Murder in Piccadilly (25 page)

“But how could I pay such a sum? The Cheldon estate will probably bring in less after the death duties have been paid. It would have to be done in instalments.” Bobbie marvelled at his detachment from the tragic horror of the situation, but he was incapable of understanding that he was actually defending himself from it.

“Give me an IOU,” said Nosey, carelessly. “You can redeem it when it suits your convenience.”

“And uncle's letter and mine?” There was a quaver in his voice.

“They'll be handed over with the IOU when the cash is paid and old Wideawake is growing roses in his retirement.” Nosey's utter absence of nerves was convincing, and Bobbie became infected by his air of quiet, businesslike confidence.

“All right. Show me what to do. And when I have signed it what then?”

“You can go home and forget all about the London end of the Cheldon affair,” said Nosey, not answering the question until he was in the act of placing with reverent ceremony the precious document in his pocket-book. “You can do the squire act at the family mansion and forget Nosey Ruslin and anyone else you want to forget.” He looked at him sideways.

Bobbie, half consciously under the influence of the idea that he had settled his debt, took up the remnants of his superiority.

“I will leave London for Broadbridge immediately,” he said, lolling in his chair. “I'll not allow myself to be bothered further by anyone.”

“The right spirit,” said Nosey cordially. “Show Wake the door if he calls. It's the only way to deal with him. Refer him to your solicitor.”

The name had an unhappy effect on Bobbie.

“He must never know anything of our arrangement,” he said, nervous again. “Either now or in the future. If there is no arrest they will keep the case open for months.”

“I had thought of that, and you needn't worry. I'll not pay you a visit at your grand palace, Mr. Cheldon. There's a post-box in every town and village and we can settle our business without anyone being the wiser—unless you want them to be wise.”

Bobbie turned away from him with a shiver of disgust. The revolting callousness of his confederate infuriated him, but he was in chains and could do nothing. There was his mother to consider. And his own reputation. He was sure he would be popular at Broadbridge. There were many reforms he would institute at once by way of penance and reparation.

“I wish the papers would stop writing about the case,” he said suddenly.

“Oh, they don't rob me of my beauty sleep,” Nosey answered readily. “It's Wake who's been on my nerves. He very nearly drove me into a corner where he could have given me one under the chin. I was for leaving London and avoiding my favourite little spots, but I guessed in time the crafty old devil's dodge.”

Bobbie walked to the door, expecting Nosey to accompany him, and when the ex-pugilist kept his feet implanted by the sideboard he paused and turned round. Something of the cheerfulness and satisfaction that beamed from the little eyes and the huge cheeks encouraged him to make another attempt to banish his torturing curiosity, for Nosey was obviously in the best of humours.

“Mr. Ruslin, now that I've proved my willingness to treat you generously, won't you tell me who murdered my uncle?” It was symptomatic of his complete surrender that he should see or feel nothing of his cold-blooded detachment from emotion of any kind.

Nosey smiled from ear to ear and from forehead to chin.

“That's a fair question, and before I answer it, will you have a shot at a guess? Who did it, do you think?”

The younger man did not hesitate.

“The fellow you call Italian Charlie,” he hazarded.

Nosey's grin became etched into his countenance.

“Italian Charlie was a blind. I always have a blind in a job of work of this kind. For the actual job I try and get the one man the police are least likely to suspect. Of course, I am careful to provide myself with an alibi. That's why I had you to a late, very late dinner on Monday night. No, it wasn't Italian Charlie and never could have been. My business with him was over short weight in cash, a ‘fence' in North London gave him. Nothing more. Guess again.”

“I can't. There were fellows I've seen in the ‘Frozen Fang' who looked equal to cutting any number of throats.” Suddenly surprised at the note of flippancy in the only voice he could hear, Bobbie flushed with shame. “I mean I never knew their names,” he added, lamely.

“That proves how cleverly I've managed it, and with this little scrap of paper and your letters.” How he grinned! “Well, I don't mind putting you wise, Mr. Cheldon. Fact is, you've got to be told.” He approached and lowered his voice to the faintest of whispers. “The man who did the knife act on Monday night and put you into a mansion with ten thousand of the best a year was—” the voice was almost inarticulate—“Billy the Dancer—Billy Bright.” He slapped him on the back. “Now you know, my boy.”

Bobbie's surprise was almost paralysing in its effect. His first effort was to express his disbelief in one blinding phrase of vitriolic contempt, but his faculties refused to function; his next, to give his informant a knowing look as of appreciation of his fantastic humour, and his third, an angry gesture of repudiation of the other's obvious attempt to classify him amongst the most credulous of idiots. But all he could do was to stare vacantly as he wrestled with his conflicting thoughts, while a panorama of the immediate past brought into a jumbled review the persons and places which had become known to him since that night of nights when he had been introduced to Nancy Curzon at the ‘Frozen Fang'.

“Never guessed that, eh?” said the husky voice of Nosey Ruslin, “and neither won't old Wideawake. Them Scotland Yard know-alls make a habit of suspecting everybody from the start so that if by chance they get the right man they can boast they spotted him at once. Wake suspects me and you and Italian Charlie and lots of others he's seen me with. He may even be pretending to see the blood on Billy's shirt front, but he isn't thinking of him. That's the way to do a job, Mr. Cheldon, and it's the reason why Nosey Ruslin has the cleanest record in London considering all things.”

It was all of a piece with the Cheldon character that Bobbie should in that moment experience a spasm of pleasure at the reminder that in all his moods, good and bad, Nosey never forgot to address him formally. The illiterate ex-pugilist might be familiar now and then, but it was always “Mr. Cheldon”. There was comfort in that.

“Billy Bright,” he murmured, speaking with an effort. “A nervous wreck without the courage of a mouse.”

“Exactly.” It was a favourite word of Nosey's. “Exactly.” He looked sly and unfathomable. “And the beauty of it is that Billy himself didn't know until the day that he was to do it. I led him up the garden path beautifully and do you know what the carrot was I held in front of his nose, Mr. Cheldon.” He rubbed his hands, a sure sign of enjoyment.

Bobbie did not attempt to guess.

“A half share in ten thousand quids,” was the startling answer.

“I thought he didn't know—?” Bobbie gasped.

“He knows nothing except what I've told him. He knows less than Wake does about the revolver, in fact he's never heard about it at all. And there's something more.” He paused impressively, or with the intention of being impressive. “From first to last he's understood that my little business was being done without your knowledge. I assured him that it would be a waste of time to try and bring a gentleman like you into it.”

“But he's keen on Nancy,” Bobbie objected, his voice utterly without feeling because of the relief which Nosey's assurance had bred.

“Of course, he is, and would marry her tomorrow if he had the chance.” Nosey Ruslin never lied unless a lie promised a dividend, and now he was sharp and cunning enough to realise that the truth would be profitable. “Yes, he's crazy about Nancy, and you and I shouldn't be surprised, Mr. Cheldon. She's one in a million. I'd be crazy about her too if I were twenty years younger. But that doesn't matter. The important point is that Billy prefers hard cash to matrimony, that is, if there is plenty of the cash. He's heavily in debt and there's a bit of trouble with an Italian cousin of his over a cheque—”

“Is Billy Bright an Italian then?” Bobbie exclaimed, a great light beginning to dawn.

“Father from Naples and mother from Athens,” Nosey imparted with the succinctness of a one-volume encyclopædia. “The old man was deported years ago by old Wideawake's efforts.”

“That accounts for a lot,” said Bobbie to himself.

“I should think so. But, as I was saying, Mr. Cheldon, Billy isn't as big a fool as we think he is. He wants money and Nancy, but seeing as how he can't get neither in one hand he prefers the money. That little cheque is threatening to land him in quod.”

“Forgery, I suppose?”

“Forged endorsement is what they call it. Billy came to me shaking like a jelly, and it was me who got the Italian cousin to stay his hand for a month, but I had to promise him fifty per cent on the money owing, thirty-three pound ten.”

“Doesn't sound much.”

“It's a million when you haven't got it,” said Nosey feelingly. “But it's not all that Billy owes. He's up against it, or was until he saw daylight and agreed to imitate his Italian ancestors. Nervous bloke, Billy, but when properly worked up can be a regular little demon.” Nosey's laughter shattered Bobbie's daydream. When reality became overwhelming he usually had recourse to unreality.

“Anyhow, there's the posish,” said Nosey with an air of finality. “I've told you everything so that you can be on your guard. If you see Wake again do none of the talking. Leave that to him. And be prepared for anything, Mr. Cheldon. But if you'll take my advice you'll forget as much as you can, though that won't be easy.”

Bobbie laughed sarcastically.

“I can think of nothing else,” he said, peevishly.

“But what about your estate and Nancy and your marriage and—and living like a lord?” Nosey's catalogue of earthly joys ended abruptly, for his own was confined to money and eating. “Be prepared for anything,” he repeated earnestly, “anything. Now supposing for example I'm arrested?”

Bobbie started with fear for himself.

“You'll get the jumps, but you must keep your hair on. I'll not split, Mr. Cheldon, not even with the hangman telling me it's a fine morning and the warders asking me to choose the menu for breakfast.” He laughed the laugh of confidence. “You've kept your part of the bargain and I'll keep mine. And mine is to keep your name out of it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ruslin,” said Bobbie, after a pause.

“That's right.” The heavy hand was extended.

“And now you'll be wanting to see Nancy, Mr. Cheldon, and she'll be wanting to see you. But don't forget that you've nothing to do now with our little business. You're rich and out of danger. Forget your uncle and forget me until I call for a little cheque. Good-bye.”

Chapter Twelve

Chief Inspector Wake sat at his desk listlessly glancing at the latest batch of reports from his subordinates. When he had gleaned a little more than nothing from them he picked up the first of the letters, anonymous and otherwise, which had accumulated during the preceding twenty-four hours. They were all of a familiar type. Eleven contained signed confessions of the murder of Massy Cheldon; twenty-nine named the murderer; eight were devoted to explaining the case against capital punishment; fourteen offered “shrewd guesses”—that was the invariable phrase— as to the identity of the criminal, and sixteen, the majority dated from Service clubs in Pall Mall and neighbourhood, crisply emphasised the more obvious defects of Scotland Yard and its “incompetent underlings,” as one of the most virulent of the critics expressed it.

“I suppose these have been looked into?” he said to Detective-Sergeant Clarke, who was standing over him.

“Yes, sir.” The question could have reference only to the confessions. “With the exception of one they are all borderline cases.”

“And the one?”

“An out of work actor in Brixton who admitted to me that he hoped that after he had been acquitted the film companies would clamour for his services.” The sergeant smiled. “He was really surprised when I told him that I didn't intend to arrest him.”

The inspector flung the letter which happened to be in his hand across the desk and pushed back his chair.

“Waste of time, Clarke, waste of time, and our time is very precious. Four days since the murder and nothing but suspicion.”

“But promising suspicion, sir. You've narrowed the field down considerably. I'm nearly confident.”

“That's comforting—coming from you,” said Wake gravely. “But, of course, I'm not depressed. Who could be with such a clue as Nosey Ruslin? A big fat, juicy clue.” He stood up. “I'll have him, Clarke, but in my own good time and way. The chief rather hinted that he ought to be taken in at once if I really believed what I told him, but that wouldn't do. I wish, though, I could have been present at that con-conference between him and young Cheldon last night.”

Detective-Sergeant Clarke became grimmer of expression.

“I'd prefer to know exactly what young Cheldon has to do with his uncle's murder,” he said.

“Nothing and yet a lot, Clarke. That's my opinion. Young Cheldon isn't a murderer or a crook of any sort. Of course, he's weak. What could you expect? Brought up by a doting mother and encouraged to be a loafer until the Piccadilly Underground murder gave him a fortune.”

“Took him from an office in the city to a mansion in the country, sir. Is there a link between the two? Isn't it probable that it is a case of cause and effect—temptation and—”

The inspector ended the excursion into hypothesis with an impatient gesture. The art of detection was in his opinion chiefly one of acting and thinking. Talking played a small part in it.

“Nosey may be using him, Clarke, as he's used half his friends and acquaintances. You remember the pearl robbery at Norwood and the theft of banknotes at Cricklewood? We know Nosey was in both, but we never got him. Nosey is all secrets so he lives openly and appears to have no secrets at all. He does all his business in restaurants and he parades Piccadilly with jewel thieves and confidence tricksters as though he had nothing to fear. That's the genius of the man—he makes no pretence to genius, but he's got something of it. I wish he would do a bit of bad acting now and then, particularly now.”

He turned to the desk and from a pigeon-hole took a half sheet of paper.

“Billy Bright, Nancy Curzon, Italian Charlie, Fred Frescoli, Larry O'Brien, Cora Beamish.” He recited the remainder of eleven names to himself before replacing the record. “All pals of Nosey's and all seen with him within a week of the murder.”

“I wish we could get a line between Nosey and Massy Cheldon,” said Clarke, reviving an old subject. “The registered parcel hasn't led us very far, sir, though I don't agree with you that it's worthless.”

“Not worthless, Clarke, but unsatisfactory. It contained a weapon, as Nosey has admitted—if he wasn't lying—but it wasn't a dagger. The dagger is our principal clue.”

“The only one, I'm thinking, sir.”

“The only one with the exception of Nosey. I prefer human clues to any others. Nosey is on his guard and is pretending he isn't.”

“Playing your own game, sir,” said the sergeant with a smile.

“That's clever of him, but the trump cards are mine. Still, I was surprised Nosey thought I was capable of being tricked by his blurting out the news that Italian Charlie had got out of the country. He ought to have guessed that I'd be bound to know all about the Italian's movements. Charlie didn't do it, but if ever we want him we can bring him back. I don't believe in being fussy, Clarke.”

“Don't I know it, sir.”

“There are chaps here who would have arrested Italian Charlie or tried to prevent him leaving the country. That's not my method. I prefer to let the criminal classes agree with the opinion of the newspapers that we're an incompetent lot, and I want Nosey Ruslin to believe it, too. Pretend to let things slide. Be the plodding official regretting his entanglement in red tape. Ask questions and listen to long-winded lies with patience. Don't use the notebook and pencil too often. I've listened to regular speeches by Nosey and the others, and I don't think I've wasted all my time.”

“But are we nearer an arrest, sir?”

“We are.” The sharpness of the reply startled the phlegmatic sergeant into a prolonged stare. “I've completed my plans, Clarke. You and I will leave Nosey alone for the present and concentrate on Billy the Dancer.”

The sergeant wisely refrained from expressing thoughts which might have been treated as mutinous and disrespectful criticism of his superior officer, but his chief went down somewhat in his estimation.

“I think I can guess what's worrying you, Clarke,” said the inspector with a patient tolerance which presaged victory. “Billy as young Cheldon's rival in love wouldn't have risked his neck to make it certain that the girl would be carried off by the young heir.”

“We have proof that Billy and Nancy Curzon were planning an elopement the day before the murder,” Clarke reminded him. “Billy's so mad about her that he's spoilt his career on her account.”

“He's heavily in debt, too.”

“That wouldn't worry him. It was Nancy he wanted. They've been dancing partners for nearly eighteen months, but he's had to carry her. She's only ordinary—he's the goods. Old Adler, who runs Greville's, told me that he'd heard Nancy Curzon boasting of the well paid continental and American tour Billy had secured a contract for.”

“Curious,” Wake commented. “I haven't noticed any elation in Billy of late, and I saw him a dozen times before the murder.”

“You forget, sir, he's naturally a gloomy sort of chap. It's only his eyes that can smile, and they don't try very often.”

“A nervous, cowardly, spineless imitation of a man,” said Wake, contemptuously. “I've met several of his kind, but they've all been engaged in the White Slave traffic. Two whiskies and he's drunk.”

“One of the reports mentions that he isn't drinking anything now—not since the murder,” said the sergeant carelessly.

“I have that report in my pocket-book. Ah, I thought you'd be surprised, Clarke, but it interested me. The difficulty is to find the links that connect Nosey Ruslin with Billy the Dancer, young Cheldon and a few others who are on the suspicion list. So far Billy has kept clear even if he has gone for a holiday.”

“He'll be back in Soho soon,” Clarke prophesied. “He can't breathe the air properly anywhere else.”

“While I'm here I'll go through the statements from persons who were present at the murder and didn't know it,” said Wake acidly. He was never patient or tolerant of the unobservant, and that about a thousand persons should have been the unseeing chorus of a tragedy exasperated him.

“We have ninety-five, sir. I've read them so often that I know most of them by heart. But they're all worthless except that elderly woman in Harrow who says she heard a woman scream.”

“Yes, that struck me as peculiar. Why didn't any of the others mention it? Yes, yes, I know some did but not until after we had asked them about it. Could the woman have imagined it?”

“Eleven statements contain references to the scream, sir,” Clarke reminded him. “Second statement in each case, I know, but I can't imagine why they should lie. They had no reason or cause not to speak the truth. Then more than one of them explained that the shock caused by the discovery of the murder banished everything from their minds.”

“The woman who screamed,” said Wake, thoughtfully. “If only we could find her, Clarke.”

“I'm not so interested in her, sir. If you remember it's been established that she was near the moving stairway and in such a position that she could not have seen Massy Cheldon or the man who attacked him. We have tested and proved that twice.”

“Quite so. That's why I'm anxious to meet the woman who screamed—or I ought to say, the woman who screamed first. There were plenty of other screams a minute or so later.”

“Unless she comes forward, sir, and—”

“She won't come forward. I'm sure of that. We will have to find her and drag her forward.”

“Do you think she was a confederate?”

“I don't know, and when I don't know, Clarke, I suspect. It's a bad habit of mine, but we're dealing with a clever gang, and Nosey Ruslin's the cleverest of them all. You must be prepared for any trickery in anything in which he has a hand.”

“But what use would a screaming woman be, sir?” There was a bland patience in the sergeant's tone which amused his senior.

“You fancy it would have interfered with the plot instead of helping it along, eh? I thought so, but, Clarke, have you forgotten the case of Jimmy Waters? You and I arrested him in Lambeth near Westminster Bridge just after he had picked the pocket of a member of Parliament of three hundred pounds in notes. Have you also forgotten Jimmy's neat little trick? There's nothing new under the sun, you know.”

Detective-Sergeant Clarke's chagrin and humiliation brought about an upheaval of movement which nearly lifted him into the air.

“What a fool I am, sir! What an ass! Of course, you're right. Jimmy had a girl to scream and focus the attention of the crowd on herself. Why, that's the very dodge that a chap like Nosey would be almost certain to adopt.”

“Nosey is like most great crooks, not an inventor. He remembers and copies. Jimmy Waters was a pal of his. If you look into the papers about the case you will find more than one reference to Nosey. Of course, it's only an idea and a guess, but it's worth assuming it's true until it's proved not to be. That's my attitude towards it.”

Detective-Sergeant Clarke, however, would accept nothing short of implicit belief in the accuracy of the surmise.

“The woman who screamed could solve the mystery, sir,” he said with an emphasis foreign to his slow, cautious nature. “It was a trick, and didn't it come off! Who could she be? I'll have a look through the list again. She must be a pal of Nosey's. Oh, if only we could land Nosey in the Underground at the moment Massy Cheldon was murdered!”

“He has a perfect alibi, Clarke. He was with young Cheldon at least a quarter of a mile away. Both of them have lied—it may be that young Cheldon didn't mean to lie—about the exact time, but I've checked it up and it would be too strong for an Old Bailey jury. Not that I ever hoped for anything from Nosey's timetable on last Monday night. He wouldn't be in the danger zone, Clarke. We know he never is.”

For a few minutes the two men preferred to think in silence. Both of them knew that the murder of Massy Cheldon was not of the order of mysteries which are never solved. They also knew that in Nosey Ruslin there lay the solution, and Nosey, even if they suspected with good reason that it was by no means the first murder in which he had been responsible for the preliminaries, must be induced to weaken his defences and somehow tricked into betraying himself, for Chief Inspector Wake and Detective-Sergeant Clarke, however admiringly they might speak at times of the cleverness of the rogues with whom they had to deal professionally, knew that the crook is a fool, in a hurry to betray if his own skin is in danger.

“The papers are not forgetting us, Clarke,” said Wake suddenly, “and Piccadilly seems to have trebled its population.”

“The manager tells me that yesterday they issued more tickets than ever before,” said Clarke grimly.

“Mostly penny tickets, I'll bet.”

“You're right, sir.” He had guessed that himself before the manager of the Underground had entered into particulars, but it would not have been tactful to refuse a tribute to the perspicacity of one's official superior. “The increase consists almost entirely of people who want to see the exact spot where Massy Cheldon was murdered.”

“And the newspapers and the public are clamouring for an early arrest,” said Chief Inspector Wake, bitterly. “But if we arrested on suspicion only, Clarke, our prisons would have to be quadrupled. And yet I'm not downhearted. Somehow I can't help feeling that this is going to be one of our really satisfactory cases.”

“I hope so, sir.” The sergeant's tone did not connote confidence. “All depends if we haven't let anyone we're likely to want escape the net.”

“You mean Nosey Ruslin may have a confederate we haven't thought of?”

“We have no proof of any kind against Nosey,” Clarke reminded him.

“Except Nosey himself. He's always proof.” Wake smiled. “Of course, you may be right, Clarke, and yet in my opinion it's Nosey or nothing. The whole business bears the stamp of his management. Thank goodness, we can bring him in whenever we wish.”