Murder in Piccadilly

by Charles Kingston

  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?”

  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 Inspect
or 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.”