Murder in Piccadilly (18 page)

“Oh, by the way, Mr. Cheldon, what did your uncle think of your friend, Nosey Ruslin?”

“He never met him or saw him in his life,” Bobbie answered, unable to resist a smile at the bare idea of the ex-pugilist hobnobbing with Uncle Massy, prince of snobs.

“You are sure of that?”

Bobbie smiled.

“You can take it from me that they didn't know each other and couldn't have. Mr. Ruslin never wished to meet him, and my uncle would have had a fit had I suggested it.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cheldon,” said Chief Inspector Wake, following his umbrella to the stairs. “Thank you. Good morning. A most useful item of information.” Bobbie caught the last words and stood rigid, puzzled.

Chapter Eight

Chief Inspector Wake passed unnoticed through the crowds forming irregular queues at the numerous entrances to the Piccadilly Underground and in a general way scrutinised with his large and lazy eyes the latest exhibition of London's fascination for the tragic and horrible. The papers had already recorded that the scene of Massy Cheldon's death had become a resort of pilgrims and that in an effort to discourage the morbid, a cordon of police directed with suggestive curtness the lingering travellers who came to pay a visit to the scene and who qualified for admission to the catacomb by purchasing a penny ticket to anywhere, meaning nowhere.

Yet it was all understandable and pardonable. To the majority of the city's millions murder was something that did not exist outside a novel or a newspaper, and when it was actually brought to their doorsteps they were aroused to a pitch of excitement and curiosity that affected the nervous system and clamoured for satiation. It was the crime of the year, something peculiar to London itself, something that seemed to strike at London's very heart. None of your Hammersmith or Whitechapel now. This was London, real London, Piccadilly. And to the hysteria of horror was added the wonder of its daring.

The newspapers concentrated on it and left no rumour untested and no surmise unexploited. Pictures of Massy Cheldon and his mansion in the country appeared everywhere. Mortals think in terms of money, and in the case of Massy Cheldon mental arithmetic centred on the fact that the assassin's knife had deprived a country squire of an income estimated at not less than ten thousand a year.

“Soho Underworld Combed.” “Scotland Yard looking for an Italian.” “Latest developments.” “The Underground Murder Must be solved.” “Another Murder Mystery.” Chief Inspector Wake read them without comment. His colleagues were fond of dismissing the press with the remark that “them damned papers meant next to nothing,” but he was of the opinion that that “next to nothing” might mean all the difference between success and failure if tacked on to their own discoveries and special knowledge.

At the moment he was of all men in the case the least perturbed and hurried so far as externals went. But then he never moved and never thought rapidly. In his early days in the force he had nearly ruined his career by thinking quickly, having been foolish enough to allow himself to imitate the infallibility of the detective of fiction. Wise and dapper Superintendent Melville had taught him then a needed lesson by pointing out that in a real life mystery the key had to be made to fit the lock, whereas in fiction it was the key that was first manufactured. Now he thought over every line of inquiry and every word and deduction arising out of it. He took his time because he had at his command fifty, a hundred, a thousand men if necessary, to hurry and scurry. Londoners might crowd the Piccadilly Underground and the newspapers give the impression that the rest of the world had been swallowed up in an earthquake together with all its problems and dictators and peace conferences; Chief Inspector Wake knew that one man had stabbed Massy Cheldon to the heart and that if he could only find the man or the motive his own work would be well and truly done and he would have earned his wages.

So he passed the crowds and wandered into Shaftesbury Avenue, apparently unconscious of his fellow pedestrians and yet carefully noting any of them inclining to the generous proportions of Nosey Ruslin. It was half-past twelve and he was confident that before half-past one he would meet Nosey in Shaftesbury Avenue or in one of its side streets. The ex-pugilist was a man with no regular work and therefore having nothing to do had by force of habit fashioned for himself a routine as regular as that of a bank clerk. He was not aware of it, and doubtless believed that he had none of those habits which mark the more conventional portion of the population.

“Hello, Nosey!”

“Why, it's the inspector!” exclaimed Nosey, stretching out a hand. “It's a pleasure to see you on this lovely morning.”

The detective tapped him familiarly on the chest.

“It's all very well
you
talking like that,” he remarked, and his brow was furrowed. “
You
haven't got to solve a mystery without a clue.
You
have no reason to worry, and I have.”

“A weird affair, inspector.” Nosey had picked up the phrase from Bobbie Cheldon. He was a collector of phrases, chiefly worthless ones, but not having even a bowing acquaintance with an English dictionary he was easily impressed and surprised by what others regarded as commonplace language.

“I wish I could meet someone who knew Mr. Cheldon,” the inspector said, and offered his cigarette case. Nosey languidly made his choice and lighted up. “I've been to see Mr. Robert Cheldon, but he knows nothing.”

“You bet he doesn't.” Nosey sniffed. “The old man wasn't half good enough for his nephew. Mr. Robert Cheldon is a gentleman.”

“That's my impression, too, Nosey. He did what he could and told me everything. He seems to be fond of you.”

The ex-pugilist had a passing vision of a weekend, complete with valet, at Broadbridge Manor, and threw out his chest.

“I've given him good advice, inspector, and the boy's been grateful. I wish now though he'd introduced me to his uncle. I know the world and I might have heard something which would give you a line on the present little bit of business.” He shook his cigarette. “But what a nerve the fellow had! Piccadilly Underground, of all places, and just when it was most crowded, of all times!”

Chief Inspector Wake tapped him on the arm.

“You know the West End better than anyone at the Yard,” he said, with flattery aforethought. “That's why I came along here hoping to run into you. Now, Nosey, where can we go and have a chat without exciting suspicion. The Monico and the Trocadero are no use—I'm too well known in both places.”

“Come back to my flat. Only a minute in the bus.”

“Let's walk,” said the detective cordially. “We can't talk in the bus.”

They walked side by side, and every other pedestrian glanced at the abbreviated nasal appendage of the stouter man, and those who were pure Cockney grinned unashamedly. The others grinned after they had passed.

“Have you any idea why anyone should have murdered Massy Cheldon?” the inspector asked.

“If I hadn't seen so much of Mr. Robert Cheldon,” Nosey answered, lulled into a state of equal candour and ingenuousness, “I'd have said, look for the chap who's making money out of it and introduce him to the darbies. But the nephew didn't do it.”

“I know that.”

Nosey glanced sideways at him.

“Why are you so sure?”

The inspector looked straight ahead.

“Because he spent last night with you, and if he did it you'd have been in with him.” He assumed a more jocular tone, but his audience of one was not deceived. “Murder is not in your line, Nosey, and don't I know it! Why, if I found you stooping over the body with the dripping knife I'd suspect you were doing it for a film.”

Nosey Ruslin floundered as he tried to interpret his companion's pleasantry in accordance with his wishes.

“Here we are,” he said, relieved to have an excuse for a temporary diversion. “I think there's some whisky in the decanter.”

Chief Inspector Wake settled down in the armchair as if with the intention of remaining to lunch and the meal after that.

“No, I won't drink,” he said, cheerfully. “Too early. By the way, you and Mr. Robert Cheldon left the Greville about half-past ten, wasn't it?”

“I should have thought later,” said Nosey, balancing his body on a chair.

“I was told half-past ten, but it doesn't matter.”

“Why should it?” Nosey was a trifle testy. “The chap whose time-table you should compile is the murderer of Massy Cheldon.”

“At the moment it's Robert Cheldon's time-table I'm interested in, and you come into it only because you can help to fix the time. I don't suspect Robert Cheldon. You've only got to look at him and talk to him to see he wouldn't kill a rabbit.”

“That's what I said about him the other day, and Nancy didn't half like it, and threatened me with a thick ear.”

“Who is Nancy?”

“Girl young Cheldon's keen on. Dances at the ‘Frozen Fang' and other night clubs. You must have seen her. Looks like a doll but is a bit fresher than those you see in a shop window.” Nosey gazed in astonishment at his companion's blank expression and could not resist the temptation to enlighten him further. “Nancy's partner is Billy Bright.”

“Oh, of course, I remember now. When Clarke took Bright to Vine Street in connection with the Savile Hotel jewel robbery he proved an alibi through producing this girl, Nancy. If it had been my case I'd have remembered her right enough. But one sees lots of new dancers at the ‘Frozen Fang.' They don't keep them long there.”

“Nancy's lasted longer than any of them,” said Nosey.

“And young Cheldon is in love with her?”

“Crazy. Cottoned on to me as soon as he heard I was one of her pals. Won't rest until he's made her Mrs. Robert Cheldon of Broadbridge Manor. And a manor it is too, inspector. Did you see the picture of it in the
News Chronicle
? Nancy will scream with delight at the prospect of having that little hut to rehearse in.”

“Will he marry her now?”

“Will a copper accept a drink?” Nosey emitted one of his favourite whistles to indicate the limit of amazement at the stupidity of the question. “He's madly in love with her and no mistake.”

“When you were dining at Greville's last night did he talk about her?”

“From the fish to the chips and all the rest of the time,” was the humorous answer delivered with something of the sharpness of a retort. “It was Nancy with every course. I'm a good-natured chap and I hate rows, inspector, but there were moments when I felt as though I wanted to land him one on his kisser. I couldn't do it—simply couldn't. Young and in love. We were both once, inspector.” There was a tenderness in the husky voice.

“He worried about her, of course.” The detective was not asking a question now. “They all do. The girl wouldn't care to give up her dancing and her friends to be the wife of a poor man. I've known many cases.”

Nosey Ruslin, the astutest professional crook in all London, fell headlong into the pit which had been specially dug for him.

“Nancy isn't a fool,” he said, almost roughly. “And she wasn't going to be no servant to any man with five quid a week even if she wasn't called a slavey and could hang her marriage lines over the sink.”

Chief Inspector Wake could not at the moment add that to the scribbled records of the Piccadilly murder, but he carefully memorised it.

“I don't blame her,” he said warmly. “A pretty girl with her talent.”

Nosey beamed on him.

“Naturally. But then, inspector, you're the only man at the Yard who knows men and women and their troubles. You're not a machine. Would you let a daughter of yours marry a chap with uncertain prospects for twenty or thirty years? I know you wouldn't. How could you tell that the rich uncle was going to be poleaxed just when you wanted his money?”

“That's plain commonsense,” said the detective placidly. The interview had been amazingly fruitful so far, and he had not expected much more than the opportunity of a close study of Nosey Ruslin at home. “One man's misfortune is another's fortune. Massy Cheldon is murdered at a quarter to twelve at night, and his nephew, Robert, a city clerk, wakes up to find himself rich and in a position to marry the girl he loves.”

For some inscrutable reason Nosey smiled to himself.

“So you see, Nosey,” continued Wake, almost carelessly, “why I have to compile the Robert Cheldon time-table for the night of June the eighth. He didn't murder his uncle, and you and I know it—
you
particularly.”

His host quivered with sudden apprehension.

“Why are you so sure about that?” he demanded, but the demand lost its force because it was delivered in an involuntary whisper.

Chief Inspector Wake smiled gently.

“Because you were with him last night,” he said. “You seem to have forgotten that. You're his alibi and—”

“He's mine.” There was the weakness of fear in the usually well controlled voice of the ex-pugilist.

“You took the words out of my mouth, Nosey. Naturally, he's your alibi if you wanted one. But if it's of any use to you I'll be prepared to guarantee that you did not stab Massy Cheldon.”

Again, in spite of the words, fear haunted Nosey to his extreme discomfort.

“I might ask why that should be necessary,” he remarked shakily.

“Everybody who is in any way connected by blood or acquaintance with the murdered man may be suspected. It's a habit of ours which is often of the greatest help.”

“And you're sure I didn't do it? Why?” He raised himself on to his feet and stared down at his visitor.

“Because, Nosey, with all your faults you're an Englishman and Englishmen don't use Italian poignards or daggers. If you'd any reason for ordering Massy Cheldon's coffin you'd help him into the next world with a revolver. It's un-English, isn't it, this murder? and yet it's brought a large fortune to a young man in love with one of Soho's loveliest dancers. That's the point where the real mystery comes in.”

“It's all mystery to me,” said Nosey, not anxious to discuss Nancy and her lover. “Still, if I were you I'd not be so sure about the foreigner doing it. It's easy to learn to use a dagger.”

“Only a master could have used it in the way it was used last night,” said Wake confidently. “Come, Nosey, give me the benefit of your knowledge and experience. Do you know anyone—not a friend, of course, for you don't mix with foreigners much—but do you know or have you heard of anyone likely to commit murder with a dagger?”