Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  Reaching the gate, he turned and placed his hand at his mouth.

  “Coo-ee!” he called loudly.

  Three figures burst out of the shrubbery.

  “He’s out!” came the Squid’s snarling voice. “Get him.”

  They broke into a run and Freddy with a farewell wave of the hand turned and dashed down the road.

  Few people were about in the sparsely lighted thoroughfare. On one side tall houses stared down grimly on him, on the other a broad open common stretched away into the darkness.

  Behind him came the sound of running feet, and Freddie lengthened his stride. The sudden spat of an automatic pistol made him duck suddenly and zig-zag wildly. The Squid was taking risks, emboldened by the emptiness of the road.

  A second shot rang out and with it came a familiar sound that brought sudden relief to Freddie.

  The groan and changing gear of an omnibus.

  Still running hard and pursuing the same erratic course, Freddie saw a bus turn out of a road on the left, not ten yards in front of him.

  With a desperate spurt he overhauled and boarded it.

  Dropping into a corner seat inside, he looked back out of the window.

  The Squid and the footman had come to a standstill beneath a lamp-post, and as he watched they turned and hastily retraced their steps.

  Freddie turned round to find himself looking into the inquiring face of the conductor.

  “Exactly where are we, my dear old ticket puncher?” he asked with an engaging smile.

  The conductor looked down disparagingly at Freddie’s ill-fitting clothes.

  “Bolin’broke Grove, Wansworf,” he vouchsafed coldly. “Where jer wanna-go?”

  “That,” said Freddie, “is the question which throbs eternally through my think-box, old dear. To get down to the doin’s without undue wandering round the point, where is the nearest jolly old bluebottle emporium?”

  “Bluebottle which?” demanded the conductor, eyeing him unfavorably.

  “Cop house,” explained Freddie, “or as one might say, police station?”

  “Trinity Road ‘snearest,” answered the other. “Get orf at the Wheatsheaf and walk back.”

  “And where,” asked Freddie patiently, “is the jolly old Wheatsheaf?”

  “‘Spenny ride,” grunted the conductor. “I tell yer!”

  Freddie proffered half a crown, the property of John, and leant back with a complacent smile.

  A nearby clock struck eleven.

  XXVI. TERMS

  The grim silence in the library at Loseley House remained unbroken. Sir Marcus and his guests sat, each busied with his own thoughts.

  For the third time that night the Baronet picked up the slip of white notepaper which lay beside his wine glass and stared vacantly at it. There was no need to read it: its contents were indelibly burned on his memory.

  He dropped it on the table and Jimmy Craven, his face haggard and tired, picked it up mechanically, reading it for the third time since the meal had started:

  “MISS RICHMOND’S RELEASE WILL COST YOU EIGHTY THOUSAND POUNDS. SIGNIFY YOUR AGREEMENT IN THE AGONY COLUMN OF THE EVENING MAIL ANY DAY THIS WEEK. AFTER THAT IT WILL BE TOO LATE. I WILL MAKE KNOWN THE RENDEZVOUS AND FURTHER DETAILS OF THE TRANSACTION AS SOON AS I SEE YOUR AGREEMENT. TRICKERY WILL HAVE UNFORTUNATE RESULTS FOR MISS RICHMOND. THE SQUID.”

  Crumpling the offending piece of paper in sudden fury, the reporter threw it into the center of the table and, dropping his chin on his cupped hands, stared gloomily before him.

  The Duke, who had also read and reread the message, picked it up in turn, smoothed it out methodically, and read it again. Concluding, he folded it slowly and, returning it to his host, sat back fidgeting a little irritably with the stem of his wine glass. His Grace was tired, and even the peril in which Leslie and his nephew stood did little to soothe the raggedness of his nerves. No man is at his best when he is dragged from a bed to which he has not long retired, and Erb found himself thinking a little uncharitably about his missing relation and Leslie.

  It was Jimmy who broke the silence.

  “You’ll agree, of course?” he asked dully.

  “Naturally,” replied Sir Marcus. “That inhuman devil holds the whip hand!”

  His fingers clenched spasmodically.

  “By God,” he grated out, “if that brute has harmed her in any way——”

  He broke off abruptly and drummed agitatedly on the table with his fingers.

  Fenton, entering with coffee, moved to each of the three men in turn. All of them waved him aside irritably and with an injured expression the butler retired with the untasted coffee, now destined for the enjoyment of himself, the first footman and “that limb of Satan, Alfred the boots.”

  Still fidgeting with his wine glass, the Duke spoke slowly.

  “I only hope that Freddie and Leslie are imprisoned in the same place,” he said. “Freddie’s a first-class fool, but he’s not a coward. I think if Leslie were harmed when he was anywhere near, he’d move heaven and hell to square the account.”

  Two grunts answered him. A few days ago when Elveden had passed on the information that Freddie was in the hands of the Squid, they had been excited. Now, the more recent disaster had overwhelmed all other troubles.

  Silence fell again until they adjourned to the smoking-room.

  No one spoke for upwards of an hour. The blue spirals of Jimmy’s cigarettes mingled with the smoke of the Duke’s cigar, floating slowly ceiling-wards in the dull silence. At length the reporter threw his cigarette away and rose. “I can’t stand this inactivity any longer,” he said agitatedly to his host. “The hopeless wondering—the maddening uncertainty—I must do something. Go down to the Yard or something—anything—the walk will clear my head.”

  He stood for a moment running his fingers through his hair and looking at the others dejectedly, and then turned abruptly and left the room. Framlingham looked after his retreating figure sympathetically and then relapsed into his former vacant study of the ceiling.

  Sir Marcus, sitting opposite, did not speak. A slight twitching of his left hand, extended on the arm of his chair, was the only sign he gave of the maelstrom of emotion which was making his head throb to bursting point. The minutes dragged by, and no sound came to break the silence.

  It was a little after two-thirty when Fenton appeared in the doorway.

  “Nothing more, thanks, Fenton,” said the Baronet curtly, waving him aside.

  “Pardon me, sir,” ventured the butler. “The Inspector has called.”

  Before Sir Marcus could reply, Inspector Elveden appeared in the doorway and crossed the room.

  Sir Marcus eyed the newcomer coldly.

  “Perhaps you will be good enough to explain your visit,” said Sir Marcus icily.

  “I will,” said Elveden. “I have just received a telephone message from Mr. Leicester. He has escaped from the house in which he was imprisoned——”

  The Duke dropped his cigar and sat up.

  “Escaped?” he asked incredulously. “Freddie?” He sighed bitterly. “This has been a helluva week. I am assaulted in my own house, the house itself is knocked about; I am robbed, summoned for knocking a fool policeman down; Leslie is abducted, and to cap it all that fool Freddie is free to make my life a purgatory again.”

  The Inspector waited patiently for him to finish, and then continued.

  “The Squid has a sense of humor. He pitches his tents under the enemy’s walls. The house in which Mr. Leicester was confined was in Bolingbroke Grove, Wandsworth. Acting on his information we raided it last night at a quarter past eleven——”

  As one man the Baronet and the Duke interrupted.

  “Leslie?”

  “Unfortunately we did not discover Miss Richmond. The bird had flown——”

  “Who the dickens are you calling a bird?” demanded Framlingham wrathfully. “Less familiarity!”

  “If you will allow me, your Grace,” he said patiently, “I was re
ferring to the Squid. Mr. Leicester ‘phoned me some time ago that he was coming on here after the raid. He should be here at any moment.”

  He turned to the Baronet. “With your kind permission, Sir Marcus, I will await his arrival.”

  Sir Marcus did not give his permission, but the Inspector remained, and for the next half an hour a hostile silence remained unbroken.

  At a quarter past three, three heads went up enquiringly and three pairs of eyes focused on the door outside which a cheerful voice could be heard chirping to “dear old Fenton.”

  Two seconds later Fenton ushered in Freddie, still clad in the butler’s clothes.

  “What ho, what ho!” he greeted them lightly. “Thunderous plaudits, for that which strayed has returned. I have escaped, children.”

  “A superfluous remark,” grunted the Duke, rising wearily and shaking his nephew’s hand.

  Elveden and Sir Marcus nodded without much enthusiasm.

  “Ah,” said Freddie, eyeing a decanter. “Wine. Wine that mak-eth——”

  “The brain of man sodden,” interrupted the Duke swiftly, “and Lord knows yours doesn’t need much assistance. Where did you get that foul rig-out from, you blight?”

  “You would like to have the epic recorded?”

  The idea was not received with any enthusiasm.

  “Since you are so eager,” murmured Freddie, “I will recapitulate in detail.”

  He did, in his own peculiar fashion, which gave his hearers only a very imperfect idea of what had actually transpired.

  As he concluded, Elveden, who had listened with rather obvious and bored indifference, rose to his feet and addressed Sir Marcus.

  “I don’t think you will have long to wait, Sir Marcus, before the Squid makes known his terms.”

  The Baronet looked up at him thoughtfully and waited.

  “I imagine that he will adjudge Miss Richmond’s value at something in the neighborhood of eighty thousand pounds,” said Elveden slowly.

  Loseley picked up the Squid’s message and handed it to the Inspector. Their eyes met. Neither would give way.

  “As a prophet,” said Sir Marcus, “you are unexcelled, Inspector,” and turning, he walked out of the room.

  Elveden studied the terms thoughtfully and whistled.

  Freddie, fumbling for the monocle he so rarely used, found it and stared at the Inspector through it.

  “What makes us so sure of the exact sum, my dear old Inspect tor?” he asked blankly. “And what’s bitten Marky?”

  “Eighty thousand pounds is all Miss Richmond is worth,” said Elveden with a cryptic smile. “It reverts to Sir Marcus in the event of her death!”

  A dead silence followed the remark, and the Inspector fell to studying the message again.

  “Exactly what are you driving at?” enquired Freddie at length. “I meantersay, that’s an accusation and all that sort of thing. Rather rough on Marky, you know. I don’t wonder he got huffy. What I mean—after all, it was rather a fruity innuendo.”

  “On the contrary,” said Elveden, “I made a simple statement. It was open to Sir Marcus to interpret it in whatever way seemed best to him. Unfortunately he took umbrage.”

  “I wonder he doesn’t take legal action,” growled the Duke.

  The Inspector shrugged.

  “I imagine that a court of law is the last place on earth Sir Marcus would want to enter at the moment,” he said, and the other two gradually appreciated the drift of the argument.

  “You’re exceeding your duty, aren’t you?” asked the Duke frigidly.

  “Not at all. No one likes the notoriety of a law court. And now, if you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to.”

  He bowed ironically and left the room.

  Freddie, frowning thoughtfully, absentmindedly drank his uncle’s port.

  “Dashed unconvincing,” he said somberly. “I mean perishin’ thin, if you follow.”

  “What is, fool?” asked the Duke politely, as he retrieved his glass.

  “Elveden’s explanash, you know. I meantersay, that feller means something. I wish I could think what it is. You know, Erb, old dear, those playful little kicks in the ankle he gave Marky were deucedly thinly veiled. I gathered that he was accusing Marky of connivance in the abduction act, you know.”

  He eyed his uncle thoughtfully. The latter grunted, but made no comment.

  “It strikes me, Erb, old dear,” said Freddie, weightily, “that our little playmate has got another card up the Inspectorial sleeve.”

  • • •

  Leslie opened her eyes and sat up dazedly on the couch on which she had been lying.

  The room in which she found herself was little more than an attic with bare walls and a sloping roof. One small window in the opposite wall was shuttered, but the sun managed to find its way through various little holes and slits in the wood.

  The couch was worn and threadbare, its upholstery of a dun color. The room also contained a chair and a small table. A cracked piece of glass hung above the fireless grate.

  Rising from the couch, she smoothed out her crumpled evening frock and crossed to the little door set in the right-hand wall. Turning the handle, she found that it was locked, and with a puzzled frown puckering her forehead returned to the couch to sit and think.

  Slowly the events of the previous night pieced themselves together.

  The message from her guardian—the taxi and the horrible face inside. Vaguely she remembered seeing Jimmy’s face appear at the window and then the man holding her had struck the reporter and knocked him into the road. Then had come the terrible groan as the policeman was pitched over, and after that everything had become a meaningless blank. Strive as she would, she could not piece together what had happened between the policeman’s fall and the present moment.

  Some dim recollection of having a gloved hand holding a handkerchief placed over her mouth lingered in her memory and with it she associated a sweet sickly smell, but the rest eluded her.

  Who was the occupant of the taxi? The man with the huge head? And who had sent her that message? She did not believe for a moment that Sir Marcus was in any way responsible.

  She was still pondering when she heard the sound of footsteps; then a key turned in the lock and, looking up, she saw the door open.

  Standing in the doorway was the man of the taxi episode. The cold eyes in the mask were studying her quizzically. He was clad as usual in black from head to foot, and as he stepped into the room and closed the door Leslie shivered with apprehension.

  The Squid, ignoring her gesture of repulsion, drew the one chair close to her couch and sat down.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said suavely. “I am the Squid.”

  She sank back with wide dismayed eyes. The Squid!—Kidnapper—thief—murderer! Wildly, fascinated and yet terrified, verging on hysteria, she stared. And then her buoyant self-possession reasserted itself. She flung up her head and faced him bravely.

  “Why am I being detained here?” she flashed. “Abduction is a criminal offense!”

  “A detail with which, at the moment, I am unconcerned,” he said, and his eyes seemed to suggest that he was amused. “I trust that you awoke refreshed from your long sleep?”

  “How long have I been asleep?”

  “A day,” he answered coolly and, noticing her sudden start, added: “Unfortunately I gave you an overdose of chloroform and there have been times during the past few hours when I wondered whether it might not prove fatal. However, that is all over now.”

  Leslie stared fearfully at the man before her. She had been unconscious in the power of this man for a day! She shuddered and thrust the thought away. Sitting up bravely, she eyed him with defiance, and a torrent of questions burst from her lips.

  “What do you want? Why am I here? Where am I? Where is my guardian?”

  The Squid raised his hands and stemmed the flood.

  “Which question would you prefer me to answer first?” he asked patie
ntly.

  “The first,” she challenged.

  “Money,” answered the Squid laconically.

  She laughed derisively.

  “Oh, if that’s all,” she jeered, “help yourself to a few thousands,” and, reaching for her handbag, she opened it and emptied its contents on the couch.

  A looking-glass, a little loose change, a powder puff, diminutive manicure set, and a lace handkerchief.

  “That,” she said ironically, “with the exception of an unwelcome visitor, is all I have in the world at the present moment.”

  “It is to be hoped that your guardian will be more plentifully endowed,” murmured the Squid.

  “He is,” she said, “but I fail to see the connection.”

  “You will,” he assured her, “if Sir Marcus sets a value on you that falls short of my own estimate. I have already offered my terms.”

  “Very flattering,” she sneered. “I hope you get them.”

  “I believe you,” said the Squid ominously. “Life is very sweet when we are young. But to business. I believe you are contemplating marriage, Miss Richmond?”

  “You’re well informed,” she retorted. “Did you bring me here to offer your congratulations?”

  “I think you will find the union an expensive one,” he replied, ignoring her defiant attitude.

  “Most marriages are.”

  “This one in particular. I happen to know that you will receive an exceedingly useful dowry on your marriage. That dowry will he wasted on Mr. Craven, whereas I can find suitable uses for it. Eighty thousand pounds is an agreeable sum, Miss Richmond.”

  “And imagination is a beautiful thing,” she flared back, but her confidence lay on the surface. Those weirdly compelling eyes were frightening her.

  “In contrast,” he said smoothly, “reality is a terrible thing. And this is reality. I am not building castles in the air, Miss Richmond, but laying solid foundations.”

  “Charmingly put,” she retorted bravely. “You missed your vocation. The histrionic art has suffered a great loss.”

  “Possibly. But, should Sir Marcus fail to see eye to eye with me on this matter, the leisured classes will sustain a still more serious loss!”

  “Is that possible?” she mocked. “And are you hinting at murder?”