“You must tell me more, Mr. Ruslin,” said his guest weakly. “Every time I try to think my brain seems to catch fire.”
“I know that feeling,” said Nosey sympathetically. “But we’ve got to defend ourselves, Mr. Cheldon, we’ve got to prepare for danger ahead. I’m not afraid on my own account—the busies will never hand me the bracelets—but there’s yourself, a county gentleman with a large fortune. You don’t want to be mixed up in no scandal.”
He might have been reading Bobbie’s thoughts.
“But preparing costs money,” Nosey continued in a tone a shade lower, “and I want to be sure where I stand. I’m willing to foot the bill until you are handling the stuff.”
The stare from his companion was one of blank surprise, but there were no words of protest or of disagreement.
“So far I’ve done all the paying out.” The simian lips were twisting into all sorts of misshapen repulsiveness. “I didn’t get that job done for nothing.” He appeared to be glancing at the beer-stained engraving over the dusty sideboard depicting the Sayers-Heenan fight, but the red eyes were on the alert to note and record every change of expression. Nosey had rehearsed in a crude way the scene which he was not acting now, but in despair had been compelled to trust to luck and whatever inspiration the encounter with Bobbie Cheldon might bring. If luck and inspiration failed then he would have to be the truculent bully and undisguised blackmailer as well as the coward prepared to sell his allies to ensure his own safety.
“What job?” The question uttered in a dry, hard whisper, took Nosey by surprise and deleted from his tongue the words which he had carefully and cunningly composed with the object of bringing the critical moment appreciably nearer.
“No need to tell you,” said Nosey cheerfully. “But you can take it from me as you did from Wake that if you’d waited for chance to get you ten thousand a year you’d have had to wait until you were an old man. See?” The soul as well as the body of Bobbie Cheldon sickened.
“Mind you, Mr. Cheldon,” said the human gorilla, smiling through the hideousness of his habitual expression, “I was careful to keep you out of it. You’re a gentleman and you’re delicate and refined. Nosey Ruslin is the other way about and isn’t ashamed to say so. Earned my own living when I was ten and had a fortune before I was twenty-one. So when I began to think over the wickedness of your uncle keeping you and your lady mother—”
Bobbie sprang to his feet, and in his rage tried to grapple with the air.
“Don’t bring her into it,” he shouted, in a paroxysm of helpless rage.
“Sit down,” said Nosey, pushing him into his chair. “I apologise. A gentleman can do no more. Well, as I was saying, when I decided that it was time a clever young gentleman such as you are had the money which ought to have been his years ago I did some quiet thinking. I had that letter from your uncle hinting that you’d been trying to make him acquainted with the business end of my revolver and there was the little note signed by yourself giving me permission to polish the old man off.” He rubbed his hands in company with a moment or two of happy reflection. “I’ll not try and fool you, Mr. Cheldon, by saying that I didn’t expect to scrape a few quids out of it for poor little me.” He grinned and as the grin faded into a leer he took a position astride of a rickety chair facing Bobbie’s. “There’s nothing more for me to say. You’ve inherited ten thousand a year, and I’ve old Wideawake on me hands.” He shrugged his shoulders.
Had Bobbie been older and wiser he might have been able to deal with a situation his imagination could never have prepared him for, but in his youthful ignorance and nervous condition when he did attempt speech his cheeks twitched and his lips moved noiselessly. He knew it was blackmail, and also knew that he must pay although no one could prove that he had murdered his uncle.
“Who—who did it?” he gasped, two lengthy minutes later.
Nosey Ruslin smiled with his teeth.
“Don’t ask dangerous questions, Mr. Cheldon,” he advised him seriously. “Wake will be hanging round you again and if you knew you’d only give yourself away.”
“But you said I was here to prepare our defence against Wake?” he stammered.
“That’s the little game. I was afraid you were under the impression that you’d nothing to do with my worries,” said Nosey pleasantly, “and I was getting nervous about Wake’s visits to you. The old fox has a way of persuading those who don’t know him as I do to talk about dangerous things.” He smiled again. “Wake wants to bring you on to his side.”
“That’s impossible,” exclaimed Bobbie.
“It is, now that you know the exact position. Mr. Cheldon, I’ll not keep any secrets from you. I know the man who murdered your uncle.” Bobbie started with the whole momentum of his body. “Because I wanted to do you a good turn I did all I could to make it impossible for Wake or any of his pals to charge you with complicity. My pal and me have shared all the risks, and so you have ten thousand a year.” The repetition of the income of the Cheldon estate which Bobbie himself had so often mentioned in the hearing of Nosey and Nancy had a special fascination for the ex-pugilist and he gave it the honour of a special intonation.
“You have ten thousand a year because your uncle was outed.” Nosey tapped him on the knee. “I look to you to help us to leave Wake guessing for the rest of his life and also—”
“Yes?” Bobbie croaked.
“Well, what about it? Do you suppose my pal risked his neck—is risking it now—for nothing? Haven’t I had to pay him a bit on account?”
“How much?” The words cost the speaker a real effort.
“A hundred quid,” lied Nosey valiantly.
“I shall make it my business to pay you, Mr. Ruslin, the moment I am in possession of the estate,” said Bobbie importantly. “You’ll not find the interest small either.”
There was something of his uncle in his tone and manner, but Bobbie and his companion were not to be bothered by comparisons.
“Thank you.” The heavy sarcasm was a threat. “I’m not annoyed, Mr. Cheldon, only amused.” The absence of amusement from the foxy eyes stamped the words with a meaning that even Bobbie in his most obtusive mood could not fail to appreciate at its full value.
“How much?” The curtness was unintentional, for Bobbie could not think or speak clearly in his chaotic condition.
“Ten thousand quid—one year’s income—and cheap at the price.” Nosey, determined to prove how confident and self-controlled he was, went to the sideboard in search of a liquid, but the sideboard was bare inside and out.
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t, Mr. Cheldon,” said the pleasant voice from the other side of the tremendous head. “The master of Broadbridge Manor would rather pay fifty thousand quid than stand in the dock of the Old Bailey alongside of his friend, Nosey Ruslin, and—and the other chap.”
“So it’s come to blackmail, has it?” Bobbie was slowly working himself up into a rage, although fully aware how useless rage would be.
“That’s not a friendly remark, Mr. Cheldon. A few days ago you were an underpaid city clerk and Nancy was thinking of throwing you over. Now you’re rich and you’ve a great future. There’s no detective looking on you as the villain of the piece. You’re Wake’s blue-eyed boy even if he does bother you a bit, but he doesn’t suspect you and never will unless—”
“Yes—unless?”
Nosey made a face.
“I was thinking of the revolver and the letter from your uncle. I’ve a copy of it here which you can have for keeps.” He took out his pocket-book and extracted a sheet of notepaper. “Never was much good at writing,” he explained as he handed it to Bobbie.
“I am returning the revolver you lent my nephew and in doing so may I be permitted to point out that to entrust a deadly weapon to a young man on a visit to an uncle whose corpse is worth ten thousand a year to him is t
o subject him to severe temptation. He yielded to that temptation last night, but the Cheldon motto is ‘Courage and Loyalty’, and I proved that I lived up to the first part at any rate.
“May I suggest that you look after your armoury yourself?”
Bobbie read it aloud slowly, Nosey listening with an unctuous smile after the manner of an author conscious of the merits of his masterpiece.
“That’s good enough, isn’t it?” he asked gently.
“The fool!” he muttered, oblivious of time and place.
He started as a hand touched his back.
“We could talk a lot, couldn’t we, but what would be the use? You can’t afford to call me names, and it wouldn’t be playing the game if you did. I always fought fairly when in the ring, and if I’ve got you ten thousand a year you ought to be grateful. Look on it as a bit of business and you’ll feel happier. I’ll keep you out of Wake’s clutches. He was a bit sniffy about you, Mr. Cheldon, at the beginning, but I proved your alibi. But then they always suspect the chap who makes money out of a murder, and they’re often right. Now be sensible and act sensibly. You’re rich. Why? Well, because of a little arrangement by me. Supposing I hadn’t done nothing about it? Your uncle would have lived another ten years at least. If it will suit your book better, say, five. Five tens come to fifty thousand quid, and all I want is ten thousand. Your pal Nosey has put fifty thousand, perhaps a hundred thousand in your pocket, and his fee is one tenth. I don’t call that unreasonable.”
“But how could I pay such a sum? The Cheldon estate will probably bring in less after the death duties have been paid. It would have to be done in instalments.” Bobbie marvelled at his detachment from the tragic horror of the situation, but he was incapable of understanding that he was actually defending himself from it.
“Give me an IOU,” said Nosey, carelessly. “You can redeem it when it suits your convenience.”
“And uncle’s letter and mine?” There was a quaver in his voice.
“They’ll be handed over with the IOU when the cash is paid and old Wideawake is growing roses in his retirement.” Nosey’s utter absence of nerves was convincing, and Bobbie became infected by his air of quiet, businesslike confidence.
“All right. Show me what to do. And when I have signed it what then?”
“You can go home and forget all about the London end of the Cheldon affair,” said Nosey, not answering the question until he was in the act of placing with reverent ceremony the precious document in his pocket-book. “You can do the squire act at the family mansion and forget Nosey Ruslin and anyone else you want to forget.” He looked at him sideways.
Bobbie, half consciously under the influence of the idea that he had settled his debt, took up the remnants of his superiority.
“I will leave London for Broadbridge immediately,” he said, lolling in his chair. “I’ll not allow myself to be bothered further by anyone.”
“The right spirit,” said Nosey cordially. “Show Wake the door if he calls. It’s the only way to deal with him. Refer him to your solicitor.”
The name had an unhappy effect on Bobbie.
“He must never know anything of our arrangement,” he said, nervous again. “Either now or in the future. If there is no arrest they will keep the case open for months.”
“I had thought of that, and you needn’t worry. I’ll not pay you a visit at your grand palace, Mr. Cheldon. There’s a post-box in every town and village and we can settle our business without anyone being the wiser—unless you want them to be wise.”
Bobbie turned away from him with a shiver of disgust. The revolting callousness of his confederate infuriated him, but he was in chains and could do nothing. There was his mother to consider. And his own reputation. He was sure he would be popular at Broadbridge. There were many reforms he would institute at once by way of penance and reparation.
“I wish the papers would stop writing about the case,” he said suddenly.
“Oh, they don’t rob me of my beauty sleep,” Nosey answered readily. “It’s Wake who’s been on my nerves. He very nearly drove me into a corner where he could have given me one under the chin. I was for leaving London and avoiding my favourite little spots, but I guessed in time the crafty old devil’s dodge.”
Bobbie walked to the door, expecting Nosey to accompany him, and when the ex-pugilist kept his feet implanted by the sideboard he paused and turned round. Something of the cheerfulness and satisfaction that beamed from the little eyes and the huge cheeks encouraged him to make another attempt to banish his torturing curiosity, for Nosey was obviously in the best of humours.
“Mr. Ruslin, now that I’ve proved my willingness to treat you generously, won’t you tell me who murdered my uncle?” It was symptomatic of his complete surrender that he should see or feel nothing of his cold-blooded detachment from emotion of any kind.
Nosey smiled from ear to ear and from forehead to chin.
“That’s a fair question, and before I answer it, will you have a shot at a guess? Who did it, do you think?”
The younger man did not hesitate.
“The fellow you call Italian Charlie,” he hazarded.
Nosey’s grin became etched into his countenance.
“Italian Charlie was a blind. I always have a blind in a job of work of this kind. For the actual job I try and get the one man the police are least likely to suspect. Of course, I am careful to provide myself with an alibi. That’s why I had you to a late, very late dinner on Monday night. No, it wasn’t Italian Charlie and never could have been. My business with him was over short weight in cash, a ‘fence’ in North London gave him. Nothing more. Guess again.”
“I can’t. There were fellows I’ve seen in the ‘Frozen Fang’ who looked equal to cutting any number of throats.” Suddenly surprised at the note of flippancy in the only voice he could hear, Bobbie flushed with shame. “I mean I never knew their names,” he added, lamely.
“That proves how cleverly I’ve managed it, and with this little scrap of paper and your letters.” How he grinned! “Well, I don’t mind putting you wise, Mr. Cheldon. Fact is, you’ve got to be told.” He approached and lowered his voice to the faintest of whispers. “The man who did the knife act on Monday night and put you into a mansion with ten thousand of the best a year was—” the voice was almost inarticulate—“Billy the Dancer—Billy Bright.” He slapped him on the back. “Now you know, my boy.”
Bobbie’s surprise was almost paralysing in its effect. His first effort was to express his disbelief in one blinding phrase of vitriolic contempt, but his faculties refused to function; his next, to give his informant a knowing look as of appreciation of his fantastic humour, and his third, an angry gesture of repudiation of the other’s obvious attempt to classify him amongst the most credulous of idiots. But all he could do was to stare vacantly as he wrestled with his conflicting thoughts, while a panorama of the immediate past brought into a jumbled review the persons and places which had become known to him since that night of nights when he had been introduced to Nancy Curzon at the ‘Frozen Fang’.
“Never guessed that, eh?” said the husky voice of Nosey Ruslin, “and neither won’t old Wideawake. Them Scotland Yard know-alls make a habit of suspecting everybody from the start so that if by chance they get the right man they can boast they spotted him at once. Wake suspects me and you and Italian Charlie and lots of others he’s seen me with. He may even be pretending to see the blood on Billy’s shirt front, but he isn’t thinking of him. That’s the way to do a job, Mr. Cheldon, and it’s the reason why Nosey Ruslin has the cleanest record in London considering all things.”
It was all of a piece with the Cheldon character that Bobbie should in that moment experience a spasm of pleasure at the reminder that in all his moods, good and bad, Nosey never forgot to address him formally. The illiterate ex-pugilist might be familiar now and then, but it was always “Mr. Ch
eldon”. There was comfort in that.
“Billy Bright,” he murmured, speaking with an effort. “A nervous wreck without the courage of a mouse.”
“Exactly.” It was a favourite word of Nosey’s. “Exactly.” He looked sly and unfathomable. “And the beauty of it is that Billy himself didn’t know until the day that he was to do it. I led him up the garden path beautifully and do you know what the carrot was I held in front of his nose, Mr. Cheldon.” He rubbed his hands, a sure sign of enjoyment.
Bobbie did not attempt to guess.
“A half share in ten thousand quids,” was the startling answer.
“I thought he didn’t know—?” Bobbie gasped.
“He knows nothing except what I’ve told him. He knows less than Wake does about the revolver, in fact he’s never heard about it at all. And there’s something more.” He paused impressively, or with the intention of being impressive. “From first to last he’s understood that my little business was being done without your knowledge. I assured him that it would be a waste of time to try and bring a gentleman like you into it.”
“But he’s keen on Nancy,” Bobbie objected, his voice utterly without feeling because of the relief which Nosey’s assurance had bred.
“Of course, he is, and would marry her tomorrow if he had the chance.” Nosey Ruslin never lied unless a lie promised a dividend, and now he was sharp and cunning enough to realise that the truth would be profitable. “Yes, he’s crazy about Nancy, and you and I shouldn’t be surprised, Mr. Cheldon. She’s one in a million. I’d be crazy about her too if I were twenty years younger. But that doesn’t matter. The important point is that Billy prefers hard cash to matrimony, that is, if there is plenty of the cash. He’s heavily in debt and there’s a bit of trouble with an Italian cousin of his over a cheque—”
Murder in Piccadilly Page 23
