Murder in Piccadilly

by Charles Kingston

  “You must put your shoulder to the wheel.” The opening was ominous, but beggars cannot be critics. “The bottom rung of the ladder, my boy, to start with.”

  “What does the bottom rung mean in this case, uncle?”

  A frown was the first answer. Then Massy Cheldon reverted to his original plan, that of a cat playing with a mouse, and he stifled his annoyance.

  “A stool in an office,” he said, and the younger man, aware that two small reddish eyes were fixed on him, defeated the attempt of his features to betray his thoughts.

  “Will it be a—a—er—valuable stool, uncle?”

  “Fifty shillings a week and you’ll be lucky to get it.”

  Bobbie’s sense of humour had yet to develop, but when he tried to picture Nancy Curzon’s expression when she heard of his “prospects” laughter would have been loud and prolonged had he not been well rehearsed in the art of self-control under difficulties.

  “Fifty shillings isn’t much,” his uncle resumed, “but it’ll mean a great deal to you and your mother. For one thing it’ll be as good as living rent free. Bobbie, you must from now onwards take a business view of things in general. Life isn’t all loafing. The man with a purpose, with backbone, initiative…”

  He knew the lay sermon by heart.

  “…and within five years you ought to be earning at least four hundred a year. You have the advantage of being a Cheldon. A business training—a business career will be the best preparation for the day when you succeed me at Broadbridge…”

  Bobbie surveyed the regiment of portraits again. They were meat and drink to his vanity and spurs to his ambition, but he differed from his uncle as to the meaning of ambition.

  Nearly an hour passed before they rose and sauntered leisurely into the drawing room, and there in two enveloping armchairs they passed the time until somewhere between eleven and midnight the owner of Broadbridge Manor signalled his desire for sleep by a series of yawns and then departed abruptly to the upper regions of the old building.

  When his own door closed behind him, Bobbie turned the key in the lock and flung himself on the bed. He was tired mentally rather than physically, and although West had been more than usually sparing with the wine, what he had drunk had produced a mellowness which left him limp. But he was determined not to sleep, persuaded that he had an immense amount of thinking to do.

  He opened his eyes and was astonished to be informed by the clock on the mantelpiece that he had been asleep for hours. It was actually a quarter to two.

  With the agitated, spasmodic movements of a man in a hurry he opened his bag and fumbled for the revolver. This he thrust into the right hand pocket of his dinner jacket, and almost in the same movement reached the door and unlocked it. Outside in the landing there was a silence consistent with the darkness that prevailed.

  In his state of mind he really did not know what he was doing, though at the back of his brain there was a glimmering idea as to why he was doing it. He seemed to be under the control of a spirit alien to his weak, foolish character; it was as if he was suffering from daydream somnambulism and had become a creature taken captive by thoughts too dangerous to be expressed in words. But had he been able to think he must have rushed back to his room and barricaded himself against the terrors of the temptation assailing him. As it happened he actually crept to the door of his uncle’s room, pushed it open slightly, and with his hand gripping the revolver, entered.

  From where he stood the bed was indistinct, for the room was nearly equal to the entire floor space of 15, Galahad Mansions, or at least Bobbie had once remarked on this comparison between the genuine mansion and the imitation. Not a sound worried him except his own breathing, and it was because of this too audible evidence of his own existence that he took the revolver from his pocket. As he did so he thought he heard a shuffling sound to his left and wheeling round he presented the revolver at a shadow in true conventional style.

  “What’s that?” he gasped, terrified.

  The shadow gave him no time even to try and answer his own question, for it materialised into a pyjama-clad figure, and as a hand stretched out towards the weapon a well known voice said, “Give me that.” The next moment the room was flooded with electric light, and Massy Cheldon, holding the weapon which he alone knew to be unloaded, gazed contemptuously at the form of his nephew stretched on the floor.

  “You fainted,” he said five minutes later. “But finish your drink first. It’ll be a tonic.”

  “Uncle,” the penitent began and stopped to hide his face in his hands.

  “Feeling better?” Massy Cheldon, glowing with triumph, stretched out a hand to the soda siphon on the table between his own and his nephew’s chair. That it had contained glasses for two and an assortment of drinks might have given Bobbie occasion for an essay in the art of deduction had he been in a normal condition of mind, but it was not his uncle’s intention to admit that he had been expecting him. That would have been a foolish weakening of his own position and would of a certainty have lessened the effect of his confrontation in the darkness of an intruder with a harmless weapon.

  “I don’t know what to say—I must have been mad,” Bobbie groaned.

  “Of course, you were mad.” The tone was extraordinarily good-humoured in the circumstances. And Uncle Massy had never shown a predilection for good humour even in the most favourable conditions.

  “I’ve behaved like a cad, uncle.”

  “You’ve behaved like a fool. You forgot the Cheldon motto, ‘Courage and Loyalty.’’’ He purred a chorus to his self-esteem.

  “You certainly showed courage, uncle.” Bobbie raised his head and disclosed scarlet cheeks. “It was the pluckiest act I’ve known or heard of. I couldn’t have done it. But I shouldn’t have harmed you. I swear I wouldn’t. I was only bluffing.”

  “Would a bench of magistrates believe that?” The voice was for the first time harsh, even threatening. “Would a judge and jury at the Sussex Assizes accept that explanation?” He rose and stood over him, all the mean little soul of the man palpitating with triumph. “Had I been one of the nervy sort the shock might have killed me, but I think I proved that all the courage of the Cheldons isn’t expended on the battlefield, that even a food controller can be brave.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. I must have been in a dream. Uncle, I swear, I didn’t mean it. I was just pretending.” The boyish apology came in detached sentences, and Massy Cheldon knew that every word was true.

  “You see, Bobbie, you made the mistake of measuring me by your own standard. You naturally judged me as a coward. It never dawned on you that a loaded revolver pointed at me at a distance of a couple of feet would have no more effect on me than the threat of a blow from a toy balloon. Men of my calibre do not parade their courage. They conceal it. But, damme, why am I talking like this when I ought to be rousing West and telephoning for the police?”

  Bobbie turned to stone.

  “Uncle!” he gasped weakly.

  “Oh, I know what that whine means. You were going to remind me that you had a mother and that I am fond of her. Well, you would have been right. I am fond of your mother, Bobbie. She’s a woman in a million, and her husband, my brother, was a man in a million. For the sake of both of them I will forgive.”

  A delicate hand was stretched out and as hastily withdrawn when it failed to find a companion.

  “Now don’t talk until I give you permission.” The lord of Broadbridge Manor began to strut. “The problem is one which must be solved here and now, Bobbie. For your mother’s sake I shall forgive. It will depend on your future conduct whether I forget.” He pursed his lips and looked profound, rather taken aback by his own eloquence.

  All the fight had gone out of Bobbie, supposing any had ever been in him. But certainly all his powers of retort, anger, sarcasm and even resentment were banished too. He could only be co
nscious of the enormity of his stupidity.

  “You idiot!” Uncle Massy cried, suddenly gripping him by the shoulders and shaking him. “What do you think you’d have got out of my murder except a rope around your neck? It is possible that it never occurred to you that if I were found dead in suspicious circumstances the only man who could profit by my death would be the first to be suspected? Didn’t it cross what you are pleased to call your mind that had I died a few minutes ago you would have been arrested before breakfast? Faugh!” He sought the consolation of his armchair and the assistance of another whisky and soda to restore his composure.

  “Damn you, I must have a few hours’ sleep before Peters comes in with the morning tea.” There was a mask of evil which a return of his sense of triumph banished before Bobbie could look him in the face for a second or two. “Now listen to me, and answer my questions. First, who gave you that murderous weapon?” The adjective was introduced to minister to vanity.

  “Chap of the name of Ruslin!”

  “Any Christian name?”

  “I don’t know. His friends call him Nosey.” Bobbie didn’t smile.

  “And did Mr. Nosey Ruslin—if I may be familiar—lend you the loaded revolver so that you might shoot me?”

  “Of course not.” Bobbie looked scared as though afraid his tone would provoke his uncle. “I mean, he hadn’t the faintest notion. Mr. Ruslin was talking to me in his office when he opened a drawer in his desk to look for something and found the revolver. He’d forgotten all about it and hadn’t a licence. As I have—shooting down here, you know—I offered to take care of it until he’d moved to his new offices. That’s all, uncle, and it’s the truth.”

  Massy Cheldon knew it was, but he would not surrender an inch of his highly moral position.

  “Sounds dangerously akin to a conspiracy,” he muttered, “but I’ll accept your explanation. Where does this person exist?”

  “I really don’t know, uncle. I hardly know him at all.”

  “But you must have met him somewhere.” The reproof was conveyed in a bark of irritation.

  “Oh, yes, of course. The ‘Frozen Fang’, a new night club in Wardour Street. Mr. Ruslin is a well-known theatrical agent.”

  “Money?”

  Bobbie’s smile was genuine.

  “Rolling in it.” Memories of the lunch and the loan of twenty-five pounds comforted him now.

  “Very well. I suppose if I address the weapon to Mr. Ruslin at the ‘Frozen Fang’ it will reach him. I can’t allow you to handle it again. I shall remove the ammunition first.” A handy tumbler served to conceal that part of his face which smiled knowingly.

  “You won’t—”

  “Don’t give another exhibition of your more obvious asinine qualities,” was the swift retort. “Good night.”

  Bobbie rose obediently.

  “I will see you after breakfast. Go for a stroll in the rose gardens and wait there for me.” He yawned. “I must have rest,” he added, in a natural and therefore complaining tone. “After the nerve-wracking experience I have gone through I shouldn’t be surprised if I collapsed altogether. I am of a sensitive nature. There’s poetry in my composition, but no one believes it. Because they think I am rich they think me incapable of anything which cannot be expressed in money. Clear off.”

  When Bobbie flung himself on the bed for the second time that night his whole frame was shivering and his state of mind that of a man who has had an even narrower escape from death than his uncle had had. The fabric of his glorious dreams had vanished and had been replaced by something too hideous, revolting and dangerous for contemplation. Ugly thoughts clamoured for expression. He fought to repel them and cried aloud when he heard his own tongue mumbling some of them.

  Uncle Massy might change his mind. Uncle Massy was mean and cruel. Uncle Massy hated him. Uncle Massy…. It was Uncle Massy a thousand times until the moment the door opened and a footman brought in a tray.

  “Why, sir!” he gasped, staring at the recumbent figure he had awakened out of a prolonged nightmare.

  “Too tired to undress,” Bobbie murmured sleepily. “Pour me out a cup of tea and get the bath ready.”

  The well-trained servant worked with speed.

  “He is having breakfast in his own room, sir,” West, the butler, explained in reply to a natural question, an hour later. “The master told me he had had a most disturbing night.”

  Bobbie bent well over his plate of bacon and eggs, but the food had not been more than prodded when he rose and lighted a cigarette. When West turned his back he beat a strategic retreat to the gardens.

  Had he been in the mood to appreciate the glories of antiquity decorated by the skill of a scientific gardener with a regiment of assistants Bobbie must have enjoyed the hour and three-quarters available to him for an outside inspection of Broadbridge Manor and a tour of the beautiful grounds. The sweeping carriage drive entrance from the ancient gateway had been a source of gratification and pride on former occasions. Now he paced it moodily and never troubled to raise his eyes to the old world building which had been a ducal mansion for nearly two centuries until the all-conquering Jonathan Cheldon arrived from India with a bankful of gold coins and a boxful of jewels with which to displace the last Duke of Weybridge who had tempted his luck a hundred times too often at Crockford’s. But the nervous, frightened guest had no heart for the noble façade, the artistic gables, mullioned windows and intricacies of wood and stone such as delight the architect. He was conscious that at that very moment Uncle Massy was deciding his fate, and Bobbie could guess that that fate would not be a pleasant or a comfortable one.

  In due course he wandered to the rose gardens which were perfect, although the roses had yet to arrive, and he was lingering between two expansive beds when the atmosphere seemed to become thick with the approach of the master of Broadbridge Manor.

  “So you’re there!” was his substitute for a greeting. “Bobbie, I’ve been thinking things over and I’ve made up my mind.” He spoke incisively after the manner of an imitation dictator.

  “Yes, uncle.” The tone was diplomatically submissive.

  “I’ve already made a parcel of the weapon and dispatched it from the post office. I took it myself to prevent the servants talking. Your friend with the curious name will receive it tomorrow. Pity it won’t be so easy to dispose of you.” He looked careworn. “But one must face one’s problems and difficulties, however undeserved they may be. Bobbie, I cannot undertake to settle the date when you start work, but as soon as I can see Sir James Honkin, who is one of my fellow-directors on the board of the rubber company, I will fix up everything. He is sure to let me have my own way. You are, of course, prepared to start work in the office at a day’s notice?”

  “Certainly, uncle.”

  “I will try and get you a commencing salary of fifty shillings a week, but the manager may raise objections. I know he usually pays only thirty shillings to beginners until they prove their worth. But as you’re my nephew he will understand and make allowances.” He left the sense incomplete, but Bobbie was not especially interested now.

  “Hard work will make a man of you,” Uncle Massy continued with a pretentious solemnity that suited his mean soul. “You won’t know yourself in six months’ time.” He struggled with a reluctant laugh. “Why, I shouldn’t be surprised if you’ll soon be refusing to let me continue the allowance I make your mother. A miracle is always possible.”

  “And do I remain for the weekend, uncle?”

  “Of course. If you left you’d only alarm your mother and the servants would talk. Besides, I’ve asked some mutual friends in tonight and it would look odd if you didn’t turn up. But I suppose you have no more death-dealing weapons in your possession?” The tone was facetious and Bobbie stared at him in amazement. “Ha! ha! You little thought that your uncle Massy had the courage of a lion. ‘Courage and Loyalty’, th
e old Cheldon motto. ‘Courage and Loyalty’.” Another chuckle and he retraced the path back to the house.

  Bobbie stood with his hands behind his back to hide his clenched fists and in his heart a hatred a thousand times more murderous than that which had sent him creeping on tip-toe to his uncle’s bedroom the night before.

  “I hope I won’t fail next time,” he muttered, but the voice was weak and almost passionless.

  Chapter Five

  Nosey Ruslin stopped at the doorstep of the ham and beef shop, below which the premises of the “Frozen Fang” lay bathed that moment in stale tobacco smoke and neutral exhalations. There was no sign of life anywhere until he had opened and closed a second door and then a solitary specimen of humanity revealed himself in a touzled-haired young man with his body enshrouded in a sheet of green baize and his hands lazily attempting to control the epileptic movements of a veteran and wounded carpet-sweeper.

  “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Ruslin! Good afternoon, sir.” The speaker readily paused to draw a hand across his mouth.

  “Looked in as I was passing, Tom,” said Nosey, his comparative freshness and animation enhanced by his surroundings. “Case there was anything for me—message or anything, you know.”

  The slow-motion human transferred his hand to his hair, and memory and intelligence being thus tickled into activity, he uttered an exclamaton which Nosey did not trouble to translate.

  “Why, yes, of course, Mr. Ruslin! Funny you should call now. There’s a registered parcel for you.” He shuffled into outer darkness and returned with the parcel. With a nod that concealed his surprise Nosey reduced his capital to three shillings and a halfpenny.

  “Thanks, Tom, see you later, I expect,” He sauntered out, unperturbed if his demeanour could be accepted as a guide, but actually puzzled and even suspicious, and for a moment or two even frightened.

  What could the parcel contain? Not money. He was sure of that. Not an infernal weapon? He was none too sure now.