Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  Elveden frowned.

  “Don’t give the Mail the story till tomorrow afternoon at the earliest, please. It would put the Squid and Thyme on their guard. And, if you don’t mind, Miss Richmond, I’d rather you didn’t show yourself until after tomorrow.”

  Leslie nodded distantly. The Inspector shook hands with Jimmy and escorted them to the door.

  As soon as they had gone, he turned to the Superintendent.

  “I’ll have a word with that valet now,” he said briskly.

  “Very good,” answered the Superintendent, and signaled to a police constable.

  The valet, pale and scared, was brought in.

  Elveden perched himself on the corner of a table and eyed the man thoughtfully.

  “What’s your name?” he demanded suddenly.

  “Spillins, sir,” muttered the valet in a frightened voice.

  “How long have you worked for Mr. Pendleton Thyme?”

  “Five years, sir,” answered the valet. “And I’ve never——”

  “All right,” Elveden interrupted, waving his hand. “What do you know of his private life, and how were you connected with it?”

  “Nothing, sir,” faltered the valet. “He never took me into his confidence.”

  “Did he give any reason for Miss Richmond’s presence in the house?” the Inspector pursued.

  “No, sir; that is, he only said that the lady was a relation of his, who was a little light in the head. I didn’t notice it myself.”

  “It wasn’t there to notice,” retorted Elveden grimly. “Did any of the other servants know she was there?”

  “No, sir. I always took her meals to her and attended to her. I thought it was a little queer, but I held my tongue.”

  “Why didn’t you give information at the police station, if you thought it was queer?” snapped the Inspector.

  “Well, sir, Mr. Thyme was a good man to work for, and it was none of my business,” answered the man in a low voice.

  “H’m,” grunted the Inspector as though unsure of the other’s excuse. “You saw the announcement of Miss Richmond’s abduction in the papers, I suppose?”

  “No, sir, I never read any papers except the Church Times,” stammered the valet.

  Elveden’s lips curled with amusement, but he looked searchingly at Spillins to see if he were speaking the truth. The man’s abject terror seemed to convince him.

  “What time will Mr. Thyme return tonight?” he asked slowly.

  “I couldn’t rightly say, sir,” Spillins replied. “He’s a little uncertain in his hours. About seven o’clock, I should say, unless anything happens to prevent him. He’s usually home between seven and eight. Half-past eight at the very latest.”

  “Where is he to be found now? The bank?”

  “No, sir, he never goes to the bank on a Monday.”

  “You might verify that, Super, will you?” directed Elveden. “If he’s there, you can cut off.”

  “Do you know where he goes on a Monday?” he demanded after a pause, turning to Spillins.

  “No, sir, he never tells me.”

  Elveden rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Mr. Thyme have many visitors?” he enquired presently.

  “No, sir. None at all,” said the other nervously.

  Elveden thought for some minutes.

  “Think,” he urged keenly. “A man of medium height, dressed in black, for instance. The man has a huge bald head.”

  “No, sir, I’ve never seen him,” said the valet definitely.

  The Superintendent put down the telephone and leant across the desk.

  “Mr. Thyme is not in, Inspector, and they do not expect him today.”

  Elveden nodded. “Can you let me have a sergeant and four men?”

  “Certainly,” answered the Superintendent, ringing a bell on his desk. “You don’t think there is any possibility of his having come and gone while you have been here?”

  “No,” replied Elveden. “He won’t show himself in the light. That head of his would attract too much attention.”

  A sergeant appeared in the doorway.

  “Take three men and follow the Inspector,” ordered the Superintendent.

  “Where is Mr. Thyme’s place?” asked Elveden, turning to the sergeant.

  “The bank manager, sir?” asked the sergeant. “In the Petersham Road. I know the place well.”

  “Right, take me to it. I’ve done with this fellow, Superintendent.” With a brief nod he motioned to the sergeant and his men to follow him, and left the station.

  Ten minutes later a startled butler backed away from the door as it opened to admit the Inspector and the constables.

  Elveden looked round the hall of Mr. Thyme’s house thoughtfully, and then transferred his regard to the butler.

  “Are all the servants here?” he asked.

  “All except the footman,” answered the butler. “And that Spillins.”

  “Where’s the footman?”

  “He has leave to be absent until after tea.”

  “Have the rest of the servants brought here,” directed the Inspector, “and tell them to bring their outdoor things.”

  The butler nodded obediently and walked away.

  He reappeared a few moments later with the rest of the staff. The Inspector signaled to the sergeant.

  “Take two men and get these people down to the station,” he ordered.

  “But I don’t understand,” protested the butler, stepping forward.

  ‘ “It isn’t necessary for you to understand,” retorted Elveden.

  “All you have to do is to accompany the sergeant down to the station. You will merely have to answer a few questions and you will be released tonight. You will then be free to say or do what you like.”

  He stood aside and signaled to the sergeant. The butler, cook, chauffeur, gardener and scullery maid shuffled past, huddling on their coats and hats as they went. The sergeant saluted and withdrew with his two aides.

  Elveden turned to the remaining two constables.

  “I expect to make rather an important capture this evening,” he said evenly, “and I want no bungling. As soon as that footman returns, you will ring up the station and get them to send a man down to take him back.”

  He glanced at his wrist watch.

  “It is now nearly quarter to five. That leaves us about three hours. You two will remain here in the hall. One of you had better keep an eye on the road and report to me each half-hour. I’m going to nose round the house for a bit. After that you will find me in the garden.”

  The constables saluted, and Elveden wandered off on a tour of exploration.

  After an hour’s cursory examination of the house, he transferred his attention to the garden.

  Seating himself on the lawn in the sun, he idly watched the water and the various punts and skiffs going up and down stream. As he lay there a conservancy launch swung round the bend and came chug-chugging painfully along in the wake of a river steamer.

  The sight of the launch gave him an idea. Cupping his hands over his mouth, he yelled: “Conservancy launch, ahoy!”

  The launch swung in slowly and drifted alongside the mooring platform.

  Elveden nodded to the sergeant in charge and showed his badge.

  “I’ve got a little job on here tonight,” he informed the other, “and the man I’m laying for has the reputation of being a slippery customer. I’d be obliged if you’d keep within reach some time after seven. I don’t mean that you need lay off one of the banks and wait. So long as you’re within hailing distance it will do. I suppose you’re fitted with a spot light?”

  The sergeant nodded and motioned to the diminutive searchlight in the prow.

  “That’ll be all right. Going to be any excitement? It’s about time something happened down here. It’s ages since we did anything more thrilling than fish a ‘drunk’ out of the water.”

  “There’ll be excitement all right,” nodded Elveden. “The man I’m after is a ‘killer’!
You’ve heard of the Squid, I suppose?” The sergeant whistled and turned to the man at the tiller.

  “Phew!” he gasped. “It’s him, is it?” He looked meaningly at his companion. “All right, count on us,” he said after a pause, with rather less enthusiasm.

  He gave his companion an order.

  The launch slid away from the bank, and Elveden nodded a curt good-by.

  He did not re-enter the house until after six o’clock.

  “Has that footman turned up yet?” he asked the taller of the two constables.

  “No, sir.”

  “H’m,” murmured Elveden, scratching his chin. “That’s awkward. I don’t want him butting in, in the middle of things. Still, he may come in yet before Thyme gets here. It doesn’t really matter, I suppose.”

  He looked round the wide hall.

  “We may have a long vigil,” he said at last, “so you two had better go and get some food in the kitchen. I’ll wait here. Bring me something, too, please.”

  The two men obeyed with alacrity and, seated in a chair, the Inspector awaited their return. The taller of the two came back with a piece of cold fruit tart, some apples, and a glass of beer.

  Thanking him, Elveden sat and munched thoughtfully while the other returned to diminish further Mr. Thyme’s larder—and cellar; but the Inspector did not know that.

  Sitting thinking, Elveden tried to work out a few knotty points.

  First, what connection had Thyme with the Squid? A bank manager and presumably a wealthy man, surely he had little need to resort to those kinds of tricks for a living? It was a poser. Was it possible that Thyme was the Squid himself? For a while the suggestion attracted him. And yet, visualizing the portly, cherubic Mr. Thyme, Elveden doubted it. In any case he would know within an hour. Either Thyme and the Squid would arrive separately, or else the unmasking of one would reveal the other. But that did not fit in with his theories concerning Sir Marcus Loseley. There were several aspects of the case against the Baronet that interested him. For instance——

  The arrival of the constables interrupted his line of thought.

  He beckoned to the smaller of the two.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Winter, sir,” replied the constable, “George Winter.”

  “Well, I don’t expect the guest of honor to turn up before it’s dark, Winter,” said Elveden slowly. “His head would create too much interest.”

  “His head, sir?”

  “Yes. You’ll understand when you set eyes on him, and, by the way, when you do see him, don’t take your eyes off him. He’s slippery. We may have another visitor before he arrives. I mean the owner of this house. If we don’t, I shall be saved a lot of trouble. In any case you’d better take up your positions. You, Winter, will stand at the foot of the staircase.” He motioned to the grand staircase which led from the back of the hall.

  “You’ll find a lamp in the recess at the back of those stairs,” he said. “See that it is in working order. We shall need it, seeing that this prehistoric shack is apparently not fitted with electric light.”

  The constable took up his position and examined the lamp, pronouncing it fit for use.

  “And you,” continued Elveden to the other man, “will stand on the left of the door. It will probably be dark before our man arrives, in which case you will have to use your torches. Remember, not a sound out of either of you until he is well in the place. If he makes a wrong move, grab him and hold him. Understand?”

  His subordinates nodded respectfully.

  “And I’ve a notion that we shall catch something far more interesting than a common or garden bank manager,” the Inspector said thoughtfully.

  He took up his own position in the doorway of the morning room.

  XXX. PROVES THAT SQUIDS ARE UNUSUAL FISH

  Apparently Mr. Thyme’s hours were a little uncertain. The Inspector glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch. It was twenty minutes past nine.

  The hall was in darkness and only by the sound of their breathing could the Inspector tell that the two constables were present.

  The three-hour vigil in the cold hall had done little to improve Elveden’s temper. Nevertheless, he continued to wait. The Squid was a prize worth waiting for, and Elveden had an old score to pay off. The memory of a certain night on which his elaborate trap, baited with the Baraipur diamonds, had failed ignominiously, still lingered unpleasantly at the back of his brain.

  Was he going to discover at last the identity of the mysterious power that ruled the underworld and had gathered a few of its most daring and unscrupulous spirits together to work havoc in London for the past four years?

  His lips became a straight line. Not twice should the Squid fool him, he reflected coldly.

  And the Squid himself? Who was he when that hideous mask was stripped from his face? Mr. Thyme? The valet had said that Mr. Thyme would return to his house that night, and Miss Richmond had also said that the Squid would visit the place. He did not think the valet had lied. The man had been too scared, and the non-appearance of Mr. Thyme seemed to argue that he might appear in the form of the Squid. Obviously the valet did not know his master’s identity. Or was his statement, that he never read the papers, a lie?

  Half-past nine. The Inspector changed his position and suddenly stiffened. He hissed a sudden warning to the constables and crouched back tensely in the doorway of the morning room.

  A soft tread sounded outside on the porch, and the Inspector silently drew his automatic.

  “Get into the recess behind the stairs,” he whispered to the constable nearest him, and waited expectantly.

  A key turned in the lock. Slowly the door opened to its fullest extent. The pale moonlight threw up the figure in the doorway in dark relief, and the Inspector drew a little further back. The open door shielded the constable, and Elveden prayed that the Squid would suspect nothing.

  For the man in the doorway was the Squid.

  In one hand the Squid held a revolver, and as they waited he produced a torch and a white beam swept the hall.

  The brief examination appeared to be satisfactory. Closing the door softly behind him, the Squid stepped into the hall and switched off his torch. At the same moment two torch rays flashed out and focused on the huge head.

  A startled hiss escaped the man. He blinked round awkwardly in the light.

  “Put ‘em up and don’t move!” came Elveden’s sharp command, and the Inspector emerged from his hiding-place.

  Slowly the Squid turned and peered in the direction of the Inspector. The light of the torches seemed to worry him. With a shrug, he raised his hands obediently.

  Elveden drew in a deep breath and looked exultantly at the black-clad figure in the center of the hall.

  “Light that lamp, constable,” he directed in tones of suppressed emotion.

  There came the sound of a small table being dragged into the center of the hall, and a few minutes later the pale uncertain light of the lamp replaced that of the torches.

  The constable retired again to his position at the foot of the stairs.

  The Squid threw a brief glance over his shoulder to observe the position of the other man, and then turned his cold, expressionless eyes on Elveden.

  “This is indeed a surprise, Inspector,” he said suavely. “You will forgive me if I do not say a pleasant surprise. Permit me to offer my respectful congratulations. May I ask how much longer I am expected to keep my hands in this position? It is quite unnecessary, I assure you, and most fatiguing.”

  He made a move as if to lower his hands.

  “Put that revolver on the table,” snapped Elveden, “and keep your hands away from your sides, if you value your rotten existence!”

  “Rotten?” protested the Squid in a pained tone. “My dear Inspector, what a revolting expression.”

  He sauntered forward and, tossing down the revolver, perched himself on the edge of the table coolly.

  “May I smoke?” he asked blandly. “I
find that it assists concentration.” And without waiting for permission, he drew a cigarette case and a box of matches from the same pocket.

  The warning uplift of the Inspector’s automatic brought an amused glint to his eyes, but the hand that lighted the cigarette was quite steady.

  The Inspector’s lips curled faintly. Gallery play, he reflected, and yet he could not help admiring the other’s calm nonchalance.

  “You might move that gun a trifle, Inspector,” said the Squid mockingly, inhaling deeply. “I never feel safe when a policeman holds a gun. It might go off at any moment and do someone a damage, yourself probably.”

  He puffed out a cloud of smoke serenely and with apparent detachment, but Elveden, watching his eyes, knew that the man was thinking hard and fast.

  “And now what?” asked the Squid in the same elaborately unconcerned tone. “This carefully prepared reception has some object, surely? I seem to recollect a similar little farce connected with some paste diamonds. You have a decided flair in these matters, Inspector.”

  Elveden smiled ironically. He could afford to take a leaf from the Squid’s book and adopt an indifferent, mocking tone. Besides, the man was amusing up to a point.

  “Suppose you remove that mask and allow us to see your face, Mr. Thyme,” the Inspector said evenly.

  An amused light crept into the Squid’s eyes.

  “Dear me,” he murmured satirically, “so you know? Most astute. However, that saves me the trouble of removing my mask—by the way, it’s rather a good mask, isn’t it?—it would inconvenience me greatly and I dislike inconvenience.”

  “Nevertheless, I am going to see your face,” said Elveden.

  “Quite an ordinary face, I assure you,” said the Squid, “although you seem to have somewhat extravagant ideas regarding it. Some other time, Inspector. I shall be leaving so soon that it is not worth the trouble. The operation saps my energy, and I shall have need of all my energies tonight.”

  He continued smoking tranquilly.

  Without shifting his gaze, Elveden motioned to the constable by the front door.

  “Manacle him,” he directed coolly.