Murder in Piccadilly (19 page)

Nosey tried his hardest not to think before shaking his head.

“That must be the third or fourth lie he's told me,” said Chief Inspector Wake to himself. Aloud he remarked, “I'm sorry.” Then he decided to give him a clue. “What about that little thin chap who used to be a smasher and got into trouble over the Hoxton fire-raising case?”

“Oh, you mean Carlo Vazetti—Lucky Car we used to call him. Why, he went back to Italy six months ago.”

“No one else?”

Again Nosey shook his head.

“Now if you wanted some real out and out Londoners, tough guys from birth and ready to do a job for half a quid, I could give you a list.”

“That must be the fifth or sixth lie,” the Inspector mentally recorded. “No, thanks,” he said politely. “We have the best list at the Yard already.” He stood up and casually inventoried the contents of the mantelpiece and a table near the window. “I'll be going, Nosey, but you might bear in mind what I've said and give me a ring if anything happens that you think might be of use to me. I shall be grateful for anything.”

“You can rely on me.” Nosey laughed outright. “Pity for the sake of your reputation that young Cheldon didn't do it. That would have given you an easy score.” He laughed again.

“My only regret is that he doesn't seem to know who did it, and that really puzzles me, Nosey, if you want to know. Here's a murder which apparently benefits only one person, and that person not the murderer. Was it the work of a lunatic anxious to let the hangman spare him the trouble of committing suicide? In that case he wouldn't have run away. Was it the result of a cleverly planned crime on the part of a syndicate acting in concert with the heir to the estates? That's too far-fetched for serious consideration. Yet we must assume that there is a link between the murderer and the money.”

Nosey Ruslin almost betrayed himself with a snort.

“You'll be wasting your time and making trouble for yourself, inspector,” he said, trying to speak as a friend, “if you worry young Cheldon. He's absolutely innocent—you've just admitted it.”

“I'll admit it again. But, Nosey, the man who murdered Massy Cheldon did it to help Robert Cheldon to inherit the property. I'll swear to that, and one day I'll be able to prove it. I talk freely to you because you're no fool and you can look at the problem fairly and without bias.”

“But why should anyone kill at random, if that's the word I want.”

“It isn't, but never mind.” Chief Inspector Wake smiled. “As I see it the murderer will wait until the storm's blown over—supposing we don't get him— and then he'll approach young Cheldon hoping to receive payment for services rendered.”

Nosey Ruslin's blood chilled.

“But that's practically saying that young Cheldon had a hand in it,” he protested.

“You can put what construction you wish on my words,” said the detective with lazy tolerance, “but that's my view and I'll stick to it.” He picked up his umbrella and his bowler hat. “Nosey, the inquest opens tomorrow and we'll ask for an adjournment for eight days. Now you're a betting man. What odds will you give me that when the inquest is resumed I'll have the murderer under lock and key?”

The ex-pugilist turned on him the full broadside of an expansive smile.

“A thousand to one—a million to one,” he said, and bulged visibly with laughter.

“Give me five to one in pounds?” The inspector was serious.

“That's a bet,” said Nosey, suddenly serious too.

“I'll stand you the best dinner Greville's can do when I win,” said the detective, still without a smile.

Nosey Ruslin started as if something important and dangerous had at that moment dawned on him.

“I hope you don't think that I want the murderer to escape?” he exclaimed, exhibiting palpable nervousness.

“Why should I? Five pounds won't hurt you.” Chief Inspector Wake glanced at him in his friendliest manner. “If you managed to put me on the right track it would be worth a lot more than five pounds,” he added suggestively.

“You want me to be a police spy—a copper's nark?” The question was involuntary and immediately regretted.

“Surely, not. This is murder and murder is different.” The detective's expression was one of bland surprise.

“Murder is different,” Nosey repeated huskily. He took out a whitish handkerchief and wiped his forehead. The atmosphere had turned uncomfortably close and heated.

“Massy Cheldon was murdered because he was rich and for no other reason,” said Chief Inspector Wake, stopping at the door and turning his back to it. “The murderer knows his London and Londoners. He is probably a foreigner or of foreign extraction. And his friends?”

Nosey sought distraction in moving the empty decanter from one end of the sideboard to the other, and the hand he used shook violently.

“Well, who are his friends?” he asked, unable to control his anxiety and curiosity. He was on the verge of a sneer when he realised the danger of offending the placid, unruffled man from Scotland Yard who never lost his temper and therefore seldom lost an argument or a case.

“His friends are likely to be night club frequenters. I mean the sort that live in the neighbourhood of night clubs—not the dupes who provide the profits.” He looked at his umbrella. “I don't mind taking you into my confidence, Nosey, and so I'll tell you in the strictest confidence that I mean to get the murderer through his friends.”

“Isn't it usual to get a clue from the—the—er—the history of the victim?” said Nosey, whose nervous curiosity was in control of his thinking faculties. “The man who murdered Massy Cheldon must have been known to him or at any rate he—”

Chief Inspector Wake shook his head.

“There is no such thing as an original murder, Nosey, but each murder has its original points, and its peculiarities. Of course, to a certain extent I'm only guessing, but from what I've seen and learnt myself, added to what my assistants have told me, I should say that the man who murdered Massy Cheldon last night never knew him.”

“That sounds rubbish to me.”

“Let me explain. When Massy Cheldon descended into the Underground by the steps near the London Pavilion he was walking leisurely and we may assume looking about him. Now in a London crowd a murderer can't follow his intended victim stealthily or go in for any of those antics which would ensure someone taking notice. The essence of success from his point of view depended on natural behaviour. Then the chances of success would be lessened considerably if there was a danger of Massy Cheldon turning round or looking sideways and recognising him. For these reasons and because of the astonishing luck of the murderer I believe that while he knew Massy Cheldon by sight Massy Cheldon did not know him. But I must be off, Nosey. Don't forget your promise to help me and don't forget that if I win with your aid our little bet you'll be able to look your bank manager straight between the eyes for months to come.”

He wandered out as stolidly and as unthinkingly as appearances could suggest, and in Piccadilly was joined by his favourite aide-de-camp, Detective-Sergeant Clarke.

“We'll have a taxi to the Yard,” he said, and as he never opened his mouth throughout the journey the sergeant, also a lover of prolonged silences, remained mute and at his ease.

In the Chief Inspectors' room a bundle of documents awaited his attention and he rapidly and yet thoroughly examined each one.

“Nothing here at present, but they may be useful,” he said across the desk to his assistant. “Thirty-seven statements taken from persons who were within a few feet of Massy Cheldon at the moment of his death last night and not two of them agree as to what actually happened.”

“If you'll remember, sir, Professor Munsterberg, in his lecture—”

“Oh, yes, I tried to read that book you lent me, Clarke, but I prefer my psychology in the raw and I can get that any time in the London streets. I don't want a professor or a book to tell me that people never see what they are looking at. I know it. There must have been a thousand persons in the Underground last night when Massy Cheldon was stabbed and here we are without a single important witness to attend the inquest tomorrow.”

“That's true, sir, though we have warned six to be prepared for the adjourned hearing.”

“We'll have to work on our own as usual, unless our old friend Inspector Luck comes to our aid. But I've not wasted my time, Clarke.” He nearly rubbed his two ponderous hands together but stopped at the approach to a clasp. “I've made some progress.” He smiled knowingly. “Clarke, I've come back with a nice collection of lies.”

“You don't mean it, sir?” exclaimed the sergeant, a lean, lithe and cadaverous person of forty with deepset eyes and a heavy black moustache.

“Yes, a nice little collection. First of all, the nephew and heir lied, and that's very important.”

“I hear he comes into ten thousand a year owing to his uncle's death,” Sergeant Clarke interposed. “A tidy income that.”

“Exactly. He benefits more than anyone—in fact, he is the only person who benefits at all, and when I ask him a few friendly questions he lies to me. It isn't a major lie, Clarke.” The tone expressed disappointment. “But it indicates the way—a sort of road sign, in fact.” He chuckled. “You know how keen I am on lies when I'm on a big case?”

The only reply needed was the sergeant's reminiscent smile.

“I went on to see my old acquaintance, Nosey Ruslin, and he added one or two gems to the collection.”

“Nosey Ruslin, sir!” The sergeant was plainly astonished. “How did you know he came into it?”

“Young Cheldon, the heir, mentioned that last night he dined at Greville's with Nosey and that Nosey paid the bill. I thought that would surprise you. The dinner was important, as you will guess.”

“Fixing an alibi for both of them, sir?”

“Exactly. And they lied about the time they left Greville's. I knew it, for after seeing young Cheldon I called at Greville's. Adler is an old friend of mine and to be trusted. He was positive that Nosey and his friend left at a quarter to eleven or even later and that they walked in the direction of Piccadilly. Clarke, you must spend a few hours trying to find evidence that they were in the Underground at the moment of the murder. I want such evidence badly.”

“You think they had a hand in it?”

“One hand struck Massy Cheldon down, but other hands may have provided the temptation—a golden temptation, Clarke. Yes, it's a most unusual case and full of possibilities. But I've got Nosey worried and guessing. You heard me give orders he was to be watched. And young Cheldon, too. But it's Nosey I want.”

“Because he'll lead you to the murderer?” Clarke smiled darkly. “It wasn't Nosey's work—not in his line.”

“I admitted that, and he looked so happy about it that I suspected he knew something. But the person from whose looks I derived most information was young Cheldon's mother. She has a face that dials lies like a clock that registers arrivals and departures. I was watching her when her son said he had come home about midnight and her eyes simply shouted at me that it was a lie. She was frightened, Clarke, terrified and numbed. She is trying not to believe the worst.”

“She can't suspect her son did it to get the money.”

“Terror can persuade a woman to believe anything,” said Chief Inspector Wake quietly. “But for the moment we'll forget Mrs. Cheldon. She was really upset by her brother-in-law's death and said so, but I could see that for myself. It's Nosey we've got to concentrate on. You know the sort of life he leads?”

“Gets up at noon, parades Shaftesbury Avenue and Wardour Street, calls on agents and tries to borrow, dines expensively as a rule and finishes up at a night club. Never leaves his usual haunts even for a race meeting.” Detective-Sergeant Clarke recited his piece without attempting to introduce humour into it.

“Exactly. Well, I'll bet you five pounds to sixpence, Clarke, that for the next few weeks Nosey Ruslin will not enter a night club, will avoid his favourite restaurants and will hardly ever be seen in Shaftesbury Avenue. Is it a bet?”

Detective-Sergeant Clarke had an official sense of humour and plenty of tact.

“No, sir,” he said. “I've never yet known you lose a bet. All the same I'd like to know why you are so confident. Did he promise to move back to the East End?” There was a smile now.

“He promised nothing, but I talked, Clarke, and talked until he had the idea that I was laying all my cards on the table. I told him I believed that the murderer was a foreigner, preferably an Italian, and I asked him if he knew any Italians, and he lied.”

“What! Why, there's several of them still about who backed him when he lost the big fight with Slasher George!”

“I could have named at least three of his pals whose parents came from Italy,” said Wake, selecting a cigarette. “Following up his lie I invited him to help me, and he agreed. You can judge for yourself if he was not lying then. After that I induced him to make a bet.” He laughed. “I'm gambling today, Clarke. Five pounds to a pound that I don't find the murderer of Massy Cheldon by the time the adjourned inquest opens. He didn't wish to do it, but evidently suspecting that it would seem odd if he didn't he pretended to be quite jolly about it. So you see, Clarke, I've got him on the jumps. Sooner or later he'll give himself away by doing none of the things he ought to do. He'll make clues by avoiding the danger of making them. Mark my words, the first report will say that Nosey Ruslin kept indoors most of the day and when he came out took a tram or a train into the country. The ‘Frozen Fang' won't see him again until we've forgotten the Underground murder.”

“And will that tell you anything?”

“Yes, and a lot, too. It will tell me amongst other things that he knows who the murderer is. He didn't stab Massy Cheldon, but I suspect he was in the plot. Aye, and I suspect the blameless young nephew too, for all his devoted mother and weak-kneed flounderings. He's not a murderer, Clarke, and never could be, but he's a spoilt, self-important and lazy young man. I know the type. And so do you. You remember young Lofthouse?”