Crime at Christmas (12 page)

S
ONIA made her first entry in her notebook:

Eleven
o'clock. The lights are out. The porter has just locked the door. I can hear
his footsteps echoing down the corridor. They grow fainter. Now there is
silence. I am alone.

She stopped
writing to glance at her company. Seen in the light from the street-lamp, which
streamed in through the high window, the room seemed to be full of people.
Their faces were those of men and women of character and intelligence. They
stood in groups, as though in conversation, or sat apart, in solitary reverie.

But they
neither moved nor spoke.

When Sonia
had last seen them in the glare of the electric globes, they had been a
collection of ordinary waxworks, some of which were the worse for wear. The
black velvet which lined the walls of the Gallery was alike tawdry and filmed
with dust.

The side
opposite to the window was built into alcoves, which held highly moral
tableaux, depicting contrasting scenes in the career of Vice and Virtue. Sonia
had slipped into one of these recesses, just before closing-time, in order to
hide for her vigil.

It had been
a simple affair. The porter had merely rung his bell, and the few
courting-couples which represented the Public had taken his hint and hurried
towards the exit.

No one was
likely to risk being locked in, for the Waxwork Collection of Oldhampton, had
lately acquired a sinister reputation. The foundation for this lay in the fate
of a stranger to the town—a commercial traveller—who had cut his throat in the
Hall of Horrors.

Since then,
two persons had, separately, spent the night in the Gallery and, in the
morning, each had been found dead.

In both
cases the verdict had been 'Natural death, due to heart failure.' The first
victim—a local alderman—had been addicted to alcoholism, and was in very bad
shape. The second—his great friend—was a delicate little man, a martyr to
asthma, and slightly unhinged through unwise absorption in spiritualism.

While the
coincidence of the tragedies stirred up a considerable amount of local
superstition, the general belief was that both deaths were due to the power of
suggestion, in conjunction with macabre surroundings. The victims had let themselves
be frightened to death by the Waxworks.

Sonia was
there, in the Gallery, to test its truth.

She was the
latest addition to the staff of the
Oldhampton Gazette.
Bubbling with enthusiasm, she made no secret of her literary
ambitions, and it was difficult to feed her with enough work. Her colleagues
listened to her with mingled amusement and boredom, but they liked her as a
refreshing novelty. As for her fine future, they looked to young Wells—the
Sporting Editor—to effect her speedy and painless removal from the sphere of
journalism.

On
Christmas Eve, Sonia took them all into her confidence over her intention to
spend a night in the Waxworks, on the last night of the old year.

'Copy
there,' she declared. 'I'm not timid and I have fairly sensitive perceptions,
so I ought to be able to write up the effect of imagination on the nervous
system. I mean to record my impressions, every hour, while they're piping-hot.'

Looking up
suddenly, she had surprised a green glare in the eyes of Hubert Poke.

When Sonia
came to work on the
Gazette,
she had
a secret fear of unwelcome amorous attentions, since she was the only woman on
the staff. But the first passion she awoke was hatred.

Poke hated
her impersonally, as the representative of a Force, numerically superior to his
own sex, which was on the opposing side in the battle for existence. He feared
her, too, because she was the unknown element, and possessed the unfair weapon
of charm.

Before she
came, he had been the star turn on the
Gazette.
His own position on the staff
gratified his vanity and entirely satisfied his narrow ambition. But Sonia had
stolen some of his thunder. On more than one occasion she had written up a
story he had failed to cover, and he had to admit that her success was due to a
quicker wit.

For some
time past he had been playing with the idea of spending a night in the
Waxworks, but was deterred by the knowledge that his brain was not
sufficiently temperate for the experiment. Lately he had been subject to sudden
red rages, when he had felt a thick hot taste in his throat, as though of
blood. He knew that his jealousy of Sonia was accountable. It had almost
reached the stage of mania, and trembled on the brink of homicidal urge.

While his
brain was still creaking with the idea of first-hand experience in the
ill-omened Gallery, Sonia had nipped in with her ready-made plan.

Controlling
himself with an effort, he listened while the sub-editor issued a warning to
Sonia.

'Bon idea,
young woman, but you will find the experience a bit raw. You've no notion how
uncanny these big deserted buildings can be.'

'That's
so,' nodded young Wells, 'I once spent a night in a haunted house.'

Sonia
looked at him with her habitual interest. He was short and thick-set, with a
three-cornered smile which appealed to her.

'Did you
see anything?' she asked.

'No, I
cleared out before the show came on. Windy. After a bit, one can imagine
anything.'

It was then
that Poke introduced a new note into the discussion by his own theory of the
mystery deaths.

Sitting
alone in the deserted Gallery, Sonia preferred to forget his words. She
resolutely drove them from her mind while she began to settle down for the
night.

Her first
action was to cross to the figure of Cardinal Wolsey and unceremoniously raise
his heavy scarlet robe. From under its voluminous folds, she drew out her
cushion and attaché-case, which she had hidden earlier in the evening.

Mindful of
the fact that it would grow chilly at dawn, she carried on her arm her thick
white tennis-coat. Slipping it on, she placed her cushion in the angle of the
wall, and sat down to await developments.

The Gallery
was far more mysterious now that the lights were out. At either end, it seemed
to stretch away into impenetrable black tunnels. But there was nothing uncanny
about it, or about the figures, which were a tame and conventional collection
of historical personages. Even the adjoining Hall of Horrors contained no
horrors, only a selection of respectable-looking poisoners.

Sonia
grinned cheerfully at the row of waxworks which were visible in the lamplight
from the street.

'So you are
the villains of the piece,' she murmured. 'Later on, if the office is right,
you will assume unpleasant mannerisms to try to cheat me into believing you are
alive. I warn you, old sports, you'll have your work cut out for you . . . And
now I think I'll get better acquainted with you. Familiarity breeds contempt.'

She went
the round of the figures, greeting each with flippancy or criticism. Presently
she returned to her corner and opened her note-book ready to record her
impressions.

Twelve
o'clock. The first hour has passed almost too quickly. I've drawn a complete
blank. Not a blessed thing to record. Not a vestige of reaction. The waxworks
seem a commonplace lot, without a scrap of hypnotic force. In fact, they're
altogether too matey.

Sonia had
left her corner, to write her entry in the light which streamed through the
window. Smoking was prohibited in the building, and, lest she should yield to
temptation, she had left both her cigarettes and matches behind her, on the
office table.

At this
stage she regretted the matches. A little extra light would be a boon. It was
true she carried an electric torch, but she was saving it, in case of
emergency.

It was a
loan from young Wells. As they were leaving the office together, he spoke to
her confidentially.

'Did you
notice how Poke glared at you? Don't get up against him. He's a nasty piece of
work. He's so mean he'd sell his mother's shroud for old rags. And he's a cruel
little devil, too. He turned out his miserable pup, to starve in the streets,
rather than cough up for the licence.'

Sonia grew
hot with indignation.

'What he
needs to cure his complaint is a strong dose of rat-poison,' she declared.

'What
became of the poor little dog?'

'Oh, he's
all right. He was a matey chap, and he soon chummed up with a mongrel of his
own class.'

'You?'
asked Sonia, her eyes suddenly soft.

'A mongrel,
am I?' grinned Wells. 'Well, anyway, the pup will get a better Christmas than
his first, when Poke went away and left him on the chain . . . We're both of us
going to over-eat and over-drink. You're on your own, too. Won't you join us?'

'I'd love
to.'

Although
the evening was warm and muggy the invitation suffused Sonia with the spirit of
Christmas. The shade of Dickens seemed to be hovering over the parade of the
streets. A red-nosed Santa Claus presided over a spangled Christmas-tree
outside a toy-shop. Windows were hung with tinselled balls and coloured paper
festoons. Pedestrians, laden with parcels, called out seasonable greetings.

'Merry
Christmas.'

Young
Wells' three-cornered smile was his tribute to the joyous feeling of festival.
His eyes were eager as he turned to Sonia.

'I've an
idea. Don't wait until after the holidays to write up the Waxworks. Make it a
Christmas stunt, and go there tonight.'

'I will,'
declared Sonia.

It was then
that he slipped the torch into her hand.

'I know you
belong to the stronger sex,' he said. 'But even your nerve might crash. If it
does, just flash this torch under the window. Stretch out your arm above your
head, and the light will be seen from the street.'

'And what
will happen then?' asked Sonia.

'I shall
knock up the miserable porter and let you out.'

'But how
will
you
see the light?'

'I shall be
in the street.'

'All
night?'

'Yes; I
sleep there' Young Wells grinned. 'Understand,' he added loftily, 'that this is
a matter of principle. I could not let any woman—even one so aged and
unattractive as yourself—feel beyond the reach of help.'

He cut into
her thanks as he turned away with a parting warning.

'Don't use
the torch for light, or the juice may give out. It's about due for a new
battery.'

As Sonia
looked at the torch, lying by her side, it seemed a link with young Wells. At
this moment he was patrolling the street, a sturdy figure in old tweed
overcoat, with his cap pulled down over his eyes.

As she
tried to pick out his footsteps from among those of the other passers-by, it
struck her that there was plenty of traffic, considering that it was past
twelve o'clock.

'The
witching hour of midnight is another lost illusion,' she reflected. 'Killed by
night-clubs, I suppose.'

It was
cheerful to know that so many citizens were abroad, to keep her company. Some
optimists were still singing carols. She faintly heard the strains of 'Good
King Wenceslas.' It was in a tranquil frame of mind that she unpacked her
sandwiches and thermos.

'It's
Christmas Day,' she thought, as she drank hot coffee. 'And I'm spending it with
Don and the pup.'

At that
moment her career grew misty, and the flame of her literary ambition dipped as
the future glowed with the warm firelight of home. In sudden elation, she held
up her flask and toasted the waxworks.

'Merry
Christmas to you all! And many of them.'

The faces
of the illuminated figures remained stolid, but she could almost swear that a
low murmur of acknowledgment seemed to swell from the rest of her company—invisible
in the darkness.

She spun
out her meal to its limit, stifling her craving for a cigarette. Then, growing
bored, she counted the visible waxworks, and tried to memorise them.