Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  The man at the door moved forward with a pair of handcuffs, to pause as the Squid waved him back.

  “You will regret this, Inspector,” he warned.

  “Manacle him,” retorted Elveden coolly.

  The constable stepped to the table and opened the manacles.

  The Squid shrugged and held his hands up obediently.

  And two things happened simultaneously.

  The hand holding the cigarette flashed up into the policeman’s face and the Squid’s other hand dropped to the table like a flash and covered the pistol. A report rang out, and the lamp was shattered to fragments.

  The Inspector’s startled curse and the surprised cry of the policeman as the cigarette jabbed in his face came together.

  “Duck, constable,” roared Elveden, and fired.

  A strangled grunt and a low laugh sounded from the direction of the stairs.

  Elveden whipped out a torch and set its beam playing round the hall.

  It revealed Winter lying awkwardly, clasping his shoulder, and the Squid bounding up the staircase two steps at a time.

  Elveden fired wildly and the Squid, ducking, turned and replied. The torch in the Inspector’s hand shattered, and the hall was in darkness again.

  “After him!” yelled Elveden, and bounded towards the staircase.

  The tall constable, still rubbing his burned face, followed suit. Together they raced up the stairs. On the landing above, a door slammed.

  With a muttered expletive the Inspector hurled himself at a locked door, shoulder down.

  On the other side sounded retreating footsteps, and—suddenly—a faint splash.

  Standing back, Elveden fired at the lock, and in the same second charged the door.

  Staggering into the room, he stared for a moment dazedly. It was empty, and the window was open. He bounded towards it and reached the balcony outside.

  Nothing disturbed the water below. Yet they had heard a splash!

  Cupping his hands over his mouth, the Inspector yelled, “Conservancy! He’s out there swimming!”

  Jumping to the side of the veranda, Elveden let himself over the edge and dropped down on to the grass, a few feet from the water. The constable followed.

  Out on the river a bright “spot” light began to rove aimlessly.

  Peering ahead anxiously, the Inspector moved warily along the bank towards the wall at the end.

  “He may be swimming under water,” he shouted to the launch.

  Reaching the wall, he paused and looked out to where the searchlight darted here and there.

  The Inspector’s last statement was truer than he thought, but the Squid had ceased swimming under water some time before Elveden spoke.

  Side by side, the policeman and the Inspector peered out across the river, Elveden impatiently. He mustn’t fail, he couldn’t fail. The man was out there in the river somewhere. He must land sooner or later. They must succeed. They had paid their price for success. Winter was still lying in the hall wounded, and the Inspector found himself wondering anxiously if it had been his own shot which had hit the policeman or if the Squid, after shattering the lamp, had wounded the man.

  “Any signs?” he yelled again.

  “No,” came the faint answer, and the launch veered slightly as the light swung out towards Richmond Bridge.

  Behind the Inspector and the policeman a dark shadow separated itself silently from the bushes by the wall.

  A violent push—two startled gasps—and a double splash.

  At the sound of the splash, the searchlight swung inshore and picked out the dark figure of the Squid.

  From the launch came a shot and, bounding backwards, the Squid turned and sped across the lawn, zig-zagging erratically and running in a doubled-up position.

  “Coming, Inspector,” the sergeant in charge of the launch sang out, and the boat chug-chugged toward the bank.

  The drenched Inspector and constable reached the bank before the launch.

  Outside in the Petersham Road the Squid, a dripping figure, bounded across the street and leapt into a waiting taxi.

  It shot forward.

  As he sank into his seat he reached out and his hands closed over the neck—a soft, flabby neck—of someone sitting in the other corner.

  His companion made no resistance, but a faint gasping voice broke the silence in the taxi.

  “Don’t, Squid; it’s Thyme!”

  The Squid started, and an evil light crept into his eyes. He peered closely at his companion and dropped his hands.

  “That was a close shave,” he said slowly, and looked back, but it was too dark to see anything. “What the devil went wrong? The moment I put foot inside your place I was in a trap. Elveden and two of his fool policemen were waiting for me.”

  Mr. Thyme nodded and edged a little further away from his companion. Mr. Thyme disliked water.

  The Squid laughed harshly at the other’s fastidiousness.

  “I left the fools wallowing in eight feet of water,” he said grimly. ‘T shall have to take that Inspector seriously in future. How did this happen?”

  “Somehow or other,” said Thyme, “Miss Richmond was found at my place today. That reporter Craven was nosing round in Richmond. My car knocked him down by the bridge. Of course, I had to take him home for a brush-up. He must have seen something there that made him suspicious, although the Lord alone knows what it was. However, when I came home tonight my car was not waiting at the station, and while I was wondering what had delayed it, I saw Jelks, my footman. He told me he had seen my entire domestic staff being marched off to the police station, so I put two and two together and stayed away.”

  The Squid nodded.

  “Jimmy Craven,” he said slowly. “Another young man with whom I shall shortly have a reckoning.”

  “I hung about in Richmond, close to the house,” continued Thyme, “in the hope of being able to warn you. I walked up and down as soon as it got dark and I was at the bottom of the hill when a taxi passed me. I was not sure if it was yours or not, but I hurried after it. Naturally I found it waiting not far from my place and knew then that you had gone in. It was too late to warn you, so I waited on the off-chance of being able to lend a hand.”

  In the darkness the Squid’s eyes gleamed malevolently, but he made no comment.

  “What is the plan of campaign?” asked Thyme after a pause. “The game’s up as far as I am concerned. By tonight my description will be all over London.”

  “Exactly,” replied the Squid. He leant forward and picked up the speaking tube.

  “Get into Kingston as quickly as possible,” he directed, “and then make for the City. Fleet Street.”

  He turned to Thyme.

  “We are going to transfer our accounts from the Bank,” he said. “You have the keys?”

  “Yes, all here.”

  “Good.” The Squid’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction. “Elveden will hardly expect retaliation so swiftly, and it will be a fitting retort to his little trap this evening.”

  He sat back and folded his arms complacently.

  “After the haul,” he said, “you will have to lie low at my bungalow in Sussex, until I can get a smack to take you across to France.”

  He was silent for a moment, and then a harsh laugh broke from him.

  “It is some consolation to know that Elveden has probably killed his own constable.”

  There was silence in the cab for some moments.

  The Squid, peering anxiously from the window at his side, was apparently unaware of Thyme, who had edged as far away from his companion as possible.

  “It is a pity that we cannot collect the gang on such short notice,” said the Squid suddenly. “As it is, I shall waste valuable time at the clearing house, changing out of these confoundedly wet clothes.”

  He sat back and closed his eyes with a serenity that Thyme admired but could not emulate.

  As the taxi entered Kingston, the Squid opened his eyes.

  “This,
” he said slowly, “will be a night of surprises.”

  Mr. Thyme nodded agreement without fathoming the ambiguity of the words.

  XXXI. THE RETORT COURTEOUS

  In the vaults of Thyme’s bank two men worked silently and swiftly by the light of an electric torch. At the open door three bulging bank sacks lay, with contents which threatened to burst asunder the cords which bound them at the neck.

  A fourth was being steadily filled.

  Neither man spoke, but devoted his energies solely to the task in hand.

  Three o’clock chimed from a neighboring clock before the Squid stood back with a satisfied grunt.

  “A pleasant surprise for the Inspector,” he said grimly and, stooping, raised a sack to his shoulders and staggered through the door and along the cold dim passage to the stairs. Mr. Thyme, taking a second, followed him.

  Panting slightly under their burdens, the two men made for the back entrance. Outside in Shoe Lane, the Squid lowered his burden and peered cautiously up and down. The lane was deserted. A little way further on stood the taxi and, beckoning hastily, he shouldered his sack and crossed the lane to meet it. Within ten minutes the sacks were safely installed and the taxi was making its way towards Fleet Street.

  The Squid, standing on the dash-board, gave final instructions, while Mr. Thyme, closing the back door, returned to the vaults to clear up.

  “Drive into Fleet Street,” said the Squid, “and wait outside Anderton’s. If a policeman shows any interest, tell him that you are waiting for a fare in the hotel. I will join you as soon as I have—settled a few things!”

  Dropping off the taxi, he watched it turn into Fleet Street and then walked slowly back. A policeman, walking in his direction, flashing his lamp on the doors, delayed the Squid’s entrance into the bank for some time, but eventually he managed to slip through unseen and make his way down to the vaults.

  “You have destroyed all the records and the lists of the banknote series?” he asked, stepping in and closing the door.

  Thyme nodded: “There is nothing else to do, except make our get-away. Elveden may suspect that I have been warned and follow us.”

  “I think not. I very much doubt if he has traced us farther than Kingston. The changing of the identification plate has never failed me yet. And Elveden is probably in the throes of pneumonia!”

  “Well, we’d better be moving,” suggested Thyme nervously. “I want to look in at the office first, and there is not much time.” He turned away towards the door and backed suddenly as he found himself confronted by the barrel of the Squid’s revolver.

  “You said ‘we,’ I think?” purred the Squid. “Not so fast, my friend. There is no question of ‘we’.”

  “Wha-what do you mean?” stammered Thyme, his eyes widening suddenly.

  “A very proper and natural question,” said the Squid approvingly. “I will explain. Firstly, I have no use for bunglers.”

  Mr. Thyme started as if he had been struck. His face went a curious gray.

  “Bunglers?” he stuttered. “I don’t understand. It was my foresight that saved you tonight.”

  “It was your lack of foresight tonight that nearly cost me my liberty. Knowing that the house had been raided and that Elveden was waiting for me, you allowed me to enter it unwarned.” He paused and eyed the bank manager mockingly. Thyme plucked nervously at his tie and fell back a pace before that ironic regard.

  “My assistants never make the same mistake twice,” said the Squid smoothly. “It is a physical impossibility!”

  Thyme, his eyes bulging, his cheeks livid, took a half-step forward, but retreated as the Squid’s revolver gestured menacingly.

  “And now I come to think of it,” he continued pleasantly, “the arrangement is extremely satisfactory. You’re getting beyond it, Thyme. You’re aging; you are becoming useless—and it is not my habit to carry sleeping partners.”

  “But—my God—you’d never leave me?” gasped Thyme, his lips working feverishly.

  “Believe me, I would and shall,” answered the Squid. “The problem of disposing of you would take up too much valuable time that might be employed to better advantage. Apart from which, you would require a share in tonight’s haul. A not unreasonable desire, in view of the fact that you have helped to build this business, but nevertheless one that does not appeal to me in the slightest. The prospect of accepting fifty per cent, of tonight’s very respectable haul, when I can just as easily take all, would be pure philanthropy. And, believe me, I am not a benevolent society. I have some respect left.”

  Mr. Thyme’s ashen lips quivered slightly, but no sound came.

  His little eyes watched the Squid dully and hopelessly. Was it possible that this man could contemplate anything so fiendish? Could he make so dastardly a reward to the one who had preserved his liberty not three hours ago? God—no, it was impossible. Such things could not be. And yet the gnawing doubt persisted. There was that in the Squid’s eyes which crushed all hope from him.

  He leant back against a giant safe and mopped his perspiring forehead with a handkerchief.

  “You’re rather a pitiful thing, aren’t you, Thyme?” demanded the Squid, stepping closer. “You’ve had your uses. You provided an excellent clearing house for the gang, but your day is done, my friend. After all, everything will be for the best. Our friend the energetic Inspector will require a scapegoat for tonight’s affair, and who more suitable for that onerous position than you? Also, I fancy he will be pleased to see you on yet another score. I allude to Miss Richmond’s abduction.”

  For a moment some pretense of spirit flared up in the haggard face of Mr. Thyme.

  “And you imagine I shall keep my mouth shut when they take me?” he snarled with sudden vehemence.

  A soft laugh answered him.

  “There is not much that you could tell the police, my friend, that would be of any use to them,” said the Squid amusedly. “If I thought there was, I should shoot you now and take the risk of the shot being overheard.”

  “What are you going to do?” whispered Thyme, moistening his dry lips, his eyes never leaving the other.

  The Squid laughed pleasantly.

  “An old glove,” he said slowly, “one discards. An old stick one breaks, but an old accomplice—one removes! It is safer!”

  Mr. Thyme’s eyes widened with horror. He drew back.

  “No—no,” he thrust out a hand as though to ward off a blow. “My God! You wouldn’t—not that—no—not that—wait—wait—for God’s sake—I can help you—tell you something you wish to know——”

  There was something pitiful in his agonized entreaty, his nervous eagerness, but it left the Squid calm and untouched. Sentiment did not occur in his code.

  “As a trick that died out in the time of Noah,” and he shifted his pistol again significantly.

  “No, no,” pleaded Thyme. “Wait—the Loseley tiara—the agreement——”

  “What do you know about the Loseley tiara?” snapped the Squid with sudden interest. “And the agreement? Quick, man!”

  Thyme breathed again. He had gained a respite. He was not out of the wood yet, he knew, but he had awakened interest and temporarily stifled the lust of the killer in the man before him.

  A cunning light crept into his eyes.

  “You found the tiara tonight,” he said nervously, “but you did not find the agreement. Neither did that interfering Inspector, but I know where it is. We will make a bargain.”

  “I never make bargains,” was the uncompromising reply.

  “But you must,” persisted Thyme. “My freedom against the possession of the agreement.”

  “I am not in the habit of allowing my assistants to dictate to me,” snapped the Squid. “Out with it. I’m in a hurry.”

  “Listen, then,” said Thyme, speaking with nervous haste. “When that prying Inspector demanded to examine the tiara, my interest was aroused. I told him to obtain a written authorization, and in the meantime examined it myself—I h
ave duplicate keys of all the deposit boxes in the strong room—and I found what it was that he was looking for. The agreement between—but never mind. I found the paper. I have it now in my possession——”

  He staggered back as the Squid leapt in.

  “So it was you?” snarled the Squid venomously. “Out with it, or by God——”

  “You promise that I can go?” quavered Thyme, staring up fearfully into the wild eyes of the other.

  “I promise nothing! You will tell me where it is or——”

  “Then do your worst,” said Thyme shakily.

  For a moment it seemed as if the hazard was doomed, but Thyme knew his man. The agreement was too valuable a thing to be lightly lost. The Squid controlled himself with an effort.

  “I promise,” he said solemnly.

  “You swear?” asked Thyme eagerly. He was a Catholic and as such had faith in an oath.

  “I swear on the book, by my hope of redemption and everything I hold sacred,” said the Squid, “that you shall be free the moment the agreement is in my hands.”

  Thyme breathed a sigh of relief. He was safe. A momentary suspicion hung in his mind for a moment, but he dismissed it. After all, up in his office he would be safer than down here in the vaults where he could be disposed of without anyone being the wiser. Up there he would at least be within calling distance of help if the Squid attempted violence, but of course he would not. He had sworn.

  “The agreement is in my office,” he said, dry-mouthed. “We will go up at once.”

  Turning, he led the way upstairs, pausing to switch on the light as he entered the room.

  The Squid, standing in the doorway and still holding the revolver, watched him with eyes that flickered oddly.

  Walking to a large safe that occupied one wall, Thyme began to operate the little pointer on the brass dial, muttering numbers to himself as he worked out the combination.

  A few twists backwards and forwards and the safe opened. Swinging the huge door forward, Thyme stepped inside.

  The safe had no cross shelves, and it was possible for a man to stand inside with comfort, but not for long. Around the four walls were narrow shelves on which rested papers, banknotes and various other documents connected with the bank.