“Is Billy Bright an Italian then?” Bobbie exclaimed, a great light beginning to dawn.
“Father from Naples and mother from Athens,” Nosey imparted with the succinctness of a one-volume encyclopædia. “The old man was deported years ago by old Wideawake’s efforts.”
“That accounts for a lot,” said Bobbie to himself.
“I should think so. But, as I was saying, Mr. Cheldon, Billy isn’t as big a fool as we think he is. He wants money and Nancy, but seeing as how he can’t get neither in one hand he prefers the money. That little cheque is threatening to land him in quod.”
“Forgery, I suppose?”
“Forged endorsement is what they call it. Billy came to me shaking like a jelly, and it was me who got the Italian cousin to stay his hand for a month, but I had to promise him fifty per cent on the money owing, thirty-three pound ten.”
“Doesn’t sound much.”
“It’s a million when you haven’t got it,” said Nosey feelingly. “But it’s not all that Billy owes. He’s up against it, or was until he saw daylight and agreed to imitate his Italian ancestors. Nervous bloke, Billy, but when properly worked up can be a regular little demon.” Nosey’s laughter shattered Bobbie’s daydream. When reality became overwhelming he usually had recourse to unreality.
“Anyhow, there’s the posish,” said Nosey with an air of finality. “I’ve told you everything so that you can be on your guard. If you see Wake again do none of the talking. Leave that to him. And be prepared for anything, Mr. Cheldon. But if you’ll take my advice you’ll forget as much as you can, though that won’t be easy.”
Bobbie laughed sarcastically.
“I can think of nothing else,” he said, peevishly.
“But what about your estate and Nancy and your marriage and—and living like a lord?” Nosey’s catalogue of earthly joys ended abruptly, for his own was confined to money and eating. “Be prepared for anything,” he repeated earnestly, “anything. Now supposing for example I’m arrested?”
Bobbie started with fear for himself.
“You’ll get the jumps, but you must keep your hair on. I’ll not split, Mr. Cheldon, not even with the hangman telling me it’s a fine morning and the warders asking me to choose the menu for breakfast.” He laughed the laugh of confidence. “You’ve kept your part of the bargain and I’ll keep mine. And mine is to keep your name out of it.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ruslin,” said Bobbie, after a pause.
“That’s right.” The heavy hand was extended.
“And now you’ll be wanting to see Nancy, Mr. Cheldon, and she’ll be wanting to see you. But don’t forget that you’ve nothing to do now with our little business. You’re rich and out of danger. Forget your uncle and forget me until I call for a little cheque. Good-bye.”
Chapter Twelve
Chief Inspector Wake sat at his desk listlessly glancing at the latest batch of reports from his subordinates. When he had gleaned a little more than nothing from them he picked up the first of the letters, anonymous and otherwise, which had accumulated during the preceding twenty-four hours. They were all of a familiar type. Eleven contained signed confessions of the murder of Massy Cheldon; twenty-nine named the murderer; eight were devoted to explaining the case against capital punishment; fourteen offered “shrewd guesses”—that was the invariable phrase— as to the identity of the criminal, and sixteen, the majority dated from Service clubs in Pall Mall and neighbourhood, crisply emphasised the more obvious defects of Scotland Yard and its “incompetent underlings,” as one of the most virulent of the critics expressed it.
“I suppose these have been looked into?” he said to Detective-Sergeant Clarke, who was standing over him.
“Yes, sir.” The question could have reference only to the confessions. “With the exception of one they are all borderline cases.”
“And the one?”
“An out of work actor in Brixton who admitted to me that he hoped that after he had been acquitted the film companies would clamour for his services.” The sergeant smiled. “He was really surprised when I told him that I didn’t intend to arrest him.”
The inspector flung the letter which happened to be in his hand across the desk and pushed back his chair.
“Waste of time, Clarke, waste of time, and our time is very precious. Four days since the murder and nothing but suspicion.”
“But promising suspicion, sir. You’ve narrowed the field down considerably. I’m nearly confident.”
“That’s comforting—coming from you,” said Wake gravely. “But, of course, I’m not depressed. Who could be with such a clue as Nosey Ruslin? A big fat, juicy clue.” He stood up. “I’ll have him, Clarke, but in my own good time and way. The chief rather hinted that he ought to be taken in at once if I really believed what I told him, but that wouldn’t do. I wish, though, I could have been present at that con-conference between him and young Cheldon last night.”
Detective-Sergeant Clarke became grimmer of expression.
“I’d prefer to know exactly what young Cheldon has to do with his uncle’s murder,” he said.
“Nothing and yet a lot, Clarke. That’s my opinion. Young Cheldon isn’t a murderer or a crook of any sort. Of course, he’s weak. What could you expect? Brought up by a doting mother and encouraged to be a loafer until the Piccadilly Underground murder gave him a fortune.”
“Took him from an office in the city to a mansion in the country, sir. Is there a link between the two? Isn’t it probable that it is a case of cause and effect—temptation and—”
The inspector ended the excursion into hypothesis with an impatient gesture. The art of detection was in his opinion chiefly one of acting and thinking. Talking played a small part in it.
“Nosey may be using him, Clarke, as he’s used half his friends and acquaintances. You remember the pearl robbery at Norwood and the theft of banknotes at Cricklewood? We know Nosey was in both, but we never got him. Nosey is all secrets so he lives openly and appears to have no secrets at all. He does all his business in restaurants and he parades Piccadilly with jewel thieves and confidence tricksters as though he had nothing to fear. That’s the genius of the man—he makes no pretence to genius, but he’s got something of it. I wish he would do a bit of bad acting now and then, particularly now.”
He turned to the desk and from a pigeon-hole took a half sheet of paper.
“Billy Bright, Nancy Curzon, Italian Charlie, Fred Frescoli, Larry O’Brien, Cora Beamish.” He recited the remainder of eleven names to himself before replacing the record. “All pals of Nosey’s and all seen with him within a week of the murder.”
“I wish we could get a line between Nosey and Massy Cheldon,” said Clarke, reviving an old subject. “The registered parcel hasn’t led us very far, sir, though I don’t agree with you that it’s worthless.”
“Not worthless, Clarke, but unsatisfactory. It contained a weapon, as Nosey has admitted—if he wasn’t lying—but it wasn’t a dagger. The dagger is our principal clue.”
“The only one, I’m thinking, sir.”
“The only one with the exception of Nosey. I prefer human clues to any others. Nosey is on his guard and is pretending he isn’t.”
“Playing your own game, sir,” said the sergeant with a smile.
“That’s clever of him, but the trump cards are mine. Still, I was surprised Nosey thought I was capable of being tricked by his blurting out the news that Italian Charlie had got out of the country. He ought to have guessed that I’d be bound to know all about the Italian’s movements. Charlie didn’t do it, but if ever we want him we can bring him back. I don’t believe in being fussy, Clarke.”
“Don’t I know it, sir.”
“There are chaps here who would have arrested Italian Charlie or tried to prevent him leaving the country. That’s not my method. I prefer to let the criminal classes agree with the opinion of the newsp
apers that we’re an incompetent lot, and I want Nosey Ruslin to believe it, too. Pretend to let things slide. Be the plodding official regretting his entanglement in red tape. Ask questions and listen to long-winded lies with patience. Don’t use the notebook and pencil too often. I’ve listened to regular speeches by Nosey and the others, and I don’t think I’ve wasted all my time.”
“But are we nearer an arrest, sir?”
“We are.” The sharpness of the reply startled the phlegmatic sergeant into a prolonged stare. “I’ve completed my plans, Clarke. You and I will leave Nosey alone for the present and concentrate on Billy the Dancer.”
The sergeant wisely refrained from expressing thoughts which might have been treated as mutinous and disrespectful criticism of his superior officer, but his chief went down somewhat in his estimation.
“I think I can guess what’s worrying you, Clarke,” said the inspector with a patient tolerance which presaged victory. “Billy as young Cheldon’s rival in love wouldn’t have risked his neck to make it certain that the girl would be carried off by the young heir.”
“We have proof that Billy and Nancy Curzon were planning an elopement the day before the murder,” Clarke reminded him. “Billy’s so mad about her that he’s spoilt his career on her account.”
“He’s heavily in debt, too.”
“That wouldn’t worry him. It was Nancy he wanted. They’ve been dancing partners for nearly eighteen months, but he’s had to carry her. She’s only ordinary—he’s the goods. Old Adler, who runs Greville’s, told me that he’d heard Nancy Curzon boasting of the well paid continental and American tour Billy had secured a contract for.”
“Curious,” Wake commented. “I haven’t noticed any elation in Billy of late, and I saw him a dozen times before the murder.”
“You forget, sir, he’s naturally a gloomy sort of chap. It’s only his eyes that can smile, and they don’t try very often.”
“A nervous, cowardly, spineless imitation of a man,” said Wake, contemptuously. “I’ve met several of his kind, but they’ve all been engaged in the White Slave traffic. Two whiskies and he’s drunk.”
“One of the reports mentions that he isn’t drinking anything now—not since the murder,” said the sergeant carelessly.
“I have that report in my pocket-book. Ah, I thought you’d be surprised, Clarke, but it interested me. The difficulty is to find the links that connect Nosey Ruslin with Billy the Dancer, young Cheldon and a few others who are on the suspicion list. So far Billy has kept clear even if he has gone for a holiday.”
“He’ll be back in Soho soon,” Clarke prophesied. “He can’t breathe the air properly anywhere else.”
“While I’m here I’ll go through the statements from persons who were present at the murder and didn’t know it,” said Wake acidly. He was never patient or tolerant of the unobservant, and that about a thousand persons should have been the unseeing chorus of a tragedy exasperated him.
“We have ninety-five, sir. I’ve read them so often that I know most of them by heart. But they’re all worthless except that elderly woman in Harrow who says she heard a woman scream.”
“Yes, that struck me as peculiar. Why didn’t any of the others mention it? Yes, yes, I know some did but not until after we had asked them about it. Could the woman have imagined it?”
“Eleven statements contain references to the scream, sir,” Clarke reminded him. “Second statement in each case, I know, but I can’t imagine why they should lie. They had no reason or cause not to speak the truth. Then more than one of them explained that the shock caused by the discovery of the murder banished everything from their minds.”
“The woman who screamed,” said Wake, thoughtfully. “If only we could find her, Clarke.”
“I’m not so interested in her, sir. If you remember it’s been established that she was near the moving stairway and in such a position that she could not have seen Massy Cheldon or the man who attacked him. We have tested and proved that twice.”
“Quite so. That’s why I’m anxious to meet the woman who screamed—or I ought to say, the woman who screamed first. There were plenty of other screams a minute or so later.”
“Unless she comes forward, sir, and—”
“She won’t come forward. I’m sure of that. We will have to find her and drag her forward.”
“Do you think she was a confederate?”
“I don’t know, and when I don’t know, Clarke, I suspect. It’s a bad habit of mine, but we’re dealing with a clever gang, and Nosey Ruslin’s the cleverest of them all. You must be prepared for any trickery in anything in which he has a hand.”
“But what use would a screaming woman be, sir?” There was a bland patience in the sergeant’s tone which amused his senior.
“You fancy it would have interfered with the plot instead of helping it along, eh? I thought so, but, Clarke, have you forgotten the case of Jimmy Waters? You and I arrested him in Lambeth near Westminster Bridge just after he had picked the pocket of a member of Parliament of three hundred pounds in notes. Have you also forgotten Jimmy’s neat little trick? There’s nothing new under the sun, you know.”
Detective-Sergeant Clarke’s chagrin and humiliation brought about an upheaval of movement which nearly lifted him into the air.
“What a fool I am, sir! What an ass! Of course, you’re right. Jimmy had a girl to scream and focus the attention of the crowd on herself. Why, that’s the very dodge that a chap like Nosey would be almost certain to adopt.”
“Nosey is like most great crooks, not an inventor. He remembers and copies. Jimmy Waters was a pal of his. If you look into the papers about the case you will find more than one reference to Nosey. Of course, it’s only an idea and a guess, but it’s worth assuming it’s true until it’s proved not to be. That’s my attitude towards it.”
Detective-Sergeant Clarke, however, would accept nothing short of implicit belief in the accuracy of the surmise.
“The woman who screamed could solve the mystery, sir,” he said with an emphasis foreign to his slow, cautious nature. “It was a trick, and didn’t it come off! Who could she be? I’ll have a look through the list again. She must be a pal of Nosey’s. Oh, if only we could land Nosey in the Underground at the moment Massy Cheldon was murdered!”
“He has a perfect alibi, Clarke. He was with young Cheldon at least a quarter of a mile away. Both of them have lied—it may be that young Cheldon didn’t mean to lie—about the exact time, but I’ve checked it up and it would be too strong for an Old Bailey jury. Not that I ever hoped for anything from Nosey’s timetable on last Monday night. He wouldn’t be in the danger zone, Clarke. We know he never is.”
For a few minutes the two men preferred to think in silence. Both of them knew that the murder of Massy Cheldon was not of the order of mysteries which are never solved. They also knew that in Nosey Ruslin there lay the solution, and Nosey, even if they suspected with good reason that it was by no means the first murder in which he had been responsible for the preliminaries, must be induced to weaken his defences and somehow tricked into betraying himself, for Chief Inspector Wake and Detective-Sergeant Clarke, however admiringly they might speak at times of the cleverness of the rogues with whom they had to deal professionally, knew that the crook is a fool, in a hurry to betray if his own skin is in danger.
“The papers are not forgetting us, Clarke,” said Wake suddenly, “and Piccadilly seems to have trebled its population.”
“The manager tells me that yesterday they issued more tickets than ever before,” said Clarke grimly.
“Mostly penny tickets, I’ll bet.”
“You’re right, sir.” He had guessed that himself before the manager of the Underground had entered into particulars, but it would not have been tactful to refuse a tribute to the perspicacity of one’s official superior. “The increase consists almost entirely of people who w
ant to see the exact spot where Massy Cheldon was murdered.”
“And the newspapers and the public are clamouring for an early arrest,” said Chief Inspector Wake, bitterly. “But if we arrested on suspicion only, Clarke, our prisons would have to be quadrupled. And yet I’m not downhearted. Somehow I can’t help feeling that this is going to be one of our really satisfactory cases.”
“I hope so, sir.” The sergeant’s tone did not connote confidence. “All depends if we haven’t let anyone we’re likely to want escape the net.”
“You mean Nosey Ruslin may have a confederate we haven’t thought of?”
“We have no proof of any kind against Nosey,” Clarke reminded him.
“Except Nosey himself. He’s always proof.” Wake smiled. “Of course, you may be right, Clarke, and yet in my opinion it’s Nosey or nothing. The whole business bears the stamp of his management. Thank goodness, we can bring him in whenever we wish.”
“He knows that, sir, and isn’t trying to get away.”
“As for young Cheldon, well, he won’t run away from a fortune.”
“It might be a risk, sir, but what if we brought in Nosey, young Cheldon and Billy the Dancer?”
“That would shut their mouths for good. You can’t frighten Nosey, and Billy the Dancer never was much use as a talker. As for young Cheldon, he didn’t do it, Clarke. I’m certain he didn’t even know what was in the wind. That’s how I read him. Weak and effeminate. Thinks himself an intellectual Hercules, but is only a pigmy.”
“Easily influenced, sir.”
“But not a crook. Maybe he is a fool, but you can’t jail a man for that. No, as I’ve already said, it’s Nosey or nothing, and when we land the whale the lesser fish will follow. If only I could make more use of the dagger. So typical of Nosey to—” He made a gesture of impatience. “I’m thinking too far ahead again. But the chap who used the dagger didn’t himself think of wearing gloves. That strikes me as genuine Nosey just as the time and place for the murder were chosen by him.”
Murder in Piccadilly Page 24
