Menace for Dr. Morelle

by Ernest Dudley

  “Hope you’ll get a taxi all right.”

  “If we fail to, the distance is not too great for us to walk. And possibly the cool night air will prove beneficial to Miss Frayle!” He cast her a sardonic smile. “I fear the evening has been a somewhat hectic one for her.”

  Miss Frayle offered no comment as they walked away.

  They paused on a corner and the Doctor glanced up and down for signs of a taxi, Miss Frayle observing brightly: “Well, Doctor Morelle, and now where?”

  He favoured her with one of his more ironic stares and, hastily stifling a yawn, murmured:

  “Where else but home?”

  “You didn’t really mean what you told Doctor Bennett?”

  “Why not?”

  “You’re going to drop the case when you’ve only just begun on it?” she protested.

  “I am unaware I made any reference to that effect,” he replied acidly. “I merely propose not to lose any sleep over it. In any event, there is at the present juncture little more I can do. The police will by now have finished their work at the flat. Sir Hugh is in safe hands. The Baron will undoubtedly be escorting Miss Carfax safely home.” He smiled thinly and queried: “What else should I be doing other than retiring to bed?”

  “I—I—well, I thought you might want to go back to the flat and—and have a look round.”

  He regarded her pityingly.

  “If you can indicate what precisely might be achieved by my so doing, I shall be intrigued to learn it. Personally, all that would result would be loss of sleep and the possibility of a consequent headache in the morning.”

  He relapsed into silence and Miss Frayle, suitably crestfallen, had nothing further to say as they made their way towards Harley Street.

  But if she said nothing she was thinking hard. After such an exciting evening, it seemed to her extremely tame to be going home as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Her mind ran quickly over the events since she had left her hair-dresser only a few hours ago. First, the strange encounter with the man in the mews who now turned out to be Sir Hugh Albany. Then her meeting with Sherry Carfax, their arrival at the flat and the discovery of Baron Xavier’s secretary, murdered.

  Doctor Morelle’s voice broke into her thoughts.

  “I confess certain aspects of the case interest me,” he murmured musingly, and she glanced up at him with interest. He went on: “An inquiry into the activities of Sir Hugh Albany, for instance, might be informative——”

  “Sir Hugh . . .?” Miss Frayle exclaimed, her eyes widening.

  “In regard to his association with Baron Xavier,” the Doctor went on, still half to himself.

  “Sherry Carfax seemed surprised about that secretary staying at Sir Hugh’s house,” Miss Frayle put in, determined not to appear altogether in the dark, although in fact she had not the slightest idea what strange, dark theories were running through the Doctor’s mind.

  He glanced at her, the corners of his mouth quirking with amusement.

  “I am intrigued to note, my dear Miss Frayle,” he remarked, “that our minds pursue a similar course.”

  “Great minds think alike, Doctor!”

  Studiously ignoring her bright comment he murmured:

  “If Stefan Zusky habitually used Albany’s house in Sussex as his secret headquarters while in this country, as Xavier suggested, what errand brought him to Albany’s flat—to the Baron Xavier’s somewhat apparent surprise——?”

  “Oh, dear . . .!”

  He turned at Miss Frayle’s sudden interruption, to find her contorting her face in agony.

  “Now what has occurred to you?” he queried. “For only the most painful effort at concentration could produce the curious grimace you are wearing at the moment!”

  “I’ve just thought of something,” she said with repressed excitement.

  “I stand amazed!” Doctor Morelle replied caustically. And then added: “If, nevertheless, you would give some expression to your cogitations and come to the point immediately, you would tax my not entirely unlimited patience less. What incident have you suddenly recalled to mind?”

  But Miss Frayle was muttering doubtfully to herself: “Oh, I don’t know . . . perhaps it’s too silly after all.”

  The Doctor glared at her and spoke through his teeth, obviously suffering under a certain strain.

  “My dear Miss Frayle, if you cannot give coherent voice to whatever curious thought-process may be threading itself through the extraordinary phenomena you are pleased to refer to as your mind, kindly remain silent!”

  “Well, actually, I—I was thinking of the man in the mews,” Miss Frayle said unabashed. “The one I told you about.”

  “Are you referring to Albany?”

  “Oh, no. I mean the other one—the man who saw me into a taxi after Sir Hugh had disappeared.”

  She paused for a moment thoughtfully.

  “What about him?” Doctor Morelle snapped impatiently.

  “You see . . . he was at Lady Tonbridge’s party tonight—I’ve just remembered about him. I recognized him when he was talking to Sherry Carfax, and later I asked her who he was. She seemed to be frightened of him——”

  “His name, his name!” Doctor Morelle groaned.

  “I’ve forgotten it,” Miss Frayle admitted meekly. “She did tell me, but it’s gone now.” She went on hurriedly as if to avert the storm she feared might burst upon her from the Doctor. “I remember she said he was a friend of Sir Hugh’s—or he pretended to be—but really he had some kind of hold over him——”

  “What fantastic rigmarole and farradiddle are you trying to tell me?” exploded Doctor Morelle. “Are you trying to suggest that this friend of Albany’s—who isn’t his friend—whose name you cannot remember——?”

  “I just thought”—Miss Frayle managed to get in edgeways—“it was rather odd this man being in the mews the same time Sir Hugh was there, and then at Lady Tonbridge’s afterwards. I don’t suppose there’s anything in it really,” she went on dubiously. “Or do you think it’s funny, too?”

  Doctor Morelle’s saturnine features glowered at her through a cloud of cigarette-smoke.

  “No words, even from my somewhat extensive vocabulary, could possibly describe what I think!” Drawing a deep breath, he went on: “However, under the circumstances, that is of little moment—if I could find words with which to express myself, they would be wasted upon you!”

  And turning, he stalked ahead, his sword-stick tapping sharply on the pavement, looking, Miss Frayle decided, for all the world like some dark and gaunt bird of prey heading for its crag-hidden eyrie. She caught up with him and, for the rest of the way to the house in Harley Street, remained miserably silent.

  Chapter Ten – The Purple Lake

  Charles Gresham was not particularly clever, though possessed of a foxish cunning. Partly because of this he was to be reckoned dangerous. A clever man knows when to draw the line, even though his objective remains unattained. Gresham never knew when he was beaten—until he had got what he wanted or until a stronger character than his own halted him.

  Completely without scruples, wholly devoid of conscience, acknowledging no obligations, his thin veneer of superficial charm covered an entirely ruthless brutality. He should have been a social outcast. Under any other conditions but those accepted and condoned by the circles in which he moved, he must long since have been expelled. In fact he was not only tolerated, he enjoyed a certain popularity. He could entertain, knew a good horse, a good cigar, a good wine and made it apparent that he came of a ‘good’ family.

  It was enough for the less discerning.

  And Mrs. Latimer was by no means an undiscerning woman. While she, too, was dangerous, she was also clever, much cleverer than Gresham could ever hope to be. Tonight, as she looked at him, it was apparent something out of the ordinary had happened. He stood by the fireplace with a large whisky-and-soda in his hand, his evening clothes too perfectly cut, and looking slightly too well-groomed. Bu
t Mrs. Latimer knew something had gone wrong. His hard, rather staring eyes had a glassy glitter, a vein swelled thickly across his forehead.

  She said tersely: “What’s happened?”

  Gresham took a drink from his glass and, without replying, stared down at what was left, slowly swirling it round and round. Then suddenly he lifted the glass again, drained it at a gulp and strolled, his air elaborately casual, across to the corner table and poured himself more whisky. Reaching for the soda, he said:

  “You didn’t go to the reception.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you. I never put one foot in front of the other without knowing where I’m going.” She paused, eyeing him carefully. “I’d like to know just what has happened. I’d like to know now, before you get drunk on my whisky.”

  He gave a short laugh.

  “I shan’t get drunk,” he said. “I could drink a barrel tonight and, believe me, it wouldn’t have the slightest effect.”

  He gulped thirstily from the refilled glass, lowered it and stared at her truculently.

  “Did you—kill him?” Cleo Latimer said in a low voice.

  “I don’t know. . . . As a matter of fact I don’t think I did. I fired and saw him stagger. It was one of the most enjoyable things I’ve——”

  “Don’t gloat!” Her voice was like a whiplash. “Give me the facts. Then go off and gloat by yourself.”

  “I waited for him,” Gresham replied sullenly, “and then let him have it. But he couldn’t have been as near as I thought—the light was bad, I suppose, and my aim——” He broke off with a shrug. “Anyway, he staggered and fell, then pulled himself up and started to run, half-stumbling——–”

  “Where was this?”

  “In the mews where I told you I’d wait for him. I went after him and pulled the trigger again, but the blasted thing jammed. While I was trying to get it to work, he’d got away up the mews. Then I heard someone coming along from the other end and I dodged back and waited. Albany must have collapsed and this damn’ woman found him——”

  “Woman?”

  “Yes. A half-witted young girl.”

  “So far, you’d bungled it nicely!” she cut in bitterly. “What did you do then? Go and help her?”

  His eyes flamed at her biting sarcasm. “I stayed where I was out of sight,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other. “She went off to get help and he must have crawled somewhere and hidden—it was much darker by then. Anyway, I couldn’t spot the swine——”

  “And so you left him to get away?”

  The utter contempt in her voice stung him into a smouldering fury.

  “What the hell else could I do?” he snarled. “I told you he’d crawled somewhere in the dark—and then that girl came back anyway, and I just had to pack it up.”

  She spread out her slim, white hands and said mockingly: “I wonder you didn’t break down and cry on the girl’s shoulder, and tell her your troubles——!”

  “Cut it out, Cleo!” he broke in. And now his eyes were dangerous. “I’ve been through enough tonight.” The woman’s face hardened, its beauty masked for a moment by a deadly rapaciousness. Then she said softly:

  “All right, Charles. What next?”

  Slightly mollified by her change of tone—Cleo Latimer knew well enough how to use her voice to persuade, cajole, threaten or placate, as occasion demanded—he said:

  “As I say, this girl, all gaga—wore horn-rims, she did—came back. She’d got a glass of brandy. I managed to bluff her. Told her she’d been the victim of a trick and pushed her off in a taxi. When she’d gone, I went back to the mews again. But still no sign of the blighter. Of course by now he’d had time enough to get away altogether.” He took a deep gulp from his glass and over the rim his protruberant eyes stared at her.

  She drew thoughtfully at the cigarette in the long holder clenched between her perfect teeth. He went on:

  “So I went on to my flat to change and arrived at Lady Tonbridge’s reception. You weren’t there. But Sherry Carfax had turned up and was fussing like hell about where her precious Hugh had got to. I didn’t enlighten her one little bit!” He paused and then observed, theatrically laconic: “Someone else was there, too. . . .”

  “Who?”

  “The damn’-fool girl I’d met in the mews!”

  “What!”

  The other’s lips drew back in a humourless smile. He said:

  “Made you jump, eh?”

  “Did she recognize you?”

  Gresham took a long drink reflectively. “I’m not sure if she did, or not.” He shrugged indifferently. “Not that it matters. As I say, she looked a complete half-wit. But as a point of interest, I did ask about her. Her name’s Frayle. She’s a sort of secretary or assistant to some doctor. Doctor Morrow or Merrill—some name like that.”

  “Not Doctor Morelle, by any chance?” Cleo Latimer inquired softly.

  “Believe that was the name,” he said casually. “Tall, saturnine-looking chap.”

  There was a little silence. Then Mrs. Latimer observed, through a cloud of cigarette-smoke:

  “I think you’re going to need another drink, Charles. I’ve never met Doctor Morelle, but I know a bit about him.”

  “So what?” the other demanded indifferently.

  “Only that he happens to be something of a criminologist. He’s assisted Scotland Yard many times, and if this secretary of his tells him about tonight’s business—which she’s almost bound to do—it’s not inconceivable that he might put in a little snooping.”

  Gresham stared at her for a moment, scowling slightly. Then he blurted out:

  “I should worry if he does! He couldn’t pin a thing on me. Not a thing.”

  “I hope you’re right, Charles.”

  He glared at her, then grinned wolfishly. “What’s on your mind, Cleo? Trying to scare me?”

  She shook her head.

  “I’m merely suggesting,” she offered, almost gently, “it was a trifle unfortunate that the one person you had to bump into this evening turns out to be Doctor Morelle’s secretary.”

  “Oh, to hell with your Doctor Morelle!” he retorted. “I tell you he’s got nothing on me.” And, dismissing the idea, he went on: “Anyway, I hung around at Lady Tonbridge’s, just in case Hugh did turn up. But there was no sign of him. Sherry told me she’d ’phoned his flat once or twice, and got no reply. It seemed to me a good idea if I drifted along there and had a look round——”

  “In God’s name what for?” she exclaimed, her voice rising.

  Her sudden interruption brought his eyes up sharply, and once again he gave her that protruberant stare. Negligently, he put his hand into his inside pocket and produced a folded piece of paper. With an elaborate air of casualness, he extended it to her.

  “I forgot to mention this,” he said.

  She eyed him carefully and took the piece of paper.

  “It’s a telegram,” he went on, still with studied nonchalance. “I picked it up in the mews. It must have fallen out of Albany’s pocket.”

  She read aloud:

  “IMPERATIVE SEE X STOP IF ANYTHING HAPPENS SEE PURPLE LAKE STOP WILL BE AT YOUR FLAT TONIGHT PLEASE INFORM STOP ZUSKY”

  Cleo Latimer’s expression was like a mask as she took her eyes from the telegram.

  “That is why I went along to Albany’s flat,” Gresham said.

  Chapter Eleven – Worth A Million

  Mrs. Latimer tapped the telegram and said:

  “Don’t you think you’d better tell me, Charles, exactly what’s happened?”

  Gresham answered her with a half-sneering smile.

  “Not yet, Cleo. First you and I are going to exchange confidences. You see, although I’m not as cautious as you, there are times when I, too, like to know where I’m going——”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  The other paused and then went on coolly. “I want to know all the details of your scheme about Baron Xavier. I don’t want to be kept in the
dark any longer.”

  “You’re too stupid, Charles,” Mrs. Latimer said slowly, “and I’m not going to trust my secret with you. If you weren’t a fool you wouldn’t be taking the attitude you’re taking now. I know what I’m doing and I’m handing out the orders. It’s your job to obey them.”

  Gresham made a movement of protest, but she cut him short.

  “You and I have worked together for a long time, and so far you’ve never suffered as a result. In fact, it’s been pretty easy going for you—you haven’t even had to think.” Her lip curled and he scowled at the implied doubt in her tone that he was, in fact, capable of contributing much thinking to their partnership. She went on:

  “All you have to do is what I’ve told you, and leave the rest to me.” She turned from him, her teeth clenched hard on her cigarette-holder. “If you’re not satisfied with the set-up,” she threw at him over her shoulder, “you know just what you can do about that. I believe I’m quite capable of handling this alone.”

  She faced him again. He met her long, level stare with a shifty glance. He knew there was no doubt she meant what she said. There was no need for her to rave at him or bluster. Her voice, her whole attitude, was one of complete self-assurance. Instinctively he cowered beneath the domination of her personality and the knowledge that she held the whip-hand and could make him jump through the hoop whenever she wanted.

  Angrily he burst out: “But damn it, Cleo, I’ve got to know what we’re doing! You can’t expect me to work in the dark. All I know is, you’ve got some kind of set-up planned for Xavier. But what’s on the end of it?”

  Her eyes, that had been a smoky greenish-grey, were now a brilliant blue as she answered him coolly.

  “Not less than a million pounds, Charles,” she murmured.

  He choked and his protuberant eyes literally goggled at her. For a moment he found difficulty in speaking. Then at last he gulped and said, his voice shaking with suppressed excitement:

  “A million, Cleo? D’you really mean that?”