Menace for Dr. Morelle

by Ernest Dudley

  “A most generous admission.” The Doctor’s sarcasm was heavy enough to invite comparison with a sack of potatoes. “Most generous. And now, having treated us with this illuminating deduction, perhaps you will recall for our benefit the time of Zusky’s murder?”

  Miss Frayle pondered for a moment.

  “Umm . . .” she mumbled, struggling to answer his query. “Ah, yes! You fixed it at between ten and eleven o’clock.”

  He nodded, and asked in a voice that dripped honey:

  “And at what time,” his voice beginning to turn sour now, “at what time did you recognize this Gresham individual last night?”

  “About ten o’clock.”

  Her jaw dropped and she slowly subsided.

  “Oh,” she said, blankly. “Oh, dear! He couldn’t have done it, could he? He must have been at the party at the time the poor man was shot.”

  “Precisely,” Doctor Morelle nodded, and his voice had an edge like a razor. “Precisely, my dear Miss Frayle!”

  “I think,” Sherry Carfax put in gently, “Miss Frayle was only trying to be helpful, Doctor.”

  “That is one of my misfortunes.” He turned to her, smiling mirthlessly. “Miss Frayle has a faculty for attempting to be helpful at the most inopportune of moments.”

  “And anyway, it mightn’t alter the fact,” the girl went on, thoughtfully, “that Gresham probably was the one who searched Hugh’s flat. He could easily have done that after his attack on Hugh, and before going on to Lady Tonbridge’s. He would know there would be no one there to interrupt his search.” She paused and asked him: “Are you—are you going to see Gresham?”

  “Eventually. Not immediately, however. Do you know his address?”

  She nodded quietly.

  “Be kind enough to write it down for me, will you?”

  A considerably deflated Miss Frayle handed the other a pencil.

  While Sherry Carfax wrote, Miss Frayle glanced nervously at the Doctor. He appeared sunk in thought.

  Her own brow became corrugated as she realized that something elusive was running through her mind, something too ephemeral to be described as a concrete idea. A hint which, if she could only grasp it and give it coherent expression, might restore her to favour with Doctor Morelle.

  If only she could, figuratively speaking, lay her hand on the vague notion that bothered her.

  “Miss Carfax,” the Doctor said suddenly, “are you cognizant of a picture in the flat? A picture named the Purple Lake?”

  The girl looked puzzled.

  “Why—yes,” she answered. “I know it. Hugh is rather sentimental about it. His father painted it years ago——”

  “Dud—Doctor Morelle!” Miss Frayle suddenly began to stutter. The idea that had been chasing round her head was losing its tenuousness, becoming more definite. She was almost afraid to speak lest she lost it again, and yet she had to. She had to risk being turned to stone by the Doctor’s basilisk glare.

  “Mum-may I ask a question?” she at last managed to blurt out.

  He regarded her as she stood there blinking at him, and when he answered his voice was unexpectedly mild.

  “I trust it will be a sensible one.”

  “It’s only this . . .” She hesitated, then took the plunge. “If Charles Gresham did search the flat, why did he go to that picture first? You remember, you deduced that whoever searched the flat went straight to the picture and took it down? You know, didn’t begin tearing the flat up until afterwards. . . .”

  She gulped, frightened by her own temerity, and gazed wide-eyed at him.

  And then, slowly, a sudden sense of delightful relaxation came to her. He was favouring her with a smile. A frosty smile, true, but to her it was as welcome as a radiant burst of sunshine. She had at least reinstated herself in his eyes. He had gathered the drift of what she was trying to say.

  “Precisely what I am wondering myself,” he agreed. “But,” he went on, cryptically, “I think we shall have to look further than Gresham.” He turned back to the other. “How long has the picture been in the flat, Miss Carfax?”

  Thoroughly mystified, she answered:

  “I haven’t the least idea. It’s been there ever since I can remember. I seem to remember Hugh telling me his father had brought it up from Stormhaven Towers years ago.”

  “Are you acquainted with the subject of the picture?”

  She looked puzzled and he explained.

  “The circumstances in which it was painted. Where, for instance, it was painted.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not. But Hugh would know, I expect.”

  His eyes narrowed, Doctor Morelle stared at her. Then he turned to Miss Frayle.

  “Telephone Baron Xavier at his hotel.”

  “Yes, Doctor.” Miss Frayle promptly reached for the telephone.

  “Ask him to give me an appointment as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “That is to say,” he added, “immediately.”

  “Yes, Doctor Morelle.”

  The Doctor turned back to the girl.

  “Do you know Xavier well?” he asked.

  “Not awfully well. He’s an old friend of Hugh. They were at school together—Baron Xavier was educated over here, you know. I’ve only met him on two or three occasions.”

  “And Stefan Zusky?”

  “I’d heard his name, that was all. I gathered he was the Baron’s secretary and a close friend, but I never met him.”

  While they were talking, Miss Frayle got through to Xavier’s suite at his hotel. Her voice was bright and crisp: “This is Doctor Morelle’s secretary here. . . .”

  “Well, how nice, Miss Frayle!” a man’s cheery tones cut in. “How are you?”

  “Who’s that?” she queried with a puzzled expression. The voice was somehow vaguely familiar.

  “I’m the chap you were kind enough to dance with last night. Remember?”

  “You . . .? Good gracious! I never realized——! I mean, you never told me . . .!”

  Miss Frayle stuttered in her surprise. It was the nice, dark-haired young man who had recognized her at the party. And she had, she recalled, while they were dancing, pointed out to him the man she now knew to be Gresham.

  “You never asked me,” he was saying, his voice tinged with amusement as it came over the wire. “And you gave me the impression that somehow you wouldn’t have been very interested if I’d volunteered the information!”

  Miss Frayle remembered with a blush that she had indeed lost interest in him from the moment she spotted the man she had met in the mews, and had rushed off, hardly waiting to thank him for the dance.

  “This is a rotten business, isn’t it?” he said, more gravely. “Has Doctor Morelle discovered anything yet?”

  “That is not for me to say at the moment,” Miss Frayle responded primly. “But what are you . . .? I mean—that is——”

  “Oh, I’m only Baron Xavier’s secretary,” at which Miss Frayle’s spectacles slid down her nose in surprise. “Is there anything I can do for you?” he went on helpfully.

  She pulled herself together to say: “Doctor Morelle wishes to come round and see him, please. As soon as possible.”

  There was a slight pause and then he said:

  “Inspector Hood’s here at the moment, interviewing him, but I suppose it’ll be all right.” And he added: “Will you be coming, too, Miss Frayle?”

  She blushed and murmured: “I don’t know. I hope so.” And he was sounding more cheerful again.

  “I shall want to hear all about it from you. Anyway, I’ll leave word for them to bring Doctor Morelle up as soon as he arrives. I hope to see you with him.”

  And he rang off.

  Miss Frayle replaced the receiver and told Doctor Morelle that Inspector Hood was having an interview with Baron Xavier. The Doctor, after thanking her with his customary sardonic courtesy, dashed her hopes to the ground by adding:

  “I shall not require you to accompany me. I would pr
efer that you escorted Miss Carfax to her home.”

  “Oh, that’s not necessary,” Sherry protested. “I’m perfectly all right——”

  “Nevertheless,” he insisted, “that is what I prefer. It is essential you obtain rest and remove from your mind any question of seeing this Gresham individual. Your place will be by Albany as soon as he is recovered.”

  He turned to Miss Frayle. “You will return here when you are assured that Miss Carfax is comfortably settled. You will receive further instructions from me later.”

  “Very well, Doctor,” she replied woodenly. He eyed her for a moment, then turned again to the other.

  “Have I your assurance that you will not attempt to communicate with Gresham?”

  Sherry shrugged. “As you wish, Doctor.”

  Miss Frayle realized how much she must long to find Gresham and drag the truth from him, but no doubt she saw the wisdom of Doctor Morelle’s advice in not interfering in a matter with which he and the police were dealing.

  Chapter Twenty – A Frightened Man

  It had been a morning of shocks for Cleo Latimer, culminating in that awkward little meeting with Sherry Carfax.

  But she walked along Harley Street with the graceful serenity of a woman conscious of her beauty, with no greater anxiety on her mind than might be occasioned by the prospect of having to select a piece of jewellery in Bond Street.

  Her face was a mask for a mind which was seething. The news of Zusky’s murder and Doctor Morelle’s manner of presenting that news to her had been the greatest shock. She was a woman with a zest for danger, had lived all her life dangerously, but had a strong distaste for being unprepared.

  Cleo Latimer was ready to take risks—big risks—so long as she had the opportunity of weighing them up first.

  During a career which, to say the least, had more shade than light on it, she had matched wits with many adversaries, and before long had learned to despise them. Not that she had ever made the mistake of underrating an opponent. It was simply that she possessed a peculiar insight which enabled her quickly to sum anyone up with accuracy. For example, while her respect for Doctor Morelle was high, her acumen in no wise allowed her to underrate Miss Frayle.

  What was causing her certain annoyance at the moment was the stupid blunder she had made in denying any acquaintance with Zusky. It gave her no satisfaction to tell herself she had committed the error in a moment of shock when she had not been able to think with her customary speed and lucidity.

  At least, however, she congratulated herself she had been quick enough to amend the mistake by admitting it frankly. Though again, her respect for Doctor Morelle had been enhanced by his prompt perception of the lie and his studied attack. Nevertheless, she was satisfied that she had, with some adroitness, turned it to good account by her explanation. She felt assured her explanation had been convincing.

  Cleo Latimer was keenly aware that Doctor Morelle was a man to watch with extreme care and who, unless she was always smart enough to turn every circumstance to her own advantage, might succeed in trapping her. Such reflections did not dismay, but merely stimulated, her.

  Another factor which had sent her estimation of Doctor Morelle soaring, was the masterly summary which she had contrived to overhear him dictating to Miss Frayle. In particular she had been impressed by his deduction pointing to the significance of the picture called the Purple Lake.

  Intuitively, too, Mrs. Latimer was very aware of Miss Frayle’s mistrust of her. It was a factor she had not failed to take into consideration. If, for the time being, she shelved the potential danger from that quarter, it would not be forgotten, nor ever ignored, until she was satisfied that Miss Frayle was rendered harmless. Because of her perception of Miss Frayle’s mistrust, she had not been taken unawares when the door had suddenly opened while she deliberately eavesdropped on the Doctor’s dictating. And she was convinced that, despite whatever suspicions Miss Frayle might cherish, she had, at any rate, successfully deceived Doctor Morelle.

  In fact, the whole consequence of the morning was that Cleo Latimer was fully alert to danger, without being apprehensive.

  Before reaching Oxford Street, she turned into a side-entrance of a big store. She went direct to a telephone-box and there rang up Charles Gresham. His voice, hoarse and whisky-roughened, sounded over the wire.

  “It’s Cleo. I want to see——”

  “I’ve been trying to get you the whole morning!” He was nervy and irritable. “Where’ve you been? Have you seen the morning papers?”

  “No. But I can guess what you’re worried about.”

  “Do you know Zusky’s been found dead at Hugh’s——–?”

  “Don’t be a damned fool!” she interrupted him quickly, her voice sharp with the hard, clear quality of a diamond.

  He broke off, muttering.

  “Hell, I’m worried,” he went on after a moment. “What’s it all in aid of?” Then he asked: “Where have you been, anyway?”

  She told him quietly: “I shall be home in ten minutes or so. Come and see me. We can talk.”

  “D’you know anything——–?” he started to ask her.

  But she replaced the receiver without replying.

  She had been in her flat ten minutes when she heard the taxi outside, and a moment later a ring at the bell.

  It was Gresham.

  “Couldn’t find a blasted taxi. . . .”

  He followed her, cursing and muttering, obviously in a bad temper. None of it disturbed her. She merely smiled to herself. She knew well enough his ill-temper was inspired by fear. And the fact that he was afraid left her unruffled. She nodded to a chair.

  “Sit down and relax.”

  “I’ve got the damned jitters so badly!” He threw himself into a chair and lit a cigarette with an unsteady hand. “What’s this about Zusky?”

  “He was murdered last night,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. “Shot dead. Didn’t you do it?”

  “Me!”

  He sat up and stared at her, his protuberant eyes wide. They were bloodshot and had a hard, menacing glitter. “I wouldn’t do a damned silly thing like that!” he rasped. “What object would I have in killing him? I didn’t even know the man.”

  “What time were you at the flat last night?”

  “I went there before I went to Lady Tonbridge’s party. After Albany vanished out of the mews, I wondered what the hell to do. I was a bit anxious. Didn’t know what had happened to him, or where he might pop up. I went home, changed, then took a taxi to St. James’s Street. I walked to the block where his flat is and went up the fire-escape.”

  “I know all that,” she put in coldly. “I’m simply asking you what time it was.”

  “Dunno,” he grunted. “About half past eight. I know I left the place before nine, because of the telegram”—he tapped his pocket—“that he dropped.”

  “Give me the telegram,” she said.

  He shook his head slowly. Smiled at her thinly.

  “You don’t want it. I might. You remember it said Zusky would be there at nine-thirty, so I got to hell out of it long before there was a chance of him turning up. Who shot him? Why?”

  “You could have done,” she told him calmly.

  His face grew dark. Then the colour receded and his mouth was thin and ugly looking.

  “What are you getting at?”

  He rose and stood close to her.

  “Listen, Cleo,” he said. “What the hell game is this you’re trying to play?”

  “I’m not playing at anything,” Cleo Latimer drawled. “I’m simply saying what it looks like. What the police might think. What Doctor Morelle might think. You’re in a spot, Charles.”

  “I’m in a spot!” he choked. He tapped the ash off his cigarette with a savage movement.

  “Where d’you get that ‘I’ stuff? You’re in this with me. Only last night you were practically threatening me if I didn’t play along with you. Now I’m the one in a spot!”

  “You�
�re an awful damned fool.”

  And Mrs. Latimer sighed expressively. “I’m simply pointing out the danger of your position, I’m not thinking of our association. You’ve got to look at facts. You shot Hugh yesterday. You ransacked his flat. I didn’t. In other words, it’s you we’ve got to worry about for the moment, and not me.” She paused and drew at the cigarette in her long holder. He said nothing.

  “I’ve been up to the flat this morning,” she continued. “I’ve been with the police and Doctor Morelle, and I know which way things are pointing. They are pointing towards you, and it won’t be very long before that secretary of Doctor Morelle’s suddenly remembers you were the man she saw in the mews, and saw again later at last night’s party. And she’ll yap.”

  The other made as if to speak, but she went on quickly.

  “Get this, Charles. This Doctor Morelle is nobody’s fool. He’s a clever, dangerous man. It won’t be long before they establish the fact it was you who tried to bump off Hugh and then broke into his flat.” And then added coldly, deliberately: “Even if he doesn’t recover from that bullet you pumped into him.”

  He stared at her without speaking for a moment. He was obviously frightened now, and a very faint smile touched her lovely curved mouth.

  Gresham swallowed hard. Then:

  “Albany—is he going to—to——?”

  He broke off, unable to get the word out, and stared at her questioningly.

  “I don’t know. They’re operating on him. He hasn’t recovered consciousness yet. In any case, they’ll hold you for that. If he dies. . . .” She shrugged.

  Gresham dropped into his chair heavily. “What a mess!” Then he leaned forward and said in a hoarse voice: “But I didn’t do it! Zusky, I mean. I didn’t do it. I don’t give a damn how clever the police are, or this Doctor Morelle—they can’t make me do something I didn’t do and I didn’t kill Zusky. I don’t know anything about it. I didn’t do it, I tell you!”

  “All right, all right, you didn’t do it.”

  For the first time Cleo Latimer showed signs of strain. “For God’s sake don’t keep telling me,” she told him. “I believe you. We’ve got to think.”