Murder in Piccadilly

by Charles Kingston

  Billy shivered.

  “She has the devil’s own temper,” he muttered. “But it isn’t that, Nosey, it isn’t that.”

  “Of course, it isn’t that. It’s your love for her, eh? The love that makes the world go round and round until you don’t know what you are doing and soon regret what you have done.” He called for a whisky to wash the taste out of his mouth. “Billy,” he resumed when the band—a piano and a violinist—was helping the thirty or forty gravely-miened revellers to believe that they were receiving value for money, “there’ll be no Nancy for you unless you—”

  “Don’t I know it?” he groaned. “It’s money she wants. Nosey, she’s beginning to suspect. I wish you hadn’t made me keep her in ignorance.”

  “Her ignorance will be valuable to me—to us,” he said quickly.

  “Oh, well, I suppose you have a good reason. But she’s beginning to suspect, Nosey.”

  “You said that before.”

  “And I’ll say it again. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I’m always glad to hear the latest news, Billy, but not more than six times. You see, it becomes a trifle stale then.”

  Billy Bright passed a nearly clean hand across his forehead.

  “I suppose you’re right, Nosey. For that matter when it comes to money you always are. But I don’t care for Nancy’s suspicious ways. She’s a habit of asking questions, the sort that a woman answers herself and then tells you you are lying.”

  “I’m waiting for Cheldon,” said Nosey, desirous of changing the conversation. “Can’t you see, Billy, that Cheldon is the answer to all our puzzles and difficulties? You want to marry Nancy, and Nancy won’t look at you unless you have money. Well, do as I tell you and I’ll guarantee Nancy and the money, but you must remember it’s—” He paused. “Here he is,” he muttered. “Clear off. I want to be alone with him.”

  The voice of Bobbie thanking the obsequious attendant for some small service had drifted into the room and through the smoke before he appeared, looking anxious and almost disreputable in the old grey flannel suit he had donned on his return to Galahad Mansions from Broadbridge Manor. But there was every reason for his frayed and careworn ensemble. Mr. Ruslin attributed it to his passion for Nancy. The truth was that for two nights Bobbie had not slept. But then no one could have slept while playing the part of the mouse with Massy Cheldon in the role of the cat.

  He paused to stare about the cellar which a few rugs, an elaborate bar and a number of tables and chairs around a dancing space of not many square feet, entitled its proprietor to style it a night club, but as soon as he saw his friend, Nosey Ruslin, something not unlike delight improved his expression.

  The ex-pugilist, ex-theatrical agent, but not yet ex-convict, rose with hearty noisiness to shake hands.

  “Didn’t expect to see you tonight, Mr. Cheldon,” he said, placing a chair for him. “Waiter, your best whisky and soda for my friend.”

  “Thanks,” said Bobbie gratefully. It was revivifying to be with someone who appreciated one’s social and intellectual importance.

  “Come to see Nancy? Not much of a crowd here tonight. Wonder why Battray puts her on it. Ought to wait for Saturday when she’d have an audience.”

  He spoke to the accompaniment of the gurgles that indicated the emptying of his guest’s glass.

  “She’s too good for a hole like this,” said Bobbie, with angry good nature. “She ought to have the finest theatre in London.”

  “And when you get your rights, too, Mr. Cheldon,” whispered the tempter with his customary flattering deference of tone and attitude, “she’ll have it. You’ll rent the theatre and Nancy’s name will dazzle Piccadilly in electric light. She’ll become world famous.”

  “Yes, world famous.” Bobbie was so excited that he could scarcely speak. The band renewed its excruciating efforts.

  “She’ll be the luckiest girl in London when she marries you, Mr. Cheldon,” Nosey said with that insinuating assurance that seldom failed to achieve the effect it aimed at. “Look at them.” He waggled a hand towards the dancing couples. “What a crowd! What a crowd! And to think that Nancy has to try and amuse these swine. Mr. Cheldon, as I asked you before, for God’s sake get that pure-minded girl out of this.”

  “But how can I?” Bobbie’s voice was a wail. “She won’t listen to me at present. Calls me a pauper. And I am one, worse luck.” He stared at his empty glass and Nosey noticed the stare and misunderstood it. But he could not order a refill, for previous orders had carried away the last of his coins and he was now penniless. And by special arrangement with Mr. Battray, the owner of the “Frozen Fang”, he paid cash for everything until it was possible for him to wipe out a debit balance of about fifteen pounds, incurred the previous month.

  “How can you?” he asked with a degree of anger which was not without a note of affectionate interest. “Do you know how I’d do it, Mr. Cheldon? I’d take steps to remove that interfering old uncle of yours and step into the estate myself. Yes, I’ve heard about him. Of course, from Nancy. You should see her imitate him. A.I. at Lloyds. Yes, sir. That girl’s a marvel. Ought to go on the halls if there are any halls left to go on. A genius.”

  The band desisted and by contrast the half silence that ensued was refreshing and comforting. The two waiters rushed hither and thither, and Billy Bright was not to be seen.

  “Miss Nancy Curzon, the famous dancer, of Bright & Curzon.” Mr. Battray was in the centre of the floor, his keen observation having revealed the fact that no more orders for drinks were to be expected for at least half an hour.

  They switched off the lights save the one over the piece of wood which was the platform for the occasion, and to a rumble from the piano Nancy stepped out of nowhere. Bobbie swooned into a condition of ecstatic admiration and did not at once revive from it when an intoxicated patron of the “Frozen Fang” uttered an exclamation of contempt and flung an empty champagne bottle in her direction. Fortunately the aim was also drunk and nothing was hit except the floor, but it was well for the middle-aged scion of a garage-owning family in outer suburbia that Mr. Battray and his scullions closed in on the aggressor with the intention of ejecting him before Bobbie flung himself from his chair to the seat of the disturbance with fire and murder in his heart and brain. Mr. Battray, however, had been dealing with crises of this nature for years, and the offender’s bi-monthly expedition in search of Bohemia ended with an assisted passage to the cool and unclean pavement and an addition to his small stock of stories for use in a local public house.

  “That’s all right, sir,” said the proprietor of the “Frozen Fang” to the palpitating champion of insulted womanhood. “The artiste was never in any danger. Mr. Nooch is quite harmless. Have a drink with me, sir. Hello, Nosey, you must join us.”

  A backward glance at the piano, and the band was soon in full swing. Bobbie absorbing his second whisky and soda, was unaware of Nancy’s close proximity until she spoke to Nosey.

  “What can you expect?” she asked sarcastically. “Haven’t I told you a thousand times they don’t know what real art is?”

  “You were wonderful, Nancy,” said Bobbie, holding out both hands.

  “Oh, shut up!” she retorted to his complete discomfiture. “I’m sick of that sort of talk. Give me something to drink, Nosey, or I’ll scream.” Bobbie, unaware that she knew her act had been a failure, could not find an excuse or a reason for her temper, certain he had done nothing to offend her.

  “Nancy.” He stopped when he noted the expression of her face. Never before had she displayed such ferocity of rebellion against life.

  “Billy was right,” he heard her say to Nosey, to whom she seemed to be exclusively devoted. “I’m wasting my time and talents here. I ought to make that continental tour and return with a reputation.”

  “What about America, Nancy? They’d eat your act there.” Nosey had never been out of
England in his life, hardly ever out of London, but there was pure cosmopolitanism in a tone which in a moment carried Bobbie at least to a crowded New York theatre.

  “That’s what everybody says,” Nancy remarked with more complacence and therefore less temper. “I’m to blame, though,” she added, lapsing into normality, “I’ve been thinking of other things besides my profession and my art, and I’m paying the penalty.”

  “Nancy,” said Bobbie pleadingly.

  She turned and established his existence at the table by according him a faint smile.

  “You’ve done me no good by asking me to marry you,” she said with an astonishing return to good temper. “I’m fond of you, Bobbie.” His hand was on hers in an instant and she did not withdraw it.

  “That dancing of yours was marvellous,” he whispered. “It simply stunned them with its perfection.”

  She stared at him, suspecting ill-timed humour, but to her unspoken amazement she saw that he was sincere. Actually he was the only person in the club who did not know that she had been a failure.

  “You’re a lamb,” she said impulsively.

  “And I’m a wolf, I suppose,” interposed Nosey Ruslin humorously.

  “No, you’re a bear,” Nancy corrected prettily. “But I don’t want to live in a zoo.” To Bobbie’s delight she caught him by the arm and brought her lips on a level with his right ear. “You’re a dear, and I’ll wait a month. If you can afford to marry me then…”

  Nosey discerned an acquaintance at the other side of the room who was good for a drink, but when he returned refreshed, Bobbie was alone.

  “She’s dancing at a party with Billy Bright,” he explained sulkily.

  “I suppose what she whispered was a secret?” Nosey was almost playful.

  “I wanted to tell you that, Mr. Ruslin,” said Bobbie, eagerly. “She promised to wait a month and—”

  Nosey uttered a cry of astonishment.

  “You must have made a hit with her!” he said, enviously. “That means she’ll chuck the contract I offered her. And all for your sake. You’re a lucky chap, Mr. Cheldon.”

  “Lucky? How?” The voice was harsh, even hostile.

  “Because there isn’t another man in London Nancy’d do that for,” he retorted with emphasis. “Can’t you see she’s an artiste with the soul of an artiste and that her profession means everything to her? If she’s willing to give it all up for you—to share your lot—” the sentimental note was choked before it could rise to pathos.

  “I know she won’t marry me unless I’m rich,” he blurted out.

  “Well, why not be rich?” He surveyed the room. “Mr. Cheldon, we can’t talk here. Come to my flat and we’ll see if I can’t think of some scheme to help you. I want Nancy and you to be happy.”

  Bobbie was muttering his gratitude when they reached the street, but his companion did not speak until the door of his flat was closed and locked.

  “Nothing more to drink, Mr. Cheldon,” he said, when his guest was filling the armchair on the other side of the fireless grate. “We’ve got business to do and we must have clear heads.”

  Something about the room reminded Bobbie of his debt.

  “Oh, by the way, Mr. Ruslin, that twenty-five pounds. I’ll—”

  “You’ll get a thick ear,” said Mr. Ruslin facetiously, “if you ever refer to it again. I’m not a millionaire, but I’ve got all I want and a bit over. Any time you’re in a fix for a little of the ready I’ll be waiting with both hands full of quids.” He smiled.

  “You’re my best friend, Mr. Ruslin!” Bobbie cried uncontrollably.

  “You’re not the first chap who’s said that,” Nosey rejoined placidly. “But let me begin with a question, Mr. Cheldon. Why did you send me back the barker?”

  As he instantaneously translated the last word Bobbie sat up in a fluster. “I didn’t return it,” he gasped. “It was uncle.”

  Mr. Nosey Ruslin affected the politeness of inattention.

  “You don’t mean to say so!” His back was towards Bobbie and he appeared to be busy with a cigarette-box. “Suppose he thought it rather dangerous, Mr. Cheldon. Perhaps he suspected something was wrong.” He was ambling towards the other chair now. “I don’t know this uncle of yours, and if I did I can’t say I’d want to kiss him.” He laughed.

  “Neither would anyone else.” Bobbie grunted to himself. “But he’s got pluck, Mr. Ruslin. I shouldn’t have had the nerve to do it myself.”

  “Do what?”

  Bobbie forced a laugh.

  “I don’t know how to put it.”

  “Can’t you trust a pal?” The note was almost plaintive. “You called me your best friend a little while ago. Doesn’t that go for something?”

  “Yes, of course it does. I’m sorry, Mr. Ruslin.” Bobbie laughed again. “I was worked up at dinner the first night and he said things that made me feel I wanted to choke him. When I began to think about the revolver I was minding for you—” he stopped as if thought had failed.

  “You planned a little expedition to his room at night with some idea of removing uncle from this vale of tears?” It was all so very obvious to Nosey that he never imagined for a moment he was being clever. “But what happened then?” he asked abruptly.

  “He walked straight up to the revolver and took it away from me,” the culprit confessed. “Of course, Mr. Ruslin, it was just a try-on of mine—a little joke. I didn’t mean anything serious. I was fuddled, perhaps, drunk.”

  “But it might have gone off. It was fully loaded. When it was returned to me the ammunition had been removed.”

  “Uncle did that. I’d never have thought he had so much courage. I really almost expected him to die of fright when he saw the weapon close to his cracking bones. As long as I’ve known him he’s been whining about his health, and I well remember when I was a kid I exploded a paper bag behind him and he nearly had hysterics.”

  “It may be that he couldn’t fancy you shooting him,” Nosey suggested. It was a polite way of conveying the opinion that Massy Cheldon did not regard his nephew as anything better than an invertebrate loafer.

  “But never mind, Mr. Cheldon,” Nosey added, the moment he detected anger in the boyish face opposite him. “You and I are friends, and I’m going to stand by you no matter what happens. No, don’t thank me. I want no thanks except your marriage with Nancy. That’s all that matters to me. Money doesn’t interest me and I’m too old to bother about mixing with the nobs. Give me Shaftesbury Avenue, winter or summer, and I’m happy. I may not be a gentleman of your sort, but fifty quid a week and reasonable health and Nosey Ruslin looks the whole world in the face, Scotland Yard and all.” He was relieved that his impulsive indiscretion brought only a chuckle from his young friend.

  “I can marry Nancy only when I’m master of Broadbridge Manor and the Cheldon estate,” said Bobbie, returning to moodiness.

  “Exactly. And now, Mr. Cheldon, keep your wits about you while we think out a plan to make you master of Broadbridge Manor and the husband of the finest little girlie in all London. First of all, your uncle knows you want him out of the way.”

  “That couldn’t have cost him much thinking.”

  “No. But the revolver helped a bit. Mr. Cheldon, your uncle took the weapon from you and returned it to me. Has he told you that for the sake of the family he’ll keep what happened a secret?”

  “Yes. But he’d have to anyhow.”

  “Are you sure you can trust him? Mr. Cheldon, you’re no fool. You’re a man of the world. Tell me.” Nosey thrust himself to the edge of his armchair. “Can you guarantee that he’ll never lose his temper and give you away? Mr. Cheldon, your uncle has you in his power. Will you do nothing to get out of it?”

  “How can I?” The quaver in his voice was not due to Nosey’s question but to the influence of his melodramatic, rhetorical style.


  “That’s why I asked you here,” said Mr. Ruslin with appropriate gravity. “And before we part, Mr. Cheldon, we’ve got to find the solution of the riddle.”

  “What riddle?”

  “Getting out of your uncle’s power and getting into the family property,” was the earnest reply. “Then you will be able to marry Nancy and save her from the clutches of that dago, Billy Bright.”

  Bobbie winced at the mention of the dancer’s name.

  “An appalling bounder,” he muttered, summoning to his aid all the puny anger of which he was capable.

  “Mind you, Mr. Cheldon,” the tempter resumed, “I don’t agree with Nancy and I’ve told her so a dozen times. ‘You’re a fool,’ I said to her only a few minutes before you arrived at the ‘Frozen Fang.’ You’re a fool not to marry on any terms a young gentleman like Mr. Cheldon. He’s good-looking, intelligent and straight. What more do you want, my girl? If it’s money, that’ll come sooner than you expect.’ I think my words impressed her, but she’s afraid of poverty, Mr. Cheldon, and in a way I can’t blame her, for she’s known it, and the Whitechapel brand fairly sizzles the soul, believe me.”

  Bobbie closed his eyes and drank in the flattery.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mr. Ruslin,” he said in a nervous whisper. “It’s worrying, though. I can’t sleep for thinking of Nancy. I hadn’t the pluck to tell her tonight that uncle had promised to get me a job.”

  “What sort of job?” asked Nosey, almost curt of tone.

  “Oh, something in a rubber firm’s office.”

  Nosey’s exclamation was one of shrill contempt.

  “Five quid a week, I suppose, and touch your hat to the boss.” He laughed derisively, and Bobbie had not the courage to halve the estimate and turn it into fact. “You, Mr. Cheldon, a city clerk! Your uncle must think you’re a fool. You’re a county gentleman, that’s what you are. You ought to be standin’ for Parliament and makin’ speeches an’ taking Nancy to Court. A city clerk, indeed!”