Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  “Yet,” offered the Duke, “at the risk of seeming merely vulgarly curious, may I ask why you did nothing to prevent my escape?”

  “Erb!” said Freddie reproachfully. “Think, my dear old kinsman! Grab you and lose the gang and the spoils acquired by same. Be reasonable. Besides, why the non-stop express effect? Only two days ago you told me that you were going down to the bungalow. Last night I knew why. Simple, what?”

  “Yes,” His Grace murmured apologetically. “Yes, most decidedly. I see your point. Forgive my obtuseness.”

  He sighed.

  “I have had a wearying day,” he continued. “Very wearying, and in that connection I am afraid I owe you an explanation. I was unfortunately compelled to transform your bungalow into a crematorium. I am afraid Inspector Elveden and his friends were a little late in leaving the tunnel, with—I hope—unfortunate results. Even if they survive, they will have many hours’ work to discover the tunnel, which leads out on the beach, and the exit itself is three miles lower down the coast.”

  Freddie smiled amiably.

  “I guessed that the slight rumbling I heard when you effected your exit was not the nibbling of mice,” he said.

  “Clever of you,” conceded the Duke, mockingly. “My own wits seem a little sluggish at the moment. Rushing round blowing up inopportune inspectors is a pastime of youth. At my age it loses its savor, and when the taste is gone, the palate tires.”

  He surveyed his nephew with a woebegone expression.

  “Beastly fatiguing,” agreed Freddie, “but you carry on the good work quite voluntarily, old dear. What I mean to say—nobody asked you to blow my little old bung into the heavens. Beastly unfriendly act, that. Shows a nasty spirit. Couldn’t you have staged the jolly old firework display elsewhere?”

  His uncle sighed regretfully.

  “Unfortunately, no. You remember that originally it was I who persuaded you to take that particular bungalow. I was aware of the smugglers’ exit and selected it for that reason. Naturally I could not rent it myself. Had I done so, tonight’s work would have led to embarrassing police enquiries, and I, as lessee, would have been placed in an invidious position.”

  “Quite,” agreed Freddie. “As it is, I shall collect all the jolly old suspish. Quite a nifty brainstorm, Erb.”

  “The police will not look in your direction,” the Duke replied. “A policeman is a fool, and—if I may say so—one fool does not suspect another. Perhaps that’s why I never took you seriously, Freddie. You seemed so inane.”

  “Your own dial doesn’t register accurately,” protested Freddie. “Considering your tendencies, you’ve got a pretty benign mug, Erb.”

  “A charming smile covereth a multitude of bad intentions,” the Duke answered playfully.

  “And disarming guile obviates a multitude of bad inventions,” retorted Freddie. “Lord knows, you’ve looked guileless for years, Erb. What brought the pains on in the first place?”

  His uncle chuckled.

  “Heavy gambling losses. I dropped too much one night at Monte, and gave the matter of crime a little earnest attention. That was how Eustache Berne lost his diamonds. I was supposedly in Monte at the time of the robbery. As a matter of fact I flew over to London and back in a private plane. The first of many equally profitable trips. I hope you are listening, Freddie. I am giving you some valuable tips and—even if you do not survive to profit by them—I trust that this tête-à-tête will prove instructive.”

  Freddie nodded.

  “I gathered from my scanty experience of your methods that it might also prove instructive to wait here,” he yawned languidly. “The old inductive powers hinted that something was in the air.”

  “Very sensible of you, Freddie,” Framlingham approved. “Quite a lot of things were in the air just lately!”

  Uncle and nephew watched each other silently.

  It was the former who eventually broke the silence.

  “This,” he complained, “is something in the nature of a catastrophe, Freddie. I feel sure you will appreciate the fact that I am pressed for time, and your attitude seems to suggest that I must place myself under the painful necessity of removing my own nephew—permanently!”

  He added the last word very softly and significantly.

  Freddie eyed his uncle sympathetically.

  “This is really most disturbing, my dear nephew,” continued His Grace thoughtfully. “Most disturbing. By nature I am a man of peace. Violence is alien to my principles——”

  “M’m,” agreed Freddie, “first thing that strikes anyone, Erb, is your absolutely spiritual hatred of violence. Noticed it myself.”

  “But lately,” pursued the Duke unheeding, “I have been compelled, to my annoyance, to resort to drastic measures. The careers of several promising members of our splendid constabulary, for whom, believe me, I have the greatest respect, have been, through my agency, somewhat abruptly terminated. Most aggravating. I have only one consolation. They are in a far, far better place than they have ever been before. We can only hope that they will find suitable employment in the great hereafter.”

  He sighed despondently and shifted his position slightly in order to shield his right-hand pocket from Freddie’s observation, a move that his nephew countered by an equally casual change of position.

  “A terrible life,” sighed His Grace, “and then of course there was that little matter of Leslie, which reminds me that I have an old account to settle with one James Craven. And the friendly little rally with my dear friend Loseley. That was a disastrous business. Very painful, I assure you!”

  “Possibly more so for him than for you,” Freddie suggested.

  “No,” corrected the Duke. “Believe me, you do me a great wrong. I had great affection for Marky, Freddie. I sent him to heavenly bliss at the earliest possible moment.”

  He eyed his nephew benignly.

  “Talking of Marcus,” he continued, “and knowing what I know now, I suppose you also deciphered Richmond’s message that night. I often wondered how you came to be arrested. Now I know that you were after the tiara, having correctly translated the message. Frankly, I hadn’t credited you with sufficient brains. I was fortunate enough to memorize it myself, but I may say that I stayed up half the night trying to solve the damn thing.”

  “Brainy,” marveled Freddie, “real dashed brainy, old lad. I mean to say, epic, what?”

  “Unfortunately, I did not discover Marcus’s wicked deception till much later,” said the Duke. “Really, who would have thought it of that dear, harmless old bookworm? I called on him one day and had the good fortune to see two Jerrys descend from a taxi, which was very amusing! The original Jerry, by the way, endeavored to dispossess me of my cigarette case, and a cruder attempt was never made. In the few minutes we had together I recognized him as the original. Certain old mannerisms, you know.”

  He was silent for a moment.

  “Poor Marcus,” he sighed. “An unfortunate man, but the cream of the joke, Freddie, was that Elveden—requiescat in pace—was so damn sure that Marky was the Squid. Very humorous.” It appeared to amuse him vastly. “Touching the matter of the tiara, I confess that I was a little slow. I should have thought of the bank sooner, but then who would have credited Thyme with such duplicity? Positively, he showed signs of brain in removing the agreement from the tiara. Why, when Tubby Thyme was at college—but alas, those days are past.”

  “Precisely,” consented Freddie. “Thyme apparently improved with time.”

  His Grace shuddered.

  “Atrocious,” he sighed.

  “Having translated the cipher,” Freddie volunteered, “I kept tab on Marky and watched his flat. The one in Kensington, you know. But he was devilish cute and mum as a mute—by jove, that’s almost lyrical. I know Marky suspected my interest. It’s absolutely certain that his fright of a landlady passed on the gospel about my frequent visits and questions. He must have guessed my identity from her description. Anyway, he was too bally nippy for me
and I never traced him to your hang-out. Neither did the ‘tecs.”

  He ruminated placidly.

  “I got him once, when he turned up at the Nocturnes, but—well, you know what happened.”

  “And I thought that merely an awkward coincidence,” his uncle murmured. “Careless of me. I trust you felt no pain when you were struck on the head that night?”

  “None,” Freddie assured him, “but talking of Marky, between us we made it too hot for the poor old dear, so he sent for his henchman, the real Jerry, to help sling it across the old peelers. I saw through that, so did Elveden, and at your last summons we followed him, while Jerry took a plain clothes man for a walk.”

  The Duke frowned thoughtfully at the sky.

  “Very interesting,” he said. “Our little talk has cleared the air considerably. And now, Freddie, there remains the little problem of your disposal. This is going to pain me more than it will you.”

  “Fortitude,” murmured Freddie, “is the prop of the Leicesters, Erb. I will endeavor to bear up.”

  His Grace refused to be comforted.

  “Thoughtless,” he said. “Flippant and thoughtless like my dear brother, although I might have guessed that with his eccentricities you also inherited a certain low cunning. In remembrance of him, I am almost tempted to give you your life.”

  He shrugged.

  “But no, that is impossible. I must not give way to slobbering idiocy. The door that opens to admit sentiment closes to shut out reason. You appreciate the extreme delicacy of my position, I trust?”

  “My own position, exactly,” said Freddie, inclining his head courteously. “I shall tell them you died conservative to the last. Any final requests?”

  “Bequests, yes; requests, no,” said Framlingham slowly. “I am leaving you several ounces of good lead as a memento.”

  Freddie smiled good-humoredly and produced a cigarette case from his pocket.

  “What about a lung perisher?” he suggested. “Sort of a nerve tonic before we—er—get down to it? Call a ten-minute armed truce.”

  He proffered the case, and his uncle looking him straight in the eyes, selected a cigarette and felt for matches. He held the match for Freddie and then lighted his own cigarette. They puffed contentedly, each aware that the death struggle that no amount of light banter and skillful fencing could avert, was imminent.

  Freddie, fiddling negligently with his case, became aware after a while of his uncle’s slightly puzzled regard.

  “I seem to have seen that case before,” the Duke said distinctly.

  “You have,” grinned Freddie. “Watch the dicky-bird!”

  Holding up the case, he pushed aside the raised disc in the center and revealed a white enamel circle.

  In the circle was a small blue enamel B followed by the figures 29.

  “So?” murmured His Grace. “B 29?”

  Freddie pushed the disc back into position and, replacing his case, nodded coolly.

  His Grace of Framlingham drew a deep breath.

  “Ah, I was a little premature, Freddie,” he said. “Apparently you inherited much of my dead brother’s cunning.”

  And the bantering note of friendship had dropped from his voice like a cloak.

  “Your father was secretive,” he said in a hard voice. “Like him, you keep quiet for a long time—many years, isn’t it, since we fought in the house in Long Acre?”

  “Exactly,” agreed Freddie; and he, too, had dropped his bantering flippancy. “And during that time, Erb, we’ve lived side by side as friends.”

  “I am more concerned,” said Framlingham, “with the fact that I have made you an allowance without suspecting that you had a more lucrative source of income.”

  “Hardly an allowance. Merely part of the proceeds,” retorted Freddie. “God help us, Erb!”

  “God help you,” corrected His Grace in a grating voice. “One of us will leave this spot—feet foremost.”

  “An undignified exit for a peer of the realm,” said Freddie.

  “I have been waiting some time,” continued the Duke dangerously, “to meet my friend B 29 without his gray silk mask and to hear his natural voice.”

  “And I have been waiting some years for the same reason,” snapped Freddie, “and also to obtain a certain agreement.”

  “Ah, the letter!” said the Duke.

  “Exactly! I might ask how you came to know of it.”

  “Do,” invited his uncle. “As a matter of fact, that talkative old fool, Sir Morbury Peak, gave it away. He was a member of the Cabinet then. My God, what sheep govern the country.”

  “And how many of those sheep are wolves,” Freddie parried. Uncle faced nephew coolly and the hand of neither shook as they simultaneously flicked ash from the cigarettes.

  “You may recall,” purred Framlingham, “a certain remark you made anent my marksmanship, which hurt my feelings considerably at the time.”

  “Put it down to the extreme carelessness of Youth that I omitted to hurt anything more vital,” Freddie retorted.

  “You said, I think,” continued his uncle, “that a kid with a peashooter at six yards’ range would be more dangerous.”

  His face whitened ominously and his finely cut nostrils quivered slightly.

  “Let me amend it,” rapped Freddie, “and substitute ‘blind paralytic’ for ‘kid’.”

  “I hope,” said the even-voiced Duke, “to correct that impression very shortly!”

  He tossed away his cigarette.

  “And I,” said Freddie, “to avenge Marky and John Richmond !”

  The Squid looked speculatively round the moon-lit shore.

  “Suppose we settle this matter now?” he said. “It is a good light. Dueling rules? Good! I suggest that spot midway between the two boulders.”

  He pointed to two huge boulders about thirty yards apart.

  “Back to back, six paces, turn, draw and fire?” he asked.

  “Face to face!” Freddie corrected grimly. “Count out six paces, halt, draw and fire.”

  “Distrust is a cankering disease, Freddie,” said the Duke reprovingly.

  “It is better than a sudden and treacherous death,” his nephew answered.

  They walked slowly towards the boulders.

  Halting midway, they faced each other impassively.

  Barely a yard separated them.

  Freddie eyed his uncle enquiringly.

  The Duke nodded and tossing the wash-leather bag behind him, peeled off his gloves.

  They stepped back a pace and began to count.

  “One—two—three—four—five—six!”

  Two hands flashed down and came up with guns spouting flame. Three crashes shattered the stillness and then—silence.

  Through the drifting smoke haze His Grace watched Freddie clutch convulsively at his shoulder, stagger, and pitch face down in the sand.

  For a moment the Secret Service man writhed and then lay still.

  “Winged,” murmured the Duke complacently.

  His first shot had hit his nephew in the right shoulder, spoiling his aim, and his second had lodged in Freddie’s left wrist. Freddie had fired one shot only and that had buried itself harmlessly in the sand a few feet from the Duke.

  “An improvement,” His Grace said ironically, pocketing his pistol, “on the peashooter stage!”

  He stepped back and retrieved the leather bag.

  XLII. ELVEDEN, THE GULLIBLE

  Inspector Elveden raised his smoke-grimed face and stared around painfully. The movement set a hammer thudding in his head and for a moment he fell back, his features contorted with pain.

  After a brief respite he levered himself up on his elbow and took another survey. It told him little. Complete darkness surrounded him and there was an acrid taste in the atmosphere, but those were the only impressions his tired brain recorded. Vaguely, he was conscious of labored breathing somewhere close at hand and the sound of something soft, like falling soil, but he was too bemused to trouble.r />
  Slowly he reconstructed the events that had taken place, seconds ago—minutes ago—hours ago?

  It was while he was thus engaged that someone bent over him and spoke.

  “Feeling better, sir?”

  Elveden looked up and with difficulty made out the face of the police sergeant.

  “Head’s singing a bit,” the Inspector muttered, “otherwise I’m all right. What happened? Anybody hurt?”

  “Most of us got off with a few bruises, sir,” the sergeant answered, assisting his superior to his feet, “but Fuller—he was next to me—is buried under a pile of earth. They’re trying to get him out now, but I doubt if it’ll be much use.”

  “God!” gasped Elveden, hastily struggling out of his coat. “Get busy again!”

  He stumbled forward in the sergeant’s wake, to where the others, in their shirt sleeves, were furiously scraping earth and rock from a huge mound.

  Perspiring, gasping, with fingers tom and bleeding, the five men worked, each handful of earth widening the hole they had made, but bringing them apparently no nearer what they sought.

  For perhaps ten minutes they worked and then a mass of earth slipped away, revealing a large boulder.

  Beneath the boulder lay Fuller—crushed to death.

  Elveden stepped back and wiped a grimy and trembling hand across his face.

  “Poor devil——“ he managed to stammer out, and staggering slightly, sank down on a rock. The mangled policeman was not a pleasant sight. For some minutes nobody spoke: then Elveden said a little shakily:

  “That fiend must have had this place mined.”

  The sergeant, nervously fingering his chin, nodded.

  “Do you think the bungalow is still standing, sir?” he asked anxiously.

  “It’s difficult to say,” Elveden replied, slowly regaining control. “This crash may not have affected it. Why—oh, good lord——!”

  He pulled up, thinking of the constable he had left in the room above. Knowing the Squid, he realized that the constable had probably been put out of action as soon as his companions had descended into the tunnel.