Menace for Dr. Morelle

by Ernest Dudley

  Miss Frayle’s eyes popped at that thought. Became so flustered she almost dropped her pencil. Why, she could just imagine Mrs. Latimer hiring some desperado, saying to him: “Go and beat up the brute who has cast my love aside—he wants to marry another!” In that case, why had she turned up at the flat to call?

  Obviously, Miss Frayle decided, to discover how the land lay. To find out what she could. Yes, Miss Frayle thought excitedly, it was not impossible. It could fit into the sort of scheme a woman like Mrs. Latimer might evolve. She lived not far from where Sir Hugh had been found. Then, Miss Frayle’s thoughts rushed on, there was that man she had offered the brandy to. Who had helped her into a taxi and whom she had seen later at Lady Tonbridge’s party.

  Where did he figure in all this?

  Sherry Carfax had said he was a friend of Sir Hugh. What was he doing in those mews at that time? She must remember to ask Sherry Carfax about him again. It was odd—and she frowned momentarily to herself so that Doctor Morelle imagined she was experiencing difficulty with one of her hieroglyphics—that she’d forgotten him until now. Forgotten all about him. Perhaps he was in league with Mrs. Latimer? Perhaps it was he she’d asked to attack Sir Hugh?

  And then Miss Frayle’s carefully fabricated and rather exciting melodramatic little romance fell to earth with a decided bump.

  It suddenly struck her with irresistible logic that obviously Mrs. Latimer had been badly shocked when she had learned at Albany’s flat someone had been murdered there. Yes, Miss Frayle had to admit, she had been so shocked she had deliberately lied in order to avoid the possibility of being called as a witness. And what was more, Miss Frayle recalled, her spirits ebbing to zero, Mrs. Latimer herself had pointed out that by being involved, she might well cause a rift in the lute between Sherry Carfax and Sir Hugh.

  Then did she call at the flat just to find out what was happening? Miss Frayle reflected. She didn’t trust the woman. She didn’t trust her an inch. Look at the way she had made eyes at the Doctor! Look at the way she’d inveigled herself into his house and was trying to gain his sympathy!

  Suddenly something clicked in Miss Frayle’s mind so that she gave a half-muttered exclamation.

  It was so sudden, so startling, that her purely mechanical notations of Doctor Morelle’s dictation ceased abruptly. She sat up, her mouth open and her pencil poised over the notebook, as the Doctor was in the act of winding up his summary of the case as it stood.

  He was still dictating when Miss Frayle moved quickly out of her chair and swiftly crossed to the door.

  Doctor Morelle broke off with an expression of outraged amazement. Never before had Miss Frayle left him, so to speak, in mid-sentence, engaged as she was in the midst of a task demanding his utmost concentration!

  “Miss Frayle!” he rapped. “Are you quite insane today?”

  She turned to him quickly, raising her finger to her lips. Reaching for the door-handle, she turned it and flung the door wide.

  On the threshold Cleo Latimer smiled at her.

  Chapter Eighteen – Two Women Meet

  Cleo Latimer said with unruffled equanimity: “Thank you, Miss Frayle. I was just about to come in.”

  Her coolness was astonishing. But in Miss Frayle’s mind there was no shadow of doubt she had been standing there on the other side of that door listening to every word Doctor Morelle had been dictating.

  “I feel so much better now, Doctor.” Mrs. Latimer turned to Doctor Morelle. “I came in to thank you. I hope I’m not interrupting you?”

  It was seldom that Miss Frayle became angry. Her nature was genuinely too gentle and her long association with the Doctor had taught her the uselessness of losing one’s temper. But now she was extremely annoyed, to say the least. Her worst suspicions were confirmed. Her cheeks were quite pink and behind her horn-rimmed spectacles her blue eyes glinted.

  “Really, Mrs. Latimer!” she burst out. “I must say I consider it quite——”

  But Doctor Morelle interrupted her smoothly.

  “My dear Mrs. Latimer, I am gratified to have been of some service,” he said quickly. “I trust the rest has been beneficial, and you found the tablets a useful restorative. You have had a very trying morning. I—ah—I advise you to take things more easily for a while.”

  “I will, Doctor. Thank you so much for your kindness.” Cleo Latimer fired a veritable broadside of charm at him, then turned to Miss Frayle, still smiling.

  Miss Frayle was stupefied at the Doctor’s attitude. Couldn’t he see the woman was making a perfect fool of him? Couldn’t he realize she had been behaving like a cheap eavesdropper? She made no reply to the other’s: “And thank you too, Miss Frayle. You have been most kind and sympathetic.”

  Miss Frayle responded with a stony stare.

  “Er—Mrs. Latimer,” Doctor Morelle murmured, “I think perhaps I should give you a word of—ah—warning. You must not neglect obtaining medical advice as soon as you conveniently can. These attacks, you know——”

  “Perhaps I could come and see you again,” she said quickly.

  “I could advise you of a specialist to consult,” he nodded. “Shall we make an appointment now?”

  “Not now,” was the reply in somewhat hurried tones. “I—I will telephone you later.”

  At that moment the door-bell rang. The Doctor’s gaze narrowed as Mrs. Latimer’s hand moved in that quick, pressing gesture to her heart.

  In a stifled voice Miss Frayle murmured: “Excuse me,” in much the same way as she might have said: “You make me sick!” and went to answer the door.

  As they followed her, Mrs. Latimer said, low-voiced, to Doctor Morelle:

  “What d’you think I’d better do about my—my foolish mistake of this morning? Shall I get in touch with Inspector Hood?”

  “That is a matter upon which I can scarcely advise you. Of course, you realize it will be my duty to inform the Inspector if I should happen to see him before you do.”

  “I see. Thanks.” Mrs. Latimer’s voice seemed just a shade harder than its usual soft tone.

  It was Sherry Carfax who stood at the front door. She looked pale and anxious, and there were tired shadows under her eyes. But she brightened as she saw Miss Frayle. “You are expecting me, aren’t you?”

  Then her eyes went beyond Miss Frayle to Mrs. Latimer. Her voice trailed off. Her expression hardened. For a brief moment the two women stared at each other. Doctor Morelle stood apart, his eyes veiled but watchful as a hawk.

  Sherry Carfax’s expression was candid enough. There was in her eyes a look of angry affront. Mrs. Latimer, on the other hand, appeared somewhat nonplussed. She had stopped uncertainly as she saw the other standing there. She looked faintly puzzled. Perhaps something more. Perhaps even a shade alarmed. But it was only momentary. A flickering of expression across that lovely face. It might almost have been a trick of light. A moment later she was walking forward, a faint, almost mocking, smile on her beautiful mouth.

  “Hullo, Sherry,” she said. “I’m so terribly sorry to hear about poor Hugh. How is he now?”

  Sherry Carfax drew in a quick breath. Miss Frayle watched her with a fluttering feeling of sympathy. Then in a quick, brittle voice came the reply:

  “I don’t think you and I have anything to say to each other, Cleo. I see you’re leaving.” And she stepped on one side to let the other pass.

  Without batting an eyelid, Mrs. Latimer went out.

  Miss Frayle drew Sherry inside and closed, the door. The girl saw Doctor Morelle, and said in a quick, bitter voice:

  “What was she doing here? What does she want?”

  The Doctor’s thin mouth tightened, his eyes were like chips of ice.

  “That,” he retorted coldly, “is a question I do not feel disposed to answer.”

  “I’m sorry!” the other said quickly. “I’d no business to speak like that. I’m pretty well all in!”

  She dropped into a chair. “I only came in for a minute. I’ve come straight from the nu
rsing-home. All they tell me is that Hugh’s going on as well as can be expected. Sir David’s cautious. Says the operation was successful so far as that part of it’s concerned, but he won’t say definitely that Hugh’s out of danger.”

  “No surgeon would, under the circumstances.” Doctor Morelle’s tone was somewhat milder. “He will not be satisfied until Albany has recovered consciousness. Did he give any indication when that might be? Tonight, at some time, I imagine.”

  “He thought so. Perhaps.”

  “And doubtless advised you to go home and rest?”

  She smiled wanly.

  “Just that,” she nodded. “I was on my way, but thought I’d come and see you.” And then she flashed out, “Not that I’d have done so if I’d known that woman was here!”

  “If it will in any way lessen the strain on your nerves,” Doctor Morelle observed, “permit me to inform you that Mrs. Latimer is not a regular patient of mine. While I was with the police this morning investigating the events at the flat, Mrs. Latimer called. Ostensibly for a friendly chat with Albany. Apparently she was unaware of what had happened. She was unfortunately taken ill while she was there and returned with us for some treatment.”

  Unexpectedly he smiled. It was a somewhat enigmatic quirking at the corners of his mouth, but he smiled. Which, for Doctor Morelle, was something.

  “That, my dear Miss Carfax, is the sum total of my acquaintance with Mrs. Latimer.”

  Sherry was frowning.

  “She called on Hugh? This morning? Why should she have done that?”

  Suddenly she went to him impulsively, laying her hand on his sleeve.

  “I’m frightened,” she said in a low voice. “I’m frightened of that woman, Doctor Morelle! There’s something—something sinister about her.”

  She hesitated, then burst out:

  “Somehow or other she’s got Hugh in her power—blackmailing him, or something—she and her precious friend. I know Hugh was going to tell them yesterday afternoon he was finished with them both. That he wanted no more to do with them. With Cleo Latimer or Charles Gresham——”

  Miss Frayle gave a sudden, sharp crowing noise, not unlike that of a robust hen, and her spectacles slid agitatedly down her nose. The Doctor cast her a freezing glance, but for once Miss Frayle remained unfrozen.

  “That’s the name I’ve been trying to remember!” she gulped excitedly. “Charles Gresham! The man who spoke to you at the reception last night, Sherry. He was the man I spoke to in the mews after I’d found Sir Hugh!”

  Miss Frayle gulped again, pushed her spectacles back with an impatient movement and, as they promptly slid down her nose again, turned to Doctor Morelle and demanded dramatically:

  “Don’t you see how it all fits in?”

  Chapter Nineteen – Sherry Carfax Takes Orders

  Doctor Morelle frowned.

  “It would be more impressive if you would learn to arrange your ponderings before uttering them. And could you not refrain from jigging about so excitedly merely because you have recollected some item which should have been impressed upon your memory from the beginning?”

  And, turning on his heel, he marched into the consulting-room, followed by Miss Frayle and Sherry Carfax.

  “But this is important, Doctor,” Miss Frayle squeaked, trotting after him eagerly. “I’m sure now that Charles Gresham——”

  “I haven’t the least doubt it was important,” was the icy response. “It may be regarded as a foregone conclusion, my dear Miss Frayle, that anything which has once vanished from that ephemeral miasma which you fondly refer to as your mind has at some time been of considerable moment. It is important data only which you forget. Whether it remains important when it is recalled to you by extraneous circumstances remains to be seen. Proceed.”

  Sherry Carfax threw a glance of sympathy at Miss Frayle as the Doctor fired his heavy broadside. But Miss Frayle was either too accustomed to it or too excited to notice. She ignored Doctor Morelle and turned to Sherry.

  With a certain amount of histrionics which caused the Doctor more than once to cast his eyes ceilingwards, Miss Frayle recounted to Sherry the circumstances of her discovering Albany in the mews, followed by her encounter with Gresham there, and then seeing him again at Lady Tonbridge’s party.

  “I didn’t think very much about it when I saw you talking to him,” Miss Frayle finished. “You see, I didn’t know then the unconscious man was Sir Hugh——”

  The other had jumped to her feet.

  “Yes, that’s it!” she exclaimed in a low, tense voice, and Doctor Morelle turned his gaze on her. She went on: “Hugh went to see him and Cleo Latimer yesterday afternoon to break off with them for ever. They quarrelled. Gresham went after him and—and shot him.”

  “Have you any reason to suggest why he should do such a thing?” the Doctor interposed. “It was a not inconsiderable risk for him to take.”

  “He hates Hugh!” the girl flashed back at him. “He’s a rotter, Doctor Morelle. Dangerous! And he didn’t take such a risk. It was getting dark. The mews would be quite deserted at that time. I know—I know he and Cleo Latimer fixed it between them!”

  For a moment she stood silent, her hands clenched.

  She was very pale now, and her eyes were blazing. There was a moment’s silence while Doctor Morelle and Miss Frayle watched her. Then she said, in a low, breathless voice:

  “I’m going to see this Gresham man now. I’m going to get the truth out of him if it’s the last thing I do!”

  “You will do nothing of the kind.”

  It was the Doctor’s voice which stopped her in her tracks.

  Sherry Carfax turned. She was not accustomed to receiving orders, and there was no mistaking the peremptory command in Doctor Morelle’s tone. As she was about to make some reply, he raised his hand and brushed her answer aside before it reached her lips.

  “You will do nothing of the kind,” he reiterated firmly. “You will be good enough to remember there is more at stake than some enmity between Albany and this other individual. This is a case of some seriousness, Miss Carfax. A case, in fact, of murder!”

  She flinched at that and he seemed to tower above her, his narrowed, glittering eyes fixed on hers, his keen, saturnine face grim and set. He looked formidable, the apotheosis of avenging justice.

  “A man has been shot dead in cold blood,” he continued levelly. “Whether or not Gresham is implicated in that murder is a matter for investigation. Proof must be forthcoming. Proof which must be available before he may be confronted with any accusation. It is for this proof that the police and I have been searching. I will not have a case in which I have interested myself jeopardized by the hysterical interference of a young woman in—ah—love. I will not have the course of justice endangered by any wayward impulse such as the one upon which you contemplate acting. I trust that I make myself perfectly clear!”

  There was a long pause.

  Miss Frayle, her round eyes switching from the girl to the Doctor and back again, waited for Sherry Carfax’s answer.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at last. “You’re right, of course. I’m afraid I was thinking of Hugh and myself, not of—the man who was murdered.”

  “I think we understand each other,” he said. “Now,” he went on coolly, flicking the ash off his Le Sphinx, “what can you tell me of Albany’s association with Gresham and the woman Cleo Latimer? For example, how long have they been acquainted?”

  She looked at him for a moment before making a reply.

  “About a year, I think,” she said slowly. “Mrs. Latimer was abroad until about a year ago. America, I believe.” Then she added: “She’s always been rather”—she shrugged—“well—mysterious.”

  “You suggested that Gresham was a confederate. That was the description you used, a description implying a rather more than ordinary association. What exactly were you wishing to infer regarding their relationship?”

  She answered him frankly:

  “Not
hing that I can state with any definite proof. It’s just that they’re . . . well . . . shady. People—well-known people—have been friendly with them, then suddenly dropped them. No reason has ever been given. But there’s been talk. Hints of parties where people have lost a lot of money. One man—I can’t remember his name—was nearly ruined, I believe. And Gresham was implicated in some way. It was something to do with gambling but I know nothing of the details. But I do know this”—she looked steadily at him as she continued—“a lot of people are definitely scared of those two. It’s as if almost . . .” She hesitated a second, then said flatly: “It’s as if they’re a pair of blackmailers!”

  Miss Frayle gave a gasp and looked quickly at the Doctor.

  He drew at his cigarette and then, as if speaking to himself:

  “And in his association with them, Albany might have obtained evidence of that.”

  “And,” Miss Frayle put in excitedly, unable to restrain her excitement any longer, “Gresham attacked him to try and get the evidence back!”

  Doctor Morelle cast an oblique glance at her, but, her voice rising higher and higher, she was not to be daunted as she continued: “And then—then he searched the flat! That’s it in a nutshell, Doctor, isn’t it?” She turned to him eagerly. “While he was searching the flat, Zusky caught him and so Gresham shot him——!”

  She caught his look, her voice fell, tailed off into an incoherent murmur.

  The Doctor’s eyes were half-closed. Upon his fine, chiselled countenance rested an expression of long-suffering anguish patiently borne.

  “A most remarkable performance, Miss Frayle,” he observed, scathingly. He opened his eyes, and now they were glittering balefully. “Perhaps I should retire and leave the investigation in your hands?”

  “Oh, no, Doctor,” Miss Frayle breathed. “I—I was only summarizing from data you have provided by questioning Miss Carfax——”