The Tango School Mystery Read online

  I hoisted the receiver and Ted Wilson said: "You'll be a dummy if you don't land this story."

  I said: "I'll be a dummy if I try. I've already got more stories than I can shake a printer's rule at."

  "I'd better call Jim Houghton at the Evening Argus then."

  "Now that's below the belt," I told Ted. Houghton was my rival on the other paper in town. "So what's the big news?"

  "There's been a robbery at Louis Tussaud's."

  "You mean the waxwork museum on the seafront?"

  "The very same. I'm calling you from the manager's office."

  "Don't tell me - somebody's nicked yesterday's takings from the ticket booth. That wouldn't make more than a paragraph on an inside page."

  "It's a little more than that. Whoever gained entry made off with some of the wax models."

  "Not that Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves set-up they've had in the window since I was a lad? It's about time that was changed."

  Ted chuckled. "Last night's thieves were a bit more discriminating than that."

  "How discriminating?"

  "For starters, they've taken Marilyn Monroe."

  "Not the one with Marilyn in the white dress she wore in The Seven Year Itch."

  "Yeah, the one blowing up with air from the subway vent."

  "Bad business, but good choice," I said.

  "And not their only one. The thieves have also had it on their toes with Yuri Gagarin."

  "The first man in space? Reach for the stars and all that."

  "Yeah. But that's not all. They made a final selection. Winston Churchill."

  "He's vanished? Even his cigar?"

  "Gone. All of them. As though they'd walked out of the place themselves. And there's more."

  "Go on."

  "You'll never guess whose company once had a hand in the security for the place. Here's a clue. Look at the picture on the front page of yesterday's paper."

  The paper with the photo of Blunt spread-eagled on the road was propped up against my overflowing in-tray.

  "Now that gives the story a new dimension," I said. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

  "I thought you might be," Ted said. He cut the connection.

  I grabbed my notebook and headed for the door.

  By the time I reached Louis Tussaud's, the cops had rigged up a crime scene tape across the front of the building.

  A few curious rubberneckers had gathered outside the tape. They gossiped among themselves. Pointed fingers at police cars. Craned necks as cops entered or left. Swapped theories with their neighbours.

  Crime as entertainment.

  One of the watchers collared me as I strode up. He thumbed towards the entrance. "Any idea what's going on in there, mate?"

  I said: "I believe the wax model of the Queen Mother came alive in the night and eloped with Joseph Stalin."

  The bloke's eyes goggled. The cogs in his brain turned slowly. It was incredible. It couldn't be true. But it would be better if it were. He'd have something to pass on to the others. Something they didn't know. That would make him special. The man in the know. He grinned. He turned and whispered in his neighbour's ear.

  The cop behind the tape was staring at the exhibit in the window. A gruesome montage based on Edgar Allan Poe's story of The Pit and the Pendulum. It showed some poor sap in mediaeval get-up strapped to a table while a pendulum with a razor-sharp axe descended slowly towards him.

  I pulled out my press card and called to the cop.

  I said: "I'm here to see Inspector Wilson about the robbery."

  The cop thumbed at the pendulum. "Bad business."

  "I guess Louis Tussaud must be as cut up as that bloke would be if the pendulum slipped lower."

  The cop shrugged.

  I dodged under the tape and went through the door.

  Ted Wilson was just inside leaning on the Sleeping Beauty exhibit. ("Watch her breathe.") He wasn't. He was casting a tired eye over a couple of young detective constables dusting the place for fingerprints.

  I strolled up to him and said: "I reckon Quasimodo from the Chamber of Horrors did it."

  Ted looked at me like I'd just asked him to take a class-load of kindergarten kids on a summer outing.

  "He's still down in the Chamber of Horrors ringing his bells," he said.

  As if to confirm the information a deep "bong, bong" sounded somewhere below ground.

  "Any idea what's behind this?" I asked.

  "Your guess is as good as mine. But I expect when you write it, you'll make it sound that your guess is better than mine."

  "Could be some weird kind of collector," I said. "I've heard of paintings being stolen to order. Perhaps this is a similar case."

  "I don't buy that. The things aren't worth that much. Besides how would you hide them? Remember they're life-sized."

  "That's the attraction," I said. "Picture a sad old bloke with no friends. Suddenly, he's got Winston Churchill sat at his dinner table for some brilliant conversation and Marilyn waiting for him in the bedroom with her dress already half way up her thighs."

  "What about Gagarin?" Ted asked.

  "Up on the roof, keeping look-out," I said. "Where were the waxworks usually kept?"

  "In the main exhibition hall," Ted said. "This way."

  We entered a long chamber with a tiled floor and white ceiling. It was lit with spotlights that picked out the individual waxworks. They were arranged around the walls, behind a red rope slung between metal posts. The figures had shiny hair and staring eyes. It was like walking into a party where no-one was enjoying themselves. I expected a wax museum to smell like old candles. But it didn't. There was a heavy odour of disinfectant in the air. Probably Harpic.

  Ted slouched by the door, while I walked round the room. I stood in front of the empty space where Marilyn had tried to keep her skirt from blowing up. A card on a small stand read: "Marilyn Monroe 1926-1962, film star." The red rope in front of the little podium she'd stood on was still in place. I could see the outline in the dust of where her shoes would have been.

  I glanced to her left. John Wayne wore a Stetson and carried a six-shooter like he did in The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Except there was no-one to shoot here. And Wayne looked a bit sheepish to me. Well, you would if you had a constant stream of gawpers sniggering because they'd just discovered your real name was Marion, not John.

  On the other side of Marilyn Monroe, Elizabeth Taylor held her head high. Her hard eyes seemed to scan the room. As though she were searching for her sixth husband.

  I moved on in case she spotted me.

  Yuri Gagarin - born 1934, the exhibit card told me - was also absent without leave. Not circling the earth in outer space this time. Where was he, I wondered? I'd read somewhere that Gagarin dolls - fully togged out in space suit - were on sale in Gamley's. Could it be that a generous parent had decided to go one better? If so, they'd have to make sure their kids played with wax Yuri well away from the fireplace.

  I turned and looked back down the hall. Winston Churchill's place had been set aside from the others. He'd occupied a tableau tricked out like his office in 10 Downing Street. There was a desk and a bookshelf holding volumes of his history of the Second World War. But the old boy was missing. I sniffed deeply as I approached the tableau. Not even the whiff of a cigar.

  I wondered whether the real Winston had been told that he'd been stolen from a wax museum in Brighton. In the company of Marilyn Monroe and Yuri Gagarin. I could imagine him, chewing his cigar, an impish grin on his face. "It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma," he would growl.

  It was certainly that.

  I strolled over to Ted.

  I said: "There seems nothing to connect the three waxworks that were nicked."

  "I've been thinking about that."

  "Come up with any conclusion?"

  "Could be a country thing. One Yank, one Russkie, one true born Englishman."

  "Churchill was half American," I said. "His mother came from New Yor
k."

  Ted shrugged. "Bang goes my theory then."

  I said: "How did the thieves get in?"

  "Round the back. Door secured by an ancient Chubb lock. They brought a screw-driver and simply took the whole unit out."

  "So they must have planned it."

  "Sure. I guess if you're planning a date with Marilyn Monroe you look ahead."

  A distant "bong bong" sounded from the Chamber of Horrors. Quasimodo was still ringing his bell.

  I'd played it cool with Ted. I'd learnt from experience it was the best way to get information out of him. But it was time to bring up the matter which had made me rocket round here like a guided missile.

  "You mentioned on the phone that Captain Blunt had been involved with the security."

  "Yeah, thought that might get your motor turning over - especially after I'd seen that front-page picture in the paper."

  "How recently has he been involved?"

  "Not for a couple of years now. It seems his company was asked to conduct a security review of the place. But apparently he gave it a clean bill of health. Said nobody was likely to scarper with a full-sized waxwork of Haile Selassie under his arm."

  In that, at least, Blunt had a point. But it raised another question.

  "Any leads on how the thieves made off with their haul?" I asked.

  "Not yet."

  "They must have had a vehicle of some sort. Probably a van."

  "That's what we thought. But as the break-in occurred in the small hours, there weren't many witnesses about. Besides, a parked van wouldn't be suspicious."

  "It would be if someone spotted Marilyn Monroe in the back," I said.

  "Yeah, I wouldn't mind being in the back of a van with Marilyn myself. Before she killed herself, of course," Ted added, unnecessarily, I thought.

  "What about the beat constables? Or were they round at the all-night café in the market stuffing their faces with bacon sandwiches?"

  Ted sniffed. "One lad saw a van parked in Pool Valley."

  "By the bus terminus?"

  "Yes. That would have been around three in the morning. He didn't pay much attention because he thought it might belong to a night worker doing late maintenance on the buses."

  "Didn't get a number plate, then."

  "No. He could only see the van sideways on - so nothing on the back or front. But he's sure from the shape it was a Bedford. And it looked recently painted."

  "Colour?"

  "White."

  "Why did he think it had been recently painted?"

  "There was a splash of paint on one of the tyres."

  It didn't sound like much of a lead. I changed tack.

  "But does two-year old security work put Blunt in the frame for this job?" I asked.

  "Can't see how it does," Ted said. "According to our information, since his love affair with the tarmac in New Road the other night, he's taken refuge at Sir Oscar Maundsley's country place."

  "And he has an alibi for last night?"

  "I'll have an officer checking that out. Discreetly."

  "But Blunt would've known about the weakness in the place's security?"

  "I suspect he knows as much about security as my Aunt Fanny. Besides, what motive would he have for a crazy heist like this?"

  I shook my head. "I don't know. But it seems to me that Captain Blunt is no stranger to turning up in the wrong places."

  I kept schtum about the interview I'd had with Terry Jones. It wouldn't help Ted's investigation to throw up untested allegations of murder. I couldn't substantiate them. And, besides, when I'm investigating the same case as the police, I like to keep an edge. It's only human.

  I asked: "What's your next move here?"

  "We'll do all the usual forensic stuff. Take fingerprints, but in a place like this, that'll be about as much use as sweeping up dead leaves."

  "You'll check antique dealers?" I asked.

  "I'll have someone go round the usual suspects. But I can't see even the dodgiest fence handling any of these. Too damn recognisable. If the waxworks are being sold on, it'll be a very private operation."

  I nodded. There were too many private operations going on. Like the mystery caller on Derek Clapham who'd killed him. And the private rally which had ended in a riot. The clandestine theft of waxworks. Not to mention the discreet search for the whereabouts of His Holiness's brother.

  Blunt's name cropped up time and again. And Blunt was close to Maundsley.

  It was about time the old fascist answered a few direct questions.

  Chapter 13

  The butler was togged out in a black morning coat with matching waistcoat hung with a gold watch chain.

  He wore a white shirt with starched collar and black tie. He sported grey pinstripe trousers.

  And jackboots.

  The trousers were tucked into the top of the boots so they bagged out above the knee. Like plus-fours.

  He looked like a truculent bank manager on his way to give an errant client a good kicking for exceeding his overdraft limit.

  I looked down, straightened my tie in the reflection from the spit-and-polished jackboots and said: "Good morning, Jeeves."

  His mouth curled into a lop-sided sneer and he said: "The name is Collington, sir." His voice had the oily darkness of black treacle and the sincerity of a conman's promise.

  His upper lip curled with contempt as he added: "And I'm guessing that you are not Mr Bertram Wooster."

  "Colin Crampton, Brighton Evening Chronicle," I said a little sharply. Clearly, I needed to watch my step here.

  I was standing outside Maidover Bottom, the house Sir Oscar Maundsley had rented when he'd returned to Britain earlier in the year. It was an old Jacobean place with mullioned windows and crooked red-brick chimneys. It lay in a hollow in the Downs, a few miles north of Brighton. The wooded hills formed a kind of semi-circle around the house increasing its sense of isolation. The Downs seemed to wrap the house into its place in the countryside. The trees showed the yellows and reds of their early autumn colours. The first leaves had fallen and begun to carpet the ground.

  I'd left my MGB parked on a patch of bare earth next to a cart track which led up into the woods. I'd walked a couple of hundred yards to the house and then hoofed it up the gravelled carriage drive. I didn't want Maundsley or any of his Grey Shirts seeing my car just yet. There could come a time when I'd be using it to follow them and that would be more difficult if I'd stupidly blown my own cover.

  Sneaky? Perhaps. But I reckoned when it came to Maundsley, I was dealing with the man who wrote the sneaky rule-book.

  Collington looked down his nose and said: "Would you care to state your business?"

  I said: "Kindly be good enough to tell Sir Oscar Maundsley that a member of the Fourth Estate is here to speak to him."

  Collington said: "Sir Oscar is out hunting."

  "Anyone in particular?"

  "Sir Oscar is hunting with the Dicker and Fulking, sir."

  "And not necessarily in that order, I'll bet."

  "The Dicker and Fulking is the most respected hunt in the county, sir."

  "Not by the foxes, I hear. But no matter. I was actually hoping to speak to Captain Wellington Blunt."

  "Who did you say, sir?"

  "Captain Wellington Blunt. I believe he's been staying here."

  "I regret to inform you, sir, that you have been misinformed."

  "Really? I thought he might be just the man to Dicker with the Fulking."

  Collington managed a kind of reedy dismissive cough. It sounded like he was strangling a sparrow. "Now if you will excuse me, sir. Perhaps you will kindly remove yourself from the premises."

  "Before I do, one last question. Are jackboots regulation butler wear these days?"

  "They are necessary when I feed the pigs, sir."

  "To make sure they give you the respect you think you deserve when you're pouring their swill?"

  Collington's lop-sided sneer turned to a snarl. "Good day to you, sir."
>
  He reached for the door handle - a polished brass number - and the old oak door creaked closed in front of me.

  I trudged back down the carriage drive wondering whether I'd played it too hard with the butler.

  He'd got right up my nose the moment he'd hauled that heavy old door open and sneered down at me. And when I spotted the jackboots, that set me off. Perhaps I should have played him a little more smoothly. Like a Celtic harpist plucking a watery melody from the strings. In any event, it didn't look as though I would have wangled an interview with Maundsley. He was charging across the countryside on horseback. "The unspeakable in pursuit of the uneatable," as old Oscar Wilde put it. Collington was probably telling the truth about that. Fox hunting was just the kind of pointless vandalism those upper-class types indulged in. It gave them a break from looking down on the lower orders.

  But I wasn't convinced Collington had told me the truth when he said Blunt wasn't in the house. The old street brawler had to be holed up somewhere. And I was willing to bet that after the fiasco outside the rally, it was somewhere Maundsley could keep a close watch on his inept head of security. But eventually Blunt would have to show his face outside. I decided to spend a little time watching the house.

  I arrived back at the car, opened the boot, and took out a pair of binoculars I kept in my emergency kit. (Don't under-estimate bins as a vital tool for the ever-ready journalist. I've known journos read letters left on a dining room table from outside the window with a pair. Not that I'm recommending that approach to scanning your own morning mail.) Then I headed up the cart track on to the Downs.

  The track led up through a wood with oak, beech and horse chestnut trees. Leaves drifted down. Birds twittered in the branches. Squirrels foraged among the leaf litter. I could've made a few notes and contributed a piece to the paper's country life column. I huffed my way up the hill and scrambled round to a vantage point where I could look over the house. I was on a track which ran parallel with the contours of the land a hundred feet or so above the level of Maundsley's estate.

  It was like looking down on a toy-town village. The house stood at the centre of a group of buildings. To the left of the house, there was a stable yard, ringed with horse boxes. Beyond it was a walled-garden with a couple of small flint-built huts. I guessed they were used by the gardeners to store their hoes and rakes and dibbles.