Murder in Wax

by Peter Baron

  “Is the passage quite blocked up?” he asked drearily.

  “Absolutely, sir,” the sergeant replied, “and unless we can find some way out at the other end, we’ll be here for some time. We’re a good way down, and I doubt if the sound of the explosion carried far.”

  “How long ago was it?” the Inspector asked.

  “Ten minutes, sir,” one of the others volunteered.

  Elveden got to his feet.

  “You fellows had better try to get that poor blighter out,” he said. “Sergeant, you and I will have to try to find a way out of this damned place. Is your torch still functioning?”

  “No, sir. I was thrown about five yards and my torch was smashed to atoms.”

  A constable proffered his torch, which Elveden flashed around the tunnel.

  Before him was the bend on the other side of which were the four branches of the passage.

  “Come on, sergeant,” he directed. “If we do find a way out, you can go back and get the others.”

  Leading the way, he warily rounded the bend.

  Selecting the extreme left passage, they walked along it for some distance, only to come to an abrupt stop against a solid wall of rock.

  Elveden swore softly.

  “This must have been the cul de sac they found the first time,” he said as they retraced their steps.

  “I don’t seem to fancy it was, sir,” the sergeant answered.

  They tried the second passage and after two minutes found the roof of the tunnel becoming lower. Gradually it became too low for further progress and they were on the point of returning when the sergeant drew Elveden’s attention to a small hole, large enough to admit a man, at the base of the left-hand wall.

  Dropping on all fours, Elveden examined the hole and, deciding from the rush of cool air that it had an exit, crawled through.

  The sergeant followed, and a few minutes later they were standing up in what seemed to Elveden familiar surroundings.

  He was right.

  They were in the first tunnel.

  “Blast!” he exclaimed feelingly, and hurrying back to the junction of the passages again, entered the third tunnel.

  As before, they had not progressed far before they came to a dead stop before a wall of solid rock.

  By this time the sergeant was getting a little apprehensive.

  Elveden on the contrary was growing steadily more angry. Each false start meant added delay, and he was desperately anxious to get to the beach—not so much with the idea of regaining his freedom as of getting within range of the Squid.

  It was possible that the Squid had encountered Freddie and been delayed. The explosion had taken place about twenty minutes ago and there was just the faint chance that Freddie might have managed to hold his opponent.

  It was a weak reed to lean on, but Elveden rigorously excluded all thought of the flaws in the theory.

  “There’s only one passage left, sir,” the sergeant ventured in a suspiciously shaky voice.

  “We haven’t done with this one yet,” the Inspector retorted grimly. “There’s another of those damned holes here.”

  He directed the rays of his torch on a hole almost identical with the one in the previous passage.

  “It probably leads to the passage we have left,” said his optimistic companion. “This place is worse than the catacombs, sir. It’s a positive death trap——”

  But Elveden was groping his way into the opening.

  He emerged in a wide, high-ceilinged cave and glanced around him curiously.

  “This looks more promising,” he said as the sergeant rejoined him.

  “There’s an opening somewhere,” said the sergeant. “I can feel a draught.”

  Walking carefully, they made their way to its source—a low arched opening in the corner, from which a short flight of rough-hewn steps led downwards to another tunnel, the walls of which were damp and green.

  From that point their difficulties ceased. The passage led in a straight line to a square patch of light at the far end. As they approached the opening it appeared to grow larger until within a few feet they saw that it was large enough to allow a man to pass through.

  Stepping out, the pair found themselves on a small ledge on the cliffs, partially shielded by a clump of bushes.

  A few feet below them, the sea hurled itself upon the beach.

  “You’d better go back and get the others,” Elveden instructed. “When they get clear, send one of them to Seaford for an ambulance. Give him instructions to tell the inspector in charge to send out a patrol. The rest of you are to follow me.”

  The sergeant, who had shown unmistakable signs of relief at regaining his freedom, was obviously not too keen on returning by the way he had come, but he saluted obediently and turned back.

  Pocketing his torch, Elveden dropped lightly to the beach and set out at a steady lope along the sand in the moonlight.

  The coast stretched away in a half-curved line to where the cliffs projected into the sea at a point about a mile and a half distant.

  Beyond that Elveden hoped to find some trace of the Squid. It was the only chance.

  He knew he was traveling in the right direction from the rays of the lighthouse, which lay in front, and which he had. seen from the bungalow. And, if his calculations were correct, the bungalow should stand—presuming it still stood—on the downs just beyond the projecting cliff ahead.

  Maintaining his tireless lope, he drew steadily nearer to his objective and was almost within touching distance when, catching his foot in an unsuspected hole, he stumbled and measured his length.

  Cursing fluently, he was in the act of rising, when he paused.

  Above the sound of the incoming waves rose three sharp reports, close at hand.

  For some moments he lay, without movement, listening intently. Then he rose cautiously to his feet and drew his automatic.

  Warily he followed the strip of sand that skirted the rock and came to a sudden stop.

  For perhaps half a minute he watched unseen and then he spoke harshly.

  “Move an inch and I’ll blow you to hell!”

  The man to whom the remark was addressed did not move immediately but continued to study the inanimate figure at his feet.

  At length he turned, slowly, and surveyed the Inspector.

  “Ah, Elveden,” he said tranquilly, “this is a pleasure, enhanced by its unexpectedness. I thought you were interred quite comfortably !”

  But beyond an audible gasp the other gave no sign that he had heard.

  His discomfiture was ludicrous. Mouth agape, eyes nearly starting from his head, he stared at the Duke.

  He was trying to readjust his mind to this new, startling revelation.

  The man before him was without doubt the Squid. His clothes and figure were identical with those of the man who had tricked them at the bungalow and yet—the Duke of Framlingham! It was incredible, unbelievable.

  “You!” he blurted at last.

  “If you will pardon my saying so,” said the Duke composedly, “that is a singularly unintelligent remark. Naturally it is I. How could I be other than myself, Herbert Frederick Pleydell, twelfth Duke of Framlingham?”

  There was a touch of the grandiloquent in the question and the egotistic tone brought Elveden out of his trance.

  “You will soon be a number,” he said coolly, advancing, “and ultimately a thing, hanging at the end of a rope!”

  “I trust that your charming plans for me will be as successful as mine for you were,” the Duke replied.

  “That little coup fell through,” Elveden commented grimly, “but this won’t, my friend.”

  Framlingham shuddered.

  “Please,” he protested, “not ‘friend.’ My inferiors call me ‘Your Grace.’ You might make an effort to remember that.”

  “Your friends will soon call you nothing but a damned murderer,” Elveden retorted, “and even then you will be one of the many who are called and do not get up!”
>
  “That is probably meant to be humorous,” drawled His Grace, “if one could see the point. The humor of the ‘Force’ is always forced humor.”

  He chuckled over his own joke and fell to studying a handsome marquise ring on the little finger of his right hand.

  Elveden stepped a pace closer, his glance straying to the inert figure of Freddie.

  “Him, too,” he said slowly. “Your own nephew!”

  “Unfortunately,” the Duke agreed, “and please spare me the heroics.”

  The remark sobered Elveden.

  “Nothing remains,” he said, “but to return to Seaford, where you are anxiously awaited. Hold out your arms.”

  His Grace obeyed, and Elveden, running his hands over the other’s clothes, removed and pocketed a revolver.

  That done, he stepped back.

  “Before we go, there is one point I should like you to clear up,” he said. “I refer to the night on which you tricked me over the Baraipur diamonds.”

  Framlingham smiled broadly.

  “Ah, we have found a chink in the armor of the Elvedens,” he rallied gently. “That certainly was well staged, and there was practically no risk. I was wearing my fascinating head when you heard me singing first, and had you come out into the hall you would have encountered the Squid. As it was, you remained where you were. You know what followed. After I had locked you in, I slipped off my outer clothes and gagged and handcuffed myself and lay on the floor. If you’d had the sense to look inside that cupboard in the hall, you’d have seen my Squid get-up and the game would have gone phut.”

  “Like all good schemes, simple,” Elveden retorted dryly.

  “Very,” His Grace agreed, and his tone became petulant. “The snag was that I had to listen to you smashing up my Chippendale, you fool. The only consolation I got was that the police authorities replaced that chair at their own expense. Distinctly amusing, that!”

  He laughed good-humoredly and again fell to studying his ring.

  Elveden, following the direction of the other’s gaze, smiled faintly.

  “Part of the D’Este collection, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Ah, a connoisseur,” said His Grace. “It was a part of that collection. I took a great liking to it. You know its history?”

  “No, neither have I time to listen,” the other replied tartly.

  “Since you are so interested,” murmured the Duke, “it was originally the property of Caesar Borgia, Duke of Valentinois, and contained poison.”

  He pressed a catch and the jeweled top flew open, revealing a little silver box beneath.

  “In fact,” said the Duke calmly, “it still holds poison—fortunately!”

  Before Elveden could move, the Duke’s hand flew up to his lips.

  Elveden sprang forward with an alarmed expression, but halted as His Grace removed his hand.

  “Too late,” he said quietly, “as always. You don’t imagine that I should have let you see my face when you first appeared if I had not an avenue of escape, do you, you poor dolt?”

  He shuddered slightly and eyed the thunderstruck Elveden calmly.

  “In five minutes,” he said distinctly, “I shall be beyond the reach of even the highest Inspector, since I shall travel to the basement, while all good inspectors eventually go to the attic!”

  He glanced up at the sky mockingly and a sudden spasm of pain distorted his face.

  “In—five—minutes——“ he said in a thick voice and staggered.

  Elveden made a movement to assist him, but was waved back.

  Standing helpless, the Inspector tasted chagrin, and it was bitter—bitter as gall.

  He was powerless to avert the inevitable. He bit his lip until he drew blood.

  To have caught the Squid—and lost him—hopelessly, irretrievably. God in heaven, was ever Fate so ironic?

  He eyed the silent Duke dully and His Grace smiled—coughed horribly, and fell.

  A groan burst from Elveden’s lips. It was the end.

  He found that he was shaking in every limb and his eyes traveled ceaselessly between the terribly distorted face of the Duke and the huddled figure of Freddie Leicester, not ten yards away.

  With a set face he dropped on his knees and, bending over the Duke, felt for his heart.

  It was still beating—but the realization came too late. Two hands closed over the Inspector’s wrists in a grip of steel and a savage jerk deposed Elveden and reversed their positions.

  The very suddenness of the attack was responsible for its success. Before Elveden had time to collect his scattered wits, he was looking up into the unpleasantly cynical eyes of the resurrected Duke.

  “A short time ago,” hissed His Grace, “I said I should be beyond your reach in five minutes. I shall!”

  Elveden grunted, dropped his automatic and set himself to the task of breaking his opponent’s grip.

  As a master of ju-jitsu, he should have succeeded in the first few seconds, but His Grace was equally master of the art of the Orient and minutes passed as they writhed silently.

  Grips were sought, obtained and broken: legs twined and bodies twisted beneath cruel holds, and still they strove, each seeking a stranglehold.

  But the end came swiftly—as is the way with ju-jitsu.

  A sudden writhe, a cunning unexpected change of position and a slight pressure at the back of the neck were the first intimations Elveden received. He recognized a hold that he was powerless to shift and, gritting his teeth, matched his endurance against the Duke’s skill.

  It was futile.

  A lightning jerk wrenched the Inspector over face down in the sand and with a satisfied grunt His Grace forced Elveden’s hands behind his back.

  Slowly but surely he twisted the Inspector’s left hand while he levered the right away from the body and pinned it in the sand beneath his knee.

  Reaching swiftly for the automatic, he brought the butt down hard on Elveden’s head.

  The Inspector went limp. His Grace, panting a little, turned his inert opponent on his back and, running through the latter’s pockets, found the manacles he sought.

  When he stood up Elveden was gagged and handcuffed.

  One glance the Duke vouchsafed Freddie and then he hurried to the motor launch.

  Resting against the flat stern, he exerted all his strength and pushed it clear of the sand into the water. He had little time to waste now, and, retrieving the wash-leather bag, he boarded the launch.

  In the act of setting the controls in motion he paused and looked back.

  He was leaving Elveden, unconscious but alive! Alive to betray him——

  And Freddie? Was he sure that the Secret Service man was finally out of the fight?

  He passed a hand over his damp brow bemusedly. He was getting old, and forgetful.

  Standing by the launch he slowly raised the revolver he still held.

  Crack!

  A thin jet of flame lanced across the beach.

  XLIII. A DRAWN GAME

  But the report had not come from the Duke’s gun.

  He, who had made it a rule never to wait too long, had broken that rule—and paid the penalty.

  With wide dismayed eyes he sagged back against the gently rocking launch and stared down at an ever widening stain on his shirt front.

  With an effort he raised his eyes and gazed across the sand at the wisp of blue smoke spiraling from the revolver in Freddie’s hand. The hand he had thought lifeless!

  Slowly the Duke’s nerveless fingers released their hold of the leather bag and the automatic.

  Two splashes broke the silence.

  Slowly—slowly His Grace slipped, overbalanced and toppled backwards into the launch that was to have carried him to freedom.

  His fall set the boat rocking violently and gradually it began to move—to drift away from the beach.

  And Freddie, on the borderline of consciousness, watched it go through heavy lidded eyes.

  For ten minutes he had lain, wracked
by the agony of his wound, striving to work his revolver into position. The bullet in his right shoulder had rendered that arm useless and the flesh wound in his left wrist had made the transfer of the gun from one hand to the other a painful ordeal. Every movement had been a separate hell. Obliged to move slowly and cautiously, he was tortured by the thought that his uncle would make good his escape with the precious letter before he, Freddie, could prevent him.

  He had been in time, thank God! Another second and Elveden’s life would have been forfeit.

  But that was not all.

  Somewhere in the water close to the beach lay that bag. That, at all costs, must be retrieved.

  He tried to move and realized that his wounds and loss of blood had taken more out of him than he knew. How much, he had yet to discover.

  He forced himself to think clearly, the while his eyes followed the launch, drifting slowly out of reach.

  It aroused no emotion in him whatever. Compared to the recovery of the letter, the disappearance of the Squid, alive or dead, was a detail.

  The letter? Yes!

  Stifling the groan of pain that rose to his lips, he rolled awkwardly on his side and contrived to get to his knees—no easy matter deprived, as he was, of the use of his hands.

  Finally he rose unsteadily to his feet and commenced to shuffle towards the water.

  Twice during the short journey he staggered, and had to pause to fight the darkness closing in on his tired brain.

  He found the bag about five paces from the shore.

  Then it was that the will that had sustained him so long gave out. He was done, and he knew it. He felt himself slipping and falling, without the will to save himself, into blackness. A blackness that even the sting of the salt water in his wounds failed to dispel.

  The police found him an hour later half in and half out of the water, delirious, but still clutching a sodden bag.

  Elveden, too, they found, half unconscious from exposure and the cramped position in which he had lain.

  But what they did not find was a motor launch, adrift in mid-channel.

  THE END

  REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER