Murder in Piccadilly (14 page)

“Thank you,” said Nosey, carefully placing it within the folds of his pocket-book. “And now, Mr. Cheldon, another bit of advice. Be friends with your uncle from now onwards. Take that job and thank him with tears in your eyes for it.” He laughed. “Or if tears won't come into your eyes put 'em in your voice. It must be ‘Yes, uncle' and ‘Thank you, uncle' and ‘God bless you, uncle'. And as for Nosey Ruslin, well, you've never even heard of him. Twiggy-vous? as they say in Southend.”

For some reason obscure to himself Bobbie experienced a feeling of relief. It may have been that the noisome atmosphere, the unlovely exterior of Nosey Ruslin and the general appearance of poverty and decrepitude that the room and its furnishings presented helped to banish reality. Actually it was due to the knowledge that in the dread and ghastly adventure that would be the prelude to his accelerated transition from poverty to riches he would not be compelled to associate with his confederate.

“And now you're thinking of beddy-byes,” said Mr. Ruslin facetiously, “and a few hours between the sheets won't do me no harm. Ta-ta.”

When he had the room to himself Nosey unearthed the document which henceforth he was to style “young Cheldon's autograph” and read and re-read it until fairy gold danced before his eyes. Once he walked up and down the room holding it before him, and once he read it aloud.

“A thousand quid!” he exclaimed in a sarcastic tone. “Ten thousand—twenty thousand—fifty thousand.”

He fell asleep dreaming of a palace and he awoke to a rattle on the outer door of his flat and found that Billy Bright had arrived with noonday. For a man of his weight he leapt out of bed with amazing agility and the joy which grease and dirt and hairs could not conceal was instantly reflected in the dancer's expression.

“You've done it, Nosey?” he whispered, excitedly.

“As easy as winking,” was the triumphant reply. “Got it in black and white. Billy, it's a cinch—money for nothing. Robbing a kid's moneybox is a right down regular feat compared with this certainty.”

Billy read the slip of paper to the accompaniment of an increasing grin. Then, as usual, he had a doubt.

“Supposing you don't bring it off?” he asked nervously. “By the way, who were you thinking of?”

“Italian Charlie. It's his job,” said Nosey promptly.

“Yes, of course. It's Charlie's when it's got to be done without a noise. But supposing, Nosey.”

“Another supposing?” exclaimed Nosey angrily. “Well, out with it.”

“Supposing for instance—mind you, I'm only saying supposing—something happened such as—” he paused while he grappled with his powers of intelligent anticipation—conscious that his friend was staring unpleasantly at him.

“Go on, will you?”

“Supposing Italian Charlie lost his nerve or refused. Supposing nothing at all happened, or something did happen and the police got Charlie before he could do the job at all or complete it?”

Nosey Ruslin deposited most of himself on the sofa and with the back of his head supported by his hands looked up at the ceiling.

“You're a dancer, Billy,” he began in a tone of measured irony and insult, “and I suppose that's the reason why all your brains are in your feet. Do you think I haven't thought of everything? Do you think you have? Of course, you haven't, and that's the answer to all your questions. There's a lot more in this than'll ever meet your eye, Billy, and one of 'em is that we've got the uncle as well as the nephew. I don't say the uncle would pay as much as the nephew—there isn't so much at stake. But do you think he'd like to have a scandal in the papers about his high and mighty family?” He grunted. “The letter from the uncle is worth a thousand quid or so if the worst happens and we can't do him in.” He resolved himself into a standing posture. “Got any dough, Billy?” The dancer produced a pound note and some silver. “I'll borrow the quid. Must have some breakfast. It'll be a busy day for me. And while I think of it, Billy, you might see Italian Charlie and tell him I'll be having supper at Toriano's tonight at eleven. He'll know what that means. If he doesn't or won't, we'll have to find an understudy. I'm in a hurry to make some provision for my old age, and I'm beginning in Piccadilly at five minutes to three today.” He winked.

“All right, Nosey,” said Billy grinning. “I'll tell Charlie, and you can expect me, too, for the conference.”

“Attaboy!” exclaimed Nosey, waving a fat hand.

His enthusiastic confidence was infectious and yet at the same time a source of doubt and uncertainty to Billy.

“I don't seem to be doing much,” he said suggestively.

“When the time comes I'll find plenty of work for you,” his friend answered with a meaning laugh. “Billy, if you want to share in the golden harvest you must do some of the sowing as well as the reaping. That's only proper and right.”

“Of course.” The tone, however, was mechanical. Billy Bright belonged to the school which prefers to back a horse after it has passed the post. “How much do you think there's in it, Nosey?” He was ingratiating now or attempting to be.

“Ten thousand apiece for me and my partner—whoever he happens to be,” said Nosey complacently. “It'll be a big job and a ticklish one, as I've mentioned before, but you can't make a fortune by betting in half-crowns, and it's the same with an—an enterprise of this sort. But don't forget to see Italian Charlie and don't forget to turn up. Should it happen that I can't come tell Charlie to drop in here tonight after you've given him my message. And if I were you I'd come with him or without him.”

The door closed, and Billy walked away feeling as if he was propelled by air charged with dynamite. But the prospect of wealth was sufficient to keep his particular brand of cowardice which he called the artistic temperament, in check, and before another midnight took its place in the records the first of many conferences opened which had for its subject the safety and prosperity of two blackguards planning a murderous crime in the very heart of London, but Italian Charlie took part in one only.

Bobbie Cheldon knew nothing of these conferences, though occasionally he had telephonic conversations with the amiable Nosey, who was careful to promise him that in a very short time he would be released from the servitude of the rubber company's office and the fiver a week—it was actually fifty shillings but the Cheldon pride forbade the admission—and promoted to £10,000 a year.

Chapter Six

The last day in the life of a man about to be murdered would lack nothing of pity and terror were it possible to endow him and his acquaintances with foreknowledge of his doom. But when Massy Cheldon was called by his valet at three minutes to eight on the morning of June 8th, the temperate sunshine that streamed through the open window seemed to radiate health and invite happiness. Left to himself whilst he sipped an early morning cup of tea, the master of Broadbridge Manor pondered in succession on the weather, his investments, the eccentricities of the League of Nations, the mistakes of the Conservative leaders, and the lunch to which he had invited his neighbours, Viscount Firmin and Sir Beckwith Dent. To a self-important person every moment is important, and Massy Cheldon from the first splash in the bath to the careful brushing of his coat by the valet concentrated his mind on each act and accompanied each with an inward running commentary on its relation to his appearance and his affairs. So far the day promised well and there was nothing to disturb the smoothness of his satisfaction. It was good to be the head of the Cheldon family at any time—it was magnificent to be head of it on a day like this with nothing from the financial markets to disturb his serene enjoyment of the old mansion and the comparatively new income with which it was endowed.

The postman was a little late and Massy indulged in some pungent criticisms of the Postmaster-General before he began a cursory examination of the pile of letters and circulars. The circulars and the requests for loans and donations were carted off by West midway between the fish and the marmalade, and by the time he was smoking a cigarette he had only three letters lying before him on the table. One was from his broker and informed him that by taking advantage of the market at once he could realise a profit of eleven hundred pounds or thereabouts on certain gold shares; the second was from Ruby Cheldon reporting that Bobbie “simply loves his work and never mentions that night club girl,” and the third was from the private secretary to the Lord Lieutenant of Sussex inviting him to accept the dignity of Justice of the Peace.

Profit, Gratitude, Honour.

Massy Cheldon's smile surprised the watchful butler by reason of its almost youthful quality and obvious sincerity.

“A lovely day, West,” he said with a too emphatic condescension.

“It is indeed, sir.” West was grateful for the opening. “You have not forgotten that Lord Firmin and Sir Beckwith are lunching here today, sir?”

“Oh, of course. Yes. I'd nearly forgotten.” Massy Cheldon liked the society of viscounts on principle. Baronets, too, were always welcome at Broadbridge Manor, even if they happened to be, as in the case of the former Governor of Burmah, the first of the line. “By the way, West, tell Waterhouse to be ready to drive me to Lewes to catch the three ten to London. I've decided to remain in town overnight.”

The butler nodded. It was a new economy of the wealthy master of the Cheldon estate to dispense with the services of chauffeur and car at the nearest convenient railway station. There was a time when he overworked both. Now, in West's opinion, both were underworked.

After breakfast Massy retired to the library to compose the letter to the Lord Lieutenant accepting the dignity of J.P. “I promise you that I will devote as much of my time as I can to the duties,” he wrote. “I have always been a severe critic of magistrates who shirk their duties and responsibilities, and I am determined to avoid the obvious
tu quoque
.” He pondered here, admiring what he considered a neat turn of phrase but not too confident of the Lord Lieutenant's perception of its beauties. “I ought to be chairman of the Bench in five years,” he said to himself. “Firmin doesn't want it and Dent doesn't care for the work. As for Salmon and Weatherby they're just waiting for the grave.”

At half-past ten he was on the telephone to his broker, and at twenty minutes past twelve he was convinced that this was the very best of all possible worlds, for had not his broker's anticipations been exceeded and was he not richer by the delicious sum of thirteen hundred and eighty-six pounds ten shillings! As he stood at a window and surveyed his domains he was more than once on the point of admitting that there must be a Providence greater than himself working miracles on his behalf.

“Never felt better in my life,” he exclaimed with more truth than he was capable of realising, when Viscount Firmin, tall and portly, shook hands with his customary stiffness in the old world drawing-room and simultaneously made the conventional inquiry.

“Dent won't be long. He 'phoned to say he was engaged with someone from Whitehall,” said his host.

“They can't be thinking of offering him another governorship!” exclaimed Lord Firmin with pompous irritability. No one had ever thought of offering him anything outside the liability of his cheque-book and he resented any increase in the importance of his neighbours.

“You can ask him,” said Massy Cheldon, proffering the cigarette box that decorated the small table behind them. “I wonder, Firmin, if you ever thought of dabbling in Fermanagh Gold. I've been—”

The tribute to his own astuteness as a speculator lasted until West announced the baronet and was only resumed when Viscount Firmin, having delivered his opinion of the excellence of the sole, yielded without undue pressure to an invitation to taste it again.

“We're not going to lose you, I hope, Dent?” said Massy Cheldon with more inquisitiveness than politeness.

The baronet, who was as tall as the peer and about half his weight, smiled languidly until he had uncovered most of his teeth. He was very thin and inclined to sallowness of skin, and from the east he had brought a taciturnity which in contrast to the viscount's disjointed verbosity could assume the dimensions of wisdom.

“I am sixty-seven,” he confessed lazily, “and that's well past the age limit. Firmin there is seventy and—”

“Sixty-nine—not seventy until August,” was the indignant correction. “I am surprised, Dent, that a Civil Servant shouldn't be more accurate. When I was…”

“We'll take the rest for granted, Firmin,” said Dent with a burst of loquacity. “We were talking about ages.” He sighed. “Cheldon is only fifty. Fifty-three, you say? Thanks. Fifty-three.” He repeated the number of years with a melancholy emphasis. “He'll be coming to our funerals, Firmin, and perhaps he may subscribe to memorials to us in the village churchyard.”

“For heaven's sake, don't start talking about funerals and memorials and village churchyards!” protested Viscount Firmin, gesticulating with his head. “I'm not too well just now. Had to have the doctor yesterday.”

“Do you think you can spend nearly forty years in the east and not feel the effects?” asked the baronet with a measure of contempt.

Their host simmered with good humour. The company of Bobbie and fellows of that age gave him an odd feeling that he was rapidly approaching the centenarian stage, but with these two veterans for society he glowed with juvenility and careless good spirits.

“Don't worry, Firmin,” he said, cheerfully patronising, “you may top the century yet. Anyhow, look at old Mrs. Ellis-Wood. Given up by the doctors eleven years ago and next Saturday she's opening the flower show and I'm to propose her health at the lunch.”

“I'll be there, too,” said Sir Beckwith Dent, drawing his wineglass to within a more convenient latitude. He yawned. “Awful bore these village functions, but they expect it of people in our position.”

“I only hope it won't be too hot,” said Viscount Firmin, breathing heavily. “It's all very well for youngsters of your age, Cheldon.” He drained the glass of Beaune which was his favourite wine.

Massy Cheldon returned to the subject of the gold mining market. He was a recognised expert on money greed, and the peer and the baronet listened with respectful attention to his dissertation on the art of turning sufficient into superfluity. All that was needed, he reminded them, was cleverness, astuteness, mental poise, vision and a
savoir faire
which to the multitude must ever be an unknown quantity. Anyone, however, fortunate enough to possess these attributes, which in rare, very rare instances, could be found allied with genius, might be certain of triumphing over the difficulties and obstacles which beset ordinary persons in their efforts to tempt Dame Fortune successfully.

At the coffee stage Sir Beckwith Dent was giving his opinion of recent events in Burmah, and Viscount Firmin was listening with his eyes closed and his mouth open. He revived, however, when his opportunity came and he demanded of his audience why the Conservative Party tolerated Mr. Baldwin?

Massy Cheldon interrupted the diatribe to explain with suitable apologies that he was catching the three ten at Lewes with the intention of spending the night in London.

“I wonder if you'd take me along with you?” said the baronet.

“Delighted, my dear fellow.”

Viscount Firmin rose and, not to give his departure too abrupt an appearance, began to stare in turn at the portraits.

“I envy you this place, Cheldon,” he said, and he meant it. “What a clever notion that was of your ancestor to keep most of the Cheldon estate in a strong room in a bank! I wish mine had. Land's a curse.”

Had they had time the trio would have discoursed long and complainingly of the worries of landlords, but the information that Waterhouse was waiting to start the car broke up the debate.

“Poor old chap,” said Sir Beckwith Dent as he and Massy Cheldon were racing towards Lewes, “as he gets older he simply can't stop talking about himself.” He laughed under his breath.

Massy Cheldon, unaware of the fact that all three of them had done nothing else, was moodily sympathetic.

“We'll be attending his funeral soon,” he said, mercifully unconscious of his own impending doom, a doom which was to bring to Viscount Firmin the role of reader of the lesson at the funeral of the murdered owner of Broadbridge Manor. “But here we are.”

They parted at Victoria Station, and Massy Cheldon at once took the Underground to his sister-in-law's flat. A man who had cleared some hundreds of pounds with no more trouble than two telephone calls could not afford a taxi all that way. Now had it been thousands instead of hundreds…

“This is a delightful surprise, Massy,” said Ruby Cheldon, the flush in her cheeks bringing to her face something better than youth. “Bobbie will be back from his office soon.”

“I thought I'd call to have a chat about him,” he said from his chair, the most comfortable in the room, “but somehow, Ruby, whenever I see you I forget Bobbie.”

She flushed again.

“I suppose it's because it's impossible to imagine you have a grown up son.” He spoke in level, measured tones, without any note in his voice suggestive of attempt at flattery. “How you keep young beats me. Lord Firmin and Sir Beckwith Dent were envying me my youth at lunch today, but they're a couple of old fogies, one with his third wife and second mistake, and the other with his liver and his politics. But you are young, Ruby.” He sighed.

“I believe you're making love to me,” she began gaily, and stopped when she observed his frame quiver.

“I wish I could, Ruby.” He looked across at her. “But things are difficult.” He stood up, looked about him and sat down again. “Tell me about Bobbie. Is he keeping regular hours?”

It was Ruby Cheldon's favourite subject and without any effort of memory or imagination she kept it going until Bobbie, looking a little wan and tired, entered on the scene.

“Yes, uncle, I know something about rubber,” he said in answer to a polite question. A little later he excused himself on the plea that he had to make a telephone call. They heard the door close before either of them spoke.

“It's to that girl,” said Massy Cheldon angrily.

“I don't think so,” Ruby ventured, but her face betrayed her. “He hasn't mentioned her name for days now.”

“A bad sign,” he muttered. Then he stood up again. Ruby thought he was remarkably restless and ill at ease that afternoon. Could it be true that he was really in love with her? It was notorious in the family that Massy Cheldon had been in love with himself for years. Still, she was a woman and he was a man.

“Ruby.” The new note in his pronunciation of her name startled her. “It's a funny world, Ruby, for just when one believes one has everything something happens and you realise you have nothing. I would like to help you more. You've been a wonderful mother, and Bobbie isn't worthy to touch the hem of your garment.”

“Old Weller would have called that ‘werging on poetry',” she exclaimed, seeking in a well assumed extravagant delight relief from her embarrassment. Yet to be mistress of Broadbridge Manor!

“I wish I could do something.”

She smiled, thinking he was about to plead poverty.

“Ruby, it's a wonderful world when you think you are on top of it, and I thought so until I came into your presence. Now I feel I'm completely under it and that it's crushing me.”

“What's happened? Have you lost money?” she asked innocently.

He smiled in compliment to his possession of that regiment of qualities which at lunchtime he had outlined as essential to success.

“For the moment money isn't worrying me.” Then he hastened to hedge. “But, of course, one never knows from minute to minute what may happen.” A familiar moan escaped him.

“Let me make you a cup of tea,” she pleaded. “I'm so grateful to you, Massy, for having got Bobbie out of the rut. It doesn't matter that the salary is so small. It's something to know that he's doing work that will make a man of him. I was terribly afraid he was sinking into the night club morass and would never get out of it.”

“Ah, Ruby, you forget he's a Cheldon. The boy will be worthy of the name yet.” He was flattering her now and she knew it, and a curious dread seized her mind and limbs.