Murder in Piccadilly (20 page)

Detective-Sergeant Clarke nodded. That had been a famous case in its way and had begun with an empty mustard tin in a Stepney warehouse and had ended in a sentence of death at the Old Bailey.

“There were other lies, Clarke, but I'll keep them to myself for the moment and let them grow in importance.” He shuffled from his chair and walked up and down the room. “It won't be one of our failures, Clarke, it mustn't be. The murder is a challenge. I suppose I'm a fool to take it so much to heart, but I can't help it. These peculiar murders are generally the easiest to deal with. It's your revolver or your hammer that gets away with it. But I'll win, Clarke, and when I do I'll not be too proud to admit that the credit will be Nosey Ruslin's. Come in.”

The knock and the invitation produced a plainclothes man with a typewritten document.

“Nancy Curzon, sir,” he explained and departed.

For a long five minutes, according to the impatient estimate of the curious sergeant, Chief Inspector Wake devoted himself to the sheet of paper but never did the stolid face give a sign.

“That's something, Clarke,” he said, at last. “She's one of those night birds who somehow keep themselves clear of the sticky adventures of their men friends. A dancer and keen on her work, but—” he paused and looked at his subordinate, “has been often in the society of Nosey Ruslin lately. Is very friendly with Robert Cheldon. Has told many persons that she was going to marry him when he had money. Dances with a former waiter who calls himself Billy Bright but whose father was deported to Italy in 1928 for keeping a gaming house. Billy Bright is a dancer who between engagements lives by his wits. Was supposed to be engaged to Nancy Curzon until Robert Cheldon appeared on the scene.”

He tapped the document. “We're warm, Clarke, delightfully warm. Look at the sequence. Robert Cheldon in love with a mercenary little dancer; Nancy Curzon friendly with Nosey Ruslin who's been in our bad books for years and has kept out of our clutches very cleverly. Nosey pals up with Nancy's boy friend, the young heir.” He tapped the paper again. “Whoever drew up this report should be promoted. I might have done it myself.” It was the highest praise he could award anyone. “As I see it Nancy lets the boy friend understand that there'll be no wedding bells until he can afford to clothe her in diamonds. Young Cheldon thereupon becomes desperate. Nosey at once plays the part of benevolent and helpful friend, unofficial uncle and all that. He entertains young Cheldon and when money is scarce spends it on him. Why?”

“Exactly, sir. Why? How could Nosey benefit by young Cheldon having his uncle removed? Now if he were Nancy's father…”

“Clarke, you and I know that Nosey never did anything in his life unless there was the prospect of a lump sum for himself at the end of it. What he did exactly in this instance I don't know, but we'll arrive at the beginning by examining the end.”

“And the end is, sir?”

“The murder last night in the Piccadilly Underground. We'll have to work backwards, as we always have to do in these cases, but for a change we'll think more of Nosey Ruslin, who didn't wield the dagger, than of anyone likely to have acted for him at his orders. You see, Clarke, the moment young Cheldon proved his alibi by dragging in the name of Nosey Ruslin I knew that this was not a teaser. I knew I had the solution somewhere and that if I kept my eyes open I'd find it. But the staff work must be perfect. I don't want the murderer to escape. I must have him.” His voice rose, and, half ashamed of anything approaching excitement, Chief Inspector Wake laughed apologetically. “It's spade work and not genius that has made the Yard famous,” he added, indifferent to an audience. “Massy Cheldon died because he had money, and money's the best of clues when there isn't a woman in the case.”

“But isn't there a woman here, sir?”

“Nancy Curzon? Of course. But only in a minor part, Clarke. You can bet your life she knew nothing about it. I may be wrong, but I won't admit I am until it's proved. Men of the Ruslin stamp don't take women into their confidence when they're planning murder. They know women who don't talk can be eloquent in terror. Look at that.” He threw the report across the desk to him. “The third paragraph.”

Detective-Sergeant Clarke read, “She was startled when she heard of the murder of Massy Cheldon and at once began to talk of knowing him. Seemed to be proud to have met him at Mrs. Cheldon's and remarked that he was kind to her. Said little about Robert Cheldon and never once referred to Nosey Ruslin. When the name of Billy Bright was introduced merely smiled and returned to the subject of the murder.”

“That'll do. The report goes on to say that she could not have had prior knowledge, but that is obvious. Just file it with the other papers. What's the latest about the inquest proceedings?”

The conversation became purely technical.

“I'll lunch at Greville's,” said Chief Inspector Wake, examining his watch. “It's nearly two and I haven't eaten anything since six.”

As he had anticipated the little restaurant at the back of the Palace Theatre was only about one-third full when he entered and all those present were distinctly of a foreign type, Londoners by adoption whose day began in the afternoon and ended in the early hours of the morning. Some of them recognised the detective and pecked at imaginary crumbs while they estimated their chances of a reassuring nod if they smiled a welcome. The majority, however, continued their sleepy discussions, or where there was female company stared and gesticulated.

The proprietor hurried forward to serve the guest who was a danger to many of his clients and could be a danger to the business itself.

“A leetle fish, sare?” he began.

The meal was grateful and comforting, and Chief Inspector Wake derived rest as well as nourishment from it.

“I don't see any of my friends here,” he remarked when he was paying his bill. “Not Nosey Ruslin or even Billy Bright.”

The dark visage of Adler became darker.

“I wish Bright would see me,” he said angrily. “I have ze bill—you call it, eh?”

“Oh, he'll pay it, I'm sure,” said the inspector carelessly. “How's business these days—and nights?”

The proprietor answered with a preliminary shrug and an extension of both arms, but there was no change of expression.

“I suppose there's been a lot of talk about the Piccadilly murder?” It was a bow drawn at a venture.

“Nothing else, sare, absoluteetly. They talk an' talk. Dagger.” His teeth gleamed and he muttered something in Italian. Chief Inspector Wake badly wanted a translation but did not ask for it.

“How much is Billy Bright's account?” he asked, abruptly changing the subject or appearing to do so.

“Three pounds eighteen shillings and eightpence, sare.” There was anguish in the proprietor's voice.

“Three pounds eighteen shillings and eightpence.” As he repeated the amount the inspector took out his pocket-book and counted the notes it contained. “Look here, Adler, I shall be passing this way at ten o'clock tomorrow morning and will drop in. If by then you have a list of the names of all your foreign customers—I mean those you happen to know by name and who are not English—I will settle Billy Bright's account. Is it a bargain?”

The lively eyes danced.

“Thank you, sare,” he whispered, breathing all over the table.

It was a very tired but not a dissatisfied or irritable chief inspector who went to bed at half-past twelve that night, though it was an anxious one who breakfasted early and reached Scotland Yard before nine. A sheaf of reports awaited him and he had not studied them all when he had to keep his appointment with the proprietor of Greville's.

“Thank you,” he said, producing the money and carefully pocketing the receipt along with the precious document. “No, nothing to drink, thanks.” He waved a hand and ambled out to seek a taxicab.

Ten minutes later Billy Bright came through the swing door and cornered Adler in a corner of the dining-room.

“What about that account of mine?” he said cheerfully.

“That's all right. It's paid.”

“Paid?” Billy thought of Nosey and smiled happily.

“Yes, paid. Settled.” The proprietor grinned. “Inspector Wake gave me the money and took away the receipt.”

The dancer, yellow to the ears, repeated the name dully.

“Inspector Wake! Inspector Wake!” he muttered and collapsed.

Chapter Nine

“So he fainted, did he, when he heard I'd paid his account at Greville's?” said Chief Inspector Wake, lolling in the corner of the first class carriage of the train which was taking him and Detective-Sergeant Clarke to Lewes and to Broadbridge Manor. “I thought I'd stir him up, Clarke, in fact, I've stirred them all up. Listen to this.” He selected a newspaper from the untidy bundle beside him and spread it open. “Soho silent in Terror. No clue to the murder of Massy Cheldon. Inquest adjourned.”

“That's more or less what they all say, sir,” his colleague remarked. “But the West End is enjoying the murder as if it were a play.”

“It won't have a long run, Clarke, not if I can help it.” The fleshy face was further disfigured by a frown. “Wonder if I'm right to be bothering about Broadbridge Manor. We've had plenty of reports from there.”

“You never know, sir.” Detective-Sergeant Clarke's private opinion was that his chief was a fool, but even had the regulations and the circumstances permitted the enlarging of his thoughts into words he would have remained silent. Too often in the past had he been taught by experience that the foolishness of Harry Wake would have made the reputation of more than one of his subordinates.

“I think we'd have been wiser to come by car, sir,” he ventured, for he was a lover of motoring and could never understand the contempt the chief inspector had for modern methods of speed.

“It's more comfortable this way,” was the answer, “and it's easier to think and certainly easier to read. What do you think of the papers, Clarke? Are they going to score over us?”

The sergeant grinned as much as he could.

“It's the usual stuff,” he said, “and it must be right some time or another, as it was in the Gerrard Street affair.”

“Besley had charge of that,” growled Wake, who had the sensitiveness of a prima donna and a faded professional beauty combined. “But I'll get the murderer of Massy Cheldon, Clarke, and I'll get him before we're a month older. I win five pounds from Nosey Ruslin if I solve the mystery by the time the coroner is on his feet again.”

“Nosey Ruslin.” The sergeant repeated the name with a gentle emphasis which indicated his estimate of its importance. “A wily bird, Nosey, sir. Wish I had his knowledge of Soho though.”

“So do I. But I'll extract some of it from him very soon. Don't forget, Clarke, when you're dealing with a secretive crowd you must worry them into talking and doing things. Get on their nerves. Make them commit mistakes. I mean, keeping away from their usual haunts, getting scared at the least little incident. You see how Billy Bright fainted? Of course, he doesn't know he's being watched day and night.”

The sergeant laughed.

“He'd have fainted again if he'd known that the chap who held the smelling salts to his nose was one of ours.”

“They're a queer crowd, Clarke, a queer crowd, and Nosey Ruslin's the queerest and most dangerous of them all. I don't suppose he's ever done anything worse than cheat at cards or swindle a bookmaker, but he's been behind a few serious affairs which have interested us.”

“And we can never get him.” The tone was a sigh.

“We'll get him now, Clarke, and at once. Something in my bones tells me that. You know it's not my form to boast and that outside the office I don't talk except when I take the office with me in the shape of Detective-Sergeant Clarke.”

There was no need for the younger man to endorse the testimonial. Besides, he knew his chief disliked sycophancy. It was one of the reasons he had chosen him for his A.D.C.

They read the newspapers in scraps and between intervals of comment throughout the remainder of the journey, and they seemed to know by heart all that had happened to the millions of Londoners outside the actual murderer when they stepped from the train at Lewes.

“There'll be a fairish crowd at the Manor today,” said the inspector with a sour expression, “but tomorrow and Sunday the place will be in a state of siege.”

“Didn't you see the picture in the
Daily Express
and the larger one in the
Daily Mail
?” asked the sergeant in surprise. “It says there were over three hundred cars outside Broadbridge Manor yesterday.”

Chief Inspector Wake did not answer. He had by now identified the car which was to convey him and his assistant to the small Sussex village where only three days previously Massy Cheldon had been the squire and overlord. Only three days since he had bubbled with pride at the offer of a seat on the county bench, and now he was a corpse, a spectacle of sensation and tragedy, the centre of an absorbing and puzzling murder mystery. Life was like that and death also.

Six policemen saluted him when he descended into their midst, and standing afar off after the manner of the disciples on a famous occasion were several groups of curiosity-mongers complete with cars. It was nearly three in the afternoon and most of the spectators were munching sandwiches and staring at the low wall surrounding the manor grounds and apparently deriving satisfaction from the inspection.

“Anything new?” Wake asked of the sergeant who was in charge.

“Nothing, sir.” He moved his heavy feet to the left and gave the onlookers the full benefit of a hostile stare.

“Never mind about them,” said the chief inspector sharply. “I'm going into the house. There might be something there.”

“We've been through it, and your colleague, Inspector Carlett, has almost scrubbed the floors.” The essay in humour passed unrecognised.

“I have seen his reports. They leave nothing to the imagination or to hope. But all the same I wish to see for myself.”

The mansion impressed him with its air of wealth, luxury and superiority over most of the other mansions he had entered in his professional capacity. The walls seemed to breathe ancient lineage, the furniture proclaim the eternity of the wealth and standing of the Cheldons. West and his underlings had obviously not permitted the gloom and the horror without to interfere with the daily ritual of maintaining the cleanliness of the mansion which even now did not convey an impression or suggestion of desolation and emptiness.

“There is a new heir, sir,” he explained, a trifle condescendingly to the man from Scotland Yard. “There always is an heir. Just as the throne is never vacant so is Broadbridge Manor never without a master. The moment Mr. Massy Cheldon died Mr. Robert Cheldon became the squire.”

“But he hasn't arrived yet?”

“No, sir. I understand that the etiquette is to keep away until after the funeral. In this case as the death of the late master was so tragic it is probable Mr. Robert will wait until the inquest is over and done with. The Cheldons are always sensitive. They could not bear to live at the Manor when it is surrounded by trippers and their cars.”

Chief Inspector Wake listened with a patience which was only possible because he attached no importance to the speaker or his speech. He had never expected to be rewarded at Broadbridge Manor for his trouble in coming all the way from London to see it, but it was a duty which he had to perform as the chief of the squad responsible for bringing the murderer to justice. The house told him nothing, the butler and the other servants less. Whatever secrets, good, bad and indifferent, which the late Massy Cheldon had had they were not at home at Broadbridge Manor now.

“He was murdered in London and the whole explanation of the murder is there,” he said later on to his assistant.

“Had Mr. Massy Cheldon many visitors during the last month or, perhaps, it would be easier to remember the last week of his life?” he asked West, who had taken a dislike to the unfashionable umbrella if not to its owner.

“Mr. Massy Cheldon's friends were not many, but I can show you the visitors' book which I keep myself.”

“That would be a help,” said the inspector.

The names suggested nothing and revealed nothing, and after another colloquy with the local sergeant Wake strolled unaccompanied down to the village of one street and five alleys. He was not a lover of the country although he had been trying for thirty years to convert his back yard in Chelsea into a flower garden, and he was too conscious of the fact that he was wasting his time. A few women and children with an occasional male constituted the representatives of the population at the moment, for the closed doors of the “Wheatsheaf” deprived the thirsty of any temptation to leave their work prematurely.

But when he could forget the mileage between himself and his beloved London he could be grateful for the opportunity to think, and soon he had once more completed a panorama of events and scenes since he had been called from his well earned rest to take charge of the Piccadilly Murder. It was satisfactory to know that he had electrified Nosey Ruslin, Billy Bright, Robert Cheldon and the last-named's mother. One of the four if not all of them, could supply the solution of the problem, or at the worst make a guess which would be more than half the truth. He dealt in half-truths and lies and everything appertaining to them, for out of them there often emerged the exact truth.

There was no Broadbridge Manor end to the mystery, however. That was certain. If the late Massy Cheldon cared to mingle in bohemian circles in London he did not permit his more or less disreputable acquaintances there to invade the aristocratic solemnity of his country mansion. It was useless looking to the servants or to the locals.

As he muttered this to himself he came to a standstill outside a shop window which from the variety of its contents might have been a London store in miniature. But he was not interested until he noticed a piece of cardboard bearing the legend “Post Office.”

“A shillingsworth of threehalfpenny stamps and a packet of stamped postcards,” he said to the plump, spacious and elderly woman who appeared before the door bell had ceased to tinkle.

“Yes, sir.” She deducted he was from London by the simple process of remembering that she had had many customers from outside the village since the death of the owner of Broadbridge Manor. To Mrs. Chalk England consisted of Broadbridge and London.

“I suppose you've had crowds down here?” said the inspector, assuming that she was one of nature's talkers, the living local newspaper whose one accuracy could redeem a hundred inaccuracies.

“Trippers!” A sniff of contempt. “How they find the time puzzles me. Now on Saturday and Sunday one expects plenty of people.”

Chief Inspector Wake leaned across the counter and examined a pair of men's socks which were cheap enough to warrant purchase as a prelude to a more friendly atmosphere.

“Thank you,” he said, as he paid the half-crown. “I suppose you knew Mr. Massy Cheldon rather well?”

“Can't say that, sir.” Mrs. Chalk had her pride and it forbade her to claim acquaintance with the great unless the claim could be substantiated. “The last time I saw him was some weeks before his murder when he surprised me by coming in here.”

“Indeed! Was he looking well?”

“Looking well? Why, I never saw him so pleased with himself in his life. When he was in the temper he could be very pleasant, and he was very pleasant indeed, that morning.”

She paused, and the detective, knowing how foolish it is to attempt to force a conversation into a desired channel, picked up a packet of scented soap and read the label.

“I hadn't seen him for nearly a month and it was the first time he'd been in the shop since I took it over eleven years ago.”

“That was remarkable!” exclaimed Wake with flattering astonishment.

“It was, and I said so.” She smiled. “Seeing that Mr. West or one of the other servants usually brought the parcels and letters that had to be registered it was a surprise when in he walked with a parcel of his own.”

“Doing the work himself he paid others to do?” said Chief Inspector Wake with an encouraging smile. “That's not my idea of spending money.”

“And it isn't mine. But he was that affable that I quite enjoyed our little chat. I remember how he laughed when I remarked that the parcel was heavy for its size, the heaviest I'd ever handled.”

“Heavy was it?” The question was an articulate thought. “I suppose it was addressed to someone in London?”

To his astonishment Mrs. Chalk burst into the heartiest laughter he had heard for years.

“Addressed to London!” She laughed again. “I should think it was, and the funniest address I've ever known. I don't need to look at the book to remember it. Didn't I tell everyone about it?”

The detective could not hurry her, but his curiosity was developing at such a rate as to threaten to imperil his peace of mind.

“I come from London,” he said suggestively, “and I know there are some funny names there, people and odd streets. There's one in the city which sounds as if it—”

“But this was in the West End—in Dean Street,” she interrupted. “N. Ruslin, The Frozen Fang, Dean Street, London, W.1.” She repeated the address with the readiness with which a child proclaims the only date it knows, that of the battle of Hastings.

Chief Inspector Wake was not naturally a stolid man and although he substituted for the daily dose the daily thought, “Never let your face or your tongue give you away,” he was ever exposed to the danger of self-betrayal. He very nearly betrayed himself now when Mrs. Chalk, all her features animated by merriment, startled him by pronouncing the name and address of the last man he would have associated with this quiet backwater in Sussex. Had it not been for the gloom of the shop even on a sunny June day she must have noticed the sudden convulsion of his frame and the trembling of the stolid umbrella infected by the shakiness of his left hand. But to Mrs. Chalk he was merely an audience and her enjoyment of the rarest episode in her career was too vivid and intense to permit of any kind of deviation.

“The ‘Frozen Fang' is a night club,” he explained.