Crime at Christmas (13 page)

'Twenty-one,
twenty-two. . .Wolsey. Queen Elizabeth, Guy Fawkes, Napoleon ought to go on a
diet. Ever heard of eighteen days, Nap? Poor old Julius Caesar looks as though
he'd been sun-bathing on the Lido. He's about due for the melting-pot.'

In her eyes
they were a second-rate set of dummies. The local theory that they could
terrorise a human being to death or madness seemed a fantastic notion.

'No,'
concluded Sonia. 'There's really more in Poke's bright idea.'

Again she
saw the sun-smitten office—for the big unshielded window faced south—with its
blistered paint, faded wall-paper, ink-stained desks, typewriters, telephones,
and a huge fire in the untidy grate. Young Wells smoked his big pipe, while the
subeditor—a ginger, pig-headed young man—laid down the law about the mystery
deaths.

And then
she heard Poke's toneless dead-man's voice.

'You may be
right about the spiritualist. He died of fright—but not of the waxworks. My
belief is that he established contact with the spirit of his dead friend, the
alderman, and so learned his real fate.'

'What
fate?' snapped the sub-editor.

'I believe
that the alderman was murdered,' replied Poke.

He clung to
his point like a limpet in the face of all counter-arguments.

'The
alderman had enemies,' he said. 'Nothing would be easier than for one of them
to lie in wait for him. In the present circumstances,
I
could commit a murder in the
Waxworks, and get away with it.'

'How?'
demanded young Wells.

'How? To
begin with, the Gallery is a one-man show and the porter's a bonehead. Anyone
could enter, and leave, the Gallery without his being wise to it.'

'And the
murder?' plugged young Wells.

With a
shudder Sonia remembered how Poke had glanced at his long knotted fingers.

'If I could
not achieve my object by fright, which is the foolproof way,' he replied, 'I
should try a little artistic strangulation.'

'And leave
your marks?'

'Not
necessarily. Every expert knows that there are methods which show no trace.'

Sonia
fumbled in her bag for the cigarettes which were not there.

'Why did I
let myself think of that, just now?' she thought. 'Really too stupid.'

As she
reproached herself for her morbidity, she broke off to stare at the door which
led to the Hall of Horrors.

When she
had last looked at it, she could have sworn that it was tightly closed. . . But
now it gaped open by an inch.

She looked
at the black cavity, recognizing the first test of her nerves. Later on, there
would be others. She realized the fact that, within her cool, practical self,
she carried a hysterical, neurotic passenger, who would doubtless give her a
lot of trouble through officious suggestions and uncomfortable reminders.

She
resolved to give her second self a taste of her quality, and so quell her at
the start.

'That door
was merely closed,' she remarked as, with a firm step, she crossed to the Hall
of Horrors and shut the door.

One
o'clock. I begin to realize that there is more in this than I thought. Perhaps
I'm missing my sleep. But I'm keyed up and horribly expectant. Of what? I don't
know. But I seem to be waiting for—something. I find myself listening—listening.
The place is full of mysterious noises. I know they're my fancy. . .And things
appear to move. I can distinguish footsteps and whispers, as though those
waxworks which I cannot see in the darkness are beginning to stir to life.

Sonia
dropped her pencil at the sound of a low chuckle. It seemed to come from the
end of the Gallery which was blacked out by shadows.

As her
imagination galloped away with her, she reproached herself sharply.

'Steady,
don't be a fool. There must be a cloak-room here. That chuckle is the air
escaping in a pipe—or something. I'm betrayed by my own ignorance of
hydraulics.'

In spite of
her brave words, she returned rather quickly to her corner.

With her
back against the wall she felt less apprehensive. But she recognized her cowardice
as an ominous sign.

She was
desperately afraid of someone—or something—creeping up behind her and touching
her.

'I've
struck the bad patch,' she told herself. 'It will be worse at three o'clock
and work up to a climax. But when I make my entry, at three, I shall have
reached the peak. After that every minute will be bringing the dawn nearer.'

But of one
fact she was ignorant. There would be no recorded impression at three o'clock.

Happily
unconscious, she began to think of her copy. When she returned to the
office—sunken-eyed, and looking like nothing on earth—she would then rejoice
over every symptom of groundless fear.

'It's a
story all right,' she gloated, looking at Hamlet. His gnarled, pallid features
and dark smouldering eyes were strangely familiar to her.

Suddenly
she realized that he reminded her of Hubert Poke.

Against her
will, her thoughts again turned to him. She told herself that he was exactly
like a waxwork. His yellow face—symptomatic of heart-trouble—had the same
cheesy hue, and his eyes were like dull black glass. He wore a denture which
was too large for him, and which forced his lips apart in a mirthless grin.

He always
seemed to smile—even over the episode of the lift—which had been no joke.

It happened
two days before. Sonia had rushed into the office in a state of molten
excitement because she had extracted an interview from a Personage who had just
received the Freedom of the City. This distinguished freeman had the
reputation of shunning newspaper publicity, and Poke had tried his luck, only
to be sent away with a flea in his ear.

At the back
of her mind, Sonia knew that she had not fought level, for she was conscious of
the effect of violet-blue eyes and a dimple upon a reserved but very human
gentleman. But in her elation she had been rather blatant about her score.

She
transcribed her notes, rattling away at her typewriter in a tremendous hurry,
because she had a dinner-engagement. In the same breathless speed she had
rushed towards the automatic lift.

She was
just about to step into it when young Wells had leaped the length of the
passage and dragged her back.

'Look,
where you're going,' he shouted.

Sonia
looked—and saw only the well of the shaft. The lift was not waiting in its
accustomed place.

'Out of
order,' explained Wells before he turned to blast Hubert Poke, who stood by.

'You
almighty chump, why didn't you grab Miss Fraser, instead of standing by like a
stuck pig?'

At the time
Sonia had vaguely remarked how Poke had stammered and sweated, and she accepted
the fact that he had been petrified by shock and had lost his head.

For the
first time, she realized that his inaction had been deliberate. She remembered
the flame of terrible excitement in his eyes and his stretched ghastly grin.

'He
hates
me,' she thought. 'It's my fault.

I've been
tactless and cocksure.'

Then a
flood of horror swept over her.

'But he
wanted to see me crash. It's almost
murder.'

As she
began to tremble, the jumpy passenger she carried reminded her of Poke's
remark about the alderman.

'He had
enemies.'

Sonia shook
away the suggestion angrily.

'My
memory's uncanny,' she thought. 'I'm stimulated and all strung up. It must be
the atmosphere. . . Perhaps there's some gas in the air that accounts for these
brainstorms. It's hopeless to be so utterly unscientific. Poke would have
made a better job of this.'

She was
back again to Hubert Poke. He had become an obsession.

Her head
began to throb and a tiny gong started to beat in her temples. This time, she
recognized the signs without any mental ferment.

'Atmospherics.
A storm's coming up. It might make things rather thrilling. I must concentrate
on my story. Really, my luck's in.'

She sat for
some time, forcing herself to think of pleasant subjects—of arguments with
young Wells and the Tennis Tournament. But there was always a point when her
thoughts gave a twist and led her back to Poke.

Presently
she grew cramped and got up to pace the illuminated aisle in front of the
window. She tried again to talk to the waxworks, but, this time, it was not a
success.

They seemed
to have grown remote and secretive, as though they were removed to another
plane, where they possessed a hidden life.

Suddenly
she gave a faint scream. Someone—or something—had crept up behind her, for she
felt the touch of cold fingers upon her arm.

Two
o'clock. They're only wax. They shall not frighten me. But they're trying to.
One by one they're coming to life. . .Charles the Second no longer looks sour
dough. He is beginning to leer at me. His eyes remind me of Hubert Poke.

Sonia
stopped writing, to glance uneasily at the image of the Stuart monarch. His
black velveteen suit appeared to have a richer pile. The swart curls which fell
over his lace collar looked less like horse-hair. There really seemed a gleam
of amorous interest lurking at the back of his glass optics.

Absurdly,
Sonia spoke to him, in order to reassure herself.

'
Did
you
touch me? At the first hint of a
liberty, Charles Stuart, I'll smack your face. You'll learn a modern journalist
has not the manners of an orange-girl.'

Instantly
the satyr reverted to a dummy in a moth-eaten historical costume.

Sonia
stood, listening for young Wells' footsteps. But she could not hear them,
although the street now was perfectly still. She tried to picture him, propping
up the opposite building, solid and immovable as the Rock of Gibraltar.

But it was
no good. Doubts began to obtrude.

'I don't
believe he's there. After all, why should he stay? He only pretended, just to
give me confidence. He's gone.'

She shrank
back to her corner, drawing her tennis-coat closer, for warmth. It was growing
colder, causing her to think of tempting things—of a hot-water bottle and a
steaming tea-pot.

Presently
she realized that she was growing drowsy. Her lids felt as though weighted with
lead, so that it required an effort to keep them open.

This was a
complication which she had not foreseen. Although she longed to drop off to
sleep, she sternly resisted the temptation.

'No. It's
not fair. I've set myself the job of recording a night spent in the Waxworks.
It
must
be the genuine thing.'

She blinked
more vigorously, staring across to where Byron drooped like a sooty flamingo.

'Mercy, how
he yearns! He reminds me of . . . No, I won't think of
him .
. .I must keep awake. . .Bed. .
.blankets, pillows. . . No.'

Her head
fell forward, and for a minute she dozed. In that space of time, she had a
vivid dream.

She thought
that she was still in her corner in the Gallery, watching the dead alderman as
he paced to and fro, before the window. She had never seen him, so he conformed
to her own idea of an alderman—stout, pompous, and wearing the dark-blue,
fur-trimmed robe of his office.

'He's got a
face like a sleepy pear,' she decided. 'Nice old thing, but brainless.'

And then,
suddenly, her tolerant derision turned to acute apprehension on his account, as
she saw that he was being followed. A shape was stalking him as a cat stalks a
bird.

Sonia tried
to warn him of his peril, but, after the fashion of nightmares, she found
herself voiceless. Even as she struggled to scream, a grotesquely long arm shot
out and monstrous fingers gripped the alderman's throat.

In the same
moment, she saw the face of the killer. It was Hubert Poke.

She awoke
with a start, glad to find that it was but a dream. As she looked around her
with dazed eyes, she saw a faint flicker of light. The mutter of very faint
thunder, together with a patter of rain, told her that the storm had broken.

It was
still a long way off, for Oldhampton seemed to be having merely a reflection
and an echo.

'It'll
clear the air.' thought Sonia.

Then her
heart gave a violent leap. One of the waxworks had come to life. She distinctly
saw it move, before it disappeared into the darkness at the end of the
Gallery.

She kept
her head, realizing that it was time to give up.

'My nerve's
crashed,' she thought. 'That figure was only my fancy. I'm just like the
others. Defeated by wax.'

Instinctively,
she paid the figures her homage. It was the cumulative effect of their grim
company, with their simulated life and sinister associations, that had rushed
her defences.

Although it
was bitter to fail, she comforted herself with the reminder that she had
enough copy for her article. She could even make capital out of her own
capitulation to the force of suggestion.

With a
slight grimace, she picked up her note-book. There would be no more on-the-spot
impressions. But young Wells, if he was still there, would be grateful for the
end of his vigil, whatever the state of mind of the porter.

She groped
in the darkness for her signal-lamp. But her fingers only scraped bare polished
boards.

The torch
had disappeared.

In a panic,
she dropped down on her knees, and searched for yards around the spot where she
was positive it had lain.

It was the
instinct of self-preservation which caused her to give up her vain search.

'I'm in
danger,' she thought. 'And I've no one to help me now. I must see this through
myself.'

She pushed
back her hair from a brow which had grown damp.

'There's a
brain working against mine. When I was asleep, someone—or something—stole my
torch.'