Murder in Piccadilly (12 page)

“I have a head on my shoulders,” was the response. “Billy, you can leave the details to me. First of all I'll get Cheldon to write to me agreeing to a reward—yes, a reward for our assistance.”

“Will he go as high as five thousand a year between us?”

“He won't be asked to. A thousand pounds payable in instalments of a hundred quid is what I'm thinking of.”

Billy looked concerned.

“That's a come-down, isn't it?” he ventured.

Nosey's grin was born of superiority of intellect.

“Don't you see that all we want is something in his handwriting that'd be good enough for Scotland Yard if they saw it?” he whispered, not really angry because it was flattering to self-esteem to be the explainer and not the explainee. “He'll write me agreeing to the terms and think himself lucky to have such a pal as your humble servant.”

The dancer's face lighted up.

“Of course, what a fool I've been! I see it now, Nosey.” He stopped, fearful lest his excitement should have rendered his voice louder than he intended. “It won't matter what the sum is, we can raise it sky-high when we have him in our power.”

“That's it.” Nosey let his napkin slide to the floor. “I'm going to make contact with young Cheldon again. He owes me twenty-five quid already, and he's going to owe me more. Meanwhile, Billy, get busy and borrow another quid if you can. I must take Cheldon out to lunch or dinner immediately he returns home, and I'm broke. What's the bill? Eleven and tenpence. Give the waiter a couple of bob and I'll take what's left in case.”

They walked out together smoking cigars.

“Nancy's dancing solo at the ‘Frozen Fang' tonight,” said Billy when they arrived at the corner which parted them.

“Righto. I'll bring Cheldon along if I can get hold of him. When I've got a job of work to do, Billy, I prefer to do it neatly and, if possible, swiftly.” He patted his friend on the back. “There's an absolute money famine, and if we don't hurry up it'll get worse. And the worse it is the harder it will be to—er—to survive.” He smiled in a lazy, effortless way.

The dancer smiled in unison, and then suddenly became grave again.

“But, Nosey,” he said hesitatingly, “who's going to do the job?” He was so nervous that his legs moved convulsively as if on wires.

“Leave that to me, my boy,” was the cheering reply. “Don't I know exactly which of the lads of the village will be equal to a job that'll be worth at least ten quid a second?”

The return of colour to Billy's usually pallid countenance was interrupted by another doubt.

“That's all right, Nosey,” he said, trying to appear hearty, “but if you make the plans and one of the boys does the—what you called it, where exactly do I come in?”

“You will be standing by when I want you,” said Mr. Ruslin, grave to the uttermost boundary of his lower chin. “You have promised to take orders from me, Billy, and you know what success will mean to both of us. You want a fortune. Well, did you ever hear of a fortune being made easily except in a sweepstake, and—” he paused impressively, “I ain't goin' to take no chances so this'll not be a blooming sweepstake. So long.”

He sauntered away, a heavy figure of geniality, ease and good nature. Shaftesbury Avenue was thronged with pedestrians and loafers, but Nosey passed on his way as if he was a ghost who was invisible to them. Great and significant events were toward and he had to keep his thinking faculties in a condition of constant exercise. He had realised exactly the extent of the risks he was facing, the dangers lurking around him, and under and above him, but they dwindled into insignificance whenever he pondered on the rich monetary rewards that would await him when it was in his power to offer Bobbie Cheldon an undisturbed tenancy of the Cheldon estate but also a tenancy of this world for as long as it pleased Providence to grant him health sufficient to sustain life. Robert Cheldon, Esquire—the muser's formal rendering of Bobbie's full name and honorary suffix afforded him considerable consolation—might object. There was every reason to anticipate that he would “kick”—a term which summed up satisfactorily every possible argument and attitude Massy Cheldon's nephew could evolve or assume when he was presented with a demand for the relinquishment of half or two-thirds of his tragically-acquired income. Nosey Ruslin smiled under his lips at the surprise in store for the young gentleman and in the smile was all the savagery and cruelty of which the easy-going, gentle ex-pugilist was capable.

Seven of his friends were privately interviewed by him before midnight, but not one of them would disgorge any portion of the cash with which they were fighting the famine, as Nosey styled the general shortage before jokingly introducing the reason for the conference. He was accordingly still famine-stricken when at five minutes past twelve he entered the “Frozen Fang” and joined Billy Bright at a table in a corner some distance from the small platform on which Nancy Curzon was scheduled to dance for the second time.

“He's not here,” said Billy, in front of whom was a glass which emitted a faint odour signifying that it had recently contained whisky.

“How did Nancy's turn go?”

The young man strangled at birth a look of satisfaction.

“Rotten,” he answered, and as if appreciating what Nancy's failure could mean to him he added with feeling, “They were too sober to give her a chance, the curs! Nosey, unless she picks up when she dances at half-past it'll be all up with our partnership and I'll simply have to chuck her!”

“And if I know Miss Nancy,” said Mr. Ruslin carelessly, “she'll express her opinion of you with her fists as well as with her tongue.”

Billy shivered.

“She has the devil's own temper,” he muttered. “But it isn't that, Nosey, it isn't that.”

“Of course, it isn't that. It's your love for her, eh? The love that makes the world go round and round until you don't know what you are doing and soon regret what you have done.” He called for a whisky to wash the taste out of his mouth. “Billy,” he resumed when the band—a piano and a violinist—was helping the thirty or forty gravely-miened revellers to believe that they were receiving value for money, “there'll be no Nancy for you unless you—”

“Don't I know it?” he groaned. “It's money she wants. Nosey, she's beginning to suspect. I wish you hadn't made me keep her in ignorance.”

“Her ignorance will be valuable to me—to us,” he said quickly.

“Oh, well, I suppose you have a good reason. But she's beginning to suspect, Nosey.”

“You said that before.”

“And I'll say it again. Why shouldn't I?”

“I'm always glad to hear the latest news, Billy, but not more than six times. You see, it becomes a trifle stale then.”

Billy Bright passed a nearly clean hand across his forehead.

“I suppose you're right, Nosey. For that matter when it comes to money you always are. But I don't care for Nancy's suspicious ways. She's a habit of asking questions, the sort that a woman answers herself and then tells you you are lying.”

“I'm waiting for Cheldon,” said Nosey, desirous of changing the conversation. “Can't you see, Billy, that Cheldon is the answer to all our puzzles and difficulties? You want to marry Nancy, and Nancy won't look at you unless you have money. Well, do as I tell you and I'll guarantee Nancy and the money, but you must remember it's—” He paused. “Here he is,” he muttered. “Clear off. I want to be alone with him.”

The voice of Bobbie thanking the obsequious attendant for some small service had drifted into the room and through the smoke before he appeared, looking anxious and almost disreputable in the old grey flannel suit he had donned on his return to Galahad Mansions from Broadbridge Manor. But there was every reason for his frayed and careworn ensemble. Mr. Ruslin attributed it to his passion for Nancy. The truth was that for two nights Bobbie had not slept. But then no one could have slept while playing the part of the mouse with Massy Cheldon in the role of the cat.

He paused to stare about the cellar which a few rugs, an elaborate bar and a number of tables and chairs around a dancing space of not many square feet, entitled its proprietor to style it a night club, but as soon as he saw his friend, Nosey Ruslin, something not unlike delight improved his expression.

The ex-pugilist, ex-theatrical agent, but not yet ex-convict, rose with hearty noisiness to shake hands.

“Didn't expect to see you tonight, Mr. Cheldon,” he said, placing a chair for him. “Waiter, your best whisky and soda for my friend.”

“Thanks,” said Bobbie gratefully. It was revivifying to be with someone who appreciated one's social and intellectual importance.

“Come to see Nancy? Not much of a crowd here tonight. Wonder why Battray puts her on it. Ought to wait for Saturday when she'd have an audience.”

He spoke to the accompaniment of the gurgles that indicated the emptying of his guest's glass.

“She's too good for a hole like this,” said Bobbie, with angry good nature. “She ought to have the finest theatre in London.”

“And when you get your rights, too, Mr. Cheldon,” whispered the tempter with his customary flattering deference of tone and attitude, “she'll have it. You'll rent the theatre and Nancy's name will dazzle Piccadilly in electric light. She'll become world famous.”

“Yes, world famous.” Bobbie was so excited that he could scarcely speak. The band renewed its excruciating efforts.

“She'll be the luckiest girl in London when she marries you, Mr. Cheldon,” Nosey said with that insinuating assurance that seldom failed to achieve the effect it aimed at. “Look at them.” He waggled a hand towards the dancing couples. “What a crowd! What a crowd! And to think that Nancy has to try and amuse these swine. Mr. Cheldon, as I asked you before, for God's sake get that pure-minded girl out of this.”

“But how can I?” Bobbie's voice was a wail. “She won't listen to me at present. Calls me a pauper. And I am one, worse luck.” He stared at his empty glass and Nosey noticed the stare and misunderstood it. But he could not order a refill, for previous orders had carried away the last of his coins and he was now penniless. And by special arrangement with Mr. Battray, the owner of the “Frozen Fang”, he paid cash for everything until it was possible for him to wipe out a debit balance of about fifteen pounds, incurred the previous month.

“How can you?” he asked with a degree of anger which was not without a note of affectionate interest. “Do you know how I'd do it, Mr. Cheldon? I'd take steps to remove that interfering old uncle of yours and step into the estate myself. Yes, I've heard about him. Of course, from Nancy. You should see her imitate him. A.I. at Lloyds. Yes, sir. That girl's a marvel. Ought to go on the halls if there are any halls left to go on. A genius.”

The band desisted and by contrast the half silence that ensued was refreshing and comforting. The two waiters rushed hither and thither, and Billy Bright was not to be seen.

“Miss Nancy Curzon, the famous dancer, of Bright & Curzon.” Mr. Battray was in the centre of the floor, his keen observation having revealed the fact that no more orders for drinks were to be expected for at least half an hour.

They switched off the lights save the one over the piece of wood which was the platform for the occasion, and to a rumble from the piano Nancy stepped out of nowhere. Bobbie swooned into a condition of ecstatic admiration and did not at once revive from it when an intoxicated patron of the “Frozen Fang” uttered an exclamation of contempt and flung an empty champagne bottle in her direction. Fortunately the aim was also drunk and nothing was hit except the floor, but it was well for the middle-aged scion of a garage-owning family in outer suburbia that Mr. Battray and his scullions closed in on the aggressor with the intention of ejecting him before Bobbie flung himself from his chair to the seat of the disturbance with fire and murder in his heart and brain. Mr. Battray, however, had been dealing with crises of this nature for years, and the offender's bi-monthly expedition in search of Bohemia ended with an assisted passage to the cool and unclean pavement and an addition to his small stock of stories for use in a local public house.

“That's all right, sir,” said the proprietor of the “Frozen Fang” to the palpitating champion of insulted womanhood. “The artiste was never in any danger. Mr. Nooch is quite harmless. Have a drink with me, sir. Hello, Nosey, you must join us.”

A backward glance at the piano, and the band was soon in full swing. Bobbie absorbing his second whisky and soda, was unaware of Nancy's close proximity until she spoke to Nosey.

“What can you expect?” she asked sarcastically. “Haven't I told you a thousand times they don't know what real art is?”

“You were wonderful, Nancy,” said Bobbie, holding out both hands.

“Oh, shut up!” she retorted to his complete discomfiture. “I'm sick of that sort of talk. Give me something to drink, Nosey, or I'll scream.” Bobbie, unaware that she knew her act had been a failure, could not find an excuse or a reason for her temper, certain he had done nothing to offend her.

“Nancy.” He stopped when he noted the expression of her face. Never before had she displayed such ferocity of rebellion against life.

“Billy was right,” he heard her say to Nosey, to whom she seemed to be exclusively devoted. “I'm wasting my time and talents here. I ought to make that continental tour and return with a reputation.”

“What about America, Nancy? They'd eat your act there.” Nosey had never been out of England in his life, hardly ever out of London, but there was pure cosmopolitanism in a tone which in a moment carried Bobbie at least to a crowded New York theatre.

“That's what everybody says,” Nancy remarked with more complacence and therefore less temper. “I'm to blame, though,” she added, lapsing into normality, “I've been thinking of other things besides my profession and my art, and I'm paying the penalty.”