Menace for Dr. Morelle

by Ernest Dudley

  out of order.

  “It always is!” Sherry Carfax smiled wryly. “I’m afraid we’ve got six floors to climb.”

  Miss Frayle laughed away her apologies and they started up the stairs, the other saying:

  “I’m always trying to persuade Hugh to move from here, and he’s always saying he will. But somehow he never does!”

  She seemed more cheerful now, as if buoyed up with the assurance that Sir Hugh Albany would be waiting to greet her. They reached the sixth floor at last and, while Miss Frayle leaned breathlessly against the wall, she rang. There was no answer. She pressed the bell again. After a moment she produced a latchkey from her hand-bag and slipped it into the lock.

  The light was on in the hall. Miss Frayle got the impression the flat was pleasantly furnished with an atmosphere of comfort about it. Good prints on the walls. A bag of golf-clubs slung in a corner. Ahead of them a door opened into a room that was in darkness. On the right was another door, and another faced it.

  “Anyone at home?” the girl called out, but there was no response.

  Miss Frayle followed her to the open door ahead. Light sprang up as she touched a switch.

  “Gracious me!” Miss Frayle said in shocked tones, and other gave a sharp gasp.

  “Oh, God!”

  The sitting-room looked as if a hurricane had torn through it. A Queen Anne bureau against the wall had been burst open, the doors sagging. Books had been tumbled from shelves, papers scattered all over the floor. Drawers were wrenched wide, some tipped on to the floor. A rug was dragged aside, a lamp overturned. Pictures had been pulled down or hung crazily.

  “What’s happened? Hugh!” Sherry Carfax’s voice rose hysterically. “Hugh!” The echoes rang emptily through the flat, then silence. She turned suddenly. “His bedroom—let’s look there!” And Miss Frayle chased after her.

  The bedroom was in much the same disorder as the other. Books, papers, were scattered over floor and bed. A dressing-table by the window had been shoved to one side and a lock on one of the drawers had been wrenched off. Drawers from a tallboy had been dragged out and their contents spilled everywhere. The wardrobe-cupboard looked as if a maniac had fought a way into it and out again.

  A sudden draught blew through a door obviously leading into the bathroom. The scattered papers rustled and then, through the half-open door, came a faint, rhythmic creaking sound. Sherry Carfax turned a white, terrified face to Miss Frayle, who gulped convulsively and caught her arm.

  Together they advanced slowly and cautiously in the direction of the creaking noise. Suddenly Miss Frayle paused, relaxed, and gave a sigh of relief.

  “The window in the bathroom! It’s been left open and it’s banging.”

  “Oh yes! That’s what it would be.” And the girl drew a deep breath and forced a smile to her lips. Then she added: “I think the window leads to the fire-escape . . .”

  Miss Frayle gave her a questioning look.

  “They”—the other indicated the disorder around them—“they probably went out that way.”

  Miss Frayle nodded in agreement and moved forward. She switched on the bathroom light. Behind her came a shrill scream, while she herself could only goggle at the floor. Slumped against the bath, head sunk forward, was a man. A little tufted beard, grey-flecked, was buried in the whiteness of his shirt where a great crimson patch had spread over his heart. His pockets were turned inside out. The lining of his coat was torn as if whoever had attacked him had frantically dragged at the inside pocket.

  “Who—who is he?”

  Miss Frayle’s voice sounded, a far-away whisper in her ears.

  “I don’t know!” Sherry Carfax choked in reply. “I—I’ve never seen him before.”

  Chapter Six – Shock For The Baron

  During her association with Doctor Morelle, there were times when Miss Frayle had wished for an opportunity to deal, single-handed and alone, with a case of murder, mayhem or robbery, and present to the Doctor a fait accompli, the problem solved, before he himself had time to bring his massive intellect to bear on the mystery. It would have been a magnificent pin with which to deflate the balloon of his not inconsiderable egotism.

  This was one of her favourite day-dreams: to find herself in such a situation with an unidentified corpse—preferably discreetly covered—the police baffled and Doctor Morelle himself utterly nonplussed. She, of course, would be in full command, not only of the situation but of herself. Speaking in a firm but modulated voice, she would reason quietly thus and thus, pointing out each clue that had been missed, linking together a chain of evidence which would lead unerringly to the criminal. All this while expressions of wonder and admiration would dawn upon the faces of the police, and even Doctor Morelle himself would be a veritable sun of respectful admiration.

  Alas, her dream had never materialized. No such situation had ever arisen. If corpse there was, the police had not been baffled. Or if they had been, Doctor Morelle’s ice-cold logic and reasoning had pointed to the solution of the crime while Miss Frayle was yet floundering, so to speak, on the outskirts of the mystery.

  Now, as she goggled at the dead body of the stranger in the bathroom of Sir Hugh Albany’s flat, her mind groped for some idea as to what course of action she should pursue. Her only positive reaction so far had been to communicate with Doctor Morelle at once. Alas! She could not think coherently of anything else but that.

  Here, she realized, was a heaven-sent chance of bringing that favourite dream of hers to actuality—of showing the Doctor what she could do when the occasion arose. But for the life of her she had not the faintest idea how to set about it. The dead man was a stranger to her and, as she stared down at him, she could only think how pitiful and grotesque he looked lying there with his head against the bath.

  Miss Frayle sighed tremulously. Behind her came muffled sobbing, and she returned to the bedroom to find Sherry Carfax crumpled in a chair. The girl turned a white, tear-stained face to her.

  “I’m terrified,” she whispered. “Let’s get out of here quickly! I thought you were going to ’phone Doctor Morelle?” Without waiting for an answer, she went on agitatedly: “Oh, where’s Hugh? What’s happened to Hugh?”

  She was shaken and distraught, and Miss Frayle could see she was on the verge of collapse. She herself felt sick and faint, but the other’s distress helped her pull herself together. She caught Sherry Carfax’s arm and said, in her most soothing voice:

  “It’s all right. Let’s go into the sitting-room and I’ll telephone from there.”

  “Must we stay here at all?”

  “I think we’d better—until Doctor Morelle comes,” Miss Frayle said, telling herself she would never again be able to enjoy her day-dream. For, instead of the calmly modulated tones, her voice had taken on a note that could only be compared to a nervous squeak.

  They returned to the disordered sitting-room. The telephone was on a side-table which had not been overturned. Miss Frayle turned to ask Lady Tonbridge’s ’phone number but, as she opened her mouth to speak, the door-bell rang.

  Both girls stared at each other a moment, and Miss Frayle felt a chill creep up her spine as the low trill of the bell echoed through the flat. Sherry Carfax swayed, her handkerchief pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide with terror.

  The bell rang again, more insistently. For a moment Miss Frayle feared the other girl was going to break under the strain and cut loose with an hysterical shriek. Forcing herself to sound as calm as possible, she said quickly:

  “We’d better go and see who it is.”

  Her words had their effect on Sherry Carfax, who choked and managed to pull herself together sufficiently to gasp:

  “It—it might be someone who can help . . . Please don’t leave me! I’ll come too!”

  As they reached the hall the bell rang yet again, accompanied by a sharp knocking on the door.

  “They—seem very per-persistent,” Miss Frayle said, trying desperately to prevent her voice from shak
ing. And with a sudden burst of courage she flung the door open violently.

  Standing on the threshold were Doctor Morelle and Baron Xavier.

  Miss Frayle gulped at the Doctor and then gave a little cry of relief. To her it seemed nothing short of miraculous that the Doctor should appear at this particular moment. In fact for a fleeting second she wondered if, by some uncanny power of telepathy, he had anticipated her telephone call and hastened to her assistance.

  “Oh, Doctor Morelle! Thank goodness you’ve come!” she exclaimed. And added in the same breath: “There’s a dead man in the bathroom!”

  The Doctor betrayed no emotion at her announcement. His calm features showed none of the mingled dismay, horror and consternation displayed by the Baron. He merely drew at his inevitable Le Sphinx and, stepping into the hall, observed quietly:

  “Indeed, my dear Miss Frayle? Am I to assume that is the reason for your quitting Lady Tonbridge’s without so much as hinting to me of your intention? Both Baron Xavier and I have been quite anxious about your and Miss Carfax’s disappearance.” Turning to the other, he said: “Miss Carfax, you appear somewhat upset.”

  “Where’s Sir Hugh Albany?” she exclaimed. “Something terrible’s happened!”

  The Doctor raised his hand. “As I am unacquainted with him it is unlikely I should know anything of his whereabouts.”

  “Baron Xavier,” the girl cried, “you must know where Hugh is!”

  If Doctor Morelle detected the desperate appeal in her question he appeared not to notice it. He awaited the other’s reply. Beneath dark brows his eyes narrowed slightly and flicked a swift glance at the girl, then at the Baron and back to the girl again.

  Baron Xavier shook his head.

  “No, Sherry. I haven’t seen him.” His voice was troubled. “He hasn’t arrived at Lady Tonbridge’s. That was one of the reasons Doctor Morelle and I came along here. I was beginning to feel worried about him. Then I missed you and learned you had left with Miss Frayle. I found the Doctor and asked him if he knew where you’d gone—he said he didn’t even know Miss Frayle had left. So I explained to him how you and I were anxious about Hugh——”

  “Whereupon I assumed you had both made your way to where you might naturally be expected to find him,” Doctor Morelle finished for him. There was a hint of impatience in his tone as he went on: “However, these explanations for our being here are tedious and unnecessary. Miss Frayle—–”

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  She answered him meekly. She was now beginning to view his advent with mixed feelings. Admittedly, she felt a tremendous relief at his presence. But while it seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, yet she could not help a feeling of chagrin that she had not one single constructive comment to suggest. All she had been able to offer was that there was a dead man in the bathroom. It was extremely galling.

  “You referred to a lifeless individual in the bathroom,” he was reminding her. “Instead of remaining rooted there, gaping first at Baron Xavier and then at myself, I suggest it would be more helpful if you led me to the body in order that I may make at least a cursory investigation.”

  “Yes, Doctor Morelle.”

  As she led the way he queried:

  “Are you aware of the man’s identity?”

  “No,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Have you telephoned the police?”

  “No. You see, I—–”

  “Why not?”

  Miss Frayle drew a deep breath. “I was just going to telephone you when the door-bell rang and—and there you were.”

  He made no comment, but Miss Frayle felt his eyes boring into the back of her neck were glinting with sardonic amusement.

  “Good heavens, what’s happened here?” the Baron exclaimed behind them as they entered the sitting-room. “It’s as if there’s been a terrible fight or something! Look at the mess the place is in.”

  While the Baron and Sherry Carfax remained in the sitting-room, Doctor Morelle followed Miss Frayle to the bathroom. The Doctor gave a mere fleeting glance at the signs of upheaval around him.

  “In there,” Miss Frayle said, pointing to the bathroom. “He’s—he’s on the floor.”

  “Do not touch anything,” Doctor Morelle snapped over his shoulder. “Inform the others not to touch anything.” And he went into the bathroom.

  For a moment he stood surveying the inert figure before him. Then the open window attracted his attention and he stepped through it on to the fire-escape. It was an iron staircase zigzagging down the side of the block of flats to the darkness below. The adjacent building was but a few yards away, the space between them forming a black chasm. From where he was standing he could catch a glimpse of Jermyn Street.

  After a moment he descended a few steps, paused, then turned and came back slowly and thoughtfully. On the threshold of the window leading into the bathroom he stood poised like some dark eagle, then stepped inside, his gaze on the door leading to the bedroom. Once more he turned his attention to the body.

  Dropping to one knee, he peered closely into the bearded features, touched the forehead with the tips of his fingers, gently raised an inert hand and let it fall again. He stared closely at the crimson stain on the dead man’s shirt-front, pulling the jacket away a little to examine it. He observed the wrenched-out pockets and began scanning the floor. A moment later he gave a little exclamation of satisfaction as, from under a fold of the man’s coat, he picked up a small white square of pasteboard. It was the return half of a railway-ticket.

  “Miss Frayle,” he called peremptorily.

  She appeared in the doorway.

  “Take these notes.”

  “Oh, but—but, Doctor,” she protested, “I’ve no notebook or pencil.”

  “I might have known you would have come unprepared,” he remarked acidly.

  Miss Frayle blushed faintly and replied in an aggrieved voice:

  “Well, after all, I didn’t expect to find dead bodies and have to take notes about them at midnight!”

  But all she got from him was a dry “Neither did I, my dear Miss Frayle!”

  Whereupon he produced a slim notebook and slender gold pencil from his pocket and began writing.

  “Time of death,” he murmured, “between ten and eleven p.m. Cause: bullet entering the heart. Presumed victim travelled from Haywards Heath district.”

  Miss Frayle cast him a look of admiration mixed with envy. It seemed so easy the way in which he had arrived at his conclusions. Yet, for the life of her, she could not have said whether the man had been shot or stabbed, any more than she would have been able to deduce the time of his death—and how the Doctor had reached the conclusion the stranger had travelled from Haywards Heath was completely beyond her.

  Doctor Morelle replaced the return half of the railway-ticket under the coat where he had found it. As he straightened, there came a sudden startled gasp from the door.

  “Stefan!”

  The Doctor turned to Baron Xavier, who stood gripping the door as if for support. His face was deathly white, his horror-stricken gaze fixed on the dead man. Then, with a broken cry, he knelt beside the body.

  “Oh, my God!” he breathed. “This is ghastly!”

  Doctor Morelle eyed him through a cloud of cigarette-smoke, an enigmatic expression on his saturnine face.

  Chapter Seven – Surprise For Miss Frayle

  Baron Xavier turned to the Doctor.

  “I know this man,” he exclaimed.

  “So it would appear,” Doctor Morelle murmured, and Miss Frayle threw him a quick glance as she detected that familiar edge to his tone.

  The Baron rose and grasped Doctor Morelle’s arm. His good-looking features were drawn in hard lines, his mouth grim and set. Through his teeth he said:

  “Doctor Morelle, you’ve got to find his murderer! Stefan Zusky was my greatest friend.”

  “It will be of some assistance that you have been able to identify him,” the Doctor observed calmly.
He fixed the other with a piercing gaze. “Perhaps you would care to answer me some questions?”

  The Baron hesitated almost imperceptibly, then:

  “Anything!”

  Doctor Morelle led the way back to the sitting-room. Sherry Carfax sank into a chair, her attention on Baron Xavier. A wave of sympathy swept over Miss Frayle at the grief that manifested itself on his face. He passed his hand across his forehead.

  “I can’t think,” he muttered, “why this should happen to him. Stefan was such a good man. A most faithful friend and counsellor . . .” Suddenly he burst out: “I would have given anything—anything to have prevented this terrible happening!”

  “Did you anticipate it, then?”

  Doctor Morelle’s query, quietly put as it was, cut through the room like cold steel. Amid the scene of disorder, in an atmosphere charged with emotions whose depths might be as illimitable as they were complex, the Doctor stood aloof, his tall figure imposing in his immaculate evening dress, his eyes narrowed with speculation.

  Baron Xavier started slightly at Doctor Morelle’s words. He flung him a quick, haggard look, then gave a despairing little shrug.

  “Anticipate it?” he repeated. And went on bitterly: “Why should I have done so?” He paused and again a frown darkened his face. “On the other hand,” he said slowly, “perhaps this blow was not entirely unexpected.”

  “What do you mean?”

  It was Sherry Carfax who spoke. He glanced at her, then went on in a troubled voice:

  “Who knows what Fate holds for a man in these terrible times? Particularly a man like Stefan Zusky who remained staunch to me.”

  “You are talking at quite considerable length, Baron Xavier, but saying little,” interposed Doctor Morelle. “Are you suggesting the motive behind the murder may have some direct connection with you?”

  The other nodded. “It—it may have been a political enemy. I don’t know.”