Menace for Dr. Morelle

by Ernest Dudley

  She reached out with a practised hand, grasped a bottle and tipped out a measure. Miss Frayle made haste to clear up any misunderstanding which seemed to exist as to who was to be the recipient of the reviving spirit.

  “It’s not for me. It’s for him—— Is there anyone—anyone who could help me? He ought to be moved.”

  “Bit early ’ere, dearie, for customers,” the barmaid returned. “Though someone should be in any minute.” She handed the glass of brandy across the bar.

  “Oh, dear!” Miss Frayle exclaimed while she produced the money from her handbag. “I must get help.”

  “I can’t leave me bar, I’m sure. Take the brandy along to ’im, dearie, first. When ’e’s recovered, perhaps you’ll be able to manage ’im on your own.”

  “I don’t know,” Miss Frayle said doubtfully. “But if anyone should come in, do send them along, please. It’s the first mews on the right.” And clutching the glass tightly, she hurried out.

  She was forced to make the return journey more slowly for fear of spilling the brandy. At last, however, she turned into the mews and hurried towards where she had left the young man. And now she almost dropped the glass in shocked amazement.

  The figure she had last seen lying, an inert heap on the stones, was no longer there.

  Chapter Three – Doctor Morelle Takes The Stage

  Somewhat wildly Miss Frayle stared about her, then returned her gaze to the spot where the young man had lain, as if expecting he might in some miraculous manner reappear from out of the ground. But there was no-one. She forced herself to think clearly and, a frown marring her brow, began to wonder if this really was where she had left him. Could she have mistaken the spot? She looked around to reassure herself she had in fact returned to the right mews, although she was certain her sense of direction could not have misled her to that extent. There was the open garage door behind which she had sheltered when she had first seen the man approaching. She had not mistaken the mews, anyway. Nor had she mistaken the place where she had left him. For suddenly she gave a little gasp as she saw a dark stain marking the stones. There was no doubt it was blood.

  Miss Frayle straightened herself, set her spectacles firmly on her nose, drew a deep breath—and gave a start as further up the mews she caught footsteps receding briskly. She picked up the brandy glass which she had deposited on the ground when she bent to examine the bloodstain and set off as quickly as she could after the footsteps. It was quite probable, she thought, that the young man, though he had obviously recovered sufficiently to walk away, might still welcome the stimulant. In a moment she glimpsed a shape in the shadows ahead of her.

  “I say——!” she called out. “I say——!”

  The figure paused and turned and she called out again: “Just—just a minute . . .! I’ve got some brandy for you——”

  She broke off, her gasp of surprise mingled with embarrassment. “Oh . . .!”

  The man who was facing her a few yards away seemed shorter, more thick-set and somewhat older than the one she had last seen in a heap on the cobblestones behind her. Besides, he was wearing a hat, the brim pulled down, shading his eyes, and by now she was near enough to see there was no sign of blood on his face.

  “I beg your pardon?” came his voice coldly out of the gloom.

  Miss Frayle goggled at him, feeling somewhat nonplussed under his questioning gaze. She realized that to him she must appear slightly eccentric, to say the least, rushing about after strange men and trying to thrust glasses of brandy on them.

  “But the other man . . .?” she collected her wits sufficiently to ask. “The one who was hurt . . .?”

  “Is anything the matter with you? Or is this a joke?”

  “A joke?” Miss Frayle glanced round her wildly. “Oh, no—not at all! I’m so sorry,” she apologized, and then felt she ought to offer some sort of explanation. “You see, not—not ten minutes ago, I was coming through the mews when a man appeared, his face covered in blood, and collapsed. There was no-one about, so I—I went to get help. Then I came back with this brandy for him——”

  She faltered and broke off. The man continued to stare at her unwaveringly. It occurred to her that her explanation was not, in fact, impressing him very favourably. She glanced at the glass of brandy she was still clutching desperately, started to put it on the ground, hesitated, decided perhaps she had better continue holding it, and faced the man again.

  “I think you must be suffering from some delusion.” His voice was tinged with amusement. “I myself have just come through these mews and certainly saw no-one, let alone this person you’ve described.”

  “Oh, you must have seen him . . .! I left him lying on the ground. I can’t have been gone more than five minutes at the most. And as I say, when I came back with the brandy——” Again she broke off and looked at the glass she was holding. The stranger leaned forward and took it from her hand.

  “You’re slopping it all over you,” he said.

  “Thank—thank you.”

  A faint smile seemed to move across his face and she said: “You do believe me, don’t you? I—I mean, I wouldn’t be running about with—with brandy . . .”

  He said quietly:

  “I think you’ve been the victim of a trick. An old dodge. This man you saw undoubtedly spotted you coming along here alone and planned to snatch your hand-bag.”

  Miss Frayle looked down quickly to see if she still carried her bag. She did. She noticed the strap was twisted round her wrist. The other nodded towards it. He said:

  “Then he saw it was too securely attached to your wrist and he continued to pretend he was injured. When you went off for help, of course, he bolted.”

  She could tell by the expression beneath the shadow of his hat what he was thinking. To him she was obviously the sort of person who could easily be deceived by this type of subterfuge.

  “Oh,” Miss Frayle said. “Oh. . . .”

  With a little frown she cast her mind back to her meeting with the young man. She found it difficult to believe he was the type that snatched hand-bags. She seemed to remember he had appeared well dressed—and then, there was that blood on his face. She shook her head and timidly expressed her disbelief.

  “Evidently an artist at the game,” the other replied promptly. “Made himself up for the occasion. Whitened his face and then stuck on plenty of red grease-paint.” Again Miss Frayle was conscious of his contempt—it almost amounted to that—for her naiveté. She said:

  “I suppose so. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Once again he allowed a tinge of amusement to creep into his voice. “They think of everything, believe me.” There was a little pause and he said: “Which way are you going?”

  She explained she was taking a short cut to Harley Street, having given up all hope of finding a taxi. As she spoke, he turned his head and, with an imperious wave, suddenly called out: “Taxi!”

  To her astounded gaze a taxi-cab appeared promptly out of the descending darkness, to pull up with a jerk alongside them. Not without some bitterness, she reflected on the endless number of taxis which had swept past her that evening without so much as giving her a toot in acknowledgment of her appealing cries. Yet here was this individual to whom one had merely to breathe the word and, without the least exertion on his part, a taxi magically appeared at his beck and call.

  Miss Frayle sighed gently to herself. No doubt about it, some people had that gift, ability, flair—whatever it was—for smoothing their way through life where others could pursue only a rough and jagged course. It was not the first time, she knew, she had been made conscious she belonged to the latter category. All the same she resented being reminded of it, and failed somewhat to stem the feeling of a certain ungracious irritation towards the stranger as he helped her into the taxi he had so easily conjured up.

  “Where to?”

  He gave her address to the driver and turning to her: “I hope you get home safely without encountering any more nightmare adven
tures.” She caught the gleam of very white teeth as he smiled: “Good-bye.”

  She pulled herself together, contrived to dismiss the wave of resentment that swept over her sufficiently to answer him politely. “Thank you very much. You’ve been most kind. I’m sorry if I’ve annoyed you.”

  “On the contrary. . . . It’s been quite amusing.”

  As her taxi moved off she glanced back through the window and saw him disappear into the shadows. He walked briskly, his head at an alert angle. She was left with the impression of a certain suaveness, a sort of streamlined air about him which, in some indefinable way, was slightly sinister.

  It was only when she had dismissed the taxi and was closing the door of Doctor Morelle’s house behind her that she suddenly remembered the glass of brandy left behind on the mews cobblestones. For a moment she thought of rushing back quickly to return it to the broad-bosomed barmaid at the public house. Then came the thought: Supposing she went back to find that, like the young man with the bloodstained face, the glass was no longer there?

  Once again she frowned to herself and shook her head thoughtfully. Was it possible she had been the victim of an attempt to steal her hand-bag? Remembering the young man and his ghastly appearance, it seemed incredible. On the other hand, could she have imagined it all? That seemed even more impossible. Yet she knew that if she did hurry back to recover the glass and was unable to find it, she might begin to think it had all been a nightmare.

  Anyway, she comforted herself, the barmaid had insisted upon a deposit on the glass. So if it were not returned it would not matter all that much.

  Having in her mind cleared up this problem to her satisfaction, she glanced at her watch. With a gasp of dismay she saw it was twenty minutes to eight.

  Doctor Morelle by now would have started the address he was giving to a distinguished gathering of doctors, scientists and, in particular, medical officials connected with police and prison institutions.* [* “Psycho-therapy in Relation to Recidivism”. (See the files of London Archive, Atlantic Weekly, and English Notebook.)] His lecture would be extempore, and it was Miss Frayle’s duty to be present to take shorthand notes in order that the talk might be preserved among other erudite Morellia for posterity. To say the Doctor would be displeased with her nonarrival would be putting it mildly. He was due to take the lecture platform at seven thirty, and unpunctuality was one of the human frailties he seemed to find impossible to tolerate.

  Her recent strange encounter had pushed her evening’s routine temporarily to the back of her mind. To add to the wave of panic that now swept over her, not only had she to get to the lecture-hall as quickly as possible, but first she must change into an evening frock—she was accompanying the Doctor, who was going on to a reception Lady Tonbridge was giving for a certain Baron Xavier. Hence her hairdressing appointment earlier with Louis.

  It would be ironical indeed if her new hair-do—for which she had gone to great trouble and incurred considerable expense, and which had led her into the adventure of the mews—were to result in her being unable to appear at Lady Tonbridge’s reception at all!

  Quickly she put on the new dress got especially for tonight’s occasion. She neatly arranged the clothes from which she had stepped, wondering how she would begin explaining to Doctor Morelle the reason for her delay. The more she tried to bring her hurrying thoughts to bear upon the incident, the more fantastic it seemed. Once again she began to doubt that her meeting with the first man, then the second, in the mews had really happened. Could it have been some sort of hallucination brought about by soporific effects attributable to Louis’ ministrations?

  “Oh dear, oh dear . . .!” she murmured aloud and sighed. This was an evening she had been looking forward to with more than ordinary anticipation, and now it seemed it was going to be spoiled before it had really begun. She picked up the gloves she had been wearing with her other clothes, telling herself all she could do was explain to Doctor Morelle exactly what had happened.

  “Whether he believes me or not,” she added aloud. ‘If he——”

  She broke off, her trend of thought cut abruptly short. For a moment her mind was held in chill suspense as she stared down at the glove. Behind her spectacles her eyes grew more saucer-like. There, along one of the fingers, was a dull, brownish-red smear. She touched it timidly. She swallowed. Not greasepaint, or any other kind of paint. It did not require Doctor Morelle to tell her that much.

  “It—it’s blood! Then—then it did happen. . . .”

  *

  Fortunately, the Wimpole Hall was not far from Doctor Morelle’s house, and Miss Frayle ran most of the way. All the same, as she paused outside the lecture-room, a familiar intoning voice within told her Doctor Morelle was already half-way through his address:

  “. . . directly concerned with etiology of crime in a general way, insofar as it affects the selection of cases for psychiatric study, psycho-therapeutic treatment and specialized training. . . .”

  In cold, pellucid phrases the Doctor, as was his invariable habit, was holding his listeners in his mesmeric grip. Miss Frayle, promptly choosing discretion as the better part of valour, decided it would be wiser to wait for him in the ante-room near by. To risk attracting his attention and consequent displeasure by making her arrival known at this moment was an idea which singularly failed to appeal to her.

  Feeling guilty and uncomfortable, as if she were a schoolgirl late for class, she curled up forlornly in a deep leather armchair. From the jumble of mental pictures which crowded in on her from the past hour or two, she tried to sort out a coherent explanation in readiness for Doctor Morelle.

  The more she reviewed the chain of circumstances which had entangled her, the more she seemed to be floundering in some half-world of fantasy and melodrama. Miserably she realized when the moment came to face the Doctor she would merely mumble incoherent excuses and goggle at him through her spectacles. Suddenly a ray of hope brightened her face. The bloodstained glove! That at least was proof conclusive enough to satisfy even him of the truth of her story. Then, as suddenly, she sank into gloom once more, murmuring:

  “Oh, dear. . . . Why didn’t I bring it with me?”

  It would have been the piece of vital evidence for her to produce in triumph and vindication of her excuse for being late, apart from bolstering up her courage from the start. And she had not thought to bring it with her.

  She gave a heavy sigh. It would be little use showing him the glove on their return to Harley Street later that night. By that time, having dismissed her explanation as a phantasmagoria of her wild imaginings, nothing would induce him to give the subject his attention once again. Nothing, she reflected, biting her lip, unless perhaps she could lead him to the mews and show him a row of bloodstained bodies all neatly laid out for him.

  She was about to permit herself a wry smile at the notion when, looking up, she saw him pause in the doorway before, hawk-like, he bore down upon her. Hurriedly she stumbled to her feet, only just saving her spectacles from slipping off her nose, and, blushing violently, started to say something.

  “My dear Miss Frayle,” he cut in, his voice like a whiplash, “if I were to observe I am even remotely interested in whatever laboured form of excuse you are about to offer for your absence from my lecture, it would be an overstatement!” He gave a little cough and touched his tie, dazzlingly white against his saturnine features. “What I am at pains to impress upon you, however, is the gathering of doctors and scientists, distinguished in their particular spheres, represented but a small proportion of the audience I wished to reach. In point of fact, they formed merely the nucleus. Because you deemed it of more importance to dally in a beauty-parlour, the larger proportion of those interested in my theme would have remained in darkness.”

  “Would have . . .?” Miss Frayle put in timidly.

  “You are quick to seize upon the hint that—due entirely to the praiseworthy and disinterested enthusiasm, and ability to write shorthand, of one among this evening’s
gathering—my lecture has been preserved.”

  “Oh, Doctor, I’m so glad. If you’d let me explain——”

  But he waved her words aside. Remorselessly he proceeded: “Your show of pleasure is little compensation for such flagrant neglect of duty.” He swept her with a narrowed gaze. If, instead of the simple little dress and modest hair-style, she had been wearing the most outrageous creation, plus one of Louis’ more flamboyant efforts, his look could not have expressed chillier disapproval. “It would seem my generosity in permitting you to accompany me to the reception has been misinterpreted as a form of weakness on my part, and advantage taken of it.”

  He paused. Heart in the bottom of her shoes, Miss Frayle waited for him to add that, as punishment for her offence, she would not after all go to Lady Tonbridge’s party. All dressed up and nowhere to go, she thought bitterly. That was how the evening was going to turn out for her. Obviously he guessed her fear for, sardonic twist at the corners of his mouth, he appeared deliberately to keep her on tenterhooks while he savoured the spectacle of her misery. Then, just when she felt she could no longer bear it, the cold austere countenance softened. He forced an elaborate sigh, and asked:

  “Or is it possible you can furnish some acceptable explanation? Make it as brief as possible. We are due shortly at Belgrave Square.”

  A wave of thankfulness swept over her and Miss Frayle plunged into her story forthwith. While she related her strange adventure, he lit a Le Sphinx and stared at her stonily through a cloud of cigarette-smoke. She painted for him as vivid a picture as she could of the events in the mews, ending up with a dramatic flourish as she recounted her discovery of the bloodstained glove.

  “The other man—the man I ran after—thinking he was the one who’d been injured,” she finished, “told me it was just a trick to snatch my bag. He was very kind and helpful, got me a taxi and—and . . . well——” She glanced up at his finely chiselled nose which, if anything, was an inch or two higher, and ended somewhat lamely: “And here I am.”