A 508071



PROPERTY OF
University of
Michi
JUUNTOS
1817
ARTES SCIENTIA VERITAS














MURDER IN WA X
A FEARFUL face, living, yet it has the look of the dead!
Only the jaw moves and its movements summon murder!
Though it cost life after life the grim countenance must be
faced. A piece of paper upon which the destiny of an
empire depends must be kept from its baleful eyes....
John Richmond, King's messenger, is cut down. His
daughter is abducted. A famous banker is done to death.
Another man of rank joins the company of corpses. And
then a young man, little regarded, with only the love of
the abducted woman to lead him on, enters the case. Will
the hand of death reach him? .........
Here is a gripping mystery story by an author who is a
master of thrills. An English sensation, it will
thrill American readers with its power
and ingenuity.





MURDER IN WAX
Clyde, Leonard
Korawicke
LA
by P E T E R B A R 0 N
Author of THE OPIUM MURDERS
New York, THE MACAULAY COMPANY


PUBLISHED, 1931,
BY THE MACAULAY COMPANY
? 28
Cósl.mn
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


DEDICATED TO
NORMAN D. CLIFF
The author wishes to make it clear that all characters in this novel are
entirely fictitious and bear no relation to any living person.





of BaTLER
BEG cert
befo
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE STORY
CHAPTER
I. JOHN RICHMOND, KING'S MESSENGER ......
II. THE SQUD AND B29 ...........
II
20
THE SEQUEL
26
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III. JERRY THE LAG . . . . . . . . . . . .
IV. INTRODUCTIONS . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
V. MAN AND MAID ............. 39
VI. THE CIPHER . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
VII. BLACK GLOVE . . . . . . . . . . .
VIII. CONCERNING THE LOSELEY TIARA . ..
IX. "CHARGE, FIDDLESTICKS” ......
X. "Not To-NIGHT, MR. ELVEDEN" . ...
XI. FREDDIE Is Not HELPFUL . . . . .
XII. JOHN RICHMOND'S MESSAGE . . . . . . . . . 89
XIII. IN WHICH AN INSPECTOR IS CURIOUS ...
XIV. FREDDIE INTRUDES . . . . . . . . .
103
XV. KINGSWAY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 110
XVI. FREDDIE HIBERNATES . .
115
XVII. JOHN THE BUTLER .
.. 121
XVIII. JIMMY INVESTIGATES ..
· · · 127
XIX. THE TRAP . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
XX. THE SQUID ACCEPTS . . . . . . . . . . . 140
XXI. THE SQUID COUNTERS . .......... 146
XXII. TELLS SOMEWHAT OF DUCAL SPLEEN . .
XXIII. AN ABDUCTION . . . . . . . . . . . . . 159
XXIV. FREDDIE PLAYS BILLIARDS. . . . . . . . . . 166
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viii
CONTENTS
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CHAPTER
PAGE
XXV. CHECK TO THE SQUID . . . . . . . . . . . 174
XXVI. TERMS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
XXVII. TELLS OF "LONG RED MOTORS” ....
XXVIII. JIMMY TAKES A HAND . . . . . . . . . . . 197
XXIX. AN INSPECTOR BAITS HIS LINE . . . . . . . 204
XXX. PROVES THAT SQUIDS ARE UNUSUAL FISH . . . . .
XXXI. THE RETORT COURTEOUS . . . . . . . .
XXXII. THE UBIQUITOUS JERRY · · · · · · · ·
XXXIII. SIR MARCUS EXPLAINS . . . . . . . .
XXXIV. B 29 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 242
XXXV. THE HOUSE ON WIMBLEDON COMMON . . . . . . 248
XXXVI. IN WHICH THE SQUI IŠ AMUSED . . . . . . .
XXXVII. SHOTS . . . . . . . . . . . .
XXXVIII. IN WHICH THE SQUID BLUNDERS . . . .
XXXIX. THE GATHERING OF THE CLAN . . . . .
XL. THE COMEDY THAT BECAME A TRAGEDY ..
XLI. RECKONING . . . . . . . . . . . . .
XLII. ELVEDEN, THE GULLIBLE . . . . . . . . .
XLIII. A DRAWN GAME .. .. .. . .. .. . 315


MURDER IN WAX


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THE STORY
I. JOHN RICHMOND, KING'S MESSENGER
JOHN RICHMOND was not a coward, but neither was he a fool.
The danger in which he stood at the moment was a very real
one. He knew it and was taking no risks. Handling his gray
Chrysler deftly, he passed through Deptford and headed along
the New Cross Road.
The chase was not over yet. As they had followed him across
Europe to the coast and Dover, so they would follow him to
London and to his grave to get what they wanted. He smiled
grimly and looked down at the ebony walking stick on the seat
beside him.
To the winner the spoils.
A brief glance back as he passed New Cross Station showed
him many cars in his wake, and John Richmond had more than
a suspicion that one of those cars held the Squid and a satellite.
At various points in the journey he had thought to throw them
off. A King's Messenger knows many tricks-tricks acquired
by long years of practice. He had practiced them all, but the
Squid had countered equally cleverly and would doubtless show
his face again sooner or later.
Richmond had crossed Europe from Venice in practically a
straight line and, despite his stratagems, not once had he thrown
the Squid off his track.
In Trento his room at the Grande had been searched one night
while he was out. The management had known nothing about it.
They would not.
The same thing had happened at Zurich, and at Nancy he had
found himself in an awkward corner at a café. Three Englishmen
had taken a great deal of interest in him and a word in the
proprietor's ear from one of them had emptied the café in no
time. The intervention of a party of American tourists had suc-
cessfully relieved an ugly situation.
John smiled as he reflected on that meeting. The American
II


12
MURDER IN WAX
has his critics, but he also has his uses. He has his fists and in a
scrap of that kind is a troublesome customer.
Between Nancy and Verdun, almost on the outskirts of the
latter, an attempt to ditch his car had failed and the Rolls which
tried it had vanished in time to escape the ensuing inquiry of
the gendarmes.
At Busigny it had been an ambush-wire across the road and
broken glass.
Involuntarily he looked at the cracked windscreen. That had
been a bullet, and his engine had got another.
At Lens it had been a shot in the dark as he entered his hotel
and at St. Omer the man who had fired that shot had chartered
a motor launch to cross in the wake of the private boat that
was to take John to England.
He had an hour's start for which he was duly thankful.
From Dover his journey had been uneventful, but John read
the signs and they were unfavorable.
Through Queens Street, High Street, Peckham Road and
Church Road to Camberwell New Road the gray Chrysler
hummed its way and John, unable to rid himself of his suspicion,
found time to glance back occasionally. Twilight was closing in
and the city was no safer than the country.
He gave his attention to the wheel. A short time now and he
would be seeing Leslie. Leslie-his daughter and the most won-
derful
The last glance back had made him think hard. Surely he had
seen that taxi at New Cross? Or was it merely fancy? After all,
taxis were fairly numerous in London. He shrugged and, glancing
casually at the Oval in passing, slackened pace slightly as he
moved into the Harleyford Road.
Lesliemhe had not seen her for a year and had been unable
to write to her.
Letters served only to attract attention and to betray their
source. But that was all over now. In half an hour at least he
would be holding her in his arms. His Leslie, that wondrous little
flower ... if her mother had lived ... he sighed. Applying
his brakes, he slowed obediently in response to the policeman's
outstretched hand at the entrance to Vauxhall Bridge.
Curse the traffic jams! He had little enough time to spare. He
glanced back and his mouth tightened ominously. That con-
founded taxi was hanging on.
The policeman stood aside and the Chrysler went on its way
again.
Rounced back aniq jams! He hace to Vaux!


JOHN RICHMOND, KING'S MESSENGER 13
With a thoughtful frown John crossed the bridge and ran his
car into the courtyard of Victoria Station.
Leaping out, he gathered up his stick and entered the station.
Walking swiftly through the crowds, he took cover at a side exit
and watched.
A taxi came to a standstill by the Chrysler and a man de-
scended, a tall big-boned man.
John would know that figure in a thousand.
“Slim.” So, he had been right. They had showed up again.
There was nothing that he could do. To inform the police
would be worse than useless. No charge could be brought against
a man for driving about in a taxi. He had no proof. He could do
nothing.
How long he waited he did not know. It was some minutes
before Slim returned and reëntered the taxi.
As it moved away, John Richmond came out of his place of
concealment and made for his car.
Reseating himself, he slipped in the clutch and his car slid
away through the big gates and out into the traffic, down into
Buckingham Palace Road. The taxi was nowhere in sight. Thank
God, he would soon be home. B 29 would be there to take charge
of the paper and then-God help B 29!
The respite that the removal of the paper would afford John
would be only the start of the troubles that would beset B
29.
But then B 29 of the British Secret Service was no novice
in the gentle art of espionage and the counter moves.
He took the corner into Belgrave Street easily.
Well, it would be good to see Marky again. There was only
one dependable man in the whole world, reflected John, and that
was Sir Marcus Loseley, baronet, or, stripped of his garnishings—
Marky.
The Chrysler turned into Eaton Place and came to a standstill
half-way down the road.
Descending from his car, John hastily crossed the pavement,
still clasping his precious stick, and mounting the short flight
of steps, knocked on the door. He smiled as he heard slow foot-
steps cross the hall. In two seconds Fenton, his honest old face
alight with pleasure, would be practically enfolding him in his
arms.
He was.
As the door opened the King's Messenger stiffened suddenly
and staggered.


14
MURDER IN WAX
The beatific calm died out of Fenton's eyes as he received a
limp figure in his arms.
A figure detached itself from the shadows on the opposite
side of the road and, turning, vanished swiftly.
With a gasp of horror, Fenton half pulled, half carried the
wounded John into the hall and slammed the door.
For a moment he stood there, holding and mumbling agon-
izedly: "Mister John-oh! mister John-you're hurt, sir—Mister
John-what shall I do?”
“Marky here?” mumbled Richmond thickly, making a feeble
effort to stand.
“Yes, sir.”
“Call him," directed the King's Messenger weakly, his stick
falling from his nerveless hand.
And for the first and last time in his life, Fenton, that model
of correct behavior, raised his voice and bawled: "Sir Marcus!
Sir Marcus!”
A door at the head of the stately central staircase swung open
and a tall spare man appeared.
“What the devil - ?” he enquired blankly and, then, abruptly
catching sight of John, horror displaced the habitual serenity of“,
his ascetic face.
Bounding down the stairs he reached his friend's side.
“What's happened, John?” he beseeched anxiously.
"In-the-back-Marky-old fellow,” stammered John, smil-
ing wanly, “nothing much,” and he fainted.
"Get him to my room," snapped Sir Marcus. “Take his legs,
I'll take his head. And see that the house knows nothing
about it."
Together they carried the unconscious man upstairs and into
the room the baronet had just left.
Tenderly they laid him on a divan and Sir Marcus with an
anxious expression turned to the butler.
“Get warm water and bandages,” he directed crisply, "and
see that Miss Leslie is not told of this. Bring a blanket as
well.”
He turned swiftly and dropped on his knees by his friend's
side. Propping him up, he gently removed his coat and waist-
coat.
When the butler returned, John was lying face down, naked
from the waist up, and beneath the left shoulder blade, marring
the whiteness of the flesh, was an ominous red stain.
Together Sir Marcus and Fenton ministered to the injured


JOHN RICHMOND, KING'S MESSENGER 15
man, the former with set face and tight lips, the latter with eyes
glazed with terror and hands that trembled.
Twenty minutes' quick sure work resulted in John's opening
his eyes.
A faint smile lit up his face as he saw the result of his friend's
efforts.
“Go and get that stick I dropped in the hall," he directed
slowly, and Fenton turned hastily.
As the butler left the room John looked at his friend.
“Sent—for a doctor?" he asked, wincing with pain.
“Not yet,” answered Sir Marcus, regarding him with concern.
“Well don't—yet," urged the other weakly.
He did not speak again until Fenton had returned with the
ebony stick and then, signing to the butler to leave them, he lay
back and closed his eyes.
Sir Marcus carefully raised him and wrapped the blanket
round his naked shoulders.
“That was a silencer that got me,” murmured John at length.
"I was congratulating myself on getting so far, when I was hit-
they tried it at Lens, but,” he made a wry face as a stabbing
pain wracked him, "they only got the porch of the hotel,” he
concluded, smiling painfully.
"Who are they?” asked Sir Marcus, curiously.
“The brains of the concern is the Squid,” answered the other
and winced again.
"Don't talk, old man,” begged the other contritely. “I should
have known that you weren't fit."
John waved his hand deprecatingly.
"I'm all right,” he answered, speaking through clenched teeth.
“What's the time, Marky?”
The baronet consulted a gold wrist-watch.
“Nine o'clock, old fellow.”
John started suddenly.
Nine? B 29 had been due at eight. Had anything happened to
prevent his coming? He stared round anxiously.
"Have you had any visitors to-day?” he asked anxiously.
"Has anyone asked for me?”
Sir Marcus looked at his friend's flushed face and eager eyes
curiously and shook his head.
"No," he answered. "Were you expecting someone, John?”
The King's Messenger looked away.
"Er-no ” he said slowly, and relapsed into silence. B 29 had
failed him. The accursed thing was to remain in his possession


16
MURDER IN WAX
longer, and would until B 29 chose to reveal himself. And
every minute of the delay was dangerous. His enemies were on
the scent.
Was that it? Had they intercepted the Secret Service man and
killed him?
Were they even now plotting their opportunity to gain posses-
sion of the paper?
He stared nervously at his stick on the floor.
Sir Marcus watched him intently, and, catching that curious
glance, John strove to pull himself together.
“I'm all right, Marky," he said in a thick voice.
"Perhaps you had better not talk, old man,” suggested the
baronet. “Try and get some sleep.”
John shook his head impatiently and forced his voice to its
normal composure.
“Had that paste tiara made yet?” he asked.
Sir Marcus started. John was talking irrelevantly. Was he ap-
proaching delirium?
“Yes," he answered, “it's being made now, but don't you
think you might try and get some rest?”
"I'm all right, I tell you," snapped his friend. “Sorry, Marky,
I feel jumpy. I'm glad that tiara is being made. I've always told
you it was unsafe to keep it here."
He stared down at his stick for a moment.
Then, “Marky will you ring that doctor?” he asked. “I think
perha os it would be as well to have this wound attended to. It's
aching infernally. Only make sure you get someone you know.
Those devils would try any trick to get at me."
Sir Marcus nodded and reached out a hand to touch the bell.
"No," interposed his friend hastily, "get him yourself, don't
call Fenton. I-I feel I don't know whom to trust, and Marky-
if anything should happen "
Sir Marcus leant over and patted his arm.
"But what can happen, old fellow?” he said soothingly.
"You never know," muttered the King's Messenger. "Promise
me that Leslie should think that I died-naturally."
"I promise,” said Sir Marcus, in a tone that showed plainly
he thought only to humor his friend.
"All right,” said John, and sank back. “You can get that saw-
bones now."
Sir Marcus rose and left the room.
As soon as he was satisfied that the baronet was out of ear-
shot, John Richmond rose unsteadily to his feet and, picking up


JOHN RICHMOND, KING'S MESSENGER 17
to be the section must first cloc
the ebony stick, walked a little uncertainly across the room and
came to a stand before the huge oak fireplace. For some moments
he ran his fingers over the carven woodwork of the overmantel,
and at last, finding the particular knob he sought, twisted it
slowly to the right.
A series of twists, first clockwise and then anti-clockwise, and
a square section of the paneling moved outward.
In the square recess revealed were piled a number of bank-
notes, a pass book, bonds, and papers, a necklace and some rings,
the property of the late Lady Loseley, and lastly, the famous
Loseley tiara.
He looked at the heirloom intently and nodded to himself.
It was an exquisite piece of workmanship. Mounted in gold,
the pyramid-shaped front set with three huge diamonds at each
angle, reënforced by smaller diamonds.
Taking hold of his stick, he hastily unscrewed the ferrule and,
inserting his little finger, drew out a thin roll of paper. It was of
the finest, thinnest paper, almost transparent, but tough as parch-
ment. Unfolding it hastily, he glanced briefly at it and re-
folded it.
Five minutes later the safe was locked and John, seated at a
table, was writing slowly in an awkward trembling hand.
How long he had been writing he did not know, but abruptly
he was aware of a slight draught on his thinly-clad back.
He was also aware of another presence in the room.
For a moment he sat perfectly still and the instincts of a life-
time came automatically to his aid. Slowly and silently he
crumpled in his hand the sheet on which he had been writing.
Then he faced about suddenly in his chair.
The window behind him was open and, standing with his back
to it, was a man clad from head to foot in black-black shoes,
suit, shirt, collar, tie and gloves—but the thing that arrested
John's attention was the man's head.
A huge head, hairless and immovable, the only living things
in it were the cold hard eyes. For a moment they faced each other
and in that moment John realized that the head was of wax.
Instinctively he knew that the intruder was the Squid.
“Good evening, Mr. Richmond,” said a dull flat voice and
John, watching the pistol in the other's hand, made no reply, but
covertly shifted the hand farthest from the Squid, a little nearer
his hip pocket.
"I think,” pursued the other softly, "you have something in
which I am particularly interested at the moment. Have the


JOHN RICHMOND, KING'S MESSENGER 19
to John Richmond? Quick, before that cursed policeman gets
here!”
“My master and Mister Richmond are both wounded or dead.
I don't know which," stammered the butler, wringing his hands.
"My God, this is terrible. ... A man with a huge head-
dressed in black-fired the shots "
But he was addressing thin air. Far up the road a gray roadster
sped in pursuit of the taxi and the bewildered butler, turning to
stare after it, came face to face with a policeman.
With a gasp of relief Fenton clutched him by the arm.
“This way,” he shouted, oblivious of the staring knot of idlers.
“Quick—it will be too late my poor master- "
He dashed back by the way he had come, closely followed by
the policeman. Two more blue-coated men appeared, one follow-
ing his colleague and Fenton, the other holding in check the fast
gathering crowd that strove to enter the garden.


THE SQUID AND B 29
21
Reaching the table, he laid the ebony stick upon it and felt
in his pockets for matches.
Lighting one, he crossed to the gas jet by the side of the
mantelpiece and in a few seconds a pale sickly light illuminated
the room.
A dingy place, uncarpeted, with walls from which what paper
was left, a faded yellow atrocity, was peeling, revealing damp
patches where the rain's invasion had found vulnerable places in
the brickwork.
The room boasted only two chairs, a table and a big plain deal
cupboard. The ceiling was damp and discolored and the one
window, cracked and grimy, looked out on to a rusty iron fire-
escape, from the platform of which an unprepossessing vista was
afforded of housetops, chimneys in a bad state of repair, and
untidy back yards.
Crossing to this window, the Squid opened it to an accompani-
ment of protesting creaks and, climbing out on to the fire-escape,
surveyed the four flights of iron stairs thoughtfully.
Apparently satisfied, he climbed back into the room and walked
to the cupboard. Opening it with another key from his bunch, he
took down a brown suit from a hanger and laid it on the table.
That done, and still moving with the same effortless ease and
swiftness, he removed from his hip pocket an automatic pistol
and from his jacket pocket a small torch, the only impedimenta
he carried.
Laying these on the table, he swiftly divested himself of his
clothes, folding them neatly and quickly.
With a brief glance at the watch on his wrist, he changed into
the brown suit.
· Gathering up his discarded suit, muffler and overcoat, he
replaced them in the cupboard and locked it. The hideous mask
he left on his head.
His quick change completed, he walked to the table and, pick-
ing up the ebony stick, eyed it thoughtfully, turning it this way
and that and running his fingers along its smooth surface in
search of anything that might aid in discovering what he knew
it concealed.
A slight twist of the knob revealed the fact that it unscrewed,
and in a few moments it lay in his hand. A brief examination
showed him that the top of the stick was solid and that the knob
itself, of solid silver, contained nothing.
Tossing it aside, he turned his attention to the ferrule, and in
a moment had it unscrewed.


22
MURDER IN WAX
A sigh of satisfaction broke from him as he observed the
hollowed-out center of the stick.
Feeling in his pocket, he produced a long slender pencil and,
inserting it in the hollow, twisted it slowly and then withdrew it
while pressing the tip hard against the side.
No crackle of crisp paper answered him and with a sharp curse
he tried again. The result was the same. Stepping beneath the
light of the gas jet, he held up the stick and strove to look down
the hollow, even playing his torch on it to facilitate matters.
There was nothing, and with an uncontrollable oath he hurled
the stick from him.
It fell against the door and, rolling along the floor, wedged
itself in the corner. For a few seconds the eyes in the huge mask
glittered with suppressed passion and then, as though struck by
another thought, the Squid crossed the room and picked up the
stick.
Holding each end he bent it across his knee and strove to
break it.
The stick was strong and the beads of perspiration were stand-
ing on his forehead as he strained, before, with a sudden snap
that almost unbalanced him, it broke in two..
Feverishly he examined the pieces. The snap had come at the
termination of the hollow and one half at least was solid wood.
Turning, he held up the second half to look the length of the
groove, and in that second be observed something else.
Standing with his back to the window, was a tall slim young
man in gray, lithe, elegant, wearing a gray felt hat and a silk
mask that hid his face, except for the eyes.
“What did you expect to find?” asked the stranger coolly, and
with a short gasp the Squid allowed the stick to fall from his
fingers.
The eyes in his huge waxen mask glittered evilly, but he said
nothing. Five paces divided him from the table on which his
pistol lay. On the other side of the table, three feet away from it,
the man in gray allowed his eyes to fall on the weapon and an
amused smile played across his lips.
It was within easy reach and appeared to afford him a kind of
grim pleasure.
For some seconds they surveyed each other, warily noting
details, and then the Squid spoke.
“May I ask,” he purred softly, "the object of this unwelcome
intrusion and also why you prefer the window to the door?”
A short laugh broke from the man in gray.


THE SQUID AND B 29
23
“You know why I am here,” he answered coldly and, stepping
round the table, seated himself on the corner nearest the Squid,
a move that the other watched with interest.
“So you got Richmond, you swine?” he continued, in the same
level tone.
The Squid leant back against the door.
"You speak in riddles, young man. Riddles bore me and that
is fatal!"
“Don't lie,” interposed the other, and his voice took on a
mocking note. “Apparently he was a little sharper in the
matter of the letter." His eyes rested ironically on the broken
stick.
“In half an hour,” he continued slowly, "you will be paying for
that, but much can happen in half an hour—much.”
"Such as?” suggested the Squid, softly.
The man in gray rose.
“I am about to give you the father and mother of a whaling!”
he said coolly.
Leisurely unbuttoning his coat, he peeled it off, still watching
the Squid warily.
As he tossed his coat aside, something fell from one of the
pockets and lay between them on the floor.
A silver cigarette case.
The man in gray stooped swiftly to retrieve it and in that
second the Squid launched himself forward.
The other straightened swiftly to meet him. stepped back
and planted a blow on his assailant's shoulder.
With a savage snarl the Squid reeled and walked into a smash-
ing blow that hurled him back whence he had come.
As he crashed against the wall, the lithe stranger followed like
a panther and smote hard.
The Squid ducked smartly and the gray-gloved fist hit the
wall. With a short laugh the Squid sent a right hook that flung
his adversary to his knees in the corner, and gathering himself,
he dived straight at the fallen man.
A swift writhe and the man avoided the dive, closing with his
assailant as the other landed.
For a moment there was a swift scurry of blows and then they
hurtled apart and came to their feet, panting and wary, the gray
man with his back to the door and the Squid with his back to
the window.
He in gray dropped to an ugly crouch and poised himself
tensely. Almost within touching distance, the Squid, breathing


THE SQUID AND B 29
25
stimulant to memory,” nodded the other, stepping forward and
producing his automatic.
They faced each other silently.
The gaze of neither shifted and it seemed as if they would
stand interminably glaring at each other, when a sudden rush of
footsteps sounded on the wooden stairs outside. Almost imme-
diately a heavy hand thudded on the door.
“Open this door!” demanded a harsh voice.
B 29's glance became mocking.
“You see, my friend,” he murmured, and stepped back two
more paces and felt behind him for the door.
The key was not in the lock.
“Give me that key,” he demanded, returning, as a second
thunderous knocking was followed by another brusque command.
The Squid reached his wounded hand into his pocket and
tendered the key.
Stepping back, the Secret Service man walked to the door and
turned slightly to locate the lock.
His gaze shifted only for a second, but it was enough.
The empty gun left the Squid's hand and he ducked swiftly.
The man in gray fired as the heavy pistol struck him on the
head.
A laugh answered and the Squid leapt back, bounded to the
window and hurled himself through it.
B 29, staggering, fell against the door, one hand raised to his
face, while with the other he fumbled at the handle behind.
As he turned the key the door flew open and two policemen
blundered forward into the room.
“The window," gasped the man in gray faintly and reeling
went down in a heap, an ugly red patch welling on his mask
above the eye.
The foremost of the policemen leapt to the window, shouting
directions as he moved.
“Downstairs, Bickers!-the fire escape! Hurry!”
The second man pushed his way through the little knot of
idlers that had materialized from nowhere and dashed down the
crazy stairs.
Out on the platform of the fire-escape the first policeman
peered down into the night.
And, staring into the blackness, he was not quite sure if his
nerves were playing him tricks, or if he really heard a faintly
mocking voice say: "Not this time, my friend!”
idlers that had man pushed his c escape! Hurry!"


THE SEQUEL
III. JERRY THE LAG
THE Strand looked at its best in the early morning sun. On either
side of the road pleasure seekers and workers jostled each other
cheerfully: animated conversation and an occasional laugh drifted
across the hum of the traffic: newsboys yelled: motors hooted.
Inspector Elveden felt in keeping with the spirit of the morn-
ing and had dressed with scrupulous care.
Newly-shaven, he strode through the crowd, clad in a well-
fitting suit of dark brown. The down-turned brim of his brown
hat shaded his dark handsome face and the light foulard hand-
kerchief flaunting defiantly from his breast pocket matched the
perfectly knotted tie against the fawn background of his shirt.
Dark-brown suede shoes—lending an almost effeminate touch-
completed the picture. More than one person turned to stare after
the tall figure of the Scotland Yard man as he strode along
apparently oblivious of his surroundings.
Pausing opposite “Romano's,” he bought a paper from a
raucous-voiced urchin who had just descended—somewhat hur-
riedly, owing to the advent of the conductor—from a passing
omnibus.
With a groan of mock despair he noticed that the Mails
“splash" story concerned itself, as usual, with the exploits of
the Squid and, continuing his stroll, he read the account of the
latest challenge to the law, a bank robbery. It was reported under
the heading:
THE SQUID WITHDRAWS His BALANCE
The Inspector's lips twisted ironically as he read the appended
solution, offered by a well-known writer of mystery stories,
printed in thicker type and containing more than a suggestion
that the police would be well-advised to adopt the learned
author's theory and act accordingly. With ill-concealed amuse-
ment he reflected that the various suggestions had already been
acted on, but the result had not been quite so pleasing as the
26


JERRY THE LAG
este long faded pred remnants of ethore a torn an
author had anticipated. Certain obvious flaws in the reasoning
stood out painfully and the most obvious procedures had not in
all cases occurred to the writer.
Still studying the newspaper account, the Inspector paused
suddenly in his stride and glanced back at a slouching figure that
had just passed him, going in the opposite direction.
Apparently unconscious of the interest he had aroused, the
slouching figure proceeded slowly on his way to Charing Cross.
Several passers-by threw him curious glances as he passed. His
boots, unpolished and cracked at the toes, were partially hidden
by the long faded green trousers that swept the ground: his coat
and waistcoat, battered remnants of other suits, were stained and
threadbare, and round his throat he wore a torn and dirty silk
choker as a substitute for collar and tie. A battered and dusty
bowler hat, with more than one dent to mark the passage of time,
was set at a defiant angle on his head.
With a thoughtful expression in his dark somber eyes, the
Inspector turned on his heel and, folding up the newspaper,
tucked it beneath his arm and strode in pursuit.
Overtaking him outside the Adelphi Theatre, the Inspector
touched his quarry lightly on the arm.
The man removed his hands from his pockets defensively and
swung round suddenly, glaring suspiciously.
A not over-prepossessing face. Furtive eyes regarded the In-
spector from beneath bushy eyebrows, and a dirty hand crept up
to caress the long sandy-colored mustache that trailed down on
either side of his thin-lipped mouth.
His cheeks, hollow and unwashed, were of a sallow, unhealthy
color and his chin was hidden by a day's beard.
“Morning, Jerry,” said Elveden pleasantly, falling into step
with the other.
Jerry the Lag looked at his companion thoughtfully and con-
tinued his walk.
Like many others, he mistrusted that quite unhurried and rather
sweet voice. It was apt to mislead, and the hint of friendliness in
it had led more than one unfortunate into betraying things best
kept unsaid.
"Gawd,” he muttered in his peculiar husky voice, “it's you,
is it? Seems as I don't ’ave no luck these days.”
The sentiment did not seem to arouse any ill-will in the
Inspector.
"Oh! come, Jerry," he said, smiling pleasantly, “that's not
the way to treat an old friend."


28
MURDER IN WAX
"Friend?” jeered the Lag. “That's news. Well, wot flea's
makin' you itch now?”
“I thought I recognized you, so I turned back to have a chat.”
Jerry grunted and shot a sidelong glance at his companion.
“Yus, an' I fort I rekernized you, so I walked on to avoid a
chat,” he said, morosely. "I knows them chats o' yourn, mister
Elv'den. Wot is it this time? I'm runnin' strite, ain't I? You
ain't got nuthin' on me, 'ave yer?”.
He glared at the Inspector with virtuous indignation.
“Nothing," agreed Elveden smoothly. "You're leading a blame-
less life and, as far as we know, you haven't started anything
-yet."
"Oppertoonity'd be a fine thing," grunted Jerry. “Wot wiv
reportin' onct a munf and 'avin' one o' you blokes 'angin' on me
’eels to 'ahnd me dahn. Blimey, I don't git the chanct, even if I
'ad the in-clin-ation.”
Elveden laughed cheerfully and linked arms with the Lag, a
move that Jerry regarded suspiciously.
"Suppose we come and have a quiet drink together, Jerry?"
he suggested, guiding him across the road.
“Supposin' we does,” agreed Jerry.“ 'Oo's payin'?"
"Drinks on me," answered the Inspector, still retaining his
gentle hold on the Lag's arm, “I'm going to give you a few words
of advice, Jerry."
“Wot's it goin' ter cost me?" demanded the Lag skeptically.
The Inspector shook his head in kind reproof.
“It's not costing you anything, but it might possibly save you
something. I want to see you stick to the straight and narrow,
Jerry, and I'm making you a free gift of some golden words of
wisdom.”
The Lag burst into a harsh guffaw and led the way into the
“Coal-hole.”
"Ain't it 'evenly ter be loved like that,” he sneered over his
shoulder. “Sister Sunshine, the guardian o' wanderin' boys. Suits
yer dahn ter the grahnd, Mister Elv'den."
He lounged against the bar and his bleary eyes shifted uneasily
as he watched his companion.
"Love me so much that yer 'ad ter keep me near yer some time
ago, didn't yer?” he mocked huskily. “Remember yer larst free
gift?”-he spat contemptuously—“Two years in stir!”.
Elveden did not speak until the barman had placed their
glasses before them. Then, unfolding his newspaper, he laid it
on the counter and indicated the main story.


JERRY THE LAG
“Ever heard of the Squid, Jerry?”
Jerry set down his glass suddenly and his eyes narrowed warily.
“Tryin' ter be funny?” he suggested, “ 'Ave I 'eard on the
Squid? Go on, ast me if I ever done time! ’Ave I 'eard on the
- cripes!”
Elveden ignored the scathing note in the hoarse voice. “Well,
I'm advising you to steer clear of him," he said distinctly.
Jerry wiped his mustache and laughed derisively.
“Say,” he leered, “do you ever read the pipers, Mister Elv'den?
Cos if yer do, yer oughter know as 'ow that bloke ain't one to
make no one 'is bosom pal-not even members o' the Force."
Elveden knew Jerry and his type well. He waited patiently till
the other had finished.
Then: "I may be wrong and I may not,” he said slowly, “but
I've more than a suspicion that there are some very old friends
collected among those whº work with friend Squid. The members
of that gang are specialists at their game. They're a nice little
bunch of international crooks who've found their own country
too hot to hold them and also, unless I'm mistaken, there are a
few closer friends-old lags and such-like.”
He eyed the Lag closely and Jerry, toying with the stem of
his glass, affected not to notice that searching scrutiny, although
the last words had caused him to shoot a curious glance in the
Inspector's direction.
"Take, for instance, our friend 'Slim' of America,” pursued
Elveden. “They want him pretty badly in the States with refer-
ence to a little motor deal that ended in the death of-a client.
I think I have recognized 'Slim's' wily hand in a few motor deals
lately."
Jerry's expression remained devoid of interest.
"You know," he said pointedly, “And what you say goes.
If you say so—it just is."
The Inspector sipped at his drink and continued.
“And the Count, Jerry. Our old friend left the States two
months ago when they made it too hot for confidence men.
I see that someone has been playing along those lines for some
time. I wonder if it is our little French Count?"
"I wonder," agreed Jerry non-committally.
He finished his drink and, wiping his mouth with Nature's
napkin, replaced his glass.
"Let's 'ave the rest,” he invited. “There's more to it or I'm a
Dutchman.”
“There is more to it,” agreed Elveden with a slight, barely


30
MURDER IN WAX
perceptible, tightening of the lips. "I'm advising you to spill all
you know about the Squid, Jerry."
"You're doin' a helluva lot o' advisin', ain't yer?" sneered
Jerry caustically. “You blokes don't give drinks buckshee, do
yer? Nao! This 'ere," touching his glass, "is a sprat ter catch a
Squid, hey?”
"Not exactly,” Elveden answered, “but you'll be doing yourself
a bit of good by telling us what you know. The Chief's got a tidy
pull, you know."
"Don't I know it?" jeered Jerry. "Last time he done any
pullin' I was at the other end o' the rope an' got 'ooked in fer
two years. 'Im, wiv that slimy grin on the thing that starts where
'is collar leaves orf!”
He scowled and, producing a cigarette, lit it from a small gas
jet on the counter.
“Talkin' o' good, mister Elv'den," he said hoarsely, tapping
the other on the chest, "you can bet yer perishin' sawl that the
bit o' good squealin' will do me ain't nuthin' to the bit of good
it'll do the Chief, an' all."
“Possibly," agreed the Inspector calmly, “but what about
it?"
“Nuthin' to it,” retorted Jerry promptly. “I wouldn't peach if
I could an' I cawn't."
"Have another drink?" suggested Elveden tactfully.
“Cum inter me parler," jeered Jerry. "O'rl right, Mister
Elv'den. Bribery an' corrupshun, but mind-I ain't sayin' a wurd
abaht nuthin'. Not a perishin' murmur!”
The Inspector signaled to the barman to replenish their
glasses. He had hopes that sufficient drink would mellow the Lag.
“You're tough, Jerry,” said Elveden sadly, leaving his own
glass untouched.
"Mebbe,” grinned Jerry, revealing a row of even but stained
teeth, “but I ain't orf me onion. I knows what 'appened to them
as did try to squeal on the Squid. They died-sudding. A sight
too sudding!”
“You'd have police protection," Elveden reminded him.
“Yus,” meditated Jerry.-It appeared to amuse him. "Yus,
I'd have perlice pertection. That's abaht as good as a deff cer-
tif'cate, that is. While I keeps me 'ead shut, I'm safe. Onct I
blabs-curtains! Perlice pertection never saved me pal, Billy
'Orne, no more'n it could save me. You fellers up at the 'Yard'
may be little tin Gawds—at the Yard, but if you thinks you can
block a move the Squid makes, yer right orf the map!”


JERRY THE LAG
The Inspector shrugged, and drained his glass.
"Is that your real reason for keeping what you know to
yourself?”
Jerry, in the act of emptying his own glass, paused suddenly
and looked speculatively at his host. For a moment he seemed
to be debating the advisability of answering the question, then
he looked covertly round the bar and, bending forward, lowered
his voice.
“Look 'ere, Mister Elv'den, I'll tell you suthin'. Gimme yer
wurd as it won't git no forrader?”
Elveden, carefully repressing everything but a mild and studied
indifference, nodded.
“Well, I'll trust yer,” said Jerry. "Born trustin' I was. Won
prizes fer it in me time. About the Squid,” he looked cautiously
at the barman to see if he were listening. “That feller put a good
pal o' mine out fer the count "
"Billy Horne?" hazarded the Inspector casually.
"Never you mind 'oo,” retorted Jerry, “'e did, and that's all
there is to it, but I'm biding me time, I am, Mister Elv'den,
and some fine day you're goin' ter get me penal or the rope.
An' not fer nuthin', neither!”
Elveden was careful not to show any of the curiosity that the
Lag's strange admission had aroused in him.
“You've got a grudge against him?" he said in a manner that
suggested only polite interest.
“ 'Ow does 'e do it?” marveled Jerry. "Yus, I got a grudge
an' when I can fix 'im-six foot o' ground, an' crepe!”
“You know where he hangs out?" suggested Elveden keenly,
and could have bitten his tongue out.
The Lag closed up like an oyster,
“Do I?” he asked blandly. “Don't you put yer shirt on that.
Nobody knows where 'e 'angs up 'is 'at. You ain't gettin' no
cheap squeal, Mister Elv'den. A King's ransom wouldn't do it,
much less a couple o' pints.”
He looked slyly at his glass.
Then: "Aw, chinge the subject afore I gits talkative."
Elveden was interested, a fact that Jerry noted with no little
amusement. What was still more amusing was that a little of
Elveden's customary caution had deserted him.
“You've had plenty of opportunities of dealing with the Squid
in the past,” suggested Elveden casually.
"Beer,” said Jerry, "is not what it was pre-war.” He surveyed
his empty glass thoughtfully.


IV. INTRODUCTIONS
La tolanhone bell jangled.
LYING on the divan in the window alcove of her boudoir, Leslie
Richmond raised her shapely head and looked inquiringly at
her maid as the telephone bell jangled.
“See who that is, will you, Sadie,” she murmured, removing
the cigarette from her small pretty mouth, and speaking in a
pleasant girlish voice.
The maid picked up the telephone and listened for a few
moments.
“Mr. Leicester, Miss Leslie.”
“Thanks."
Leslie tossed aside the Tatler she had been reading. Crossing
the room, she took up the instrument.
"Hallo, Freddie,” she said. "Fallen out of your little cot early,
haven't you?”
A high-pitched laugh came across the wire and an affected
falsetto voice answered cheerfully.
"Flawless Pearl, I have it in mind that one can savor a fairly
chewable consommé at this hour of the day, what?"
Leslie smiled and drew at her cigarette before answering.
“Am I to take that as an invitation to lunch?” she asked, her
gray-green eyes dancing with merriment. "What time, my dear
old fathead?”
“Half-past twelve seems to be the general conception of a
passable time to lap up extracts from the menu," came the
cheerful reply.
Leslie wrinkled her forehead and glanced down at the small
wrist watch lying on the table.
"Half-past?" she asked in a pained tone. "Have a heart,
Freddie. It's just twelve now and I haven't dressed. Make it
one o'clock.”
“Slothful woman,” reproved the other, “I said half-past
twelve."
“Very well,” said Leslie decisively, “That's settled. One o'clock.
Where?"
A plaintive sigh came across the wire.
"Peerless Creature, the Rivoli. Erb will be there. He got back
yesterday. As a matter of fact, the Molar Stropping contest was
his idea. You'll be a duchess yet.”
"Sweet thought,” she laughed back. “I'll meet you in the lobby
33


34
MURDER IN WAX
at one and, remember, Freddie-no proposals until after lunch.
I couldn't stand it on an empty stomach.”
"Heartless Jade, it shall be as you wish," came the drawling
answer. “You wouldn't like to alter your time estimate? The
old tum-tum is beseeching frantically- "
"I should not,” answered Leslie firmly. “One at the Rivoli.
Bye.”
She replaced the receiver and turned to her maid.
“Oh, Sadie,” she said, “get me the beige hat, shoes and dress.
I'm lunching out.”
The maid vanished, to return in a few moments with the re-
quired outfit.
For half-an-hour she busied herself with her mistress's toilet
and then stood back to survey the result.
And she was amply rewarded for her efforts. A prettier picture
would have been harder to imagine than the slender, fairy-like
slip of a girl who stood there attending to little details of the set
of her dress with deft white fingers.
Leslie paused at the door to give final instructions.
“Tell Sir Marcus that I am lunching with Mr Leicester and
the Duke of Framlingham if he asks, please, Sadie."
“Yes, Miss Leslie."
The maid stooped to collect the silk peignoir and small slippers
her mistress had discarded.
The maid stand discarded. His in the tastham, knowbenignly
het mistress he comfortable grace of rear and surve
Seated in a comfortable chair in the tasteful red and gold
lounge of the Rivoli, His Grace of Framlingham, known to his
intimates as Erb, lighted a fresh cigar and surveyed benignly
the languid sprawled-out figure of his nephew.
Freddie Leicester, elegantly draped in another chair and appar-
ently unconscious of the ducal regard, idly watched the people
talking and loitering in the lobby of the restaurant.
The contrast between uncle and nephew was marked.
His Grace, of medium height, placid of face, clad in correct
well-fitting morning clothes; his hair fast graying, his figure not
yet portly but giving promise of being so in the near future.
Freddie, tall, slim-waisted, elegant and languid; sleek fair hair
and a rather vapid expression, his well-knit figure in a suit of
pearl gray that seemed to have been molded to it.
After gazing at the charming profile of a well-known actress
for some time and finding that occupation totally unprofitable,
Freddie turned his attention to his uncle.
"Pretty scaly foregathering, what?” he suggested in his drawl-
ing falsetto.
Freddie tutime and findinaming profilemo


INTRODUCTIONS
35
and more teddie Wit his chis or head no Frontal
and the girls. Hiering tontibu
"By which,” sighed the Duke, in his kind, well-modulated
voice, "I take it that your advances have been unsuccessful?
Leave the stage alone, Freddie. Actresses have good legs but
bad morals.”
He puffed reflectively at his cigar and studied an undraped
Diana on the opposite wall with passive appreciation.
"Now there,” he said contentedly, "we have beauty of body
and morals, Freddie.”
But Freddie was asleep. Having contributed to the conversation
to the utmost of his capability-one remark every ten minutes
he had retired into his former comatose state with a satisfied
smile. After all, Leslie had said “One.”
It was now twenty past and no woman was ever less than
forty-five minutes late-it was a point of honor—so he had
approximately half-an-hour in which to rest.
Reasoning thus, he drifted into dreamless slumber. And erred.
Two minutes after sleep claimed him, Leslie walked down the
lobby towards them to an accompaniment of polite, disdainful,
and envious nods, the tribute that every well-dressed, pretty
woman commands.
She came to a stand before the Duke, who had risen to his feet.
"Hallo, Erb," she said, extending her hand cordially and,
bending forward, she tapped Freddie gently on the head with
her glove.
His Grace offered his arm gallantly.
"Ignore the sleeping beauty, my dear," he remarked. "Lunch
awaits us," and with a last glance at Freddie: "I hope his soup
is cold when he wakes up."
He led the way into the restaurant and Freddie, with a tired
smile, joined them, babbling brightly about the weather to a
decidedly inattentive young lady.
The Duke had reserved a corner window seat from which they
could see both the teeming crowds in Regent Street and the host
of diners in the restaurant.
Leslie noticed a cluster of scarlet roses in the center of the
table and recognized her host's hand.
A bowing waiter sidled up to the table, rapidly jotted down
a few details as he passed to each of them and then vanished as
swiftly as he had come.
Forestalling Freddie's tentative efforts to start a conversation
and monopolize her for himself, Leslie turned to her host.
"It's ages since I've seen you, you old ruffian Erb,” she said,
impudently. “You're as bad as Marky. Where have you been
hiding yourself?”


36
MURDER IN WAX
"I only arrived in England yesterday, my dear, and naturally
my first thought was of lunching with you.”
She returned his smile engagingly.
“Naturally," she mimicked, “but the lunching part of it ruins
the compliment. I believe you're an irreclaimable gourmet, Erb."
"Absolute glutton,” said Freddie solemnly, and possessed him-
self of the finger she was wagging reprovingly at his uncle.
“I believe in enjoying the good things of life, certainly,"
rejoined His Grace, "among which is your society. The greater
includes the lesser-hence my lunch, even though it entails
enduring the somnolent society of the resuscitated cod who is
striving to dislocate your finger.”
“Here, I say,” protested the ‘resuscitated cod,' sleepily, as Leslie
disengaged her finger, "go easy with the fulsome flattery, Erb."
“The younger generation,” said the Duke weightily, “has an
unpleasing lack of respect which I find most trying.”
He fixed his eyes reprovingly on his nephew and, having
quelled that gentleman, turned to Leslie.
"By the way, how is Marky?”
“Still as restless as ever,” sighed Leslie. "People at Marky's
time of life don't change much, Erb."
“I sincerely hope that that blot on the landscape will change
before it is too late," said His Grace, ferociously eyeing his
nephew. "Don't gape, Freddie.”
"No-er-rather not,” agreed Freddie cheerfully.
"You were saying, my dear?" continued the Duke, turning to
Leslie.
“Simply that dear old Marky wants some interest in life other
than his moldy old books. You see more of him than I do, you
know. He's hardly been at the house at all during the past two
years. I haven't seen him for two days."
"Optician's over the way,” murmured Freddie cheerfully.
“Don't babble, Freddie," his uncle reproved gently.
“Certainly,” beamed Freddie, “made quite a name for myself
at not babbling."
"Marky's out at all hours of the day," Leslie continued, ignor-
ing Freddie's efforts to join in the conversation. "He accepts the
various invitations and when whatever it is arrives, he's vanished.
He's awfully trying.”
"Clever fellow," applauded Freddie, making another deter-
mined effort. “Meantersay—something fearfully-er-what you
might call—booky about bookshops, what? You know, awfully
thrilling- "
at notertainly,"me, Freddway;".


INTRODUCTIONS
37
"Don't babble or goggle, Freddie,” said His Grace coldly.
“No-er-no, after mature consideration-perhaps not,” agreed
Freddie and relapsed into silence again.
The meal passed in comparative silence, the Duke eyeing the
crowded restaurant with interest, Leslie studying Regent Street
and Freddie contributing rather less than his usual quota to the
and Freation. did not red. dear", bet
The Duke did not speak again until the waiter had set coffee
before them and retired.
"I chose the Rivoli, my dear," he said, “because I am, as you
know, a keen psychologist. I find it interesting to watch the
masses feeding."
“To listen to the masses feeding," corrected Freddie, brightly.
“There is a man behind you, Leslie "
"I can hear him, thank you," she shuddered. “A solo on
spaghetti. ..."
"You have no ear for music,” sighed the Duke. “Nevertheless
this restaurant is very diverting. Quite ten per cent, of the people
present to-day are criminals. The remaining ninety per cent.
are-
“Peers of the realm,” Freddie interrupted.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said 'congenital idiots,' " answered Freddie.
His Grace frowned coldly on his nephew and decided to ignore
him.
"I was about to say,” he continued in a dignified tone, “that
the remaining ninety per cent. are very commonplace people and
consequently interesting.”
"How would you classify Freddie or myself?” asked Leslie,
accepting a cigarette from Freddie's proffered case.
"You, in a class of your own,” responded the Duke gallantly.
"Freddie is an accident that I prefer to forget. I consider that
my brother showed lamentable taste in turning loose that blight
upon the earth. He is flippant, foolish, fat-headed, feckless,
fatuous, flatulent "
“Hitherto unknown virtues in an already beautiful character
are revealed,” grinned Freddie and, as an afterthought, “Try
the G's, Erb.”
"Otherwise," continued the Duke, "he is a charming boy and,
talking of criminals, I see the Squid has made another coup."
"A bank this time, wasn't it?" asked Leslie interestedly, cup-
ping her chin in her hands.
"Diamond cut diamond,” said Freddie drowsily. “Sooner or
ND," reser to foring 100sed, fe


38
MURDER IN WAX
later these batteners on mankind-bankers and other rogues
strangle one another.”
“The Squid,” corrected the Duke, “is a better educated crook
than your average bank manager. He is suspected of being what
is, I believe, termed by the initiate, a gentleman crook- "
“The terms are synonymous," drawled Freddie.
"Probably American,” continued His Grace with a withering
glance at his irrepressible nephew, "and certainly a rogue of the
most pronounced type, working amongst the leisured classes "
“Bears out the jolly old Leicester thesis,” interrupted Freddie.
“All the leisured classes are rogues."
“A budding Socialist," mocked Leslie.
“A blithering idiot,” said the Duke, glowering unutterable
things at his nephew. “The Squid at least has brains, and that
rules Freddie out!”
"It's a wonder that Marky's tiara hasn't come to his notice
before now," Leslie commented thoughtfully, extinguishing her
cigarette. “It's worth a fortune."
"So are Erb's diamonds,” said Freddie. “The result of more
battening on human frailty. It's time that they were roped in by
the marine johnny."
"My collection,” said His Grace serenely, “is too valuable to
be lightly lost. I flatter myself that they are immune from the
avidious hands of the Squid. You may rest assured that I have
taken adequate measures to protect what has taken me a lifetime
to collect— "
“And De Beers a lifetime to trace," grinned Freddie, fidgeting,
to his uncle's annoyance, with a wineglass.
“Throw it on the floor," suggested the Duke acidly, "and put
my nerves at rest."
Freddie smiled, then stared questioningly at Leslie.
“Erb," said that lady swiftly before he could speak, “I must
away. Freddie is going to propose. I can see it in his eye. Freddie,
my gloves.”
With a woebegone countenance, Freddie reached for the gloves
and in so doing knocked the glass on the floor.
“Bent,” he murmured sorrowfully, eyeing the ruin on the
carpet sadly.
A waiter streaked across the room and dropped crooningly
over the broken glass. “Put it,” said Freddie magnificently, "on
His Grace's bill. He will not make the same mistake again.”
The Duke eyed his nephew despairingly and, rising, prepared
to escort Leslie to her car.


V. MAN AND MAID
It was a little after four o'clock when Leslie allowed Sadie to
dress her in a becoming afternoon frock of jade green.
"Mr. Craven is with Sir Marcus in the library, Miss Leslie,”
said Sadie, deftly restoring her mistress's curly head to some
semblance of order.
A slightly increased color and a sudden warm glow in her eyes
were the only signs Leslie gave, but they were sufficient. Sadie
smiled wistfully. The “Please hurry, Sadie,” although very self-
possessed, did not deceive the maid.
In the library the man whose name had brought the betraying
flush to Leslie's cheek lounged easily in a chair opposite his
friend.
Jimmy Craven was just twenty-seven, tall, dark, with impudent
eyes and a humorous mouth. Bagshaw, of the "Evening Mail,”
regarded him as one of his most alert and promising young men.
Crowland, the superior star reporter, saw only Jimmy's lack of
sartorial taste and his inconsequent negligence..
At the moment, as usual, Jimmy's tie had succeeded in writhing
its way round to the back of his neck; his trousers were even
more baggy at the knees than usual; and his socks hung in
deplorable wrinkles.
"No time for fashion plates," was his invariable good-natured
defense against the barbed witticisms of his friend Freddie
Leicester, and yet, despite his untidy appearance, Jimmy was
good to look upon, clean-limbed, healthy, perpetually cheerful
and, to quote the immaculate Freddie, “a lovable cuss."
In striking contrast was his host, the spare, upright and
soldierly Sir Marcus Loseley.
Quietly dressed in black, a color that made his pale, almost
ascetic face even paler, he sat regarding his guest. His hair was
streaked plentifully with gray, but his eyes still retained the
keenness of youth, although in his expression was the calm repose
of maturity.
Sir Marcus pushed the cigarette box toward Jimmy.
The reporter accepted and, lighting a match, held it for the
older man.
"Well, Jimmy, is this an unprofessional visit or are you looking
for the eternal copy?” asked Sir Marcus in his deep pleasant
voice.
39


40
MURDER IN WAX
“No, sir,” answered the reporter, “I dropped in to see Leslie.
As a matter of fact, I had no idea that you were back.”
"I got back yesterday, and I expected to see you. Leslie's
conversation, even in the first rush of welcome, was very much
tinged with the subject of one James Craven."
He eyed the young reporter quizzically and Jimmy flushed.
“You see, sir,” he began confusedly, running his fingers
through his black hair.
"Exactly," smiled his host, "I do see. I gathered that you two
youngsters had been seeing a fair amount of each other; conse-
quently, when you arrived, I had an idea that I was not the
principal attraction."
Still smiling, he drew thoughtfully at his cigarette.
“What's the most interesting thing in Fleet Street to-day?"
he continued. "I get left behind in Faversham and the news
passes me by.”
“The Squid, sir," answered Jimmy quickly, glad of the tempo-
rary respite from a dangerous topic. "Bagshaw can't get the
Squid off his mind and I've got the story to write up. We
absolutely talk, think, eat and drink Squid nowadays."
“Not, I should imagine, an over-palatable beverage," mur-
mured Sir Marcus, "Whisky at your elbow."
"It's live copy from a news standpoint," answered Jimmy,
availing himself of his host's offer, “but it's dashed hard to get
a line on the Squid, sir. No one can definitely swear to having
seen him, with the possible exception of Jerry the Lag. Elveden
-up at the Yard you know—rather favors the idea that Jerry
is one of the Squid's little bunch, and personally I think Jerry's
worth watching, although he's so devilish close. Elveden tackled
him a few days ago and the blighter refused point blank to say
anything about the Squid whatever."
"Wise man," commented the other. “The Squid is not above
murder.”
“He's already got one murder to his credit," agreed Jimmy.
“So far he's got away with it. It remains to be seen whether the
invisible tentacles of the Squid will be able to avoid the long
arm of the law much longer.”
“Not forgetting the inky feelers of the press, eh?” chaffed
Sir Marcus.
Jimmy grinned and ran his fingers through his hair again.
“Would it surprise you to know that I once saw the Squid?"
asked his host slowly.
The reporter stared blankly at him for fully a minute. If Sir


MAN AND MAID
41
Marcus were striving for effect, he had succeeded. A thunderbolt
would not have startled Jimmy more.
“By Jove, sir, is that gospel?” he gasped and hurriedly pro-
duced a notebook. “I_well, I'd no idea that anyone beside Jerry
had ever clapped eyes on him-and, as a matter of fact, I'm not
altogether sure that Jerry has. He's a lying old devil at the best."
The Baronet's face clouded over slightly and he regarded the
reporter steadily for some moments without speaking.
"I don't know why I am telling you this,” he confessed at
length. “For four years I've kept it to myself-even Leslie does
not suspect—but, well, you can hear what there is to tell. It was
hushed up at the time and never got into the papers for obvious
reasons, and it's confidential, Jimmy, sorry—but I can't give you
a news haul. You see, Leslie always thought her father died
naturally—-"
“Well, he did, didn't he?" asked Jimmy interestedly, pocketing
his notebook. “I remember reading the notice-heart failure,
wasn't it?"
“No! You spoke just now of the Squid being responsible for
a murder—he was responsible for two!”
Sir Marcus' face hardened and Jimmy sat forward suddenly.
“Good lord, you don't mean ?”
“One of those two," continued Sir Marcus in the same colorless
tone and speaking as though he had not heard the reporter's
incredulous remark, "was a man for whom I had a very great
affection.”
He drew thoughtfully at his cigarette.
"I met the Squid two minutes after he had committed the
crime.”
“And?
“He all but committed a second. I carry the scar to this day.
The man he killed was John Richmond, my very good friend and
Leslie's father.”
“But the heart failure—I don't understand "
"Sop for the public," replied Sir Marcus vacantly, and, looking
the reporter straight between the eyes, he sat forward.
"Some day, Jimmy, I shall get the Squid for that crime.” -
“You mean—kill him?" asked Jimmy, watching the other
intently.
Sir Marcus shook his head and a harsh unnatural laugh escaped
him.
“Nothing so crude,” he answered in an ominously flat voice.
"I shall put him behind the bars! What is death after all, but


MURDER IN WAX
fear the le strikes as the instantaneo
transition, in most cases instantaneous? No, my way is far more
effective. It strikes at his vanity and further—it will teach him
fear. The fear of death. Three long weeks with nothing else to
do but sit and think. Think of it—the nerve-wracking trial-
the long wait—and at the end of it—the rope!”
Jimmy, puffing hard at his unlighted cigarette, stared wonder-
ingly at the baronet. Sir Marcus, the kindly, the placid-express-
ing those sentiments!
“But, good Lord, sir-I'd no idea—you mean you're going
to- ?” he sat back, wide-eyed, unbelieving.
"I don't know how,” said Sir Marcus, “but I know that if
there is a God it will be done, Jimmy, even if it costs me my
life.”
There was a queer, almost fanatical, light in his eyes and his
voice trembled curiously.
“Can you describe the Squid, sir?” asked Jimmy nervously,
striving to evade any further reference to Sir Marcus' last
statement.
The Baronet rubbed a hand over his eyes and pulled himself
together.
"Your enthusiasm smells of the Press," he said warningly.
“Remember that this is not for the Evening Mail. I tell you this
in confidence, and I expect you to respect my wishes."
The reporter nodded his agreement, a little reluctantly.
"The Squid, as I remember him," said Sir Marcus, "is of
stocky build and dressed entirely in black. He is, I should say,
of medium height and over his head wears the most ghastly
mask I have ever seen. A huge waxen head hinged at the jaw-
an exact model of a human head-a bald head. The mask is of a
most repellant pallor and, save for the movement of his eyes
cold and intent-and jaw, it remains fixed, a horrible composed
fixity. The head joins his shoulders by a neck that is partially
hidden by collar and tie. A foul, ghoul-like thing, Jimmy, and
one that I am going to tear from his face one day-God's curse
on him.”
He clenched his hand and brought it down violently on the
table.
“The thin lips of the mask open mechanically when he speaks,
but for the rest his face might be of carven stone. He speaks
in a soft suave voice-obviously camouflaged and underlying its
sweetness is the sibilant hiss of the snake.” He paused to light
another cigarette, and Jimmy noticed that, despite this emotion,
his hand was firm.


MAN AND MAID
43
"I don't think I'll say any more now. Leslie will be down any
minute and—well, I want to spare her the truth. It's all over
now and there is no reason why an old wound should be re-opened
-festering this time. If she guessed at the real cause of John's
death-1-well, you see she loves him rather more than any of
us thought possible. It was weeks, months, I was going to say
years, before she reconciled herself to the fact that she would
never see him again. I suppose really I might have helped her
more in that difficult time, but I-well, it hit me hard too, and
I went and buried myself in the country amongst my dogs.”
He paused to listen for a moment.
"I think that is she," he said, swiftly. “Come over and have
dinner with me to-morrow night if you're still interested. Erb and
Freddie are coming and I'll give you the full story. Leslie is
visiting a girl school friend at Esher."
“Who's Erb, by the way?" asked Jimmy.
Before Sir Marcus could reply a cheerful girlish voice broke in:
“Hallo, Jimmy, you old fraud!”
The reporter jumped to his feet and, turning, found Leslie at
his elbow.
Unnoticed by either of them, her guardian rose to his feet
and made an unobtrusive exit.
Leslie was at length forced to disengage her hand from Jimmy's
cordial-almost too cordial-clasp.
"Collar a pew," she invited lightly, dropping gracefully into
the chair her guardian had just vacated. "Marky's the essence
of tact, isn't he?” She smiled up at him and Jimmy realized that
his host had gone.
"He's my ideal of the perfect guardian," sighed Jimmy fer-
vently, seating himself in a chair and pulling it close to hers.
“But I don't want to talk about guardians. I'm more interested
in wards just now.”
“Thank you, sir, she said," smiled Leslie.
"Where were you at lunch time?" continued Jimmy. “I rang
you up, but your maid said you were out.”
“Did she say with whom?”.
"No, just that you were out.”
Leslie eyed him from beneath long lashes.
“Tact seems to be a byword in this house," she mocked.
"You haven't told me whom you lunched with yet,” he
challeou haven to be am beneath 1.
“Perhaps I don't intend to,” she said provokingly.
"Please!"


44
MURDER IN WAX
“What inquisitive beings men are," she sighed. “I lunched
with two friends at the Rivoli.”
“You said 'friends'?” said Jimmy, morosely.
She nodded.
“Must have been men then," he continued, ruefully. “Who
were they, old thing?”.
"Friends of yours," she answered banteringly. “At least one
was. I wasn't going to sit and die of starvation while you made
up your mind whether to take me out to lunch or not."
The butler, wheeling in tea at the moment, interrupted further
conversation.
"Is Sir Marcus about, Fenton?” Leslie asked.
“No, Miss Leslie. He went out a few moments ago."
"Just like Marky," she sighed. “He spends half his time down
at Faversham and the other half in musty old bookshops. I never
knew such a man. I've hardly seen him at all since he got back
and now I suppose he's off again on his rambles. Sugar? I don't
suppose he'll be in to tea then, Fenton. That will be all.”
“Thank heaven!” murmured Jimmy.
"Sorry, I didn't quite catch?” she said sweetly.
“I said you had not yet answered my question,” lied Jimmy.
“Who were they?”
"If you must know, one was Freddie Leicester.”
"I shall have to drop that man,” grumbled Jimmy. “A man
who collars the girl I want to lunch with is no friend, but a viper
who stings the hand that feeds him."
"On the contrary,” she teased, "he was very nice. He took
compassion on a poor starving girl, agonizedly wondering where
her next meal was coming from.” Then reading the question in
his eyes, she said hastily: “All right. Don't ask. The other was
Freddie's uncle, Erb."
“Never knew he had one. Erb? What is he?"
“A very nice old gentleman,” she replied. “Toast?"
“Thank you. I don't like old gentlemen."
“He may not like you," Leslie retorted. “You must meet him
soon. We'll fix up a date for lunch together. He's the most perfect
old dear there is. Marky and he are old friends."
“Marky shows bad taste,” grumbled Jimmy.
"Fortunately," she agreed, “or he wouldn't allow me to have
anything to do with jealous reporters.”
Jimmy grunted morosely.
“How about dinner to-night?”.
"Impossible, mon enfant,” she said definitely. "I am going to


MAN AND MAID
45
a highbrow concert, but if you behave as a well-brought-up
reporter should, you shall motor me home from Esher to-morrow
night. I'm going out there to see Maisie Winterton.”
“To-morrow night is as far off as Esher.”
"It is,” she agreed. “I'll give you a ring to-morrow."
“A most unprecedented procedure," mocked Jimmy, rising to
his feet. "Now if I were to give you a ring—one of Cartier's,
say— "
“Don't be rash,” she retorted, pushing him back in his seat.
“I never listen to proposals—before, during, or after meals.”
Jimmy sat back obediently and thoughtfully appropriated more
toast. To motor Leslie home the next night was certainly an
attractive proposal, but it was going to clash with his dinner
engagement, and for obvious reasons he could not tell her any-
thing about that.
He sat and chewed toast and the cud reflectively.


VI. THE CIPHER
“DINNER is served, sir,” announced Fenton from the doorway.
Sir Marcus consulted his wrist watch and looked at his two
guests.
“What do you think, Freddie,” he asked, "shall we wait for
Erb?"
Freddie Leicester grinned vacantly.
“Better not,” he advised, "He had a yelping match with me
over the phone and I gathered that he was detained. Let's trickle
in and put it across the soup. He's only got himself to blame if
Jimmy here naffles it all before he arrives."
The Baronet smiled faintly and, nodding to Jimmy, led the
way into the dining room. It was a good dinner. The wine, food
and liqueurs were excellent and the cigars left nothing to be
desired. In a decidedly mellowed frame of mind the three men
sat smoking at its conclusion.
Loseley broke the long silence.
"I am going to tell you a story, Freddie,” he said, “that till
now I have kept to myself. Jimmy heard the outline of it yester-
day and I was hoping that Erb would have been here, I am
taking the opportunity that Leslie's absence offers because
she has never heard the story and I don't want her to."
"Mum as an oyster,” said Freddie somberly, and Sir Marcus
knocked the ash off his cigar and sat back,
“The main details of what I am going to tell you are of course
known to the police, although the case was kept out of the papers.
To-night I am going to tell you about one little detail which has
never come into their hands."
"The undivided Leicester attention is at your disposal," bleated
Freddie encouragingly. “Unleash the mystery, dear heart."
“You recollect the newspaper report of the death of my friend,
John Richmond, Leslie's father, some years ago?"
"Four to be exact," nodded Freddie. “Heart failure, wasn't it?"
“That was the version circulated by the newspapers," answered
Sir Marcus gravely, “but it was not the correct one. John
Richmond was murdered!”
Freddie sat up with a startled expression and stared blankly
at him.
Jimmy made no comment.


THE CIPHER
47
“Murdered by the Squid,” continued Sir Marcus and, noticing
Freddie's start, "I see you're familiar with the name."
“Well-yes—rather," mumbled Freddie, "but I say, Marky—
er, that is, let's have the rest, old hoss.”
"There were not many people who knew just exactly what
John was,” pursued the baronet, "but I was one of them. He was
a King's Messenger-at all times a dangerous position—and his
death was the result of the successful carrying out of a mission
with which he had been entrusted."
He paused again to remove the white ash from his cigar.
"The Squid was interested in that mission, the precise nature
of which I do not know myself, and with a view to possessing
himself of something that John knew or was carrying with him,
the Squid followed him here to England from Venice. That would
be just about the time that he opened the campaign of crime that
has since swept England and the Continent."
He paused and looked away into the fire. Neither of his hearers
ventured to break the silence and it was some time before he
picked up the threads of the story again.
"John was followed from Dover to this house and was con-
gratulating himself on having eluded his pursuers—was in fact
standing on the doorstep, when a shot was fired that wounded
him in the back. When Fenton opened the door, John fell into
his arms almost unconscious.”
“Did Fenton see the johnny who fired the shot?" asked Freddie
with wide eyes.
“It was dark and poor Fenton was too horrified to notice
anything. He closed the door and summoned me at once. Between
us we carried John upstairs to my study and I dressed his wound.
At his own request I left the room for a few moments to tele-
phone the doctor and it was during my absence that the tragedy
occurred.”
His tone hardened a trifle and it seemed almost as though he
were speaking to himself. He glanced neither to right nor left
and his listeners waited silently and intently, Jimmy bending
slightly forward, Freddie sitting back with his eyes and mouth
wide open.
"I was in the act of coming upstairs,” continued Sir Marcus,
“when I heard two shots fired in the room in which John lay.
I jumped to the conclusion that his enemies were making a
second attempt on his life, although God alone knows how they
obtained entrance without being seen or heard.”
He passed his hand over his face and his eyes looked heavy


MURDER IN WAX
and weary. When he resumed speaking it was still in the same
far-away vacant voice.
"I rushed to the door and flung it open. God! I shall never
forget the sight to my dying day! John lay sprawled back in
his chair, with a second ugly wound in his chest and a pistol
dangling from his limp hand. Not two feet from him stood a
man clad entirely in black, his face hidden by a huge hairless,
waxen mask, the most repulsive thing I have ever encountered,
and devoid of all movement save for the two snake-like eyes that
watched me. I remember he was holding John's ebony stick in
his hand, but I did not wait to take much notice of the man, I
just flung myself at him.”
He shuddered, and for a moment it seemed as if he were going
to discontinue his story.
“And then?” suggested Jimmy gently.
The baronet pulled himself together with a visible effort. "I
remember a flash and a report as the fiend fired at me," he
muttered, "and as I fell backwards, Fenton caught me he had
followed me upstairs—and I suppose it was only the instinctive
shifting of my head that saved me from having my brains blown
out. However, be that as it may, the bullet merely grazed my
temple, and I must have regained consciousness a few minutes
after."
He fingered the scar on his right temple absent-mindedly and,
leaning forward, courteously held a lighted candle to the cigar
that Jimmy had allowed to go out. Freddie, regarding his host
with rigid and unswerving interest, inadvertently applied the
lighted end of his own cigar to his mouth with results which
may be imagined, as may also the expletives that followed.
Their host, still fingering his scar, listened unmoved. It was
doubtful if he had heard.
"When I came to myself," he continued, "I was lying on the
floor and the room was empty. Downstairs I could hear Fenton
shouting for help at the top of his voice. The Squid had appar-
ently escaped by the window which was open, and 1-1-
staggered to my feet and walked dizzily to John's chair. He
stare dead!"sed delibet of his the detai
regaining som I come quietly. That writing beforeson or
He paused deliberately and his listeners saw that he was
regaining something of his normal composure.
"And now I come to the detail of which the police know
nothing," he pursued quietly. "That detail was a piece of paper
on which John had evidently been writing before his death. It
was crumpled up in his hand and for some reason or other I


THE CIPHER
coubarently ails anecellow We tragered
removed it and slipped it into my pocket. I had no reason for
so doing, and somehow or other I omitted to hand it to the police.
Discovering it later, I was not altogether sorry I had retained it.
It was only a collection of jumbled, meaningless words and I
have never tried to understand it, although sometimes I have
wondered if it had any real importance or was merely the ram-
bling of an unhinged mind."
Freddie took an eyeglass from his pocket, polished it, inserted
it in his eye and then, thinking better of it, returned it to his
pocket again.
“The arrival of the police naturally was a difficult time.
I explained to them that it was probably the stick that he was
after and the fact that I had seen it in the Squid's hand and
never set eyes on it again seems to support that idea. Though
why anyone wanted the stick-a very ordinary ebony one I am
at a loss to understand. Fenton, when he returned, told a rather
curious tale. He was accosted by a young man, whose face he
could not see, driving a motor. The man asked only one question
apparently. It was, ‘Did he get Richmond?' Fenton blurted out
a few details and the man drove away. I have sometimes won-
dered who the fellow was. His question seemed to hint at first-
hand knowledge of the tragedy and I think the police would
have done well to have furthered inquiries about him.”
He rose to his feet.
“We may as well go up to my study. The cipher is up there
in the safe.”
He led the way and, opening the door, stood aside and ushered
his guests into the warm cozy room at the head of the stairs.
“This is the only room in the house I really like,” said Sir
Marcus. “It's something like my room at Faversham and pleas-
antly doggy."
Freddie, a more frequent visitor than Jimmy and more familiar
with the "doggy room," smiled cheerfully. There had been an
Alsatian in that room once with whom Freddie had had a
difference of opinion. Yes—decidedly doggy!
"Make yourself at home,” said the baronet cordially, indicating
comfortable hide chairs, deep and inviting.
The other two drew their chairs up and Freddie proffered his
cigarette case. Sir Marcus strolled to the mantelshelf and stood
with his back to them for a moment. When he turned round they
caught a glimpse of a square aperture in the paneling beneath
the shelf.
Dropping into a chair he offered a slip of paper to Jimmy.
o the led them to


So
MURDER IN WAX
“That's the cipher," he said, and the reporter studied it
thoughtfully. He read:
PRAY PHEER INST CLOD NICE ELAN LEES DO INNS LOOK
STEP LIES YE TRIBAL READ.
The words were written in block lettering, presumably in the
hand of John Richmond. Turning the message this way and
that, Jimmy read and re-read it for about five minutes with
a blank expression on his face and then stared blankly at his
host.
“What the dickens does this gibberish mean, sir?”
“As I say, I have never found out," answered Sir. Marcus.
“Give it to little Fred,” suggested that gentleman brightly.
“Meantersay I'll probably think of something or other. Used
to be dashed smart at cross-words and finding animals in pictures
as a kid, you know. Fearful brain. Awfully hot stuff."
Jimmy smiled faintly and passed the slip of paper to his friend
with a covert wink at Sir Marcus.
"Go to it, chief inferior defective," he chaffed, and to Sir
Marcus: “It certainly looks like bosh, sir, but then, John wasn't
given to writing bosh, was he?”
"No," the baronet admitted, “decidedly not. As I say, I have
wondered if it was a code intended for someone or other and yet
-you see, John was badly wounded and he was talking rather
wildly and disjointedly a little while before the tragedy occurred.
I don't say his mind was unhinged, but well, really I suppose I
had no reason other than a suspicion that he was over-excited
for retaining this piece of paper. As a matter of fact I have
decided to take it up to the Yard and see if they can make any-
thing out of it.”
"Elveden's the man,” said Jimmy. "Inspector Elveden. Awfully
cute cuss."
Sir Marcus nodded and turned to Freddie, still poring vacantly
over the message.
“Deciphered it, Freddie?” he asked.
“Er-no," murmured Freddie, "not exactly, but I have come
to a decision. This,” he tapped the paper, "is either sheer bilge
or else a jolly old code.”
Jimmy grinned: “Anything else suggest itself to the Leicester
brain?” he gibed.
“Yes," answered Freddie, “the whole beastly business is a bit
of a mystery. I meantersay-dashed mysterious, what?”


MURDER IN WAX
"Anyway he's a damned lucky cuss," ruminated Freddie.
Marky, sling the old formula across again. I have the glimmerings
Marky, sling, fruity idea-Slip of pape
Old Mcked Sir qusly bi
his acThat's
Sir Marcus passed the slip of paper obediently. Secretly he had
no very great hopes that Freddie's opinion would be justified.
At that moment Fenton reappeared to announce:
"His Grace the Duke of Framlingham.”
“Ah, my ducal relation!” sighed Freddie. “He thinks he was
invited to breakfast!” And he nodded cheerfully to His Grace
who had followed Fenton into the room.
Sir Marcus rose and the two friends clasped hands warmly.
The Duke surveyed his nephew without any visible signs of
pleasure.
"So you're here, you social scab?” he grunted, dropping into
the seat vacated a few moments previously by Jimmy Craven.
“You have dined, I trust?" asked Sir Marcus.
“Yes, at the club with old Mulberry Beak,” the Duke nodded
disconsolately. “That's Sir Morberry Peak. Fearful bore. Wanted
to transfer his account to my bank, you know, and the manager
was conservative enough to want a reference, so Mulberry Beak
tacked himself on and I couldn't think of any reasonable excuse
for braining him with a bottle of Clicquot."
He turned to Sir Marcus: “Well, are you back for good or is
this another flying visit. Never saw such a man. Always here, or
there, or somewhere else.”
“From you,” answered his friend, "that is a curious remark.
People in glass houses, you know. How was Paris when you
left it?"
“Still there, and very Parisian," sighed His Grace placidly.
“There was rather a charming young thing I met- "
Freddie coughed diplomatically.
"Delete the beery liaisons and taproom memoirs," he said,
reprovingly. “Try and employ your ducal mind to more advan-
tage. Here, take a nibble at this.”
He passed the code message.
His Grace studied it for a moment and then looked at Sir
Marcus. “Possibly," he suggested, “one might get some idea of
what that fool meant if a more responsible person outlined the
general plan of campaign.”
"Have a drink,” replied Loseley, motioning to the decanter,
"and listen to a story you might have heard earlier if you had
not chosen to arrive with the milk."
His Grace poured himself a drink and listened to the story


VII. BLACK GLOVE
JERRY the Lag shuffled into the “Shaftesbury” public house in
Charing Cross Road and lurched up to the bar. The fat barman
momentarily ceased polishing a glass and waddled to where the
Lag stood waiting.
“The usual, Jerry?”
The old Lag nodded curtly.
“Anything fer me?” he asked in an undertone.
The barman looked cautiously round the bar and reached down
swiftly beneath the counter. His hand came up holding a letter
and Jerry deftly palmed the envelope. It was so swiftly done
that none but the keenest eyes could have seen the transaction.
The eyes, say, of a reporter.
Seated at a corner table by the wall and partially shielded by
the curve of the bar, Jimmy Craven had seen a betraying flutter
of white as something, a letter he judged, changed hands.
Jerry pocketed the letter and smiled thoughtfully. His own
eyes were fairly keen.
“Black Glove came up in a cab twenty minutes ago," whispered
the barman as he handed Jerry his drink. "I saw that there
beckonin' black glove o' his and went out and took the thing
myself.”
Jerry nodded and, picking up his glass, moved away to a table
by the window, taking care that no one was sitting behind him.
Covertly he took out the envelope and, slitting it, drew forth
the message printed in block capitals:
“TO-NIGHT. OUTSIDE THE COLISEUM. EIGHT.
THIRTY.”
Leaving the envelope on the table in a prominent position, the
Lag carefully tore the message into tiny pieces and dropped them
covertly on the floor. He glanced at the clock. It was just eight
o'clock; he had half-an-hour to spare.
Eight-thirty outside the Coliseum. What was it this time?
With an unpleasant leer he emptied his glass and sat for some
moments thinking.
Few of the denizens of the underworld knew Black Glove's
identity and fewer still ever entered that taxi of his. But Jerry
was one of the few. Jerry caught the barman's eye on him and
smiled. During the course of a week, and particularly when there
54


BLACK GLOVE
55
was "anything doing" the barman handed many such messages
across the bar to one or other of the nine men who made the
public house their rendezvous. It was probably worth his while,
Jerry reflected, although the barman was no doubt in complete
ignorance of what he was doing. Jerry grinned. The fat barman
was not of the type who asked questions. More than one banknote
had passed into the pockets of his capacious waistcoat.
Taking a stub of pencil from his pocket, Jerry wrote one word
on the envelope and then, very ostentatiously, put it in his
pocket.
That done, he rose to his feet, shuffled to the bar and ordered
another drink. In the act of raising his refilled glass, he paused.
Someone clapped him heartily on the back and a cheerful voice
behind him spoke.s
“Well, Jerry, old warrior!”
Turning, the Lag scowled up into the pleasant humorous eyes
of Jimmy Craven.
"You again?” he growled. “Now what are you diggin' fer?
Lumme, some o' you blokes 'as a easy time o' it, don't yer?
Fair cushy, I calls it. Nothin' else ter do but waste other people's
time.”
The reporter smiled affably, no whit put out by the other's
surly tone. "Drink up, Jerry, and have one on me," he invited.
The Lag moistened his lips enthusiastically and accepted,
draining his own glass at a gulp.
“ 'Ere's lookin' at yer,” he said calmly. “It's safer!"
Jimmy signaled to the fat barman and motioned to the glasses.
“Decant."
"Flush to-night, ain't yer?" asked the Lag quizzically, as their
glasses were refilled.
“Drink, brother,” said Jimmy cheerfully, “and question not the
source."
“And blimey, you got a sauce,” grunted the Lag. “I ain't no
one-an' t'other o yourn. Less familiarity, an' all.”
He replaced his glass and looked at the clock. It was nearly
twenty past eight.
“Got an important engagement wiv a genelman at 'arf past.”
"I'll walk down with you," offered Jimmy casually, replacing
his own glass.
"Not much you won't,” returned Jerry sourly. "I said wiv a
genelman. You'd feel kinder outa place, you would.”
He wiped a grimy hand across his lips and with a curt nod to
the reporter shuffled away out of the bar.


56
MURDER IN WAX
Jimmy, waiting only to examine an envelope which he had
abstracted from the Lag's pocket, followed suit with a grim smile.
The envelope was empty, but on the back of it had been scrawled
one word: "Sold.”
Pocketing it, Jimmy hurried out of the “Shaftesbury" and
looked eagerly around. The Lag was nowhere in sight.
For a moment the reporter stood there undecided, looking to
right and left. Then, with a muttered imprecation, he set off in
the direction of Charing Cross.
Jerry, forsaking the shelter of an adjacent doorway, surveyed
the retreating back amusedly for a few moments and then
followed leisurely in his wake. He was well aware that several
people were interested unduly in his movements, among them
Inspector Elveden and Jimmy Craven, and their efforts never
failed to amuse. They were both harmless and he humored them
up to a point. From a safe distance he watched Jimmy turn round
by the Cavell Monument and make for Leicester Square. So much
for the newspaper sleuth. Jerry smiled ironically and lit a
cigarette.
Taking up his position opposite the theater, he leaned back
against the wall and smoked tranquilly, watching the constant
coming and going of a little stream of people by the advance
booking office.
He had been waiting barely three minutes when a taxi drew
up outside the restaurant close to the theater.
As he watched, a black-glovéd hand showed for a minute at the
window nearest Jerry. The Squid's punctuality was a byword.
Tossing aside his half-finished cigarette, the Lag shuffled across
the road and came to a standstill beside the Squid's taxi.
“Get in,” said a dull flat voice and Jerry opened the door and
stepped inside, closing it behind him quickly.
The taxi was in complete darkness and all the blinds were
down. As he took his seat, a revolver barrel dug into his ribs.
“Eaton Place,” instructed the voice of the man by his side,
and the taxi moved forward.
Jerry had been for many such journeys with the Squid and the
presence of the pistol against his ribs did not greatly worry him.
The Squid took no risks and, in any case, Jerry was not fool
enough to try conclusions with him in a taxi. The chauffeur,
he knew, was one of the gang.
Jerry sat with his hands before him, careful not to violate any
of the Squid's rules. One there had been who had broken two
rules in one night. He had come to a meeting with a gun in his
bº He had been restaurant close hand showed for awas a b


BLACK GLOVE
57
pocket and he had brought friends with him. That had been
Billy Horne.
The Squid had not attended the meeting and Billy had not
lived to go to another.
They had found him the next morning in Wapping-dead.
Very horribly dead.
The Squid dealt swiftly with "squeakers.” Very swiftly, and
no one knew how he got his information until he struck. After
that, the knowledge was valueless. Without seeing the face of the
man beside him, Jerry could guess at its outline—the high
hairless dome, broad forehead, cold eyes and menacingly fixed
expression: the somber black clothes and the black-gloved hands,
too.
Once again the dull voice broke the silence.
“To-morrow night," said the Squid, "you will acquire the
Loseley tiara. I have uses for it.”
Jerry acquiesced understandingly. He had wondered how long
the famous heirloom was destined to remain in the possession of
its present owner. Diamonds had a fascination for the Squid, and
the tiara was a perfect example of its kind. Apparently it was
due to take a trip to Amsterdam. There the stones would be
removed and re-cut. After that the tiara and jewels would be
returned to the Squid, the former melted into a nugget. As a tiara
it would have ceased to exist. And the Squid's collection would
have increased-valuably.
Jerry refrained from mentioning what was in his mind.
“Where's this ti-hara kep'?”
"In Sir Marcus Loseley's study,” rejoined the Squid. “You
will find the safe set in the woodwork underneath the overmantel.
The woodwork is decorated with roses of carven wood. Press the
fourth from the right. You will leave everything else, but you
will disorder the room artistically in order to create the impression
that you had a long search. Remember, nothing but the tiara.
It would be unfortunate if you made any mistakes, Jerry. Very
unfortunate-for you.”
Jerry agreed.
"You will receive the usual ten per cent," droned the Squid,
as the taxi turned into Victoria Street. "I shall apprise you of
the meeting place, date and time as soon as I see a notice in
the papers announcing Sir Marcus Loseley's loss.”
The taxi slid into Eaton Square and continued on, slowing
down, till it reached Eaton Place.
“Get out,” ordered the Squid. “You will find a survey of the


58
MURDER IN WAX
house useful, I think. And remember, Jerry, no bungling."
The Lag denoted that he understood and, opening the door,
stepped out on to the pavement.
Almost at once the door slammed and the taxi moved away
from the curb, gathering impetus as it moved towards Cliveden
Place.
Standing on the pavement, Jerry watched the little red tail-.
light disappear and then turned his attention to the house outside
which he stood.
A big house with double bay windows, divided from the gate-
way by a short gravel path and a flight of steps that led up to
the high ceilinged portico. Farther to the right, a small gateway
led to a downward flight of stairs which terminated in a small
dark area. Servants' quarters, he reflected.
Lighting a cigarette, he puffed at it thoughtfully and then
turned away, walking head down, engrossed in his own thoughts.
He had taken barely three paces when he collided violently
with someone walking in the opposite direction. A tall, dark,
slender young man who stopped and regarded him interestedly.
“Why in 'ell can't yer look where yer goin'?” exploded Jerry
irately, and then stopped.
“Oh, it's you, is it?” he growled.
Inspector Elveden smiled engagingly.
“Good evening, Jerry,” he said softly. “Thinking of forsaking
the straight and narrow so soon?”
He stared pointedly at the Loseley home and equally pointedly
at the Lag.
“A little light cat-burglary?” he inquired politely.
Jerry scowled and put his hands in his pockets.
“Some o' you blokes up at the Yard is getting a sight too
keen," he said truculently. “Yer gettin' so sharp, yer can see
things as 'asn't 'appened yet!”
The Inspector was amused. There was something diverting in
Jerry's aggressive innocence.
"We can see things that might happen," he corrected gently
and his calm eyes challenged those of the Lag.
"Yus, arter they ’appen,” sneered the Lag. "Pertickerly when
the Squid's 'andlin' the 'appenin' part o' the deal. 'E's coot,
'e is, Mister Elv'den, an' don't yer fergit it. One o' these days
yer goin' ter wake up an' find yerself dead, if yer ain't careful!”
The Inspector listened unmoved and Jerry found his cool smile
annoying.
“Remember what I told you," advised Elveden.


BLACK GLOVE
59
“You ain't never tole me nuthin' worth rememberin' yet,”
riposted the Lag.
“This is an exception, then," answered the other. “Think over
what I said about putting the Chief wise.”
“Turnin' King's evidence is a mug's gime," said Jerry, and spat
contemptuously. “Not," he hastened to add, “that I could tell
anything."
“Of course not,” agreed Elveden with sufficient irony to cause
the Lag a momentary suspicion, “but if you ever should have
anything to tell " He left the sentence unfinished.
“The blokes what squeal," continued Jerry weightily, "is astin'
fer it and they comes up again it pronto, most times. I knows
the law and if they can land a bloke, they will. They 'ears what
'es got ter say. Then it's: 'Thank you very much. Two years.'
They caught many a poor dam' fool like that.”
He produced a half-smoked cigarette from his waistcoat pocket
and ignited it from the butt of the one he had been smoking.
“And anuther thin', Mister Elv'den," continued Jerry, tapping
the other on the chest with a grimy forefinger, “if the 'split falls
dahn an' 'urts itself—it's flowers an' a burial fer someone. No
one tries ter queer the Squid's pitch twice. 'E's got a nasty way o'
payin' 'is score, 'e 'as, so I've 'eard.”
Elveden listened impassively to the Lag's exposition. When
an old timer had any reason for wishing to avoid a subject, he
would talk for hours—on some other subject.
"An'anuther thin', Mister Elv'den, if I wuz you—which Gawd
ferbid—I'd keep that meddlin' snitch o’ yourn outer this business.
I'm only goin' on 'earsay, o' course, but the Squid don't take over
kindly to Inspectors, good bad or perlice, they tell me!”
He leered unpleasantly up into his listener's face and encoun-
tered the same calm eyes and disarming smile.
"Can't say as I blames 'im either,” he continued humorously.
“Only I ain't fond 'o violence, I ain't. Peaceful is me middle
monicker. If I don' like a thing I keeps away from it. If he don't
like a thing—he outs it, suddingly."
The suspicion that Jerry knew more than he was prepared to
divulge grew steadily, but the Inspector made no sign.
“Think it over,” he repeated. “Which way are you going,
Jerry?”
“The hopposite way ter you,” grinned the Lag, and leant back
against the wall.
With an amused smile the Inspector strode on his way.


VIII. CONCERNING THE LOSELEY TIARA
you tako manhed Freddil meet rected li
“AHA, the last of the house of Craven imbibing corruption at
one and six per glass. A commendable occupation. A fruity
time-killer."
The drawling voice at his elbow interrupted Jimmy's medita-
tions and he turned to make room for the new-comer.
Freddie Leicester, smiling vacantly, lounged against the bar
of the Nocturnes.
"What'll you take?” asked Jimmy morosely.
“What a boon to man is a friend who recognizes on sight the
parched symptoms," sighed Freddie ecstatically. “A little of the
poison that you are absorbing will meet the case, friend James."
"Water this human blotting pad," directed Jimmy, motioning
to the barman and indicating his own glass. “Same again. Drink
is his middle name.”
"Always vertical till the third bottle, laddie," protested Freddie
in an injured tone. “But why the festive habiliments?”.
He touched Jimmy's dinner jacket and eyed his friend
wonderingly.
“Show," answered Jimmy, laconically.
"Show what?” demanded Freddie vacantly.
“Theater, fool,” was the polite answer. “Care to join us?"
“Who is 'us,' old cod?” asked Freddie, sipping his drink with
marked appreciation.
“Leslie, Marcus and a blot on the landscape called Erb,”
Jimmy supplied.
“My uncle,” nodded Freddie, calmly, "and incidentally an
error in grandparental taste.”
"Sorry, Leslie did mention it. Where did he get that name?
Smacks rather of Billingsgate."
"It affects you unpleasantly?” inquired Freddie, lounging ele-
gantly. “Me too, I have always regarded it as something in the
nature of a stab in the back. Unfortunately circumstances over
which I have no control prevent my taking it up with his
misguided parents. Where are you collecting the ducal incum-
brance?"
"Here. Duke, is he? You've never mentioned this secret sorrow
before.”
"I try to live it down," sighed Freddie. "I thought he was due
to bore Paris for a fruity period, but it was not to be. The
60


CONCERNING THE LOSELY TIARA
.61
young have many trials. He trickled back a few days ago and
I had to try and look pleased and wag my tail. You will find
His Grace "
“Disgrace?"
"Equally applicable. I was saying, when you rudely butted in,
that you will find him in part human, although in the main a
gruesome affliction.”
They drank in silence. Freddie sighed with satisfaction.
“They ought to be here soon,” said Jimmy, glancing at the
clock.
“How about another quick one? No? Well, perhaps not,” said
Freddie. “On what theater are you conferring the honor of the
ducal audience?”
“Court Royal, mystery play, I believe.”
“Erb will be late then," said Freddie. “That is, more so than
his usual two hours. He once said he got all the mystery he
wanted out of an omelette. When he's at a show he's never at
his ease "
“Good thing not to be.”
“Involved," said Freddie in a tired voice. "Expound, James."
"I say it's a good thing not to be a disease,” grinned Jimmy.
"Low, positively low. Hints at a warped intellect. However
the hour approaches. I must tear myself away. Matter of import
demands my attention.”
"It has my sympathy. What is it this time? Women?”
"No, an inseparable clause to same," answered Freddie.
"Diamonds. I may drop in to see the last act of the mystery."
“God forbid," murmured Jimmy piously.
"Pardon?”
“I said, 'Please do,'” grinned Jimmy, shaking hands with his
friend.
Freddie Leicester ran lightly up the steps of Sir Marcus Lose-
ley's house and knocked twice, loudly.
Humming cheerfully, he waited until the placid Fenton ap-
peared in the doorway.
"Good evening, Mr. Leicester," said the butler respectfully.
“Sir Marcus and Miss Leslie are out. I believe they were going
to a theater with Mr. Craven."
“That's all right, laddie," answered Freddie. "I have a notion
that I left the old cigarette container here a few nights ago. Mind
if I flit up to Marky's study and retrieve the electro plate?”
“Not at all, sir," replied Fenton, standing aside to allow Freddie


MURDER IN WAX
and his winter
stood on the three
to enter and closing the door behind him. "If you will allow me,
sir, I will get it myself.”
“Don't trouble, old soul,” said Freddie cheerfully. "Too many,
stairs; bad for the middle aged, you know."
He dug the butler playfully in the ribs.
“No trouble, I assure you, sir,” said Fenton politely, but he was
addressing thin air.
Freddie, still humming cheerfully, was taking the stairs three
at a time.
Fenton gazed after him sorrowfully. Mr. Leicester was at all
times a peculiar young gentleman, he reflected. While Sir Marcus
was in town, Freddie frequently visited him and was more or less
allowed the run of the house. More than once Fenton had found
occasion during one of Freddie's visits to doubt the other's
sanity.
Fenton walked sedately away towards the domestic quarters
and his pantry. It was a cold night and a small tot of whisky-a
very small tot. ...
Upstairs Freddie stood on the threshold of Sir Marcus Loseley's
study and stared blankly at the disordered scene that presented
itself in the electric light flooding the room.
In every direction chaos met his eye.
Chairs, a bureau and a table were overturned in various parts
of the room. The wall hangings had been stripped from the pan-
eling, pictures displaced, drawers pulled out and emptied. Every-
thing was indescribably disordered—and on the floor a conglomer-
ation of sporting weapons, trophies, books and bric-a-brac lay in
a confused mass.
Freddie walked mechanically to the overturned chair he had
occupied a few nights previously and, stooping down, picked up
his cigarette case which had been displaced.
Standing there, he noticed that the Baronet's safe in the panel-
ing above the fireplace was open. Neat stacks of bonds lay there
untouched, a few bank-notes and a heap of silver, one or two little
trinkets, a pile of documents and yet—the tiara, which he knew
was always kept there, was missing.
That explained it. The disordering of the room might be a
blind.
Mechanically he selected a cigarette and, lighting it, stood and
stared about him.
A slight draught made him turn and, descrying the open lattice
window, he crossed the room and closed it. Apparently that was
how the thieves had found entrance.


64
MURDER IN WAX
inventory, suddenly caught sight of the open safe, and immedi-
ately cried out like a stuck pig.
“The tiara!”
“Where?” asked Freddie innocently.
"It's gone! Oh, Mr. Leicester, the tiara—the tiara, Mr. Leices-
ter!”
“Pleased to meet you,” said Freddie with a vacuous grin.
“Sorry. We err. You mean someone has nicked the doin's? Yes,
exactly. Marky used to keep it in the larder, didn't he?”
He pointed to the safe, and Fenton nodded.
“What shall I do? What shall I do?" wailed the butler, still
wandering round aimlessly.
"Change the record,” suggested Freddie and, helpfully, “What
about a spot of clear up? Meantersay, things are a bit unsettled,
what?"
"No, sir,” said Fenton almost firmly. "Decidedly not, sir. The
police like things untouched. Clews, sir. Fingerprints, sir. Foot-
prints "
“Sir," supplemented Freddie. “All right. As you were! Don't
clear up."
At that moment a loud knocking sounded on the door below.
Fenton spun round agitatedly.
“That will be the police, sir?”
"Probably," agreed Freddie, “or the postman. Steady, old jelly-
fish. Face 'em like a man. Like me to come and hold the old
mitts?”
But Fenton had not heard. Galloping downstairs, he tore open
the door, and poured out a confused tale to the sergeant stand-
ing on the step.
As soon as the sergeant had sorted out the irrelevant from
the relevant, and of the former there was much, he turned and
instructed an invisible “Mathers” to “come on hup," and followed
the butler up the stairs to the study.
Entering the room, the sergeant touched his hat to Freddie
respectfully.
“Good evening, Sir Marcus," he said.
"Is it?" asked Freddie absently. "Inclined to rain when I
trotted in, and look here, my dear old peeler, I'm not the owner
of this jolly little shack."
“Oh,” observed the sergeant, and his expression underwent a
slight change.
"Who is this gentleman?” he asked, rounding on the startled
Fenton abruptly.


CONCERNING THE LOSELY TIARA 65
“Mr. Leicester, sir,” said Fenton, agitatedly, "a friend of the
master's." said the sergeareddie, he stalked a
"Mm," said the sergeant thoughtfully, and, bestowing a cold
glance on the cheerful Freddie, he stalked across the room and
began to make notes in a little book.
Behind the butler in the doorway, Constable Mathers eyed
his superior interestedly, and Mr. Leicester even more interestedly.
Asked for an unbiased opinion, Constable Mathers would have
stated that it was “a fair cop.”
“What's been taken?" demanded the sergeant, pausing in his
examination and turning to Fenton.
“As far as I can see, nothing but the Loseley tiara," answered
the butler, rubbing his hands together.
“The Loseley what?” demanded the sergeant suspiciously.
“A famous family heirloom,” Fenton hastened to add. “Set with
diamonds. Very valuable. Extremely so. Sir Marcus kept it in
that safe.”
He indicated the safe, and the sergeant rubbed his chin. Not
being altogether sure what a tiara was, he could not tell whether
it was missing or not. He eyed the little trinkets suspiciously, but
decided against expressing an opinion.
"Nothing else has been taken from the safe,” Fenton babbled
excitedly.
“I have eyes,” snapped the sergeant; and, turning with such
suddenness that Freddie rolled back with surprise into his chair,
he demanded:
“May I ask how long you have been here, sir?”
Freddie gaped sheepishly. The fellow's tone was dashed un-
friendly. Dash it all—what the deuce. ...
“Mr. Leicester called to find his cigarette case,” Fenton inter-
polated helpfully.
"Mr. Leicester has a tongue, hasn't he?” asked the sergeant
coldly.
“Er, yes,” mumbled Freddie. "I left it here a few nights ago.
The case, you know, not the tongue. Ha, ha!”.
His humor failed to impress the sergeant.
“You were in the room alone?”
“Certainly,” interrupted Fenton eagerly. "Mr. Leicester is a
frequent visitor. You surely don't think ...?
The sergeant transfixed him with a steely glance.
"No," he agreed icily. “I'm paid to know.”
“How long were you in the room alone, sir?” he continued,
turning to Freddie.


MURDER IN WAX
“Oh, bout ten and a half minutes," Freddie answered after due
consideration. “Possibly ten and three-quarters. I won't quibble.”
"Take you ten minutes to find your case, sir?” The tone was
ominous.
"No-er-no," bleated Freddie. “ 'Bout half a jiffy, only the
room was in a bit of a mess—I mean, after all it is a bit mucked
up, what?—and I stood and looked and-er-looked and stood.
You see, one doesn't often get the chance of seeing a room like
this, sergeant dear.”
He eyed the officer of the law pleadingly.
“Sergeant Clarke,” corrected that gentleman with acidity.
“Anything touched in this room?"
"No," answered Freddie. “You mustn't mind Fenton. It's ex-
citement. He'll get over it, dear lamb. Everything else is O.K.”
He beamed indulgently on the indignant butler.
“H'm. Where's Sir Marcus—what's his name?”.
“Loseley,” corrected Freddie cheerfully. "He's at a show."
"Punch and Judy?” enquired the sergeant ironically.
"No," answered Freddie, "just a show. You know, a sort of-er
-show."
"Mr. Leicester means a theater," Fenton explained.
Sergeant Clarke eyed Mr. Leicester unfavorably.
“Oh, he is, is he? Well, I'm afraid Mr. Leicester will have to
step down to the station with me.”
He motioned to the constable.
“Mathers,” he directed, "see that nothing is touched in this
room, and take full particulars from—what did you say your name
was?”
“Fenton, sir,” answered the butler, cowed to a state of abject
humility.
Sergeant Clarke laid a gentle but firm hand on Freddie's arm.
“Now, sir,” he said. “If you please."
“Here, I say, I'm dashed well staying and all that sort of
thing," bleated Freddie. "I mean-
"You're dashed well not staying, I mean," the sergeant said
firmly. "Better go quietly, sir."
Freddie went quietly.


68
MURDER IN WAX
hold it during the first act of the mystery play, “Twelve O'clock."
As the curtain fell to the accompaniment of thunderous ap-
plause, they rose and sauntered into the foyer.
Almost the first people they encountered were Sir Marcus and
His Grace of Framlingham, talking "horses.”
The two men bowed as Leslie approached.
"Jimmy, I want to introduce you,” said Leslie. “Mr. Craven,
the Duke of Framlingham.”
They bowed to each other, and Leslie engaged her guardian in
conversation.
"Let us gravitate to the bar," said the Duke placidly, "and call
me Erb, it's so much more matey.”
Jimmy grinned and followed His Grace.
“With what poison can I assist in ruining your complexion?"
the Duke asked politely.
Jimmy named a drink at random and, taking the opportunity
of studying the other, decided that he was going to like this placid
kindly gentleman.
"I gather that this kind of stuff is not much in your line?"
said Jimmy.
“Depends on the year,” answered the Duke, holding up his
glass to the light and studying it with the air of a connoisseur.
“Now some "
“The play, I mean," corrected Jimmy, smiling.
His Grace shrugged.
“Child's-play,” he observed. "By the way, Mr. Craven, your
name seems very familiar.”
"I know your nephew, Freddie Leicester,” answered Jimmy.
"He has probably mentioned it."
“Possibly. It is a serious handicap."
“Oh, I don't know," answered the reporter, reddening slightly.
“There are worse names.”
"You'misunderstand me,” sighed the Duke placidly. “I refer
to the handicap of knowing my nephew. You have my sympathy.
Have some more?”
"Sympathy?”
“No, gargle. The subject of that blighted boy always creates in
me an unquenchable thirst.”
Jimmy shook his head and, the gong going at that moment,
they made their way back to their respective seats. The Duke
and Sir Marcus were three rows behind Leslie and Jimmy.
“Well?” whispered Leslie, as the reporter sank into his seat
beside her.'


"CHARGE, FIDDLESTICKS!"
69
“Yes, a deep one,” agreed Jimmy, "and fortunately less dry
than I anticipated. Erb has a commendable thirst.”
They did not encounter the Duke and Sir Marcus again until
they went out to the foyer at the conclusion of the last act. Both
gentlemen were standing waiting for them, perfectly unmoved
by the paroxysms of delight into which the audience had been
transported.
“Can I drop you at Loseley House?” His Grace suggested
courteously. “My car is outside, and it's too early to go to bed.”
They accepted his offer and made their way to the gleaming
Lanchester waiting by the curb.
A smartly liveried chauffeur closed the door behind them, and
the car moved slowly off.
"Has anyone seen my erring nephew to-night?” the Duke
asked casually, leaning back against the upholstery with a sigh
of satisfaction.
"I helped him soak up a throat tickler at the Nocturnes earlier
in the evening,” Jimmy volunteered.
“He means they had a drink together," Leslie explained pa-
tiently.
“That boy-I mean Freddie__will go to a drunkard's grave,"
sighed His Grace. Then, reverently: “And what a grave. Have
you any idea what particular dissipation he was contemplating,
Mr. Craven?”
"He said something about diamonds,” answered the reporter,
covertly squeezing Leslie's hand, "and, by the way, call me
Jimmy.mondspre asked the Duke
“Diamonds?” asked the Duke. “He inherits my own irre-
proachable taste.”
“And mine," said Leslie thoughtlessly, providing the reporter
with a much sought opportunity.
Taking advantage of the cover offered by the Baronet's con-
versation with the Duke, Jimmy leaned forward.
"Talking of diamonds," he whispered, “what about Car-
tier's ?”
“Not after a mystery play, Jimmy,” she said hastily, and en-
gaged her guardian in animated conversation.
The reporter could not see her heightened color owing to
the darkness, and for that she was thankful.
The Lanchester drew up in Eaton Place and Jimmy's chance
was lost. With a disgruntled expression he descended and helped
Leslie to alight.
The little party had barely stepped out when the door of Sir


70
MURDER IN WAX
Marcus's house flew open and the portly figure of Fenton ap-
peared in the doorway. The butler was visibly perturbed.
With one accord, Leslie and the three men hurried up the steps
to meet him.
“Sir Marcus, Sir Marcus," wailed the old man agitatedly. “Oh,
Sir Marcus
“He means you," said His Grace, touching the baronet on the
arm.
"Get on with it, man,” snapped Sir Marcus impatiently. Fenton
gulped and stared miserably
“The tiara, Sir Marcus," he said in a despairing tone.
“Exactly! What about it?”
"It's gone, sir," Fenton blurted out.
He wrung his hands agitatedly and seemed to be on the verge
of tears. They followed him into the hall.
“What do you mean?" demanded Sir Marcus. "Burglary?”
The butler gulped again and nodded doubtfully, as if he felt
personally responsible for the crime.
"You see, sir,” he began defensively—but Sir Marcus did not
see. He brushed past the old man and, followed by the others,
made his way up the stairs to his study.
The policeman stationed inside the door hastily extinguished
his cigarette and nodded respectfully.
Ignoring him, the Baronet strode to the safe and made a
hasty examination of the documents deposited there. Beyond a
cursory glance round, he took little notice of the disordered state
of the room.
“Let's hear about it,” he said tersely, turning to Fenton.
Fenton looked nervously at the Duke and then launched into
his tale.
“Mr. Leicester called here about an hour ago, sir, to get his
cigarette case which he left here some few nights ago."
"Freddie?" asked the Duke suddenly. "I knew that boy would
come to a sticky end."
He pursed his lips angrily and the butler, after a nervous glance
at him, continued diffidently.
"I offered to get it for him, sir; but he went up himself.”
Again he glanced apprehensively at His Grace, as though ex-
pecting him to take up a vigorous defense of his nephew.
"Mr. Leicester was up here some time, and eventually I
came up to see if I could assist him. The room was exactly
as you see it now, sir, and Mr. Leicester said there had been a
burglary.”


“CHARGE, FIDDLESTICKS!”
71
"And that,” said Framlingham bitterly, “is just the kind of
brainy remark one expects from Freddie!”
"I telephoned the police at once, sir,” continued the butler,
shifting from one foot to the other, "and the sergeant asked Mr.
Leicester to step down to the station."
“What?"
Loseley whirled suddenly on the startled butler and glared
angrily for a moment. Recovering himself, he turned to the Duke.
“Damned strange, Erb,” he said. "Nothing else seems to have
been taken but the tiara, and yet the room "
He waved his hand significantly. His composure was remark-
able.
"They must have had a thorough search, and yet it beats me
how they discovered the safe.”
He turned to Fenton.
“Clear this place up,” he directed, and then looked at the
others. "I suppose we may as well go along to the station and
get Freddie out of durance vile."
"I always knew that blighted boy had criminal tendencies,”
murmured His Grace. "If he had to disgrace the family, why the
devil couldn't he have done it like a gentleman? Got drunk and
assaulted a policeman or something. Freddie never was con-
ventional.”
“But it couldn't possibly have been Freddie," protested Leslie,
impulsively stepping forward. “He wouldn't have the "
“You were going to say brains?” interrupted His Grace sor-
rowfully, refusing to be comforted. “I agree, but all that was
needed here was low cunning and he didn't use much of that.
And why the fool had to mention his intentions to Jimmy here I
don't know.”
"He merely said he was interested in diamonds,” said Jimmy
defensively.
“Very, I should think,” said His Grace. “However, I don't
suppose for a moment that brainless clown did it. He simply has
a genius for appearing at the wrong place at the wrong time and
landing himself in a lot of fool scrapes.”
He looked wearily at the Baronet.
“Coming to release that perishing idiot?” he asked in a tired
voice. "It would serve him right if you charged him with the
robbery."
Sir Marcus grinned and, followed by Leslie, turned to the door
to look enquiringly at Jimmy.
“Are you coming?” he asked.


MURDER IN WAX
“No, sir,” said Jimmy, “I have somewhat to say to Fenton.”
The Duke eyed him suspiciously.
“The Press," he said accusingly. “You absolutely reek of
printers' ink at the moment, you human bloodsucker. Notice the
'news' gleam in his eyes, Marky?”
The other smiled pleasantly.
“By the way, Jimmy,” he paused to add at the door. “If it's
any help to you, the tiara they got away with was a worthless
imitation made by Levalleurs of Regent Street!”
Freddie Leicester stared vaguely at the Superintendent and then
at the Sergeant, engaged in picking his teeth.
“What's all this pother about, laddie?” he enquired gently.
“And would you mind asking that sweet soul not to excavate his
fangs so heartily?"
"You heard the Sergeant's charge," snapped the Superinten-
dent. “He says he took you into custody in Sir Marcus Loseley's
study a quarter of an hour after the robbery had been com-
mitted.”
The Superintendent took up his pen angrily. He objected to
being addressed as “laddie."
"As a matter of fact, he doesn't jolly well know how long after
it was,” Freddie protested. "He was too busy raking his molars
and apart from "
"Name," demanded the Sergeant inexorably.
“Frederick Herbert Leicester," answered the accused obedi-
ently, “but look here, my dear old screech- "
“Occupation?” snapped the Superintendent. “And don't call
me 'old screech.'”
Freddie shuddered: “Independent means," he bleated.
“Address?”
“Framlingham House, Upper Berkeley Street," sighed Freddie,
as though repeating his alphabet.
“Framlingham House? That's the Duke's place, isn't it?
Any relation?”
"Nephew. But look here, I don't want the jolly old newsvendors
coming out with a paragraph about Freddie, The First Felonious
Framlingham or some such tosh."
“Nephew?" snorted the Superintendent. "Who? You or him?"
"Me,” said Freddie resignedly, "and see here, my dear old
policeman-
“What were you doing in Sir Marcus Loseley's study at that
time of night?"


“CHARGE, FIDDLESTICKS!"
73
Necking erintende any frie
“Collecting the jolly old cigarette container," bleated Freddie.
“Can't a fellow call for his cigarette container without being
accused of nobbling the family plate? I mean, bit thick, what?”
“What time did you arrive at Loseley House?"
“Round about nineish," answered Freddie.
“Talk English,” snapped his interlocutor.
“Nine o'clock," Freddie answered obediently. "Or possibly
nine one.”
“Where did you spend the earlier part of the evening?”
"At the Nocturnes, old lad," answered Freddie lightly. “Asked
what the Nocturnes is, I should feel justified in saying a pretty
fruity night-club."
The Superintendent frowned sourly. "What doing?"
“Necking it with considerable gusto."
The Superintendent grunted and fixed his eyes coldly on
Freddie: "Have you any friends you could ring up to verify these
statements?” he asked.
"No need," responded Freddie. “They'll all be here directly
to gather their fallen child to their bosoms. I'll tell them all the
harsh things you've said to little Fred.”
His humor left the Sergeant and the Superintendent cold. The
latter scowled blackly.
“Detained on suspicion," he snapped, and began to write.
A policeman had already stepped forward when a diversion
occurred.
Sir Marcus, followed by the Duke and Leslie, entered the
station, and went to the high desk behind which the Superinten-
dent sat.
“What ho, Erb!” Freddie cheered lustily. "Look what they're
doing to Fred! A moi! Hun'and me, you 'ound!”
This to the policeman, in whose face he shook a threatening
fist.
The Superintendent looked at the newcomers suspiciously.
“May I ask what you want?”
"I am Sir Marcus Loseley,” stated the Baronet, stepping for-
ward. “I understand that Mr. Leicester is being detained here on
suspicion of having stolen the Loseley tiara from my room to-
night?"
“That is so," answered the Superintendent, unbending a trifle,
"Pending your charge, of course.”
“Charge, fiddlesticks!” barked Loseley. “I do not intend to
bring any charge. Mr. Leicester is a personal friend; the idea
is ridiculous!”


74
MURDER IN WAX
“Bravo, Marky, give it him hot!” said Freddie, encouragingly.
"Show him up—the nasty, evil-minded wretch.”
The Superintendent, glancing from one to the other perplexedly,
encountered Freddie's beaming face and frowned coldly.
“Honi soit," said the young gentleman cheerfully.
"Mad,” grunted the Superintendent. “Am I to understand that
you decline to bring a charge against this person?” he demanded
of Sir Marcus.
“Oo—he called me a person," wailed Freddie.
“Certainly,” the Baronet snorted. “Have the goodness to re-
lease him."
Freddie joined the Duke and Leslie, turning to kiss his hand
to the enraged Superintendent and the no less enraged Ser-
geant.
“Some other time, Rachel,” he said brightly.
“Oh, shut your fool head, do,” growled the Duke. “I notice
that you keep my name well in the public eye with your scrapes.
There will be a pretty paragraph in the dailies to-morrow, you
hopeless clown.”
He grasped his nephew firmly by the arm and dragged him
away. Şir Marcus, accompanied by Leslie, followed slowly.
In the station Sergeant Clarke and his superior eyed each other
wonderingly.
“Well, I'm damned!” grunted the Sergeant.


X. “NOT TO-NIGHT, MR. ELVEDEN."
either of the two people and Jimmy Craven, papector on the
THE barman of the “Shaftesbury” placed Jerry's drink before
him and winked covertly.
"Friend of yourn left a message fer you, Jerry,” he whispered
significantly.
" 'And it over," directed Jerry, and a white envelope changed
hands.
Jerry did not read the message at once. He stood at the bar
for some time sipping his drink thoughtfully, at the same time
covertly studying those present. Apparently he was satisfied
by his scrutiny. He had his own reasons for not wishing to
see either of the two people most interested in his comings and
goings-Inspector Elveden and Jimmy Craven, particularly the
former. Since his unfortunate meeting with the Inspector on the
eve of the robbery at Loseley House, Jerry had been expecting
to encounter the sweet-voiced Elveden at every corner. So far he
had eluded him.
He stared down at the envelope which he still held. The day
before an announcement of the theft had appeared in the papers
and with it a statement to the effect that the stolen tiara was a
paste imitation. On the whole, Jerry was not looking forward to
the interview with the Squid and he had little doubt that this
message was to make an assignation. The words "It would be
unfortunate if you made any mistakes, Jerry. Very unfortunate,
for you”-stuck in his memory unpleasantly.
With another covert glance round the bar, he retired to a
secluded seat and opened the envelope. As usual, the message
was printed in block letters. He read-
“WATERLOO STATION. YORK ROAD ENTRANCE. TO-NIGHT.
EIGHT-THIRTY."
Jerry lit a cigarette and applied the match to the message,
grinding the ashes to dust beneath his heels as a final precau-
tion.
He had only a quarter of an hour. With a slight tensing of his
muscles he rose to his feet, buttoned his shabby coat and
slouched out of the public-house. He made his way towards
Charing Cross and, turning down Villiers Street, crossed Hunger-
75


76
MURDER IN WAX
ford Bridge and slouched across the road to the iron gates leading
to the main entrance of the station.
Placing his back to one of the iron uprights, he lit another
cigarette and disposed himself to wait.
As he had expected, he had no long vigil. At a few minutes
past the half-hour a taxi drew up on the other side of the road
in front of the coffee stall. Almost at once a black glove showed
at the window and, with a hasty glance round, Jerry crossed the
road swiftly and leapt into the cab.
“Drive like 'ell!” he snapped, as he sank into the seat. “El-
v'den!”
His survey had shown him that for once in a way he had been
outmatched. A figure had come from the tobacconist's on the
corner as he crossed the road and he had recognized Inspector
Elveden.
The taxi shot forward immediately and the barrel of a re-
The tas into his side...id the Squid in his icked up the spealy,
“Most unfortunate,” said the Squid in his habitual flat mono-
tone. A black-gloved hand reached out and picked up the speak-
ing-tube. “Make for King's Cross,” he instructed impassively,
and threw a glance over his shoulder.
"Our dear friend, Inspector Elveden, is following in a taxi,"
he observed calmly, "but something tells me that this will not be
his lucky night.”
Jerry turned round hastily, conscious of a pair of cold eyes
that regarded him unswervingly, and stared out of the little
window at the back of the cab. Another taxi was coming in their
wake.
“Streuth!” he muttered nervously. "I didn't know that lousy
tyke was follerin me, Squid!”
"A compliment, my dear Jerry, a compliment,” remarked the
Squid disinterestedly. “Quite flattering to receive the attention
of an inspector of the C.I.D.”
A low laugh broke from him.
"We can only pray that his ill-advised interest in us will not
result in a regrettable accident,” he murmured, and abruptly his
tone hardened.
"I take it you have seen the notice regarding the tiara. A nasty
blunder, Jerry."
Jerry tautened and stared round quickly.
"Honest ter Gawd, Squid,” he said, speaking with nervous
haste, “I wouldn't try ter twist yer. I ain't no judge o sparklers.
'Ow the 'ell was I ter know they was duds?”


"NOT TO-NIGHT, MR. ELVEDEN!" 77
"You have them with you?" pursued the Squid coolly.
“Yus, 'ere," and Jerry removed his bowler swiftly.
The gleaming tiara encircled his tousled head and he hastily
placed it in the Squid's outstretched hand.
The Squid accepted it silently and in the light of a lamppost
that flashed by Jerry caught a glance of the huge head and the
two gleamined and drew as he said huski
He shivered and drew away a little from the other.
"I never noo it, Squid," he said huskily. "Cut me froat if I tell
a lie."
"I should,” answered the Squid placidly. "Fortunately, I be-
lieve that for once you have departed from your usual inac-
curacy."
Jerry drew a breath of relief. In the darkness he could hear
the Squid turning the tiara over in his hand.
"I got 'em out o' Sir Markis' safe two days ago," whined
Jerry, striving to catch a glimpse of the other's face. “An' I
mucked the room abaht like what you said I was to."
A low laugh answered him.
"Exactly. I think I believe you, Jerry. The error is mine. I
made the mistake of underestimating our friend Sir Marcus.
Obviously he believes in the old saw-Præmonitus præmunitus.
You wouldn't understand, Jerry. Knowing the attraction that
diamonds have for me, he prepares to meet any–er-untoward
contingency. I shall give myself the pleasure of dealing with Sir
Marcus at some future date.”
Jerry did not find the statement hard to believe.
He peered out of the window again. Elveden's taxi had not
gained during the past few minutes.
“ 'E's still follerin', Squid,” he said.
“Naturally. What do you expect him to do? Go the other
wayene Squid, ing tube as he dir
The Squid turned to observe the pursuing taxi and then picked
up the speaking tube again.
“A little more speed,” he directed, and sat back.
Jerry spoke nervously.
“ 'Ere, I want ter git outer this,” he whined. "Elveden an'
I don't love each other much lately. This'd put the lil' tin 'at on
it.”
"Cold feet, Jerry?” asked the Squid softly. “Do you really
imagine I care what happens to you, or that I am likely
to imperil my own safety, for your sake? Believe me, no. But
if it will reassure you, allow me to say that nothing is fur-


78
MURDER IN WAX
qui as the elbe shot in a small be
ther from my thoughts than a premature encounter with Mr.
Elveden."
"Well, lemme drop orf at Holborn Circus. I'll tike me chanct, I
will.”
“As you please," purred the Squid, and Jerry rose to his feet.
As the taxi swept across the Circus, Jerry opened the door
and, steadying himself, dropped into the road.
Staggering violently, he rolled sideways and collapsed into the
arms of an astonished policeman on point duty.
The Squid's taxi swept on and Jerry caught a brief glance of a
black-gloved hand closing the door.
"Here, hold up," grunted the policeman, and swung Jerry to
his feet, holding him out at arms length. "What's the big idea?”
With a furious glance at his captor, Jerry wrenched himself
free and swung on his heel, but the man on point duty was too
quick. His foot shot out and Jerry pitched forward over it.
As the policeman swung him to his feet for the second time,
the other cab shot into the curb and the Inspector leaned out of
the window, showing a small badge in his hand.
"Get in, Jerry,” he invited quietly and, helped by his captor's
none too gentle hand, the Lag stumbled into the taxi.
“Put it on," directed the Inspector and leant forward to peer
ahead at the back of the Squid's taxi, by now holding a substan-
tial lead.
He turned to the Lag and his white teeth gleamed as he smiled
in his own peculiar way.
“Come into some money lately, Jerry?” he asked casually.
“Or found some before it was lost?”
“No, I ain't,” snarled the Lag. "Ain't all got the luck to be per-
lice inspectors. An' 'oo do yer think yer luggin' abaht? This 'ere's
a free country—almost.”
“Taxis cost money,” continued the Inspector in the same silky
tone. "Fond of taxis, Jerry?”
"Fonder'n I am o' your society," growled the Lag.
“Would it be indiscreet to say you preferred the Squid's com-
pany?"
But the old Lag was not caught so easily. He knew how to
hide his emotions when necessary and Elveden looked for a be-
traying sign in vain.
"No, it wouldn't,” Jerry answered curtly. "I prefer anyone's
society ter yours.”
"Obviously,” sighed the Inspector regretfully. “That was the
Squid you were driving with, I believe?"


“NOT TO-NIGHT, MR. ELVEDEN!"
79
' 'abits of auld find no repuddenly and
“You'd believe anything, you would,” grunted the Lag, “ 'cept
the truf!”
Elveden looked ahead impatiently. The two taxis were still
the same distance apart.
“Get a move on.”
“Move on it is, sir," answered the chauffeur obediently and
accelerated. Almost at once a traffic jam made them slow down.
A blue arm barred their progress. Elveden looked out of the
window and gritted his teeth. The small badge came into evidence
again and the taxi shot forward.
Another two minutes wasted.
“Interested in diamonds, Jerry?” asked Elveden at length.
“Not arf,” grinned the Lag, "wallows in 'em, I does.”
"Where were you on the night that Sir Marcus had the mis-
fortune to lose his tiara? Foolish of me, but I seem to connect
you with that evening."
"Lunching at the Ritz with Baldwin," jeered the Lag.
"Really? Now I shouldn't have thought- "
"You wouldn't," interposed the Lag with grim satisfaction:
“Can't break the 'abits of a lifetime, can yer?"
Elveden, peering ahead, could find no reply.
At that moment the taxi in front slowed suddenly and came to
a standstill before King's Cross Station.
"Quick!” snapped Elveden, leaning forward and watching in-
tently.
His own taxi accelerated immediately and the distance les-
sened rapidly. As they closed in, a puzzled expression crossed
the Inspector's face. No one had descended from the taxi save
the chauffeur and he was leaning against the door smoking
calmly.
Elveden's cab came alongside and the Inspector jumped out,
dragging the Lag with him.
The Inspector leapt to the door of the Squid's taxi, swung the
chauffeur out of the way and wrenched it open.
The taxi was empty.
“Where's your fare?” demanded Elveden, turning swiftly on
his heel and eyeing the driver.
The latter, an undersized man, removed his cap and scratched
his head thoughtfully.
"I suppose you ain't by any chance a Mister Elveden?” he
ventured diffidently.
The Inspector started. “I am Inspector Elveden."
The little man whistled and surveyed the other interestedly.


80
MURDER IN WAX
"Inspector, is it? That explains it. The bloke I was driving
dropped orf at the traffic jam at the corner of Sidmouth Street.
He told me to drive on to King's Cross and wait there for him.
Anything fishy about him, sir?
"Decidedly,” replied Elveden, smiling faintly, “but I think you
mentioned my name, just now?"
The other shifted his feet uneasily and reddened slightly.
"You see, sir," he said confusedly, “My fare told me if anyone
asked me any questions—and he seemed to think they might-
I was to ask if they was Mr. Elveden and if they said they
was- "
He paused and looked even more uncomfortable.
“Go on," directed the Inspector.
“Well, I was to say, 'Not to-night, Mr. Elveden.' No offense
meant and none taken, I hopes, sir?”
He stared anxiously at the inspector.
Elveden bit his lip and frowned.
“No, that's all right,” he answered. “Did you manage to get a
look at his face?”
“No, sir. He had a black scarf round his face and I couldn't
see anything but his eyes.”
"Anything else you noticed? Any little detail, no matter how
irrelevant it may seem.”
The man scratched his head and appeared to be debat-
ing.
“Medium height, sir,” he answered. “Dressed in black-black
gloves and carrying a brown paper parcel in his hand.”
“Describe it."
The chauffeur indicated its size and general appearance.
Had Jerry been present, he would have recognized it as one con-
taining the Squid's waxen head.
But he was not present, a fact that Elveden discovered two
minutes later.
Whilst interrogating the driver, the Inspector had momentarily
relaxed his hold on the old Lag and Jerry had been swift to dis-
appear. It did not greatly worry the Inspector; he could lay
hands on the Lag whenever he wanted him; but the fact that
he had lost the man whom he confidently believed to be the
Squid, incensed him.
Two days of incessantly watching Jerry in the hope that
sooner or later the Lag would lead him to the Squid had had the
desired result. And then to lose his man ...
"All right, that's all,” he nodded to the chauffeur.


"NOT TO-NIGHT, MR. ELVEDEN!" 81
Ramming his hands into his pockets, he turned on his heel
and strode back by the way he had come.
Behind him the chauffeur resumed his position against the door
of the taxi.
Lighting a cigarette, he smiled ironically after the retreating
figure of the Scotland Yard man.
"Lumme, the boss is a cute hand,” he informed the sky, softly.
“Not to-night, Mr. Elveden! Not likely, nor any other night
either!”
He chuckled, much amused.


XI. FREDDIE IS NOT HELPFUL
"FREDERICK HERBERT LEICESTER, who was detained on suspicion
in connection with the theft of the Loseley tiara, was released this
morning. Sir Marcus Loseley declined to bring a charge against
his friend and made a statement to the effect that the stolen
tiara was a paste imitation of the actual heirloom, which is de-
posited in Thyme's Bank. There can be little doubt that the
robbery was the work of the notorious Squid, for whom diamonds
seem to have an uncanny fascination."
The Duke of Framlingham laid down his paper and looked up
as someone touched him on the shoulder.
Leslie and Jimmy, arm-in-arm, nodded cheerily.
His Grace rose with a welcoming smile.
“Ah, Leslie,” he murmured, "you make the old Park a sweeter
place.”
He nodded cordially to Jimmy and set a chair for Leslie.
“Flatterer,” she reproved, sinking into her seat.
The Duke reseated himself and drew the reporter's attention
to the paragraph he had just been reading.
"Comes this from your masterly pen, James Craven?” he
demanded accusingly.
“Guilty, my Lord,” grinned Jimmy.
“Call me Erb,” pleaded His Grace. "It is quite a nice article,
but it makes no mention of Freddie's criminal tendencies. A sad
omission."
Jimmy drew up a chair close to Leslie and, sitting down, lighted
a cigarette.
"Thank you for the cigarette you haven't yet offered me,”
Leslie mocked as he replaced his cigarette case.
The reporter withdrew it hastily.
“Sorry, old thing” he apologized. “I'm a bit worried this morn-
ing. Bagshaw has been tearing his hair about the Squid story and
I came in for the backwash. What do you think of the case, Erb?"
But His Grace was not to be drawn into a discussion on crime.
"Like the cigarettes it contains cheap," he said placidly, eye-
ing Jimmy's open case with disfavor. “Don't touch those lung
perishers, Leslie.”
He proffered his own.
“Addiction to ‘Yellow Peril hints at a low mentality," he said
serenely.
82


FREDDIE IS NOT HELPFUL
83
Leslie smiled and accepted a Turkish. The reporter leant for-
ward and held a match.
"Has anyone seen that indolent frog, Freddie, this morning?"
asked the Duke wearily. “Or has the jail-bird retired to hide his
diminished head? I can't understand that boy. He comes and
goes—and goes and comes. I suppose at the moment he is dili-
gently thinking out a fresh way of bringing unpleasant notoriety
on my name.”
Jimmy looked up at the blue sky, down at the green grass and
then at Leslie. It was a nice morning and he was with the one
girl ...
"Feel like a gentle stroll, Erb?” he suggested, and prayed
fervently.
His prayer was answered. Or perhaps His Grace was a discern-
ing man.
"A stroll? Yes," answered the Duke, his eyes twinkling. “One
of your long nerve-wracking toils from one end of the park to
the other—no. Run along, children. You have my blessing.”
They availed themselves of the opportunity and left him to
his paper.
The park looked extremely attractive that morning as they
paced one of its gravel walks, side by side. And Leslie, reflected
Jimmy, looked even more attractive. The world was a good
place. Keeping his eyes on the ground, he composed an elegant
opening.
He looked up and found her watching him—and the words
died on his lips.
“You're very silent this morning,” she offered, with a sidelong
glance.
"I'm thinking,” he volunteered, after a long silence.
“About your old Squid story, or something interesting?" she
challenged and her own peculiarly provocative smile hovered
round her lips and danced in her eyes.
"About matrimony,” said Jimmy weightily, and, chancing to
catch her glance, he reddened suddenly.
She averted her head: "Is it permitted to enquire the nature
of your conclusions on the subject?”
"I am thinking of marrying,” he replied, and quite unneces-
sarily added: “You know-getting married.”
There was an embarrassing silence.
Then: “Yes, one does usually connect matrimony with get-
ting married. May I offer my congratulations?”.
The reporter reddened again.


MURDER IN WAX
“Not yet,” he answered, a little confusedly. “You seelook
here, Leslie old thing, do you like the name of Craven?”
It was out at last. He stopped and, turning, faced her squarely.
But a woman is a woman.
“Yes, I see your point,” she retorted flippantly, “but what's
in a name? The girl would live it down if she was really nice.”
“But seriously, Leslie.”
She hurried on, still averting her head, lest he should see what
was in her eyes. He followed dejectedly.
Leaving the park, they strolled along the Gore and came to a
stop, as if by mutual consent, opposite Prince of Wales Terrace.
Jimmy stood there awkwardly, kicking his toe against the
curb, and Leslie waited for what she was sure would come. Once
he opened his mouth as though to speak and her heart missed a
beat. But the minutes passed and he gave no sign. Looking at
him, she saw that his eyes were fixed intently on the houses op-
posite. Two minutes earlier he had seen a familiar figure pass into
one of the flats on the right-hand side of the road.
The figure had been that of Jerry the Lag and Jimmy wanted
to speak to the Lag urgently. But Leslie had not seen and a
puzzled expression spread over her face.
"What's occupying the Craven brain, Opensive one?" she
asked in a forced tone.
It was the reporter and not the man who answered.
“I've just seen a man I rather want to speak to."
“Oh!”
That was all. Leslie turned away. It was not the answer she
had expected. Excitement she had expected, but excitement
prompted by something other than a mere man. Prompted, in
fact, by a woman.
Her face and tone both showed disappointment, but he was too
preoccupied to notice either.
“Look here, old thing, have you any objection to waiting half
a jiffy? I don't suppose it will be long, but I must see that chap."
She nodded without much enthusiasm and looked away.
“Thanks,” he muttered, vaguely conscious that something was
wrong.
As he spoke someone left the flat he was watching.
"Why there's Freddie," said Leslie, in a rather more enthusias-
tic tone. “Was it he you wanted to see?"
Jimmy frowned. It was Freddie Leicester, and Freddie was the
last person in the world he had expected. It was an awkward turn
of events.


FREDDIE IS NOT HELPFUL
85
Freddie saw them almost as soon as they saw him and waving
a cheerful hand, he galloped across the road, flourishing his hat
and beaming amiably.
“Ah, children, imbibing the morning allowance of ozone?"
Leslie smiled.
"Hallo, old jail-bird! What's it feel like to be an honest and
respected citizen again?”
"Wonderful, queen of my soul,” Freddie answered ecstatically
and posed grandly, forestalling Jimmy's attempt to join the con-
versation.
“What do they know of Freedom who only Freedom know?"
"he parodied absurdly.
“What a philosopher," she scoffed.
"And what a philosophy,” he retorted. “I had visions of spend-
ing the night in a cop emporium and waking up with no one to
bring the hot fluid and fungi remover-distinctly scaly pros-
pect "
Jimmy interrupted his friend's pæan of joy suddenly and de-
terminedly.
"Did you see a down-at-heel tramp-like person enter the flat
you have just left, Freddie?” he asked.
Freddie raised his eyebrows and smiled vacantly.
“You're the only tramp-like person I've seen this morning,
my dear old fright,” he answered. “Those trousers—that tie-
James, why don't you abandon that pernicious hire-purchase sys-
tem?”
He eyed Jimmy's baggy trousers and faded tie with a rueful
countenance.
“Never mind my trousers," interrupted Jimmy.
“I try not to," sighed Freddie, “but really-
“Did you?” persisted Jimmy obstinately.
Freddie turned to Leslie with a hopeless gesture.
“Has he been drinking anything besides chunks of the matut-
inal zephyr?” he demanded, and then, “Who is this tramp I
haven't seen, old lad?”
"Jerry the Lag,” and Jimmy watched his friend with curiosity.
Freddie regarded him blankly.
“Not a nag, is it?" he suggested. “Meantersay, I had a few
doubloons on Jerry the Flier a month ago. M'm yes. He'd have
done better if he had kept to running!”
"You haven't seen anyone, then?" pursued Jimmy.
Trying to obtain information from Freddie was a hopeless kind
of amusement.


86
MURDER IN WAX
It was Leslie who spoke, and there was a slight irritation in
her tone.
“Supposing we move on! I'm tired of adorning this spot, any-
way, and we shall be arrested for loitering in a minute.”
The reporter interpreted her tone correctly. He nodded obedi-
ently and they continued their walk. Freddie, humming lightly,
walked on the outside, apparently without a care, but the faces
of both Leslie and Jimmy showed marked preoccupation and
restraint. But for differing reasons. They had not gone far when
a voice behind them said, “Good morning, Miss Richmond. Can
I have a few words with you, Mr. Leicester?"
Turning, the trio found Inspector Elveden directly behind them.
Freddie bowed with exaggerated courtesy.
"Excuse me, Leslie, my child,” he said lightly. “Prison ac-
quaintance of mine beseeches favor of discourse.”
Leslie nodded abstractedly and walked on with Jimmy. The
latter's brows were contracted in a puzzled frown.
He had got nothing out of Freddie, and Jerry the Lag had not
reappeared. Added to which, Elveden had unexpectedly put in
an appearance. Interest seemed to center exclusively around the
flat in Prince of Wales Terrace. Jimmy bit his lip. He had forgot-
ten to ask Freddie about that flat. It was the first intimation he
had had that Freddie owned a flat in the West End. It was all
very puzzling.
Twenty yards behind, the Inspector and Freddie sauntered
in their wake.
"I wasn't aware you had a flat up in this part of the world,
Mr. Leicester," prompted the Inspector, interested in the set of
his tie.
"No?" Freddie smiled equably. “I took it to be near Harrods'.
The diamonds there are well spoken of, they tell me. Thought it
might be handy when I had need of a few Koh-i-Noors.”
"In plain English," said the Inspector without glancing up, "I
can mind my own business."
Probably Freddie had not heard. In any case he did not
answer.
"And talking of flats,” continued Elveden quietly. "You have
had a frequent visitor there lately, haven't you? I refer to Jerry
the Lag.”
And this time he looked up, to meet a disarming smile.
"Dashed curious," murmured Freddie interestedly, "Bally rum,
if you follow me, old lad? What I mean to say-look here, who
is this Jerry the wag?”


FREDDIE IS NOT HELPFUL
87
"Lag,” Elveden corrected politely.
“You know," said Freddie gracefully, “but that still leaves
me shivering in the coldness of doubt. Meantersay—is he a Prime
Minister or something? Bootlegger, perhaps? No? Well, it sets
the jolly old molars on edge, you know, when every dashed
Johnnie you meet says something about Jerry the Lag. Becoming
a kind of byword like 'Do you Pelmanise?'—if you understand."
“Who else has asked you about Jerry?"
"James of the house of Craven was harping somewhat definitely
on the subject,” Freddie supplied. “He swore by all the gods
that this Jerry person had trickled into my flat ten minutes or so
before I left it. Dashed ridiculous, I mean, and all that sort of
thing. A chappie can't filter in and out of another chappie's home
for long without getting it where the body joins the head."
Elveden watched him narrowly.
“You mean you don't know him?” he asked, and Freddie
gasped painfully.
"Stickler, ain't you? Suppose, instead of working at cross
purposes, we get together in this matter and sort of pool the
old gray matter. Describe this bird, my dear old cop.”
Elveden obliged.
As he concluded, a light dawned in Freddie's eyes. He clapped
his companion enthusiastically on the back.
"Eureka,” he said brightly. “The think-box revolves. You mean
the jolly old pane polisher, what?”
"Pane polisher?" asked Elveden.
“Glass burnisher," Freddie explained patiently. “Casement
cleaner, oriel furbisher."
“Window cleaner?”.
“Crude, but descriptive," answered Freddie.
There was a momentary silence and the Inspector's tie claimed
his attention again.
“We don't seem to get much farther, do we?” he asked with
an apologetic smile. “Shall I put a hypothetical case?”
“Certainly,” agreed Freddie blankly. "What is a hypothetical
case, and where does one put it?”
“This is a good example of one," answered Elveden with an
enigmatical smile. "A, who is a well-known crook, is observed
outside a house one night, eyeing it with a professional eye. You
follow? The same night, that house is robbed and B is caught
on the premises. I am not boring you? A has temporarily van-
ished from his old haunts and B, after being detained on sus-
picion, is eventually released. I trust I am making things clear?


88
MURDER IN WAX
Subsequently A is observed entering B's flat-there is nothing
criminal in that, but it hints at a connection between A and B,
I think?”
“Certainly,” murmured Freddie politely. “Point debated, mo-
tion agreed on.”
The Inspector eyed him.
“That is the case,” he said slowly.
"Dashed interesting," agreed Freddie with a vacant stare.
“Talking of conundrums, have you heard the one about the hen
and the egg?”
They continued their walk. Freddie was not in a communica-
tive mood.


XII. JOHN RICHMOND'S MESSAGE
THE little round-faced bespectacled man looked up from the
alphabetical chart he was studying at the table and smiled at the
newcomer.
"Good morning, Mr. Elveden,” he said pleasantly, fixing his
bird-like eyes on the Inspector.
Inspector Elveden nodded and dropped into a chair by the
open window.
“Morning, Mr. Lanning,” he said briefly. “Any luck with the
cipher, yet?”
"Let me see, that will beah yes, quite so."
The little man adjusted his glasses and, rummaging about in
the papers strewn all over the table, he produced the slip which
Sir Marcus had given the Inspector and which Elveden in turn
had handed on to the little code expert of the Yard.
Mr. Lanning studied the message thoughtfully, took off his
spectacles, wiped and replaced them.
"Well?” asked Elveden, watching the operation with a faintly
used smilesked hd replace messas part of
"Exactly,” murmured Mr. Lanning, “This code of yours, Mr.
Elveden . . . ridiculously simple ... extraordinarily so, if I
may take the liberty—it is a wonder that you did not succeed in
elucidating it yourself. Yes. Quite so.”
The Inspector smiled. Possibly the code did present little diffi-
culty and on the other hand possibly it did not. Elveden was
familiar with the little man's habit of depreciating himself and
more often than not the little problems that Lanning termed
“ridiculously easy” were, in Elveden's more direct parlance,
“damned tricky."
He waited patiently. No one ever presumed to hurry Mr. Lan-
ning. It was futile.
"Ridiculously easy,” murmured Mr. Lanning, “extraordinarily
so.” He looked over his glasses at the Inspector. "I tried all the
well-known and most intricate combinations before I realized that
the message was written in one of the simplest—if not the
simplest_ciphers known to this department.”
Elveden nodded encouragingly. Lanning was off and required
no advice or outside comment on the subject that was nearest his
heart—the deciphering of code messages.
The old man gave his glasses another brief examination and


90
MURDER IN WAX
came straight to the point, for which the Inspector was thankful.
“Reading from left to right,” said Mr. Lanning, "we have the
words: PRAY PHEERS INST CLOD NICE ELAN LEES DO INNS LOOK
STEP LIES YE TRIBAL READ. A truly curious collection of words.
The division of the words has no bearing on the message, however.
In some cases one word of the original message has been dis-
tributed over three words of code, and the code words do not cor-
respond to words of the same length from the original. The mes-
sage was obviously written in a hurry and designed only to baffle
the layman.”
He stroked his chin and passed the slip of paper to the Inspec-
tor.
"Only one letter in every two is relevant,” he continued, "the
rest have been added to confuse. I trust that my diagram has
made it clear.”
Elveden looked at the slip and read:
PRAY PHEERS INST CLOD NICE ELAN LEES DO INNS
PRAY PHEERS INST CLOD NICE ELAN LEES DO INNS
P A P E R I S CO NCE A L E D I N
LOOK STEP LIES YE TRIBAL READ.
LOOK STEP LIES YE TRIBAL READ.
LO SE LE Y TIARA
PAPER IS CONCEALED IN LOSELEY TIARA.
The Inspector stared thoughtfully at the message. So that was
the reason for the robbery of the tiara? A concealed paper?
Did that support the theory that the Squid had been responsible?
In any case there might be others interested. Excluding himself,
four people had seen the message. Sir Marcus, Jimmy Craven,
Freddie Leicester and the Duke of Framlingham. He wrinkled
his brows. Freddie Leicester? Well, Freddie had been arrested in
the very room in which the robbery had taken place. Then, why
had Sir Marcus refused to bring a charge?
His preoccupation had not passed unnoticed by the little cipher
expert and, feeling Lanning's eyes on him, the Inspector rose to
his feet.
“Thanks, Mr. Lanning. You've been a great help.” And with
a curt nod he left the room.
Thyme's Bank had begun to interest him greatly. The news-
paper statement had mentioned that the tiara was deposited at
the bank and whoever had executed the robbery had been un-
aware of that. Now, of course, it was public property, and if, as
he was inclined to think, the Squid was taking a hand in the


JOHN RICHMOND'S MESSAGE
91
game-well, diamonds had a fascination for him and the fact
that they lay in the strong room of a bank was not likely to deter
him.
Head down, hands deep in his pockets, Inspector Elveden
strode down the Strand and proceeded along Fleet Street, paus-
ing at last before the solid main entrance of Thyme's Bank.
Entering, he walked to the long counter and spoke through
the brass grille to a sleek-haired clerk.
“I wish to have a few words with the manager."
“Yes, sir. Have you an appointment?”
"I have not,” answered the Inspector, indifferently. "I'm afraid,
sir- " the other was beginning, when Elveden cut him short
with unusual curtness.
“You're not! I am Inspector Elveden of Scotland Yard. Give
Mr. Thyme my compliments and that message.”
“Yes, sir."
The clerk collapsed like a pricked bubble and walked the length
of the counter to Mr. Thyme's door.
- Two minutes later he conducted the Inspector across the white
tessellated floor and ushered him into the manager's sanctum.
As the door closed behind the Inspector, a short, corpulent
man with a cherubic face, rose from behind a massive oak desk
and held out a well-manicured hand.
"Inspector Elveden?" asked Mr. Thyme in a gentle voice. "You
wished to speak to me, I believe? Please take a seat."
He sat down himself and motioned to a chair drawn up before
the desk. Elveden sank into it.
In those few seconds Elveden's appraising eyes summed up
the man before him.
Immaculate to the smallest detail-about fifty-three years old
--and the living incarnation of the Cheerybles the likeness
pleased the Inspector. It was to be hoped that Mr. Thyme would
be as genial and obliging as the celebrated Dickensian characters.
“Mr. Thyme," he said, briskly, “I believe that Sir Marcus
Loseley is one of your clients?”
Mr. Thyme nodded courteously. As a rule he was reticent
where his clients or their interests were concerned, but in this
case it would be of little avail. All England, thanks to the news-
papers, knew that Sir Marcus had deposited his famous heir-
loom at the bank.
“That is so," he acknowledged.
“And I understand that the Loseley tiara is deposited here?”
continued the Inspector slowly.


92
MURDER IN WAX
Mr. Thyme understood so too. A loyal reticence about his
client's affairs was quite useless.
“I should like, if possible, to have a look at the tiara,” pursued
Elveden.
Mr. Thyme sat back and pursed his lips.
“May I ask for what purpose?” he inquired gently.
“That, of course, is my business,” answered the Inspector.
Mr. Thyme nodded.
“Naturally, forgive me,” he murmured, contritely. “You have
a written authorization, I take it?”.
“Unfortunately, no," answered the Inspector, “but I think it
might be managed without that. As I merely wished to examine
the tiara, I imagined that we could dispense with a warrant.”
Mr. Thyme looked genuinely distressed.
“Unfortunately," he apologized, “it is impossible for me to
allow you to see the tiara without a letter authorizing me to do
so, from the owner, Sir Marcus. I am extremely sorry, Inspector,
but you appreciate my position? I mean no offense when I say
that we have to be extremely careful in these matters. If anything
should happen to the tiara while it is in my possession, Sir Marcus
would hold me responsible. An order from the Commissioner of
Police would, of course, relieve me of any responsibility, but I
think it would be easier to approach Sir Marcus. He could have
no objection, my dear sir.”
The Inspector nodded and rose to his feet.
“Very well, I will obtain Sir Marcus' written order," he replied,
and with a brief nod to the manager, left the room.
Mr. Thyme watched with thoughtful eyes his tall figure stride
down the length of the bank.
In Fleet Street, Elveden hailed a bus going to Victoria and
went on top with a slight frown. He had hoped that Mr. Thyme
would have proved willing to assist. Enough time had been
wasted already. Descending at Victoria Street, he made his way
towards Sir Marcus' house. In answer to his knock, Fenton ap-
peared almost at once to announce that his master was out.
"He has been out all the morning, sir. I think he mentioned
that he might be calling on His Grace of Framlingham for
lunch."
Elveden grunted and, turning his back unceremoniously, re-
traced his steps.
With a vexed expression he chartered a taxi and directed the
chauffeur to drive to Upper Berkeley Street. For once in a way
the usually urbane Inspector was a little put out.


JOHN RICHMOND'S MESSAGE
93
Sitting back in the taxi, he frowned angrily at the inoffensive
back of the chauffeur. Why the devil should he have to waste an
entire morning chasing people all over the globe in their interests?
The odds were ten to one that Sir Marcus was out on one of
his periodical book searches and would not remember his promise
to lunch with the Duke.
Still scowling, the Inspector descended at the house. Contrary
to his expectations, Masters informed him that Sir Marcus was
in the library with the Duke and Freddie, and the Inspector was
shown in without delay.
The three men were seated, smoking.
“What ho, the jolly old law!” said Freddie, cheerfulıy. "Whose
doin's have I prigged lately?”
The Inspector ignored the remark and walked straight across
the room to the Baronet.
“I have had that code message translated, Sir Marcus,” he
said. “It reads: 'Paper concealed in Loseley tiara.'”
The Baronet looked at the Duke and Freddie inquiringly.
“Paper?” he said blankly. "What paper?"
“That is what I want to find out," said Elveden patiently. "I
have already been to your bank—I forget whom I saw "
"I know a bank to which the mild Thyme goes,” His Grace
parodied cheerfully, and, catching the glance of disapproval which
Elveden directed at him, relapsed into silence.
"I say I have been to your bank,” continued Elveden in meas-
ured tones, "and the manager declined to allow me to see the tiara
without your consent and written authorization. Have you any
objection to giving me one?”
“None at all,” answered Loseley. “If it will save any trouble,
I will accompany you."
"That would be more convenient,” agreed Elveden. “Can you
do so now?"
“Certainly,” said Sir Marcus.
“Not before lunch, Marcus,” the Duke pleaded. "Have a heart.
I am going into the bank myself after lunch. It'll keep till then,
won't it, Inspector?”
"I should prefer to do it now," replied Elveden vexedly.
“Very well,” nodded the Baronet. “Will you come too,
Erb?"
"That's because he wants to borrow my car,” grunted his
friend. “All right, I'll come. What does it matter if I starve, you
callous brute? Come on and get it over.”
"I will also confer my society on the meeting,” said Freddie


94
MURDER IN WAX
sweetly. “After all, I may as well see the dashed tiara, considering
that I was accused of purloining the beastly thing."
They left the house, and the smooth-running Lanchester carried
them swiftly back to Thyme's bank.
Descending, the Duke gave his chauffeur instructions to wait,
and they entered and made straight for the manager's room.
The sleek-haired clerk who strove to intercept them retired
discomfited when he recognized Erb.
“There are times," said the Duke audibly, “when a dukedom
has its uses," and the clerk's complexion changed to an unbe-
coming magenta.
Mr. Thyme rose to meet his distinguished guests with just the
right amount of cordial deference. To the Inspector he vouchsafed
a somewhat distant nod.
As soon as they seated themselves Mr. Thyme gave His Grace
priority.
“What can I do for you?” he asked politely.
The Duke crossed his legs placidly. “What,” he asked, "divides
me from abject pauperism?”
“Two yards," grinned Freddie, seated next to him.
“You will have your joke!” said Mr. Thyme, mildly. "I believe
your capital is something like two hundred thousand pounds at
the moment."
“Good enough,” said His Grace. "I can afford that little car."
“How much do you require?” asked Thyme. "A thousand,
fifteen hundred ?"
“Whoa,” shouted the Duke. "I shall be broke and receiving
unemployment benefit in a moment. I want a car, not a Pullman
saloon. I shall require six hundred.”
"Pounds or saloons?” Freddie offered.
"From the maniac beside me,” said the Duke scathingly, “Mr.
Storer Clouston drew his portrait of the 'Lunatic at Large.' Six
hundred pounds, Thyme. I have taken a fancy to a Chrysler.
Two-seaters make me feel so dashing."
Mr. Thyme nodded dutifully. Where possible he liked to deal
personally and advise his clients direct, but there were occasions
when he found the personal element a little trying.
This was one of them.
“And you, Sir Marcus?” he asked.
"I called in to have a look at the tiara,” answered the Baronet.
“Mr. Elveden here wishes to glance at it for a moment."
Elveden, who had stood by, betraying none of the anger he felt
at the delay, nodded.
ften hunde houted the in a mome


JOHN RICHMOND'S MESSAGE
95
Mr. Thyme rang a bell on his desk and almost at once a tall
sallow young man appeared in the doorway.
“Have the goodness to bring me the Loseley tiara, Peach,"
instructed Mr. Thyme, handing him a bunch of keys.
"In name only,” observed his lordship sotto voce, and received
a cold glance from Peach, who had heard and correctly inter-
preted the remark.
Peach nodded respectfully and retired.
Elveden, standing a little apart, watched the proceedings with
no visible signs of approval. His irritation appeared to distress
Mr. Thyme.
“Won't you sit down?” he invited. “Peach won't be long, and
I can assure you that the chair is quite comfortable.”
“Trust Thyme for that,” remarked the Duke. "Another alterna-
tive to accepting the dole, Marky, is to become a bank manager."
They conversed idly for a few moments until Peach put in an
appearance again.
He was carrying a square morocco-bound box which he
tendered respectfully to his principal.
With a grand gesture, Mr. Thyme unfastened the box and
lifted the lid.
“The tiara, gentlemen,” he said magnificently.
Sir Marcus picked up the shimmering ornament and handed
it to the Inspector. It was a massive thing of gold, its triangular
front studded with diamonds, large at the base and graduated
until the single gem that adorned the apex was little bigger than
a pin head.
"You will find a little catch in the circlet at the base behind
the central stone,” said Sir Marcus, "I remember that the tiara
was in the safe on the night that John died. In all probability
he concealed the paper he refers to while I was out of the room.
Allow me.”
He took the tiara from the Inspector's hands.
Under his deft fingers a section of the circlet dropped down
suddenly on small hinges, revealing a long hollow that ran nearly
the length of the base.
The Inspector took the ornament hastily and examined it.
The hollow was empty!
“Someone,” said Freddie brightly, “is decidedly up a gum
tree!”


XIII. IN WHICH AN INSPECTOR IS CURIOUS
FENTON admitted the Inspector.
“Good morning, sir,” he said, respectfully.
“Morning,” answered Elveden briefly. "Is Sir Marcus down
yet?”
.
“Yes, sir. At the moment he is in the library with the Duke of
Framlingham. Will you step into the morning room? Miss
Richmond is there."
Elveden nodded and, allowing the butler to relieve him of his
hat and gloves, he followed him across the wide, old-fashioned
hall.
Leslie, a slim, graceful figure in green, rose from the deep arm-
chair in which she had been studying the morning papers.
“Well, Inspector? What heinous offense have we committed
this time?"
“None,” he assured her. "I merely wish to have Sir Marcus' aid
on one or two rather knotty points.”
Leslie raised her eyebrows.
“Knotty points?" she murmured. “Can I be of any assistance?
I'm rather a brain-storm on knotty points."
"I'm afraid not, Miss Richmond,” Elveden replied, smiling.
She grinned up into his calm face impudently.
“A guardian sure is worth two wards uncertain, what?" she
mocked.
At that moment Sir Marcus, in company with the Duke,
entered the room.
"Sorry to disturb you so early, Sir Marcus,” said Elveden
conventionally.
“Not at all," answered the Baronet, courteously. “Whom are
we going to arrest?”
“The family seems to have a guilty conscience," said Elveden.
“Miss Richmond seemed apprehensive, and I believe even poor
old Fenton had his suspicions when he opened the door to me.
I trust His Grace harbors no fears."
"My blameless career won't cause me any loss of sleep,”
remarked the Duke.
Leslie rose to her feet.
“Mr. Elveden wants to speak to you privately, Marky," she
said, and linking arms with the Duke, she crossed the room,
pausing at the door to add, with an impudent smile, "about a
96


IN WHICH AN INSPECTOR IS CURIOUS
97
few rather knotty points! Come on, Erb, let's leave them to their
moldy old secrets."
As soon as they had withdrawn, the two men sat down and
Sir Marcus signified his willingness to listen.
They lighted cigarettes and the Inspector leant forward in his
chair.
"I want to ask you a few questions, Sir. Marcus," he said
smoothly, “in connection with the Squid case."
Sir Marcus nodded.
"Certainly,” he agreed, “although I am afraid I am hardly
an authority.”
"I shall have to dig up a little ancient history,” continued the
Inspector almost apologetically, and pausing as though he ex-
pected comment.
None was forthcoming and he resumed.
"Miss Richmond's father was a friend of yours, wasn't he,
sir?"
"He was,” agreed the Baronet slowly, and his tone suggested
that he was not greatly pleased at having the subject resurrected.
“This is painful, I know," resumed Elveden, “but he died
rather suddenly, did he not?”
"He was murdered here in this house," said the Baronet in a
hard voice,
“And you saw the Squid on the night of the murder?"
“That is so. I carry the scar he gave me to this day."
His hand strayed absently to his right temple.
Elveden nodded. “As far as we know you are the only person
who has ever seen the Squid or at least the only person who
has lived to tell of it.”
“I suppose so," the Baronet agreed.
“The Squid's motive in following John Richmond from Venice
and in ultimately murdering him was to obtain something he was
carrying,” pursued the Inspector thoughtfully. "Have you any
idea of the nature of the thing that John Richmond brought with
him from Venice?"
"Beyond the presumption that he carried it in his ebony stick
-pure surmise, of course, but borne out by the fact that the stick
was stolen—and that the deciphering of the code message suggests
that it was an agreement of some kind—none," answered Sir
Marcus. “I am as ignorant of the contents of the agreement as
you are yourself.”
The Inspector drew at his cigarette and was silent for a few
moments.
hard And you so. I eat abseront


IN WHICH AN INSPECTOR IS CURIOUS
101
"As far as I have heard,” said the Baronet in measured tones,
"you are suggesting first that I have removed the agreement from
the tiara myself, having purposefully withheld the message relat-
ing to it for four years. Secondly, that Mr. Leicester, who I
would remind you is a close friend of mine, is in the pay of
the Squid, masquerading as Jerry the Lag. Thirdly, that I am
the only person who has seen the Squid and also the only person
who has not suffered by his depredations, which hints either at
my connivance in his schemes or that I am the Squid myself.
And, fourthly, that it would be to my advantage to remove my
ward and obtain her fortune which last you seem to think likely
to happen!”
The Inspector shrugged indifferently.
"I am not responsible for any construction you choose to put
on the affair,” he pointed out.
“You leave me no choice," replied Sir Marcus coldly. "You
will have the goodness to leave this house. If you stay, I shall
not be responsible for my actions."
The Inspector smiled mockingly, and his white teeth gleamed.
“Qui s'excuse, " he said lightly, and, bowing, left the room,
almost colliding with the Duke, who was on the point of entering.
Sir Marcus dropped into the chair with a white face and poured
himself out a drink from the decanter on the table.
They heard Fenton usher the Inspector out of the house.
"Elveden was in a hurry,” said the Duke serenely, and, seating
himself, he poured out a stiff drink and drained it appreciatively.
Sir Marcus grunted savagely, lit a cigarette, took two puffs at
it and threw it away impatiently.
"Is Leslie there?” he asked.
“She is in the garden," answered His Grace wonderingly.
"Thank God for that,” snapped the Baronet. "I can express
myself freely."
The Duke studied his friend reflectively.
“The cogs of life seem to be grinding a little harshly this
morning," he ventured. "Be strong, Marcus. We all have our
troubles. I myself have had a thin week.”
He helped himself to a cigarette.
“Curse your thin week!" snarled the other. "And curse that
interfering jackanapes Elveden.”
“A praiseworthy sentiment. In what has the minion of the law
fallen short of our expectations?”
“That's the trouble," Sir Marcus growled. “He inspects too
dam' much.”


102
MURDER IN WAX
"I had an idea that the Expector had been inspecting a little
too closely,” His Grace observed humorously. “Unburden your
soul and the secret sorrows thereof."
"My only sorrow," said his friend, “is that I did not strangle
that man while I had the chance."
He rose from his chair and paced the room angrily.
“The fellow has had the insufferable insolence to accuse me
to my face of being the Squid,” rapped the rate baronet, pausing
in his stride. "Furthermore, he suggested that Freddie was a
common thief, and threw out a lot of damned unpleasant insinua-
tions. Bah!”
He sat down and fired out a verbatim report and, at its conclu-
sion, rose to his feet again with a furious face and resumed his
striding up and down the room.
"It is a pity," sighed the Duke, "that you did not resent his
impertinence in the only possible way.”
“Bah! I wouldn't soil my hands,” Loseley ground out savagely.
“I was thinking that his deplorable lapse might have been
more fittingly rewarded with a boot!"
He şase to his down the The Duke


XIV. FREDDIE INTRUDES
STANDING in the wide, pillared portico of the Nocturnes Club,
Jerry peered inquisitively through the swing doors at the lobby
beyond.
Every so often someone left the club, and as the big glass doors
swung open, the strains of a jazz band momentarily burst forth,
to die away again as the doors closed.
A few paces away, the gorgeous commissionaire looked Jerry
over suspiciously, scratched his head and sniffed audibly.
“What do you want?” he demanded presently in an unfriendly
tone.
"Wot's that to you, Buttons?" Jerry snarled belligerently.
The outraged commissionaire expanded his gold-braided chest
and took a purposeful step in Jerry's direction.
"Look here, my man— " he began ominously, but Jerry was
not easily overawed.
"I am,” he jeered, “an' it gives me a pain. Where's the boss?"
The commissionaire paused and debated.
"I take it, you mean the manager?” he said coldly, still eyeing
Jerry unfavorably. "Buttons" rankled.
“You'd take anythin' if you wasn't watched," growled Jerry.
"Well, where is he? I want to talk ter 'im."
A nasty expression crept to the face of the commissionaire.
An even nastier expression crept to his lips, but he repressed it.
“What name?” he asked disdainfully.
"Lord Lumme!” retorted Jerry sarcastically. "An' fer the luv
of Mike, git a move on. Think I'm goin' to stay 'ere an' die o'
starvation waitin' fer yer to make hup yer mind?”
“Buttons” was revolving the advantages and disadvantages of
forcibly ejecting the Lag, when the arrival of M. Blatz, the
manager, effectively put an end to the project.
Jerry stepped forward and buttonholed the slight and sleek
manager of the Nocturnes.
"You Mossoo Blatz?” he asked. “ 'Cos if yer are, I wants a few
words wiv yer.”
Monsieur Blatz admitted the soft impeachment and Jerry drew
him out of earshot of the aggrieved commissionaire, who was
merely waiting the order to step in and conclude the interview
to his own satisfaction.
103


FREDDIE INTRUDES
105
At around and beyond therm
Craven. Freddie sighed resignedly and, rising to his feet, tiptoed
away.
Lovers were a gruesome anomaly, best left to bore each other,
and it had occurred to Freddie, in a rare flash of inspiration, that
they might require him to dance—the last thing on earth that
he wanted to do.
Monsieur Blatz bowed deeply to the new-comers and ushered
them to a secluded, reserved table in the dance room.
Returning, he gazed anxiously at the door to which he had
idencialue at the dance coohich he had
conducted Jerry some time previously. The Lag's sudden appear-
ance had shaken Monsieur Blatz considerably.
Jerry in the meantime had finished his cigarette and, extin-
guishing it, rose to his feet. Rummaging in his pockets, he pro-
duced a black silk mask which he adjusted carefully, and with
a cautious glance round, stepped to the door at the farthermost
end of the room and, opening it, entered the room beyond. Unlike
the room he had just left, this one was long and narrow. In the
center stood a long oak table and around it ten chairs. The
room was paneled throughout. At two different places in the
right-hand wall, long heavy plush curtains hung, and noticing a
faint stir in the folds, Jerry rightly surmised that they covered
windows.
Seating himself at the table, Jerry looked round the room.
Opposite the door he had entered was another door, situated at
the far end and above it a clock. Over his head a single bulb
lit the room. There were no prints or pictures and the bareness
gave something the aspect of a board room.
At the end of five minutes the door by which Jerry had entered
opened again, to admit another arrival.
The new-comer, masked like Jerry, was a short rotund man.
He took no notice of the Lag but, seating himself at the table,
stared fixedly at the wall opposite. Jerry paid little attention to
his companion. He was used to the Squid's conferences and also
to the inadvisability of breaking the Squid's rules, one of which
demanded absolute silence between members of the gang, a pro-
tective measure that prevented members either recognizing or
betraying one another. Jerry had often wondered who the little
fat man was, as he had indulged in speculation about the others,
but beyond that he had not permitted himself to go. The clock
above the far door showed the time to be eight o'clock and in
the next half-hour seven more men entered the room, tall men,
short men, fat men, slim men, all masked and all preserving the
same rigid silence.
treetraying one at he had indul permitted bibe eight o'cho, kall


106
MURDER IN WAX
arwenty-ses always.. bare
Jerry's lips curved behind his mask. Inspector Elveden would
be interested in this little gathering, he reflected. There was not
a man present who was not an artist in his own particular line.
Not a man, doubtless, who was not wanted” for something or
other and that, he knew, constituted the Squid's hold over the
little band. The Squid knew each member individually, but none
of them knew what face the gruesome mask hid. The organization
had its advantages, Jerry mused, since none of them singly could
have planned or executed the enterprises which the Squid pro-
posed and engineered.
Nine of the places at the table were occupied now. The vacant
chair at the head, with its back to the door beneath the clock,
awaited the arrival of their leader. Jerry glanced at the clock.
Twenty-seven minutes to nine. They had not long to wait. The
Squid was always punctual.
The thought had barely crossed his mind when the door under-
neath the clock opened suddenly and the Squid stood framed in
the doorway.
With one accord the nine men rose to their feet and bowed
deeply, Jerry a little awkwardly.
The cold eyes in the Squid's mask watched them attentively.
He nodded briefly, and, stepping into the room and closing the
door behind him, walked to the table to take his place at the
head of it.
“Good evening, gentlemen," he said quietly, and sat down.
No one answered him, but the words were the signal for them
to seat themselves.
Simultaneously nine pairs of inquiring eyes were turned on
the Squid and the nine men produced metal-tipped pencils.
“Number One," said the Squid in an even, impassive voice.
A man on his right tapped steadily on the table with his pencil,
in morse, for a few seconds and Jerry automatically translated
the word “Present.” As soon as Number One had finished the
word, he produced a slip of paper and, writing one letter on it,
handed it to his chief.
The Squid glanced at the letter, folded the slip and said:
"Number Two."
Number Two went through the same formula and a second
slip of paper was passed to the Squid. Jerry followed and passed
up a slip bearing the letter “Q.”
And so the ceremony proceeded until the Squid held nine slips
of paper in his hands. Placed in the order of receiving, the nine
letters spelt the word "acquiring.” He produced a box of matches


FREDDIE INTRUDES
107
and, lighting one, held the slips over the flame, turning them to
blackened ash and scattering them on the floor.
Jerry watched the operation indifferently. He had seen it
many times and wondered each time what the full word was.
None but the Squid knew, and had there been one letter incor-
rect ...
It was an effective protection against an unwelcome intruder.
The Squid looked round the table.
“Number One,” he said, “take the door behind me. Number
Four will guard the other door.”
Two men rose from their places and took up their respective
positions.
“And now to business,” said the Squid.
He leant forward and looked round the table.
“To-night,” he continued in his dull, emotionless voice, "we
shall give our attention to the Incorporated Trust Company's
office in Kingsway.”
The nine nodded assent.
"Number One will deal with the policeman on point duty at
that corner of Kingsway. Choose your own methods and assume
the policeman's uniform. You will patrol the beat. There will be
no bungling and the man must not be allowed to give any
warning.”
Behind him the man at the door tapped out the word “Agreed”
on the wood paneling.
“The change must be effected by one o'clock," said the Squid.
“Number Four will remain on guard at the Kingsway entrance
to the Company's offices.”
The Squid looked up at the man guarding the door opposite.
“You will take care to remain in the shelter of the portico, to
guard against the possibility of being observed by chance
pedestrians.”
He waited again while Number Four tapped out agreement.
"Number Two will perform a similar service at Parker Street.
In the event of a policeman appearing, you will deal with him and
assume his uniform. Understand, no fire-arms are to be used
except in emergency. In the event of a mishap and the likelihood
of the gang being attacked, the member who receives the warning
will as usual give two short blasts on his whistle."
"Numbers Nine and Seven,” the Squid continued, after the
usual formula had been enacted, "will force the Kingsway
entrance of the offices in the usual way. The entrance will be
effected silently and numbers Six, Eight and Three will deal with


108
MURDER IN WAX
the watchmen. There are two. Chloroform will meet the case,
I think.”
A pencil started to tap on the table on the left of the Squid.
He sat motionless, listening attentively.
Jerry mechanically translated the message.
“What time do the watch make their rounds, and on what
floors are they?”
“Every hour,” replied the Squid. “One watchman supervises
each floor. Don't enter till ten past one. By that time the ground
floor watchman will be in the basement."
He looked across at the man who had made the query and,
receiving no further question, proceeded.
“Numbers Six, Eight and Three will enter the vaults, having
disposed of the watchmen. The vaults are reached by a short
staircase at the end of the passage which leads into the building
from the main entrance. At the foot of the stairs is another door
of steel, which should give no difficulty. Beyond that door is a
short passage leading to a third door, which leads directly into
the strong room.”
He drew a sheet of notepaper from his pocket and pushed it
across to Jerry.
The Lag took it and, glancing at it, saw that it was a rough
plan of the building, showing the position of the vaults.
“You will superintend the transferring of the Company's
property to the van, Number Three. Numbers Seven, Nine,
Six and Eight will assist you. Number Five will drive the
van.”
He looked across at a man on the left.
“You will leave Parker Street at the latest by a quarter to
three. At three o'clock the man on the Kingsway beat is relieved
and, shortly after, the Inspector, or Sergeant, of police will make
his rounds. The van must be clear by then. You will drive to the
top of Northumberland Avenue and await me there. The rest
of you will disperse at once and await my instructions."
He sat back in his chair and looked round him.
“You will, of course, observe the usual caution. Gloves, rubber
shoes, etc. No lights are to be shown on the ground floor, or
upper floor. In the basement it will be immaterial. You will
remember that Parker Street bends slightly, leading to a square.
It would be advisable to park the lorry there until it is actually
needed. Are there any questions?”.
He looked slowly around. Absolute silence greeted him, but the
man on Jerry's left raised his hand suddenly in warning.


FREDDIE INTRUDES
109
.
Nine pairs of eyes focused inquiringly on him and he nodded
with his head in the direction of the nearest set of curtains.
The gang sat perfectly still, those with their backs to the
curtains not venturing to turn to see what had aroused the interest
of Jerry's neighbor.
The Squid's eyes gleamed vindictively and his hand came away
from his pocket, holding a revolver. He rose, and his move was
the signal for the others to come silently to their feet.
Each man held a revolver and all eyes were fixed intently on
the curtains.
Setting his chair silently aside, the Squid moved swiftly away
from the table and crossed to the wall, flattening himself against
it and edging slowly and quietly in the right direction.
Reaching a point where the curtains were in touching distance,
he paused.
In all, ten pistols were directed at them.
The Squid signaled mutely to Jerry to take up a similar
position on the other side of the window and the Lag obeyed,
moving with a silence entirely foreign to his usual shuffling gait.
The Squid nodded to the man by the door beneath the clock
and Number One's hand moved to the electric light switch.
The light went out and simultaneously the Squid snatched the
window curtains aside.
The precautions were unnecessary.
Stretched at full length on the window seat and sleeping peace-
fully was Freddie Leicester!


XV. KINGSWAY
APPARENTLY the Squid's sudden action had not disturbed Freddie.
A faint snore broke the silence and the Squid, motioning to Jerry
to assist him, leant down. The sleeper was jerked suddenly to
his feet.
Freddie, rubbing his eyes, stared blankly around a circle of
masked faces and, glancing down at the pistols his captors held,
shivered slightly.
“Silence," said the Squid coldly, “is golden.”
Freddie eyed him nervously.
“Never was talkative,” he mumbled. “Mum as an oyster and
all that sort of thing."
“How long have you been behind that curtain, Mr. Leicester?”
asked the Squid.
Freddie's eyes widened with astonishment.
“You've got the jolly old handle pat," he acknowledged.
"Meantersay, I don't seem to remember being introduced.”
“Answer my question,” snapped the other. "My time is
valuable.”
“But why this harshness to little Fred?” bleated that young
gentleman in a pained tone. “Only too anxious to please, my
dear old soul- "
The barrel of the Squid's revolver shifted ominously.
"Not been here long,” mumbled Freddie hastily. "Retired for
a drop of snooze."
“How much of the proceedings in this room did you hear?"
asked the Squid in the same level dispassionate tone.
“Old friend,” said Freddie gently, “when one sleeps, one does
not hear.”
He cast an anxious glance over each shoulder. The ring had
tightened until he was hemmed in the center of a circle whose
smallness made him think swiftly.
At his back two men stood passively awaiting the Squid's
orders and Freddie disliked the situation,
"Jolly little party, what?” he bleated cheerfully. "Fancy dress
or something?”
The Squid made a gesture of impatience.
“Dose him," he said briefly, nodding to one of the men behind
Freddie.
"Here, I say— " protested Freddie in an alarmed tone.
orde jolly thing "made
IIO


KINGSWAY
111
It remained unsaid.
Freddie sank limply into the arms of the men behind, and the
man who had stunned him pocketed his pistol.
“Gag and tie him,” instructed the Squid, signaling to Jerry.
The Lag produced a handkerchief and a length of whipcord
and, stepping up to the man who held the limp figure, relieved
him and dumped the unconscious Freddie none too gently on
the floor.
With deft, swift movements he tied him hand and foot and
stuffed the handkerchief into the Leicestershire mouth, knotting
it behind his head.
The Squid stirred the inanimate figure with his toe.
“Number Two," he instructed, “carry that out to my taxi and
drive round to the garage. Dump him in the van, and if he shows
any signs of coming round, give him a dose of chloroform. I'll
take him with me to-night.”
Number Two nodded obediently and, picking up the uncon-
scious Freddie, walked to the door. Turning his back, he removed
his mask and passed out with his burden.
The Squid looked up at the clock. It was exactly a quarter
past nine.
“Good-night, gentlemen,” he said and, turning on his heel, left
the room.
No one moved until twenty past nine. At that time one of the
men rose to his feet and left by the door through which he and
the others had entered. At twenty-five minutes past nine a second
member left the room and the rest followed at five-minute inter-
vals, no word being exchanged.
Jerry was the last to leave. Turning out the lights, he pocketed
his mask and passed out to the little ante-room, making his way
into the lobby of the club.
Pausing only to light a cigarette, he crossed the hall to the main
entrance.
"Good night, Buttons,” he said maliciously to the commis-
sionaire and strutted away into the darkness.
Monsieur Blatz, who had observed his retreat with covert satis-
faction, sighed his relief and made his way to the dance room.
Near the wall he discovered His Grace of Framlingham, sipping
an orange-colored drink and eyeing the dancers with disfavor.
He made his way to the Duke's table and bowed gracefully.
"Not dancing, your Grace?” he asked pleasantly.
“Do you call that Kaffir shuffle dancing?" asked the Duke
coldly, indicating a pair of dancers. “Only a girl with nice legs
to the his retreat the daham, sipavor.


112
MURDER IN WAX
should kick them about, yet that spindle-shanked piece of
naughtiness has been showing me the birthmark on her left hip
for the last ten minutes.”
He snorted. “Also,” he added, "she has been flirting out-
rageously with me. Who is that knock-kneed wench?”
Monsieur Blatz smiled indulgently.
"That is Lucille, the modiste of Regent Street,” he answered
blandly.
“Modiste? Immodiste is nearer the mark.” The Duke frowned
portentously. "This club is not what it was, Blatz," he lamented
disapprovingly. “It has become a rendezvous for all that is least
desirable, including my nephew Freddie. Which reminds me,
have you seen that imbecile lately?”
M. Blatz had not.
“I will have him paged, your Grace," he said obligingly, and a
small uniformed toddler made his way round the club, shouting
energetically.
"You introduced me to rather a nice girl the last time I was
here," reflected the Duke thoughtfully. “She was one of the few
women I have danced with who did not tell me point-blank that
I was a bad dancer and that she had corns. Where is she? Lead
me to her.”
“Unfortunately,” shrugged the manager, "Mademoiselle is in
bed with influenza."
"Loose female," said Framlingham primly, “virgins should
sleep alone. Mademoiselle, was she? Mademoiselle who? Not the
one with a name like asthma?”
"Mademoiselle Dorakakoff, of the Russian Ballet,” supplied
Monsieur Blatz.
"I knew it was something bronchial," the Duke said.
He looked up suddenly.
“Is that Mr. Craven?” he asked, nodding in the direction of
the dance floor.
Monsieur Blatz nodded in return.
"He arrived with Miss Richmond earlier in the evening. I think
your Grace was dining at the time.”
“Yes, I frequently am. Fade out, my friend. They are coming
this way."
Monsieur Blatz tactfully effaced himself and the Duke rose to
intercept Jimmie and Leslie, who were passing him on their way
to another table.
“You would have ignored me, Leslie,” he said reproachfully,
setting a chair for her. "Such is the ingratitude of woman.”
Leslie seated herself and accepted a cigarette.
one withone. Mademoisaid Fram


KINGSWAY
113
"Aren't you going to admire my new dress, Erb," she pouted,
and he studied it with mock concentration.
“One admires the jewel, not the setting," he excused
courteously.
“Considering your passion for gems, you haven't been very
fluent, then," she countered, exhaling a cloud of blue-gray smoke.
“I haven't had a chance to flirt with you yet," the Duke com-
plained bitterly. "Jimmy takes the advantage of a younger man
and monopolizes your dances. Chiefly," he added, after consider-
ing them and reading the signs correctly, “because he can find
no other excuse for holding you in his arms in public."
Leslie reddened.
“Slander!” said Jimmie. “Erb, I shall sue you."
“You'd lose your case, my friend. No judge ever gives a duke
or a typist an unfavorable verdict. It would be a breach of
etiquette."
He turned to Leslie.
“I have just time to wear out your shoes for you. May I have
the next?"
She looked shyly at the reporter.
“Sorry, Erb," she answered. “It's booked.”
As a matter of fact it was not-until that moment.
“Very well,” said the Duke in dignified tones, “I abandon you
to the mercies of the Press corn-crusher."
He frowned and, rising to his feet, called for his bill.
Looking round the room, he said dismally: “Has anyone seen
that somnolent slab, Freddie, this evening? I suppose I shall
have to collect him sooner or later. An hour ago I left him in
the lobby. Returning, I find he has sidled off somewhere or other,
probably on a diamond hunt!”
There was no response. Jimmy and Leslie, oblivious of the
world around them, were bending their heads close together and
the reporter's ardent eyes and Leslie's flushed face told their own
tale. He groaned.
“Oi,” he said. “Disengage! I'm just going."
“Go quietly,” advised Jimmy sweetly and resumed his con-
versation with Leslie.
His Grace went in search of Freddie.
“Nobody—hic-loves-me-but-my-daddeeeeee.”
Constable West started violently as a raucous voice broke into
song with rather more power than purity of tone, not twenty
yards away.
Turning slowly, the outraged officer beheld the tottering figure


114
MURDER IN WAX
of one who strove to ascend the steps of the Incorporated Trust
Company's Offices in Kingsway.
The street was practically deserted at that hour of the morning
and Constable West had been reckoning on a little rest from the
arduous duty of walking around the streets, with occasional inter-
ludes of flashing his lamp.
With a sigh he strode purposefully towards the reveler.
The singer was clad in evening dress. His white silk muffler
had wound itself round his face and his crush hat was set at a
crazy angle on his head. In one hand he brandished a walking-
stick vigorously as he essayed the steps for the second time.
Failing to pass the first two, he retired slowly and, in defiance
of the approaching West's protests, wheeled abruptly and charged
violently up the flight. Reaching the top he staggered, swayed
perilously and, finally collapsing, floundered down the whole
flight into the arms of the waiting constable.
“Dam' the esch-lator. I repeat damesch-esch Officer-
that esch—'s danger to the public. Take it into cushtody."
• “Yes, sir,” agreed the constable soothingly. “Now suppose you
push off home to the missus like a good chap."
"Suppose I do,” agreed the other thoughtfully. "Yesh-home
missus. I'll show her—wheresh booking offish?”
Constable West, still supporting the hilarious one, strove to
obtain a glimpse of his face.
The other, betraying signs of wishing to ascend the steps again,
struggled violently to extricate himself from the constable's grip.
“Un-hand me, offisher," he commanded grandly. "I repeat
unhand me, 'sh liberty to 'temp familiarity with married female.
Shall squeam!”
He did and struggled violently.
His wildly flailing arms dislodged the constable's helmet and,
propping the overjoyed one against the wall, West bent down to
grope for his missing headgear.
In that second a revolver butt descended on his unprotected
head and, with a faint moan, he measured his length on the
pavement.
Shadowy figures materialized at once and the erstwhile "drunk”
became suddenly sober.
Within five minutes, the constable was lying, gagged, bound
and stripped of his uniform, in a near-by area and a policeman,
whom the Inspector of that section would not have recognized,
was patrolling his beat.
Shaland me, she offishericate himsing


116
MURDER IN WAX
☆ Open
That done, he hastily crossed the room and, taking up the
brush, placed himself at the side of the door and waited.
He had not long to wait. In a few minutes he heard the sound
of approaching footsteps coming along what sounded like uncar-
peted boards.
A key was turned in the lock and the door swung open.'
For some seconds Freddie waited tensely, still holding the
brush. No one entered the room.
Freddie's slightly puzzled expression vanished as he read the
solution from the corner of his eye.
His position was reflected in the mirror over the table, as was i
also the position of the man who stood outside.
An impassive-faced man, gray haired and dressed in the morn-
ing clothes of a butler. In one hand the new-comer held a revolver
and there was the faintest suspicion of amusement in his eyes...
He spoke in a formal well modulated voice.
“You rang, sir?”
Freddie lowered his brush with a grin, and stepped into view.
"I admit the soft impeachment," he said brightly. “Could one
obtain the wherewithal to remove the fungi at present obscuring
one's charms?”
He touched his chin pointedly and added: “Would you mind
turning the artillery the other way, old scream! I should just
hate the old cannon to go into action while I was on the land- '
scape! Meantersay—things do happen, and all that sort of thing,
you know.”
“Yes, sir," said the butler, without altering the direction in
which the revolver pointed. “Will you have the goodness to step
farther back into the room? Forgive the liberty I take in asking,
but I feel sure you will appreciate my need of caution in view of
-er-recent events.”
Freddie smiled vaguely.
“Oh, you mean the brush episode?" he suggested pleasantly.
"Forget it, old lad. Rub it out. I was swatting flies.”
"Exactly, sir,” agreed the butler respectfully, and waited
patiently until Freddie had moved.
That done, he stopped, still directing the barrel of his pistol
at Freddie and drew a tray, containing hot water and shaving
utensils, towards him.
Standing up, he entered the room and kicked the door shut
behind him.
Proffering the tray, he placed his back to the door and toyed
suggestively with the revolver.


FREDDIE HIBERNATES
117
Freddie took the tray and walked with it to the wash-hand
stand.
“Thank you, Cuthbert,” he said gravely.
“John, sir,” corrected the butler.
“Nicę name," approved Freddie, busied with lathering his
face. “Always liked it myself.”
He started operations with the razor and for some time there
was silence.
Presently: “Touching the matter of the flagging tissues, old
lad?” he asked. “When do we put it across the hen fruit and
brown fluid?”
"I beg your pardon, sir?”.
"I say when do we feed the old face?” explained Freddie.
“Breakfast, laddie. Eggs, rolls, coffee and such-like.”
"Lunch, sir,” said John, "is being delayed until you are ready.
The master is waiting for you downstairs."
"Lunch?” asked Freddie. "Do I understand that I have missed
the matutinal resuscitation, old soul?"
"You have missed breakfast, sir. It is now nearly one
o'clock.”
“Ah," murmured Freddie. "And now flitting to the more mun-
dane matter of the worsteds, whipcords and saxonies."
“Sir?”
“I say “clothes,'” Freddie interrupted obligingly. "Lead me
to something wearable.”
The butler smiled apologetically.
"I am afraid that that is impossible, sir,” he stated placidly.
“The master's instructions were that you should retain the
pajamas. You will find a dressing-gown behind the wash-hand
stand. Beyond that I cannot assist you. I trust that you under-
stand, sir.” to
"Most certainly,” nodded Freddie, bringing to light a bright
orange silk dressing-gown. “Bit futuristic, what? Never mind,
Clarence. We will bear up." .
“Very good, sir," replied John, "and my name is not Clarence,
it is John. May I ask you to precede me?".
He stood aside and Freddie with a broad grin walked out into
the corridor beyond, along which, at the butler's invitation, he
walked.
The corridor terminated in a flight of stairs, leading down to
a landing
Three more similar flights of stairs and landings they traversed
before reaching a wide hall. All the windows on the route, Freddie


118
MURDER IN WAX
noticed, were made of frosted glass and heavily barred like the
one in the bedroom.
In the hall Freddie turned inquiringly to the butler, who
motioned deferentially with his pistol to a door on the right.
Freddie entered and found himself in a low-ceilinged room,
paneled in oak and apparently windowless, but retaining a
certain coziness of effect. The room was lighted with electric
light.
At a table in the center, lunch was set for two and he saw that
the second person was already seated.
He found himself gazing into the cold expressionless mask of
the Squid.
The Squid rose courteously.
“Please be seated, Mr. Leicester," he invited cordially. "You
must be more than hungry after your enforced abstinence and
er-trying experience.”
Freddie nodded cheerfully and dropped into the other chair.
He noticed that the length of the table divided him from his host.
"First let me offer my sincere regrets for the summary treat-
ment you received last night. I can assure you that such inhospit-
able receptions are infrequent and pain me greatly.”
“The pain,” said Freddie, "was all mine."
He rubbed the back of his head tenderly.
The Squid's eyes twinkled humorously.
"You are, I see, a man after my own heart, Mr. Leicester," he
murmured approvingly. “John: the soup."
Freddie eyed the Squid curiously.
“How the deuce do you propose to lap up the consommé with
that waxwork veiling your beauty?” he asked pleasantly.
“Very simple, my young friend. Read, mark, learn and inwardly
digest, particularly the last. I can promise you that the soup will
be above reproach. My chef is little short of a wizard where soups
are concerned.”
It was excellent soup and Freddie gave it his undivided atten-
tion. The fish that followed was also excellent, but during that
course Freddie found time to watch his host.
As the Squid had said, it was a simple matter to eat. The mask
was hinged and moved as the Squid's jaw moved. It did not
appear to hamper its wearer in the slightest degree. For ventila-
tion, Freddie noticed on a closer examination that there were a
number of small, almost invisible, holes drilled all over the wax
surface. The Squid did not resume conversation until the coffee,
a delectable finale to a splendid lunch, had arrived.


FREDDIE HIBERNATES
119
where the said, Frelined his you more 19, is daskets people. Quaint
"This,” he said, waving his hand round the room, “is where I
hibernate during periods of-er- "
“Trade slackness?” suggested Freddie, inanely.
"Let us say, of exceptional police activity," answered the Squid,
smoothly, "which brings me to the question of your disposal.
I am afraid that you will also have to hibernate for some few
days. I can offer you tennis, billiards, limited golf, an extensive
library and, above all, irreproachable wine.”
“Everything, in fact, except the jolly old freedom of the earth,
what?" said Freddie.
The Squid inclined his head.
"I find myself liking you more and more, Mr. Leicester."
"And that,” said Freddie casually, “is dashed funny, is it not?
I meantersay, the way acquaintanceship affects people. Person-
ally, I find you perfectly poisonous, my dear old Squid. Quaint,
what?"
The sentiment did not appear to disturb the other in the
slightest.
"In the circumstances, a very natural feeling. Nevertheless,
as I said before, I find myself almost liking you.”
"Pity you didn't find it out earlier,” grinned Freddie. “Or is
this your little way of showing esteem? Fearful domino on the
think-box you gave me, you know!"
He rubbed his head again, and resumed with a look of interest:
“What was the object of the little party, last night?”
“A meeting of the Society for Discussing Ways and Means,"
answered the Squid cryptically. “Am I to take it that you think
me fool enough to believe your assurance that you slept through
the meeting?"
“My dear old screech- " Freddie protested and fell silent
as the Squid raised his hand.
"In either case it is quite immaterial,” said the Squid, as
though dismissing the subject, “but it may interest you to know
that the result of our little conference was a very pleasant-
and profitable-evening."
“Oh, we clicked, did we?”
“Clicked? Forgive me " murmured the Squid with a
puzzled expression.
"We got away with the goods—brought home the bacon?"
explained Freddie.
"Exactly," agreed the other, his eyes glinting with amusement.
"We-er-as you put it, brought home the bacon. You will find
an interesting account of it in the papers this morning. The


120
MURDER IN WAX
taicester. How died here and comade by stre
directors of the firm I visited last night are loud in their con-
demnation of the police slackness."
He sipped his coffee.
"To digress for a moment, Mr. Leicester. I am sure that you
will appreciate a little piece of advice I propose giving you.
Firstly, without outside aid, which I think we need not count on,
it is absolutely impossible for anyone to escape from this house.
Secondly, an attempt to do so would have fatal results. When I
say fatal, I mean for yourself. You will doubtless have noticed
that John has contracted an affection for a revolver?”
He nodded thoughtfully and continued in the same gentle
musing tone.
"I feel impelled to warn you that in moments of extreme
emotion, he is apt to become a little abandoned in his use of
the weapon. I recollect perfectly the disastrous results that
attended the last attempt to escape made by one of my guests."
He nodded reminiscently and continued sadly:
“The poor fellow died before we could fetch a doctor. Tragic,
Mr. Leicester. And all due to a misunderstanding and John's
regrettable impulsiveness."
Freddie smiled blandly but made no comment.
"I myself seldom miss,” continued the Squid, watching his
companion narrowly. “In fact, I can recall only one instance in
which I made an error where marksmanship was concerned. I shot
to wound. A fatal mistake. Always shoot to kill, Mr. Leicester."
“I do,” said Freddie cheerfully. “Every time I handle a pop-
gun, my life is in danger.”
"Ah,' the Squid nodded understandingly. “You must practice,
Mr. Leicester-not here, you understand—but I think you will
find it beneficial, Practice makes perfect-corpses. I keep my
eye in, as they say, by occasional shots at a chosen target—fre-
quently a human target-and I find that my aim is as good
now as it was ten years ago. Better, in fact. My error with regard
to B 29 taught me a lesson."
“B 29?" said Freddie politely. “A tram conductor, perhaps?”
The Squid did not rise to the bait.
"An exceedingly foolish young man," he said slowly. "And
incidentally, the only person who jeered at my marksmanship and
lived to remember it. Had circumstances been other than they
were at the time I might have repaid him for his untimely
sarcasm."
He sighed and pushed the cigarette box closer to his guest.
"Shall we smoke, Mr. Leicester?” he invited hospitably.


XVII. JOHN THE BUTLER
On the following morning John again appeared, in answer to
Freddie's ring, with shaving water and utensils. As before, he
entered the room cautiously and stood on guard at the door while
Freddie shaved.
Concluding, Freddie turned to the butler with a pleasant smile.
“And now," he said lightly, "we will delve a little more search-
ingly into the pressing matter of the Leicester habiliments."
“Sir?”
"I say, now we approach the delicate subject of clothing the
captive," Freddie explained. “I take it that Tussaud does not
wish me to live and die in these pajamas?"
John bowed gravely and retired for a few moments, carefully
closing the door, to return with a second suit of pajamas, this
time green, which he laid on the table.
Freddie stared blankly, first at the pajamas, then at the butler.
“But, my dear old freak,” he protested in a pained voice, "why
the battalions of nighties? Fearfully fetching and all that sort of
thing, of course, but what's the plan of campaign? Are we a
'back to nature society or something equally scaly?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?"
“Sun baths, nude studies and all that kind of rot."
“The master's instructions, sir,” apologized John, smiling
slightly. “You will appreciate the fact that it has certain advan-
tages, sir."
"For Plasticine Percy, yes," said Freddie, reasoning sorrow-
fully. "I see his point. Meantersay, I can't very well trek round
the countryside in silk undies, but look at it from my point of
view. Dashed draughty, my dear old Claude."
John shook his head regretfully and Freddie, frowning sadly,
donned the green pajamas.
“Natty," said Freddie, surveying his reflection with a little
more enthusiasm, “but apt to clash a little with the dressing-
gown, I think. I look rather like a tangerine bursting into bud.
I suppose one couldn't hope for something less talkative in
dressing-gowns, Clarence?"
"I am afraid not, sir," replied John, “and my name is John.
The effect is quite tasteful. Breakfast is ready when you are, sir.”
"Lead me to it," said Freddie gladly. "There is a gnawing at
my vitals.”.
fully or, Plasticine p. Preciate the face apolog
I21


122
MURDER IN WAX
They proceeded downstairs to the breakfast room and Freddie
discovered that the table was laid for one.
“Where,” he demanded, "is William the Waxwork?"
“You allude to the master, sir? He was called away early this
morning,” said John, standing on the far side of the table and
operating with the coffee pot.
Freddie selected some toast and ate thoughtfully.
“Would it be a breach of etiquette for me to ask where I jolly
well am, old scream?” he asked. “And while we are on the
subject, a bit more milk.”
“For you to ask, no, sir," retorted John calmly and, retiring,
he locked the door.
“Cold," mused Freddie. “Bally chilly, in fact.”
He smiled vacuously and devoted his attention to the news-
paper, which bore the previous day's date.
"Daring Robbery," headed the account of the Squid's latest
activity and Freddie read the article with intense interest.
“A daring robbery was carried out at the offices of the Incorpo-
rated Trust Company in the early hours of this morning," he
read. “Four steel doors and the main door leading to the vaults
were negotiated by oxy-acetylene jets. It is estimated that the
total loss, consisting solely of jewels deposited by the company's
clients, amounts to something over £60,000. Bonds and other
securities were left untouched. From the nature of the robbery,
it is believed to be the work of the notorious Squid. A policeman
on duty in Kingsway stated that, while attempting to arrest an
apparently drunken man, he was struck on the head and rendered
unconscious. He was found, lying in an adjacent area, by an
Inspector of Police. Two people have stated that they observed a
large black motor-lorry drive out of Parker Street, which runs
into Kingsway at the side of the Company's offices, at twenty
to three, which lends color to the police theory that the robbery
was the Squid's work. The van has been a prominent feature in
other robberies of a similar nature.”
There followed a long account of the Squid's previous robberies,
and Freddie turned to another page.
On the third news page a small announcement caused him no
little amusement. It ran:
"Mr. Frederick Herbert Leicester, the wealthy clubman and
nephew of the Duke of Framlingham, has disappeared. Mr.
Leicester was recently detained by the police following the
theft of Sir Marcus Loseley's tiara. After explanations, how-


JOHN THE BUTLER
123
ever, he was released. For two days after his release Mr.
Leicester frequented his usual resorts, but since yesterday he
has not put in an appearance. The Duke puts forward the
theory that the incident may have played on the young man's
mind. Mr. Craven, an intimate of Mr. Leicester, says that the
missing man was in perfect health when he met him on the
day of his disappearance."
Fred, have thunpleasa treat hings go º
Freddie read the description of himself which followed with
critical eyes and then tossed aside the newspaper and concluded
his breakfast.
As he finished, the door opened to admit John, who stood aside
to allow a tall weedy footman to enter and clear the table away.
It was the first intimation Freddie had received that the house
had other occupants.
“Who is Sunny Sam?” he asked, as the footman made his exit.
“The first footman, sir," replied John respectfully. “We have a
staff of four men here, sir, to meet the various domestic, and
other, contingencies."
His pointed look left Freddie in no doubt as to his meaning.
Still dangling his revolver, John turned to Freddie defer-
entially.
“Is there anything particular you would wish to do, sir?”
"Is there anything in particular I am allowed to do?" asked
Freddie, sarcastically. “And talking of the weather, my dear old
cod, have the goodness to turn the young battery somewhere else.
I have an unpleasant premonition that something might happen
if you continue to treat it as a dessert spoon. A little more cau-
tion, my friend; those things go off sometimes."
The butler looked pained.
"You are in no danger, sir. And now, in the matter of enter-
tainment, sir. The library, billiard room, music room and tennis
court are at your disposal.”
Freddie shuddered and eyed him sorrowfully.
"Have you," he asked bitterly, "ever extracted any blood-
curdling thrills from a game of solo tennis? I meantersay, ask
yourself, laddie. It can't be done."
"I should be pleased to give you a set, sir.”
“A set of clothes would be more appropriate," said Freddie.
“Really, my dear Lancelot
“John, sir.”
“As I was saying, really, my dear John, tennis in pajamas is
not exactly the thing,” murmured Freddie, shivering.
»


124
MURDER IN WAX
“You will find the garb eminently adapted to the game, sir.
Free play for the limbs "
"And free access to the old bod for the piercing zephyrs,"
sighed Freddie. "No, laddie, as my illustrious friend, John
Ruskin, once remarked under similar circumstances—not in these
pants. A very trite observation. Lead me to the Hall of
Harmony.”
“After you, sir,” said John, standing aside.
“Irreproachable,” sighed Freddie, sauntering out, "but incon-
venient.”
John conducted him to the music room.
A large room, softly carpeted and hung with plush curtains of
purple. Comfortable chairs stood about, and the windows were
long oblong panes set high up in the wall, close to the ceiling.
A Steinway occupied one side of the room and on the other
stood a huge cabinet gramophone, flanked by rows of record
shelves. Directly opposite the door was a four-valve wireless set,
encased in a walnut cabinet. John touched an electric switch and
flooded the room with a soft subdued light. Whistling untune-
fully, Freddie sauntered to the gramophone and, selecting a
record at random, set the turntable in motion and dropped into
a comfortable chair.
The strains of a “Blues," played as only the orchestra of the
inimitable Paul Whiteman could play it, filled the room.
“You are fond of music, John?” suggested Freddie, courteously.
“Of music, yes, sir,” agreed the butler, picking up a box of
cigarettes. “Of the discordant oscillation they misterm syncopa-
tion—decidedly no, sir. You will smoke, sir?”
"Ah, a budding Beecham,” nodded Freddie, accepting a
cigarette. Rising to his feet, he changed the record and
“The Erl King” materialized under the faultless touch
of Lamond, its rumbling chords filling the room like distant
thunder.
“Allow me, sir,” said John, moving to the gramophone. "May
I trouble you to stand beneath the windows?”
Freddie rose wonderingly and retreated to the wall beneath the
windows.
The reason necessitating the move was not immediately
apparent. John, standing by the gramophone, was altering the
pitch of the record.
Apparently satisfied, he seated himself at the Steinway, laying
his revolver on the top, and accompanied Lamond note for note
until the final harmony spent itself.


JOHN THE BUTLER
125
“Verily, a coming Cortot,” said Freddie encouragingly. “Feel
inclined to slam the ivories for a bit longer, friend John?"
Friend John obeyed politely, periodically forestalling Freddie's
sidling movements to the door, and carefully ensuring that the
length of the grand should remain between them. Freddie's hope
that the artist in John might obliterate the warder was a vain one.
The butler's lynx eyes never left his face and at the slightest
sign of a hostile move, the butler's hands moved up, some-
times in the middle of a chord, to toy suggestively with the
revolver.
Freddie spent a pleasant morning, listening to the touch of a
master. Having lunched in solitary state, as at breakfast, he
summoned John again.
“Laddie,” he said, “subject to your forceful guidance, I will
hie me to the Abode of Literature.”
The butler bowed and conducted Freddie to the library, retiring
himself on a plea of domestic duties. The door closed behind
him and the key turned in the lock.
It was the first time Freddie had been left alone, save at night,
and he did not propose to waste the time; nevertheless, he spent
the first ten minutes lying sprawled on the cushions of a com-
fortable divan facing the huge fireplace, to all intents and
purposes asleep.
Above the fireplace hung a full-length portrait of the Squid
himself, wearing his mask, It was the work of a master and
through half-closed eyes Freddie appraised it, but not solely as
a work of art.
The brush of the artist had captured exactly the waxen pallor
and fixity of expression of the mask, but, as in the grotesque
original, there were two living things in the portrait—the eyes.
Betraying no sign that he was aware of those watchful eyes,
Freddie lay inert on the divan for fifteen minutes.
At the expiration of that time, he rose silently to his feet. The
eyes of the portrait were then eyes of paint.
With a half smile Freddie moved silently round the room.
With the exception of the fireplace, the entire wall space was
monopolized by shelves on which were innumerable books, cover-
ing two centuries. Even the back of the door was provided with
shelves.
Walking round and occasionally removing books to tap the
walls, the unwilling guest occupied himself for two hours, with
frequent periods of inactivity during which he paused to study
attentively the eyes of the portrait.


126
MURDER IN WAX
On the other side of the wall on which the portrait hung, lay
the gun room.
In walking to the library in the morning, he had caught a
glimpse of it through the half-open door. Someone, probably John,
was able to watch any movement in the library. There were
probably similar devices for watching other rooms.
At half-past four the footman entered with a tray containing
tea and petit-fours.
John brought up the rear.
Tea concluded, Freddie demanded a cigarette and directed
John to "remove the débris forthwith.”
As soon as the butler and footman had retired, Freddie extin-
guished his cigarette, stretched himself out at ease on the divan
once again, and slept.
For ten minutes.
Only the impassive eyes of an oil painting watched him as he
rose to his feet and continued his search.
It was well that the eyes of the portrait did not come to life
during the next two hours.
At six o'clock, Freddie, smiling in a satisfied way, rang a bell
set in the wall by the fireplace and summoned John
“Tempus fugits, does it not?” he demanded blandly, as the
butler put in an appearance.
John seemed to be a trifle out of his depth.
“May I ask you to interpret, sir?” he suggested.
Freddie salaamed.
« 'Tis the hour of evening fare, effendi,” he said dramatically,
“The mastication period draws on apace, yes?”
“The evening meal will be laid at seven, sir,” John informed
him. “Will you go to your room, sir?”
"Laddie, you have said it,” murmured Freddie. "I will change
for dinner and eke remove the soil from my person. Lead on,
Macduff.”
“Yes, sir,” said John obediently, “and my name is John.”
Freddie looked covertly at the portrait and, taking advantage
of John's back, winked pleasantly.
A procession of two wended its way to Freddie's bedroom.


XVIII. JIMMY INVESTIGATES
MONSIEUR BLATZ bowed deeply as Inspector Elveden strode into
the Nocturnes and came to a stand in front of the alcove from
which the manager watched the lobby.
“This is an unexpected honor, M'sieu l'Inspecteur," he mur-
mured with an ingratiating smile.
"Is it?” asked Elveden, looking round the lobby.
“But yes, M'sieu," Blatz answered suavely. “It is but rarely
that the Nocturnes entertains the law.”
The memory of a certain fruitless raid on the club still lingered
pleasantly in the memory of Monsieur Blatz.
“The law," said Elveden evenly, "is seldom entertained by the
Nocturnes, M'sieu. It is rarely even interested, and frequently
bored."
The smile that accompanied the words failed to remove their
sting. Nevertheless, Monsieur Blatz veiled the anger in his small
eyes with heavy lids.
"In what capacity does it function to-night?” he asked silk-
ily.
“That of interest,” answered Elveden. “Great interest."
The manager thought it over and watched the Inspector coy-
ertly. The remark was a little disturbing.
"I understand that Sir Marcus Loseley is in the club," said
Elveden.
“He is dining with His Grace of Framlingham, Miss Richmond
and Mr. Craven in the restaurant," Blatz supplied obligingly.
The Inspector nodded and made his way to the restaurant. As
he hesitated on the threshold, his quick eyes picked out the group
he sought and, maneuvering between the tables, he made his way
across the room and halted before the party at the far end.
The Duke was the first to notice him.
“Oh, my prophetic soul, the Inspector!” he misquoted calmly.
“Here, in this den of infamy? Why?"
The Inspector bowed to Leslie and nodded briefly to the
others.
"Good evening,” he said.
His Grace, observing the coolness of the Inspector's regard for
Sir Marcus, tactfully intervened.
"It cannot be to inspect,” he said. “Can it be to revel? Ah,
1271


128
MURDER IN WAX
we have it. Even the long arm of the law must raise itself oc-
casionally to assuage an inspectorial thirst!”
He smiled benevolently and raised his own glass with a prodi-
gious wink.
But the Inspector's attention was elsewhere.
“Can I have the pleasure of a few words with you, Sir Mar-
cus?”
“The fewer, the more pleasurable,” replied Sir Marcus, through
tightened lips. He made no attempt to move.
"In private,” supplemented the Inspector, in no way per-
turbed.
“Thank you, I am quite comfortable here," retorted the Bar-
onet icily, adding pointedly, “with witnesses!”
“As you please," said Elveden. “I have an idea that you might
possibly assist me in my search for Mr. Leicester.”
Three faces showed blank astonishment. The fourth showed
black rage. Loseley half rose in his seat, to sink back again as the
Duke laid a restraining hand on his arm.
Jimmy forestalled Sir Marcus' outburst.
“Wrong number,” he said flippantly. “This is a grub shack, not
the lost property office.”
Framlingham nodded approvingly.
“Well taken,” he agreed, “but the question remains, where
is that blighted boy?”
"Pardon me, your Grace,” interrupted Elveden smoothly. “I
have no time to waste.”
“The Ducal head sinks in the slime of reproof,” sighed the
owner.
"I am waiting, Sir Marcus,” continued the Inspector.
“At your own invitation," answered Sir Marcus. “Don't let me
detain you."
The Inspector flushed slightly.
"I think I can do all the detaining necessary," he said point-
edly. "You decline to assist?"
"If my poor hypothesis will assist you,” said Sir Marcus with
dignity, “it is entirely at your service. Beyond aimless guess-
work, I cannot help you. I do not know where Mr. Leicester is,
neither "
“Marcus," interjected His Grace reprovingly, "you were about
to say, 'Neither do I care.' I am ashamed of you. Think of
the agony that tears at an uncle's heart."
"Neither," continued Loseley, ignoring the facetious remark,
"should I disclose Freddie's whereabouts, if I did know."
said
"Marcus, in help you. i como service


JIMMY INVESTIGATES
129
you that of the Barcus,” he saw his ward the
He stared at the Inspector and raised his glass defiantly to his
lips.
Leslie, white to the lips, looked on uncomprehendingly.
“But why should you suspect my guardian?” she asked, with
a puzzled expression.
"Possibly," suggested Elveden, courteously, “Sir Marcus will
be less reticent where you are concerned, Miss Richmond.”
His glance clashed with that of the Baronet.
“You will hear more from me, Sir Marcus,” he said.
"I trust not,” retorted the Baronet and turned to his ward.
"More wine, my dear?” he asked, apparently oblivious of the
Inspector's existence.
Elveden bowed again and, turning, made his way to the door.
“Apparently our friend the Inspector still harbors unworthy
suspicions, Marky,” said Framlingham placidly, watching the
Inspector's retreat with interested eyes. “The man seems to
think we are a nest of criminals. The workings of the Yard are
distorted and beyond the reach of our feeble imaginations, for
which,” he added piously, “God be thanked."
But a gloom had descended on the party that not even the
Duke's cheerfulness could dissipate.
A few moments later Leslie rose, pleading a headache, and,
declining Jimmy's offer of escort, took her guardian's arm and
left the restaurant.
For five minutes Jimmy and the Duke sat and stared blankly
at each other, and then by mutual consent they parted to go
their respective ways, His Grace to retire and sleep, Jimmy to
ponder and lie awake.
He remained awake until the first gray light of morning
had given place to bright sunlight. Then it was too late for
sleep.
Dressing slowly and leaving his breakfast untouched, to the
amazement of his landlady, he made his way to the “Evening
Mail” offices in a disgruntled frame of mind.
The events of the previous night spoiled what might other-
wise have been an enjoyable morning.
Entering the reporters' room, he dropped into his chair to
ponder the surpassing foulness of an exceedingly foul existence
in a still fouler world.
It was not to be. His reverie was interrupted by the advent of
a diminutive messenger.
"His High and Mightiness wants you, Mr. Craven," announced
the small one. “Tearing his hair out in handfuls, he is, sir.”


130
MURDER IN WAX
“All right, Billy," nodded Jimmy dispiritedly. He made his
way slowly to the sanctum of the news editor and entered in
response to the curt “Come in.”
Bagshaw, the law of the "Mail,” looked up quickly.
“This ‘Should Married Women Wear Bed Socks?' stunt,” he
said curtly. “Ring up Shaw, Sybil Thorndyke and Dean Inge,
and get their views. I want the story before the second edition
goes to bed. Then do the anti-vivisection meeting at Queen's
Hall. That's all.”
Jimmy trailed away dejectedly. Life wasn't worth living at
this rate. Bed socks and vivisection! He scowled. Crowland,
the star man, had probably been given the Squid story. With a
rueful countenance, the reporter settled down to pester the three
notables and after an hour on the telephone he left the office and
sauntered in the direction of Charing Cross on his way to Queen's
Hall.
Turning into Piccadilly, he made his way to the Circus.
Arrived there, he stood eyeing the traffic morosely and then
started to cross the road.
Half-way across he paused abruptly, to the profane annoyance
of a bus driver, to stare at another figure moving at right angles
and heading for Shaftesbury Avenue- Jerry the Lag.
Jimmy changed his course and his tactics at the same moment.
All thoughts of Shaw and vivisection vanished from his mind and,
bounding in pursuit of the Lag, he was conscious of a sense of
relief.
Since the mysterious disappearance of Freddie on the eve
of the robbery at the Trust Company's office, Jimmy had
been aching for a few minutes' conversation with the Lag.
He was convinced that Jerry knew the solution of the
mystery.
Jimmy could not forget that he had seen his friend leaving
the flat that Jerry had entered a few minutes previously.
He came up with his quarry as Jerry was entering the “Shaftes-
bury” public house, but forbore to attract his attention until he
had reached the bar.
"Just the man I want to see,” he said cheerfully, tapping the
Lag on the arm. "What'll you have, Jerry?”
Jerry grunted and turned round with a weary expression.
"I never wanted ter see no one less," he scowled. “Still, if
there's a free swill goin' beggin'- "
He signaled to the barman with assumed indifference that
caused Jimmy much secret amusement.
et Jerry had quarry as Jerrytract his atter


JIMMY INVESTIGATES
131
“The usual, Jerry?” asked that fat and worthy man, breathing
on a glass and polishing diligently.
"No, a pint,” retorted Jerry swiftly, and, seeing the other's look
of surprise, “All right, fatty, this bloke's payin.”
Jimmy placed his own glass on the counter untouched and
waited while the Lag drank. Then: "Jerry,” he said, “play the
game and tell me what you know about Freddie Leicester's dis-
appearance.”
Jerry's face remained devoid of any expression save acute
boredom.
“ 'Oo is Freddie What-you-said, when 'e's at home?” he asked
wearily, rubbing his mouth with a dirty hand.
"He's not,” said Jimmy. "He's vanished.”
Jerry raised his eyes piously and then lowered them to his
glass.
"I can never think when I'm dry,” he said suggestively.
Jimmy pushed his own untasted drink across the counter to
the old Lag.
“Not that this 'ere Gov'ment ale is much o' a stimoolant,”
said Jerry, taking up the glass amiably. "Ain't drunk arf of it,
'ave yer?"
He replaced the glass two seconds later, empty.
“Well, what do you know?” prompted Jimmy, watching the
other keenly.
“Swift and Sure for the three-fifteen," said Jerry at once,
religiously avoiding the issue.
Jimmy made an impatient gesture. “Be a pal and cut that
out,” he pleaded.
“Be a pal,” groaned Jerry. “I knew I'd have to stand a round.”
He looked round plaintively.
Jimmy bit his lip. The Lag was not in a communicative mood
and Jimmy silently wondered if another glass might melt him.
"You're holding something back, Jerry,” he accused.
“Only a helluva thirst,” complained the Lag. In the hope of
further benefits, he leant forward and became confidential.
"Strite, Mister Craven, I don't know nuthin' about this bloke,
Freddie What’s-'is-name. Never 'eard on 'im in me natcheral.
What is this Johnny? One o' them crooks you're always diggin'
about for?"
“No, he's a friend of mine," answered Jimmy, pandering to
the Lag's assumed ignorance.
“Same thing," grunted Jerry. “Wot kind of bloke? One o'
these 'ere haristocrats or sich-like?"


132
MURDER IN WAX
Jimmy sighed. They were not getting very far.
"He is an aristocrat," he said patiently, “and rich.”
“Don't repeat yerself. You said 'e was a pal o' yourn,” said
the Lag, refusing to be drawn.
Jimmy smiled in spite of himself. Plainly Jerry was keeping
whatever he knew to himself. The old Lag's "stalling” was pro-
verbial and Jimmy decided that it was useless trying to break
down his defenses.
He changed his tactics and played the only trump card he
held.
“Been up to the flat in Prince of Wales Terrace lately, Jerry?”
he asked with assumed indifference, but watching for signs.
Was it imagination or did the Lag's eyes flicker a trifle? He
could not tell.
He waited patiently for the answer. Not a muscle of Jerry's
face moved.
"I only been near one flat lately," he said definitely, “an'
you're 'im.”
“Nevertheless, I saw you enter it myself a few days ago,” pur-
sued the reporter coolly.
“Before or arter eleven o'clock?" demanded his companion
suspiciously.
"After," answered Jimmy. “Why?”
The Lag pulled at his mustache and laughed hoarsely.
"I fort so,” he growled. “They don't open afore, do they?"
Jimmy stood by his guns. Jerry was doing his utmost to change
the subject and that was a good sign. Jimmy pressed further..
“And five minutes later I saw Freddie Leicester leave the
same flat," he said. “And you say that you don't know him,
Jerry?"
“I knows there's a dude what calls at one o' the flats where I
cleans the winders,” said Jerry slowly. “Got a glass eye, 'e has.
'Angs on a bit o' string rahnd 'is neck. The glass, not the eye,
Jer mean 'im?”
"Exactly,” said Jimmy eagerly. "Tall fellow, fair hair, wear-
ing gray.”
"Yus, an' you're enough ter mike anyone's 'air wear gray,"
grunted Jerry. “So 'e's bin an' gorn an' lorst 'isself, 'as 'e?
You don't say! Nice young feller, too. Gimme a two-bob bit
once fer somethink or other."
"I might, too, if you could tell me something useful about
him," said Jimmy with an engaging smile.
“Yus, an'ast fer one-an’-eleven change," retorted Jerry. “I


JIMMY INVESTIGATES
133
knows you reporters. Well, yer can spare yerself the two bob.
I can't tell yer anythin'."
“That's final?”
"Abso-bloomin'-lootely. An' now gimme a bit o' peace. Fair
worritin', you coves are. Astin', astin', always astin' somethink
or other. You gimme the pip!”
Jimmy gave it up. The interview had turned out less profitable
than he had anticipated.
He turned slowly on his heel and left Jerry at the bar.
The Lag watched him with a gleam of amusement in his eyes.
He signaled to the barman.
“Thinks theirselves everybody," he confided, jerking a thumb
in the direction of the retreating reporter. "Comes from the Press,
'e does. Wants me photer fer 'is daily, I don't fink.”
“Pint?” asked the barman, collecting the empty glasses.
“No," snarled Jerry, "I'm payin'! An' not too much froth!”


THE TRAP
135
“How much does your Grace require?”
"A small berg will suffice," murmured the invalid weakly and
Masters prepared to retire.
"Oh, Masters,” said His Grace, motioning him to stay, "I seem
to retain a hazy impression of a most unpleasant scene.”
"Indeed, sir?"
“Something connected with a motor car, a policeman and a
damaged lamp-post, I fancy. The policeman was offensive, I
think. I am not sure. It may have been the lamp-post. One or the
other answered me back.”
The butler nodded gravely.
“Your Grace was involved in a slight accident,” he said diplo-
matically.
“Accident?” The Duke sat up suddenly. “Where am I hurt?”
“You are not, sir,” Masters assured him. “The policeman, un-
fortunately, was. Your car hurled him into the road and collided
with a lamp-post.”
“Was it damaged?”
“The car, the policeman, or the lamp-post, your Grace?” asked
Masters, patiently.
“The car, fooll” snarled the other. "Who cares about lampmen
or policeposts?"
"Neither the lamp-post nor the policeman was damaged, sir,"
said the butler. “Your car sustained a few dents.”
He coughed again and added cautiously: “The summons was
issued against you this morning, sir."
“On what charge?” demanded Framlingham furiously.
"Being intoxicated while in charge of a car and driving to the
public danger, sir.”
"Bahl” snorted His Grace, bringing his hand down on the
arm of his chair. He winced slightly and pointed dramatically to
the door.
“The congealed fluid,” he commanded, “with expedition.”
Masters bowed and departed, to return almost at once.
The Duke looked up as he recrossed the room and sighed with
satisfaction.
“Quick work,” he said approvingly.
"I have not brought the ice, your Grace," Masters answered.
“Then prepare your will," snarled the Duke wrathfully.
“We are going to have a quiet hour together with a cutthroat
satis Quick "not brou your
razor”
The butler backed away hastily, as his lord and master rose
and glowered angrily.


THE TRAP
137
“Did you come here to tell me that?" demanded the Duke,
ferociously.
Elveden bit his lip and breathed deeply.
“Sufficiently interested to buy them," he proceeded.
"If I can't steal them,” agreed the Duke, weakly humorous.
“Good. Your Grace is a wealthy man-
"If this is an appeal to retrieve the Russian crown jewels,"
interrupted the other, with kindling eyes, “you're in the wrong
shop, my friend.”
"It is not,” rejoined the Inspector smoothly. “It is a bait to
land a Squid.”
The Duke regarded his visitor with rather more interest. He
even sat up in his chair, unmindful of an agonizing twinge that
wragked his forehead.
“An expensive lure?” he said shrewdly.
“Your Grace understands?”.
“Imperfectly,” said his lordship. “Elucidate."
“The idea is that you should purchase from an Indian poten-
tate a necklace valued, say, at eight thousand pounds."
"Eight thousand pounds!” scoffed the Duke. "What do you
think I am, a retired milkman or a Cabinet Minister?”
The Inspector raised a protesting hand.
"If your Grace will allow me. There will be no money involved
in the transaction. You will merely notify the papers of your
intention to enter into negotiations with the owner for the pur-
chase of the necklace and on a specified date you will send an-
other announcement to the effect that the transaction is com-
pleted.”
"Simple,” said Framlingham thoughtfully, “very simple. Who
is the Indian joker?”
"The Maharajah of Baraipur is the name of the gentleman-
er-willing to sell," said Elveden. “At least he was the Maha-
rajah of Baraipur until the Government deposed him. I have here
the two announcements which are to go to the press, and they
merely await your signature.”
Withdrawing an envelope from his pocket, he extracted two
sheets of notepaper with a small typewritten notice in the center
of each, and handed them to the Duke. His Grace sat up and
read them aloud:
“We understand that the Maharajah of Baraipur arrived
in England to-day to negotiate for the sale of his famous heir-
loom “the Baraipur necklace,' an exceedingly valuable circlet


138
MURDER IN WAX
of diamonds. It is rumored that the Duke of Framlingham,
who is, among other things, a notable diamond collector, is
a likely purchaser.”
The Duke grunted non-committally and turned to the second
sheet:
“We learn that the Duke of Framlingham has concluded
negotiations with the young Maharajah of Baraipur for the lat-
ter's string of diamonds, at a price of eight thousand pounds.
This will be a notable addition to His Grace's already famous
collection.”
He returned the envelope and the two announcements and
rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Unless I am mistaken,” he said slowly, "I seem to have
heard the Maharajah's name mentioned somewhere or other. I
am sure of it. That precludes the possibility of its being a fake
title. In which case, what is the poor josser going to get out of
this deal?”
He eyed Elveden enquiringly.
“The Maharajah will get nothing out of the deal," said Elve-
den with a cynical smile. “The title, as you suggest, is a genuine
one, but at the present moment the Maharajah has excellent
reasons for not wishing to put himself in the limelight. There
is no fear of his coming forward to contradict the statement. I
might say, no such luck. As a matter of fact, the gentleman is
'wanted' badly in various circles!”
The Duke nodded understandingly. “And the diamonds?”
he asked.
"Paste," replied Elveden. “That is how they came into our
hands. The Maharajah crossed over on the boat to Dover with
a charming young American, Miss Mary Van Dessack. The lady
became infatuated with him, and foolishly agreed to purchase the
diamonds. She paid a fabulous sum and then discovered the de-
ception. That was after she had left the boat, and two days
after the check had been presented. She communicated with
us and agreed to remain silent while we tried to run the Indian
to earth in London. Needless to say, we failed. In any case, it
is quite immaterial. It is exceedingly unlikely that the Squid is
aware that the diamonds are spurious, and we hope by these
advertisements to draw his attention to you."
“Very kind of you. It begins to percolate. Apparently I am to
give the Squid the chance of raiding my house for these paste
the boat, anered th
tos and agreed to read been presented


THE TRAP
139
diamonds? A beautiful thought. I am to allow him the freedom
of the place to carry off whatever he fancies? Not that he'd get
much. The silver is plated and insured. However, it is an admir-
able scheme.”
He eyed the Inspector sarcastically.
Elveden sat back and looked at him enquiringly.
“Does the idea commend itself to your Grace? I may say that
we decided to approach you in virtue of the fact that you are
a noted collector and a wealthy man.”
"A common illusion," sighed the Duke forgivingly. “Yes, the
scheme is all right. I was thinking more particularly of the
hitches that will probably arise in its execution."
"It will be executed without any hitches,” Elveden assured him.
“Yes, so might I be," grumbled the Duke. “This Squid is a
child of violence, I understand, and I dislike violence.”
The Inspector grimaced expressively.
"I think you may leave the Squid to us, your Grace. As soon
as these notifications appear, I shall take up my station in this
house."
“That will be nice," murmured His Grace.
Elveden smiled pleasantly.
"If it is any comfort for you to know it, sooner or later the
Squid's fascination for diamonds was bound to lead him to your
collection. We prefer him to be led when we are prepared. As
a matter of fact, it has long been a wager at the Yard as to when
he would fix on you as a victim.”
This caused Framlingham a moderate spasm of amusement.
"You may rest assured that my collection is safe,” he chuckled.
“One does not spend a fortune, and a lifetime, collecting dia-
monds for the pleasure of seeing some confounded fly-by-night
steal them when he sees fit. On one point you may rest assured:
no thief would lay hands on my collection, and this paste neck-
lace will certainly not join it. That is asking too much.”
“Then I may take it that you agree?” said Elveden, rising
to his feet.
The Duke nodded.
• “You will be doing us a great service,” the Inspector said,
preparing to depart.
“For which,” said His Grace ironically, “were I not already
unfortunately a peer, I should doubtless be knighted. All right,
my friend, close the door quietly, and if you see Masters any-
where about send him in with that chunk of Labrador I asked
for many moons ago!”


XX. THE SQUID ACCEPTS
of a fi
bled "wixou have retards
DINNER had reached the liqueur stage. As usual, John stood a
few paces from his master's chair, an effective discouragement
to any ideas Freddie might have had of trying conclusions with
the Squid.
The Squid himself had been silent for some time, toying idly
with his glass and regarding his guest with impassive eyes.
At last the waxen lips of the mask moved.
“Mr. Leicester," he said slowly, "your uncle is not only an
extravagant, but a foolish, man."
Freddie raised his eyebrows.
"Absolutely,” he agreed. “The traits are hereditary. I'm a bit
of a goer myself, particularly with other people's liqueurs.”
He eyed his empty glass thoughtfully.
The Squid motioned to John to refill it.
“And foolish,” he supplemented. “To drink three Cointreaus
after dinner is something of a feat, Mr. Leicester. Too much
alcohol clogs and retards the action of the brain."
"If you have one," murmured Freddie lightly. "I'm not trou-
bled with encumbrances of that sort. We were chewing my ducal
kinsman up, I believe?”
The Squid nodded and, feeling in the breast pocket of his
lounge coat, he produced a newspaper cutting which he handed
to his companion.
“That interesting announcement states that your uncle has
just purchased the Maharajah of Baraipur's string of diamonds
for eight thousand pounds.”
Freddie read the cutting and returned it to his host.
"Eight thousand bucks!” he whistled. “A tolerably fruity lash-
out, what?"
The Squid sipped his liqueur appreciatively.
“Very,” he agreed, setting down his glass, "if there is any
truth in the statement.”
"Oh, I daresay the Press laddies have got the thing right,"
drawled Freddie. “Erb, like yourself, is a collector of the jolly
little crystals, although," he coughed tactfully, "his modus
operandi is a little moreer-conventional.”
"Your point, Mr. Leicester," the other agreed gracefully.
“Touching my failing for—the 'jolly little crystals' I think you
said?-I must give myself the pleasure of dispossessing His Grace
manion
140


142
MURDER IN WAX
He took a cigarette himself and lighted it.
“The heirloom was replaced by a paste imitation,” he con-
tinued. "This I discovered some time afterwards, when I had oc-
casion to examine it with a view to acquiring it.”
Freddie stared at his host blankly.
“So poor old Erb has copped the rotten end of the deal?”
"Not exactly," demurred the Squid. “I imagine that His Grace
is a party to the deal.”
"Dash it all,” bleated Freddie. “My uncle and all that sort
of thing, you know. Soul of honor, infra dig. and such-like
bilge. Family escutcheon unmarred by foul practices and
what not. Besides, Erb has no need to footle about like that.
The man's rolling in doubloons-positively reeks of the bally
stuff.”
“You misunderstand me,” purred the Squid. "It is not His
Grace's custom to advertise when he makes a purchase. He does
not let all the world know what he is heading for as a rule. This
case is an exception, and as such I mistrust it.”
"Naturally,” agreed Freddie vaguely. “Only thing to do.
Absolutely no choice. Plain course and all that sort of thing.
Er—why do you mistrust it?”
“This affair,” said the Squid, tapping the newspaper cutting,
"is nothing but a crude, vulgar and badly constructed invitation
to me to place myself in Dartmoor. And Dartmoor," he added
reflectively, “is a singularly unattractive place. You follow my
line of reasoning?”
"Absolutely," replied Freddie. “With reservations, that is, I
mean-perhaps it would be a little clearer if you explained
exactly what you do mean."
The Squid made a gesture of impatience.
"Simply that this blatant advertising is a trap. Knowing my
predilection for collecting diamonds, the police invite me to try
and collect this string and at the same time place my head in the
noose."
He laughed ironically and drew at his cigarette.
“The whole thing is almost absurdly childish in its simplicity.
I see in it the clumsy hands of my friends at Scotland Yard, for
whose methods I have the most profound contempt. This idea of
theirs wouldn't deceive a cat burglar from Brixton, let alone
the Squid.”
"Perhaps they're not out to deceive cat burglars from Brixton,"
Freddie suggested helpfully.
"It is an insult," said the Squid harshly. “A slur on my pro-
:


THE SQUID ACCEPTS
143
11:
fessional capabilities. Naturally I shall reply in the only man-
ner possible.”
"Nobbling the sparklers?” asked Freddie.
“Precisely. A vulgar phrase but expressive. A point of honor
is involved. It is almost annoying. I had counted on a brief
respite from my labors owing to a little successful maneuvering
at the Trust Company's offices. You read the case, Mr. Leices-
ter?”
Freddie nodded and selected another cigarette.
The Squid puffed at his cigarette for some time and then ex-
tinguished it. He signaled to John.
· "Have the car ready in five minutes. I shall be leaving at once.
Leave that gun with me.”
As John left the room, the Squid turned to Freddie.
“Unfortunately that hundred up at billiards will have to be
postponed, Mr. Leicester," he said, regretfully. “I shall have to
go earlier than I expected. You understand my exceedingly diffi-
cult position?”
Freddie smiled cheerfully.
"I could not love thee half so well, loved I not diamonds
more,” he misquoted.
"Mr. Leicester," said the Squid, rising and walking to the
door, “I am convinced from your ready understanding that we
are going to be great friends in the near future."
He nodded courteously and retired, closing and locking the
door behind him.
A few moments later Freddie heard the faint retreating hum of
a high-powered car.
"I shall spend a quiet hour browsing in the Abode of Litera-
ture, John,” he announced as the butler reappeared.
John nodded respectfully and, accompanying Freddie to the
library, retired and left him to his own devices, having as usual
first locked him in.
For ten minutes Freddie made no move, contenting himself as
on previous occasions with now and again watching the Squid's
portrait beneath covertly lowered lids.
At the expiration of that time he rose to his feet and crossed
the room, coming to a standstill before a section of the book-
shelves facing the back of the couch. Running his fingers down
the center partition, he came to a stop over a small knot of
wood, and pressed slowly.
The little knot sank into the partition and Freddie seized the
bottom of the nearest shelf and pulled it steadily towards him.
He nolto be grenced from


144
MURDER IN WAX
Immediately the whole section of the wall moved outwards, re-
vealing a small door. The door was closed and its height would
not allow a man of more than five feet to enter without stooping.
Turning the handle, Freddie found that the door opened in-
wards, and, opening it softly, he stood still for some time, en-
deavoring to catch any sound that might betray occupancy of
the hidden room.
Apparently satisfied, he pulled the section of bookshelves into
place behind him and, running his hand along the left-hand wall,
found and pressed down the electric light switch.
With a pleased smile he looked round the room. He had dis-
covered its existence the day before, but had not had time to
investigate and had deemed it unwise to visit the library too
often, since John or the other servants, who were probably aware
of the existence of the secret room, might become suspicious. It
was square in shape, without windows, and low-ceilinged.
An expensive paper of purple with panels of a lighter shade
covered the walls. The pile carpet, thick and soft and giving no
betraying sound as he walked, was also of a dark purple. The
room was furnished simply. A low divan, covered with bolster-
shaped cushions of black silk, scarred and tasseled with gold and
scarlet, stood almost opposite the white-bricked fireplace. In one
corner was a gate-legged table of ebony, with a purple silk
runner. In another corner stood a tall reading lamp, with a shade
that matched the lighter panels of purple on the walls. The one
chair, a deep arm-chair, was upholstered in the same rich purple.
Even the bowl of the electric light was of a dull shade of the
prevailing color and threw out a subdued light.
Over the square fireplace hung an oval gilt mirror, its glistening
frame catching and reflecting the tiny pin-points of light from the
lamp above.
Freddie crossed the room and, seating himself on the divan,
looked round interestedly.
So this was the Squid's jolly little funk-hole, what? His last
resort, and yet ...
A puzzled expression crossed Freddie's face. He looked round
the room again. Surely this elaborately constructed little den had
another exit? It could hardly have been devised purely as a
hiding place. From what little he knew of the Squid, that wily
bird was not likely to favor burying himself in a room from which
there was no other escape. Once the room was discovered, he
would be trapped, whereas out in the house he would at least
stand a sporting chance of escape.
hiding place. From to favor burying the room


XXI. THE SQUID COUNTERS
THE Duke of Framlingham, carrying a “crush” hat in one hand
and wearing an opera cloak over his well-fitting evening dress,
entered the study and switched on the lights.
“Ah, Elveden,” he said cheerfully, "going to lose a little more
beauty sleep?"
He addressed the remark to the back of an arm-chair situated
close to the safe.
From the depths came a grunt and the Inspector's head bobbed
into view.
“We can only wait,” he said. “Sooner or later he'll rise to the
bait.”
“These poetic frenzies,” sighed the Duke. “You have made
that remark four nights running, Inspector."
Elveden restrained, with great difficulty, a strong inclination
to swear. His Grace was a little trying at times.
His host crossed to the sideboard and returned with a decanter
and siphon, which he deposited on a small table close to the
Inspector.
"Make yourself at home," he invited. “I believe the whisky
is excellent. Masters would know. Personally I prefer a drink."
He made a second journey and added a tumbler, matches and
a box of cigars to the little array on the table.
"The cigars are irreproachable,” he said. “There again Masters'
judgment would be more reliable. He smokes one every night.
Don't tell him that I am aware of his little failing. It might make
the poor fellow feel embarrassed."
The Duke's eyes twinkled humorously.
At that moment the subject of his remarks appeared in the
doorway.
“Will there be anything further to-night, sir?” Masters
enquired.
"No, I shall be dining out and I shall probably be returning
late. You won't want Masters, will you, Elveden? No? That's
all then, Masters. Don't wait up."
“Very good, your Grace.” The butler bowed and retired.
"I'll look you up before I tumble in, Elveden,” the Duke said
from the doorway, "and if by any chance you find it necessary
to see me, a 'phone call at the Nocturnes will get me. My inten-
146


THE SQUID COUNTERS
147
tion is to frivol unrestrainedly there for some hours with Jimmy
Craven and Miss Richmond.”
“And Sir Marcus?” suggested Elveden sweetly.
His Grace raised his eyebrows.
“A natural delicacy prompted me to withhold that,” he
answered in dignified tones. “It occurred to me that something
happened the last time you met him, to rupture the passionate
affection you felt for Sir Marcus."
“Something did,” the Inspector retorted grimly.
"I am looking forward eagerly," said the Duke with a beatific
smile, "to a restoration of amicable relations between Sir Marcus
and yourself at your next encounter.”
“Which is not far distant,” Elveden answered slowly. “And I
don't think that your optimism touching a possible reunion
between Sir Marcus and myself is justified.”
He sank back in his chair.
Framlingham, with a puzzled "good-night," turned on his heel
and, switching off the light, left the room, a decidedly mystified
man.
Elveden smiled grimly to himself and settled down to his
vigil. Glancing at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch, he saw
that it was just half-past eight.
He shifted one foot so that it touched the safe door and,
drawing a revolver from his pocket, laid it on his lap and waited.
Settling himself a little more comfortably, he closed his eyes.
The Inspector lost less sleep than the Duke thought.
When he next opened his eyes it was a little before a quarter
to one. The room was in absolute darkness and the silence could
almost be felt.
He glanced hastily in the direction of the safe and saw, or
rather felt, that it was still locked. Not that he was greatly
perturbed by his lapse from wakefulness. A light sleeper, he
would have awakened at sounds which would have left a normal
sleeper undisturbed.
Shifting his foot, which had become a little cramped, he sat
on, motionless, awaiting developments. Apparently this was to
be another fruitless vigil, a repetition of the three previous nights.
He was certain that the Duke had not returned, since the
opening of the door in the hall outside would have awakened
him instantly.
Nor was he wrong. Almost as the reflection passed through his
mind, he heard the front door open and close with a decided slam.
He sat up alertly and then sank back with a smile.
sle shifting less, awaitinii, a repetuke had 2.000


148
MURDER IN WAX
aces whereof made onde os sliding
From the hall came the sound of a lordly voice raised in song.
It warbled distinctly: "And-for-bon-nie-Ann-ie-Lau-
rie " The song broke off abruptly and someone stumbled.
“Curse the (hic) mat," came a mutter from the hall, and then
the solo continued.
Elveden smiled. Judging from the blundering progress and
curses, His Grace was in an elevated mood.
Someone stumbled heavily against a chair and knocked it over.
The song ceased.
Feeling for the table in the darkness, Elveden poured himself
out a drink.
The minutes passed in absolute silence and the Inspector,
setting down his glass, debated the advisability of going to the
assistance of the Duke, who in all probability, was reposing on
the floor.
Listening intently and failing to hear anything suggesting
activity in the hall, Elveden was on the point of rising to investi-
gate, when a faint draught and the unmistakable creak of an
opening door made him stiffen in his chair.
In the same second a small disk of white light appeared on
the wall opposite the door. Sliding silently further down into the
depths of his chair, the Inspector watched the circle of light
intently and his hand closed over his automatic.
A torch?
What on earth had happened? Whose torch was it? The
Duke's? Surely not. He had no need to play those tricks in his
own house.
In a flash the meaning of the abruptly terminated song and the
second fall dawned on the Inspector. His lips tightened.
The circle of light was moving round the room. Finally, after
a complete tour of the walls, it came to rest on the safe, a few
feet to the left of Elveden.
Silently and slowly, the Inspector slid to the floor and dropped
down in a crouch on the right-hand side, shielded by the
chair.
The light still rested on the safe and with a faint smile Elveden
began to crawl away from the chair, making a detour and heading
quietly towards the torchlight, feeling, rather than seeing, his
way, through the darkness.
Not a sound disturbed the silence of the room. The curtains
were drawn and the Inspector was reasonably certain that he
could not be seen.
Warily he crawled forward another pace.


150
MURDER IN WAX
them remained still. No sound disturbed them. Apparently the
servants had not heard His Grace's arrival or were perhaps so
familiar with his lapses from sobriety that they were leaving him
to his own devices.
And what of the Duke? Elveden's glance wandered casually
to the closed door.
The Squid intercepted the glance and his eyes glittered
mockingly.
“His Grace,” he said coldly, "is drunk and incapable. Decidedly
incapable! Stand away from that safe!”
Elveden looked at the sinister black figure and decided that,
although valor was an attribute of the Gods, the more mortal
discretion was not without its attractions.
He moved aside obediently. It was a humiliating position. The
result of his trap-defeat.
The Squid advanced a step and dropped on one knee before
the safe. His revolver tilted at a sharp angle and the Inspector
found himself gazing down the barrel.
The Squid drew a small red diary from his jacket pocket and
waved it defiantly.
"His Grace is apt to be a little careless in matters of vital
interest to himself," he said coldly.
He glanced swiftly down at the diary and then back at the
Inspector. His hand moved out to the brass dial in the center
of the safe. The little indicator began to swing backwards and
forwards.
“Seven forward-back three-five forward_back two-three
forward-ah!”
His voice ceased and the door swung open under his hand.
“Don't move, Inspector," he said silkily, and his free hand
reached into the safe. It came away holding a string of diamonds,
that glittered and twinkled in the light. The Baraipur diamonds!
He dropped them into his pocket and reached into the safe
for the second time, withdrawing a bundle of bonds which he
transferred to another pocket.
He rose to his feet and his mocking eyes held those of the
furious Inspector unwaveringly.
“The beauty of bonds," he said evenly, “is that they are
untraceable. They will also serve to recompense me for an other-
wise wasted evening. At some future date I shall give myself
the pleasure of setting to work to find our drunken friend's
little collection, which I believe rivals my own in more ways than
one.”


THE SQUID COUNTERS
151
Motioning the Inspector to stand away from the table, he
stepped forward and poured himself out a drink.
He raised his glass mockingly.
“To our next meeting, Inspector. I shall return the paste decoys
in due course.”
Elveden's sudden start provoked a mocking laugh.
“Over-advertisement is very foolish, Inspector. Do you realize
that from the moment you started to concoct this amiable, but
not over-brilliant scheme with our inebriated friend at present-
er-reclining in the hall, the cards were all stacked against you?”
The Squid drained his glass at a gulp and set it down.
“That whisky," he said, "was excellent. And should you lower
your hands another fraction of an inch, Inspector, there will be a
nasty accident."
Elveden bit his lip and raised his hands to their full extent.
The slow and furtive lowering had not, as he supposed, escaped
attention.
"Returning to the subject of diamonds," resumed the Squid
softly. “Allow me to draw your attention to the humorous side
of the affair. You will doubtless appreciate it even more fully
than I do myself.”
His eyes twinkled amusedly.
The Inspector remained silent. There was little that he could
say. The Squid held all the cards.
"As I was telling Mr. Leicester the other day—ah, that is news,
I see. Yes, I have been entertaining Mr. Leicester for some con-
siderable time and shall probably continue to do so unless I
decide tomah-remove him for good. He had the misfortune to
intrude at an inopportune moment, some time ago. Most regret-
table. I shall be sorry to be instrumental in cutting short so
promising a career.”
His eyes caught and held the Inspector's.
“Don't forget what I said about your hands,” he warned, and
Elveden scowled.
“However, we digress,” continued the Squid. “As I was telling
Mr. Leicester, some years ago I took the trouble to examine the
Maharajah's diamonds with a view to acquiring them.”
His glance became a little colder.
“Naturally, I discovered the deception he had played, and in
consequence the little trap you have so carefully laid struck me
as childish.”
Elveden gritted his teeth, but preserved silence.
“Furthermore," pursued the Squid, “I knew the Maharajah's


152
MURDER IN WAX
failing for crime in any shape or form. Also that, as a result of
his charming duplicity, the diamonds had fallen into your hands.
I trust that the Commissioner did not make the mistake of trying
to realize on them? But, of course, the Yard has its experts who
would detect the deception.”
He chuckled and the Inspector restrained his rising temper
with an effort.
“You have not, however, heard the cream of the joke,” went
on the Squid.
"The Maharajah, for whom you are so diligently searching
at the moment, happens to be one of my most valued aides.
Humorous, is it not?”
He chuckled with enjoyment and then abruptly became serious.
“I have wasted enough time on you, my well-meaning but
brainless friend,” he said acidly and stepped back cautiously to
the door.
Elveden took a half-step forward and the revolver shifted
menacingly.
Standing with his back to the door, the Squid felt for the key.
Removing it, he opened the door and transferred it to the other
side of the lock.
Standing in the doorway, a grim black-clad figure, he bowed
slightly.
"My compliments to the Commissioner,” he said mockingly,
and in a flash had bounded out into the hall and siammed
the door.
The key turned in the lock ten seconds before Elveden hurled
himself forward.
With a muttered curse the Inspector seized the nearest chair
and, raising it, battered on the door. Blow after blow fell and
from above came the sound of someone stirring; servants, he
judged, and yelled for assistance.
The precious seconds flew by and the stout panels did not give
beneath the furious onslaught.
Dropping the damaged chair, Elveden glared round the study
and, espying the window leading out to the drive at the back of
the house, leapt across the room and opened it.
Vaulting over the sill, he dropped on to the gravel path beneath
and raced round the side of the house. Confronted by a locked
door, he was forced to climb it, muttering expletives all the time.
Dropping down on the other side, he dashed down to the
gates and, feeling in his pockets, produced a police whistle.
A frenzied siren rang out in the cold morning air.


XXII. TELLS SOMEWHAT OF DUCAL SPLEEN
MASTERS, followed by the cook, a footman and various other
members of the Duke's household, made his way gingerly down
the stairs.
It was barely five minutes since he had been roused from his
sleep by the violent barrage on the ground floor and the excited
yells of Inspector Elveden.
Hastily bundling on a few clothes, he had arrived on the
landing to find the others congregated outside his door, whispering
nervously and showing no inclination to descend and discover
what was the cause of the disturbance.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Masters braced himself and
made his way in the direction of the light switch.
From out of the darkness the little group waiting nervously at
the top of the stairs heard a sudden grunt and the sound of a
heavy fall. There followed an emphatic and heartfelt “Damn!”
Masters was only human.
Staggering to his feet, he hastily switched on the light and
gazed down at the bundle on the floor over which he had meas-
ured his length.
Lying on his side, gagged, and with his hands and ankles
manacled, was His Grace of Framlingham. His eyes glared up
furiously at the startled butler and from behind the gag he
mouthed inarticulate curses. Beside him on the floor lay his
cloak and gloves. A few feet away his crush hat was living up
to its name. Lying open on its side, it had broken the butler's fall.
With a startled gasp, Masters dropped on his knees beside the
prostrate Duke and removed the restraining gag with fingers that
trembled nervously.
Putting his arm round his master's shoulders, he raised the
unfortunate man to a sitting position,
His Grace glared first at the servants and then at the manacles
on his wrist. The sight seemed to sober him.
For some moments there was an awed silence, while a struggle
raged in the ducal soul—the struggle of man and gentleman. And
the man won.
Four expletives, all beginning with the second letter of the
alphabet, burst from his lips and were succeeded by a fluent
stream that included every descriptive word in the language and
repeated none.
153


154
MURDER IN WAX
The cook, with a decidedly heightened color, scurried back up
the stairs with her hands over her ears and vanished to her
bedroom.
Masters hurriedly motioned to the first footman to assist him,
and between them they carried the lordly blasphemer into his
study and deposited him on a chair.
Masters covertly signaled to the footman to efface himself.
Outside there followed a whispered consultation and then came
the sound of the servants returning upstairs.
Masters, standing by nervously, and holding up his trousers
with one hand, had never seen his master so enraged during the
whole course of their relationship.
Suddenly the Duke's angry eyes fell on the damaged Chippen-
dale chair with which Elveden had tried to batter down the
door.
“Oh, my God,” he moaned, “look at that chair!” and he
rounded swiftly on the butler. "Where's that blasted Inspector?”
At that moment “that blasted Inspector” put in an appearance.
Framlingham's eyes kindled as he observed the cool C.I.D. man.
"What the blazes do you think you're up to?" he roared. “So
much for your crack-brained schemes—you—you— Yes, that's
what you are!”
He glared speechlessly.
“Your Grace " protested Elveden, and the flood gates
opened.
"Hold your confounded tongue, you blithering idiot!" raved
the Duke. “Someone's going to suffer for this outrage. Here have
I been assaulted in my own house, gagged and tied up in that
hellishly draughty hall for half-an-hour, half-choked and catching
my death of cold "
"If your Grace will allow me "
“Bah," snarled the Duke. "Two bahs! Look at that Chippen-
dale chair! What do you think it is? A pick-ax? That chair cost
a fortune-a fortune, and you—you "
“I shall be pleased to replace that chair at your convenience,”
said Elveden.
"I never doubted it," retorted the other furiously. "And don't
talk in that easy go-as-you-please style about replacing a Chip-
pendale. They don't grow on mulberry trees. And now clear out
before my present clemency gives place to homicidal mania. I'll
see you in the morning.”
With a cold bow the Inspector turned to go. The Duke turned
scarlet.
hellien assaultede one's going tongue, you blit


TELLS SOMEWHAT OF DUCAL SPLEEN 155
"Fool,” he said politely, "are you going to leave me all night
like this?”
He waved his manacled hands furiously in Elveden's face.
The Inspector smiled with unmistakably malicious enjoyment.
“Unfortunately,” he said pleasantly, “I have no key that would
unlock those manacles, and, as the Squid omitted to leave one, I
am afraid that your Grace will have to have them filed off.”
With which he nodded coolly and departed, leaving the Duke
too enraged to think of a suitable retort. Turning swiftly, he sur-
prised the smile that Elveden's words had occasioned Masters.
"What the devil are you grinning at, you blighted hyena?” he
snarled. "Get out! You're dismissed.”
Masters started and paled slightly. Nevertheless, he bowed
respectfully and turned to the door.
“Very good, your Grace," he answered.
“God give me patience,” raved the frantic peer. “Come back,
you idiot. How am I to get these things off? Where's that file,
you blockhead?”
"I am no longer in your service, your Grace," Masters
reminded him icily.
Cornered, the Duke glared.
“Hell!” he muttered weakly. “You're re-instated.”
"Whihe smile tink of a suitaly and depave them fil leave one, a
gratulate engaged, erityisen to the no les ughtfully from her. Duke's
place untidyst some time. amlingham. «
Eight hours' undisturbed sleep did much to restore the Duke's
normally tranquil temper. He glanced thoughtfully from the radi-
ant face of Jimmy Craven to the no less happy face of Leslie.
“We're engaged, Erb," said Leslie. "You're the first to con-
gratulate us."
"I knew it,” sighed Framlingham. “I've watched this disease
developing for some time. Grab a couple of seats. You make the
place untidy standing up."
He sank into a chair and, pushing the cigarettes in Leslie's
direction, looked suspiciously at her companion.
"James,” he said searchingly, "you have not come here to
paint roseate pictures of love and a cottage for two, have you?
In my present enfeebled state and at this foul hour I could
not-
Jimmy waved a reassuring hand.
“You don't have to," he grinned. "I have another reason for
inflicting myself.”
“Don't tell me it's friendship,” pleaded the Duke.
“It isn't,” retorted the reporter. "I am here officially."
His host groaned dismally.


156
MURDER IN WAX
“How you fellows smell out a story beats me. Like
swarming locusts-if locusts swarm. Greedy, blood-sucking,
preying "
"I met Elveden on my way here,” interrupted Jimmy. “He
was coming out of Sotheby's. He mumbled something about buy-
ing you a Chippendale chair and looked pretty black "
"In anticipation of the crepe his relations will soon be wear-
ing,” snorted the Duke. “If you knew what that fool was respon-
sible for
“That's why I am here,” retorted Jimmy, and produced a note-
book and pencil. “Shoot, Erb. You have our ear.”
“If you think," His Grace began in measured tones.
"Only when necessary,” the reporter informed him placidly.
“Don't interrupt,” he was reproved. “I say, if you think I am
going to allow myself to be relentlessly ravaged by a rapacious
reporter- "
“Go on, Erb,” Leslie interrupted encouragingly, “_reckoning
on reaping reams of really ripe and relevant—"
The Duke held up his hand and glared scathingly at the news-
paper man.
"I will tell you nothing,” he declared.
“But the truth," agreed the reporter approvingly. “It will be
a strain, I know. But bear it like a man. Now-gently, but
lucidly."
“Look what you're marrying, Leslie,” the distracted aristocrat
said despondently and succumbed.
Jimmy's pencil moved steadily and swiftly, while his noble
friend gave a detailed account of the events of the previous night
in tones of subdued wrath.
"And Elveden," he concluded, venomously. “Elveden-I say,
Elveden-
"He means Elveden," said Leslie interestedly.
“I do," snarled the Duke. "What that man knows could be put
on a postage stamp with a two-inch margin round it.”
He turned to Leslie.
"You'd better withdraw, my dear," he said. “I wish to give
Jimmy my impressions of Scotland Yard. I hope that notebook
isn't inflammable, James.”
“Go on, Erb,” she invited. “Don't forget I've heard Marky
play golf.”
"It'll cramp my style horribly," growled the Duke. “Which is
a pity when I feel so fluent. And you might add, Jimmy, that
the fools haven't found my precious nephew yet. Not that I want


TELLS SOMEWHAT OF DUCAL SPLEEN 157
wished arrival of Masters ng else to curse them sooner or later, I
the fool found, but as he's bound to turn up sooner or later, I
might as well have something else to curse them for."
The arrival of Masters to announce that Inspector Elveden
wished to speak to him momentarily deprived the Duke of the
power of speech. Then he snorted angrily.
"Is the man tired of life?” he demanded. “Show him up."
Leslie rose to her feet.
"Jimmy, you can take me home. I have no particular wish to
meet the Inspector.”
“Your lightest wish,” her lover murmured gallantly.
He turned to their host. “Can we leave by the servants'
entrance, Erb? I've no particular wish to meet Elveden myself.
He might try and hold this story up, and it's too good to be
missed.”
“You can leave by the coal chute, if it pleases you,” growled
the Duke, preparing for battle. “Through that door," he directed,
indicating a half-open door opposite, "across the room and down
the stairs at the end. And hurry. I have an idea that I am going
to spread myself somewhat definitely.”
They vanished hurriedly and Framlingham rose with a grim
smile to meet the Inspector.
"I dropped in to see if you succeeded in ridding yourself of
the manacles, your Grace," Elveden murmured.
The Duke gathered his resources.
“I'm glad you did,” he said, coldly. "I didn't get a chance to
say half I wanted to last night. Sit down and listen."
The Inspector shrugged resignedly.
"If your Grace alludes to the damage I did your chair "
“Chair?” hooted Framlingham, bristling with fury. "Don't talk
in that cold-blooded manner! That was a Chippendale."
“I am afraid I do not appreciate the distinction,” apologized
Elveden. "It is too subtle.”
“I suppose you know what bonds are?” snorted the Duke.
“There again your Grace will doubtless be somewhat better
informed,” smiled the Inspector. “You were-er-somewhat
wrapped up in them last night.”
His Grace stuttered angrily.
"I'm sending my doctor's bill in to you,” he raved. “Twenty
minutes, tied up in a draughty hall. Enough to kill any man.
And, talking of bonds, your enchanting friend relieved me of a
hundred of them last night.”
Elveden whistled blankly.
“As many as a hundred?” he asked.


158
MURDER IN WAX
only come beatened, tied the uses me a
“Yes, don't stand there gaping, man,” snarled Framlingham.
"A hundred! You know what a hundred is, don't you? Taken
from the old English 'hundred,' pronounced hundred and mean-
ing 'hundred'!”
Elveden shrugged.
“I have every hope of being able to return them to you in
due course," he said slowly. “The whole affair was unfortunate,
of course, but I am thankful that it was no worse."
"Worse? You did say worse?”
Momentarily his Grace lost the ability to express himself. But
only momentarily.
"I come home,” he said distinctly, "I am knocked down in my
own hall. Gagged, tied up for half-an-hour in a position that
gave me cramp. My butler uses me as a doormat. I have to have
iron or steel manacles filed off my wrists—a confoundedly painful
business-and- "
“I also had a reverse," interrupted Elveden. “The Baraipur
string is gone "
“Don't interrupt," shouted the Duke. “I haven't finished yet
by a long chalk. My Chippendale is ruined, my cigars are smoked
like Woodbines, my whisky is swilled like water, and my flower
beds are trampled to death by a man who is here to protect my
interests. By a man who suggested the whole damn thing. You're
right. It might have been worse, but not much. Apart from those
pleasant little trivialities, I spent a charmnig evening.”
"I can only apologize," said Elveden, "and use my best en-
deavors to restore your bonds." He glanced at the clock. “I regret
having occupied twenty minutes of your valuable time. Good-
morning.”
The Duke snorted and rose to his feet.
“And that,” he said rudely, "you might have said twenty min-
utes ago. And, talking of empty remarks, you made a nasty
insinuation last night regarding my friend Sir Marcus Loseley.
Did you see him after all?”
Elveden flushed and turned round at the door.
"I did not,” he answered slowly, "and that is what gives me
confidence in my power to restore your bonds.”
Turning his back on the astonished peer, he stalked out of
the room.


XXIII. AN ABDUCTION
FENTON picked up the telephone, detached the receiver, placed
it to his ear, listened for a moment, and then turned to his
master.
"The Duke of Framlingham's butler, sir," he said. “He wishes
to speak to you. He says it is a matter of the greatest impor-
tance.”
Sir Marcus rose to his feet and took the instrument.
"Hallo?”
“Sir Marcus Loseley?" asked a trembling voice.
“Speaking.”.
A sigh of relief came across the wire.
“This is the Duke of Framlingham's butler, sir. Could you
possibly come here at once? Something terrible has happened.”
Sir Marcus frowned blankly.
“Terrible?” he said. “What do you mean? What can have
happened?”
"1–1-can't explain over the telephone, sir, but please come
at once," and before the bewildered Baronet could reply, the line
went dead.
Sir Marcus replaced the instrument hastily and turned to his
butler.
"Fenton, tell Miss Leslie that I have been unexpectedly called
to the Duke of Framlingham's house,” he instructed, and strode
out into the hall.
Hastily pulling on a coat and cap, he left the house and hur-
ried- round to the garage.
Five minutes later his car drove out of Eaton Place.
From the window of her dressing-room, Leslie watched his
departure with a little frown.
“Ring for Fenton, Sadie,” she said, turning to her maid.
Sadie turned obediently to the bell, but was forestalled by the
arrival of the butler in person.
“Oh, Fenton, that was Sir Marcus who left the house, wasn't
it?” Leslie asked.
“Yes, Miss Leslie," answered the butler. "He received a tele-
phone message and told me to tell you that he had been unex-
pectedly called to His Grace of Framlingham's house."
Leslie bit her lip perplexedly.
159


160
MURDER IN WAX
“Did he say why he was going or how long he would me?" she
asked vexedly.
“No, Miss Leslie."
“Very well, that's all.”
The butler retired, and with a little frown puckering her fore-
head Leslie re-seated herself at the dressing-table and allowed
her maid to resume her ministrations.
“What time is it, Sadie?" she asked, fidgeting with the pear-
shaped pearl pendant at her throat.
“A little before a quarter to seven, Miss Leslie.”
“And dinner is at a quarter past," pouted Leslie. "I do wish
I could cure Sir Marcus of wandering off at all times without
warning. Especially when we have a guest to dinner.”
She sighed despondently.
Sadie, putting the finishing touches to her mistress's hair,
crooned sympathetically.
“He will probably be back in time, Miss,” she said consolingly.
“He would be, if he knew what a picture you looked.”
Leslie stood up and surveyed her slim figure, draped in filmy
pink, critically.
"I hope so," she replied. "Has Mr. Craven arrived yet?”
"I'll see, Miss."
Again she was forestalled. Fenton stood in the doorway, prof-
fering a visiting card.
Sadie handed it to her mistress and Leslie, with a puzzled look,
saw that it was one of Sir Marcus's cards.
Scrawled across it in her guardian's hand were the words:
“Come at once to Erb's place, Leslie. Don't waste any time.-
Marcus."
"A taxi is waiting at the door, Miss," Fenton informed her as
she dropped the card on her dressing-table.
"Taxi?” she asked with a puzzled frown. "Where is Sir
Marcus's car?"
"I cannot say, Miss,” replied Fenton. “The chauffeur says he
has instructions to drive you to Framlingham House."
With a vexed expression Leslie caught up her cloak and turned
to the door.
"If Mr. Craven arrives before I return, ask him to wait, Sadie,”
she directed.
“Very well, Miss."
Leslie hurried downstairs.
Outside, the taxi-driver leant over and opened the door.
In the act of entering the taxi, Leslie saw Jimmy Craven turn
ression Le to Framton. "The


AN ABDUCTION
161
the corner, striding along like one whom the cares of the world
could not touch.
He saw her at the same moment and waved encouragingly.
Pausing with one foot on the step, she waited for him to come up.
In a second two black-gloved hands reached out and dragged
her roughly into the taxi.
A hand was thrust over her mouth, drowning her startled cry
of "Jimmy!”
The reporter broke into a run and at the same moment the
taxi moved away.
Twenty yards away, Jimmy spurted desperately and, overhaul-
ing it, boarded the dashboard.
A black-gloved fist shot out of the window and, landing
squarely in the reporter's face, precipitated him into the road-
way, where he collapsed ungracefully into the gutter.
A passer-by helped Jimmy to his feet and for the next few
minutes Eaton Place was beguiled with the spectacle of a hat-
less, mud-bespattered and wild-eyed young man pursuing a fast
traveling taxi and shouting at the top of his voice, “Stop that
taxi!”
A policeman detached himself from the corner of Cliveden
Place, and, raising an authoritative white hand, stepped out into
the road.
It was all over in a second.
The taxi swerved violently-an agonized scream rang out, and
the policeman was hurled on to the pavement. He fell awkwardly,
his neck twisted ominously. He died before anyone could reach
him.
Jimmy, with a gasp of horror, watched the taxi take the
corner on two wheels and turn into Cliveden Place. A crowd was
collecting around the dead man.
Turning on his heel, the reporter dashed back to the house,
brushed past the astounded Fenton, and plunged into the draw-
ing-room.
Two minutes later he was talking swiftly but lucidly to
Inspector Elveden.
Elveden listened intently to the volley of words fired at him
across the wire, and then, setting the instrument down, turned
sharply to a sergeant of police standing a few feet away.
"Warn all stations to stop a taxi, hackney carriage pattern,
No. L 70654, last seen in Cliveden Place.”
“Why the devil do I have to be pestered with ordinary local
work?” he growled.


162
MURDER IN WAX
The sergeant saluted and withdrew.
Forty minutes later he returned, ushering in a perspiring and
excited young man whose clothes bore eloquent testimony of
close contact with Mother Earth.
“Any news, Elveden?” gasped Jimmy.
“Only the details of the accident,” answered Elveden, and
turned to find Jimmy with his head buried in his hands.
He leant over and patted the reporter kindly on the shoulder.
“Stand up to it, Mr. Craven," he said quietly.
Jimmy groaned. “Black-gloved hands," he said miserably.
“You know what that means.”
Elveden started. “By George, the Squid! Are you sure?”
“Certain," muttered the reporter. “That's why I rang you."
“They'll get him if it's humanly possible," said Elveden. But
his tone was not convincing. The knowledge that the Squid had
perpetrated the outrage put a different construction on the whole
affair.
His hand crashed down on the table in front of him.
“By God, he's piling up a pretty score against himself," he
rapped out harshly, and then in a quieter voice: “Essex had a
wife and two little ones.”
“Who's Essex?” asked Jimmy dully.
“The constable who tried to stop the Squid's taxi,” answered
Elveden, and looked away.
After a moment he turned again to the reporter.
“Better give me full details,” he suggested.
Craven looked up miserably.
“According to Fenton,” he said in a dull voice, “Sir Marcus
received a message from Masters, the Duke of Framlingham's
butler, asking him to go over there at once and "
“Did Fenton take the message?” asked Elveden sharply.
"Only the first few words,” Jimmy replied. “Masters said that
he wanted to speak to Sir Marcus on a matter of the greatest
importance—no, urgency.”
Go on,” invited Elveden, his eyes gleaming oddly.
“Apparently Sir Marcus left in his car at once," said Jimmy.
“Five minutes later Miss Richmond received a message from him
written on a visiting card—wait a minuten
He rummaged in his pocket and produced the card.
Elveden read the scrawled message and smiled cynically.
"This is Sir Marcus's writing, I suppose?” he asked.
“Or a damn good imitation of it," answered Jimmy. “There
was a taxi waiting for Miss Richmond at the door and she was


AN ABDUCTION
163
just getting in when I turned the corner. She waited a moment
for me, and I suddenly saw a pair of black-gloved hands reach
out and drag her inside.”
He ran his fingers through his long hair distractedly.
"I managed to board it,” he continued ruefully, "and caught
a glimpse of a fellow with a huge head holding her. Then I got
a clump on the jaw that pitched me into the gutter. I ran after
the taxi for some way, saw the accident, and went back to the
house to telephone you."
He buried his head in his hands again.
With an ominous tightening of his lips, Elveden took up the
telephone at his elbow.
"Put me in touch with the Duke of Framlingham's house," he
directed. “Upper Berkeley Street, isn't it?”
He turned to the reporter and, receiving confirmation, said:
“Yes, that's right, and get a move on.”
Jimmy sat back in his chair miserably and listened despond-
ently to the stream of questions Elveden fired into the
telephone.
Replacing the receiver, Elveden turned to him with a curious
smile.
“Masters says he gave no such message," he said. "His Grace
is not in the house. He says that Şir Marcus called some time
ago and, on learning that no one had telephoned, left immedi-
ately for his own home.”
He toyed idly with his pen.
“I should very much like to know Sir Marcus's movements
during the past three-quarters of an hour," he said, thoughtfully.
"And I shall be pleased to explain them,” said a cold voice
from the doorway.
Turning, the Inspector was confronted by the haggard face of
Sir Marcus Loseley.
He had been ushered in unannounced.
He seemed to have aged considerably in the past hour. His
face was drawn and deep lines furrowed his brow. Nevertheless,
he faced the Inspector's keen regard unflinchingly.
“You know what has happened, Sir Marcus?”
"I think my presence here answers that question,” retorted the
other.
“Then perhaps you will be good enough to explain your move-
ments for the past hour," said Elveden.
“At exactly a quarter to seven,” said Sir Marcus, "I was sum-
moned to the Duke of Framlingham's house by his butler,
from uning Lose los here are ses formen un fidarcus


164
MURDER IN WAX
Masters. He told me over the telephone that something terrible
had happened "
"Terrible?” inquired Elveden.
"Since you heard, why ask?” Sir Marcus's tone was frigid.
“He declined to explain over the telephone, and I hurried out
immediately."
Elveden nodded, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the other's
face.
“On my arrival,” Sir Marcus pursued, “Masters denied hav-
ing telephoned me, or having telephoned anyone. Furthermore,
the Duke was not in the house and had not been there all day.
I at once suspected trickery."
“Naturally," said Elveden smoothly.
“On reaching the road,” went on Sir Marcus, ignoring the
sneer, “I discovered that my car had vanished.”
“And your chauffeur?"
"I drove myself,” he answered curtly. “My chauffeur had the
night off, as I did not expect to use my car at all. That is all
there is to explain.”
"For a man in a hurry—and I take it you were in a hurry-
you seem to have taken a long time to make the journey to
Berkeley Street and back and then on here," said Elveden slowly.
"I was unfortunately unable to get a taxi at once."
“And your car is still missing?"
"It is not," was the surprising answer. “I found it awaiting
me outside my house when I returned from Berkeley Street. I
drove here in it. For some reason, which I cannot explain, it
was returned.”
At that moment the door opened to admit the sergeant again.
“Well?” demanded the Inspector, looking up sharply.
“Taxi answering the description reported abandoned in Putney
Vale, sir,” said the sergeant formally.
“Any witnesses to testify?"
“Yes, sir. Taxi was seen to drive up at a quarter past eight
and come to a stand beside a private car. Two men got out,
carrying a young lady, apparently unconscious. The lady was
transferred to the private car, which drove away immediately.
The witness said that the chauffeur said the girl was being taken
to a private hospital, sir.”
"Did the witness get the number of the car?"
"No, sir."
"Did he describe the car?" demanded Elveden testily.
The sergeant reddened with embarrassment. “The witness said
hed to admit up sharphin Putney


AN ABDUCTION
165
it was a motor car, sir,” he answered apologetically, and seeing
the Inspector's angry eyes, added hastily: “The witness wasn't
a him, sir; it was a her.”
Elveden gritted his teeth and turned to Sir Marcus and Jimmy.
"I am afraid we can do nothing for the present,” he said. “I
will communicate with you if anything develops.”
As they passed out of the room, Elveden glared at the sergeant.
“Damn all women!” he snarled. “Get me on to Putney Vale!”


XXIV. FREDDIE PLAYS BILLIARDS
FREDDIE sipped the excellent coffee and took up the paper. He
was in excellent spirits that evening. His schemes were about
to mature and friend William the Waxwork was about to receive
the most paralyzing shock he had ever sustained. Further-
more ...
Freddie's meditations broke off abruptly, and he studied the
front page with amazed attention. Flaming headlines told this
story:
BARONET'S WARD ABDUCTED
Policeman Killed by Captors' Car
Miss Leslie Richmond, the pretty twenty-five-year-old ward
of Sir Marcus Loseley, was forcibly abducted last evening
under mysterious and sensational circumstances and P.C. Essex,
who made a gallant attempt to hold up the taxi-cab in which
she was spirited away, was run down-deliberately, it is
alleged—and killed. The taxi got clear away, and up to the
time of going to press no arrest has been made.
A bogus telephone call and a false message, in which the
handwriting of Sir Marcus Loseley was cleverely forged, played
a vital part in this extraordinary drama, in which certain indi-
cations lead the police to suspect the hand of the notorious
“Squid.”
The abduction was a piece of work which for cool daring
has rarely been surpassed. Lured by a message purporting to
be in the handwriting of her guardian, Miss Richmond pre-
pared to visit the house of the Duke of Framlingham in Upper
Berkeley Street, a taxi having arrived for the purpose at the
residence of herself and Sir Marcus Loseley at Eaton Place.
About to step into the taxi, Miss Richmond caught sight of a
friend, Mr. James Craven, on his way to dine with her. She
had scarcely paused to await him before someone secreted in
the taxi suddenly seized her and lifted her bodily into the
vehicle, which was promptly driven off.
Mr. Craven, who had witnessed the whole drama, raced after
the taxi and leapt on to the footboard. A blow in the face,
however, dislodged him and sent him sprawling into the road.
Regaining his feet, he continued to pursue the fleeting taxi.
166


168
MUKDER IN WAX
rotten posish. Have to stand by with all hands on deck to fortify
the emplacement pending a strategic retreat, reflected Freddie. It
was an unforeseen complication and one that would hamper his
movements considerably.
He was still debating when the placid John entered.
“Is there anything particular you would wish to do, sir?” he
enquired, repeating a formula that Freddie had heard every morn-
ing, afternoon and evening since his capture.
“I have it in mind to subject the balls to a fearful battering,”
replied Freddie cheerfully.
“Sir?”
“I said that I intended to have a hundred up at billiards,"
explained Freddie.
"Certainly, sir,” said John, standing aside to allow Freddie to
precede him.
Freddie rose and made his way to the billiard room, escorted by
John and the revolver.
"By the way,” said Freddie, as John switched on the light, "I
see that William the Waxwork has collected Miss Richmond.”
John smiled inquiringly.
"I refer to the abduction mentioned in this evening's paper,"
Freddie explained.
Contrary to his usual custom, John became confidential, even
enthusiastic.
“Yes, sir," he admitted. “I read the report myself. A very neat
capture and, as usual, brilliantly hall-marked by the master's ef-
fective methods.”
. "Exactly,” murmured Freddie. "I take it that in the ensuing
bustle we may count on an early visit from William? I mean-
he'll have to lie doggo for a bit, what?”
To his surprise the butler nodded.
“I expect the master late to-night, sir. Will there be anything
further?”
Freddie took a cue from the rack and balanced it thoughtfully.
“A palatable gargle seems indicated,” he said, and forestalled
the inevitable enquiry. "Don't say 'sir' interrogatively. I allude to
the pressing need for a cocktail.”
“Very good, sir,” said John, and withdrew.
Frederick settled himself down to the serious business of prac-
ticing a few cannons.
He also settled himself down to the more serious business of
perfecting a most attractive little plan that had commended itself
to him.


170
MURDER IN WAX
ponent, waiting his opportunity and silently praying that John
would not notice the fact that his shots were being deliberately
placed for reasons other than the mere winning of the game.
Nevertheless, his face remained as vacuous as ever as he ma-
neuvered for the position on which the success of his plan de-
pended. The minutes flew by and the clock struck nine. Each
second brought the Squid's return nearer.
Slowly and unhurriedly John concluded a number of shots,
pausing between each to watch Freddie move to the position he in-
dicated, and at last stood back with a break of thirty.
Freddie's heart thumped violently. The moment he had been
awaiting so long had at last arrived.
John stood back and marked his score. That done, he prepared
to watch his captive, one hand holding his cue, the other resting
lightly on his revolver which lay on the cushion.
With an inward exultation, Freddie saw that the very revolver
which protected the butler was to prove his undoing. In order to
cover the revolver with his hand in such a manner as to facilitate
grasping it quickly, the butler had allowed his fingers to droop
over the cushion, a mistake that no experienced player would
make in other circumstances.
Under cover of deliberating his shot, Freddie covertly studied
John's position. The butler stood about two feet from the table
and a further two feet divided him from the wall.
Freddie laid his cue across the table and studied the balls. His
mouth went dry during the operation. Should the butler but
realize his intentions, the chance would be lost.
But the gods smiled on Freddie. At that moment John looked
up at the clock opposite and Freddie made his shot.
It was a hard shot without any spin to detract from its speed
and the ball struck John squarely on the fingers of the left
hand.
With a sharp exclamation of agony, the butler whipped his
injured fingers away so swiftly that the movement dislodged the
pistol.
As the pistol clattered to the floor-an unsuspected stroke of
good luck-Freddie dropped his cue.
John, stooping hastily to retrieve his weapon, saw his danger
too late. Freddie launched himself forward suddenly and the
startled butler was flung back, dazed and breathless, pinned to the
wall by the table.
Freddie dived across, and his fingers closed over the butler's
throat, checking the astonished cry that rose to John's lips.


FREDDIE PLAYS BILLIARDS
171
For a tense second they faced each other and John realized that
Freddie's vacant smile had been replaced by a purposeful glare.
With a despairing effort the butler flung up his hands and
strove to tear away the steel grip from his throat.
“Not this time, my dear John," said Freddie grimly, smiling
into the red face of the half-strangled butler. His grip tightened
viciously.
Looking into those eyes, John knew that despite the other's
awkward position he had met his match. The veins stood out
upon the butler's forehead like blue ridges, his eyes bulged and
his mouth sagged. Freddie smiled into his eyes. Placing his heel
against the farthermost edge of the table to steady himself, he
drew the butler's head slowly towards him.
“Sorry, my friend," he said slowly. “Needs must when the
devil drives,” and the butler's head went back against the wall.
On the second John sagged limply in Freddie's hands.
Without relaxing his grip, Freddie drew himself across the table
and regained his feet.
Pushing the table away from the wall, he allowed the uncon-
scious butler to slide to the floor and, stooping, picked up the
automatic.
· Laying it on the table, he bent down and proceeded to strip
off John's suit.
Ten minutes later he stood up, clad in the butler's clothes, and
smiled down engagingly on the partially recovering John. The lat-
ter, gagged with a handkerchief, strove to free his wrists from the
pajama cord that pinioned them behind his back.
"No," said Freddie pleasantly. “Decidedly no, old cod! Take
my tip and chuck it. The more you strain, the tighter the jolly old
knots will become.”
John “chucked it.” His efforts had tightened the chafing cord
until it was biting deeply into his flesh, and for the first time it
dawned on the butler that the grinning youth who watched him
was less of a fool than he looked.
John's swift glance revealed the fact that he was wearing Fred-
die's pajamas and dressing gown, and also that his belt was tied
round his ankles.
With an amused smile Freddie rummaged in his pockets, and
finding the key of the billiard room, walked softly to the door and
unlocked it. Opening it, he peered cautiously out into the cor-
ridor outside.
On the right from the servants' quarters came the sound of a
chair moving. The rest of the house was apparently silent.


172
MURDER IN WAX
Freddie wondered where the “staff of four, to meet various
domestic and other contingencies” were.
Moving softly down the corridor, he came to a door and pushed
it cautiously ajar. He found himself looking into the kitchen
and what he saw there amused him.
Seated with his back to Freddie was the sour-faced footman,
making a hearty meal of cold ham and pickles. Propped up against
the cruet in front of him was à copy of the current issue of the
Sporting Times, which the footman was studying earnestly with a
view to appreciating “Form for the two meetings.”
Absorbed in his reading, he was unaware of Freddie's silent
entry behind him. Which was an advantageous circumstance
from Freddie's point of view.
Softly closing the door, Freddie moved silently toward the un-
suspecting "race fan” clubbing his pistol in his hand.
He struck once, and once only. It was sufficient! The footman's
head fell forward on his plate, his nose resting passively in the
remains of the chutney.
“And that,” said Freddie cheerfully, “is that!"
Stooping over the inert footman, he removed his braces and
tie, and bound him methodically, standing back after a time to
survey his handiwork.
Satisfied that the footman was helpless, Freddie crept out into
the corridor and silently explored the rooms on the ground floor.
Room after room he found deserted, and, moving with the
noiseless tread peculiar to cats and some men of big build, he
made his way toward the stair with a view to assuring himself
that the upstairs rooms were unoccupied, or, in the event of their
being occupied, seeing that the occupants were placed beyond the
possibility of proving dangerous.
Each protesting creak delayed him, and after a more than
usually loud one he crouched back against the wall and cursed
softly.
At any moment the Squid might arrive, and Freddie wanted
to be prepared for him. Satisfied that the sound had passed
unnoticed by anyone, he made his way upstairs slowly.
Downstairs in the billiard room John, with set face, slowly and
painfully got his back to the wall and levered himself to a stand-
ing position. After pausing for breath he began to move slowly,
from toes to heels, in the direction of a chair set beneath the elec-
tric light switch.
Above him, but moving so silently that the butler could not
determine his position, Freddie stole across the landing like a


FREDDIE PLAYS BILLIARDS
173
shadow to the first door of the corridor in which he found himself.
Freddie knew that this particular part of the house overlooked
the garden at the back, What he did not know, however,' was
that any sounds outside from the front of the house would not
penetrate to the rooms he was now exploring.
And in that, John downstairs had the advantage.
There were sounds.
Faint footfalls that moved warily outside along the gravel path
to the front door, and then paused
Hobbling slowly, John reached the switch.
He had no time to lose. Freddie might return at any moment,
and John knew that, above all, the Squid must be warned. And
the footfalls outside had been those of the Squid! He was waiting
... and in danger!
John knew why the Squid was waiting.
The Squid had pressed a button which would set a bulb glow-
ing in the kitchen. Until someone in the kitchen pressed a second
switch, which would light a red bulb above the front door, the
Squid would not enter. And John doubted if anyone would press
that switch. He had little doubt of the fate of the footman. Never-
theless, Freddie might be even now outside the house, or watch-
ing the Squid from a window, and the master had to be warned.
With a silent prayer John bent his knees and jumped. He
landed on the chair and swayed perilously. For a moment it
seemed as if he would fall. The perspiration stood out on his
forehead. Then, with an effort, he swayed sideways against the
wall and leant there panting.
Slowly he steadied himself and turned his back to the wall,
feeling for the light switch with his bound hands. From outside
came the sound of stealthily retreating footsteps.
The Squid was puzzled by the non-appearance of the red
light.
Above sounded the scrape of a chair as Freddie made an un-
wary move. John's hands moved feverishly in search of the switch
and suddenly came in contact with it.
Immediately the switch began to jerk upwards and downwards
causing the light to flash off and on alternately.
Directly outside the billiard room window the footsteps paused
suddenly, and with a feeling of relief John worked at the switch.
A series of short and long flashes lit up the window, lighting
and darkening the drive outside.


XXV. CHECK TO THE SQUID
arom the billipped close to the idea ate irregula
THE Squid stepped back quietly from the gravel path to the
grass that lined the drive. The eyes in the waxen mask had been
fixed intently on the barred and glazed window of the library.
Something had gone wrong. His signal had not been answered
and he was already retreating when a succession of sharp flashes
from the billiard room window caught his attention.
As he stepped close to the window, the flashes started again.
His astute brain grasped the idea at once.
Watching intently, he translated the irregular flashes into words.
“John speaking. Am tied up in billiard room. Footman is prob-
ably helpless. Leicester has escaped and is probably upstairs.”
There was a pause, and then the message was repeated. The
flashing stopped.
The Squid picked up a small stone from the drive and, reach-
ing up, tapped quietly on the window.
A sharp flash answered him and, satisfied, he started to rap
softly and swiftly.
“With you immediately. Squid”—the stone tapped out.
Stepping back cautiously, he sped along the grass and round
the angle of the house.
Within two minutes the footman, slowly recovering from the
effects of the blow, was watching a dark shape climbing through
the window of the scullery, which was just visible through the
half-opened kitchen door.
The Squid slipped across the scullery and into the kitchen, tak-
ing in the situation at a glance.
Producing a penknife, he bent over the footman and began
sawing through the tie which bound his hands.
On the floor above Freddie inspected the last room, a bedroom.
Like the others it was empty, and with a sigh of satisfaction he
sat down on the bed to think. Feeling in the pockets of John's
suit, he discovered a packet of cigarettes and some matches, and
for a few moments he sat and smoked.
Abruptly realizing that he was still in a tight corner and that
there was little time to waste, he stood up and, moving less cau-
tiously now that he thought he had the place to himself, crossed
the room to a small table by the door. The momentary flare of his
match had revealed among other things a telephone, and at that
174


CHECK TO THE SQUID
175
moment Freddie had need of a means of quick communication
with the outside world. He seized the receiver, placed it to his
ear and waited.
In the kitchen below the Squid ceased operations over the pros-
trate footman and looked up sharply at the small old-fashioned
switchboard from which a persistent buzzing was coming.
His eyes gleamed ironically and, motioning to the footman to
lie still, he crossed silently to the switchboard and sat down in
front of it. Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was nearly ten
o'clock. He adjusted the headphones carefully. That was fortu-
nate. At that hour the exchange operators would be men, and
Freddie Leicester would not be expecting a female voice to answer.
“Number, please," he said in a muffled, expressionless voice.
“Get me the police station quickly," said Freddie's voice.
“Police?” asked the Squid with twinkling eyes. “Where are
you speaking from?”
"I don't know the address," answered Freddie swiftly, “but
that doesn't matter. Put me on to the local station."
The Squid's eyes were amused.
Plugging in to another room he waited for a moment.
After a suitable pause, he removed the plug. The resultant
click would convince Freddie that he was connected.
"Police station, Wandsworth," said the Squid, altering his
voice to a brisk authoritative tone. There could be no harm in
Freddie knowing where he was, since there was little likelihood
of his escaping.
An exclamation of satisfaction floated across the line.
“Send some men up here at once,” said Freddie. "I have been
imprisoned in this house for a week. You have probably received
instructions to keep a look-out for me. My name is Leicester,
Frederick Herbert Leicester.”
The Squid hissed with artistic surprise.
“Why yes, sir,” he said eagerly. "All stations have your descrip-
tion. Can you tell us where you are?”
“Wait a jiffy,” said Freddie.
The Squid waited amusedly. Over the wire came the sound of
someone striking a match. He guessed that his "Subscriber" was
studying the little enamel plate bearing the inscription: “Your
number is »
"Hallo," came Freddie's voice again. “This is Wandsworth
6978. Tell the Superintendent that the Squid is expected here any
moment."
The Squid gave voice to another artistic hiss of surprise.
studrone strid waite said Forcesy


176
MURDER IN WAX
“The Squid, sir? Would you like to speak to the Superinten-
dent?”
"No time," said Freddie. “For the love of Mike, hurry! He
may arrive any minute. Got the number? Wandsworth 6978.
Thanks. Get a move on!”
Freddie rang off.
With a low chuckle the Squid removed the earphones and
resumed his liberation of the footman. As he finished they heard
footsteps descending the stairs.
The footsteps crossed the hall and entered the billiard room.
John had regained the position in which Freddie had left him
some minutes previously and from the floor he glared up angrily
at his captor, careful to betray none of the exultation he felt.
Freddie surveyed him blandly.
“Bit cramped, old dear?” he asked. “Never mind, bear up. It's
all for the good of the jolly old cause. You'll soon be in a nice
warm cell.”
He smiled engagingly. “We will now go and see if the other
joker is still immersed in the ham and chutney," he said, and
retired.
Pushing open the kitchen door, he entered. The footman
still lay on the floor. Freddie smiled thoughtfully. So far, so good.
Now it only remained to ...
"Supposing you put your hands above your head, Mr. Leices-
ter," suggested a suave voice.
Freddie spun round, reaching for his hip pocket, and glared into
the placid immovable mask of the Squid, standing against the
wall.
A slight shift of the Squid's automatic, and Freddie's hand
dropped away from his pocket. Silently he cursed himself for
having pocketed the pistol after he had tied up the footman.
"I cannot compliment you on the fit of your clothes, Mr.
Leicester,” said the Squid smoothly. "Nor yet on your alertness.
Your ideas are worthy of a better execution.”
Freddie grinned vacantly. “Even the best of us slip up,” he said
resignedly.
“Allow me to contradict you," said the Squid, his eyes lighting
angrily. “The best of us do not 'slip up,' as you put it. I can
assure you that I at the moment have no intention of doing so.
Have the goodness to raise your hands a little higher."
He stepped forward and, running his hand over Freddie's
pockets, found and removed the automatic.
He motioned to the footman, who had risen to his feet.
grily. you that Is to raise , running matic.on to his feet.


CHECK TO THE SQUID
177
“Go and release the butler. You will find him in the billiard
room, I think.”
“Incapable and in extenso," nodded Freddie cheerfully.
“My servants are never incapable," said the Squid as the foot-
man departed, "until they are dead. As a result of John's ex-
treme capability I was warned of your activities. It was a fatal
mistake to leave him in reach of an electric light switch. Switches
have an uncanny fascination for him.”
Freddie smiled pleasantly.
"A mistake, certainly," he acknowledged.
The Squid watched him coldly.
“For some time,” he said impassively, "I have been debating
the alternatives your detention presents—your release, or extinc-
tion. I arrived here to-day favoring the former."
He paused significantly.
"In view of recent events, I think the latter would be a saner
solution.”
Freddie stifled a yawn.
“I might have saved you the brain storm,” he murmured, "by
clearing out, but I am interested in a lady-er-protégée of
yours.”
“You allude to Miss Richmond?” suggested his captor. "Be-
lieve me, Mr. Leicester, your misplaced chivalry has been wasted.
Miss Richmond is quite safe, many miles from here. When I say
'safe,' I mean temporarily!”
Freddie cursed inwardly. Outwardly he preserved the same
indifferent calm which he had maintained since the turning of
the tables.
He eyed the old-fashioned clock on the mantelpiece casually.
He must play for time. It could not be long before a police squad
would effectually put an end to a situation which promised other-
wise to be awkward.
The sidelong glance had not escaped the Squid. His eyes be-
came a little more sardonic.
“There is beauty about the conservative preservation of old and
effete devices,” he said slowly, “that shows to best advantage in
old houses. Take for instance the antiquated switchboard yonder.”
Freddie followed his gaze and started.
“Although,” continued the Squid, thoughtfully, "a branch ex-
tension has its disadvantages.”
Freddie's right hand clenched until the knuckles were white.
Beyond that, he gave no sign that he understood the significance
of the Squid's remark.


178
MURDER IN WAX
$
“Something tells me," pursued the Squid, “that my long-de-
layed introduction to the local police an introduction which you
kindly endeavored to facilitate will not take place to-night."
He opened the door of the kitchen with one hand and stood
aside, motioning Freddie to precede him.
“Shall we adjourn to the billiard room, Mr. Leicester?” he sug-
gested courteously.
With a sinking heart Freddie walked past him down the pas-
sage and so to the scene of his recent activities.
John was standing up free and rubbing his chafed wrists vigor-
ously while the footman was engaged in cutting the strap which
bound his ankles.
The Squid turned to the footman.
"Fetch me a length of rope,” he instructed. "It will play a
prominent part in Mr. Leicester's future entertainment."
Freddie yawned again and thought furiously. He realized that
his escape, if it were to be accomplished, must be the result of his
own unaided efforts. He could look for no assistance from the
police. Silently and fluently he damned all inter-house telephones,
but most of all he cursed his own carelessness.
The arrival of the footman with the rope with which he him-
self had been bound not twenty minutes before put a stop to
Freddie's calculations. It was now or never.
Taking the rope, the Squid offered it to the butler.
"You would doubtless like to attend to this yourself, John," he
said.
"Thank you, sir," replied John. "I have hopes of discussing
this matter more fully with Mr. Leicester at some more season-
able time.”
He took the rope and stepped forward. It was Freddie's last
chance.
Shifting a pace Freddie placed the advancing butler between
himself and the Squid's pistol and, leaping in, smote hard.
The butler gasped and staggered back into the arms of his
master as Freddie, warding off the sudden spring of the footman,
leapt back and slammed the door of the billiard room.
Racing across the hall, he bounded into the library and slammed
the door behind him. Fortunately the key was on the inside and
Freddie turned it as the Squid and his henchmen arrived.
Turning swiftly, Freddie leapt to the bookshelves, fumbled for
the hidden catch, and swung the shelves back.
Outside the voice of the Squid snarled: “Break it in—no, stand
away.”
Freddior behind him hall, he bound


CHECK TO THE SQUID
179
In a flash Freddie realized that the Squid was going to fire at
the lock. For a second he wavered and then with a smile dropped
down behind the couch on which he had lain so often. It was a
risk, but he believed in risks.
In the same second a bullet shattered the lock and John and
the footman burst into the room, with the Squid, his pistol still
smoking, just behind.
The Squid paused for a moment and stared at the opening in
the shelves.
“Damnation!” he snarled. “The secret exit. How did he dis-
cover that? Quick, John, the shrubbery. Get him at all
costs!"
He turned on his heel and, followed by his henchman, rushed
out of the room, and dashing across the hall, tore open the front
door and raced away towards the shrubbery.
With a pleased smile Freddie walked out of his place of con-
cealment and sauntered leisurely in the wake of his erstwhile
captors.
The risk had come off.
He arrived on the porch in time to see the three figures, John's
conspicuous by reason of his dressing gown, vanish into the belt of
bushes at the side of the lawn dividing the house from the main
road.
With a low laugh, Freddie stepped lightly down the drive to-
ward the iron gate leading to the road.
Reaching the gate, he turned and placed his hand at his
mouth.
“Coo-ee!” he called loudly.
Three figures burst out of the shrubbery.
“He's out!” came the Squid's snarling voice. “Get him.”
They broke into a run and Freddy with a farewell wave of
the hand turned and dashed down the road.
Few people were about in the sparsely lighted thoroughfare.
On one side tall houses stared down grimly on him, on the other
a broad open common stretched away into the darkness.
Behind him came the sound of running feet, and Freddie
lengthened his stride. The sudden spat of an automatic pistol
made him duck suddenly and zig-zag wildly. The Squid was tak-
ing risks, emboldened by the emptiness of the road.
A second shot rang out and with it came a familiar sound that
brought sudden relief to Freddie.
The groan and changing gear of an omnibus.
Still running hard and pursuing the same erratic course, Fred-


XXVI. TERMS
THE grim silence in the library at Loseley House remained un-
broken. Sir Marcus and his guests sat, each busied with his own
thoughts.
For the third time that night the Baronet picked up the slip
of white notepaper which lay beside his wine glass and stared
vacantly at it. There was no need to read it: its contents were
indelibly burned on his memory.
He dropped it on the table and Jimmy Craven, his face hag-
gard and tired, picked it up mechanically, reading it for the third
time since the meal had started:
"Miss RICHMOND'S RELEASE WILL COST YOU EIGHTY THOU-
SAND POUNDS. SIGNIFY YOUR AGREEMENT IN THE AGONY COL-
UMN OF THE Evening Mail ANY DAY THIS WEEK. AFTER THAT
IT WILL BE TOO LATE. I WILL MAKE KNOWN THE RENDEZVOUS
AND FURTHER DETAILS OF THE TRANSACTION AS SOON AS I SEE
YOUR AGREEMENT. TRICKERY WILL HAVE UNFORTUNATE RE-
SULTS FOR Miss RICHMOND. THE SQUID."
Crumpling the offending piece of paper in sudden fury, the
reporter threw it into the center of the table and, dropping his
chin on his cupped hands, stared gloomily before him.
The Duke, who had also read and re-read the message, picked
it up in turn, smoothed it out methodically, and read it again.
Concluding, he folded it slowly and, returning it to his host, sat
back fidgeting a little irritably with the stem of his wine glass.
His Grace was tired, and even the peril in which Leslie and his
nephew stood did little to soothe the raggedness of his nerves.
No man is at his best when he is dragged from a bed to which he
has not long retired, and Erb found himself thinking a little un-
charitably about his missing relation and Leslie.
It was Jimmy who broke the silence.
“You'll agree, of course?” he asked dully.
“Naturally," replied Sir Marcus. “That inhuman devil holds
the whip hand!”.
His fingers clenched spasmodically.
“By God,” he grated out, "if that brute has harmed her in
any way— "
He broke off abruptly and drummed agitatedly on the table
with his fingers.
181


182
MURDER IN WAX
Fenton, entering with coffee, moved to each of the three men
in turn. All of them waved him aside irritably and with an in-
jured expression the butler retired with the untasted coffee, now
destined for the enjoyment of himself, the first footman and "that
limb of Satan, Alfred the boots.”
Still fidgeting with his wine glass, the Duke spoke slowly.
"I only hope that Freddie and Leslie are imprisoned in the
same place,” he said. "Freddie's a first-class fool, but he's not a
coward. I think if Leslie were harmed when he was anywhere
near, he'd move heaven and hell to square the account.”
Two grunts answered him. A few days ago when Elveden had
passed on the information that Freddie was in the hands of the
Squid, they had been excited. Now, the more recent disaster had
overwhelmed all other troubles.
Silence fell again until they adjourned to the smoking-
room.
No one spoke for upwards of an hour. The blue spirals of
Jimmy's cigarettes mingled with the smoke of the Duke's cigar,
floating slowly ceiling-wards in the dull silence. At length the
reporter threw his cigarette away and rose. “I can't stand this in-
activity any longer," he said agitatedly to his host. “The hope-
less wondering—the maddening uncertainty-I must do some-
thing. Go down to the Yard or something-anything—the walk
will clear my head.”
He stood for a moment running his fingers through his hair
and looking at the others dejectedly, and then turned abruptly
and left the room. Framlingham looked after his retreating figure
sympathetically and then relapsed into his former vacant study
of the ceiling.
Sir Marcus, sitting opposite, did not speak. A slight twitching
of his left hand, extended on the arm of his chair, was the only
sign he gave of the maelstrom of emotion which was making his
head throb to bursting point. The minutes dragged by, and no
sound came to break the silence.
It was a little after two-thirty when Fenton appeared in the
doorway.
“Nothing more, thanks, Fenton," said the Baronet curtly, wav-
ing him aside.
"Pardon me, sir,” ventured the butler. “The Inspector has
called.”
Before Sir Marcus could reply, Inspector Elveden appeared in
the doorway and crossed the room.
Sir Marcus eyed the new-comer coldly.
sign ise et bands, enten deposite, did


TERMS
183
"Perhaps you will be good enough to explain your visit,” said
Sir Marcus icily.
"I will,” said Elveden. “I have just received a telephone mes-
sage from Mr. Leicester. He has escaped from the house in which
he was imprisoned "
The Duke dropped his cigar and sat up.
"Escaped?” he asked incredulously. "Freddie?" He sighed bit-
terly. “This has been a helluva week. I am assaulted in my own
house, the house itself is knocked about; I am robbed, summoned
for knocking a fool policeman down; Leslie is abducted, and to
cap it all that fool Freddie is free to make my life a purgatory
again.”
The Inspector waited patiently for him to finish, and then con-
tinued.
"The Squid has a sense of humor. He pitches his tents under
the enemy's walls. The house in which Mr. Leicester was confined
was in Bolingbroke Grove, Wandsworth. Acting on his informa-
tion we raided it last night at a quarter past eleven "
As one man the Baronet and the Duke interrupted.
“Leslie?"
- "Unfortunately we did not discover Miss Richmond. The bird
had flown "
“Who the dickens are you calling a bird?” demanded Framling-
ham wrathfully. "Less familiarity!"
"If you will allow me, your Grace," he said patiently, "I was
referring to the Squid. Mr. Leicester 'phoned me some time ago
that he was coming on here after the raid. He should be here at
any moment."
He turned to the Baronet. “With your kind permission, Sir
Marcus, I will await his arrival.”
Sir Marcus did not give his permission, but the Inspector re-
mained, and for the next half an hour a hostile silence remained
unbroken.
At a quarter past three, three heads went up enquiringly and
three pairs of eyes focussed on the door outside which a cheerful
voice could be heard chirping to “dear old Fenton.”
Two seconds later Fenton ushered in Freddie, still clad in the
butler's clothes.
“What ho, what ho!” he greeted them lightly. “Thunderous
plaudits, for that which strayed has returned. I have escaped,
children.”
"A superfluous remark," grunted the Duke, rising wearily and
shaking his nephew's hand.


184
MURDER IN WAX
Elveden and Sir Marcus nodded without much enthusiasm.
“Ah," said Freddie, eyeing a decanter. "Wine. Wine that mak-
eth- "
“The brain of man sodden," interrupted the Duke swiftly,
"and Lord knows yours doesn't need much assistance. Where did
you get that foul rig-out from, you blight?”.
“You would like to have the epic recorded?"
The idea was not received with any enthusiasm.
“Since you are so eager,” murmured Freddie, “I will recapitu-
late in detail.”
He did, in his own peculiar fashion, which gave his hearers
only a very imperfect idea of what had actually transpired.
As he concluded, Elveden, who had listened with rather ob-
vious and bored indifference, rose to his feet and addressed Sir
Marcus.
“I don't think you will have long to wait, Sir Marcus, before
the Squid makes known his terms."
The Baronet looked up at him thoughtfully and waited.
"I imagine that he will adjudge Miss Richmond's value at
something in the neighborhood of eighty thousand pounds," said
Elveden slowly.
Loseley picked up the Squid's message and handed it to the
Inspector. Their eyes met. Neither would give way.
“As a prophet,” said Sir Marcus, “you are unexcelled, Inspec-
tor,” and turning, he walked out of the room.
Elveden studied the terms thoughtfully and whistled.
Freddie, fumbling for the monocle he so rarely used, found it
and stared at the Inspector through it.
“What makes us so sure of the exact sum, my dear old Inspec-
tor?” he asked blankly. "And what's bitten Marky?”
“Eighty thousand pounds is all Miss Richmond is worth," said
Elveden with a cryptic smile. “It reverts to Sir Marcus in the
event of her death!”
A dead silence followed the remark, and the Inspector fell to
studying the message again.
"Exactly what are you driving at?" enquired Freddie at length.
"I meantersay, that's an accusation and all that sort of thing.
Rather rough on Marky, you know. I don't wonder he got huffy.
What I mean--after all, it was rather a fruity innuendo.”
"On the contrary," said Elveden, "I made a simple statement.
It was open to Sir Marcus to interpret it in whatever way seemed
best to him. Unfortunately he took umbrage.”
“I wonder he doesn't take legal action," growled the Duke.


TERMS
187
“What do you want? Why am I here? Where am I? Where
is my guardian?”
The Squid raised his hands and stemmed the flood.
“Which question would you prefer me to answer first?” he
asked patiently.
“The first,” she challenged.
“Money,” answered the Squid laconically.
She laughed derisively.
“Oh, if that's all," she jeered, "help yourself to a few thou-
sands,” and, reaching for her handbag, she opened it and emptied
its contents on the couch.
A looking-glass, a little loose change, a powder puff, diminu-
tive manicure set, and a lace handkerchief.
“That,” she said ironically, "with the exception of an unwel-
come visitor, is all I have in the world at the present moment."
"It is to be hoped that your guardian will be more plentifully
endowed,” murmured the Squid.
“He is,” she said, “but I fail to see the connection."
"You will,” he assured her, "if Sir Marcus sets a value on you
that falls short of my own estimate. I have already offered my
terms."
“Very flattering,” she sneered. “I hope you get them.”
“I believe you," said the Squid ominously. "Life is very sweet
when we are young. But to business. I believe you are contem-
plating marriage, Miss Richmond?”
"You're well informed,” she retorted. “Did you bring me here
to offer your congratulations?”
"I think you will find the union an expensive one,” he replied,
ignoring her defiant attitude.
"Most marriages are.”
"This one in particular. I happen to know that you will re-
ceive an exceedingly useful dowry on your marriage. That dowry
will be wasted on Mr. Craven, whereas I can find suitable uses
for it. Eighty thousand pounds is an agreeable sum, Miss Rich-
mond.”
“And imagination is a beautiful thing," she flared back, but
her confidence lay on the surface. Those weirdly compelling eyes
were frightening her.
“In contrast,” he said smoothly, "reality is a terrible thing.
And this is reality. I am not building castles in the air, Miss
Richmond, but laying solid foundations."
“Charmingly put," she retorted bravely. “You missed your
vocation. The histrionic art has suffered a great loss."


188
MURDER IN WAX
“Possibly. But, should Sir Marcus fail to see eye to eye with
me on this matter, the leisured classes will sustain a still more
serious loss!”
"Is that possible?” she mocked. “And are you hinting at
murder?"
The Squid rose to his feet, and his cold eyes bored into her
relentlessly.
“I trust that your guardian will comply with my wishes,” he
said, in a hard voice. “Either I receive that dowry, or you will
find yourself beyond the need of it!”
“Meaning?" she asked, striving to retain her composure.
“That Treasury notes and banking accounts are not of much
use in heaven,” he said, walking to the door and opening it.
She watched him with dull eyes as he went out, but made
no move.
Slowly the door opened again, and the huge head peered round
the corner.
“That is, assuming of course that you go to heaven," said the
Squid slowly. “And I very much doubt if butterflies with the
dust off their wings ever go to heaven!” His eyes held an unpleas-
ant promise as he closed the door finally on that ominous remark.
The key turned in the lock.
Alone, Leslie's self-control, which had stood her in such good
stead, weakened abruptly, and she took refuge in a storm of hot,
blinding tears.


XXVII. TELLS OF "LONG RED MOTORS”
JIMMY CRAVEN strode moodily out of the offices of the Evening
Mail and made his way towards Charing Cross Road.
The reporter was out of tune with the world that day and his
heart was not in his work. Frantic anxiety for Leslie's safety
would not let him concentrate. Where was she? What had hap-
pened to her? Was she in danger? When would he see her again?
The ceaseless round of questions throbbing through his brain
tormented him almost beyond endurance.
He was aware that Sir Marcus, oblivious of Inspector Elveden's
advice, had sent a message that night to the Evening Mail accept-
ing the Squid's terms, but even that did nothing to relieve his
disquietude.
Contrary to the reporter's expectations, Freddie had been
unable to throw any light on Leslie's whereabouts., As far as
Freddie knew, she had not been brought to the house in Wands-
worth and she had certainly not been found there when the place
had been raided. The gang must have left the place almost
immediately after his escape_which was only to be expected.
Brooding miserably, Jimmy turned his footsteps in the direc-
tion of the “Shaftesbury” public-house.
For three nights he had haunted the place in the hope of seeing
the Lag. He was convinced that Jerry, were he so minded, could
throw some light on the affair. Despite the Lag's repeated state-
ments that he knew nothing of the Squid or his gang, Jimmy was
sure that Jerry was connected with them in some way. But it
was a delicate mission—practically accusing Jerry of complicity in
abduction. At the first hint of suspicion the Lag would close up
like an oyster and take refuge behind his customary profane and
belligerent air of injured innocence.
Elveden's examination of the Lag on the day following the
abduction had resulted in nothing, and since that day Jerry had
sedulously avoided his old haunts, which materially strengthened
the Inspector's theory concerning his complicity. Jimmy shared
Elveden's suspicion—had done for two years with regard to the
Lag's probable connection with the Squid—but he realized that
to obtain any information he would have to tread warily. Very
warily. Jerry, in common with all his kind, when driven into a
corner would lie, and lie, and lie. Lie till it was difficult to sepa-
rate the truth from the falsehood.
e an rent air of injution of the .. and since erially strengtshared
189


TELLS OF “LONG, RED MOTORS” 191
"Well?” Craven prompted.
“Not bad fer a cheap and narsty ten for six fag,” said Jerry
grudgingly; and, seeing the anger in Jimmy's eyes, “Orl right,
only me joke. I know what yer 'arping on. That there Donah o'
yourn."
Jimmy's clenched hand dropped to his side, and the Lag sighed
with relief. There had been a certain promise of sudden un-
pleasantness in the eyes of the newspaper man.
“Look 'ere, young feller me lad,” said Jerry, tapping the re-
porter on the chest with a grimy forefinger. "I'm 'andin' yer the
strite tip, I am. I don't know nuthin' abaht this 'ere dame wot's
been an' gone an' got 'erself ab- what you said. That's on the
level! I tole Elv'den that three days ago when 'e cum worritin'
fer news o' the bit o' fluff. In course, Mr. Bloomin' Know-All
didn't fall fer it. He wouldn't. 'Ees jest sich another unbelievin'
Jew as you, but it don't alter the fac's."
The reporter eyed him dangerously. A certain amount of "stall-
ing” he was prepared for, but confronted by an obstinate brick
wall, his temper began to wear thin at the edges. He dropped into
the vernacular.
"You're going to spill it, old timer," he said menacingly, "or
I'll see to it that you go up to the ‘Scrubs' for a stretch.”
Jerry backed a step hastily.
“ 'Ere,” he protested, “less o' the Dempsey stuff, feller. I'm
tellin' yer, ain't I? Think I'm a liar? 'Sides, Mister Craven, yer
right orf the map if yer thinks yer can send me up fer anythin'.
I gotter cast-iron aleby fer thet night an', wot's more, E'v'den
knows it. Napoo! I calls yer bluff!”
He eyed the other with virtuous disapproval.
“Lumme," he grunted, as he saw that the reporter could not
support his random threat, "you blokes is all the sime arter yer
taken the count from Coopid. Restrain yerself, cut out the im-pet-
00-osity, can't yer? If yer knew wot yer was lettin' yerself in fer,
wild 'osses wouldn't drag yer to the halter.” He laughed uproari-
ously at his own joke and, seeing the reporter's crestfallen face,
became paternal.
"Don't take on abaht it, Mister Craven," he said sympathet-
ically, and clapped Jimmy on the shoulder. "I was 'ooked up to
a woming onct. She didn't arf useter lead me a dance and all.
Every time she got outside a pint or two, she useter lay down
the law wiv a flat-iron. Mostly on Saturday nights, that was. An'
they talks o' conoobial bliss! Search me, I ain't never found any.
Woming? I spits!”
gotterit - Napoo! ., with virtuousaw that then the sime as in-pet-


192
MURDER IN WAX
it to hose to relle was the futility
cognedly. Self he cou about that certa
He did, to the intense annoyance of a semi-sober female patron
of the public-house.
“Cut that out,” said Jimmy, "and get down to it."
The Lag's tone changed instantly from half whining sympathy
to snarling anger.
"Bit thick round the dome? I knows nuthin' abaht this skirt
yer 'angin' yer 'at up to. Freeze on to that, will yer, an' quit
yer perishin' cat-kisem!”
Jimmy, realizing the futility of arguing any longer, abandoned
the contest. He was almost certain that the Lag knew more than
he chose to reveal about the abduction, but his reason for keeping
it to himself he could only guess. Possibly fear. Jimmy sighed re-
signedly. After all, the Lag was not to be blamed. His type, in
constant fear of being "sent up” for something or other, regarded
pressmen as informers and policemen as natural enemies.
Jerry wetted his finger and moved it suggestively across his
throat.
“See it wet, see it dry," he said solemnly; and added as an
afterthought, “like me!"
He failed to make a connection. Craven looked away and thrust
his hands dejectedly into his trousers pockets.
"If you knew how much this meant to me," he said slowly.
"I'm not trying to get you ‘jugged' for anything. I'm only trying
to find Miss Richmond. Be a sport, Jerry. You must know some-
thing; you must be able to help me. I won't forget you, old man.”
The other leered skeptically.
“Ole man now, is it? No, in course yer wouldn't fergit it. You'd
'member it every time the missis went orf the deep end, an' you
wouldn't call me ole man, neither. Aw, strike a light-strong wind
blowin'."
He edged away suddenly and glared over Jimmy's shoulder.
“What the devil- " began the reporter, and turned to find
out the cause of the Lag's sudden agitation.
"No, Elv'den," grunted Jerry. “Not that it ain't much the sime
thing!"
He motioned disgustedly to Elveden, who had just entered and
made his way across to them.
“This is fortunate, Mr. Craven," he said, "I wasn't looking
for you, but I've got some news for you. Never mind about Jerry.
He's dead from the knees up!"
He eyed the Lag coldly.
Jerry removed his hand from the bottle he had seized and
smiled amiably as he encountered the Inspector's eye.


TELLS OF "LONG, RED MOTORS” 193
Elveden drew the reporter out of earshot. Jerry spat con-
temptuously.
“They've managed to trace the car," Elveden said. “The
woman at Putney Vale says it was a long, red, closed-in car.
They lost track of it at Richmond in the High Street, but as
nothing has come in from the other side or the outlying stations,
we conclude that the car is still at Richmond. They're making
the usual enquiries.”
The reporter's face, which had lightened momentarily, reverted
to its former gloom.
“Richmond's a big place,” he said despondently; and after a
pause, “Is that all the news?”
Thé Inspector flushed slightly. To have one's efforts lightly
passed over in a demand for further effort was a little disconcert-
ing.
"It's a step in the right direction, I think,” he said, defensively.
“Go and have another think,” grunted Jimmy and, turning,
mooched away.
The Inspector's mouth curved in a wry smile. Young men in
love, he reflected, were awkward customers. He looked round, and
his eye fell on Jerry.
"I want a word with you,” he said, crossing to the Lag.
Jerry groaned.
The Inspector's words, although unappreciated, did not fall
entirely on deaf ears. The following morning saw Craven in
Richmond. He had no very definite reason for going there. After
all, Richmond was a big place and full of "long red cars," as he
soon discovered, in some cases to the annoyance of the owners
who resented his detailed scrutiny of their property, a scrutiny
which was often longer than either admiration or curiosity justi-
fied.
The various policemen he spoke to either knew nothing of the
affair or were disinclined to discuss it, and Jimmy mooched about
for some time with no definite plans.
Half an hour's inconsistent rambling brought him to the bridge
and he stared disconsolately down at the water for long enough
to arouse certain horrible suspicions in the mind of an old lady,
who, having no business of her own to mind, derived considerable
pleasure from minding other people's. The reporter's black frown
convinced her that here was a suicide in embryo.
For Jimmy, the morning, despite bright sun, was a black one.
If only he could find some clew, some encouragement. Yet, short


194
MURDER IN WAX
of a detailed search of every house in Richmond, which was
manifestly impossible, there was very little he could do.
Head down and still musing, he drifted on with the crowd for
a few paces and then stepped off the curb.
A passing motor promptly hurled him in a heap on the pave-
ment.
“I knew he was going to," said the old lady delightedly to
the knot of loafers who materialized suddenly from nowhere.
“He's been watching the water for some time. He's in trouble,
poor lad, and thinks that way is easier. Help him up, one of you."
She prodded an open-mouthed spectator sharply in the stomach
with her umbrella, and the man stooped and assisted the dazed
and shaken Jimmy to his feet.
Jimmy, rubbing his head, looked across the road to where the
swerving car had pulled up.
With a grin he saw the irony of the situation. The car was a
long red one!
A pompous fussy little gentleman, his portly figure impeccably
clad in morning clothes, descended and hurried across the road.
"Really, my dear sir,” he said fussily, “a most regrettable
occurrence. I am grieved-horribly so. My chauffeur, who is most
careful I assure you, was quite unaware of your intention of cross-
ing the road. I would not have had this happen for worlds. I
trust you received no hurt?”.
Jimmy, dusting his coat, smiled cheerfully. This really was a
strange morning.
“That's all right, Mr. Thyme,” he said. "No bones broken."
Mr. Thyme stared perplexedly for some moments.
“You have the advantage,” he began slowly. "But, no—surely
it is Mr. Craven? My dear fellow, I had no idea that it was
you.”
"Or you wouldn't have come back?” suggested Jimmy humor-
ously.
“Tut, tut,” fussed the little man, "you must come home at
once with me, and have a brush down and a drink. Most un-
fortunate, I'm sure.”
Gazing anxiously round, he hustled Jimmy away through the
crowd to his car. Mr. Thyme had a horror of policemen, but the
policeman who happened to be nearest was on point duty and un-
aware that anything had occurred.
Mr. Thyme gave his directions, and the gleaming Packhard
slewed round and headed back the way it had come.
“So disturbing, these street accidents," murmured Mr. Thyme,


TELLS OF "LONG, RED MOTORS” 195
removing his hat and mopping his perspiring forehead. “And the
ensuing police enquiry wears one to the bone.”
Jimmy reflected that a few police enquiries would be beneficial
to the little man's figure, but repressed his desire to mention it.
"My place is quite handy,” Mr. Thyme rambled on, "in the
Petersham Road, and looks on to the river. A charming little
spot—a little damp sometimes— "
He kept up an uninterrupted stream of conversation until his
car pulled up before a glass-roofed porch, leading to a handsome
old-fashioned house hidden partially by tall trees.
A few minutes later, looking a little more respectable as a
result of the efforts of a lean-faced valet, Jimmy sat in a long
bright room overlooking the triangular garden which ran down to
the river.
Mr. Thyme at a near-by table operated skillfully with a soda
syphon and decanter.
"Allow me once more to offer my most profound regrets,” he
said, proffering a glass of golden-colored liquid.
"Rather better than the more conventional and solid regrets,"
smiled Jimmy.
“I shall be pleased to make any reparation that lies in my
power,” said Mr. Thyme kindly. "I am sure that no client ex-
pects such treatment as was meted out to you and is entitled to
anything he might wish which would in any way serve to correct
the bad impression he may have received. A new suit perhaps?”
The reporter shook his head.
“You can raise my interest to six and a half per cent," he
grinned.
Mr. Thyme laughed heartily.
“This abduction,” he said diffidently, "I refer to the case
of Miss Richmond. A most appalling affair. I believe you—that is
—there is some connection-er-you are -p"
He paused awkwardly and Jimmy good-naturedly came to his
rescue.
“I am,” he said politely, "and I'm dashed anxious. That was
my reason for being in Richmond this morning."
"Indeed?” Mr. Thyme raised his eyebrows interestedly scent-
ing a morsel of information that might be retailed at the lunch
table to his various friends.
Craven nodded.
“A car, which was substituted for the taxi with which the
Squid effected the abduction, was traced by the police to Rich-
mond High Street, but no further information has been received


JIMMY TAKES A HAND
199
swiftly across the lawn dividing him from the house. Arrived at
the outhouse door, he tried the handle softly.
The door was locked. Creeping round to the side wall, he peered
cautiously through the open window on to what appeared to be a
scullery. The scullery was empty, but a door leading to the
kitchen beyond was open and he caught sounds of two people
moving about and heard faint snatches of conversation.
“And I says to him, I says . . . look here, Albert ... choose
between us ... that hussy ... last Wednesday ...I saw
yer ... and don't tell me ..."
“No, did you? . . . Really? ... Men is all the same ...
George siled and above ng it in could no
Jimmy smiled and edged his way to the front of the outhouse
again. Not six inches above his outstretched hands was the roof,
and a short jump would bring it in easy reach. Provided he were
quiet, the occupants of the kitchen would not hear his movements.
Gathering himself for a spring, he leapt lightly and, catching
hold of the guttering, drew himself up quietly and sat on the
almost flat roof.
So far, so good. He looked warily and searchingly across the
garden. It terminated in a brick wall which ran to the water's
edge, and a few yards in front of the wall stood a row of bushes
and a tool shed. Silhouetted against the white wall Jimmy realized
that, should there be a gardener down there behind the bushes
or in the tool shed, the man could not fail to see him.
That again was a risk that had to be taken. But the greatest
risk of all was of climbing to the balcony above, since in that
position he would be plainly visible to the pedestrians in the
Petersham Road, as well as to the gardener. And Jimmy was not
particularly anxious to collect a crowd and possibly a policeman.
More risk, but unavoidable.
With a wry smile he rose to his feet. Gardener or no gardener,
pedestrian or no pedestrian, he was going into that house.
Fortunately the road at that moment was deserted, although
far off he saw a small figure coming round the tree-lined bend that
led to the Park and the little public-house. However, the figure
was too far distant to be able to see much, even supposing he
were looking, and Jimmy, taking his courage in his hands, leapt
upwards and caught at the base of the balcony.
Two minutes later, white and dusty, he was lying flat on the
floor midway between two of the French windows.
He stayed there for some minutes, regaining his breath and
peering between the supports of the balustrade to see if his move-


200
MURDER IN WAX
ments had attracted any attention from the people on the oppo-
site side of the river or from the gardener who might be lingering
behind the hedge. Apparently, however, his maneuver had passed
unnoticed. Listening alertly for any sounds that would betray
occupancy of the room outside which he lay, he edged closer to
the window and, raising himself to his knees, peered in.
The room, a bedroom, was deserted, and with a satisfied smile
Jimmy tried the window. It opened under his touch and, still
keeping on his hands and knees, he slipped inside and rose silently
to his feet.
The room was a large airy place, uncrowded by unnecessary
furniture. Along one wall stood a four-poster bed, and beside it
stood a small reading table. At the foot of the bed was a small
divan and opposite it a wide fireplace surmounted by a huge gilt
mirror. A dressing table and wardrobe occupied other corners
and there were two comfortable basket chairs standing against
the wall. Under his feet was a soft pile carpet.
Opposite was a door. This was Thyme's bedroom, he sur-
mised, and the door should lead to a corridor on the first floor.
Slipping across the room, he placed his ear against the keyhole
and listened intently.
Apparently satisfied, he opened the door slightly and peered
out.
The corridor ran to right and left, carpeted, and the walls
hung with occasional pictures. Opposite were two flights of stairs,
the right-hand flight leading down to the hall below and the
left-hand flight up to the next floor.
Closing the door again, Jimmy leant against the wall and
debated.
Convinced that Leslie was held captive somewhere in the
house, he had no idea of her exact position, and a tour of explora-
tion without a definite objective was manifestly dangerous, since
it meant the risk of encountering a servant at work. A knotty
point, and one that-
At that moment his meditations were interrupted by the sound
of footsteps in the corridor coming from the right.
Opening the door the fraction of an inch, Jimmy leant at an
angle that allowed him to see the full length of the corridor on
the right. Almost immediately he saw a tall black-clad figure
moving sedately towards the stairs. It was the valet who had
attended him earlier in the day.
Jimmy's face set determinedly as he waited. Much depended
on the valet's course. If he were going downstairs he would not
him earlitowards thtely he say length of my leant


JIMMY TAKES A HAND
201
stairs an door it on his th
come as far as the door behind which the reporter crouched. On
the other hand, if he were going upstairs or continuing along the
corridor, he would have to pass by, and that was exactly what
Jimmy wanted.
With bated breath the reporter waited. The valet drew abreast
of the first flight of stairs and continued on.
As he passed the bedroom door it opened suddenly and a pair
of slender hands reached out, fixed on his throat, and wrenched
him inside.
Jimmy's strangling grip on the valet's throat choked the cry
which rose to the lips of the startled man and, using his arm as
a lever, Jimmy forced the valet to his knees and kicked the door
shut with his foot.
“Got you, my beauty,” said Jimmy sweetly. "Remain silent
and you will remember this day with pleasure-kick up a shindy
and you will cross the Great Divide suddenly!”
The valet's eyes goggled amazedly. Jimmy looked down on his
startled face amusedly. The man was not unlike the immortal
Malvolio.
Jimmy decided to rechristen him with the name of the famous
Shakespearean character.
"Now, friend Malvolio," he said purposefully, "you are going
to quench my insatiable thirst for information, and you are
going to quench it accurately! A slight tightening of my hand
and you will snuff it sharply! You grasp the general idea?”.
The valet nodded hastily.
“Good,” said Jimmy, relaxing his grip slightly. "Now, little
one, you have a visitor in this house, haven't you? Speak up,
belovedst!”
The valet's eyes widened suddenly and he appeared inclined
to deny it, but a slight pressure on his throat made him nod
hastily.
“A lady visitor?"
The valet nodded.
“How long has she been here?”
"Four days, sir," replied the valet nervously.
“Better and better,” Jimmy murmured approvingly. “What
floor is she on?”
“The next, sir.”
Jimmy nodded. That was not going to present any difficulty.
“How many servants are there in this house, besides yourself?”
“Three, sir.”
“And they are?"


XXIX, AN INSPECTOR BAITS HIS LINE
TEN minutes passed, during which Leslie exchanged one kind of
captivity for another, and then with a little sigh of contentment
she freed herself, blushing as she caught sight of the still dazed
valet.
“Feel fit?” asked Jimmy, looking at her anxiously.
“Quite; but my head feels rather a wreck, Jimmy. Is my hair
very untidy? And does my nose want powdering, and are my
eyes red, and "
“Whoa!” interrupted Jimmy. “You look splendid, beautiful
and— ” Recollecting himself, he turned sharply on the cower-
ing valet.
“Touching the matter of telephones, Malvolio,” he said,
“where's the nearest?”.
"If you will follow me, sir," said the man meekly.
“En evant, comrade,” said Jimmy, and, linking arms with
Leslie, he placed the point of his knife behind the valet's ear and
motioned the terrified man to precede them.
The trio proceeded downstairs, past the two landings, reaching
the hall without meeting anyone.
The valet pointed to the telephone on the table by the door of
the dining room. Urging the man in front of him, Jimmy led
Leslie to the instrument.
“Get Elveden at the Yard, Leslie, old thing,” he directed,
"while I keep an eye on the life and soul of the party."
Leslie took up the directory, found the number, and for the
next few minutes transferred Jimmy's directions to the Inspector
at the other end of the line.
“Now," said Jimmy, as she replaced the receiver, "we will take
a little walk. Open the door, Malvolio."
The valet stepped forward and obeyed, standing aside to give
them precedence.
Smiling blandly, Jimmy linked arms with him.
"Oh dear me, no, sweet youth,” he said cheerfully. “After you,
if you please.”
The valet threw a startled glance over his shoulder in the
direction of the servants' quarters, as though expecting aid to
materialize at the last moment, and then with a dejected expres-
sion walked submissively out in front of them.
204


AN INSPECTOR BAITS HIS LINE
205
Inspector Elveden strode into Richmond Police Station and,
catching sight of Leslie and Jimmy, hurried across to them and
clasped the reporter warmly by the hand.
“Great work, Mr. Craven,” he said enthusiastically. "Let's
have the story."
Jimmy gave him a brief account of what had transpired, and
the Inspector stood for a moment thinking deeply.
"You say that you received two visits from the Squid, Miss
Richmond?” he asked.
“Yes,” she answered coldly. “He came every other day and is
due to come to-day, unless he changes his mind.”
Her tone warned Elveden that the episode at the Nocturnes
Club was not yet forgotten or forgiven.
He turned to the Superintendent, who had remained silent up
to then.
“You've got the valet here?” he asked.
“Yes. Mr. Craven brought him along. Do you want to examine
him?"
"Not yet, thanks,” said Elveden. “You say no one else saw
you at the house, so far as you know? And nobody warned
them?"
"No," answered Jimmy. “And if you've done with us, we'll be
getting a move on now. We're both dying for a wash, and it's
past four o'clock. Besides, I want to get the story through to the
Mail. I've been on it long enough and Bagshaw will be tearing
his hair. And mine!”
Elveden frowned.
“Don't give the Mail the story till to-morrow afternoon at the
earliest, please. It would put the Squid and Thyme on their
guard. And, if you don't mind, Miss Richmond, I'd rather you
didn't show yourself until after to-morrow."
Leslie nodded distantly. The Inspector shook hands with
Jimmy and escorted them to the door.
As soon as they had gone, he turned to the Superintendent.
“I'll have a word with that valet now," he said briskly.
“Very good," answered the Superintendent, and signaled to a
police constable.
The valet, pale and scared, was brought in.
Elveden perched himself on the corner of a table and eyed the
man thoughtfully.
“What's your name?” he demanded suddenly.
“Spillins, sir," muttered the valet in a frightened voice.
“How long have you worked for Mr. Pendleton Thyme?"


206
MURDER IN WAX
“Five years, sir," answered the valet. “And I've never-
“All right,” Elveden interrupted, waving his hand. “What do
you know of his private life, and how were you connected with
it?”
"Nothing, sir," faltered the valet. "He never took me into his
confidence."
“Did he give any reason for Miss Richmond's presence in the
house?” the Inspector pursued.
"No, sir; that is, he only said that the lady was a relation of
his, who was a little light in the head. I didn't notice it myself.”
"It wasn't there to notice," retorted Elveden grimly. "Did any
of the other servants know she was there?”
"No, sir. I always took her meals to her and attended to her.
I thought it was a little queer, but I held my tongue.”
"Why didn't you give information at the police station, if you
thought it was queer?” snapped the Inspector.
“Well, sir, Mr. Thyme was a good man to work for, and it was
none of my business,” answered the man in a low voice.
“H'm,” grunted the Inspector as though unsure of the other's
excuse. "You saw the announcement of Miss Richmond's abduc-
tion in the papers, I suppose?”
"No, sir, I never read any papers except the Church Times,"
stammered the valet.
Elveden's lips curled with amusement, but he looked search-
ingly at Spillins to see if he were speaking the truth. The man's
abject terror seemed to convince him.
"What time will Mr. Thyme return to-night?” he asked
slowly.
"I couldn't rightly say, sir," Spillins replied. “He's a little
uncertain in his hours. About seven o'clock, I should say, unless
anything happens to prevent him. He's usually home between
seven and eight. Half-past eight at the very latest.”
"Where is he to be found now? The bank?”
“No, sir, he never goes to the bank on a Monday.”
"You might verify that, Super, will you?" directed Elveden.
"If he's there, you can cut off.”
“Do you know where he goes on a Monday?” he demanded
after a pause, turning to Spillins.
“No, sir, he never tells me.”
Elveden rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Mr. Thyme have many
visitors?” he enquired presently.
“No, sir. None at all,” said the other nervously.
Elveden thought for some minutes.
nt him at the bank? Monday


AN INSPECTOR BAITS HIS LINE 207
“Think,” he urged keenly. “A man of medium height, dressed
in black, for instance. The man has a huge bald head."
“No, sir, I've never seen him," said the valet definitely.
The Superintendent put down the telephone and leant across
the desk.
“Mr. Thyme is not in, Inspector, and they do not expect him
to-day.”
Elveden nodded. “Can you let me have a sergeant and four
men?”
“Certainly," answered the Superintendent, ringing a bell on his
desk. “You don't think there is any possibility of his having come
and gone while you have been here?"
"No," replied Elveden. "He won't show himself in the light.
That head of his would attract too much attention.”
A sergeant appeared in the doorway.
“Take three men and follow the Inspector," ordered the Super-
intendent.
“Where is Mr. Thyme's place?" asked Elveden, turning to the
sergeant.
"The bank manager, sir?" asked the sergeant. “In the Peters-
ham Road. I know the place well.”
“Right, take me to it. I've done with this fellow, Superintend-
ent.” With a brief nod he motioned to the sergeant and his men
to follow him, and left the station.
Ten minutes later a startled butler backed away from the door
as it opened to admit the Inspector and the constables.
Elveden looked round the hall of Mr. Thyme's house thought-
fully, and then transferred his regard to the butler.
“Are all the servants here?” he asked.
“All except the footman,” answered the butler. “And that
Spillins.”
“Where's the footman?”
"He has leave to be absent until after tea.”
"Have the rest of the servants brought here," directed the
Inspector, "and tell them to bring their outdoor things.”
The butler nodded obediently and walked away.
He reappeared a few moments later with the rest of the staff.
The Inspector signaled to the sergeant. .
“Take two men and get these people down to the station,” he
ordered.
“But I don't understand," protested the butler, stepping
forward.
Į "It isn't necessary for you to understand," retorted Elveden.


208
MURDER IN WAX
"All you have to do is to accompany the sergeant down to the
station. You will merely have to answer a few questions and you
will be released to-night. You will then be free to say or do what
you like.”
He stood aside and signaled to the sergeant. The butler, cook,
chauffeur, gardener and scullery maid shuffled past, huddling on
their coats and hats as they went. The sergeant saluted and with-
drew with his two aides.
Elveden turned to the remaining two constables.
“I expect to make rather an important capture this evening,”
he said evenly, “and I want no bungling. As soon as that footman
returns, you will ring up the station and get them to send a man
down to take him back.”
He glanced at his wrist watch.
"It is now nearly quarter to five. That leaves us about three
hours. You two will remain here in the hall. One of you had
better keep an eye on the road and report to me each half-hour.
I'm going to nose round the house for a bit. After that you will
find me in the garden."
The constables saluted, and Elveden wandered off on a tour of
exploration.
After an hour's cursory examination of the house, he trans-
ferred his attention to the garden.
Seating himself on the lawn in the sun, he idly watched the
water and the various punts and skiffs going up and down stream.
As he lay there a conservancy launch swung round the bend and
came chug-chugging painfully along in the wake of a river
steamer.
The sight of the launch gave him an idea. Cupping his hands
over his mouth, he yelled: "Conservancy launch, ahoy!”
The launch swung in slowly and drifted alongside the mooring
platform.
Elveden nodded to the sergeant in charge and showed his
badge.
"I've got a little job on here to-night,” he informed the other,
"and the man I'm laying for has the reputation of being a slip-
pery customer. I'd be obliged if you'd keep within reach some
time after seven. I don't mean that you need lay off one of the
banks and wait. So long as you're within hailing distance it will
do. I suppose you're fitted with a spot light?”
The sergeant nodded and motioned to the diminutive search-
light in the prow.
“That'll be all right. Going to be any excitement? It's about


AN INSPECTOR BAITS HIS LINE
209
time something happened down here. It's ages since we did any-
thing more thrilling than fish a 'drunk' out of the water.”
"There'll be excitement all right,” nodded Elveden. “The man
I'm after is a ‘killer’! You've heard of the Squid, I suppose?”
The sergeant whistled and turned to the man at the tiller.
"Phew!” he gasped. “It's him, is it?" He looked meaningly at
his companion. “All right, count on us,” he said after a pause,
with rather less enthusiasm.
He gave his companion an order.
The launch slid away from the bank, and Elveden nodded a
curt good-by.
He did not reënter the house until after six o'clock.
“Has that footman turned up yet?” he asked the taller of the
two constables.
“No, sir."
“H'm," murmured Elveden, scratching his chin. “That's awk-
ward. I don't want him butting in, in the middle of things. Still,
he may come in yet before Thyme gets here. It doesn't really
matter, I suppose."
He looked round the wide hall.
“We may have a long vigil,” he said at last, "so you two had
better go and get some food in the kitchen. I'll wait here. Bring
me something, too, please.”
The two men obeyed with alacrity and, seated in a chair, the
Inspector awaited their return. The taller of the two came back
with a piece of cold fruit tart, some apples, and a glass of beer.
Thanking him, Elveden sat and munched thoughtfully while
the other returned to diminish further Mr. Thyme's larder-and
cellar; but the Inspector did not know that.
Sitting thinking, Elveden tried to work out a few knotty
points.
First, what connection had Thyme with the Squid? A bank
manager and presumably a wealthy man, surely he had little
need to resort to those kinds of tricks for a living? It was a poser.
Was it possible that Thyme was the Squid himself? For a while
the suggestion attracted him. And yet, visualizing the portly,
cherubic Mr. Thyme, Elveden doubted it. In any case he would
know within an hour. Either Thyme and the Squid would arrive
separately, or else the unmasking of one would reveal the other.
But that did not fit in with his theories concerning Sir Marcus
Loseley. There were several aspects of the case against the
Baronet that interested him. For instance
The arrival of the constables interrupted his line of thought.


210
MURDER IN WAX
He beckoned to the smaller of the two.
“What's your name?”
“Winter, sir," replied the constable, “George Winter."
"Well, I don't expect the guest of honor to turn up before it's
dark, Winter," said Elveden slowly. "His head would create too
much interest."
"His head, sir?"
“Yes. You'll understand when you set eyes on him, and, by
the way, when you do see him, don't take your eyes off him. He's
slippery. We may have another visitor before he arrives. I mean
the owner of this house. If we don't, I shall be saved a lot of
trouble. In any case you'd better take up your positions. You,
Winter, will stand at the foot of the staircase.” He motioned to
the grand staircase which led from the back of the hall.
"You'll find a lamp in the recess at the back of those stairs,"
he said. "See that it is in working order. We shall need it, seeing
that this prehistoric shack is apparently not fitted with electric
light.”
The constable took up his position and examined the lamp,
pronouncing it fit for use.
“And you,” continued Elveden to the other man, "will stand on
the left of the door. It will probably be dark before our man
arrives, in which case you will have to use your torches. Remem-
ber, not a sound out of either of you until he is well in the place.
If he makes a wrong move, grab him and hold him. Understand?”
His subordinates nodded respectfully.
“And I've a notion that we shall catch something far more
interesting than a common or garden bank manager," the Inspec-
tor said thoughtfully.
He took up his own position in the doorway of the morning
room.


XXX. PROVES THAT SQUIDS ARE UNUSUAL FISH
APPARENTLY Mr. Thyme's hours were a little uncertain. The
Inspector glanced at the luminous dial of his wrist-watch. It was
twenty minutes past nine.
The hall was in darkness and only by the sound of their
breathing could the Inspector tell that the two constables were
present.
The three-hour vigil in the cold hall had done little to improve
Elveden's temper. Nevertheless, he continued to wait. The Squid
was a prize worth waiting for, and Elveden had an old score to
pay off. The memory of a certain night on which his elaborate
trap, baited with the Baraipur diamonds, had failed ignomin-
iously, still lingered unpleasantly at the back of his brain.
Was he going to discover at last the identity of the mysterious
power that ruled the underworld and had gathered a few of its
most daring and unscrupulous spirits together to work havoc in
London for the past four years?
His lips became a straight line. Not twice should the Squid
fool him, he reflected coldly.
And the Squid himself? Who was he when that hideous mask
was stripped from his face? Mr. Thyme? The valet had said that
Mr. Thyme would return to his house that night, and Miss Rich-
mond had also said that the Squid would visit the place. He did
not think the valet had lied. The man had been too scared, and
the non-appearance of Mr. Thyme seemed to argue that he might
appear in the form of the Squid. Obviously the valet did not
know his master's identity. Or was his statement, that he never
read the papers, a lie?
Half-past nine. The Inspector changed his position and sud-
denly stiffened. He hissed a sudden warning to the constables and
crouched back tensely in the doorway of the morning room.
A soft tread sounded outside on the porch, and the Inspector
silently drew his automatic.
“Get into the recess behind the stairs,” he whispered to the
constable nearest him, and waited expectantly.
A key turned in the lock. Slowly the door opened to its fullest
extent. The pale moonlight threw up the figure in the doorway in
dark relief, and the Inspector drew a little further back. The open
door shielded the constable, and Elveden prayed that the Squid
would suspect nothing.
21)


PROVES THAT SQUIDS ARE UNUSUAL FISH 215
Elvede by sidveden ither
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 shat-
tering 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 sepa-
rated 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, see his companiet het


PROVES THAT SQUIDS ARE UNUSUAL FISH 217
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 am-
biguity of the words.
hired but contered Kingston,
a night of surprming the am-


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 bur-
den 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 bank-
note 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
218


220
MURDER IN WAX
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 pre-
served his liberty not three hours ago? God—no, it was impos-
sible. 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 to-night'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- "


THE RETORT COURTEOUS
221
“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 to-night," 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 have 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 every-
thing 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


222
MURDER IN WAX
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 re-
volver, 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.
Reaching into the farthermost corner, the manager took a white
envelope and opened it. Drawing forth a slip of folded paper, he
handed it to the Squid and leant against one wall of the safe,
still panting. He had not yet recovered from the violent emotion
he had undergone during the past half-hour.
The Squid took the paper, still keeping one eye on Thyme,
and scanned it briefly. That done, he held out his hand for the
envelope and, placing the agreement inside, stowed the envelope
carefully in an inner pocket.
Thyme, watching him, made a move to step out into the room,
and then realized his mistake.
The Squid's arm shot out and Thyme reeled back into the
safe.
“Words after all,” said the Squid calmly, "are often nothing
but words,” and Thyme's terror returned.
He struggled to his feet and stared at the other wildly. Was it
possible? Was this fiend even now contemplating evil? But the
oath? He could not break that. And yet—the eyes that watched
him were mocking.
The Squid's right hand reached out to the door and with a
strangled gasp Mr. Thyme flung himself forward.
The Squid laughed shortly, and a shrewd blow struck the man-
ager in the face. He toppled backwards with a despairing cry, and
the door slammed.
The Squid stood there listening for a moment. From inside the
safe came a sudden drumming of feet and hands.


THE RETORT COURTEOUS
223
"Let me out-you devil-your oath-you've broken it—let me
out--you treacherous hound—my God—I'm stifling-
Mr. Thyme's voice came to the Squid without any volume,
although he was shouting at the top of his voice. The safe was
localizing the sound and very little passed out into the room.
Certainly it was not loud enough to attract outside attention.
“You're not stifling yet, my dear Thyme," said the Squid, rais-
ing his voice slightly and speaking close to the hinge of the safe,
“but you soon will be. The safe is, I fancy, air-tight, Dead men
tell no tales, Thyme, and they require no share of the profits!
They will find you to-morrow asphyxiated. I have no idea how a
man looks in that state. I should like to be here to see you. It
would be most diverting, I imagine distinctly humorous.”
He stepped back, crossed the room and switched out the light.
The door closed softly.
In an agonized frenzy, Thyme hurled himself at the steel door
and tore at it, shrieking, raving, tearing, clutching, until his nails
were broken and bleeding; until his very voice gave out.
Weak and exhausted, he sank back against the wall of the safe.
The atmosphere was becoming hot, terribly hot. A strangling
hand clutched at his wind-pipe, choking him slowly—slowly.
“Let me out-oh, my God, let me out,” he croaked painfully.
"Air-I want air-I must have air-
But no one heard.
“Come back-you fiend—you've broken your oath-perjurer-
may you burn in-eternal fire-help-help-God— I'm suffo-
cating you fiend let me out. ..."
Sir Marcus and the Duke were already at the bank when
Jimmy, in answer to a frantic telephone message from Bagshaw,
put in an appearance. As one of the bank's oldest and most valued
clients, Sir Marcus had been granted the privilege of using the
manager's sanctum, and it was there that Jimmy found him, after
fighting his way through the crowd outside in Fleet Street and
winning past the two burly custodians of the law holding the
crowd in check.
Peach, the much-harassed right-hand man of the dead bank
manager, was in conversation with the Duke and Sir Marcus at
the moment, and in passing through the main office Jimmy saw
a sergeant of police taking notes from the cashier, who with
Peach had been the first to enter the strong room and discover the
body of Mr. Thyme.
“According to the doctor, sir,” Peach was saying in answer to


224
MURDER IN WAX
a query from the Baronet, "he has been dead several hours. A
terrible sight, sir. His face-absolutely purple-a terrible
sight.”
“Is the full damage known yet?” asked Sir Marcus.
"It is impossible to estimate it yet," answered Peach, “but it
must be enormous. Your tiara was taken, sir."
He contrived a weak, sympathetic smile. Sir Marcus was one
of the bank's biggest clients and consequently almost ruined.
The Baronet, however, was facing the catastrophe with his cus-
tomary equanimity.
"You should have withdrawn your account months ago,"
grumbled Framlingham. "I warned you. I always thought there
was something fishy about this concern."
Peach looked pained: “Really, your Grace," he protested
warmly.
“Don't 'really' me," scowled the Duke. “Thank God, I had the
sense to get out years ago before the roof fell in. I never did trust
Tubby Thyme. I knew him at Charterhouse. He always had cod's
eyes," he added reflectively.
“My late principal died defending the interests of his clients,"
Peach reminded him reprovingly, and elicited a disparaging grunt
from the skeptical Duke.
“At what time was he found?" asked Jimmy, insinuating him-
self into the conversation.
Peach eyed the reporter sourly, but gave the required infor-
mation.
"How did the thieves gain entrance?” pursued Jimmy.
"Look here, young man,” said Peach, "are you a reporter?”
“Unfortunately," Jimmy admitted.
"I dislike reporters,” said Peach coldly.
“And rightly,” agreed Jimmy. “I also dislike reporters. It is my
chief recreation. But reporters do not reciprocate that feeling."
Peach remained unimpressed.
“I might add,” continued Jimmy modestly, “that I am consid-
ered rather a charming specimen of my kind.”
“The door," interrupted Peach, “is behind you."
“My persuasive powers are unlimited,” said Jimmy, "and I
have waited— ”
“The door," said Peach, “has not changed its position."
“_ at great inconvenience "
“It is opened-and closed—by turning the handle,” Peach said
firmly.
“I have waited,” persisted Jimmy unperturbed, “to obtain a


THE RETORT COURTEOUS
225
story from the fountain head which I might have obtained from
an underling."
Peach gulped dubiously.
“From the fountain head," purred Jimmy.
The other began to appreciate a certain charm, hitherto un-
noticed, in the reporter's manner.
“There is so little known," said Peach lamely.
“But you will give me the most authentic report,” Jimmy sug-
gested deferentially.
The flattery did its work. Peach succumbed. Jimmy asked the
now almost sycophantic man a few more questions and the latter
answered them readily and in detail.
As the reporter concluded, the door opened to admit Inspector
Elveden. He smiled faintly as he observed Sir Marcus.
Jimmy drew him on one side at once.
“This boxes up the case for abduction against Thyme," he
said regretfully.
"It boxes up nothing," retorted the Inspector grimly. “The
popular theory is that he died defending his clients' interests.
Bah! You and I know perfectly dam' well that he was warned
somehow or other by the Squid and tried to make his get-away.
What happened after that we can only guess at, but I'll stake my
reputation that the Squid tricked him and left him when he was
no longer of any use. It's just another example of that fiend's
beastliness.”
“Any theory, legal limb?" the Duke interrupted suddenly.
“Theory? Yes, your Grace," said Elveden, crossing to the
others. “Actual fact, no; but,” and he looked straight at Sir
Marcus, “I think we shall land the Squid sooner or later. He's
practically run his course."
“You'll land something else, too, Elveden," said the Duke, lay-
ing a restraining hand on his friend's arm. “There's a limit to
what any man can stand. And Squids, in common with other
marine monsters, do not run, they swim!”
Elveden smiled coldly and turned to take the sergeant's report.
“That Loseley fellow has had a bad blow this morning, sir,"
whispered the sergeant. "He's practically ruined."
“Huh!” grunted Elveden. “I never met the crook yet who
fouled his own nest!”


XXXII. THE UBIQUITOUS JERRY
A SOLITARY passenger on Platform Nine stood pulling at his
sandy-colored, straggling mustache long after the train had van-
ished round the bend, and then suddenly picking up his suit-case,
he shambled towards the exit.
Giving up his ticket, he stood outside the platform for some
moments, staring in a slightly puzzled way around the station.
It was nearly four years since he had last set foot in Victoria
Station, and the hurrying crowds, the roar of trains, the clamor
and rush were a little strange to him. Standing there in a rather
obviously new “Sunday best” of dark brown, he made rather a
lonely figure. Which led an over-anxious porter into the error of
thinking him "a proper country cousin.” And that was fatal.
The porter sidled up and picked up the suit-case.
“Taxi, sir?” he said ingratiatingly.
The owner of the suit-case stopped pulling at his mustache and
wheeled round suddenly.
“ 'Ere, lay off that,” he growled, “I can carry the doin's mesself
wivout payin' the likes o' you a bob ter go an’ lose it.”
He retrieved his property and, bestowing a cold glare on the
startled porter, shuffled off to the exit in Buckingham Palace
Road. The porter scratched his head and stared after him blankly.
Out on the pavement, the man with the suit-case looked round
the familiar animated scene and his expression became a little
more wistful. This was his home. He knew every inch of the
ground. He had played there as a child, been impudent to the
law as a boy in the back streets, thieved here as a young man
and been arrested outside this very exit as a housebreaker later
on.
He sighed. The place evoked pleasant memories. It was here
that he had once taken an unsuspecting policeman-
“Taxi, sir?"
The interruption, coming from the curb, made him look in that
direction. A taxi driver was leaning over his seat with an enquir-
ing smile. The man on the pavement looked at the driver and
then at his own suit-case. Eaton Place was certainly not far, but
then the case was heavy, very heavy.
He walked to the taxi.
“Eaton Place,” he directed, pushing his case on to the seat,
226


THE UBIQUITOUS JERRY
227
Can' don't you try an' swing it on me fer the fare. I knows how
they works them ogas meter gadgets, matey. I seen 'em afore.”
"Keep yer 'air on, Lord 'elpus,” grinned the chauffeur, shutting
the door behind the other.
“Less lip and more speed,” his fare instructed coldly, sitting
back stiffly on the seat.
He remained in the same rigid position until the taxi came to
a standstill, in response to his signal, in Eaton Place, and seemed
not a little relieved to descend from it.
Rummaging in his pocket, he produced a shilling and tendered
it to the chauffeur.
That gentleman spat with great accuracy and emphasis. “One-
an’-a-kick," he corrected significantly.
“Yus," jeered his fare, "to them as 'as got more oof than sense,
but not to one of the helite, me lad. This ain't the Daimler 'Ire
Comp’ny."
The driver descended from his seat to discuss the matter more
fully.
"Nor it ain't no council tramcar," he snarled.
"It ain't,” was the emphatic agreement. “Tramcars is some use.
A bob, Isaacstein.”
“One-an’-a-kick is what I wants orf you,” growled the chauf-
feur, and rolled back his sleeves in a business-like manner.
“An' a couple o' months in the Middlesex 'orspital is what
you'll get,” added his fare with purposefully gleaming eyes.
The chauffeur spat again, with disdainful emphasis.
"Where's yer six 'elpers?" he jeered, and advanced to the
attack as the other fell into a defensive position.
« 'Ere!”
A third voice leant its weight to the argument, a voice with
which every Londoner is familiar and one which gives the boldest
pause.
Turning, the disputants gazed into the coldly accusing eyes of
the law, and their hands dropped automatically to their sides.
"Fightin'?” enquired Robert gently.
“No,” grunted the taxi-man, “playin' 'op-scotch. 'Ere, 'ow
much from Victoria to 'ere?”
The law had settled many such disputes. "A bob,” was its
inexorable verdict.
"Blimey, ain't you generous!” gasped the chauffeur. “ 'Ere, I
don't want to rob 'im. Make it ninepence, an' if 'e wants ter go
to Scotland it'll be fourpence, with a free life policy thrown
much
grunteadquired Roberped automat
in."


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MURDER IN WAX
His heavy sarcasm was his undoing.
"He'd need it," said the law, eyeing the taxi disparagingly. “Go
on, mate, pay him ninepence. He said it.”
The fare obligingly substituted a threepenny-piece and six
pennyworth of coppers for the shilling, and thrust it into the hand
of the astonished chauffeur.
"An' now 'op orf, Ikey,” he advised, “afore I deducks discount
for cash."
"Gor,” groaned the driver. “Want any chinge?"
Catching the law's eye and reading therein a possible demand
for "chinge," the chauffeur retreated hastily, breathing beer and
threats.
The law bent its legs majestically and hooked its thumbs into
his belt.
"Rooks, them blokes is," he said disparagingly. “Never knowed
one yet but what wouldn't try to twist his mother outer her
widow's pension and as for— "
He broke off suddenly and peered at his companion search-
ingly, his scrutiny taking in his clothes and returning to his face
again.
"Gosh,” he observed delightedly. "If it isn't Jerry. In them
posh duds, too, and lashing out on taxis and all. Getting lively on
the proceeds, ain't you, Jerry?”
The other took up his suit-case and bestowed a cold glare on
Robert.
“Keep yer place, orficer," he admonished severely, “an' remem-
ber I gotter 'andle to me name.”
"Beg pardon, I'm sure,” the law grinned ironically. “Well,
Mister Jerry the Lag, there's a certain friend of yours who's
dying to meet her bag, there's a certained ironically. “Wall
"Not so much o' the Jerry the Lag, mate," grunted the other.
“An' who's waitin' ter see me? Not Elv'den? I don't want ter see
'im. I'm respekterble now, an' don't ’ave no truck wiv low in-
spectors.”
"Elveden it is,” said the law. “Remember him?"
“Remember 'im?" echoed the other. “Wish I could fergit 'im!”
“Well, come along," advised the constable. “I've got special in-
structions to bring you in at once. It don't do to keep the In-
spector waiting.”
"Lumme, I fort I was rid o' that gang. Seems they can't let a
man rest, nohow."
He took up his bag with a disgruntled expression, and motioned
to Robert to lead the way.


THE UBIQUITOUS JERRY
229
Twenty minutes later he was ushered into the Assistant Com-
missioner's room at Scotland Yard.
Inspector Elveden, the only occupant, gazed at him curiously.
The ready-made brown suit was something in the nature of a
shock. The well-polished boots, too, and the collar and tie occa-
sioned him no little surprise.
"Sit down, Jerry," he said slowly. "I want to talk to you about
things in general.”
“An' about the 'Scrubs in pertickler," grunted Jerry. “Quite
like old times, ain't it, Mister Elv'den? The last time I 'eard you
say them words you give me two years in stir.”
Elveden frowned. There was something puzzling about the
Lag, something unfamiliar, but he could not place it.
He was still debating, when the door opened to admit the
Commissioner, and he rose to his feet respectfully.
"Jerry the Lag,” he said formally.
The Commissioner stood still for a moment, his keen eyes rest-
ing on the Lag and then, crossing to his desk, sat down.
"I want to have a little heart-to-heart talk with you, Jerry,
about various little matters of mutual interest."
“Wiv a stretch at the uvver end?” suggested Jerry humorously.
“Not necessarily,” corrected the Commissioner. “It depends on
you entirely. If you like to help us, you will be quite safe. On
the other"fly. If you corrected the?" sugg
He broke off and shrugged expressively.
“Tell me all you know about the Squid,” he said suddenly.
“Easy,” grinned the Lag. “Nuthin'."
“Cut that out, Jerry," snapped Elveden. “Tell the Commis-
sioner what you know."
He stared curiously at the Lag. There was something different
about the man, but what on earth was it? The Inspector knitted
his brows in a puzzled frown.
"I don't know nuthin' about 'im,” reiterated the Lag, with a
curious expression. “ 'Oo is 'e, anyway?”
“Excuse me, sir," said Elveden, forestalling the Commissioner's
next question. "Where did you get that rig-out, Jerry?”
"Day and Martin's,” the Lag responded facetiously, eyeing his
trousers affectionately. "What's the matter wiv 'em? Pretty toney,
I calls 'em. Good bit o' stuff this 'ere suit. Gent's whipcord
lounge, they calls it.”
“That's not your usual garb," Elveden accused sharply.
“No, in course it ain't,” said Jerry, striking a dignified pose.
“I allus wears a topper an' a silk 'at an' kid gloves an' spats, I


230
MURDER IN WAX
does. Pertickerly when I goes round the hestate. Correct duds
them is fer plowed fields.”
“Estate? What estate?” Elveden asked blankly, exchanging a
glance with the Commissioner.
"Struth, this is worse'n a cat-kisem,” groaned the Lag. “Sir
Markis's o' course."
“Sir Marcus? Loseley you mean?” said Elveden, shooting a
bow at a venture.
“Ain't he coot?” jeered Jerry. “O’ course it's Loseley. 'Ow
many perishin' barynets d'ye think I got on me visitin' list?”
Elveden sat back helplessly. He was worried. It was becoming
increasingly obvious that Jerry had undergone a drastic change
or else-- The Inspector leant forward.
“Where is Sir Marcus's estate?”
“Faversham," answered the Lag promptly. “Go on, ast me
where that is!”
"How long have you been in his employ?”
“Ever since I finished me vacation at Wormwood,” said Jerry
equably, pulling at his mustache as though to stimulate thought.
“Sir Markis is one o' these 'ere phil-antropics, an' I'm one o' 'is
converts as 'e calls 'em.”
"I suppose you'll deny having been in London for the past
two months?” said Elveden, his mouth setting in a hard line.
"Not necessarily," replied the Lag. “I'll admit it, if yer likes,
only ther's upwards o' a 'undred people as can disprove it, an'
I don't pertickerly want ter go up fer perjury. Them was me
mother's dyin' words: ‘Jerry,' she says, tender-like, 'never tell a
mort o’ lies when one'll do.' She did, strite, Mr. Elv’den."
The Inspector looked at his superior ruefully. “There's some-
thing very wrong here, sir," he said awkwardly.
“So much I had gathered," said the Commissioner dryly.
Elveden turned to the Lag again: “What do you do on the
estate?” he demanded; adding hastily, “And don't tell any lies
about work.”
“ 'Ere, I'll pull yer fer defamation,” said Jerry sharply. “Don't
come none o yer madam wiv me, coz I gotter witness," he
pointed to the amused Commissioner and glared aggrievedly at
the Inspector.
“I'm waiting,” prompted Elveden.
“Me? I'm 'ead gamekeeper,” said Jerry grandly, and his pose
became more dignified.
Elveden laughed shortly. “What a life for the poachers,” he
sneered. “I suppose you work on a commission basis with them?”


THE UBIQUITOUS JERRY
231
“An' don't you call me a liar,” said Jerry heatedly. "I got
letters from Sir Markis 'isself what can prove me words.”
He rummaged hastily in his pockets, and after a protracted
search produced two or three letters which he proffered with the
air of one who gives incontrovertible evidence of his integrity.
Elveden glanced hastily through the letters. In each case they
were signed “Marcus Loseley," and were written unquestionably
in the sprawling, familiar hand of the Baronet.
The Inspector bit his lip.
“I don't understand this, sir,” he said. "I shall have to see Sir
Marcus himself to verify this man's statements. It is physically
impossible for Jerry to have been in London and Faversham at
one and the same time, and yet I can bring forward numbers of
witnesses to vouch that they have seen him in London recently."
The Commissioner nodded. “Get in touch with Sir Marcus by
all means. That should be a possible solution to what seems to
be a somewhat curious affair." His tone suggested that he con-
sidered the interview as good time needlessly wasted, and the
Inspector flushed.
“I had intended to postpone the interview with Sir Marcus
until I had something a little more definite to work on, sir,” he
said. “I wished to see him on a totally different and rather more
important score."
What score?" asked the Commissioner.
The Inspector leant forward and whispered something that the
Lag could not hear.
Whatever it was it made the Commissioner start, and Jerry,
seeing the start, misconstrued it as relevant to himself.
“Yer tryin' to fix me fer a stretch," he snarled passionately.
“I noo that was the gime! I tells yer I bin outer London fer two
years an’ I bin goin' strite ever since I got free o' you blokes. It's
association wot causes arf the trouble. I tell yer— "
“You've got nothing to worry about, Jerry," the Commis-
sioner interrupted.
The Lag calmed down, but still glared at his interlocutors.
"An' where do I git orf?” he demanded. “I got an appointment
wiv Sir Marcus at six, and it's gorn that now.”
"I shouldn't let that worry you,” drawled Elveden, "you'll be
seeing Sir Marcus very shortly!”
He rang a bell and issued a few instructions in a low voice to
the plain clothes man who entered.
That done, he turned to the Commissioner and spoke in the
same quiet tone, unintelligible to Jerry, who watched suspiciously.


232
MURDER IN WAX
:
“This man may be Jerry the Lag, sir, but he is not the man
who has been using that name in London for the past two years.
There's some kind of trickery going on and I'm going to get to
the bottom of it.”
He turned to the Lag and resumed his examination.
An hour slipped by; another followed, interspersed with
hurried telephone calls, and yet they learnt nothing more
materially important than had been gleaned in the first twenty
minutes.
During that time the Inspector verified the fact that the man
in front of them was undoubtedly Jerry the Lag who, four years
previously, had gone to prison on the Inspector's evidence for a
period of two years, and that during the two years which had
followed he had remained on Sir Marcus Loseley's estate at
Faversham. Which proved conclusively that he had been imper-
sonated by someone in London. But by whom?
Against Sir Marcus's head gamekeeper, for Jerry insisted on
the distinction, they could bring no charge. His reform had been
more or less complete and his conduct as exemplary as they could
expect. So much they had verified by two long-distance calls to
Faversham, one to the local police inspector and one to the
steward of the Loseley estate.
During the examination Elveden had recognized little long-for-
gotten mannerisms peculiar to the original Jerry, the absence of
which in his impersonator had passed unnoticed.
Baffled, the Inspector turned to answer the imperative jangling
of the telephone.
“Hallo," he called wearily; and almost immediately his face
lighted up with excitement.
“What? Here now? Holy Mike! Send him up at once!”
He replaced the receiver and rose hastily to his feet.
Crossing the room swiftly, he opened a door on the right and
beckoned to the Lag.
“Wait in there till you're wanted, Jerry," he said, his eyes
gleaming strangely.
The Lag shuffled across the floor into the room without com-
ment and Elveden closed the door behind him and turned to meet
the enquiring glance of his superior.
“So far, sir, they cannot get in touch with Sir Marcus Loseley.
He appears to be out and no one knows exactly where he is, a
frequent occurrence, I fancy. However, we've had a stroke of
absolutely unexpected good luck. The man on the St. Martin's
Lane beat has brought in Jerry the Lag!”


XXXIII. SIR MARCUS EXPLAINS
THE faces of the two men in the Commissioner's room showed
varying expressions: that of the Assistant Commissioner astonish-
ment, and that of the Inspector keen excitement. Resuming his
seat as a tap sounded on the door, Elveden said tersely,
“Come in."
A plain clothes man ushered in Jerry the Lag. The Jerry that
Elveden knew, complete with dusty bowler, dirty choker and
shabby suit. The Inspector eyed him casually for a few moments
before motioning him to a seat. For two years this man had posed
as the Lag, and the Inspector was curious. What identity lay
behind the assumption of Jerry's face and character?
"I want a few words with you, Jerry," he said at length, as
the new-comer became restless under his keen regard.
“Which,” retorted Jerry, scowling, “is most hunusual, ain't it?”
and the preliminaries over, Jerry's ire loosened his tongue.
He turned wrathfully on the Assistant Commissioner, whom he
had seen before, and burst out angrily:
“It beats me what you pay these lead swingers for. You gives
'em a good job and sizeable screw, and dreckerly anyfin' 'appens
the busies comes ter us fer infermation. Elv'den, 'ere, 'e allus
comes ter me an' says as 'ow I done it. Then as soon as ever I
kerrecks 'is error, 'e turns rahnd an' says, 'Well, if you didn't,
'oo the 'ell did?' Now, I asts yer, is that playin' the gime? No, it
ain't. I don't git no retainin' fee, do I? No, I don't. I ain't the
Crim'nal Records Orfice, am I? No, I ain't. An' if I wivdroo me
support, would this perishin' department go phut? Not arf it
wouldn't. I never gets no peace from these busies. Allus bein'
lugged 'ere and lugged there to answer a lot o' questions. Fair
makes me tired, it do!”
He paused and drew a deep breath preparatory to launching
out into another spirited diatribe, but Elveden, noticing the half-
amused expression on the face of the Commissioner, frowned and
interrupted suddenly.
“Shut up, Jerry! You've got nothing to write home about.
You've had plenty of rope in the past, and now you're going to
answer a few questions or find yourself in Queer Street.”
" 'Ad plenty o'rope, 'ave I?” retorted the Lag swiftly. "Mebbe,
but I ain't aimin' to be too intimate wiv rope. An' what kind o'
233


234
MURDER IN WAX
noose is 'anging at the end o' this? I ain't bound to answer, am
I, sir?” he demanded, looking at the Commissioner.
“No, you're not bound to answer his questions,” agreed the
Commissioner.
"Like that, is it?” grimaced the Lag. “I needn't talk, but it'd
be best fer all parties—pertickerly me, by the look o' things—if
I did?”
"Exactly,” smiled the Commissioner.
“Orl right, go ahead, you,” grunted Jerry, glaring at Inspector
Elveden.
"How often are you in Faversham, Jerry?"
Jerry started involuntarily, but answered quite calmly, “Wot is
Faversham?"
"It's a place in Kent."
“Only been to Kent for 'op pickin', an' it wasn't there,"
grunted Jerry. "I never been there."
“I think you have,” said Elveden softly, watching the other
intently.
"You gimme a pain in the elbow," Jerry complained bitterly.
“When I says a thing, I 'as the unforchinate 'abit o' meanin' it.
Naturally you blokes at the Yard find it a bit difficult like at
first, but you'll get inter the way o' speakin' the truf in time,
even if only be accident.”
“Then you've solved the problem of spirit projection?" sug-
gested the Inspector, smiling coolly.
"Never touches spirits now," said the Lag truculently. "Bin on
the waggin fer a couple o' days!”
“How long have you been in London, Jerry?” asked Elveden.
“You oughter know," riposted Jerry sourly. "Stuck ter me like
a shadder fer the last two years, 'e 'as, sir.”
He looked indignantly at the Commissioner.
“During which time,” said Elveden, “your double has been on
Sir Marcus Loseley's estate in Faversham."
"Spirits, doubles," growled Jerry. “Git orf the subjec' o' booze,
can't yer? Fair makin' me mouth water wiv yer sly temptations."
Nevertheless Elveden noticed that the Lag had paled slightly.
Still smiling, the Inspector rose to his feet and crossed the
room. Opening the door on the left, he summoned the occupant
of the inner room.
The gamekeeper shuffled forward.
"Jerry the Lag,” said Elveden, mockingly, "meet Jerry the
Lag!”
There was a complete silence for a few moments while the two


236
MURDER IN WAX
trifles as peladinom, sug
ompany's op te
“During which period,” pursued the Inspector, “you have been
associated with the Squid in various criminal transactions."
“More or less,” the Baronet agreed, although”—and he
turned to the Commissioner—"I ask you to believe that I per-
sonally have committed no felony during that-er-association,
I think Elveden called it.”
"Perhaps Sir Marcus will be good enough to explain?” sug-
gested the Inspector. “Bearing in mind such trifles as the robbery
at the Consolidated Trust Company's offices, which we know was
the work of the entire gang, also the robbery at Thyme's, and
various other little matters. In robbing yourself of the Loseley
tiara, of course, you committed no crime. We can discount
that."
“Thank you,” said Sir Marcus ironically. "In no case have I
committed any penal offense. I admit that I was present at some
of these functions, but I deny having assisted the Squid's hench-
men in any way. On no occasion did I facilitate ingress to the
places the Squid robbed, neither did I handle any of the jewels
or moneys he acquired. The wage for my services I forwarded
to the Middlesex Hospital.”
The Inspector smiled, but Sir Marcus ignored him and con-
tinued:
“That was the case at the Trust Company's offices. The rob-
bery at Thyme's Bank was not carried out by the gang, but by
the Squid in person, as in the case of the Baraipur diamonds.
The case of my own tiara was a little different. That was the
first occasion on which I received definite instructions to carry
out a robbery on my own initiative. Fortunately, the victim
chosen was myself. Before going to the theater, I removed the
paste imitation of the tiara, made to meet such a contingency,
and ransacked my room. Returning later that night, I affected
surprise on hearing that it had been stolen."
“Accepting your statements as true," said the Commissioner
evenly, "you still lay yourself open to the charge of being an
accessory both before and after felony."
“Unfortunately that is so, but it was necessary that I should
assist in the Squid's projects in order to convince him that I was
Jerry the Lag. To have given him cause for suspicion would have
meant summary expulsion from the gang, if not from this planet.
Which latter is rather more probable than the former.”
The Commissioner pursed his lips. "It might be as well if you
explained your object in masquerading as Jerry the Lag, Sir
Marcus."
essory bothely that is soos in order to


SIR MARCUS EXPLAINS
237
The Baronet drew a deep breath and appeared to be medi-
tating. At length he spoke.
“My object,” he said slowly, “is the paying off of a score long
overdue. And I propose to settle it very definitely."
“You're making rather a dangerous statement, aren't you, Sir
Marcus?” said Elveden.
“It is the forerunner of a dangerous task.”
“You are hinting at—what?” asked the Commissioner.
"As I said before-paying off a score I owe the Squid," said
Loseley.
“Does it occur to you that that is the prerogative of the law,"
suggested the Commissioner.
The Baronet nodded slowly.
"It also occurs to me that the law is damnably slow," he
replied.
"You imagine that you are quicker?" jeered Elveden.
“And a good deal surer,” snapped back the Baronet.
There was no mistaking the hatred that shone in Loseley's
eyes, and the Commissioner sat back suddenly with a start of
surprise.
"What form will the payment take?” he asked slowly.
“An exceedingly just one," retorted the Baronet in little more
than a whisper.
There was an unpleasant silence.
“Are we to infer-murder?” asked the Commissioner at last.
“On the contrary," was the quiet disclaimer, "the project I
have in mind is something infinitely more attractive."
“And that is?”
“To hand him over to justice! That has been my constant
aim during the past two years,” answered the Baronet. “He was
responsible for the death of my dear friend, John Richmond.
That account between us cannot go unpaid. It was in order to
settle it that I assumed the personality of Jerry, a reformed con-
vict who asked me for work and whom I employed.”
Elveden smiled unpleasantly, but the Baronet paid no heed.
“And I have had no cause to regret it,” he continued. “The
Squid learned of the return of Jerry the Lag and enlisted my
services, which was my object. Since then I have waited. Many
times I might have attempted to kill him, but I might have
failed. I doubt if I should have survived the attempt in any case.
That was not what I wanted, however. When once the oppor-
tunity comes, I shall strike at the one vulnerable spot in his
armor-his amour propre."
oubt if I should mpted to kill him, bawe waited. Many


238
MURDER IN WAX
He smiled at his own joke.
“The man does not know fear. To kill him would be no satis-
faction. It would be too momentary a pain. But to imprison him:
to let him know the agony of three weeks of waiting for the
inevitable, without the power to avert it. With nothing else to
think about: to blazon his downfall to those whom he has ruled
and terrorized for so long. That is worth waiting for."
“That's our side of the job,” Elveden interrupted; "and you're
withholding valuable information. You are aware, I suppose, that
we could subpoena you to give evidence and imprison you if you
declined to answer.”
“I am,” agreed the Baronet, “but I do not propose to alter my
plans.”
He turned to the Commissioner: "With my assistance," he
said, “you stand a chance of trapping this fiend. Without it,” he
shrugged expressively. “Well, up to date Elveden has succeeded
only in making himself a bigger fool than even Nature intended.”
The Inspector flushed angrily, and his next remark was
threatening.
"I think we could make you talk, my friend. There are more
ways than one of loosening a man's tongue, however obstinate
he may be!”
"In America possibly," Sir Marcus agreed contemptuously. “In
this country the third degree has not yet been legitimatized.”
The Inspector's retort died on his lips as he encountered the
disapproving regard of his superior.
“Who is the Squid?” the Commissioner rapped out suddenly,
and the Baronet smiled.
"Obviously your experiences of him in the past have taught
you little about his methods," he said amusedly. "I have no idea
of the Squid's identity, nor could I locate him. Whether he has
a fixed abode or not, I do not know. If I could discover that,
my work would be more than half done."
“You have a fixed rendezvous, of course?” interrupted Elveden.
“We have not," retorted the Baronet. “The first intimation we
receive of his need of our services is a letter. I collect mine from
the Shaftesbury public-house. The barman there reserves it
for me.”
"Is this barman a member of the gang?" asked the Com-
missioner.
"I think not. I imagine he is merely a go-between. Outside of
that, I think he is expected to see, hear and know nothing."
"And the rest of the gang," demanded the Commissioner, “who


SIR MARCUS EXPLAINS
239
are they? I warn you that to hold back any information will do
them no good and yourself less."
Sir Marcus frowned helplessly.
“The other members are, like myself, masked, and we do not
enter into conversation. A rule made by the Squid to prevent us
recognizing each other's voices. We leave after a meeting at stated
intervals of five minutes. I am the last to go. The Squid is the
first."
“Do you think you would recognize the Squid's voice-I pre-
sume he does the speaking?” said the Commissioner.
“That is so," agreed the Baronet, “but his voice is carefully
disguised. On some occasions he summons us separately. I have
been to many such meetings with him. The interview is held in
a taxi, driven by another member of the gang, and is carried on
under the auspices of a revolver. Only one man ever tried to bring
friends to those interviews. That was Billy Horne, an old friend
of Jerry's. He died suddenly. On one other occasion a man turned
King's Evidence and warned the police of a rendezvous on the
understanding that the Squid should not be allowed to find out
who was responsible for his capture. It was quite unnecessary.
They found the man in a dark alley in Deptford—with a knife
in his throat. The rendezvous was not kept, either by the Squid
or the rest of the gang, whom he warned, God alone knows how.
But of course that is ancient history to you."
Sir Marcus sat back and calmly studied the Commissioner.
The Commissioner's expression was curious. Elveden had a
shrewd suspicion that the Chief was "swallowing" the cock and
bull story far too credulously, but beyond permitting himself a
skeptical smile, he kept the suspicion to himself.
"At least you know his future plans,” the Commissioner haz-
arded suddenly. “What is the next move? I need not tell you
that your silence amounts to compounding a felony."
Loseley shook his head definitely.
“No man alive could tell you his plans,” he answered, "and
I doubt if many would attempt it, even if they had the neces-
sary information. Billy Horne's end-was unpleasant!”
For a moment his face clouded over thoughtfully.
"Inspector Elveden's move in having me brought here was
foolish," he said slowly. “I think I should almost be justified in
demanding police protection. If the object of this interview
should come to the ears of the Squid-and he has an uncanny
intelligence staff-I should most certainly be put out of the
way."


240
MURDER IN WAX
“I think you overrate the Squid's powers," said the Com-
missioner.
"Believe me, it is impossible," answered the other swiftly. "For
years the police have underrated those powers. He has forestalled
every move made against him. That is proof of inside knowl-
edge.”
The Commissioner looked dubious.
"Possibly. However, you realize that I have no alternative
but to place you under arrest? We have only your word for
proof of your extraordinary explanation, and frankly—it's not
good enough.”
Sir Marcus shrugged indifferently and there was silence for
some moments.
At length the Commissioner leant forward curiously.
“What course would you pursue if I were to allow you to
retain your liberty?” he asked; and the Inspector started.
"I should het debated silend; and the Inspect to allow y
"I should retain my dual rôle,” he said at length. "I have
waited long, I can wait longer. In the course of a few days I
shall probably have another summons. After that I shall be able
to determine my future course. Provided that the Squid remains
ignorant of my true identity or my visit here, things will go on
very much as before. On the other hand-there will be one more
name on the tablet in the family vault: 'Sacred to the memory
of Sir Marcus Loseley, ninth baronet.' Another unexplained
murder, that is all.”
There was a pause during which the Commissioner sat per-
fectly still, apparently thinking. Eventually he looked at the
Baronet.
"I have decided," he said, “to allow you your freedom, Sir
Marcus. Jerry, also, is free to go. I take it that you will hold
yourself responsible for him, since your own safety and the
chance of jeopardizing the capture of the Squid hangs on it?”
"I think I can trust Jerry,” said Sir Marcus, rising to his feet.
“I have a theory for the eradication of criminal tendency, based
on kindness. Punishment—the police method-never produces
satisfactory results. That is a tip."
“Sir Marcus on Crime," said Elveden, "is almost more amus-
ing than inaccurate. Shall I call Jerry, sir?”.
The Commissioner nodded, and the Inspector summoned the
Lag.
Jerry, entering, looked at the three men thoughtfully, and then
crossed to the Commissioner's table.


XXXIV. B 29
theadily, his head, quietly dressed, Thief's pleasure. last rays of
Ar about the same time that Sir Marcus was undergoing his
examination in the Assistant Commissioner's room at Scotland
Yard, another conference was taking place in a small office not
a hundred miles from Whitehall. The hum of the traffic beneath
the single window did little to disturb the air of peaceful serenity
in the room.
A tall young man, clad in a perfectly fitting suit of gray, stood
by the window looking down on the street in the last rays of
the sun and patiently awaited the Chief's pleasure.
At the table a quietly dressed, not unhandsome man wrote
steadily, his head, faintly touched with streaks of gray, bent
thoughtfully over his work.
The man at the window turned slightly and studied the face
of his Chief unobtrusively.
Lionel Mainwaring, head of the Home Diplomatic Intelligence
Department, might have been twenty-five, and then again he
might have been fifty-five. It was impossible to tell as he sat
there writing, his half-serious, half-boyish expression, and the
cool, cheerful, but worldly-wise eyes producing a conflicting effect
that might have denoted either age or youth. As a matter of fact,
he was thirty-eight, but that is beside the point.
Putting down his pen, he looked up suddenly and encountered
the steady scrutiny of the man by the window.
“Sit down, B 29,” he invited, "I want to talk to you."
The man by the window drew up a chair and sat in a posi-
tion which allowed him to watch the street below.
Opening a drawer in his desk, Mainwaring drew out a sheet
of notepaper, attached by a clip to a long white envelope. Detach-
ing the paper, he offered it to the other.
B 29 leant forward and took it from his hand.
“Easterdale received this this morning,” said Mainwaring
quietly. “I should like you to read it.”
Turning his chair slightly to allow the light from the window
to fall on the paper, B 29 studied the close hand-printed com-
munication.
It was undated, unaddressed, and headed "TO GEORGE EASTER-
DALE." It ran:
242


B 29
245
wedge and Prime Minister folly was that he
was concerned. The little combine of capitalists, of whom Loring
and Cane were the driving power, held half the important seats
in the South and the West London area, and where they led,
Chester, Beverley, Morecambe and Leigh-Garon and half a dozen
more would follow.”
He frowned angrily and removed the ash from his cig-
arette.
“Honestly," he said, "I think Easterdale made the only move
on the board. It was risky, of course, but the loss of a dozen
valuable seats at that time would have been a catastrophe. He
was dead set on putting that Land Bill through then, and the
election was a critical one. He simply had to see that the party
pulled together to get a majority, and a split would have been
fatal to their chances. Either Labor or Liberal would have driven
in a wedge and absorbed the wavering votes. It was a ghastly
decision for any Prime Minister to have to make and I think he
dealt with it courageously. The folly was that he was indiscreet
enough to commit the thing to writing!”
There was a silence for some moments, and then the Chief
resumed.
“Of course, he got his Bill through and that was all that mat-
tered, but Loring—why, the man must have been mad! Why the
devil he didn't destroy that letter I can't imagine. Surely he
realized that it was a terrible weapon if it fell into the wrong
hands? He was crafty enough about some things. It is some con-
solation to know that whatever money he got out of the Sudan
deal was paid over to his blackmailing valet, Worth. If he had
not paid, the letter would have been sold to France, and Easter-
dale and his party and the Entente, not to mention Loring him-
self, would have been ruined.”
He paused to relight his cigarette, which had gone out while
he was talking. B 29 sat motionless, listening.
“When Loring died and the golden goose 'stopped laying,
Worth turned on Easterdale, as you know," Mainwaring con-
tinued, "and John Richmond was sent over to Venice to tackle
him. I don't think Easterdale ever heard the truth about Rich-
mond's negotiations with Paul Worth. I did, and the story wasn't
a pleasant one. Worth must have bitterly regretted stealing that
cursed letter from Loring!”
He puffed out a blue spiral of smoke and studied it thought-
fully.
"Even in those days,” he resumed, "this Squid must have been
pretty well informed. He knew the inside facts and when you


246
MURDER IN WAX
were sent to meet Richmond, he got in first, with fatal results
to Richmond.”
He looked thoughtfully at the other. B 29 was smoking furi-
ously and his face was white. It was a bitter memory.
“We know now that Richmond hid that letter in the Loseley
tiara,” said the Chief. “About that I wouldn't venture a personal
opinion, but I believe that the C.I.D. have their suspicions about
Loseley."
B 29 nodded without comment.
“At any rate, Mr. Pendleton Thyme beat the Squid over that
deal,” continued Mainwaring. “It's curious, isn't it, how these
twisters play crooked even with their own kind? And yet some
fool raved about honor among thieves!”
“The Squid's a dangerous merchant to trick," said B 29. “I
imagine that Thyme's death was a direct result of his allowing
the Squid to find out that he had removed the paper from the
tiara,"
“Undoubtedly,” agreed Mainwaring, “but now the Squid holds
it, and he's a still more dangerous customer."
"He's beginning to feel the draught, I think. The C.I.D. are
making things pretty hot, although they have had no material
success. They're fairly certain of the identity of at least three of
the gang, excluding Thyme. Elveden-rather a smart chap in his
way, but confoundedly unlucky-has been ferreting round and
he appears to have narrowed down the odds slightly. I tipped
him off to watch Blatz, the manager of the Nocturnes Club. I
fancy he's in with the Squid's little bunch."
Mainwaring nodded.
“Well, that's the proposition," he said. “We must have that
confounded letter on or before the 24th—that is, thirteen days
hence. On the 25th, if all else fails, Easterdale will have to pay.
Not from the Exchequer. To do that he would have to call in the
Chancellor and at all costs the thing must be kept quiet. Besides
which the Budget would take some explaining with a few sums
like that. So it would have to come out of Easterdale's private
purse and that would ruin him. He couldn't possibly meet it."
He rose to his feet, and B 29 knew that the interview was at
an end.
"I should like to thank you, sir," he said, "for the opportu-
nity to retrieve the error I made four years ago. Added to which,
the score between the Squid and myself is a personal one."
His face became even paler.
“John Richmond was a friend of mine,” he said simply.


THE HOUSE ON WIMBLEDON COMMON
249
regarded restedly and ingham, stane,
He opened it and confronted the caller dubiously.
The Duke of Framlingham, standing in the porch, returned the
stare interestedly and stepped into the hall, a move which the Lag
regarded suspiciously.
A crisis was averted by the arrival of Fenton.
“Is Sir Marcus anywhere about, Fenton?” the Duke asked.
"I think not, your Grace,” responded Fenton. "Sir Marcus is, I
believe, out on one of his "
“Then you believe wrong,” interjected Jerry suddenly. “ 'E's
in. Cum in wiv yer 'umble a few minits ago.”
Fenton winced slightly. It was two years since he had last seen
Jerry, and in the old days their aversion for each other had been
a by-word in the domestic quarters. The feeling still existed.
“Indeed?” he said coldly, "I will go and ascertain, your
Grace.”
He relieved the Duke of his hat and coat, conducted him to
the drawing-room, and then moved sedately in search of Sir
Marcus.
He returned a few moments later to discover that Jerry had
followed the Duke into the drawing-room and was eyeing him in
a hostile manner.
“Sir Marcus will be down almost at once, your Grace," he
said, eyeing the Lag distastefully. “You'd better come down to
the servants' quarters, Jerry.”
“ 'Oo yer talkin' to?" demanded the Lag truculently. “ 'Op
orf an' don't come interferin' wiv yer betters."
Fenton, with a dignified glower at his enemy, stalked off to
his own demesne. When Sir Marcus eventually appeared, the
atmosphere in the drawing-room was almost electric.
“What are you doing here, Jerry?” he demanded, and would
no doubt have continued had he not caught sight of the
Duke.
"I suppose you have come to remind me of your dinner party
to-night, Erb?” he said. “I have not forgotten it."
“Good,” responded His Grace. “Knowing your habit of wan-
dering off into the blue without due warning, I came to see that
all was well. Without you, we should be thirteen, and that would
annoy me.”
“Quite,” agreed Loseley. "Try not to smash that vase, Jerry."
The Lag, who had been examining and estimating the worth
of a Ming bowl, started and released it so suddenly that it all
but fell to the floor.
The Duke gasped audibly as the priceless piece rocked peri-


250
MURDER IN WAX
lously before righting itself, and, breathing deeply, reached for
his cigarette case.
“Cigarette?” he asked.
“Thanks," murmured the Baronet, picking up a box of
matches.
His Grace rummaged perplexedly in his hip pocket and then
look i up.
"Then smoke your own,” he grunted. “I must have mislaid my
case. Queer. I distinctly remember picking it up after Masters
filled it this morning.”
Sir Marcus turned tranquilly to his gamekeeper.
“Go and see if His C:n mislaid his cigarette case in the hall,”
he directed comprdly.
“But I don't think I left it there,” Framlingham objec 1; with
a puzzled frown.
"I'm sure you did,” said Sir Marcus firmly. "Jerry!".".
The Lag turned obediently and shuffled out of the room. The
Duke looked after him wonderingly.
“Curious specimen," he said lightly. “Any relation of
yours?”
“I must apologize for Jerry, Erb. He is a ret ex-convict
whom I employ. He has not quite escaped from the old groove
yet, I am afraid. A good fellow, but with a decided taste for
other people's property, which I find a little embarrassing. I hope
you will overlook it.”
Before the puzzled Duke could reply, Jerry returned with a
handsome gold cigarette case.
“On the mat,” he informed his master.
“Thanks,” said Sir Marcus. “I thought perhaps it might be.
I shan't need you again, Jerry." He looked hard at the old Lag.
“Oh, and by the way, Jerry, please remember that if spoons are
silvern, restraint is golden."
He nodded pleasantly and the Lag shuffled away.
The episode shortened His Grace's visit perceptibly.
Sir Marcus, apparently unconscious of the figure dogging his
footsteps, strode swiftly along Prince of Wales Terrace and came
to a stop before one of the flats on the right-hand side of the
road. Taking a bunch of keys from his trousers pocket, he
selected one and, mounting the short flight of steps, let him-
self in.
The man who had followed him from Eaton Place drew back
into the shadow of the pillared portico of the flat opposite.


THE HOUSE ON WIMBLEDON COMMON
251
I ch our frieed back, he emerge He
Closing the door, Sir Marcus smiled in a satisfied way and
walked to a door on the right-hand side of the hall.
He owned “the lower right-hand,” as his landlady was wont
to say, and she invariably added, "and there's something curious
ab: ut the people who come here. There's the man who
leased it, nice-looking man, middle-aged and well-to-do, I should
say. Then there's a down-at-heel tramp who is often here
and also a tall young chap who wears a monocle. A curious
affair.”
As Sir Marcus stepped into the room, Jerry rose from a chair
by the window, to meet him.
"You got here safely?" enquired Sir Marcus, removing his hat
and coat.
“Yus," Jerry nodded, "I took a rahnd-abaht rowt in case o'
haccidents, but I managed to get 'ere wivout bein' spotted by
any o' that gang wot's cruisin' about in Eaton Place."
The other nodded and, crossing the room, peered cautiously
out of the window.
“Our man is waiting, Jerry," he observed amusedly over his
shoulder. “Elvedon should really choose more imaginative men.
I crossed the rare, four times quite unnecessarily on my way here
and our friend dutifully followed me.”
He stepped back, and entering the bedroom remained there for
ten minutes. When he emerged he was wearing a shabby bowler,
choker and disreputable suit. He carried a large ebony box under
his arm.
For a moment the two men faced each other, undistinguish-
able, save for their faces. Even the faded chokers matched and
the boots had holes in the same positions.
"Pretty good,” nodded the Baronet, and seating himself at the
table, opened the black box.
“Put on the light,” he directed, “and pull the curtains across,
but don't let that fellow outside catch sight of you."
The Lag obeyed, and Sir Marcus set to work with his make-up
box.
Jerry, watching the transformation for the first time, mar-
veled at the deft skill of those slim fingers, fingers that soon
became coarsened to an exact replica of the Lag's own.
Slowly Sir Marcus's face took on a skeleton resemblance to
Jerry's and in a short time the addition of a lank, untidy wig and
a sandy colored mustache completed the disguise.
"Lumme, you aren't arf a lorss to the perfession, Sir Marcus,”
said the Lag admiringly.


IN WHICH THE SQUID IS AMUSED 257
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 fire-
place 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 contem-
plating 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 destroy-
ing other people's in order to insure my own.”
"You said a mouthful,” Sir Marcus agreed coarsely, still study-
ing 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.


IN WHICH THE SQUID IS AMUSED 259
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 cer-
tain 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 mock-
ing light.
“So you know?” Sir Marcus asked at last, in his habitual re-
fined and calm voice. “I congratulate you on your astuteness.”
He removed the ash from his cigarette with fingers that be-
trayed 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
how 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 fortu-
nate 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 noth-
ing. 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 ap-
peals 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


IN WHICH THE SQUID IS AMUSED 263
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 mo-
mentarily close 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 ex-
aggeration more in keeping with a reception room than a rain-
swept 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
up topAs face of the Celveden, and
little mild 11 find.". suspiciously
Elveden eyed him suspiciously and grunted.
264


SHOTS
“You followed Jerry the Lag here," he said bluntly.
“Now what,” murmured Freddie, “can have given you that im-
pression?"
"Nothing,” rejoined Elveden. "I followed you here on a motor-
bike. I was only a few yards away from you while you were lean-
ing 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 situa-
tion."
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 outnum-
bered. 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 agree-
ment.
“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


266
MURDER IN WAX
this path and you'll 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 purpose-
fully 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 Scot-
land Yard. He desires the immediate dispatch to aforesaid resi-
dence 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. “Tele-
vision 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.


268
MURDER IN WAX
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, saunter-
ing 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!”
"Mr. Co-comers gawaits, with"opeaid genially, man
“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 ve-
hemently 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 matter, 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 move-
ment 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.


SHOTS
269
“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 forth-
coming.
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 evenida, 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 help-
lessness 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


270
MURDER IN WAX
limit. I was fuddling about for five minutes before that door sud-
denly opened. Must have touched the catch, I suppose."
“Very possibly," agreed the invisible Squid amusedly.
The sergeant forgot himself.
“Who the hell's 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 im-
mensely.
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 to-night!"
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 fire-
place. 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


SHOTS
271
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 mortu-
ary. 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 foot, lay
the constable who had guarded the taxi.
“Untie him," snapped the frantic Inspector; and before the


272
MURDER IN WAX
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 tele-
phone because I heard someone, the chauffeur probably, talking
in there "
Elveden drew a deep breath.
“The garage?” he murmured, and the mysterious disappear-
ance of the Squid took on a new significance.
“Back to the house," he shouted, leaping to the wall. “He's
still there.”


XXXVIII. IN WHICH 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 chan-
nels. 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 strug-
gling wife and half-starved children.
While sympathizing with the dead man, he could also sympa-
thize 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 con-
cerning 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.
What must that man's feelings be?
At the moment they were chiefly of amusement and for a full
minute, standing silently behind his unsuspecting quarry, the
Squid savored the joke.
Then he struck-hard!
The constable rolled over without a sound and, caught in
strong arms, was deposited silently on the floor.
Straightening himself, the Squid glanced hastily round and
then slipped from the room. Crossing the hall, he gained the drive
and set off at a steady run through the rain.
Reaching the gate, he paused for a moment and hastily re-
moved his waxen head. Without the shelter of the taxi to protect
him from inquisitive eyes, the mask was likely to prove an em-
barrassment, and for a moment he sought a hiding place from
273


274
MURDER IN WAX
pris the shock, two minuer in hig
which he could retrieve it at some future date. He chose a dry
spot beneath one of the bushes just inside the gate, and, pushing
the head well under cover, set off into the darkness without a
glance back.
Which was unfortunate. Had he turned and seen Freddie emerge
from his hiding place to stand and gaze amazedly after him, the
Squid's future course of action might have been completely
changed. As it was, he ran on unsuspecting and left Freddie to
retrieve the mask from the bushes.
Freddie was trying to recover from a nasty shock.
Having heard someone running down the drive a few minutes
previously, he had hidden with the intention of making a sur-
prise attack. The arrival of the Squid had changed all that and
in the shock of recognition he had been too dazed to take action.
For a full two minutes after the Squid had vanished, Freddie
stood with blank wonder in his eyes, and then his alert ear caught
again the sound of running feet.
Half a minute later, Elveden measured his length over a pros-
trate figure—Freddie's—in the gateway. The constable, unable
to avoid the collision, piled on top of them and only a sudden
swerve saved the sergeant from a like fate.
Freddie groaned drearily and sat up, rubbing his hand over
his forehead as the Inspector and constable-Elveden swearing
and the constable wishing he could-sorted themselves out.
"Some scrapper,” sighed Freddie, getting leisurely to his feet
and caressing his jaw.
"My God, you dirty trickster!" snapped Elveden as he recog-
nized Freddie. “Have you let him through? Where is he?"
"Flitting gladsomely across the verdant grass,” rejoined Freddie
cheerfully.
Elveden whipped round on the constable.
“Arrest that man!” he snarled. “Take him to Wimbledon!
Sergeant, follow me.”
Freddie put out a restraining hand. “Oi,” he said in a pained
tone, “not so much hurry. He can't get far, and in any case I
know where he'll go eventually."
Elveden stared angrily at him.
“What the devil do you mean?” he demanded skeptically.
“There's no hurry," said Freddie mildly. “We can get to the
place friend Squid is making for long before he can.”
“We can," snarled Elveden, "if we know where he is going.”
"We do," grinned Freddie. “Come ye apart, laddie, I would
fain discourse amain.”


THE SQUID BLUNDERS
275
Elveden regarded Freddie suspiciously for a moment and then,
without comment, turned to the constable.
“Ring up the mortuary people,” he directed, "and notify them
about Jerry the Lag.”
The constable saluted and made for the house.
“He got his?” Freddie asked slowly.
“Who? Loseley?” asked Elveden. “Yes. Vitriol and three bul-
lets.”
For a moment neither spoke and then the Inspector tapped
Freddie on the shoulder.
“Now get it off your chest,” he invited crisply, "and talk fast,
Mr. Leicester, because should it chance that you have not a good
reason for allowing the Squid to slip through, when you could
have stopped him, it will be awkward for you. In other words
you may go up for a stretch.”
"I think not,” murmured Freddie sleepily. “No-really, my
dear old fruit, I think not. Going up always makes me so dashed
giddy and I positively loathe stretching. Now, touching the matter
of our little playmate, who skipped after knocking me cold in the
gateway, I take it that the general idea revolves somewhat ex-
hilaratingly around shoving the old lad in clink? Yes? No?"
"Possibly not unaccompanied,” agreed Elveden.
Freddie let the comment pass unchallenged.
“Well, to be perfectly frank,” he said gently, “I have resorted
to a little morsel of finesse, a little subtle subterfuge. You follow
me? As a matter of fact, our dear friend did not stretch me stone
cold in the gateway as I humorously led you to suppose."
Elveden's mouth set firmly.
“You have doubtless some good reason,” he suggested point-
edly, "for making that dangerous admission.”
"Marvelous,” breathed Freddie, wonderingly, turning in the
rain to peer with awe at his companion. "Positively and indubi-
tably epic, old hoss. I have. Lend me one of your ears, friend.
The cleanest preferably.”
He removed his hat and allowed something short of a gallon
of water to trickle off its brim.
"A few moments ago," he began, "our old chum the Squid came
through this gateway like a steam engine. He was, I think, in a
hurry. It is immaterial. What, however, is material is the fact that
a chance flash of lightning threw his dear face into sudden relief,
and, comrade, I recognized that sweet never-to-be-forgotten
chivvy."
Elveden started.


276
MURDER IN WAX
“Indeed,” he snapped. “I was under the impression that he was
masked.”
“Wrong, dear lad, all wrong," sighed Freddie thrusting the
mask under Elveden's nose. “Gaze on it and weep. I watched him
hide this beastly thing—and rightly. It is an offense to the eye,
but a useful one.”
Elveden eyed him doubtfully.
“Go on," he said tersely, “since you recognized him—who
was he?”
“Ah! There we have thee on the hip, infidel,” smiled Freddie.
“Who, as you very rightly observe, was our little absent ray of
sunlight? I am not saying yet, dearest!”
“Get down to it," snapped Elveden. "I want that man under
lock and key.”
“Hopeless,” sighed Freddie, "absolutely hopeless! Let this sal-
ient fact percolate, my friend. To grab our diverting acquaintance
now is to box up the whole stunt irretrievably. To wait awhile is
not only to rope in the dear man, but also to collect his ill-gotten
gains, and also the Sunday League over which he presides. A
commendable notion, a ripe idea? Yes? No?”
Elveden tapped his forehead thoughtfully. “There's something
in it,” he observed grudgingly.
"Probably," agreed Freddie, studying the Inspector's head,
“but if I hadn't heard a rattling sound, I should have suggested
about the eyed himene of the series
-air."
Elveden eyed him suspiciously but without comprehension.
“From my experience of the Squid, it's safer to get him first.
He's apt to get clear when one tries side-tracking,” he said.
“That,” Freddie pointed out, “is because your side-tracking
activities have lacked the diplomacy that my peerless brains can
supply. You will no doubt out of your sweet and generous heart
admit that, while no doubt an excellent institution in its way,
Scotland Yard is not even a possible runner where brain is con-
cerned. Beef, yes; brain, no-decidedly no."
Elveden grunted and repressed an urgent desire to demonstrate
the quality of the Yard's "beef.”
“Cut out the funny stuff and get down to it," he ordered. "I
want that man's name."
"As you like," said Freddie, obligingly, “but what's in a name?
I should have thought his old body was more use. In either case
you're going to be a sadly disappointed man. I'm running this
show."
"On whose authority?" Elveden demanded.


THE SQUID BLUNDERS
277
"I'll tell you,” smiled Freddie, “if you promise to toe the line.”
The Inspector made a hasty decision.
“Go ahead,” he invited, “and heaven help you if your scheme
falls down.”
Freddie smiled sweetly. "Do not, I entreat you, dear soul, hurry
me,” he said. “The jolly old constitush has suffered a severe jolt.
The general plan of campaign is "
What the general plan of campaign was did not immediately
transpire.
At that moment the sergeant put in an appearance.
"The ambulance is coming through at once, sir,” he said to
Elveden.
“All right," the Inspector replied. “Remain here till it comes in,
and make out your report.”.
He turned away.
“Supposing,” suggested Freddie, "we amble gently back and
collar a bus? There are certain disadvantages attendant on stand-
ing in two feet of water, and getting wetter every minute.”
He set off across the Common at a brisk pace, the Inspector
following closely and shielding the mask from the rain with his
coat.
"Gosh,” Freddie said suddenly, “why has not that scaly reptile
James come to make the horizon still more foul? He should have
been here. I rang him nearly an hour ago. He'll crash round
when the jolly old excitement is over.”
But in that Freddie erred.
Jimmy had been having a little excitement on his own.
Immediately on receipt of Freddie's message, Jimmy had “de-
garaged his powerful roadster" and set out for Wimbledon. Not
until he reached the Common did his difficulties begin and he
realized that Freddie's directions had been a little lacking in
essential details.
Peering through the rain-smeared windscreen, he applied the
brakes and slowed suddenly to a standstill by a caped policeman.
“Where the deuce am I, old chap?” he asked with a puzzled
smile.
The policeman stepped alongside the car.
“On the Park Side Road, sir,” he answered. “That," pointing
behind, “is Putney Heath, and that,” waving his hand in front,
"is Wimbledon Common. What do you want, sir?”
“Too much to give a detailed account of now,” retorted Jimmy
with a grin, “but at the moment I am looking for the Rushmere
Pond.”


THE SQUID BLUNDERS
279
There is no accounting for tastes. Personally I do not find ditches
the acme of attraction. However, the distorted workings of the
Press mind are wonderful. Evidently his ultimate idea of perfect
bliss is sweet repose in two feet of water."
At that moment Jimmy Craven roused and opened his eyes.
"Is the center transept safe?” he asked weakly.
"Delirium tremens," murmured Freddie sorrowfully. "All right,
James, you are among friends."
“Friends?” jeered the reporter. “Was it you who threw the
Crystal Palace?” He looked round dismally.
“Before the roof fell in,” he complained bitterly, "I distinctly
remember possessing a car.” He glared at Freddie and the Inspec-
tor. “Oh! generation of vipers! To lure a man to this wilderness,
brain him, and then pinch his car. Give me back my racer.”
He struggled to his feet and surveyed his mud-bespattered
clothes ruefully.
Freddie took him firmly by the arm.
"James,” he said, "explain, before my frayed reason gives out
and I strangle you.”
Jimmy explained.
A short laugh escaped his friend as the recital concluded.
“Quite the touch of our delicate friend,” he murmured. "How
long ago was it that the Squid, to quote comrade Froissart, upped
and soaked you on the bean-or, as in our less involved diction,
it is broadly translated, interpreted or otherwise rendered intel-
ligible-handed you a domino on the dome?”
“Come again,” grinned Jimmy. “Might have been hours or
minutes.”
He picked up his hat from the roadway.
“You let me in for this,” he reminded Freddie. “We are going
to have a pleasant hour at the tailor's to-morrow and you are
going to transact the money side of the bargain.”
Freddie nodded absently, and his face clouded over ab-
ruptly.
"You have got bad news to break to Leslie, Jimmy,” he said
somberly. "Marcus is dead.”
Jimmy's teeth snapped.
“God”” he ground out. “When?” He caught the other by the
arm savagely. “No fooling, Freddie-quick!”
Freddie's eyes blazed.
"I'm not fooling, damn you!” he snarled, and wrenched his
arm free. "This hits me where I live. If only I'd known.”
His voice softened abruptly.


280
MURDER IN WAX
"Sorry, old man,” he apologized. “The strain of being funny
in these circumstances is getting me down.”
And in a hard voice he retailed the information Elveden had
supplied concerning the Baronet's death.
Jimmy listened with a set face.
It was a dejected trio that made its way back, trudging dispir-
itedly through the rain.
"Her father first, and now Marky," murmured Jimmy dis-
tractedly.
"And God alone knows how many of the Force," muttered
Elveden slowly. "I think that swine is Erlik himself, but despite
that we'll get him!”
He rammed his hands into his pockets and strode on.
“Unless," observed Freddie, "someone sends him to the realms
of darkness first."
“The few who've tried it are dead,” answered Elveden.
“There are others," Freddie rejoined, "and the possession of
that wax mask is going to help matters considerably. To-morrow,
Elveden, you and I are going to be exceedingly busy!”
"Meaning?”
“That to-morrow night the Squid will be down at a certain
bungalow in Sussex," Freddie replied.
Elveden looked suspicious.
“You seem to know a lot about it.”
"I ought to," agreed Freddie. “The bungalow is mine! Damn
this rain! For the love of Mike, has anyone got a gasper?”
The Inspector halted in the rain.
"I think we are going to be busy," he said, meaningly. “I
rather think you'd better tell me who the Squid is, Mr. Leicester.”
Freddie laughed lightly but did not answer, and Elveden, torn
between conflicting emotions, stood irresolute.
"I fancy that I might get the information from the agents who
leased Rushmere House to the Squid," he said slowly, eyeing
Freddie intently. “The alterations to the interior could never have
been discussed by letter and were sufficiently peculiar to arouse
interest. I think the agent's description of his tenant might help
matters."
Freddie started. That was true.
Elveden noted the start with some satisfaction. Decidedly, he
would sound the agents the following-or rather that-day. It
was then a quarter to two in the morning.
But Elveden had reckoned without his host. A subsequent in-
quiry at Messrs. Binny & Co. revealed the fact that their prin-
in Squid,” herior could neve arouse


XXXIX. THE GATHERING OF THE CLAN
of much for and lashiind of
On the cliffs above Cuckmere Haven stands a square, low bun-
galow, solitary and unprotected from the gusts of the downs and
the winds of the sea. It perches on the summit of a little mound.
The wind, howling with rather more fury than usual around
the wooden walls, made them creak protestingly. The smoke from
the chimney was blown hither and thither across the downs, and
far below came the sound of a vicious sea sweeping in white-
crested waves and lashing the shore with demoniacal rage.
So much for the exterior.
Of the interior, the lounge hall only need be described. On that
particular night it was the only room in use and, although lack-
ing some of the comforts of a more commodious room, it was
nevertheless a cheery refuge from the gale that spent itself outside.
The walls, devoid of pictures, were hung here and there with
panels of colored beads and plaited straw, and the floor of un-
planed wood was covered in places by brightly colored rugs. A
door on the right of the fireplace, leading to a bedroom, was
flanked on either side by two tall barrel-shaped pots made of
wood, in which small ferns waged a losing battle for existence.
A few cozy wickerwork chairs stood about the apartment and
a small gate-legged table completed the furniture and served as:
a seat for two of the seven men who occupied the room.
Of the others, three were seated on the floor before the fire and
the remaining two stood, one at either of the windows that looked
out on the front of the veranda.
All seven were masked and that formed the only apparent link
between them. Apart from their masks it would have been difficult
to have found a more dissimilar gathering of men. The pursuit
of crime forms some curious companionships and it was perhaps
the cosmopolitan element in the Squid's gang that was responsible
for its invariable success.
To-night, contrary to the Squid's rules, they were talking, al-
beit in lowered tones. One of the men at the window turned round
and addressed the room. A small man, in a dark tweed suit.
“Anyone got the time?” he demanded in the hoarse voice of a
Cockney.
"Eleven o'clock, mon," answered one of those by the fire in a
broad Scotch accent.
282


THE GATHERING OF THE CLAN 283
The man who had spoken first grunted and resumed his watch
over the downs.
"Don't be impatient, mon ami,” said one of the Scot's neigh-
bors. “He's not due yet. He comes neither before nor after the
appoint' time. He is always joost punctual. Oh, ver' punctual,
vraiment.”
He laughed pleasantly.
For some moments there was a silence, broken only by the
crackling of the logs in the fireplace.
Then: “This is to be the last haul, I understand," said one of
the two seated on the table. “I wonder why?”
His voice, like the Frenchman's, was refined and softly modu-
lated.
“Cold feet!” was the sneering answer from the tall big-boned
man at the other window.
“No one 'as accuse M'sieu the Squid of col' feets, ever," pro-
tested the Frenchman.
"Froggy, I said cold feet and I'll tell a man I meant it. El-
veden”—the nasal American voice hardened—“is getting there
every time and the Squid's getting out, while the going's good, eh
dude?"
The man who had diverted the conversation into its present
channel declined to be drawn.
“I'd give something to know where the 'stuff' is,” he said
slowly.
“The Squid's taking care o' that orl right,” rejoined the Cock-
ney who had first spoken. “Trust 'im fer that. An' if yer wants
a finger in the pie, yer gotter keep yer eyes on 'im. Funny them
other blokes ain't showed up yet, ain't it?”
One of the Frenchman's neighbors at the fire looked up swiftly.
“No, it is not funny—for them,” he said. His voice had an
almost feline purr in it that was not English. Something of the
bizarre Oriental lay behind the sinister sweetness of that tone.
“Gone bughouse?” queried the American politely.
He eyed the other with cold suspicion.
His glance was met with cool dispassionate eyes.
“Come across with the goods,” invited the American.
“That means explain, yes?” asked the man from the Orient.
"I mean that one already has died—we know that - "
"Do we?” asked the Cockney. “ 'Oo was it?"
“Mr. Pendleton Thyme,” was the soft answer. "I myself once
met Mr. Thyme. He was not the sort of man to die defending
anything. You remember, perhaps, the description of Mr. Thyme
bimost felinis not fumman's neinket, ain


284
MURDER IN WAX
in the papers. Short and fat. So was one of our friends who is
missing to-night.”
"O'course, it ain't possible, by no manner o' means, that there
was more'n one fat man in the world,” commented the Cockney
sarcastically.
"I may be wrong," the Oriental conceded, “but the newspapers
say that no locks were forced and that keys were used. Does not
that point to collusion between Mr. Thyme and the Squid? And
was not the bank a convenient 'clearing house'? When a sum of
money is stolen and someone wishes to pay an identical amount
into a bank the next day, that bank may think awkward thoughts!
Thyme's, if I am correct, would ask no questions. And again,
Thyme died. Why? Because after the robbery, the police investi-
gation would follow, and Thyme, under police examination, might
have betrayed something. I think I am right.”
The Scot interposed: “Losh, mon, wull ye tell me the mon
Thyme was one o' us? Ye saprise me, an' wha' aboot the
other?”
"I know not anything of the other," responded the Oriental. “I
merely suggest that he has gone the same way as our friend
Thyme. This other, he was not the type of man to be absent at
a-what do you call it, my friend?”.
He looked inquiringly at the big American.
“Clean-up," was the laconic rejoinder.
“Yes, a clean-up,” continued the Oriental. “Our friend had
beady, greedy eyes. Without doubt he would be here! Oh, yes!”
"Looks ter me like the Squid is plannin' to 'op it wiv the
sparklers," interrupted the Cockney again. “Me, I shouldn't be
surprised if he didn't show his dial at all, but just slipped his
cable and done a bunk!”
Another silence fell. The crude statement had opened up a new
line of thought.
"What do you think our share will be, Uncle Sam?" asked the
"dude,” his 'Varsity English contrasting strangely with the Cock-
ney's lingo.
The American shrugged.
“Thet's fer thet goldarned Squid to decide,” he said. “I don't
even know how much we cleaned up on our deals. It's his say-so,
I guess. He's got the goods, but if he starts monkeying about,
someone'll get his fer good and keeps, maybe. I'm telling you,
I'm reckoning on a show down to-night, so I cum prepared!" He
tapped his hip pocket significantly. “You hombres heeled?”
The others nodded.
660.


THE GATHERING OF THE CLAN
287
sometime and forger. To what base uses, Mr. Staverton.
What a career! Eton, Balliol—and Dartmoor!”
The calm face of Staverton did not alter one iota, but the re-
mark drew a sneer from the Cockney.
Elveden looked at the second man in the line.
“Ah, our old friend John the butler,” he murmured cordially. "I
wonder how many trusting families have taken you into their
bosoms and discoursed to their friends on the wonderful man-
servant they had acquired, since I saw you last?”.
“I have not been in service lately, sir," responded John tran-
quilly.
“No?" asked Elveden, and turned on the Oriental.
"A lovely haul,” he murmured. “Maharajah, you would have
done better to have remained in India. The susceptible lady on
the boat is more than a little displeased at the cruel deception
you played on her a year ago. I refer to the little matter of the
diamonds. And you, 'Slim'?”
He stared thoughtfully at the American.
“Bad company, Slim," he said reprovingly, "for an honest
motor thief, although I fancy I heard something about the sud-
den death of one of your clients a year ago, didn't I? I think
so! I also heard something about extradition and the chair!”
He smiled engagingly.
“Can the funny stunt,” growled Slim. “You got us hog-tied,
so quit splitting that dial o' yourn from ear to ear, you coyote.”
"Harsh words, Slim," sighed Elveden and passed on to the
others. “And Jock and Soapy and surely—yes, the Count. How
is business, Count-still-er-confidential?”
The Frenchman's aristocratic face remained impassive.
“Rather more reserved than-er-confidential to-day, aren't
we?” jeered Elveden.
He turned to the sergeant.
“Get this pretty little bunch down to the police car, quick,"
he ordered. “I'm not sure how much time we've got. I shall want
you and five others at once."
The sergeant saluted and signaled to his men, who filed out
in pairs, each couple taking a gangster between them.
Elveden took the Squid's mask and placed it out of sight be-
hind one of the wickerwork chairs.
He turned to find Freddie Leicester surveying him amiably
from the doorway.
“Bagged the whole jolly little Sunday League, didn't you?”
enquired Freddie facetiously.


288
MURDER IN WAX
Freddiell righteough toke good litightly at Goode
Elveden nodded.
"Lucky you tipped me off about that 'Good evening, gentle-
men' business,” he said, smiling slightly at the recollection. “The
whole crew kow-towed like good little boys. I wondered if I could
hold 'em long enough to let the sergeant get busy. Everything
went off all right fortunately.”
Freddie leant against the doorpost and smiled complacently.
“So far," he said enigmatically, "everything has certainly gone
swimmingly. I thought this place was more likely than the other
two. Gives him a chance to fly across the ocean if he gets cornered,
you see. The killing of Marky must have been arranged as a final
settlement before making a get-away. We might have had to keep
this place and the others under observation for weeks."
He glanced at his watch.
"I'll be getting," he murmured. “He might drop in any minute
and I don't want to spoil the reception."
Elveden eyed him narrowly.
“I'd like to know where you come in, in this act," he said.
"I don't! I go out," answered Freddie. "I dislike violence!”
He turned to the door, but halted as Elveden laid a restraining
hand on his arm.
"I don't like your mysterious movements, Mr. Leicester," the
Inspector said. “They need explaining."
Freddie shrugged.
“My poor old cop,” he said wearily. "I'm doing your job and
all that sort of rot.”
“Indeed?”
“Has it occurred to you,” pursued Freddie, “that our fishy
friend, being a Squid, likes the old aqua salta, and that he chose
this place for a reason?”
“You gave me the reason two nights ago.”
“I did,” Freddie agreed, “and it still holds good. The briny is
a good avenue of escape for our friend, and for the love of Mike
don't ask how. He's not a Channel swimmer."
"You mean there's a yacht or boat of some kind waiting some-
where to take him off?” asked Elveden. “There may be, but he
won't use it, I promise you. He's walking into a trap this time.”
Freddie remained unimpressed.
“He's been known to walk out of others and left them to nip
your fingers! Be reasonable, old egg. I gave you a sound tip about
thiş bungalow and I'm giving you another equally sound. Let me
stagger round for a piece. You can't afford to take risks.”
The Inspector released him.


290
MURDER IN WAX
He turned to the sergeant.
“Did you have any trouble down at the van?” he asked.
“No, sir," replied the sergeant. “One or two got a little angry
at having to give up their clothes, but we managed to persuade
'em in the end. They're on their way to Seaford by now."
Elveden nodded and sat there thinking—about Freddie
Leicester.


XL. THE COMEDY THAT BECAME A TRAGEDY
THE Vauxhall ate up the miles steadily. A huge red burnished
shape that flashed along in the moonlight purring gently.
Crouched over the wheel, the Squid held his car to the road,
the keen wind playing on his unprotected features. His mood was
pleasantly tinged with cynicism.
He drove swiftly and well. He had not long in which to make
his rendezvous, owing to social activities which had demanded his
presence in town.
Handling his wheel deftly, he swung out and around a long,
slim, green Renault traveling sedately in the same direction.
Behind him the lights of Reigate faded, Crawley slid by, and
he flashed through Handcross on his way to Cuckfield.
Within an ace of the last-named place the Vauxhall slowed
unaccountably.
As it came to a standstill the Squid leapt from his driving seat
and hurried round to the bonnet.
A brief examination showed him the trouble.
Engine seizure.
With a curse he stood aside and pondered.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was just after half-past
eleven. He frowned and began to pace aimlessly backwards and
forwards, to halt eventually and gaze along the road by which
he had come. Far away, borne faintly on a violent headwind,
came the methodic purr of a slow-traveling car.
That must be the Renault, he reflected, and with a sinister
smile he sat down on the dashboard to await its arrival.
It was some time before the carefully driven green car over-
took him. It slowed almost at once and pulled up beside the
Vauxhall.
A smartly liveried chauffeur descended.
“What's the trouble, sir?” he asked politely.
"Engine,” answered the Squid. "I don't know how to handle
the damn thing! Perhaps your master would allow you to look
over the car?”
He got up with the apparent intention of speaking to the
owner.
“You don't have to ask the guv," chuckled the chauffeur. "I'm
driving alone.”
steur descende politely. how to
291


THE COMEDY THAT BECAME A TRAGEDY 293
as to leave the wearer's mouth uncovered. Adjusting it, he made
his way slowly and warily up the steep incline to the bungalow.
It was a long low white affair approached by a short flight of
steps which led up to a covered veranda.
Reaching the steps, the Squid drew an automatic and came to
a standstill before the door.
For some seconds he stood motionless, then he felt for the
latch silently. Locating it, he kicked open the door,
Seven pairs of eyes stared at him intently and for the barest
fraction of a second his own flickered with a puzzled look. It was
gone immediately and, stepping into the room, he closed the door
softly behind him.
"Good evening, gentlemen,” he said courteously, and, stepping
to the fire, spread his hands before the blaze.
The masked men inclined their heads politely and waited in
silence.
Pocketing his revolver, the Squid cleared his throat.
“Number One,” he said slowly.
A man at the end of the line took a pencil from his pocket and
tapped on the wall beside him the word "present." The Squid
waited for a moment and then a curious gleam came into his eyes,
to be instantly repressed. Under narrowed lids he took in details
of the man's appearance swiftly and then continued.
"Number Two."
A second answered with his pencil, and the Squid, waiting for
something that was not forthcoming, pondered.
"Numbers Three and Four," he continued, "are unfortunately
not with us. I think you will agree, however, that that is rather
more of an advantage than a disadvantage.”
He continued calling out numbers and waiting for the answer-
ing signals, and as he listened, his brain worked furiously. His
eyes, however, remained expressionless until the conclusion of the
ceremony.
At length he spoke.
"I have called you here to-night, gentlemen, for two pur-
poses. Firstly, to announce that we disband at once, and sec-
ondly to make a division of theer-shall we say, royalties
accrued?”
His calm eyes swept the gang and slowly rested on each man
in turn.
"It was agreed between us, I believe, that I should take fifty
per cent, of the proceeds,” he continued, "and that the remain-
ing fifty should be divided among yourselves. If anyone cares to


294
MURDER IN WAX
raise objection to this arrangement, I shall be pleased to con-
sider it.”
He paused, and a curious smile played in his eyes.
That his last remark should have amused seven men was nat-
ural, but that it should also have amused him was not only
unnatural but dangerous.
"No objection?” he asked at length. “Good. Nothing remains
but to allot your wages."
But he seemed in no hurry to do so. Moving away from the
fire, he took up his position against the half-open door of the
bedroom and, casually producing a cigarette, lit it from a petrol
lighter.
He did not return the lighter to his pocket but stood there
studying the bluish flame interestedly for some time, conscious of
the tense silence and the almost imperceptible narrowing of the
circle of men.
At length he reached down with his free hand and pulled the
fern from the pot on his right, displacing the top layer of earth
as he did so.
The others watched intently, but made no move. Still holding
their eyes with his own, he repeated the maneuver with the pot
on his left, but this time he dug his hand deeply into the earth,
and after a moment's rummaging withdrew a fair-sized wash-
leather bag.
Retaining it, he looked up at the seven masked faces with eyes
that gleamed mockingly.
“I always hold a card in reserve, gentlemen," he said coldly,
"to meet any—untoward emergency!”
He toyed casually with his petrol lighter.
“That pot contains gunpowder," he added grimly, "and the
fact that the police force of England must for ever overlook the
most obvious is a source of increasing wonder to me."
A sharp indrawn breath came from one of the seven.
"I suggest," the Squid continued suavely, “that you remove
that mask, Number One, or should I say, Inspector Elveden?”
Silence greeted the remark. A cold, deadly silence.
Then, with a short laugh, the man who had answered as “Num-
ber One” removed his mask, revealing the face of Inspector
Elveden. The remaining six followed suit.
“The comedy has certainly been played out to its utmost
limits,” said Elveden coolly.
“Comedy,” rejoined the Spid smoothly, "too often becomes
tragedy!"


THE COMEDY THAT BECAME A TRAGEDY 295
"It does,” snapped Elveden, and his hand came out of his
pocket with a pistol in it.
The Squid's eyes lighted humorously, but he made no move.
It took the Inspector exactly five seconds to discover the
reason.
The petrol lighter in the Squid's hand was held vertically over
the flower pot containing the gunpowder.
"Please, for your own sakes, be careful,” warned the Squid,
and the circle fell back slowly.
No one spoke. The present ignominious position made speech
seem rather futile.
“I take it," the Squid murmured after a short pause, “that
the removal of my unfortunate assistants was greatly facilitated
by the use of my mask, which I see in coy retirement behind
that chair. I was under the impression that I had successfully
hidden that charming little work of art. Apparently I erred.”
Elveden made no reply. He preferred to reserve his energies
for the purpose of reversing the tables, rather than waste them
needlessly in talk.
"I should like to point out," continued the Squid, "that who-
ever coached you with regard to the peculiarities of my little
ceremonial did so most inadequately. You certainly learned the
method of answer, I expect, from my assistants, but you over-
looked a small detail.”
His eyes surveyed the Inspector sardonically.
“Number Two was a tall, big-boned American," he said,
"whereas the man who answered to that number this evening
was a small man wearing, furthermore, the clothes of one who
answers to Number Eight, and in every case bar one the same
error was apparent."
He eyed the Inspector benevolently.
“Your kind informant also overlooked, or perhaps did not
observe, another trivial detail,” the Squid purred. “My assistants
when answering the roll always hand me a piece of paper on
which is written a letter of the alphabet. The sum total of these
letters forms a word. Really, Inspector! So much talented effort
frustrated by inattention to details, and detail is so important.
It is not the army that vanquishes, but the man who removes
the twig from the path of the army."
He sighed sorrowfully.
Elyeden bit his lip angrily and his eyes strayed to the pot of
gunpowder. There was little doubt that the Squid was temporarily
master of the situation.


296
MURDER IN WAX
"It is interesting to note the law of contrasts," resumed the
Squid, interpreting the other's look correctly. “A fall in petrol
heralds a rise in the police forcel”
Elveden glowered. At the moment he was helpless: he must
play for time. From where he stood he knew that he could shoot
the Squid easily, but the danger of that petrol lighter was an
ever-present one. Did it but fall, seven good men and a scoundrel
would be blown to atoms.
The Squid followed his line of reasoning and laughed ironi-
cally.
"Had I ever taken you seriously, Inspector," he continued, "I
might have saved myself considerable trouble!” He shrugged.
“Unfortunately I err on the humane side, but that is a fault-
that can be remedied!”
His eyes glittered coldly.
"Have the goodness to tell Mr. Leicester and Mr. Craven when
you see them again, if you ever see them again—that I shall have
a little reckoning to present. I have little doubt that Mr. Leicester
initiated you into the rites of the gang, and there again I have
only myself to blame. I should have killed that young man while
I had the chance. However, better late than never. With respect
to Mr. James Craven, he represents a milestone in my life. The
only occasion on which I failed to bring about a successful end-
ing of my schemes was due to his interference. Thwarting the
Squid is a dangerous pastime and in time I hope to demonstrate
exactly how dangerous it is."
He tossed his cigarette aside.
"Perhaps it is best this way,” he said calmly. “At least I shall
not have to divide the fruit of my toils! But you have my sincere
sympathy, gentlemen. I am desolated at having to prevent your
well-deserved promotion. Nevertheless, I trust that you will
shortly rise in another direction! Furthermore, my dear In-
spector, one of these days our long account will be settled in a
most satisfactory- "
A lightning leap backwards and a slammed door completed the
sentence.
Hastily turning the key in the lock, the Squid shot two iron
bolts home and bounded to the center of the inner room.
He reached the small bed as the first attack was launched on
the door, and as he wrenched the bed aside a bullet shattered
the lock.
The Squid laughed aloud. The bolts would hold for some time
yet.
the door ached th bounde key in the


XLI. RECKONING
FREE at last! An end to the adventurous life that, of late, had
been taking severe toll of him.
The Squid looked with satisfied eyes at the long, slim, rakish
launch, drawn up on the beach. The gale had abated in the past
few minutes and only a healthy breeze, redolent of the sea, blew
in his nostrils.
He turned and looked back at the walls of the cliff, above and
beyond which lay the bungalow. His eyes glittered and he inhaled
the invigorating air exultantly.
“What ho! Use the jolly old ozone sparingly. We want it
again!”
The Squid rounded in a flash, to confront the speaker. And the
speaker was Freddie Leicester, lounging indolently in the launch,
in which he had lain for an hour. For a few moments neither
spoke.
Then: "I was only thinking a few æons ago, old cod," drawled
Freddie, “that it was quite on the cards that we should be knock-
ing into one another sooner or later, you know. Dashed queer,
what? I mean to say, the way one thinks. Sort of curious, if you
know what I mean-er-you know one sort of thinks, what?”
The Squid's eyes gleamed maliciously. Placing his feet apart,
he studied his vis-à-vis.
“Thinking,” he suggested, “is rather a novel experience for you,
isn't it, Mr. Leicester?”
“Nasty,” said Freddie, “decidedly nasty, but we will let it pass,
and by the way call me Freddie-much more matey and all that
sort of tosh.”
He lounged to his feet and without removing his right hand
from the pistol in his pocket, clambered out of the launch.
Languidly he stifled a yawn.
“By the way,” he drawled, "I wish you'd learn to curb your
guilty pash for camouflaging the indicator. I always prefer
nature's handiwork best when unadorned-dear old Erb!”
The dull wash of a white-crested wave striking the rocks was
the only sound for a few moments. Then, with a short laugh, the
Squid reached up a composed hand and removed the black mask
from his face.
Freddie looked unconcernedly at the benign countenance of the
Duke of Framlingham.
299


300
MURDER IN WAX
"I am relieved,” said Erb kindly, “to see that you show hith-
erto unsuspected signs of brain, Freddie. May I ask how you
worked this out unaided?”
Freddie smiled vacantly.
“Some few nights ago," he answered, “ you came down the
drive of a house on Wimbledon Common like a young express.
Rash, Erb, very rash. You had left the old waxwork dial behind
you. Still more rash. I recognized your aristocratic chivvy at
once.”
“Yet,” offered the Duke, "at the risk of seeming merely vul-
garly curious, may I ask why you did nothing to prevent my
escape?”
"Erb!” said Freddie reproachfully. “Think, my dear old kins-
man! 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 decid-
edly. 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, withI 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


RECKONING
301
ddie. mother. Perha, and if our direction » et
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, to-night'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 Berné lost his diamonds. I was suppos-
edly 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 sur-
vive 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 catas-
trophe, 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.
* Eustachmatter of copped too mu
a lot of sensibleine powers hun to wait here


RECKONING
303
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 col-
lege—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 fiat. 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
absolutelymnost lyrical devilish cute that. The de volunteer
walk."
"Very ints. And now. This is going
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 prob-
lem of your disposal. This is going to pain me more than it
will you.”


304
MURDER IN WAX
“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 weer-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 dis-
tinctly.
“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."


306
MURDER IN WAX
“And I," said Freddie, “to avenge Marky and John Rich-
mond!”
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 bowlders.”
He pointed to two huge bowlders 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 bowlders.
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.
The Dice eyed hisparatedeced each bowlde


XLII. ELVEDEN, THE GULLIBLE
and the consthe only here
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 sur-
rounded 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.
Slowly he reconstructed the events that had taken place, sec-
· onds 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 torn 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 bowlder.
Beneath the bowlder 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
307


308
MURDER IN WAX
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 con-
trol. “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.
"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


ELVEDEN, THE GULLIBLE
309
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 regain-
ing 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 min-
utes 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 opti-
mistic 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.


310
MURDER IN WAX. .
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,” Elveder instructed.
"When they get clear, send one of them to Seaford for an ambu-
lance. 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 hali
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, caich-
ing 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 in-
tently. 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 stand.
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
For Sphen he rosped the st


ELVEDEN, THE GULLIBLE
311
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 com-
fortably!”
But beyond an audible gasp the other gave no sign that he had
heard.
His discomfiture was ludicrous. Mouth agape, eyes nearly start-
ing 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 mur-
derer,” 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!”


312
MURDER IN WAX
“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 Chippen-
dale, 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 Cæsar 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-fortu-
nately!”


ELVEDEN, THE GULLIBLE
313
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 stag-
gered.
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, irre-
trievably. 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 trav-
eled 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 suc-
cess. Before Elveden had time to collect his scattered wits, he
was looking up into the unpleasantly cynical eyes of the resur-
rected 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


314
MURDER IN WAX
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 intima-
tions Elveden received. He recognized a hold that he was power-
less 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 spiralling from the revolver in Fred-
die'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, over balanced 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.
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