“Don’t know, missis. Didn’t turn up for work.”
Now that was unlike Cyril. Perhaps he was ill, she thought, although he had certainly been in the pink of health last week. He’d danced the tango with her, she swathed in a sheet, he bare-chested. It was a preliminary to a most exciting sequel, when he steered her to the divan, whipped off her sheet, and proceeded to treat her very masterfully indeed.
“What’s up, Ruby?” asked Harold, who had belatedly told her he had the week off.
“Our milkman’s ill,” Ruby said, trying not to go pink.
“He’s getting quite a reputation round here,” Harold observed.
“For not delivering milk?”
“With the ladies. So Frank says.”
Ruby was instantly alert. “I haven’t heard.”
“You wouldn’t,” Harold replied darkly. “Wouldn’t be surprised if some jealous husband hadn’t done him in.”
No milk? Frank involved? Ruby couldn’t wait for Harold to go out so she could run round to Gladys’s. At last, he went, and the minute Gladys saw Ruby she burst into tears.
“Rudolph’s dead,” she moaned.
“Well, I know that, Glad. It’s awful, but Rudolph’s in heaven now.”
“Not him. Our Valentino. Cyril.”
“Cyril?” Ruby went white. What was this all about?
“Strangled with a stocking, he was,” Gladys continued. “Found in the woods at Shooter’s Hill.”
“I can’t believe it,” Ruby gasped. “Not Cyril.”
Even as she said it, though, she thought of Harold being alone in the house when Cyril would have called yesterday. Thought of what Harold had said about jealous husbands, and wondered if by any terrible chance Harold knew about Cyril somehow. But how could he? They’d been so careful, she and Gladys. There was no doubt there was something odd about Harold yesterday, though. Yet how would Harold have got the body to Shooter’s Hill? Almost instantly she realised how he could have managed it. Behind The Cedars was a back alleyway which the dustmen used. Cyril used to leave his horse and cart there out of sight when he called as Valentino. All Harold would have had to do was hide the body amongst the milk cans and bottles, put Cyril’s cap and big apron on, and drive off. He liked driving horses and carts. He’d told her once it all came of having an auntie who lived out Dartford way in the country.
Ruby’s imagination worked overtime.
“What kind of stocking was it?” She blurted out the question without thinking how odd this sounded.
“How would I know?” Gladys shrugged.
When Harold came back with the evening papers, it was all over the front cover. “That’s our milkman,” she said to him, as he hung up his coat and handed it to her to read.
“That’s right,” Harold said in his jolly tone.
“It says he was strangled with a silk stocking.”
“Two, actually.”
“Two?” Ruby wailed. “How do you know?”
“One stocking is strong, so I tell my ladies,” Harold carefully explained. “But it’s not that strong. Our milkman was a big man, Ruby. Bigger than Valentino. But then you’d know that, wouldn’t you?”
Ruby couldn’t speak for fear at first, then she managed to say, “What can you mean, Harold?”
“I said some jealous husband probably did him in. It was me. I’ve been jealous of him for some time. He would keep leaving his blessed turban in the spare room. I couldn’t stand it, Ruby. I was joking about the first Valentino, but I decided to murder this one for real. I got the idea in York. There was an American newspaperman in the hotel who got all the details about Valentino’s death, more than the papers here carried. So I decided to act. Do you know, Ruby, I believe I’m becoming very masterful indeed.”
Ruby let out one long wail, as Harold went on to describe exactly how he’d killed Cyril Tucker and how he’d got the body to Shooter’s Hill — just the way she’d thought. He even considerately described a birthmark on Cyril’s chest for her, just in case she should be in any doubt.
“I suppose you’ll have to tell the police, otherwise they’ll suspect all the other husbands around here,” Harold said, using his jolly voice again.
“All?” Ruby repeated faintly.
“Oh yes. Our Rudolph was quite a Casanova. Quite a Valentino, in fact. He had a day for each of you. You weren’t the only one. I wonder what you’ll all do now?”
Ruby suddenly found her voice. “I’m going to tell on you. You killed my very own Rudolph.”
“I’m glad you believe me, Ruby. I did bring his Monsieur Beaucaire wig with me to convince you. I found it in the cart.”
Ruby screamed. Sobbing, she ran from the room. She had to get back to Scotland Yard to tell them the terrible truth. She didn’t even stop to put her best dress on this time, and she ran all the way from Charing Cross to the Embankment. She was quite out of breath by the time she finally panted up to the front desk.
“It’s me again, Mrs. Ruby Smart,” she told the man.
He grinned at her. “I’ll take your statement, madam.”
“No, I must see the policeman I saw yesterday.”
She had to wait some time on this occasion, and when he appeared she wasn’t taken to another room, but had to tell him the awful truth then and there.
“My husband did it. Rudolph Valentino, no, I mean the milkman in the woods. He’s Valentino. My husband murdered him.” She saw the disbelieving look in his eyes, and struggled on desperately. “It was really Cyril Tucker, well, you know that, but we call him Rudolph Valentino, and my husband—”
“Now, Mrs. Smart, we’ve already arrested a man in connection with that. Frank Perkins, I think he lives further up your street.”
“Frank? But he didn’t, he couldn’t. Oh no, you’ve got it all wrong.”
“We had good reason to arrest him, Mrs. Smart. You’ll see it all in the papers tomorrow, no doubt, so I’ll tell you. He had all the Valentino kit in his study, poor fellow. Wigs, turbans, whips. Round the bend with jealousy. So you go home and have a nice cup of tea, Mrs. Smart.”
She wasn’t even entitled to receive one here today. Frank couldn’t possibly have been involved. It was obvious Harold was trying to blame it on Frank and now they weren’t even listening to her, and Harold would go scot-free. Perhaps it was all a joke. Pehaps Frank really had done it, but somehow she knew that couldn’t be true. Anyway, she’d done her best, and it wasn’t her fault they wouldn’t listen. She put her key in the lock and turned it. As she kicked off her shoes inside so as not to dirty the desert-coloured carpet (her choice), she could hear voices from upstairs, which was odd. And odd sounds, too. Thumps and giggles.
Coming from the Room of Araby.
Indignant and terrified at the same time, she raced up the stairs as she heard the grating sound: “Lie still, you little fool.”
It must be one of her gramophone records. It must be. Heart pounding, she threw open the door.
Rudolph Valentino in sheik’s outfit, minus the top half, but including a whip, didn’t even look up. Below him Lady Diana Mayo sighed in ecstasy. Gladys had found another sheik.
“Harold! What are you doing?” Ruby moaned.
Harold grinned before he turned back to his captive: “Are you not woman enough to know?”
The Widow of Slane
by Terence Faherty
The Private Eye Writers of America recently awarded Terence Faherty the 2002 Shamus Award for Best Short Story for his EQMM tale “The Second Coming” (11/02). The story belongs to a series about post-World War II Hollywood P.I. Scott Elliott, and EQMM has more in the series coming up later this year. This time out, Mr. Faherty returns to his earlier creation, Owen Keane. Keane is on vacation in Ireland, but murder follows him there...