She broke off as Doctor Morelle rasped irascibly:
“The Inspector has already intimated that he relies upon somewhat loftier intelligences for his scraps of wisdom than your gratuitous garrulities would signify.”
Suitably crushed, Miss Frayle subsided.
“Well, let’s hope he pulls through, anyhow,” Hood grunted. “If he doesn’t, our unknown friend may have two murders hanging over him.”
“Still harping upon the connection between the two crimes?” Doctor Morelle murmured jibingly.
“I’m not stating it as a fact,” the other retorted. “Just my personal opinion at the moment. “I admit I haven’t a definite clue pointing that way, but it seems to me to tie up. As I said before, this chap Zusky getting knocked out here in Albany’s flat within three or four hours of Albany himself being attacked in the mews . . .”
He paused, and eyed Doctor Morelle expectantly.
To Miss Frayle it seemed as if his remarks had been made rather in the hope that they would invite the Doctor to offer some information of which the Inspector was so far unaware.
Doctor Morelle, however, merely smiled enigmatically and tapped the ash off his cigarette.
“It would appear,” he observed, “that whatever other pearls of wisdom you may have gleaned from our association, my ratiocinative methods have not impressed you sufficiently to apply them yourself.”
He cleared his throat with a little cough, giving Miss Frayle a moment in which to steal a glance at Inspector Hood, who was watching him attentively. This time, however, Hood did not give her one of his surreptitious winks.
His eyes remained fixed on the tall, dark, brooding figure before him, and Miss Frayle realized, as she had occasion to do before, that however much the Doctor’s pomposity and posturings may have secretly amused him, the other’s respect for his deductive gifts was in no way diminished.
“As you are no doubt by now aware,” Doctor Morelle was announcing, “I do not permit myself to form an opinion until I have actual data to go on. I cannot agree that the facts as we know them at present are sufficient to serve as anything more than a basic theory.”
He drew thoughtfully at his Le Sphinx, expelling a long spiral of cigarette-smoke ceilingwards before he continued:
“What indeed are the established facts regarding this case that have so far been collated?” he murmured, his tone rising on a question mark. “And might not this be an appropriate moment for us to examine them?”
Chapter Thirteen – Doctor Morelle Theorizes
“At approximately seven thirty last night,” Doctor Morelle began, “Sir Hugh Albany was shot and wounded in the head. Three hours later, Doctor Bennett’s housekeeper found him in an unconscious condition lying in the basement area of Doctor Bennett’s house. Doctor Bennett has declared that when he returned home last night, in the region of ten o’clock, he failed to notice Albany’s presence, from which it may be assumed that he had fallen into the area between ten and ten thirty p.m. What happened to him in the time which elapsed between his being attacked in the mews and his discovery by the housekeeper? That is the question we are unable to answer definitely.”
The Doctor paused to draw at his Le Sphinx.
“However, I can advance a theory,” he went on. “Which is, that despite his having been shot, he was able to conceal himself from his assailant. No doubt the approaching darkness aided him in this. Having thus eluded his would-be murderer, Albany lapsed into unconsciousness. Some time later, he gained consciousness sufficiently to permit him to make his way to Doctor Bennett’s house.”
Inspector Hood’s black pipe-bowl bubbled furiously and he expelled a cloud of acrid smoke which caused the Doctor’s nostrils to twitch, while Miss Frayle gave a little cough.
“I agree, Doctor,” Hood observed. “What you say fits in pretty neatly. Although other alternatives could be suggested, any of ’em equally possible.”
Doctor Morelle nodded. He said:
“The alternatives appear to be so numerous that we ought not to reach any conclusions at this stage in our investigations.” He paused and cleared his throat. “However, one factor is perfectly evident.”
“What’s that, Doctor?”
Inspector Hood and Miss Frayle put the question almost in unison, and Doctor Morelle bestowed upon them both one of his frostily superior smiles.
“It is this,” he said. “That Sir Hugh Albany is, wittingly or otherwise, the possessor of information which an individual, or individuals, are desperately anxious to obtain from him. Incidentally,” he continued, “I noticed when I arrived that you had been questioning the porter here. Did he vouchsafe any information?”
“Nothing that added up to much,” Hood answered.
“At what hour did Albany leave here yesterday?”
“The porter saw him when he went out just before lunch. He didn’t see him return and I think we can safely assume he didn’t, in fact, come back.”
Doctor Morelle inclined his head in agreement while the other continued:
“We take it the flat was empty until nine forty last night, when whoever it was got in and went through the place like a whirlwind.”
Miss Frayle stared at Hood with respectful admiration.
“Why, Inspector!” she exclaimed with a little laugh, “I do believe you’ve stolen a march on Doctor Morelle, fixing the time the murderer was here.” And she turned brightly to the Doctor.
Doctor Morelle regarded her with pitying condescension as he replied:
“On the contrary, Inspector Hood is twenty minutes wrong in his estimate.”
“What!” the other grunted indignantly. “How d’you mean, I’m twenty minutes out?”
For answer, the Doctor crossed to the writing-desk which had been wrenched open. From beside it he picked up a small travelling clock. The glass was broken and the hands pointed to ten o’clock.
He held the clock for Miss Frayle to see.
“I can’t believe,” he sighed elaborately, “that it requires any great effort to note that this clock has clearly been brushed off this writing-desk by the intruder hastily searching for his objective. The clock was obviously working before the mishap. It may therefore be taken for granted that the Inspector is basing his estimate of the time at which the intruder arrived upon the moment at which this stopped.”
Miss Frayle blinked in bewilderment as she gazed first at the clock then at Inspector Hood, then back to the clock and finally at Doctor Morelle.
“But—but—he said the time was twenty to ten,” she stammered. “That says ten o’clock.”
“Precisely,” Doctor Morelle said drily, and shot a piercingly triumphant glance at Hood. But the detective appeared not in the least nonplussed. On the contrary, he seemed to be hugging himself as if he, in fact, held a card up his sleeve with which to trump the Doctor’s assertion. Inspector Hood would not have been human if the anticipation of scoring off Doctor Morelle was not something to be savoured with relish.
He unclamped his teeth from his pipe and waved it about in emphasis as he said, deliberately:
“It’s evident enough that Sir Hugh Albany had something—information or whatever you like—that somebody else wanted. This somebody else was prepared to commit murder to obtain that information and, in fact, nearly succeeded in killing Albany in the process. But, having half-murdered him, they still couldn’t find what they wanted, so they set out to look for it in his flat.”
He paused and began to pace slowly and heavily up and down.
“They broke in here by way of the fire-escape which opens into the bathroom. Not a particularly difficult way of getting in. Now, then . . . The bathroom leads to the bedroom, doesn’t it?”
Doctor Morelle did not think it necessary to furnish the obvious reply. Miss Frayle, however, obliged by answering with a grave:
“Yes.”
“Surely then,” Hood declared, “anyone breaking in with the idea of searching the place would start looking in the room he first enter
ed—the bedroom! Apart from the fact,” he added, “that the bedroom would be quite a likely hiding-place for whatever he was seeking. And so I reached the logical deduction that the intruder searched the bedroom before the sitting-room. Furthermore, as we’ve seen, he couldn’t have searched it more thoroughly. And that took time. Say, twenty minutes. Still not finding what he wanted, he came in here, starting on that writing-desk first. And it was then that he knocked the clock off, stopping it at ten p.m.—twenty minutes after he broke in!”
Inspector Hood halted his pacing, drew noisily at his pipe, and waited for Doctor Morelle’s response.
“I really don’t think that the time element is of much importance at this juncture,” the Doctor commented, in a tone that loftily dismissed the other’s argument.
“Oh!” Miss Frayle put in, more in sorrow than in condemnation. “Aren’t you being rather mean to Inspector Hood? I think he’s worked out the time business very clearly—you might at least acknowledge that.”
“I would if it were correct,” was the prompt reply, at which Inspector Hood frowned, somewhat puzzled. Both he and Miss Frayle stared at Doctor Morelle, who had turned his back on them and was gazing apparently aimlessly around the room.
Reminding Miss Frayle of a dark, angular cat, he picked his way carefully over splinters of glass from a number of pictures which had been wrenched from the walls and wantonly thrown to the floor. One picture stood out sharply among the disorder of the room, if only for the fact that it, alone, appeared to have been regarded with any care, for it had been propped on the writing-desk, its glass intact.
It was a small oil-painting in a carved, gilt frame, depicting a miniature lake with a background of trees which were reflected in its mirror-like surface. An evening mist hung on the water and the artist had caught the sunset colouring with almost uncanny realism. Added to which a faintly sinister quality hovered over the scene, to which the curious purple light which the dark trees threw across the lake contributed.
Doctor Morelle glanced from the picture to the spot clearly marked above the desk where it had hung. Its hook still remained there. His eyes travelled round the patches on the walls where the other pictures had been and where in each case the hooks had been impatiently wrenched out. Through a cloud of cigarette-smoke he surveyed the picture of the lake again.
“Nice little painting, that,” Inspector Hood remarked affably. It was evident that, still very pleased with his triumph regarding the time of the intruder’s entrance into the flat, and unshaken by the Doctor’s refusal to accept his calculations, he felt he could afford to be expansive. “I was admiring it myself, just now.”
For a moment, Doctor Morelle made no reply.
Still careful to avoid the bits of broken glass, he stepped back, regarding the small oil-painting with his head slightly on one side. Then he turned and moved across to the door, which was immediately opposite the writing-desk.
“Extremely intriguing,” he murmured. And then, with elaborate casualness, queried: “You say you examined the picture, Inspector?”
Inspector Hood smiled broadly.
“Can’t say I’ve got quite the same interest in art that you have, Doctor,” he replied. “Or the same knowledge, I expect. It just appealed to me, that’s all. You seem to admire it yourself, too.”
The Doctor regarded him, and the corners of his thin mouth were quirked in secret amusement.
“Indeed, it possesses some quite significant qualities,” he said. “In fact I might go further——”
Doctor Morelle, however, was not to be permitted to expand further upon the inner significance he had perceived in the picture of the lake. At least, not for the time being. A sudden ring at the door-bell caused him to break off and, together with Inspector Hood and Miss Frayle, he glanced in the direction of the ring.
“Who could that be?” Miss Frayle queried, her eyes round behind her horn-rims.
Her question was answered to the extent that the newcomer was a woman, for they could hear her speaking to the policeman who had opened the door to her. Almost unconsciously Miss Frayle registered that it was an attractive voice, with warm tones and a certain huskiness which added to its appeal. It may be true that she did, in fact, experience a sense of foreboding even upon only hearing the newcomer. At any rate, that was to be her claim later, though it was rejected by Doctor Morelle with his typical wholehearted contempt for her intuitive attributes.
“There’s a lady wishes to see you, sir,” the policeman came in and announced. “Says she’s a friend of Sir Hugh Albany. Mrs. Latimer.”
Hood’s eyebrows shot up and he glanced sharply at Doctor Morelle. His pipe was bubbling furiously as he grunted:
“Friend of Albany’s, eh! Sounds as if she might be able to put us on to something, Doctor. So, if you don’t mind, I suggest we postpone our art discussion.” And he turned to the policeman. “All right. Show Mrs. Latimer in.”
Chapter Fourteen – Doctor Morelle Meets Mrs. Latimer
Cleo Latimer possessed that commendable quality of stillness and repose. Perhaps the observer less dazzled by her attractiveness might on occasion find it difficult to decide whether the repose also contained an element of watchfulness—but few, even of the discerning minority, bothered to conjecture on the almost predatory expression which might sometimes mar Mrs. Latimer’s striking beauty. She was striking without being spectacular. The dress she wore was simply cut, though the line was exquisite enough for Miss Frayle, taking one look at it, promptly to experience a forlorn frustration.
On the threshold she made a curiously dominating picture as she stood there, the policeman hovering in the background, Miss Frayle frankly goggling, Doctor Morelle saturnine, still and poised, and Hood eyeing her appreciatively. She paused for just the right moment or two before, her large, lustrous eyes wide, she came forward and rested her gaze questioningly on Inspector Hood.
“Will someone explain what has happened, please?”
A faint fragrance, a memory rather than a definite perfume, stirred with her, and Miss Frayle’s sense of frustration deepened as she experienced a longing to go out and buy things madly. She threw a glance at Doctor Morelle and at once felt an unreasonable but definite dislike for this tall, exquisite woman who seemed only to move into a room to command it.
Miss Frayle admitted to herself that her dislike was quite unreasonable and unfounded. But as she saw Doctor Morelle standing back in the shadows, watching the newcomer, the dislike became most definite, too definite to be ignored. True, the Doctor’s expression remained inscrutable, yet Miss Frayle thought she could sense a silent appreciation that she found vastly irritating.
It was Hood who answered Cleo Latimer’s question.
“I am Detective-Inspector Hood of Scotland Yard—ah—Mrs. Latimer. I am here to investigate—um—certain circumstances. I should be most glad if you can help us. This is Doctor Morelle—and Miss Frayle, Doctor Morelle’s secretary.”
Mrs. Latimer gave Miss Frayle a friendly smile, inclined her head to Doctor Morelle.
“I’ve heard of you, Doctor Morelle, of course. And now would you mind explaining to me what has happened. I called to see Sir Hugh Albany and find——”
She broke off and glanced around her with an expression of utter bewilderment.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you that Sir Hugh met with an accident last night,” Inspector Hood said quietly. “He was the victim of an attack——”
“Oh, but how awful!” Mrs. Latimer’s eyes were wide, dark with apprehension. “Is he badly hurt? Where is he? Is he here?”
“He is not here now.”
It was Doctor Morelle who spoke from his shadowy corner. “He is in the care of Doctor Bennett and Sir David Owen. The latter is performing an operation this morning. In fact I expect to hear the result of it soon.” And he drew at his cigarette.
“He was attacked last night at some time between seven and eight,” Hood began, but she interrupted him.
“But—but—this
is terrible! Have you caught whoever did this ghastly thing?”
“Not yet,” Inspector Hood said, somewhat gloomily. “But we will, never fear. Meantime—er—perhaps you could help us a little?”
“I shall be very glad to, of course. But I hardly see how.” She made a little gesture of helplessness. “I’m so completely confused by this. Sir Hugh was with me yesterday afternoon. He had tea with me——” She faltered, her eyes widening, and looked at them with dismay. “Why, he must have been attacked soon after he left me!”
“What time did he leave?” Hood asked quickly.
“Latish. We were chatting and didn’t notice how the time was passing. Then he said he must hurry as he had an appointment before he went on to Lady Tonbridge’s reception. That would be about half past six, I should think.”
“Do you know with whom he had the appointment?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” Cleo Latimer looked from one to the other, then glanced round the room. She said quickly: “But why is his flat in this state? Has there been a burglary?”
“There has been a murder.”
It was Doctor Morelle again who spoke. From the shadows his voice came, cold and impersonal. Mrs. Latimer was suddenly very still. Her beautifully poised head lifted the merest trifle, showing the lovely line of her throat. Her features had the clear pallor of alabaster.
Inspector Hood cast a quick look at the Doctor. Then Mrs. Latimer said in a thin, strained voice:
“You—you said—murder?” She shivered, and went on: “I don’t understand. This is a terrible shock. I wonder if I could sit down.”
Hood got a chair quickly and she sank into it. Doctor Morelle moved away from the shadows, closer to her. In his calm, passionless voice he asked:
“Are you a close friend of Sir Hugh Albany?”
“We have known each other for some time. Yes, I think I could say I am a fairly close friend. We meet often, we have many mutual friends. Why do you ask?”
“In the hope that you may be able to help us. You will appreciate that Sir Hugh is not in a position to give us any information.”
Menace for Dr. Morelle Page 8