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  Publisher’s Note

  Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

  We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

  MURDER IN WAX

  By

  PETER BARON

  Murder in Wax was originally published in 1931 by the Macaulay Company, New York. Peter Baron was the pen-name of Leonard Worswick Clyde.

  In this edition of Murder in Wax, the UK English spellings have been changed, in nearly all cases, to those used in the United States.

  DEDICATION

  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.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Contents

  DEDICATION 4

  TABLE OF CONTENTS 5

  THE STORY 7

  I. JOHN RICHMOND, KING’S MESSENGER 7

  II. THE SQUID AND B 29 15

  THE SEQUEL 21

  III. JERRY THE LAG 21

  IV. INTRODUCTIONS 27

  V. MAN AND MAID 33

  VI. THE CIPHER 39

  VII. BLACK GLOVE 46

  VIII. CONCERNING THE LOSELEY TIARA 52

  IX. CHARGE, “FIDDLESTICKS” 59

  X. “NOT TONIGHT, MR. ELVEDEN.” 67

  XI. FREDDIE IS NOT HELPFUL 73

  XII. JOHN RICHMOND’S MESSAGE 79

  XIII. AN INSPECTOR IS CURIOUS 86

  XIV. FREDDIE INTRUDES 92

  XV. KINGSWAY 98

  XVI. FREDDIE HIBERNATES 103

  XVII. JOHN THE BUTLER 109

  XVIII. JIMMY INVESTIGATES 115

  XIX. THE TRAP 121

  XX. THE SQUID ACCEPTS 127

  XXI. THE SQUID COUNTERS 133

  XXII. TELLS SOMEWHAT OF A DUCAL SPLEEN 140

  XXIII. AN ABDUCTION 146

  XXIV. FREDDIE PLAYS BILLIARDS 152

  XXV. CHECK TO THE SQUID 160

  XXVI. TERMS 167

  XXVII. TELLS OF “LONG RED MOTORS” 174

  XXVIII. JIMMY TAKES A HAND 181

  XXIX. AN INSPECTOR BAITS HIS LINE 188

  XXX. PROVES THAT SQUIDS ARE UNUSUAL FISH 195

  XXXI. THE RETORT COURTEOUS 201

  XXXII. THE UBIQUITOUS JERRY 209

  XXXIII. SIR MARCUS EXPLAINS 216

  XXXIV. B 29 224

  XXXV. THE HOUSE ON WIMBLEDON COMMON 229

  XXXVI. THE SQUID IS AMUSED 235

  XXXVII. SHOTS 243

  XXXVIII. THE SQUID BLUNDERS 251

  XXXIX. THE GATHERING OF THE CLAN 259

  XL. THE COMEDY THAT BECAME A TRAGEDY 267

  XLI. RECKONING 274

  XLII. ELVEDEN, THE GULLIBLE 282

  XLIII. A DRAWN GAME 290

  REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 292

  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 successfully relieved an ugly situation.

  John smiled as he reflected on that meeting. The American 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 wonderful—

  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.

  Leslie—he 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 confounded taxi was hanging on.

  The policeman stood aside and the Chrysler went on its way again.

  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 descended, 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 re-entered 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 footsteps 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.

  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 agonizedly: “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, .smiling 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 waistcoat.

  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 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 today?” 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 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 possession 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 approaching 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 perhaps 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 sawbones now.”

  Sir Marcus rose and left the room.

  As soon as he was satisfied that the baronet was out of earshot, John Richmond rose unsteadily to his feet and, picking up 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 banknotes, 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, reinforced 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 parchment. Unfolding it hastily, he glanced briefly at it and refolded 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 lifetime 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.