Murder in Piccadilly (28 page)

Bobbie gazed at the certain person and was discovering fresh reasons for shuddering when Nancy returned, accompanied by a tallish girl with reddish hair and a face which appeared to have been whitewashed.

“Meet Tessie Hodey,” she said to Bobbie.

“Congrats, and all that sort of thing,” said Tessie with an immense giggle that shook some of the powder off her face. “What about a corpse-livener, Nancy?”

Nosey Ruslin became busy.

“Arthur Yule—not fool.” The second introduction was another ordeal, for the dapper little man with the bald head and the mouth of a comedian seemed to have come straight from the ham and beef shop over the “Frozen Fang,” as indeed he had when another arrival, Jennie Watts, twenty and already faded, began in a loud voice to talk to Arthur of the time she had spent in his shop as an assistant.

“A good chap,” Nosey whispered to Bobbie when he had the chance. “Used to give Nancy all the credit she wanted when she would have starved.”

Instantly Bobbie's heart warmed to the little man who was all nerves, loquacity and vulgarity.

“Another cocktail, Mr. Yule?” he said, intercepting his passage to where Nancy was chaffing a heavy, six-foot male in evening dress who might have been a genuine waiter or an imitation actor.

“Thanks,” was the reply which accompanied the outstretched hand. “Never refused a drink in my life.”

“I'm surprised I never saw you in the ‘Frozen Fang',” said Bobbie, glad of an excuse for a conversation which might soothe nerves threatening to spoil the evening because he was certain that the next arrival must be Billy Bright.

Mr. Yule's grimace was eloquent.

“Not in my line. I'm the landlord and that's all. Besides, it takes me all my time to look after the shop. So you're the chap Nancy intends to marry? Well, I congratulate you. She's had many admirers. A clever girl, Mr. Cheldon, and a real good sort.”

“You were kind to her, Mr. Yule, and I'm very grateful.”

“Oh, that was nothing. Nancy's the sort you can always trust. I knew she'd repay me. Her word's good enough for anyone. Since the—” he emptied the tiny glass and nearly spluttered, for in common with the other guests he had been warned by Nancy not to refer to the Underground murder.

“Hello, Billy!”

Nancy's voice rose above the din of conversation, and Bobbie, listening to Mr. Yule's dramatic account of a certain assistant who carved a ham so badly that he lost heavily on its sales in slices, seized a glass for himself and filled it without noticing what he was doing.

“Very aggravating,” Bobbie murmured, his brain clotted with a sickening sense of helplessness not free from terror.

“You know, Mr. Cheldon,” said the little man confidentially, “a free and easy life is the life for me, and it suits Nancy, but it's a bit rough having to know a chap like Billy the Dancer.” He lowered his voice and appeared to be gazing into his glass. “A blighter who'd lick your boots one moment and cut your throat the next.” He lifted his eyes and turned them in the direction of the corner where the sallow-faced dancer, Tessie Hodey and the gentleman in evening dress comprised Nancy's audience. “Mr. Cheldon, when the police hear of a murder within a square mile of where we're standing, they first ask where Billy the Dancer was at the time. That's the sort of chap he is, and he's all the more dangerous because he's not a bully. Never loses his temper. Quiet and polite, and dangerous, damnably dangerous, and yet a coward.”

Nosey came up before Bobbie could frame a suitable reply or comment, and a minute later Nancy was at his right with a story of a “hit” she had scored at a now defunct night club which had earned fame by the trouble it had given the police to extinguish it.

“Oh, there you are!” she exclaimed, as a fat woman covered with black silk and a dirty apron came in with the first consignment of sandwiches. “Arthur must have thought we'd eaten the supper before his arrival.”

Mr. Yule smiled at the reference which reminded everybody except Bobbie, who had not been aware of it, that the edibles were from the Yule establishment.

“Now, Nosey, get busy. Bobbie, you look after the whisky and keep Bertie from it if you can.”

A general laugh passed over Bobbie's head. He did not know who Bertie was and he did not wish to learn.

“There's tea and coffee.”

Someone perched himself on the table in the corner, the girls found seats in chairs or on their arms, the men stood or leaned against the wall, and teeth and tongues moved at a rapid pace.

“Tessie, what about that song-hit of yours? If Nosey will get off the piano lid Bertie Desmond can accompany you.”

“Oh, no, dear. You dance first,” Tessie protested weakly. “I don't feel like singing tonight.”

The usual preliminary to the song, and Bobbie, two chairs and a rug removed from Billy Bright, was able to join in the chorus of “The Ocean's Wide and so am I,” which Tessie raced through breathlessly.

The pianist next took the floor.

“The Death of Eugene Aram,” he announced in a sepulchral voice.

Bobbie had three drinks during the lengthy recitation, and twice to his extreme horror caught the roving eyes of Billy Bright.

“Thank you,” said Nancy to the reciter, and Bobbie thought her voice was tart. “Will anyone else oblige with another selection from the mortuary?”

Tessie's peal of laughter saved the situation.

“If you ask me nicely, Nancy,” said Nosey Ruslin, “I'll have a cup of tea. Yes, I mean it.” He stared at the grins of appreciation of this manifestation of humour.

“It was time we had a joke, Nosey,” said Nancy. “The whisky's behind you. Bobbie, fill his glass.”

Someone started to sing a popular ballad of the hour, and the momentary confusion sorted itself into less noisy groups. It may have been merely an accident, but now Nosey and Billy found themselves together for the first time.

“A drink, Billy?” The voice was natural and distinct. “Why did you come back?” The voice was a whisper. “You know you haven't a chance.” Billy's lips moved. “It's in my pocket now. Ten thousand quid. Keep your head and your nerve and all's well,” was Nosey's rejoinder. “But you shouldn't have turned up here, Billy.”

“Didn't you tell me to be natural?” Billy had the knack of talking without moving his lips, and to all intents and purposes his only interest at the moment was in his glass. “You swore at me for what you called running away.”

“You did it too soon, but never mind now. Keep your head. I've got young Cheldon in my pocket.”

“And he's got Nancy,” was the growling response.

“We can't have everything,” said Nosey warningly. “It had to be money or Nancy, and you'll want your share of the ten thousand.”

“Will it stop at that?” The dark eyes were cold and suspicious.

“You bet not,” said the big man with the slightest of grins.

“It was the money I came back for—not Nancy.” There was a whine in the voice, but his expression retained its slyness.

“Then why did you come here tonight?”

“Because I wanted to see you, Nosey. There's no one else. I'm afraid of my own shadow sometimes, and if you let me down—”

“How could I? If you keep your mouth shut you'll be safe.” Nosey affected to be unconscious of the threat in the other's voice. “You've only to deny I had nothing to do with you and they can't touch you.”

“Yes, that's right. So you've screwed ten thousand out of him?”

Before he could reply Nancy had pounced on Nosey.

“Call for silence,” she commanded him. “I must do my dance at once or else I'll be too drunk.”

Her voice was a trifle thick and her movements jerky. Bobbie, who always felt half ashamed of Nancy when she was with her own kind if not kin, shivered and reproached himself for disloyalty. But Nancy in her primitive self was not of the Cheldon standard, not nearly, and he was ashamed of her. She had been talking loudly, slangily and even coarsely ever since the party had found its feet, and he hated loudness. She had a screaming reply for every remark addressed to her, and her determination to force the pace of the gaiety gave to the party an artificiality which even strong drink could not banish. He had never seen Nancy drink so much nor had he heard her talk so loudly. And to make matters worse with the passing of each minute he felt more and more out of it.

These were her friends, the scum of Soho, and she was one of them and one with them. It may have been mere mischance, but Bobbie could not but notice that she was more anxious to please the ramshackle collection of human and sub-human eccentrics than she was to give him any of her society. He tried to excuse her with the plea that in a sense he was one of the hosts and that she was bound by the laws of hospitality to let him fend for himself, but the excuse did not ring true.

The centre of the room had been cleared by now, and Nancy was awaiting the signal from the pianist.

“Bravo!” The cry came from Nosey as the pianist struck a chord.

She danced better than she had ever danced before, but Bobbie, sensitive and detached, failed to detect any beauty whatever in her performance. To him it was a vulgar exhibition, and all the snob in him rose until he could hardly stifle his desire to protest. There was the bounder Bertie handling her with noisome pleasure; here was Mr. Yule of the ham and beef shop bestowing a frantic kiss of enthusiasm on her burning cheek, and above all rose the shrieks of Tessie, the self-elected sycophant to the dancer who would soon be the wife of the owner of Broadbridge Manor.

“Marvellous!—Marvellous!” The shrill voice came from near the door and all eyes turned in its direction.

“Do you really think so, Billy?” Nancy exclaimed, with that gratitude with which the pupil receives the encomiums of a master.

“I do. You've never done better, Nancy. If only you could repeat it the world would be at your feet.”

She was so overcome by his praise that to Bobbie's horror she ran to him with outstretched arms.

“Oh, Billy,” she cried, with the remnants of a sob in her throat, “you are a darling!” She kissed him on the mouth!

Bobbie felt sick again.

“Come along, Nancy, and give us an encore,” cried Nosey Ruslin, who was watching Bobbie as he spoke.

The device to separate the dancer and the man who had murdered the uncle of her lover succeeded only because it was an appeal to vanity.

“You fool!” Nosey later hissed into Billy's ear. “Keep away from her or we'll lose the money and you'll lose something more.”

Billy the Dancer looked up at him with a smile that was born of a smirk.

“I couldn't help it, Nosey, and I can't forget,” he muttered.

“And I can't forget either.” It was a threat.

“We sink or swim together, Nosey, that's what you're always saying,” was the covert threat with which the dancer countered it.

“Must I tell you again to keep away?” The words were barely audible, but the speaker's expression spoke volumes. “You'll lose ten thousand quid and more to follow.” He pretended to be watching the dancing. “Aye, and Nancy into the bargain. Do you think she'd ever marry you—now?”

“She doesn't know.”

“She could be told.”

To end the argument he walked over to the piano and entered into conversation with the gentleman in evening dress.

“What about a dance?” Tessie cried when Nancy's individual effort had ended amid the expected applause, Billy Bright defiantly leading it.

“How many of us are there?” As Nancy spoke she began to count. “Twelve. With Bertie to play the piano someone will have to sit out. Come on, Bertie, strike up. Bobbie, you shall have the first dance, but be a good boy and fetch me a whisky. Not too much soda. It's unlucky.”

The laughter had died away when, as the pianist was stretching his fingers lightly over the keys, the sound of a loud knock startled the more nervy members of the party.

“Who can that be?” asked Nosey Ruslin uneasily.

Someone uttered a choked cry, but only Nosey and Bobbie detected that it came from Billy Bright.

“Keep him out,” Tessie called. “Whoever it is it'll make us thirteen.”

A curious and inexplainable nervousness seemed to have infected the whole party as Nancy, slightly unsteady and too obviously hilarious, went into the narrow passage and turned the small knob which opened the door. Bobbie, still feeling oddly out of everything and the only intruder there, listened because there was nothing else to do. He was supposed to be the hero of the gathering of which Nancy was the heroine, but somehow he had escaped observation, and even Nancy's invitation to a dance had not dragged him out of his obscurity.

Suddenly a scream rent the air and their nerves, a scream that Bobbie, unaccustomed to the overworked hysteria of minor Bohemia, interpreted as a signal of danger and rushed forward. Before, however, he came in sight of Nancy another scream revealed that it was her method of expressing delighted surprise at the unexpected arrival of an old friend.

“Why, if it isn't Annie!” The voice with its broad textures of cockney manufacture rose to a scream which thinned out in a sort of minor gasp. “Come in, Annie. You'll find some of your old pals in there.”

Bobbie was only in time to avoid a collision in the doorway, and he was back again by the engraving when Nancy appeared with a girl who, under a black coat of unseasonable and suspicious fur, wore a light pink dress that belonged to the gaslight.

“Annie!” exclaimed Nosey Ruslin, and rushed to embrace her. When this ceremony had been performed he held her at arms' length for what purported to be a critical inspection.

“Not a day older, sweetheart,” he said, with all the cordiality and affection of which he was capable. “But where you been all this time?”

Before she could think of a suitable reply she identified Billy Bright and threw a hand in his direction.