Menace for Dr. Morelle

by Ernest Dudley

  “Please, Doctor Morelle!” Her voice was sharp with anxiety.

  “I had no wish to cause you unnecessary pain,” he murmured and, as Inspector Hood gave a little cough, turned to him. “Accept my apologies, Inspector,” he said urbanely. “I may perhaps have assumed too much upon myself in informing Mrs. Latimer——”

  “Oh, that’s all right, Doctor,” Hood said quickly, but giving him a rather puzzled look. “I intended telling Mrs. Latimer myself what had happened.”

  Cleo Latimer said slowly: “Was—was it in here? In this flat?”

  Hood nodded. “At ten o’clock last night Sir Hugh Albany was found unconscious in the basement area of Doctor Bennett’s house. And about the same time, that is to say, just before ten o’clock, this flat was entered by someone who for some reason made a thorough search through it. Nothing of value has been taken, so far as we can ascertain at present. It would appear the intruder was surprised by someone else while in the middle of his search. Either in panic, or deliberately, the intruder shot this other person dead.”

  Mrs. Latimer listened to the Inspector with fixed attention, her wide, softly brilliant eyes fixed on his face, her lips faintly parted. She seemed scarcely to breathe as she asked:

  “And have you not been able to discover who they are?” Her voice was very low. “The first intruder—and the other who was shot?”

  “The man who was shot has been identified as Baron Xavier’s private secretary. Man named Zusky. Stefan Zusky.”

  “And the man who shot him?”

  Miss Frayle, watching her, thought she was showing signs of strain, the strain of shock. Her lips were pale and there were dark, violet shadows under her eyes.

  “That will be merely a matter of time,” Doctor Morelle answered her. Then he added: “Were you by any chance acquainted with Zusky?”

  She shook her head.

  “Why do you think I might be?”

  Her eyes narrowed a little and a curious spasm, as of pain, crossed her face. Miss Frayle, her eyes wide and rounded behind her spectacles, saw the slender gloved hand press against her heart.

  “It seemed a not unreasonable question,” Doctor Morelle murmured. “You are a friend of Albany’s. This man was found dead in Albany’s flat. It occurred to me you might have met him.”

  “No,” Mrs. Latimer said with a little gasp, and fainted.

  It was quiet and slow, the way she went. She swayed in the chair and slid a little to the side before anyone quite realized that anything was wrong. As she fell forward and dropped to the floor in a limp heap, Doctor Morelle was beside her. He carried her towards a big settee.

  Miss Frayle, like Hood, was utterly taken aback.

  “Oh, dear! Oh, dear me!” she exclaimed.

  Doctor Morelle cast her a glance of intolerant annoyance.

  “Kindly desist from clucking like a hen, Miss Frayle!” he snapped. “Open that hand-bag,” indicating Mrs. Latimer’s handbag which had fallen to the floor. “I have no doubt you will find therein a box containing small ampules.”

  “Yes, Doctor Morelle,” Miss Frayle stammered. She picked up the plain dark square hand-bag, dropped it again, adjusted her spectacles, recovered the hand-bag, and fumbled in it agitatedly.

  Inspector Hood drew at his pipe so that it bubbled like a cauldron and watched Doctor Morelle, who was closely examining Mrs. Latimer’s still features, his long, slender fingers laid lightly on her wrist.

  “She was more shocked than we thought, Doctor,” he muttered. “I thought she looked a bit pale.”

  “Undoubtedly she was shocked.” The Doctor’s reply was somewhat enigmatic. “Pray do cease fumbling so inadequately, Miss Frayle——”

  “Here they are,” Miss Frayle exclaimed excitedly. “Are these what you want?”

  She passed a small gold box containing a few minute ampules, less than an inch long and hardly thicker than a match, encased in small sachets. Doctor Morelle broke one and held it beneath Mrs. Latimer’s nostrils.

  Slowly a faint colour stole into her pale cheeks, she gave a little quivering sigh. The slim gloved hand made a little fluttering movement, crept up and clasped Doctor Morelle’s.

  “Oh, Doctor,” Miss Frayle cried excitedly, “how clever of you! However did you guess those things would be in her handbag?”

  Doctor Morelle gave her a withering look and then turned his attention to Cleo Latimer. Her dark eyelashes fluttered, then her eyes opened.

  “You are quite all right now,” Doctor Morelle said gently. “You have had these attacks before, have you not?”

  “Yes.” Her voice was hardly more than a breath. “Not—quite so suddenly . . .”

  Her gloved hand still clasped his. Her cheeks still had their clear pallor, but beneath there was a returning glow. A mistiness which had suffused her eyes gradually cleared. She looked extraordinarily beautiful as she lay there, her face like a flower against the dark soft fur of her coat.

  Miss Frayle subjected her to a gaze that was slightly narrow. Inspector Hood was thinking abstractedly that Doctor Morelle and Mrs. Latimer looked rather well together. Both possessed fine, distinctive features, if perhaps a little arrogant.

  With sudden brightness, Miss Frayle said: “Here’s your hand-bag, Mrs. Latimer. You dropped it and I had to open it . . .”

  “Thank you.” Life had come back to the other’s voice. She smiled up at Doctor Morelle, then her glance swept down to her own hand, still clasping his. As she drew her hand away she gave him one quick, upward, appealing glance.

  “I’m so sorry to have been such a nuisance,” she said. “I don’t often behave so badly.”

  “Nasty shock for you, running into this so unexpectedly,” Inspector Hood put in. “Not to be wondered at if it knocked you all of a heap. You’d better rest a bit.”

  The telephone rang sharply as he spoke. Miss Frayle went across to it and spoke into the receiver, her eyes still fixed on Mrs. Latimer.

  “Yes, Doctor Morelle is here,” she said. Habitually Miss Frayle’s voice was soft and rather pretty. Even Doctor Morelle was once known to declare that it would be quite attractive if only she used it to utter a few words of sense occasionally. But now, unaccountably, the softness seemed to have vanished; her tone had quite an edge to it.

  “Hold the line, please. I’ll tell the Doctor.”

  She handed Doctor Morelle the receiver without looking at him and said stonily: “Doctor Bennett’s house. Sir David Owen to speak to you.”

  Chapter Fifteen – Miss Frayle Has An Intuition

  Doctor Morelle gave her a quizzical glance, one eyebrow uplifted. Then he turned his attention to the telephone. After a minute or two he said: “There has been no statement of any kind? . . . Miss Carfax’s name? . . .” There was a long pause as he continued to listen before he observed: “I see. It is difficult to say if it will help very much. What do you consider his chances are? . . . Quite so. Thank you, Sir David. I shall be back at Harley Street within the next half-hour . . . Yes, she may come along if she wishes. Good-bye.”

  He replaced the receiver, stood for a moment in thought, his long, slender fingers caressing his chin. Hood watched him, waiting for him to speak, and Miss Frayle, her voice still sharp, asked: “How is he, Doctor?”

  “Too early to say that he is out of danger,” was the almost absent-minded answer.

  “He wasn’t able to say anything?” Miss Frayle queried. “I mean about who attacked him, or anything like that?”

  “My dear Miss Frayle——” the Doctor began, then broke the sentence off short. More gently he said, simply: “He was unable to give any information. He had not recovered consciousness before the operation. At present he remains unconscious.”

  “Hmm . . .” Inspector Hood grunted, and chewed on his pipe-stem, his expression registering a certain disappointment. He turned to regard Mrs. Latimer.

  She seemed to have quite recovered. As Doctor Morelle finished speaking, she gave a sigh and said quickly: “He’ll be all right, then
, Doctor Morelle? Sir Hugh, I mean?”

  “Sir David appeared to be fairly satisfied, but would vouchsafe nothing specific at this juncture. But,” and his tone seemed to grow more gentle, “how are you feeling now?”

  “Much better, thanks to your promptness,” she smiled at him. “You discovered the little cachets I carry. I don’t know that they’re really very much use.”

  “Are you subject to these attacks frequently?”

  “They seem to have been increasing lately. Nothing to worry about, of course. It’s just that—sometimes—everything seems to swim in front of me.”

  “Any pain?”

  “A little stabbing pain occasionally.” She lifted her hand to her heart. “But I haven’t been to a doctor since I was in Vienna. I suppose I should, really.”

  “It would be advisable,” Doctor Morelle nodded. “It does not do to let these affections progress without advice.”

  “Well, Doctor,” Hood broke in suddenly, “what are you going to do? Stay on here and have a look round? Personally, I’m off to have a chat with this Baron Xavier chap. Made an appointment earlier. D’you know him, Mrs. Latimer?”

  “Yes,” she answered readily. “He is a great friend of Sir Hugh Albany.”

  “So he is, so he is,” Hood said.

  There was a little thud and Mrs. Latimer uttered a little exclamation as her bag dropped to the floor. Both Doctor Morelle and Hood moved to pick it up. The Doctor reached it first and handed it to her. He turned to the Inspector.

  “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if I returned here later?” he asked smoothly. “I might like to view the scene again.”

  The other nodded affably. “Any time you like, Doctor. I’ll leave word with the man on duty.” He turned to Mrs. Latimer. “We can get in touch with you if by any chance we should want to.”

  She gave him her address and telephone number. “I shall be only too glad to help in any way——” She broke off and drew in a sudden, sharp breath. Again her hand made that quick little pressing movement to her heart. After a moment: “I think I’ll go—I—I have been rather upset by—all this.”

  She moved to the door. Hood hesitated, looking at Doctor Morelle. But the Doctor appeared to be sunk in thought and Hood said quickly: “Sure you’re fit enough, Mrs. Latimer? I’ll get one of my chaps to find you a taxi——”

  “Please don’t bother,” she begged him quickly, flashing him a brilliant smile. “The air will do me good. Good-bye . . . Good-bye, Doctor Morelle. Thank you so much for your kindness.”

  Doctor Morelle looked up with a slight start.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I was somewhat preoccupied. Good morning.”

  Hood saw her to the door. Mrs. Latimer was gone. There remained only the memory of her from the faint fragrance which hung on the air. Hood returned, crossed to the chair where his hat and coat lay and picked them up. “Very attractive woman, eh, Doctor?” he said.

  “She certainly possesses a grace and feminine pulchritude not often encountered.”

  Miss Frayle distinctly sniffed. While she was not altogether certain of the exact definition of Doctor Morelle’s observation—a position in which she frequently found herself—she was in no doubt whatever this time of his meaning and profound agreement with Inspector Hood.

  “Anyone can make the best of themselves when they’ve got the time and the money to do it,” she declared, still that sharp note in her voice. “That fur coat didn’t come with a packet of tea! I thought it was rather ridiculous to see the way you two men fussed about when she fainted. It was quite an ordinary thing to do, in the circumstances.”

  And Miss Frayle sniffed again. Louder.

  “Really, my dear Miss Frayle,” Doctor Morelle said mildly. “Poor Mrs. Latimer appears to have aroused a certain antagonism in you.”

  Hood lifted his hand to his mouth to hide an irrepressible grin as Miss Frayle retorted: “Poor Mrs. Latimer, indeed! Personally, I think you ought to have arrested her, Inspector Hood!”

  Hood’s grin faded and his eyes widened. Doctor Morelle stared inscrutably at her. Her face had grown quite pink, her eyes sparkled behind her horn-rimmed spectacles. He said levelly:

  “That is an interesting statement, Miss Frayle. Do you suggest that Inspector Hood should have arrested Mrs. Latimer because she happened to be a friend of Albany and he partook of tea with her yesterday afternoon, or because——”

  “I don’t know about that,” Miss Frayle interrupted him darkly. “I just don’t trust her, that’s all. What did she call here for this morning?”

  “Presumably to see Albany,” the Doctor replied. “Can you suggest any other reason?”

  “I can suggest plenty of reasons why she shouldn’t call on Sir Hugh Albany,” Miss Frayle said with increasing vehemence. “If she’s such a friend of his she must know that he and Sherry Carfax are going to be married. So what’s her idea? Tea with him alone in the afternoon, then calling here for him again in the morning!”

  Miss Frayle became quite breathless and agitated and ended up stoutly: “I don’t like it at all, and I don’t—well—I don’t trust her!”

  The Doctor said, with unaccustomed mildness: “You still have offered no real reason why Mrs. Latimer should have been arrested—other than a most unaccountable personal antagonism. Incidentally, how do you reach your deduction Sir Hugh Albany and Mrs. Latimer had tea alone yesterday afternoon? I shall be more than interested to follow your reasoning.”

  But Miss Frayle merely contrived to look deep. With as near a snort as she could ever approach, she exclaimed: “Huh! It doesn’t need reasoning.”

  Hood stared at her over his bubbling pipe, while Doctor Morelle’s eyebrows lifted.

  “Indeed, Miss Frayle? Tell us more, I pray. Perhaps you have reached other startling conclusions about Mrs. Latimer? Perhaps you even know something which may be of material help to us in the elucidation of this mystery? You habitually make, I believe, a fairly exhaustive study of the society papers——”

  “Oh, I’ve seen her in those,” Miss Frayle responded quickly, aided by another sniff. “At races and parties and things. She gets around all right.”

  Doctor Morelle winced.

  “A particularly loathsome expression!” he snapped. Then his tone, resuming its unusual mild quality, continued: “And is that all you have to tell us from your personal knowledge?”

  “I’ve got intuition as well,” Miss Frayle said defiantly. “And I’m willing to bet we haven’t seen the last of Mrs. Latimer. I bet she comes to you for a—a consultation pretty soon!”

  “How soon, do you suppose?” Doctor Morelle asked with bland seriousness.

  Inspector Hood was openly grinning now and clearly enjoying himself. But the grin was wiped from his face at the withering glare Miss Frayle gave him from behind her spectacles, which had slipped in her indignation and were now balanced precariously on the end of her nose. With an impatient movement she pushed them back.

  “You’re both teasing me because I don’t like her,” she snapped. “Well, you’ll see.”

  Doctor Morelle turned to Hood. “And do you think we had grounds for arresting the lady?”

  “Not yet!” was the chuckled reply. Then the Inspector said briskly: “Well, I must be off. I’ll keep in touch with you, Doctor.” And to Miss Frayle: “Cheer up! You may put her behind bars yet, if you persevere!”

  “You’ll see,” was all Miss Frayle could think of in answer to him as he bustled out.

  In one respect, at least, Miss Frayle’s intuition was perfectly correct. They had left the building in company with Hood but, refusing a lift from him in the police-car, were walking towards St. James’s Street. Suddenly Miss Frayle gripped Doctor Morelle’s arm.

  “There! What did I say!” she exulted. “There she is on the corner—waiting for you!”

  Sure enough, there was the tall, slender figure of Mrs. Latimer and, as they approached, she began to walk towards them. Doctor Morelle flicked a swift, cold glance at Miss F
rayle, opened his mouth as if he were about to speak, then closed it with a snap. His eyes were narrowed and cold. He listened gravely as Mrs. Latimer spoke.

  “Are you returning to Harley Street now, Doctor Morelle?”

  “We are.”

  She looked directly into his eyes, her own softly brilliant and appealing.

  “Would you be kind enough to let me come with you? I intended to ask you when you suggested I should get medical advice. Please, Doctor.”

  He considered her for a moment, while Miss Frayle darted looks at his face, then at the other’s, then back to his.

  “I think I can spare you a little time, Mrs. Latimer.”

  A faint exclamation sounded beside him. Miss Frayle gave a cough and said dryly:

  “Here’s a taxi coming. Perhaps we’d better take it.”

  Miss Frayle maintained a stony silence and frozen profile all the way to Harley Street. Whatever triumph she might have felt at the vindication of her intuition, she seemed to be getting very little satisfaction out of it. Doctor Morelle appeared sunk in thought and Mrs. Latimer lay back against the cushions of the taxi, her eyes closed.

  When they were in the consulting-room, Doctor Morelle motioned to Miss Frayle to remain.

  “Sit down, Mrs. Latimer,” he murmured. “Have you come to seek my professional advice? Or—” and his narrow gaze seemed to bore into her wide eyes as if to drag out her innermost secrets that lay behind them—“is it to explain why you lied when you said you did not know Stefan Zusky, had never even heard of him?”

  Chapter Sixteen – Cleo Latimer Plays For Sympathy

  Doctor Morelle spoke coolly and without any hint of accusation in his tone. It was simply a blunt statement of fact. Miss Frayle frankly gasped and Mrs. Latimer uttered a little choking cry. Her face had gone ashen, and about her lips was that blue, pinched look which Miss Frayle had noticed when she had fainted before. She looked as if she were going to faint now. She swayed, her hand pressed against her heart, her eyes fixed on the Doctor.