Murder in Piccadilly (16 page)

“All very interesting, Davidson,” was Chief Inspector Wake's comment, “but I've had a hard day on the Pimlico blackmail case and I can't work right round the clock. What's your opinion of the murder?”

The subordinate smiled his pleasure at the compliment.

“A vendetta, sir,” he answered promptly. “You always find foreigners mixed up in a job where a knife is used. You've seen it, sir?”

“I have it in my pocket,” said Chief Inspector Wake carelessly. “I am hoping it's going to prove of use. A vendetta.” He smiled. “Somehow I can't picture a vendetta in the Piccadilly Underground. Too English, you know, Davidson, much too English. Good night.”

Chapter Seven

Ever since Bobbie had so surprisingly consented to occupy a stool in a city office his mother had accustomed herself to rising at seven and preparing the breakfast she considered essential for the maintenance of her son's not too robust strength. On the morning of June 9th she followed her customary programme, and as Bobbie had been rather late the previous night she decided not to rouse him until the last moment. She was thus enabled to give the sitting-room a semblance of cleanliness and tidiness which reached heights to which Florence never attempted to rise, and also to rearrange the furniture before she opened the front door and captured the morning portion of milk and the two daily newspapers, Daily Mail and Daily Express, which ministered to their respective spheres of thought. It happened that the Daily Mail first attracted her attention by its front page advertisements of intimate garments, but as she placed the milk bottle on the kitchen table the Daily Express came under review and she read with filmlike breathlessness because she could not help it,

MURDER IN PICCADILLY.

UNDERGROUND TRAGEDY.

WELL KNOWN LONDON CLUBMAN'S TRAGIC DEATH.

Three times at least she read, and was beginning to ask herself if this was not another “stunt” when she caught sight of the most familiar of all names to her, Cheldon. Instantaneously her heart became as stone, her fingers convulsively clutched the paper and her eyes assumed rigidity. A sort of frozen dread enveloped her, a dread of a horrible surprise, and yet at the first glimpse of the name she had persuaded herself that it could be only her brother-in-law.

“Massy. Stabbed to the heart.” She uttered a moan that embodied misery and horror. “Oh, my God!”

The paper slipped from her fingers and she found herself staring in the direction of Bobbie's room.

The murder had been committed at forty-five minutes past eleven and Bobbie had not returned home until half-past twelve. She remembered that, for she had heard him enter and close his bedroom door, and a glance at her luminous clock had told her the time.

Rigidity left her as her terror increased.

“Bobbie,” she screamed, “Bobbie.”

She covered her mouth with her right hand, frightened by the sound of her hysterical voice.

“What is it?” Bobbie in trousers and pyjama coat was standing in the doorway of his room. “What's the matter, mother?” He was irritable as though she had disturbed his sleep.

“Your uncle. Oh, Bobbie.” She burst into tears.

He sprang the distance between them and picked up the paper.

“My God!” she heard him gasp. “Uncle Massy—murdered. I can't believe it.” He looked from the paper to his mother. “But you were to have lunched with him today! What can it mean?” He paused to try and answer his own question, and the silent answer came pat, “The Cheldon estate for you. You are rich now and Nancy is yours.” But it only added to his confusion.

“What's that?” Ruby Cheldon ran into the the little hall and listened. Footfalls could be heard, many of them, but they all stopped when they reached the landing.

“Perhaps it's the newspapers,” Bobbie whispered. “Come back.”

They closed the door and listened as though they were in midnight darkness and a ghost might be expected at any moment.

Knocks, rings, murmuring voices, more knocks and rings. Half an hour of breathless expectancy passed slowly.

“You'll be late for the office,” Ruby whispered, and only the seriousness of the situation prevented him laughing at her inanity.

“I'll not have to go to the office again,” he said, speaking out of the reverie into which he had fallen.

“I think they've gone,” she said in a husky voice, not having heard him. They had not moved for ten minutes, and limbs and necks were stiff.

He stole on tiptoe to the door and listened.

“Poor uncle,” she heard him murmur, and for some reason it brought her immense comfort. “Poor old Uncle Massy! He didn't deserve this.”

“You'd better have breakfast,” she said, anxious to create a diversion. “I must do something—we must both do something. It's horrible having to think about it at all. I'll go mad.” She pressed her forehead. “I'm sorry, Bobbie, but the shock.”

Before he could speak words of comfort the bell went noisily and they looked at each other.

“Might be a friend,” said Bobbie nervously. “I—I think I'll answer it. In any case we can't remain prisoners here for ever.”

A stout, middle-aged man with an umbrella, and a dark blue suit that seemed lonely without an overcoat with a velvet collar, met his gaze of inquiry with a look of bland neutrality.

“Are you Mr. Robert Cheldon?” he asked politely.

“Yes. Who are you?” Bobbie wished he had nodded and not spoken as soon as he understood the note in his voice.

“I am Chief Inspector Wake of Scotland Yard and I've called to ask you if you'd be so kind as to tell me something about your uncle. Of course, you've read the morning papers and——?”

“Come in,” said Bobbie, suspecting that the invitation was unnecessary and that his visitor was quite equal to forcing his way in. “I'll just slip on a coat and join you in a moment.”

As he passed the kitchen he breathed to his mother, “Scotland Yard man. Don't worry. I'll tackle him.”

To his annoyance his mother was speaking to their caller when he returned, speaking words of sympathy to which the inspector nodded with apparent understanding and appreciation.

“We'll get the murderer, madam,” he was assuring Ruby when Bobbie, white and shaky, took the chair opposite his mother. “But not without the help of Mr. Cheldon's relations.”

“Any clues?” said Bobbie, wondering why it was necessary for him to pretend to be interested when as a matter of fact he was only frightened.

“None except the dagger.” Chief Inspector Wake looked over Bobbie's head at an enlarged photograph of Colonel Cheldon, and throughout the interview hardly ever lowered his gaze.

“I don't think we can help,” said Ruby, nervously, her fine features almost disfigured by their dead white pallor. “My son and I have always lived very quietly and—”

“Mr. Cheldon called here at soon after six yesterday. Did he say anything or hint at anything likely to indicate an attack on his life?” The suddenness of a question which was also a disclosure was the first shot in the campaign and the middle-aged woman and the young man both experienced an involuntary terror which reduced their bones to sawdust.

“I had never seen him so happy,” said Ruby, after a pause. “Once he remarked that he was feeling on top of the world. On top of the world. That was his exact expression.”

Chief Inspector Wake smiled blandly.

“Mrs. Cheldon,” he said, in a paternal voice, “I've nearly forgotten that I'm a policeman on duty. But there's no danger to you, madam, none at all. Yet they'll rap me over the fingers at the Yard if I don't warn you that—”

“Warn me?” she cried, shrivelling up.

“What do you mean?” Bobbie's effort at thunder resulted in a squeak.

“I'm sorry. It's only a formality. Of course, you will help. There's no need to warn you or to talk of taking down what you say. Naturally you're even more anxious than I am to know why Mr. Massy Cheldon should be on top of the world at six and murdered at a quarter to twelve. You're determined, as I am, to bring the murderer to justice. Mrs. Cheldon, and you, Mr. Cheldon, you are willing to help me?”

They had no option—that was what Bobbie thought—as his mother eagerly embraced the offer of an unofficial partnership.

“We will do all we can to help you, inspector,” said Bobbie with a gravity that lost its dignity mainly because of the twitching of his cheeks.

“Thank you very much, Mr. Cheldon,” said Chief Inspector Wake in a voice husky for moisture. “When I was given charge of the case I knew at once that I would fail unless the family helped, especially the head of the family now that Mr. Massy Cheldon is dead.”

“The head?” Bobbie gasped, and trembled for no reason.

“You succeed to the family property, don't you?” Chief Inspector Wake lifted his chin a little higher and appeared to be absorbed again in the photograph of the late Colonel Cheldon.

“How did you know that?” The voice was weak and querulous, but there was fright in it, too.

“If it's true what does it matter, Mr. Cheldon?” was the polite rejoinder. “You see,” he lapsed into the confidential, “you see, Mr. Cheldon, when I had all the known facts about the Piccadilly murder, as they're calling it already in the newspapers, I remarked to the superintendent ‘In my opinion, sir, if it's not the man who benefits most by the murder of this wealthy squire and clubman we must rope him in to help us, and if he does we'll not add this to our so-called failures.' That's what I said to him, Mr. Cheldon, and as you'll have no trouble in proving where you were last night it stands to reason that you'll be only too anxious to do all you can for us.”

The speech was long enough to restore Bobbie's confidence by giving him time to think, but could he have guessed that that was the inspector's only object in indulging in loquacity he might have failed to recover his grip on his tongue and heart.

“You can rely on my co-operation, inspector,” he said after the manner of the new squire of Broadbridge and narrowly missing “my man.”

Ruby Cheldon stared at her son and instantly thought of her own complexion. She had never seen Bobbie so white, so yellow about the eyes. But was it yellow? The silly question persisted until a repetition of the earlier attack on the flat was presaged by the sound of footfalls.

“It's all right,” said Chief Inspector Wake, remaining seated as both of them jumped up. “Don't worry. They'll not disturb us. I have two of my men on guard.”

“Two men on guard?” Ruby's repetition of what she considered a sinister phrase reached its apex in a weak scream.

“It's only to help us, mother,” said Bobbie, but there was no comfort in a voice that shook. “Do sit down and let's talk quietly. You know we must help to avenge Uncle Massy's cowardly murder.”

“You ought to be proud of your son, madam,” said the man from Scotland Yard. “I am sure you can trust him to protect you.”

As there was no obvious answer to this remark they listened for a couple of minutes and two of them found no comfort in the silence that to Bobbie at any rate had the quality of prison solitude in it.

“Now, Mrs. Cheldon,” said Chief Inspector Wake, turning to her and thereby arousing fresh suspicions in Bobbie's elastic, fluid and fluent mind, “if you do not object I will begin business. Please remember that in investigating a case of this kind a man in my official position has to do a lot of things that seem unnecessary and even stupid, but I have a method—a famous detective taught it to me—of first getting rid of everybody from the case who could be suspected of a connection with it and then concentrating on those who are left. When I am lucky I have only one person left and he says good-bye to me at the Old Bailey.”

Bobbie shuddered again.

“And how do you get rid of them?” Ruby was clutching her handkerchief now.

“By patient and, whenever possible, friendly investigation,” he answered, showing no interest in her emotion. “It is, as I think I have mentioned, routine and nothing more. We all have our own methods, and, of course, I have mine.” Although he never moved he seemed to wheel round on Bobbie as he put the question, “Where were you at a quarter to twelve last night?” He breathed heavily as if the effort had cost him something.

“On my way home,” said Bobbie, with an emphasis that angered him because it was born of his dreadful fancies.

Chief Inspector Wake smiled.

“You didn't murder your uncle. Gentlemen like you don't use stilettos anyway. But I must account for your movements.”

“It was about midnight when I reached home,” and Ruby nearly screamed again. “I was later than usual. Don't often dine out these days when I have to be early at the office.”

“Dine alone?” The manner of the question was cheerful.

“No.” Bobbie laughed sketchily. “It would have been a bit of bad luck if I'd had to pay the bill. Funds are low.”

“You have succeeded to a fortune, I'm told.”

Again Ruby squirmed. The inspector's utter lack of hostility, his unruffled suavity and his very unimportance all conjured up in her mind the picture of a Machiavelli such as only the craftiest and most cunning brains of Scotland Yard could have created. She saw a trap in every sentence and a threat in every movement.

“Your friend, eh? No objection to mentioning his name, I suppose?”

“Of course not. He was Mr. Ruslin.” Bobbie was on firm ground now, but the next remark of the detective's had the effect of an earthquake.

“You don't mean Nosey Ruslin, by any chance?”

Bobbie half rose and sank back again, tried to laugh and failed even to grin, and finally bleated something that sounded like an invitation to drink.

“So you know Nosey Ruslin, do you?” Chief Inspector Wake gazed up at the ceiling.

“Well, know him is hardly correct. I met him first only a short time ago.” While Bobbie was telling himself he was an ass to be apologising when no apology was needed or might even be dangerous, his mother was on the brink of collapse. She read more into the conversation than either of the two men, but then she alone knew, or thought she knew, the significance of Bobbie's lie, and fearful that other lies were on the way she was palpitating with terror.

“An interesting chap, Nosey Ruslin,” the inspector said musingly. “I remember him when he was tipped for the heavy-weight championship. Drink finished him then and he gave it up. Never been drunk since.” He laughed shortly. “London's full of funny people, and Nosey is one of the funniest.” He laughed again, but not the sort of laugh one is invited to share.