The superintendent frowned. The curt dismissal of his colossal brainwave by a subordinate was not flattering.
“I have read all the reports, Wake,” he said, with a touch of steel in his voice, “and boiled down they amount to very little. But there is no such thing as an original murder—I learnt that saying from you—and as between us we’ve been concerned in over a hundred we ought to be able to find a parallel to the Piccadilly one.”
“I’ve searched my memory and failed.”
“So have I. That’s why I’m theorising. Still, you’re so confident about the girl that I suppose I must leave her out. But you can’t deny there’s strong evidence that the Cheldon estate had something to do with the murder of its possessor?”
“That’s the line I’ve adopted from the beginning, sir.”
“Because you suspect Nosey Ruslin, and Nosey’s been very friendly with young Cheldon? Of course, if we could get Billy the Dancer to talk a little, to quarrel with Nosey and—”
“He’s in mortal terror of Nosey.”
“And of you. Didn’t he faint when he heard that you’d paid his account at Greville’s?”
Before Wake could answer, the door opened and Detective-Sergeant Clarke appeared with a sheaf of papers.
“Report from Margate, sir. Billy Bright left there by the nine-thirty for Victoria. Before he caught the train he entered a telephone booth near the station and remained in it for a quarter of an hour. The call he made was checked and proved to be a post office telephone in the Strand.”
“Evidently an arrangement with a friend in London,” said the superintendent. “Anything known of the talk?”
“No, sir. Billy Bright didn’t say much and appeared to be speaking to someone he addressed as Nancy.”
The superintendent glanced triumphantly at his colleague.
“But the name must have been a blind,” the sergeant replied. “I’ve had a special report in since which says that Nancy Curzon hasn’t yet left her rooms near Wardour Street. There’s no doubt of that.”
Chief Inspector Wake could have smiled, but preferred to remain passive.
“Thank you, Clarke,” said the superintendent. “There’s nothing more. A watch will be kept on Bright.”
They were soon alone again.
“Someone’s summoned Billy back to London, sir,” said Wake, slowly, “and, in my opinion that someone could be only Nosey Ruslin.”
“If so your luck’s in.” The big man rose and concealed the fireplace from human inspection. “The confederates are either frightened at the division of their forces or else anxious to confer in the face of fresh dangers. Either way it’s better for us, Wake.”
“As I see it, the friend warned Billy that absence from London might be interpreted to mean that he was running away. I’ve noticed that Nosey has suddenly become confident, even insolent.”
“Insolence is either innocence or bluff.”
“Bluff, I should say, sir. But the inquest comes on again next Thursday and I am anxious to have a clear cut statement for the coroner.”
“We’re handicapped by the tenderness of the authorities for the guilty,” said the superintendent sarcastically. “If we were in Paris, Wake, we could arrest Billy, Nancy, Nosey Ruslin and young Cheldon, and a dozen more if it suited our book.”
“You make my mouth water, sir.” Wake actually sighed. “That would solve the problem in a few hours. I’d like to arrest Billy and trust to his fright to open his mouth, but if he kept it shut and we had no case against him there’d be trouble.”
He walked to the corner where he had installed his umbrella and gripped it as though it had the form and features of Billy Bright.
“I think I’ll try my luck again, sir, and visit Billy’s usual haunts. There’s always a chance of picking up something.”
“Be sure that Billy isn’t left a loophole, Wake.”
“We can’t prevent him committing suicide, but apart from that we can bring him in at five minutes’ notice, sir.”
“Oh, all right. The less we talk about the case the better.” The superintendent moved restlessly to his desk. “It only leads us nowhere. One can so easily invent theories, and the more of them the more difficult it is to think clearly.”
“You’re quite right, sir. I’ve been talking too much, and talking is not my speciality. I’ll wander down into Soho. Now that Nosey and Billy are coming together again anything may happen. Pity Nosey has his friend so completely under his heavy thumb.”
In Whitehall he was reminded that he was hungry, and in a teashop he dawdled for half an hour over tea and poached eggs on toast. The freedom from the office theories of a superior was a distinct relief, and he was refreshed and rejuvenated when he climbed aboard the bus that landed him in Piccadilly Circus.
In Shaftesbury Avenue there was the customary liveliness which created a desire to escape into one of the numerous side streets, but Chief Inspector Wake held his own until he found a convenient backwater in an alley leading out of Wardour Street.
Twice he passed the incurable building which had six months previously nicknamed its cellar a night club with the label of “Frozen Fang.” The only sign of life was a constellation of flies which almost concealed the nudity of a cooked ham in the window over the club. Wake, as he sauntered along, identified three newspaper reporters and nodded genially, but he was disturbed by their proximity to the nightly rendezvous of Billy the Dancer, Nancy Curzon and Nosey Ruslin. Did they know anything which was unknown to him?
He walked on with the aplomb of a Frenchman who has just lunched well and economically, asking himself occasionally why he was wasting his time. Did he expect the vital clue he desired to walk up and introduce itself? He was smiling at the simile when he was startled—why startled he was never able to explain—by the totally unexpected vision of Nancy Curzon, dainty in pale blue, talking to Billy the Dancer outside the offices of an American film company. His first decision in a moment when more than one decision had to be made, was to dive into the nearest doorway, but mingled with the same thought was a glimmering of the danger of imitating the police sleuth of fiction.
“Hello, Nancy!” he exclaimed, raising his bowler. “So it’s you, Billy?”
The girl met his gaze with a smile that was more than lip-deep.
“Hello, inspector!” she said, shaking hands. Yes, he had been correct in his description of her that morning. She was very beautiful.
“What’s the latest news?” he asked, all his face in action as he beamed paternally on her.
Nancy’s smile became ecstatic.
“I’m going to be married in September,” she said, and there was neither fear nor embarrassment nor guilt in her voice, while her eyes gleamed with a rare sunshine of their very own.
“Not to—” Wake wheeled round to indicate the dancer, but the sentence was perforce left incomplete owing to Nancy’s shrill laughter.
“You are a one!” she cried, falling back on the early days of Paradise Alley and its argot. “I’m marrying Mr. Robert Cheldon. We fixed it up late last night.” Her candour disturbed Wake.
Suddenly a new light illuminated his darkness.
“That’s why Billy the Dancer left Margate,” he said, but only to his inner self.
“Billy’s expression isn’t enthusiastic,” he said aloud. Wake’s capacity for humour was not large, but he occasionally drew economically on his small stock.
“Oh, that’s his way of being funny,” said Nancy carelessly. “He’s a bit upset because it’ll mean an end of our partnership.”
“So that’s it, is it?” The question was addressed to the swarthy-faced young man who was looking beyond them in an endeavour to appear uninterested.
“She wants money and a gentleman husband,” he said, speaking for the first time. “But I’ve been telling her that she’ll not stand for it more than a f
ew months. The clubs and the lights and the dancing—”
Chief Inspector Wake interrupted the rhapsody.
“Well, I congratulate you, Nancy.” He paused. “But I must be moving on. Good-bye, Nancy, good-bye, Billy.”
He strolled on, apparently conscious only of the presence of the umbrella he was carrying as a challenge to the clouds to do their worst. But when out of sight he increased his pace in the direction of Whitehall.
“I have been lucky today,” he said to himself as he entered Scotland Yard, “but to what extent I don’t quite know—yet.”
Chapter Thirteen
“I don’t think we’ll ever get anywhere, mother, talking about it,” Bobbie exclaimed as he rose impatiently from the table and paced up and down the room.
“But one can’t help talking about it,” she answered wearily. “It’s impossible to think of anything else. The inquest comes on again tomorrow.”
He aimed a kick at an imaginary obstacle, his hands deep in his trousers’ pockets, his chin nearly touching his chest.
“We’ll not be called on to give evidence,” he reminded her. “Besides, it’s none of our business, mother. It’s the police who have to find the man who murdered Uncle Massy.”
“Poor Massy!” she murmured, tears in her eyes. “Do you know, Bobbie, I think he was very fond of both of us.”
“He was fond of you, mother.” He laughed feebly. “There were moments when I thought he was going to propose.”
She lifted her pale face towards his and there was no sign of mental discomfort or annoyance.
“I know that—I knew it,” she said quietly. “Twice he told me he was a fool not to have asked me years ago. But I didn’t encourage him, Bobbie, for there was always you.”
He did not reply. Sentiment of any sort outside that which bound him to Nancy embarrassed him.
“I’ll be glad when it’s all over. I want to take possession of the Manor.” He uttered a yawn. “Won’t it be great when we leave Galahad Mansions behind us for ever, mother?”
“I’ll be glad to leave Galahad Mansions,” she said uneasily, “but I don’t fancy I’d be happy in the Manor. Somehow I should always be thinking of poor Massy.”
How often had she said that and how often had their ensuing discussions brought them no further. From the moment they had heard of the murder of Massy Cheldon they seemed to have talked of nothing else. His mother had infected him with fresh fears every day, and now there was a barrier between them, but neither had the courage to admit its existence. And to Bobbie there was ever in the background the sinister figure of Nosey Ruslin with his threatening amiability, his terrifying good temper, his horrible suavity.
Suddenly he faced her with a defensive scowl of warning.
“Mother,” he said, sharply, “when it’s all over I’m going to marry Nancy Curzon.”
He expected her to start, to flush with anger, and to protest. She merely continued to watch him dully.
“We arranged everything yesterday.” How difficult it was to speak clearly! “Nancy’s position is not an easy one.” He tried to think of an explanation of this statement, but failed. “But she’s willing to stand by me.”
“Why stand by? Are you in any danger?”
“Of course not.” He was weakly irritable again. “But I mean, that is, well, you know what the papers have been saying? We’re under a cloud—perhaps, not exactly a cloud.” He stopped and wrestled with his nerves. “It’s not nice for a girl to marry into a family where there’s been a murder, and Nancy has lots of admirers.”
“I suppose some of them are rich?” The coldness in the voice swept the room like the blast of a tempest.
“I don’t know, mother, and I don’t care. You think she’s marrying me for my money and nothing else?”
“Do you suspect any other motive?” Ruby stood and shook off her weariness. “Bobbie,” she said, once again his mother and Massy Cheldon forgotten, “you know as well as I do that this girl is marrying you for your money and your position.”
“She swears she isn’t,” he protested.
“No doubt she is good at swearing. But never mind. I want you to be happy, and if she is a real help to you, I—”
“Oh, mother, you can’t imagine what Nancy means to me!” he cried, with all that boyishness which never failed to touch her heart. “You’ll be proud of her when she’s the mistress of Broadbridge Manor, and there’s many a man and woman down there who’ll live to bless the day I married Nancy Curzon.” He flung out his arms. “Let’s forget the past and look only to the future. The death of Uncle Massy was unfortunate, but it’s not our fault. If I didn’t benefit by his death someone else would. Had he married you—”
“I should never have married him, Bobbie,” she said, with a smile. “It was only my vanity that recalled his efforts to propose. Apart from yourself there is my loyalty to your father. Ah, if only you had known him! He was the finest man in the world.”
“I will have a memorial erected to him at Broadbridge,” Bobbie said, in his most important manner. “I think I owe that to him. Of course, mother, there will always be a special suite for you at the Manor.”
“Nancy mightn’t care for that,” she remarked. “But never mind. I wonder if the police have finished with it.”
“Parker believes they have. At any rate they’ve returned all the papers they took away with his permission.”
“As if old family papers could reveal anything bearing on his murder,” she said contemptuously. “Your uncle wasn’t a man to collect secrets. His life was an open book. Yet he was murdered.” There was a catch in her voice. “Murdered,” she repeated, staring into vacancy. “Could he have had a dangerous secret after all?”
She averted her face as the suspicion returned to her that her brother-in-law’s heritage was the motive for his death. And if that were true was her son standing in peril of his life?
She brushed the stray hairs back from her forehead and looked at him again.
“How curious everything and everybody, including myself, has changed,” she said, speaking at random. “You’ve just told me you are going to be married and I’ve hardly referred to it. Have you fixed the date?”
“Early in September.” It was wonderful how he brightened up at the change in her manner. “I wanted it earlier, but Nancy thinks it wouldn’t do too soon after the inquest. She knows more about these things than I do. It hadn’t occurred to me that tomorrow might not see the end of the proceedings. I thought that since uncle has been buried there was little more for the coroner to do. But all that matters to me is that I’m going to marry Nancy.”
“You love her very much, don’t you, Bobbie?”
“I can’t answer that question, mother, because I don’t know a language I could express myself in. Nancy is everything to me, much more than the Cheldon estate. That’s how I feel about it.”
“I have brought you up—watched over you—sacrificed myself for you, and now this girl comes along.” There were tears in her voice.
“Didn’t your mother bring you up? Didn’t—” He paused as he noticed the ghostlike pallor of her cheeks.
“You’re right, Bobbie! We all do it. I have no cause, no right to criticise you. But I do hope that Nancy Curzon will not disappoint you—that if ever she is tested she will not let you down.”
He smiled complacently.
“I’d trust Nancy with my life,” he said earnestly. “She’s staunch and loyal. There isn’t an atom of treachery in her composition. Of course, mother, you look down on her because she’s not exactly in the Cheldon class, but class distinctions were invented by lodging-house keepers in search of a pretence to gentility. When I marry Nancy she’ll take the position in the county my wife is entitled to, and—”
“Class distinctions again, Bobbie,” said his mother, teasingly.
He was looking at
the clock as she was speaking.
“It’s nearly nine, mother,” he said anxiously, “and I promised to be at Nancy’s before a quarter past. She’s giving a little party to celebrate our engagement.”
“Celebrate? And the Cheldons the talk of the country!” She made a gesture which was intended to express disapproval, but to Bobbie there was only the pathos of jealousy in it.
“It’s only a quiet party,” he said apologetically. “I shouldn’t have used the word ‘celebrate’. There’ll be no jollification or any ragging. You know what I mean.”
“Nancy Curzon will be in the mood for celebrating,” she answered with a touch of temper. “It’s not often a girl catches a young man with ten thousand a year. You may be sure she’ll celebrate right enough.”
“You’re too morbid, mother, that’s the matter with you. And yet I’m not surprised.” The tone was lofty, even patronising. “The murder of Uncle Massy has got on your nerves. It got on mine, too, but I’ve learnt that life belongs to the living and that life must go on.”
“But the dead sometimes get their grip on you, Bobbie,” she said, with a faraway look. “You can’t get away from them when they die as your uncle did. Then there are the newspapers. It’s all very well calling them names, but they sometimes hit on the truth.”
He walked to the door and opened it.
“I’ll not be too late, mother,” he said, assuming a cheerfulness that covered his annoyance. “But don’t wait up for me. And if you’ll take my advice you’ll forget the past and think only of the future. I’ll make it a happy and a golden future for you if you’ll let me.”
It was a theatrical but a soothing speech on which he made his exit and the memory of it suffused him with a glow of pride until he turned into Wardour Street and remembered he was within a couple of hundred yards of the loveliest and dearest girl in the world.
Her open-armed welcome took him right out of every temptation to pessimism or moody retrospection, and he was once again the youthful, enthusiastic and unthinking lover of the days—how long ago it seemed now!—when he had shyly shaken hands with a night club dancer and the cellar under the ham and beef shop had instantly assumed the radiant glamour of fairyland.
Murder in Piccadilly Page 26
