Murder in Piccadilly (17 page)

Ruby was trying to find the exact meaning of the word “funny” according to the lexicon of Scotland Yard detectives when another question frightened her back to realities.

“Where did you and Nosey dine?”

“The Greville in Gerrard Street,” said Bobbie.

“And he paid the bill? That's curious. My information was that Nosey's been hard up for months. Quite recently his telephone was cut off because he couldn't pay a small amount he owed.”

“While I've known Mr. Ruslin he's always been in funds,” said Bobbie innocently. “He's a generous man.” The tribute was delivered in an angry voice. “A rough diamond, and unconventional, but straight.”

Chief Inspector Wake was lost in thought for nearly a minute.

“When did you leave the restaurant?”

“About half-past ten.”

For the first time the inspector made a note. It was only on the back of an envelope, but to Ruby it had all the suggestiveness of a warrant.

“You parted shortly afterwards, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“Did it take you over an hour to reach home?”

“It was a lovely night and I walked.” Bobbie's nervous restlessness was evident from the sharpness of his tone.

Ruby would have sacrificed the Cheldon inheritance for the courage to bring the terrifying questions and equally terrifying answers to an end, but she felt that to intervene would be to create the impression that she was trying to protect Bobbie from danger. And what danger could he be in if he were innocent?

“Do you know much about Nosey Ruslin, Mr. Cheldon?”

“Very little except that he's one of the best.”

“That does credit to your loyalty, Mr. Cheldon,” said the detective, drily. “If I pretended to be smart I might ask you one of the best what? I've dealt with some of the best rogues in London, speaking of course, from the point of view of skill. But Nosey interests me. Somehow I never thought he would get into fashionable circles.”

“This is hardly fashionable,” said Bobbie, trying to be grim but too much under the influence of a compliment that was balm to his pride to succeed.

“The death of your uncle has made you a rich man,” the detective reminded him. Then he smiled. “Forgive me, Mr. Cheldon, but I'm apt to forget that the world is not peopled with detectives and criminals. I asked you to help me and—”

“I'm afraid we've been unable to do anything,” said Ruby, forcing herself to speak for fear Bobbie's silence might be misinterpreted.

“On the contrary, madam, you've helped me a lot, and I must thank you for your courtesy and patience.” How they would have laughed at the Yard had they heard him! “It must be extremely annoying to you to be associated in any way with a brutal murder, but you understand I have my duty to do, and often it's an unpleasant duty.”

“I understand.” Ruby's heart warmed to him. “The shock of my brother-in-law's death has numbed me. I was to have lunched with him today.” Tears came into her eyes.

“Is there anyone you suspect?” asked Bobbie, relieved that a general discussion had replaced the question and answer ordeal.

“It's too soon to know anything about it except that Mr. Cheldon was murdered.” Chief Inspector Wake stood up and, as Bobbie subsequently observed sarcastically, examined the room in the style of a broker's man estimating the auction value of its contents. “Have you any ideas about it, Mrs. Cheldon?” The suddenness of the question as much as its nature startled Ruby into a pallor that was instantly succeeded by a dull flush.

“I—er—no.” She thought a slight smile might help, but was sure she had merely twisted her mouth. “My brother-in-law couldn't have had an enemy. He was reserved and self-opinionated, but not quarrelsome.”

“Most of us are built that way,” the detective commented.

“He was a rich man who lived mostly in the country.” She stopped and searched her mind for something else to say, and was amazed that when it came to the point she knew so little, so very little, about her late husband's brother.

“I suppose you often saw him?”

“Yes, I think so.” Her expression was thoughtful.

“Was he generous—free with his money?”

“Why do you wish to know?” asked Bobbie.

The heavy frame moved slowly round on two obvious feet.

“Why shouldn't I?” Chief Inspector Wake smiled. He could smile better than either of them, and Ruby, a quick thinker, decided at once that it was because he was the only person in that room who had nothing to fear. Her heart became heavier.

“Oh, well, if you want to know he wasn't exactly a spendthrift,” said Bobbie, and the detective, quick to notice trivialities which promised to grow in importance, commented inwardly on the complete detachment with which he criticised a near relation murdered the night before. There had even been a streak of humour in the tone.

“But that wouldn't create enemies,” he said, carelessly. “He was a man of honour, of high principles?”

Bobbie thought the detective was paying a tribute to the century old eminence of the Cheldons, but his mother knew it was a question, and resented its implications.

“My brother-in-law never failed to meet his obligations,” she said with something of the pride with which the Cheldons had infected her. “I've heard him say more than once that he hated owing a penny to anyone. It's quite true that he was not lavishly generous, but he was a bachelor and apt to think a little too much of himself.”

It was a blow in favour of matrimony, and Chief Inspector Wake, who had a wife who regarded all bachelors as blacklegs, nodded agreement.

“That's a help anyhow, Mrs. Cheldon,” he said gratefully. “You are surprised, but if Mr. Cheldon wasn't murdered for revenge it's obvious his murderer expects to benefit by his death.”

Ruby's heart sank. She wished she could have flared up and demanded with all the heat she could generate at a moment's notice if Chief Inspector Wake meant to infer that her son…Her son….

She went to the window and looked down into the street. Some flies on the panes attracted her eyes, but her thoughts were confined to the room.

“There's always a motive for murder unless the murderer is a lunatic,” said the detective in his quiet, rather wheezy voice. “At first sight it seemed to me that this might be one of those rare instances of a lunatic running amok with a dagger of Italian origin,” he was watching Bobbie, but the face before him was a blank. “Though if you think it over as I did for hours this morning you'll see that such a theory is impossible. The murder was most carefully planned.”

“Carefully planned?” Bobbie repeated in a sceptical tone.

Chief Inspector Wake smiled vaguely.

“You're thinking of the scene—one of the most crowded Underground stations in London. A mere amateur would never have thought of killing anyone there. Too many witnesses, he would decide. But a professional would know that a crowd can be a safeguard, that a crowd never has eyes.”

Bobbie, suddenly confronted by a vision of his uncle lying dead amid the glare of lights and the blare of noise, felt sick.

“I'd better dress,” he mumbled. “I expect you'll want to get back to the Yard, inspector?”

Ruby admired his courage in walking to the door and opening it.

“Yes, I must be going,” said the detective calmly, “but it'll be a few hours before I return to the Yard. Thank you, sir, and you, too, madam. I know I can rely on your help.”

“We'll do anything to hang the murderer,” said Bobbie, and meant it.

When he had gone Ruby burst into tears which had been waiting to be shed since she had read of her brother-in-law's death. Bobbie, distressed and ill at ease with his conscience, watched her helplessly.

“What will happen now?” he heard her murmur between sobs. “Poor Massy! With all his faults he was a good friend to us.”

He ventured to lay a hand on her shoulder. Something told him that he ought to take her in his arms, but he was afraid of her, afraid of the only person capable of looking below the surface of his mind and discovering its unpleasant secrets.

“It's all right, mother,” he whispered, and the banality irritated him.

He knew that even if the best happened they were to pass through the scorching ordeal of blood-red publicity. Chief Inspector Wake had protected them that morning, but they would be at the mercy of newspapers and anonymous letter-writers, gossip-mongers, slanderers, and their own capacity to breed fresh fears with every passing moment. London had not had such a sensational murder for years. It was true that Soho had had some mysteries, but the victims had been women of the underworld who had lived dangerously and had died as mysteriously as they had existed. But Massy Cheldon was the head of a county family, a rich man, known in many clubs; precise and pompous, a hundred per cent snob with a passion for gentility in himself and in his society. That the place of his death should have been Piccadilly's Underground station made the tragedy as bizarre as it was dramatic and challenging.

“I hope they arrest the murderer,” said Ruby, wiping her eyes.

“Of course, they will,” said Bobbie hurriedly. “Chief Inspector Wake never fails. Don't you remember how the papers talked about that murder on the beach at Brighton and how just when they were saying nasty things about Scotland Yard Wake came along with the murderer and secured his conviction?” He paused and then went to his bedroom. “Mother,” he called out, “when do you think I ought to see Mr. Parker?”

The reference to the senior partner in the firm of Parker, Mellish & Parker, the solicitors acting for the Cheldon estate trustees, had the effect on Ruby of a cold douche.

“I—I don't know,” she answered. She had fallen into a voiceless discussion of Bobbie's lie about the time of his return home overnight and she could not persuade herself that out of all the welter of blood and terror and danger there could be Broadbridge Manor and its extensive income for her son. Her imagination was not powerful enough to transform in the course of an hour or two Galahad Mansions into the old Sussex mansion which was the outward and too often the only visible sign of the Cheldon gentility. She wished she could question Bobbie about last night's doings and elicit from him a minute to minute account of his actions that would relieve her mind. But the lie was responsible for a terror that subdued her anxiety to banish it.

She never stirred until Bobbie returned shaved and dressed. She shivered a little at the dark suit and the black tie. In mourning already!

“This friend of yours,” she began, weakly, “the man with the curious name. Nosey something.” She did not even smile.

“Oh, Mr. Ruslin's all right,” said Bobbie. Now that he was fully clothed he was confident and authoritative. After all, he was the head of the family, and to be head of the Cheldons was something in a democratic age when the parvenu was too much with us.

“You don't think—”

“My dear mother,” he said, pityingly, “you mustn't allow this affair to get on your nerves. It's horrible to think that Uncle Massy has been murdered, but it's not our fault. I can't say I was fond of him and he did me no good by turning me into a city clerk. Thank—” he stopped in time, for thanking the Deity at that moment for having rescued him from slavery by means of a timely murder would have been incongruous, if not bad taste, and the Cheldons prided themselves on their good taste. He had to bear that in mind now that he was head of the family.

“It's the lottery of life,” he resumed, determined to control his natural satisfaction at his own good fortune. He was genuinely sorry for his uncle, but £10,000 a year and Broadbridge Manor!

“Why is it that the Inspector was so interested in your friend Ruslin? Do you think he suspects him?”

Bobbie laughed ironically.

“Really, mother, you'll be saying next he suspects me!” he protested.

“He'll suspect everybody—it's his business to—and it's easy to suspect with or without a reason. But Mr. Ruslin—”

“My dear mother, if necessary I could prove that Ruslin couldn't have done it. I was with him until nearly twelve. I mean to say, it must have been until after the murder.”

“Then it wasn't true you parted at the restaurant?” The scared eyes had blood-red rims to them.

“I wasn't thinking when I said that,” he answered, struggling to assume the indifference of perfect innocence.

“But supposing the inspector discovers that?”

The master of Broadbridge Manor smiled tolerantly.

“Get it into your head, mother, and keep it there, that if I didn't murder uncle Mr. Ruslin didn't.”

“It's all so horrible,” she covered her face again. “Poor Massy!” The tears flowed again.

“You must be more courageous, mother,” said Bobbie fussily. It was a Cheldon trait. “Our position.” He stopped short and listened. “I thought I heard the bell,” he murmured, and went to the front door.

It required all his power of self-control not to utter an exclamation of terror when he saw Chief Inspector Wake, heavy, expressionless, sinister.

“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Cheldon,” he said with a carelessness which did not suit him, “but I have an idea I left my umbrella behind.”

“I—I don't think you did,” said Bobbie nervously, holding on to the handle of the door and uncertain whether to invite him in or not. What would a perfectly innocent person do in the circumstances? He asked himself the question and at once was angry. “Come in, Mr. Wake, come in.” It was an effort to appear consistent with the new dignity conferred by the tragic death of the tenant for life of the Cheldon estate.

The heavy footfalls pounded into Ruby's brain, and her half-laughter, half-exclamation produced a mixture dangerously akin to hysteria.

“I thought so. Here it is. Sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Cheldon. Good morning.” He passed out to the accompaniment of his own voice, though it was not his usual one. Bobbie discovered that for himself as he clutched the handle of the hall door again.