by Peter Baron
Elveden eyed him suspiciously and grunted.
“You followed Jerry the Lag here,” he said bluntly.
“Now what,” murmured Freddie, “can have given you that impression?”
“Nothing,” rejoined Elveden. “I followed you here on a motorbike. I was only a few yards away from you while you were leaning against the railings and watching that flat of yours in the Terrace.”
“Interesting,” said Freddie.
“Very,” Elveden agreed, “so are your movements! Perhaps you will explain your motive in following Sir Marcus Loseley here.”
“Is Marky here too?” demanded Freddie delightedly. “By Jove, that’s tophole.”
“Don’t be a fool,” retorted Elveden. “I know all about Sir Marcus’s double life, and so do you.”
“Stymied,” sighed Freddie. “Well, what are you going to do about the thing?”
“You haven’t given me your reason for butting into the game yet,” the Inspector reminded him pointedly.
“No?” Freddie murmured innocently, but made no move to explain.
“You decline to answer?”
“That,” said Freddie, “does rather sum up the jolly old situation.”
There was a momentary pause, and the two men silently weighed the odds.
At last the Inspector spoke.
“Look here, Mr. Leicester, I’m going to take you on trust.”
“Deferred payment system if satisfactory,” said Freddie lightly. “Easy terms arranged.”
“I don’t know where you stand in this game, but I need your help,” continued Elveden. “You know as well as I do that it would be suicide to barge into that place on our own. The odds are that the entire gang are present and we should be outnumbered. They may not all be there, of course, but I’m not putting my nose in a hornets’ nest to see if the brutes can sting!”
He looked searchingly at Freddie and the other nodded agreement.
“Five minutes’ walk from here,” Elveden continued, “there is a house called ‘The Lindens.’ I suggest that I stay here and watch this place while you go along to the house and get in touch with the police at Wimbledon. I forget the Super’s name, but ask him for three men and a sergeant at once. Give the address as ‘The Lindens,’ and wait there for them and bring them on here. Follow this path and you 11 find the house on the right. It’s not far, and for God’s sake hurry!”
He pointed along the path running beside Rushmere House. Freddie made a profound obeisance.
“Listen is obey, effendi,” he said with mock reverence. “I am away. I leave you to absorb the gentle rain from heaven.” Smiling cheerfully, he set off at a steady lope through the rain and vanished from sight.
Five minutes later a rain-sodden and disheveled young man, having only imperfectly convinced the owner of “The Lindens” that his intentions were in no way felonious, took up the telephone in the sitting-room of that house and asked to be connected with Wimbledon Police-Station.
The owner of “The Lindens,” a maiden lady, hovered purposefully in the background, dividing her attention between Freddie and the poker.
“Hallo,” said Freddie in answer to a masculine hail, “the local cop emporium?”
“What?”
“The peeler dump, as it were,” explained Freddie, “or as some might say—the police station?”
“This is Wimbledon Police Station,” came the cold answer. “What can we do for you?”
“I am oscillating from ‘The Lindens,’ Wimbledon Common,” continued Freddie, “on behalf of one, Inspector Elveden, of Scotland Yard. He desires the immediate dispatch to aforesaid residence of three burly supports of the law. You grasp my meaning?
Peelers, nabs, flatties, cops, busies, bluebottles—”
“Constables,” agreed the cold voice. “‘The Lindens,’ you say? What for?”
A note of asperity crept into the voice, and Freddie gathered that the Superintendent resented the intrusion of a Yard man on his territory.
“No,” he said cheerfully, “only three! Don’t forget. At once—’The Lindens’—we’ll send ‘em back intact—only doing a little midnight fishing with them.”
“Fishing—look here, young fellow me lad——”
“You’re a bit too previous, old cod,” reproved Freddie. “Television isn’t possible in the communication stakes yet. As I was saying when you rudely interrupted me, the Inspector requires them for a little midnight fishing—for a Squid, I think he said!” He cut off swiftly, but not before he had heard a startled gasp at the other end of the line.
Freddie waited for a few moments, during which his hostess, who had now possessed herself unobtrusively of the poker, took a seat in the hall and eyed him in a distinctly embarrassing way.
Taking up the instrument again, he gave the number of the Evening Mail.
“Hallo! Is Mr. Craven tottering round the sphere anywhere?” he demanded chirpily, as an answer came across the line.
“Sphere?” snapped a male voice. “This is the Evening Mail—wrong——”
“Oi!” yelled Freddie. “Don’t cut off, laddie.”
“What do you want?” grunted the irascible one.
“James of the House of Craven, if present,” replied Freddie. “Apprise him of my desire to converse with him.”
“Name!”
“The Lord Chancellor’s secretary,” lied Freddie coolly.
“Yes, sir,” was the polite answer, and almost at once Freddie was connected with Jimmy.
“Hallo!”
“Ah, those dulcet tones,” sighed Freddie. “James, fellow scoundrel, dost still pursue the elusive copy?”
“Freddie, you ass, is that you? I was told——”
“Possibly,” agreed Freddie kindly, “but don’t believe it. The operator chappie has a natural bent for sweet unsophisticated humor. Would you like an exclusive Squid story?”
An excited yelp answered.
“I take it that that shattering ear-piercer is tantamount to agreement,” drawled Freddie. “Rake out that one horse-power tin lizzie of yours——”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said degarage your powerful roadster and purr along to Wimbledon.”
“Wimbledon,” objected Jimmy, “is a big place. Would you like me to come to any particular part of Wimbledon or just Wimbledon generally?”
Freddie gave directions.
“And get a move on,” he concluded, “or you won’t be in at the death. The Hounds of Justice are already straining at the leash.”
“I Wimble forthwith,” answered Jimmy, and cut off.
Freddie replaced the receiver and sat down for a moment on the corner of a table. Through the doorway he could see the lady with the poker, meditating some sort of decisive action.
At the end of ten minutes, when relations were strained almost to bursting point, a sudden knock on the door saved the situation.
Answering the door, the lady was confronted by a sergeant of police and three constables. Her worst suspicions were confirmed, and she had already begun her indictment when Freddie, sauntering forth, hailed the new arrivals happily.
“Excelsior, fellow dustmen,” he said genially. “Follow me to where our little Elv awaits, with open arms and damp trilbies!”
The newcomers gaped.
“Mr. Leicester?” the sergeant asked doubtfully.
“Indubitably,” Freddie agreed kindly. “Can any doubt linger as to the identity of the one and only F.H.L.? I think not.”
The sergeant was plainly out of his depth.
“You telephoned——“ he began weakly, to be interrupted vehemently by the owner of the house.
“Twice! And, so far, payment and thanks for the use of the instrument do not seem to have occurred to this peculiar person!”
Freddie winced and turned with a pained expression. “Person?” he bleated anxiously. “Madam, you stab the old susceptibilities grievously. True, the matter of liquidation had, temporarily, eluded the agile gray m
atter, but the scales have dropped from the windows of my soul. I have seen the light. You will live to be proud of me!” He fumbled in his pocket. “Please,” he said earnestly, “accept my sincere thanks plus six of the best and brightest brown boys!”
He pressed six pennies into the hand of the astonished lady, then with a polite bow turned aside and, talking in an undertone to the sergeant, left the house and set out to where the Inspector awaited them.
They found him still watching the house, in which no movement showed.
Elveden drew the sergeant aside at once.
“Take two men and go round to the back,” he directed. “You’ll find a taxi outside a small garage adjoining the garden wall. Leave a man to guard it and climb the wall. There’s a small gate, but don’t waste time on it. I tried to open it earlier, but it wouldn’t budge. Wait till you get my signal, then rush the place.”
The sergeant saluted and, selecting two men, made his way silently along the drive leading round to the back of the house.
“There’s been no sign of anything yet,” Elveden said as he watched the retreating policemen, “but there’s a light in one of the upper rooms. Will you stay by the gate, Mr. Leicester, in case——”
Without warning, a shot rang out, followed by three others.
“Hell!” snapped Elveden, and, raising his voice, “sergeant, close in!”
A faint answering hail came through the darkness and Elveden, followed by the remaining constable, sprinted for the house. There he turned to the constable as a more than usually brilliant flash lit up the place.
“Stay here,” he ordered, “and see that no one leaves the front of the house. There’s no way of entering the front, except by this door and that’s locked. I found that out some time ago.”
The constable nodded and stepping forward, lowered his shoulder and charged the door. He gave in after the fifth attempt and retired rubbing his shoulder.
“Tough, sir,” he grimaced.
“I know,” Elveden retorted, “and there’s no sign of a lock or we’d put a bullet through it; but the lock is there somewhere. Try putting shots along the edge of the door at inch intervals.”
He drew an automatic and fired, shooting alternately with the constable. At the fourth shot there was a metallic crash and the door swung inwards.
Producing a torch, Elveden stepped into the hall and looked round. Walking quickly to the stairs he peered warily upwards.
Frequent flashes of light lit the hall like daylight, but no further sounds of the recent ominous activity seemed to be forthcoming.
As he stood there ruminating on the curious lack of doors he experienced something of the unpleasant thrill that Sir Marcus had felt earlier in the evening, but he could not quite place it.
He was not left to speculate long.
“Good evening, Inspector,” said a soft voice suddenly.
Whirling with uplifted gun, Elveden faced the paneling and swept it with his torch.
“Goo-good evening,” he said lamely; and struck with his helplessness swore savagely.
“Damn you, where are you?” he snarled.
“Less than two yards away,” came the mocking reply. “Quite comfortable, and likely to continue so.”
The Inspector gritted his teeth and turned again suddenly at the sound of an opening door behind him.
Framed in the paneling by the stairs stood the sergeant and a Constable.
“Damned queer doors in this place, sir,” said the sergeant. “No handles, no locks. These modern places are the cast-iron limit. I was fuddling about for five minutes before that door suddenly opened. Must have touched the catch, I suppose.”
“Very possibly,” agreed the invisible Squid amusedly.
The sergeant forgot himself.
“Who the heirs that?” he gasped, spinning round.
Elveden motioned to the blank wall in front.
“In there,” he said curtly, “but God knows where. How did you find the other door?”
Inside the hidden room the Squid was enjoying himself immensely.
Moving to the end of the concealed room he answered Elveden’s last question politely.
“By luck, my dear Elveden, and luck is very changeable.”
A smothered curse was the reply and a bullet buried itself in the paneling.
“Try firing at inch intervals again,” came the Inspector’s voice from outside, and a fusillade followed.
“A long job, I fancy,” purred the Squid, and turned as the dictagraph on the pedestal buzzed faintly.
Crossing swiftly to the instrument he placed the receiver to his ear and listened for a few seconds.
Then: “Wait two minutes,” he directed, speaking close to the transmitter, “then drive away. They’ll have this door open at any minute now.”
Replacing the receiver, he recrossed the room to the door.
“Good night, Inspector,” he said mockingly, speaking close to the wall. “We shall meet quite soon—but not tonight!”
The answering curse amused him, and listening for a moment he heard a few words spoken in an undertone. The Inspector and his companions had been joined by the third constable and, at Elveden’s sudden command, the men hurled themselves at the paneling.
The Squid stepped hastily back and moved softly to the fireplace. Gently shifting one of the chairs he felt along the wall and pressed the edge of a panel. Immediately it fell forward in his hand, revealing a large square box-like interior.
In one corner stood a few logs, and several small pieces of coal lay on the floor.
The Squid’s eyes gleamed amusedly. The house agent had waxed ecstatic over that novel coal-box, when he had shown the Squid over the house.
“So convenient, not unsightly and, above all, not visible, sir.”
Precisely. But the agent had not suspected to what use the novelty would be put. Dropping on his hands and knees, the Squid crept into the space and, settling himself comfortably, pulled up the flap.
Thirty seconds later a vigorous onslaught outside, by pure chance, found the concealed door and stove it in.
Elveden, the first to enter, halted and stiffened.
“Damn,” he said weakly, surveying the empty room. “How in the name——”
He broke off with a sharp intaken breath, his eyes riveted on the twisted figure of Sir Marcus.
Dropping on his knees he made a brief examination and nodded in response to the sergeant’s whispered question.
“Guard that door,” he snapped. “That devil can’t have got far. You,” to one of the stupefied constables, “ring up the mortuary. Now, sergeant—if he’s in this room we’ll find——”
He paused and stared blankly at the sergeant.
“What’s that?” he asked queerly.
The sergeant looked startled.
“It sounds like a taxi starting up, sir,” he said, and listened.
Barely audible to the group in the silent room came the sound of a running motor engine.
The Inspector leapt to action.
“He’s done it,” he panted. “One of you guard the room. You two—out quickly, with me. Sergeant, you know the way. Make for the back.”
The sergeant bounded out of the room and dashed across the hall with the other two close at his heels.
In less than a minute they were scaling the garden wall.
But the taxi had vanished, although its engine was still audible. Dropping to the ground they dashed out across the common in pursuit.
Ahead of them, the sound of the retreating car grew fainter and finally ceased.
Perspiring, and profane, Elveden pulled up and mopped his face. Then, without a word, he turned and retraced his steps, his weary companions following dutifully.
As they reached the garden wall again a startled exclamation burst from the sergeant.
“There’s someone here, sir,” he said anxiously; and, stooping, flashed his torch on the ground.
Lying against the wall, gagged and bound hand and f
oot, lay the constable who had guarded the taxi.
“Untie him,” snapped the frantic Inspector; and before the gag was well out of the unfortunate man’s mouth, fired out a stream of questions.
As soon as the constable could speak, he told what little he knew.
“The chauffeur must have been hidden somewhere, sir,” he explained, “but I didn’t see or hear anything. Something struck me on the back of the head and I lost consciousness. I came to just before he drove off, but I couldn’t move hand or foot to prevent him. I think the garage is connected to the house by telephone because I heard someone, the chauffeur probably, talking in there—”
Elveden drew a deep breath.
“The garage?” he murmured, and the mysterious disappearance of the Squid took on a new significance.
“Back to the house,” he shouted, leaping to the wall. “He’s still there.”
XXXVIII. THE SQUID BLUNDERS
Left to his own devices, the constable whom Elveden had ordered to remain behind seated himself on the edge of the table and tried to avoid looking at the ghastly face of the murdered man.
It was not an easy task.
An irresistible fascination drew his eyes to the still figure on the floor and he found his thoughts traveling in morbid channels. So much so that he glanced round nervously once or twice, but saw nothing to justify his alarm.
Neither did he hear the opening of the panel by the fireplace—which was as well for his peace of mind.
He would have liked to have smoked a cigarette to steady his nerves, but it was against the regulations. He stole another sidelong glance at the body.
Poor devil! A terrible end. Cut off, at one stroke, from his wife and family—from the ill-kempt appearance of the victim the policeman built up a pathetic little romance of a garret, a struggling wife and half-starved children.
While sympathizing with the dead man, he could also sympathize with his murderer.
Had he encountered the Squid before, he might have been less charitably disposed. As it was, he had only very vague ideas concerning that night’s adventures. Policemen are told little, and expected to ask less. Consequently, knowing nothing, he found time to pity the man his superiors were even now hunting like a wild beast.