Squid as the footman departed, “until they are dead. As a result of John’s extreme capability I was warned of your activities. It was a fatal mistake to leave him in reach of an electric light switch. Switches have an uncanny fascination for him.”

  Freddie smiled pleasantly.

  “A mistake, certainly,” he acknowledged.

  The Squid watched him coldly.

  “For some time,” he said impassively, “I have been debating the alternatives your detention presents—your release, or extinction. I arrived here today favoring the former.”

  He paused significantly.

  “In view of recent events, I think the latter would be a saner solution.”

  Freddie stifled a yawn.

  “I might have saved you the brain storm,” he murmured, “by clearing out, but I am interested in a lady—er—protegée of yours.”

  “You allude to Miss Richmond?” suggested his captor. “Believe me, Mr. Leicester, your misplaced chivalry has been wasted. Miss Richmond is quite safe, many miles from here. When I say ‘safe,’ I mean temporarily!”

  Freddie cursed inwardly. Outwardly he preserved the same indifferent calm which he had maintained since the turning of the tables.

  He eyed the old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece casually. He must play for time. It could not be long before a police squad would effectually put an end to a situation which promised otherwise to be awkward.

  The sidelong glance had not escaped the Squid. His eyes became a little more sardonic.

  “There is beauty about the conservative preservation of old and effete devices,” he said slowly, “that shows to best advantage in old houses. Take for instance the antiquated switchboard yonder.”

  Freddie followed his gaze and started.

  “Although,” continued the Squid, thoughtfully, “a branch extension has its disadvantages.”

  Freddie’s right hand clenched until the knuckles were white. Beyond that, he gave no sign that he understood the significance of the Squid’s remark.

  “Something tells me,” pursued the Squid, “that my long-delayed introduction to the local police—an introduction which you kindly endeavored to facilitate—will not take place tonight.”

  He opened the door of the kitchen with one hand and stood aside, motioning Freddie to precede him.

  “Shall we adjourn to the billiard room, Mr. Leicester?” he suggested courteously.

  With a sinking heart Freddie walked past him down the passage and so to the scene of his recent activities.

  John was standing up free and rubbing his chafed wrists vigorously while the footman was engaged in cutting the strap which bound his ankles.

  The Squid turned to the footman.

  “Fetch me a length of rope,” he instructed. “It will play a prominent part in Mr. Leicester’s future entertainment.”

  Freddie yawned again and thought furiously. He realized that his escape, if it were to be accomplished, must be the result of his own unaided efforts. He could look for no assistance from the police. Silently and fluently he damned all inter-house telephones, but most of all he cursed his own carelessness.

  The arrival of the footman with the rope with which he himself had been bound not twenty minutes before put a stop to Freddie’s calculations. It was now or never.

  Taking the rope, the Squid offered it to the butler.
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  “You would doubtless like to attend to this yourself, John,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” replied John. “I have hopes of discussing this matter more fully with Mr. Leicester at some more seasonable time.”

  He took the rope and stepped forward. It was Freddie’s last chance.

  Shifting a pace Freddie placed the advancing butler between himself and the Squid’s pistol and, leaping in, smote hard.

  The butler gasped and staggered back into the arms of his master as Freddie, warding off the sudden spring of the footman, leapt back and slammed the door of the billiard room.

  Racing across the hall, he bounded into the library and slammed the door behind him. Fortunately the key was on the inside and Freddie turned it as the Squid and his henchmen arrived.

  Turning swiftly, Freddie leapt to the bookshelves, fumbled for the hidden catch, and swung the shelves back.

  Outside the voice of the Squid snarled: “Break it in—no, stand away.”

  In a flash Freddie realized that the Squid washing to fire at the lock. For a second he wavered and then with a smile dropped down behind the couch on which he had lain so often. It was a risk, but he believed in risks.

  In the same second a bullet shattered the lock and John and the footman burst into the room, with the Squid, his pistol still smoking, just behind.

  The Squid paused for a moment and stared at the opening in the shelves.

  “Damnation!” he snarled. “The secret exit. How did he discover that? Quick, John, the shrubbery. Get him at all costs!”

  He turned on his heel and, followed by his henchman, rushed out of the room, and dashing across the hall, tore open the front door and raced away towards the shrubbery.

  With a pleased smile Freddie walked out of his place of concealment and sauntered leisurely in the wake of his erstwhile captors.

  The risk had come off.

  He arrived on the porch in time to see the three figures, John’s conspicuous by reason of his dressing gown, vanish into the belt of bushes at the side of the lawn dividing the house from the main road.

  With a low laugh, Freddie stepped lightly down the drive toward the iron gate leading to the road.