BRITISH COMICS
THE VOICE ON THE WIRE
Last episode
taken from The Wizard issue: 1111 September
14th 1946.
He was the most brilliant pupil of
Farrow’s school. How is he linked with a murder mystery? This story holds a big
surprise!
The Murder Mask
Superintendent
Clive Hardy, of the Rodingham police, charged up the stairs of the Acme Hotel.
He hardly knew what to expect at the top of the stairs, but already a feeling
of dread gripped him. He was prepared to find that tragedy had occurred in the
Acme Hotel, as it had occurred so many times lately in and around Rodingham. A
long sequence of murders had made Rodingham a city of terror. The first of
those murders had taken place some weeks ago. The victim had been Grant
Playfair, a well-known Rodingham citizen. Playfair was found in the middle of
Burfield Common, a place remote from any water. Yet Grant Playfair had been
found lying there—drowned! The second victim, Charles Roper, had met his death
in the middle of his roof garden. He, too, had been drowned, although he had
not been in water or near water! And so the list of victims of the Rodingham
killer had mounted until now he had claimed seven lives. Clive Hardy feared
that he would find that the number had now increased to eight. Early in the
case, the superintendent had found that Playfair and Roper had been pupils at
Farrow’s, the famous public school, and strangely enough, the remainder of the
victims had either been to Farrow’s or were connected with the school in some
way. It seemed that the Rodingham killer hated Farrow’s for some reason, and
this hatred had grown into a desire to murder Old Farrovians. It was one of the
most mysterious and baffling cases with which the police had had to deal. And
one more factor made it even more mysterious. Soon after the sequence of
murders had begun, an unknown person, calling himself the Voice on the Wire had
rung again and again, and in uncanny fashion his advice and suggestions had
generally proved correct. Hardy now depended on the unknown man for aid. It was
because of a suggestion, put forward by the Voice, that suspicion had fallen on
a one-armed newspaper seller named Beauchamp; and although Hardy had not agreed
with the suggestion, he had been intrigued when an elderly ex-Farrovian named
Cyril Beauchamp had called at the police station to tell of certain happenings
of thirty-odd years earlier. Nearly eighty years of age, Cyril Beauchamp had
collapsed after his long journey, and had been escorted to the Acme Hotel by
Hardy, and ordered to bed. Now an urgent call had come from Robins, the hotel
manager, saying the door of old Mr Beauchamp’s room had become wedged, and
strange, gurgling noises were coming from within the room. A group of men—the
manager, assistant manager, one of the two porters and waiters—were near the
door of the room where Hardy had recently seen his visitor installed. All
turned when they heard the superintendent. Robins the manager, held up a hand.
“Be careful, or he’ll shoot through the door. He says he’ll kill anyone who
charges that door.” “Who will?” snapped Clive Hardy, breathing hard. “You mean
old Mr Beauchamp has gone crazy?” “No, there’s someone else in there with him.
We started to break down the door, and someone called out that he would shoot
if we continued.” “How long ago was that?” “Maybe five minutes. The gurgling
noises have stopped, but we hear nothing of Mr Beauchamp. We fear that—” “Out
of my way!” snapped the superintendent, drawing back for a charge. Crash! Hardy
was a hefty person, and the door quivered and gave a couple of inches. There
was a loud, creaking noise, and the knob moved. The door was not locked, but a
chair had been wedged beneath the knob on the other side. The men in the
corridor drew back in expectation of the threatened shots, but none came. Hardy
drew breath, and charged again. The manager came to aid him. There was a
snapping sound, and the door opened so suddenly that they sprawled on the
floor. The top bar of the chair had broken under the strain. It was a luxurious
bedroom, one of the best in the hotel, but the thing that interested Hardy at
that moment was the open window, with curtains billowing out, and a fire-escape
beyond. He groaned. He had seen this sort of thing before. The killer always
seemed to find his entrances and exits prepared for him. On the bed lay the
frail, white-haired form of Cyril Beauchamp. His face was covered by a
queer-shaped mask. The superintendent motioned his helpers back, and bent to
examine the contraption. It was an ordinary dental mask, the sort used by
dentists when administering gas to their patients. It was cone-shaped, but
could be folded flat. At the rim of the mask, fitting tightly round the
victim’s face, was a miniature rubber tyre, inflated with air. It formed a cushion
on any shape of face, and in the ordinary way prevented gas from escaping at
the sides. Once cased in that, the wearer had to breathe whatever was pumped
into the mask. The old man was flat on his back, his hands clenching the
bedclothes at his side. Hardy noticed he was bone-dry. There was not a drop of
water on him. From the apex of the cone-shaped mask a length of tubing hung
down. There was a small metal cup at the free end. “Gosh, he’s been gassed!”
muttered the superintendent, and gripped the edge of the mask to take it off
the face. He did so, and water poured out over Cyril Beauchamp’s still figure,
soaking the upper part of his body, and the bed. The mask had been filled with
water, and Superintendent Hardy realised he had solved the mystery of how the
killer’s victims had all been found drowned where there was apparently no
water. The fiend had always stunned his victims first, and had then turned them
face upwards before fastening this mask over their faces. It was so made that
it would fit any face. Instead of pumping in gas, the murderer had filled the
cone-shaped mask with water. It took less than a pint to do this. The
unfortunate wearer of the mask would then be breathing water instead of air. He
would draw it in and expel it with his breath, using the same water over and
over again, until his lungs were full. This would give exactly the same effect
as being submerged under water. As the murderer removed the mask, the water
encased in it would drench the upper part of the victims body. Such had been
the case on all other occasions, but this evening the killer must have been
interrupted by the attempt to open the door, and had not waited to claim the
mask. One glance at the old man told Hardy he had come too late. “Get a
doctor!” he snapped to the onlookers. “I don’t think he can do anything, but we
must have a doctor. Who was it heard gurgling noises coming from this room?”
The assistant manager replied that he had. He also said that at the same time
he had found the door barred on the inside, and heard movements. “It was a
queer noise, and I thought Mr Beauchamp was ill,” he added. “What you heard was
him drowning!” snapped Clive Hardy. “If you had forced the door open then you
would have saved him, and you would have seen the murderer.” The assistant
manager took a deep breath. “But why was the old man killed? He was an
inoffensive, sick old man. I see no reason why the killer picked on him.”
“Here’s the reason,” snapped the superintendent, and picked up a blue-and-gold
tie from the dressing-table. “An Old Farrovian tie. Beauchamp was killed
because of that—and perhaps because someone feared his memory for faces. Will
anyone be on duty at your hotel exchange? Yes?” Hardy picked up the receiver of
the phone in the corner and asked to be put through to the police station.
Sergeant Venning was at the other end and said—“I was just going to ring you,
superintendent. There’s a call through from the Voice on the Wire. I—” “I’ll
take it here directly afterwards, but here’s something I want you to do.” Broke
in Hardy. “Go round to the lodgings of Beauchamp, the one-armed paper man, and
see if he’s been out to-night. We’ve got a man watching the place. He ought to
know. Now give me the Voice on the Wire.” There was some slight delay as the
connection was made, then Hardy heard the low voice of the unknown helper. The
question the Voice asked was brief and to the point— “Have you found out where
Beauchamp went to school?” “Beauchamp?” asked Hardy. “You mean the one-armed
paper-seller?” “Of course I do! Who else have we been talking about?” demanded
the Voice on the Wire. “Well, we’ve had another Beauchamp on the scene, and
he’s just been murdered. He was an Old Farrovian.” Hardy went on to describe
just what had happened, and the Voice on the Wire did not interrupt until near
the end, then his words came quickly and excitedly— “Nail the paper-seller
that’s what you’ve got to do! I have felt this for some time. He’s the
murderer! As you know Hardy, I have said all along that the killer will be
found to be connected with Farrow’s. I believe Beauchamp went to Farrow’s under
another name. When he saw Cyril Beauchamp he feared he would be identified and
took the precaution of murdering him.”
A Killer Is Caught
Superintendent
Hardy drew a weary hand across his forehead. “But man, I can’t arrest Beauchamp
without evidence! I’ve got a man watching his lodgings day and night. He’s
probably there at this minute and has been there all night. I dare not risk a
false arrest!” he protested. The Voice clicked his tongue in annoyance. “I’ll
arrest him if it’s proved that he’s been away from home to-night,” promised the
superintendent, “but otherwise I daren’t. He could—Yes, what is it.” Robins,
the hotel manager made the interruption. He had been called out of the bedroom
by one of his staff, and now he returned. “A call came through on one of the
downstairs phones from one of your sergeants,” he said. “I think the name was
Venning. Venning says that Beauchamp is in his lodgings and that he vows he has
been there all evening. The constable on watch bears him out.” “There you are!”
shouted the superintendent into the phone. “The newspaper-seller is in his
rooms, and has been there all evening. He’s got a cast-iron alibi. The fact
that my man was watching outside all the time is the best proof he’s got. We
must rule out Beauchamp as the murderer.” “If you do that I’ll wash my hands of
the whole case!” snapped the Voice on the Wire. “I bet you’ll find that
Beauchamp has some way of getting in and out of his lodgings without being noticed
by your man on duty.” He rang off in his usual decisive manner and Hardy
scarcely heard the doctor pronouncing that Cyril Beauchamp’s death was due to
drowning. “Get everyone out of here, then lock the door,” the superintendent
ordered the manager. “Some of my men will be round shortly.” He lost no time in
leaving the hotel and hailing a late taxi. Rodingham was silent now, for
practically everyone had gone to bed. The taxi made good time through the
deserted streets heading for the mean quarter where the one-armed
newspaper-seller had his lodgings. Hardy was just finishing a cigarette when
the taxi pulled up at the corner where he expected to find his plain-clothes
man on watch. Sergeant Venning was also there. “Beauchamp flew into a rage when
I walked in and wakened him,” said the sergeant. “He threatened to sue us.”
“And what does he say he’s been doing during the last hour?” interrupted Hardy.
“In bed reading. Smith here says he has certainly not been out.” That seemed
definite enough, but the superintendent had another idea. “Has anyone been in
and out of that house during the past two hours>” he asked. “Oh, yes, sir,
but not a man. An old woman came out about two hours ago, and returned perhaps
twenty minutes or half an hour ago.” “What sort of old woman?” snapped the
superintendent. “A stout party, sir, with a long, black coat and a bonnet.
Maybe it’s the landlady or another lodger.” The superintendent’s eyes glinted.
“Whose house is it?” he asked. “An old person called
An Astounding Surprise
For
two days the police questioned Beauchamp, but without any success. He declared
he was innocent of murder, and that he had absolutely no connection with
Farrow’s school or old Farrovians. It was the Voice on the Wire, when he rang
up on the second day, who suggested it would be a good idea to take the prisoner
down to Farrow’s, in the hope that someone would recognise him. Superintendent
Hardy liked the idea, but did not tell Beauchamp where they were taking him.
They went by car, with Sergeant Venning and Sergeant Thomas in attendance. The
Headmaster and Bursar had been notified of their coming, and when they arrived
they were shepherded in by an entrance where none of the boys, then in class,
would see Beauchamp handcuffed by his good arm to Sergeant Venning. The
Newsvendor’s artificial arm had been removed, for it had proved too useful a
weapon. The police and their prisoner were shown into a private room and told
that Dr Trinch, the Headmaster, would soon be with them. Before long footsteps
were heard, and the lean, slightly bent figure of Dr Trinch appeared in the
doorway. He was nervous and barely glanced at the man handcuffed to Sergeant
Venning. “I understand we may be of use to you again, superintendent,” he said.
“You say it’s a question of identity.” “Yes, sir, we would like you to take a
good look at this man and tell me if he calls to mind any old pupil of the
school.” As he spoke, Hardy snatched of Beauchamp’s hat, and the prisoner
lowered his head. The Headmaster of Farrow’s adjusted his glasses and peered
for a long time. “Bless me! Good gracious!” he exclaimed at last. “I certainly
find something strangely familiar about his face. I’m sure I—why, it’s Russell
Williams, one of the most brilliant boys we ever had! Williams, whatever has
happened to you?” “Russell Williams!” repeated Superintendent Hardy, who had
been over all the school rolls and records in the possession of the Bursar.
“Wasn’t he at the school at the same time as Playfair and Roper, the first two
victims of the murders?” “he certainly was,” agreed Dr Trinch. “He was a
magnificent scholar, the head of the school, the finest athlete we had in a
quarter of a century, and captain of the school for three years. He was a boy
for whom we predicted a great future, yet for some reason he didn’t keep in
touch with us of later years.” “I know what you’re thinking!” Williams suddenly
shouted, and his eyes blazed with uncanny brightness. “Why did I do it? Why did
I, the favourite of Farrow’s, the brightest pupil and athlete they had, why did
I turn sour and murder anyone I saw who came from the old school? Well, I’ll
tell you!” he took a step forward. “It was just because of that! Yes, I was
brought up in the lap of luxury, and when I was here I was tops at everything,”
went on Williams. “I was told the world was at my feet, that I had a great future
before me, and I believed it. But what happened when I went out into the world?
My father died, and I had to earn a living. I found I was no longer captain of
the school, nor the favourite of masters, but a mere nobody who couldn’t settle
down to work. I had no glory, no applause, no encouragement. I sank lower and
lower, until for a time I pretended to be Lionel Beauchamp, a boy who had been
killed in an accident just before I came to the school. I’d heard all about him
and his rich father, and I ran up debts and charged them to the old man until
things became too warm and I skipped to
It
was the following evening that the Voice on the Wire rang the Rodingham police
station and asked for Hardy. “Congratulations, superintendent,” he said. “I see
you’ve got your man. He’s made a full confession.” “Yes, it proves you were
right after all,” said Hardy. “I don’t claim the credit. I would never even
have suspected the newsvendor. I wish I could meet you and thank you.” “Better
not, superintendent, better not,” replied the Voice, “Then we can write the
case off as finished?” “No, there is only one point that puzzles me, and it’s
bound to come out at the trial,” said the superintendent. “How did Williams
carry sufficient water on his person to fill that mask? The mask he used would
fold up and go into any ordinary pocket with the tube, but he couldn’t put
pints of water in his pocket.” There was a low chuckle from the Voice.
“Superintendent, am I right in guessing you’ve taken Williams artificial arm
away from him?” he asked. “Yes, he was too dangerous with it. I’ve got it here
on my desk. It’s a heavily made thing.” “Not half as heavy as it was sometimes,
I’ll wager,” said the Voice on the Wire. “If you’ll examine it, superintendent,
I think you’ll discover it is hollow, and will hold water. Maybe one of the
fingers on the hand unscrews, and enables the water to be poured down the pipe
into the mask. Look for yourself.” Clive Hardy did so, and discovered that that
was the secret of the whole thing. “You’re a wonder!” declared the
superintendent when he had returned to the phone. “How in the world did you
guess that?” “I didn’t,” replied the Voice. “It was obviously the only place
where he could carry it.” Superintendent Hardy suddenly said quietly— “You
sound remarkably clear on the phone to-day. I’ve got an idea you’re very close
at the moment.” “I am,” chuckled the Voice on the Wire. “I’m speaking from the
call-box round the corner. I just wanted to see the scene of the crime and to
get a glimpse of you. I had that before lunch, and now I’m satisfied and shall
be leaving Rodingham at once.” Clive Hardy’s eyes sparkled. Here was his chance
of seeing and meeting his mysterious helper. The phone-box mentioned was not
thirty yards from the door of the police station. “Well, having seen me, what
do you think of me?” he queried, and gently put down the receiver without
waiting for a reply. The next moment he had dashed from the room, hurled aside
the astonished Sergeant Venning, and rushed down the police station steps at
breakneck speed. Sprinting round the corner, almost knocking over two
unfortunate pedestrians, he came in sight of the phone-box. It was empty. The
door was swinging to and fro, as though it had just been allowed to slam. At
least a hundred people were in the crowded street, and any one of them might
have just emerged from the box. Superintendent Hardy kicked the door shut and
stamped back to the police station. His unknown helper had been too quick for
him after all. The Voice on the Wire had him puzzled to the last!
The End
So
ended the Voice on the Wire. The
story ran for 10 weeks. The Wizard
issues 1102 – 1111
A
repeat of the story ran in The Wizard issues
1682 - 1691
A further story under the title It’s The Voice on the Wire. Ran for 12
weeks in The Wizard issues 1166 –
1177.
With a repeat in The Wizard issues 1816 – 1827 under the
title The Telephone Terror.
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2004
