Murder in Piccadilly

by Charles Kingston

  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 cha
p 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?”

  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 anxiet
y 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.”