by Peter Baron
Or was it merely that he was the first to arrive?
Possibly, but then——
At that moment he became suddenly aware of the unpleasant feeling that he was being watched. The sensation was acute enough to make him turn and search the darkness with his eyes, but his swift glance around revealed nothing.
And yet the feeling persisted.
An odd tremor ran down his spine and he found to his astonishment that he was holding his breath in his tense effort to hear and see.
He bit his lip angrily. This was ridiculous and——God, what was that?
He half laughed as he realized that the sudden crash behind him had been the door, caught by a sudden gust, closing.
Stepping towards it, he felt hastily for the handle and could not find it.
He moved back cautiously. The wall in front of him showed no sign of a door and presented only an unbroken line of paneling.
Silently he cursed the particular modern architect who had been responsible, and then turned swiftly, conscious again of the presence of eyes that watched him.
“‘Oo’s there?” he asked, employing his assumed accent with an effort.
A suave familiar voice answered him from the darkness:
“This way, Jerry!”
He turned swiftly to the right in time to see a section of the paneling, about the size of the average door, open, and in the same second the opening was flooded with light.
Framed in the doorway stood the Squid.
“For the moment,” he said pleasantly, “I had it in mind that it might not be you. I was in fact debating the advisability of shooting first and inquiring afterwards.”
Stepping back he motioned to Jerry to follow him into the room.
“Lumme, you gimme a fright,” said Sir Marcus hoarsely, as he shuffled across the threshold of the room in which the Squid stood.
“This advanced architecture is a little confusing,” agreed the Squid, shutting the door.
As it closed Sir Marcus turned and studied it.
In the center, on the eye level, was a small projecting plug of wood and with a coarse laugh he stepped closer and pulled the plug from its socket, revealing a small hole.
“Not part of the original architecture,” chuckled the Squid. “Rather a neat piece of work, eh, Jerry?”
“So that’s ‘ow yer did it? Gawd, you ain’t arf a one, Squid. This ‘ouse is coot, ain’t it?”
“I choose houses with discrimination,” the Squid replied. “There are lots of little surprises in it, Jerry.”
Sir Marcus caught the mocking note and wondered for whom the surprises were intended.
Turning again he looked round the room.
It was small and windowless and lighted only by a reading lamp which stood on a table in the center. The floor beneath his feet was highly polished, and covered in places by heavy blue rugs.
A few good pictures hung on the walls, which were an exact replica of those of the hall. On either side of a wide empty fireplace stood deep comfortable arm-chairs and two more chairs were drawn up to the table, one on either side.
The Baronet’s eyes glinted humorously as he noted a bottle of whisky, glasses and a soda siphon of glazed glass, by the reading lamp.
“‘Omely, ain’t it?” he leered, and lounging forward, dropped uninvited into one of the chairs at the table and fell to contemplating a handsome carved pedestal, on the top of which reposed a dictagraph.
“Comfort before everything, Jerry,” replied the Squid, taking a seat opposite the Baronet. “I have spent a lot of my life destroying other people’s in order to insure my own.”
“You said a mouthful,” Sir Marcus agreed coarsely, still studying the dictagraph. “Where’s the others?”
“Gracing their respective domestic hearths, I trust,” the Squid replied smoothly.
“Wot’s that in plain English?” the other demanded bluntly, his pulses quickening.
“Nothing relevant to our present meeting,” the Squid assured him. “I have summoned you here, Jerry, to make a few necessary adjustments.”
Looking into those coldly compelling eyes, Sir Marcus found his suspicions taking definite shape, but the game had to be played out to the finish.
“Necessary? ‘oo to?” he asked.
“Help yourself to a cigarette,” suggested the Squid, “and let us say the adjustments are necessary to circumstances.”
Sir Marcus selected and lighted his cigarette.
“Wot circumstances?” he asked laconically.
The Squid studied him thoughtfully.
“Of late, Jerry,” he purred, “you have become a little lax. For example, despite my definite instructions to the contrary, you are carrying something that does nothing to improve the shape of your badly cut coat.”
His eyes flashed malevolently.
“Keep your hands above the table!” he snapped suddenly and, as Sir Marcus obeyed: “Temptation is injurious to the criminally inclined. So are the results!”
Sir Marcus scowled. “Cut out the par-fay john-teel stuff,” he pleaded, “an’ get down ter the ‘osses, Squid.”
“Furthermore,” continued the Squid in an even tone, “according to information received from one of the numerous resources at my command, you have been very recently in close communication with my dear friend, the Assistant Commissioner of Police.”
Sir Marcus started. Despite the fact that he was prepared for some such catastrophe, the statement took him by surprise.
“I should like to think,” continued the Squid suavely, “that it was for the purpose of exchanging a few mutual reminiscences, but I am afraid that my optimism would be unjustified.”
He sighed and shook his head regretfully.
“Look ‘ere,” said Sir Marcus belligerently, “wot are yer gettin’ at, Squid? I ain’t been exchangin’ no mootooal what-you-said wiv no one. Bit too perishin’ coot, you are, that’s wot’s the matter wiv you.”
The Squid sighed.
“A revolting expression, but we will let it pass. Now perhaps you will be good enough to tell me why I was never informed of the existence of your twin brother, enjoying a bucolic existence at Faversham—to be exact, on the estate of Sir Marcus Loseley?” His tone had hardened to a metallic rasp.
“I ain’t got a one an’ t’other,” snarled Sir Marcus, resolutely fighting every inch of the ground. “An’ I ain’t never ‘eard o’ Faversham.”
The Squid sat back and his eyes gleamed mockingly.
“Please credit me with a little intelligence,” he pleaded. “The movements of my gang are of great interest to me and I follow them closely. My intelligence staff is most astute, I assure you. Consequently if one of the gang suddenly acquires a double and also a taste for the company of Police Commissioners I become suspicious!”
“I tell yer, I ain’t got no relations at Faversham,” snarled Sir Marcus sullenly.
“Really,” the Squid protested in a pained voice, “prevarication in a cultured and intellectual, if misguided man of your years, is most unseemly, Sir Marcus.”
For one tense moment everything seemed to stand still. No sound or movement violated the deadly calm of the room.
Then: “And while we are on the subject,” the Squid resumed evenly, “your imitation of that peculiar diction affected by a certain class, while undeniably fascinating at some times, is at the moment merely irksome. Please be kind enough to revert to the King’s English.”
The buttons were off the foils at last. They sat perfectly still, wary, alert. Their eyes met, and in each pair was a certain mocking light.
“So you know?” Sir Marcus asked at last, in his habitual refined and calm voice. “I congratulate you on your astuteness.”
He removed the ash from his cigarette with fingers that betrayed no sign of unsteadiness.
“I cannot return the compliment,” said the Squid dryly. “Your methods are deplorably crude.”
“Possibly,” agreed Sir Marcus. “Would it be indiscreet to ask h
ow your excellent intelligence staff discovered my identity?”
“Not at all, and permit me to point out that coincidence and not my intelligencia supplied the information. I happened to be in the mews behind Eaton Place yesterday and, while there, I was fortunate enough to see two Jerrys leave a taxi and enter your house. It did not take me long to solve the problem. I was naturally annoyed at the deception, but I suppose I have only myself to blame. You tricked me over the tiara and I took no action. I have promised myself a reckoning with you, but I have done nothing. I have been slow.”
He studied the other carefully.
“I wonder that I took the trouble to decoy you to his Grace of Framlingham’s house on the day I abducted your ward,” he said slowly. “It would have been far more satisfactory to have removed you once and for all. I always find the Press slogan appeals to me, ‘When in doubt—out!’ I wonder why I didn’t ‘out’ you?”
Sir Marcus smiled faintly.
“The abduction of my niece and the subsequent theft of my car,” he said, “are another little account I have to settle with you. The former caused me great worry and the latter convinced Inspector Elveden that I was the Squid. A very well-thought-out scheme.”
“Thank you,” murmured the Squid. “But to revert. Have you thought of the somewhat invidious position in which this places you? I was thinking that the newspapers, with the distorted outlook common to the Press, might relish a few intimate revelations concerning the private life of Sir Marcus Loseley, Baronet.”
“Which you can supply?” asked the other mockingly. “Do not let that disturb you. I have no fear that you will be able to pass anything of real news value to the papers. There is a certain trite saying that embraces my meaning exactly. It concerns dead men and lies, my friend!”
The Squid raised a slim black-gloved hand in protest.
“Please,” he objected in a concerned voice, “do not let that pistol in your pocket inspire you with undue confidence.”
“Undue, no,” riposted the Baronet.
“Neither should I, in your place, put too great a confidence in your Scotland Yard friends,” said the Squid.
“Scotland Yard?” prompted Sir Marcus.
“Exactly,” agreed the Squid, “doubtless they accompanied you here.”
“On the contrary,” retorted the Baronet dryly, “I can settle my own scores unaided.”
“You think you can,” the other corrected, “but they are going to add a little more certainty to a risky gamble. Either with or without your knowledge, you were followed here. I grant Elveden that much intelligence. Only a fool would omit to watch you closely after having ascertained your relations with me.”
“So much the better,” Loseley snapped; and continued in a quieter tone: “I wonder if you remember John Richmond?”
The Squid selected and lighted a cigarette before replying.
“The name is familiar,” he admitted. “This Richmond, is he connected with the Diplomatic Service?”
“He was,” corrected the Baronet.
The Squid inclined his head.
“Forgive me,” he apologized. “Your tactful reminder recalls the incident. The subject is painful, doubtless. I think I met the late Mr. Richmond some years ago?”
“Four,” agreed Sir Marcus.
“Your passionate exactitude!” sighed the other. “But touching our friend. He passed away somewhat suddenly, if I remember rightly? A most regrettable affair. I removed him, unfortunately without making due allowances for his natural objections. Careless, very!”
“You murdered him,” said Sir Marcus, his lips working.
“Removed is a pleasanter word,” purred the Squid. “I was perhaps a little hasty; but in grave issues, Sir Marcus, one is apt to overlook trifles.”
He tapped the table with his hand as though trying to stimulate thought.
“I seem to think that you were not unconnected with that incident. I believe you undertook the guardianship of his daughter. Ah, yes—Miss Richmond—I had a refreshing interlude with the young lady some time ago, which ended, without my consent, in her release by Mr. Craven. It all comes back by degrees. Decidedly, now I come to think of it, it is high time that I gave Mr. Craven my undivided and serious attention. An inopportune young man.”
Sir Marcus rose to his feet suddenly with wild eyes.
“Try to remember something else,” he snarled and, raising his hand, he pushed back his wig and disclosed a small scar close to his hair. “A souvenir,” he said ominously, “of your attempt to—er—remove me, which was unsuccessful.”
“Most unfortunate,” rejoined the Squid. “In the matter of taking life, I confess I lack discrimination. That shall be corrected. With age comes a more mature judgment.”
He reached for the decanter and siphon.
“Talking always makes me dry,” he explained. “I think we might refresh ourselves.”
“Refresh?” sneered Sir Marcus.
An amused laugh broke from the Squid.
“I always think poison a crude way of removing,” he said calmly. “When I kill you, Sir Marcus—as I shall do—I shall do it humorously! It will be a fitting repayment for the little joke you have played on me during the past two years. In particular, the amusing episode of your tiara. I have since obtained the original, but I have not overlooked your amiable deception.”
He poured the whisky into the glasses, and in the same second Sir Marcus’s hand flashed down and came up holding an automatic.
“You will find it easier to drink without that mask,” he said significantly. “Suppose you remove it now and let me see your cursed face!”
The Squid’s eyes regarded the Baronet and the pistol amusedly.
“Some other time,” he said coolly. “And I can assure you that drinking in this mask is simplicity itself. Allow me to demonstrate.”
He took up the siphon.
“I said now,” answered the Baronet distinctly, and with a sigh the Squid rose to his feet, still holding the siphon.
“You will drive me to desperate methods,” he said, “if you persist in these unreasonable demands. Please do not allow my present tolerance to delude you. I can assure you that I am prepared for any awkward contingency. And may I point out that I dislike your theatrical pose?”
Sir Marcus smiled coldly.
“There is, at least, nothing theatrical in my intentions,” he retorted. “I am wondering what there is to prevent me shooting you down like a dog!”
“Nothing,” the Squid assured him. “Say when!”
His eyes held those of the Baronet, and one finger closed slowly over the lever that operated the siphon.
“Take off that mask, damn you,” snarled Sir Marcus, and shifted his pistol menacingly, “or by——”
The sentence was never completed. The nozzle of the siphon jerked up suddenly and a blinding stream gushed into the Baronet’s face.
With uncanny swiftness the Squid dropped the siphon and hurled himself sideways, as a terrible scream broke from the victim.
His left hand clasping his face, Sir Marcus rocked uncertainly.
“My God!” he gasped. “Vitriol, you swine!”
A low laugh answered him and, turning, the Baronet fired wildly.
Another laugh was the answer, and three staccatoed reports from an unexpected angle.
Sir Marcus, one hand clutching at the scarlet blotch that had been his face, lurched drunkenly and sagged to his knees.
“Most humorous,” murmured the Squid, watching the swaying figure.
The Baronet made a feeble effort to raise his pistol and three ominous crimson stains welled suddenly on his chest.
Without warning he pitched forward on his face, inert.
For a moment the Squid watched with dispassionate eyes. Then, stepping swiftly across the room, he took down a picture.
Set in the wall behind was a small knob, which he pulled to one side.
A narrow slit appeared, and a rush of cool air made him momentarily cl
ose his eyes.
Looking out on to the drive he watched two figures running swiftly towards the house. Then, closing the eyehole he stepped back and waited.
XXXVII. SHOTS
The man by the gatepost removed his monocle from his eye, dried it carefully with a corner of the silk handkerchief protruding from his breast coat-pocket, and then replaced it in position where it immediately became wet and blurred again.
For some moments he watched the house into which Sir Marcus had vanished, with thoughtful eyes.
He debated earnestly. For obvious reasons he must watch it, and to do that he must remain there, which seriously interfered with another plan that commended itself to him.
It was awkward. Confoundedly trying!
Impervious to the wind and rain, and unheeding the frequent flashes and thunder-claps overhead, he stood there eyeing the house as though he expected it to come to life and furnish him with a solution to his dilemma.
A hasty glance at his wrist watch showed the time to be ten minutes past nine, and Sir Marcus had been in the house five minutes. Should he risk entering the place, or should...
“Good evening, Mr. Leicester!”
The man spun on his heel and his eyeglass dropped from his eye.
Not more than a yard away stood Inspector Elveden, and there was a curious smile on the dark face of the C.I.D. man.
“Exactly what are you up to?” asked Elveden, joining the other in the lee of the gateway.
“My knees in water,” said Freddie vacantly, toying with his monocle. “Oh, yes, of course you mean: what am I doing here?”
He appeared to be thinking it over.
“You know, putting it in that cold light,” he said politely, “what are you doing here? I mean, the jolly old com is open to the public and all that sort of rot, what? You see my point?”
“Supposing you answer my question,” suggested the Inspector.
Freddie bowed with the grace of a courtier and with an exaggeration more in keeping with a reception room than a rainswept common.
“Dear heart,” he murmured, “your lightest wish, expressed in such courteous terms, is to me a command. I am indulging in a little mild investigation. Helps to keep the rust from the jolly old think-box, I find.”