He blew a cloud of cigarette-smoke ceilingwards. Then moved towards the door.
“Thank you for your assistance.”
“Glad to do anything I can to help,” Whitmore assured him, accompanying him to the door. “Remember me to Miss Frayle, Doctor. And I hope you haven’t got any wrong ideas about this business.”
Doctor Morelle regarded him for a moment.
“I invariably avoid getting wrong ideas,” he murmured.
He was thoughtful as he made his way through the busy hotel foyer and stood poised on the steps outside.
A top-hatted commissionaire produced a taxi with a flourish, almost as if he had taken it out of his magnificent hat, and the Doctor gave the driver Lady Tonbridge’s address.
Lady Tonbridge was out.
Her housekeeper, mesmerized by Doctor Morelle’s charm, was prepared to answer any questions he wished to ask.
“I merely wish to ascertain at what time Baron Xavier left the reception last night.”
The woman said she didn’t know, but could find out, and rang for the butler.
The butler was explicit.
“The Baron left finally at about half past eleven, Doctor.”
“Why do you say he left ‘finally’?”
“Well, the Baron had been out once or twice before during the reception. Once with you, Doctor, if you will remember?”
Doctor Morelle nodded.
“That was at about eleven o’clock. He was worried about Sir Hugh Albany and Miss Carfax. At what other time did he go out?”
The other looked doubtful. He coughed and loosened his collar.
“Well, as a matter of fact, Doctor,” his voice dropping to a confidential tone, “Mr. Whitmore—the Baron’s secretary—asked me to be discreet about this. It was at the height of the party, so to speak—about nine thirty or so—when he came to me and said the Baron would be slipping out for a quarter of an hour or so unobserved.”
“Mr. Whitmore approached you about this?”
The butler nodded.
“That’s right. He said the Baron was hot and tired and wanted a breath of fresh air and a little stroll. I left the small garden-door at the back open for him.”
“Did you observe him go out?”
“Oh, yes, Doctor. I saw him all right. He went out by way of the conservatory and I stayed in the vicinity to keep an eye on the door. It wasn’t very light in the conservatory, but I saw Baron Xavier pop out.”
“How long was he gone, do you know?”
“Matter of minutes, that’s all.”
Doctor Morelle’s eyebrows shot up.
“Minutes?” he queried softly. “How many minutes? Twenty? Twenty-five?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” the butler answered. “Five or ten minutes, maybe. Certainly not more than ten. Because I remember being a bit surprised at seeing him in the ballroom when I thought he was still outside. Mr. Whitmore had given me the impression he was going for a bit of a stroll round the houses. But I suppose he changed his mind.”
“I see.”
“Will that be all, Doctor?” the butler asked.
Doctor Morelle told him that was all.
He took a taxi back to Harley Street. As he sat with his eyes closed, his saturnine features wreathed in cigarette-smoke, he grimly contemplated the undeniable fact that it was impossible for anyone to get from Belgrave Square to Jermyn Street and from Jermyn Street back to Belgrave Square within the space of ten minutes.
Chapter Twenty-Four – Gresham Changes His Mind
Charles Gresham was frightened. He was at any time a dangerous man, but now that he was frightened he was doubly dangerous.
He had been surprised and uneasy when he had read of the murder of Stefan Zusky. After what Cleo Latimer had now told him, his uneasiness had deepened to definite apprehension.
He returned to his flat, jumpily nervous and in a foul temper. Gresham trusted no-one. The prospect of having to bolt to Paris, not knowing what was happening or what was going to happen, not even being sure if he were going to get his half-share of the stupendous coup Cleo Latimer had promised, maddened him. He had nothing on Cleo, no hold on her at all. He did not even know by what means she was going to bring off the coup. He simply knew she was playing for a million-pound stake.
A million pounds.
It was a tantalizingly tremendous sum. For all his suspicions and apprehensions, Gresham never doubted the authenticity of the million-pound stake for one moment. He knew Cleo Latimer well enough to realize she was not a woman who indulged in pipe-dreams. If she said there was a million to be picked up, that was good enough for him. He knew her to be a hard realist, despite the aura of glamour that surrounded her.
Gresham was enduring the strain of a violent inner struggle at the thought of half a million almost within his grasp. Half a million. The sum, when he wrote it down—as he had scribbled it several times—made him sweat. Desperately he desired to stay and see the game played out to the end—and that he got his share. On the other hand, if his remaining in London would jeopardize the outcome, if it would handicap Cleo’s plan—and she had said it would—his only sensible action was to clear out. Not only that. By remaining behind, he was placing himself in danger. Cleo had made that clear to him.
It would be relatively easy for him to get away at this stage.
Gresham was a man who had often found it not inconvenient to be able to slip quickly and quietly out of the country for various reasons. Even if he were to miss a seat on the afternoon ’plane to Paris, it would be a simple matter for him to charter an air-taxi.
His Mayfair flat was little more than a pied à terre. It comprised two small rooms on the ground floor of an old house converted to service flats. Gresham dispensed with the service as he did with personal servants. He trusted no-one.
By the time he had returned to his flat, his uncertainty had given place to a savage temper. When he thrust his key into the lock of the door and it jammed, he wrenched it furiously, his face suffused, and, cursing witheringly, at last got the door open. He slammed it behind him so violently that the lock broke and the door bounced open again. He glared at it, then, with another shrivelling flow of curses, pushed it shut and shot the small bolt under the lock.
His flat was compact. At the end of the tiny hall was a kitchenette. One room led from another, the bedroom from the sitting-room, the bathroom from the bedroom. He flung his hat on a chair in the sitting-room, went straight through to his bedroom and began packing. Throwing open a couple of pigskin bags, he began pushing clothes into them. His nervous, almost panicky haste began to unnerve him. He suddenly realized he was packing articles without thought or reason.
He straightened up, panting, wiping his brow with his handkerchief.
“I need a drink, that’s what,” he muttered aloud. “What the hell am I getting in a flap about? They’ve nothing on me!”
He uttered a short laugh and returned to the sitting-room. From a cocktail cabinet he took a bottle of whisky and poured half a tumbler, adding a fraction of soda. He drank it down in three or four long swallows, mixed himself another of the same strength, then flopped into a chair, staring at the glass he was holding.
The drink began to have its effect. It quieted and steadied him. He sat thinking things over, taking an occasional gulp from his glass. When it was empty, he rose and filled it mechanically and dropped back into the chair again.
He scowled as he began to turn over more calmly the facts of his position. Cleo had told him there was a million involved, and had promised him a half-share. If he was in partnership with her, he had a right to know what the game was. When they worked together before on his schemes, she had always known all about it. People always worked better together when they knew the lay-out. Why was she so suddenly secretive about this particular scheme of hers? Was she playing him for a mug? Was she simply trying to frighten him off? He uttered a queer, thick, growling in his throat. Yesterday he had shot Albany down in cold blood. He had expe
rienced quite a satisfaction in doing it. He had always hated Albany. . . . He hadn’t found the swine’s diary (his thoughts took a new line). All he had got had been that telegram Albany had dropped.
Gresham slowly and carefully pulled the telegram from his pocket, spread it on his knee and scowled at it. How the devil did it tie up with a million? And what had Albany got to do with it? What was the Purple Lake? A picture on the wall in Albany’s flat, that was all.
If the blighter had died, he suddenly thought, he, Charles Gresham, would have been guilty of his murder. He stirred uncomfortably in his chair. Somehow he fancied Albany wasn’t going to hand in his checks. Cleo hadn’t sounded urgent enough. She’d have been much more excited if he had been definitely going to croak. If Albany recovered, he could accuse him, Gresham, of having tried to murder him. But again he felt confident Albany would prefer to keep his mouth shut.
Then there was the murder of Stefan Zusky.
A fresh idea occurred to him. Surely if he ran for it now, mightn’t the police think he was concerned in that? They might even try and pin it on him. The police could establish that he had been in Albany’s flat the night that chap had been done in there.
And there was that Doctor Morelle fellow and his assistant. The girl, Miss Frayle. She had seen him in the mews after he’d shot Albany. She had evidently spotted him at the reception, too. Without a shadow of doubt she would have tipped off Doctor Morelle.
The more he brooded over it, the more it seemed apparent that to run away now was about the worst thing he could do. At the moment, no one had a thing on him at all. And at least he had a perfectly clear conscience so far as the Zusky fellow was concerned.
“What the hell!” he growled. He stood up somewhat unsteadily and poured himself another drink.
It was plain as a pikestaff.
Running away would get him into danger, not out of it. And it was Cleo Latimer who had urged him to take that very course of action. To beat it. She had even given him money to get away.
His face grew malevolent. His fingers curled around the heavy, cut-glass tumbler, whitened with the strength of his grip.
Cleo Latimer had scared the life out of him in order to get him out of the way! She knew well enough they hadn’t got a thing on him. She knew he hadn’t killed Zusky. Maybe it was Cleo herself! He thought round that for a moment. He didn’t know what her set-up was, so maybe she had some good reason for getting Zusky out of the way. But if he did a bunk, and the police found out he’d been up in that flat!
Gresham drew a long, long breath. So that was it. Cleo was trying to give him the brush-off. To double-cross him. Half a million wasn’t enough for her, she wanted the lot.
He drained his glass purposefully, his eyes narrowed and vicious. His impulse was to get back to Cleo and call her bluff. Then he pulled himself together. Though he was by no means drunk, he wasn’t exactly sober. Not sober enough, he told himself, to meet her as an enemy. And that was the way she appeared to him now.
Yet there was still the million.
How could he keep himself in the clear and yet contrive to make at least some of it stick to his fingers?
He stared at his empty glass automatically, rose again to fill it, then paused. A thought came to him. He pondered over it for several minutes, frowning with the effort of concentration. Then he grinned thinly and without humour. Resolutely he put his empty glass down beside the whisky decanter.
From his desk he took the second half of the London Telephone Directory, flipped through the pages. He stopped at the one he wanted and ran his finger carefully down the columns until he found the name he was looking for.
He reached for the telephone.
Chapter Twenty-Five – ’Phone Call For Miss Frayle
Miss Frayle was in a buoyant mood.
She had dutifully taken Sherry Carfax home, according to Doctor Morelle’s instructions, and Sherry had insisted on her lunching with her. The lunch had been preceded by cocktails, and it was partly the effects of these unaccustomed intoxicants—Miss Frayle had daringly knocked back two drinks—which accounted for her effervescence. There was a decided lilt in her walk as she turned up Park Lane, back towards Harley Street. She had managed to persuade Sherry to rest for the afternoon and, of course, repeat her promise that she would make no attempt to contact Charles Gresham.
Sherry had laughed.
“I promise. You’ve done me such a lot of good, Miss Frayle. It was kind of you to come along. I feel I can leave everything safely in your hands—yours and Doctor Morelle’s. All I’m going to do is rest until I can go along to Hugh again.”
There had been a message from Doctor Bennett awaiting Sherry Carfax. It said that Albany was sleeping normally and that Sir David Owen was visiting him again at six that evening.
Miss Frayle had enjoyed herself tremendously. She had got quite a kick out of having a quiet little lunch with Sherry. Even more than that, she was delighted that the girl was so obviously genuinely deeply in love with Albany. She had wallowed in an hour spent in chatter and talk which would have driven Doctor Morelle to distraction, but which made a wonderful change for her.
Yes, Miss Frayle told herself, she felt fine.
Given a couple of clues, she felt, and she could solve the Zusky murder case in no time at all! Her mind seemed so singularly clear and keen.
She had been disappointed that Doctor Morelle had not allowed her to accompany him to Baron Xavier’s hotel. But that disappointment had now been amply compensated. And this afternoon she was determined she would certainly pop along with him when he went to see Charles Gresham. She had no doubt that the Doctor would see Gresham directly after he had finished with the Baron. In fact, she reflected, in all probability Doctor Morelle was even now awaiting her at Harley Street.
In that Miss Frayle was disappointed.
The Doctor was not at Harley Street and had evidently not returned. Miss Frayle gave a gay little shrug and seated herself at her desk. In a moment she was immersed in Doctor Morelle’s summary of the case up to date.
Presently she leaned back in her chair. Her horn-rimmed spectacles slipped to the end of her straight little nose, she stared down at her neatly typed notes.
The key to the whole case, she reflected, seemed to lie in the picture of the Purple Lake, if only one could recognize the clue. That, and the motive for Stefan Zusky’s murder. Then, of course, what was the reason for the man being in Albany’s flat? And why had Albany been attacked?
If only she could find the answer to those questions, she would have solved the case. She thought it was rather neat, the way she had brought it down to such simple terms. She decided to take each question, one by one, and examine it. Starting with the vitally important question: where was the clue in the picture of the Purple Lake?
Suddenly the telephone on her desk jangled and Miss Frayle started up as if she had been shot. To her intense annoyance and mortification, she realized she must have dropped off into a doze while staring at the typewritten notes and attempting to puzzle hut the answers to the questions the notes prompted. It seemed her sparkling clarity of mind had been somewhat deceptive.
She answered the telephone with her usual briskness, arrived at only by a certain amount of effort.
“I want to talk to Doctor Morelle.”
It was a thick, hoarse voice speaking. “It’s important, tell him.”
“This is Doctor Morelle’s secretary,” Miss Frayle answered, fighting against sleepiness. “I’m afraid the Doctor is out at the moment. Who is it, please?”
“Is that Miss—er—Miss Frayle?”
“Yes. Who is that?”
“My name’s Gresham.”
Miss Frayle’s eyes popped wide open.
“Charles Gresham,” the voice went on. “Tell him if he wants to hear something interesting about—about a case he’s—er—investigating, I can put him wise.”
He gave an address which Miss Frayle scribbled down excitedly.
“You mean�
�the Zusky murder?” she gasped.
There was a slight pause. Then he gave a short laugh.
“Maybe.”
Followed the click of the receiver being replaced. Miss Frayle slowly replaced the telephone, staring at it goggle-eyed.
“Charles Gresham,” she breathed. “Charles Gresham!”
He was the last person in the world she had expected to hear on the telephone. The unexpectedness of his call left her completely nonplussed. The marvellous crystal clarity of mind which had given her such a comfortable feeling of superiority on her return from Sherry Carfax’s lunch had vanished utterly. She was as beset with doubts and uncertainties as she had ever been at any time. She wished longingly for Doctor Morelle to walk in so she could give him the message immediately and let him act upon it.
Such was her immediate reaction. Indeed, she at once telephoned Baron Xavier’s hotel. Her inquiry, however, got no further than the reception desk. Doctor Morelle, she was told, had left the hotel some little time.
And then, once she realized the Doctor was not instantly available, Miss Frayle began to think for herself again, exercising that faculty which had never been encouraged by Doctor Morelle—he not infrequently expressed the opinion that more often than not her efforts resulted in nothing but disaster.
Nevertheless the idea became fixed in Miss Frayle’s mind she should not just be sitting about awaiting his return. She felt she should pursue some course of action, something definite, conclusive. And the most definite and conclusive action she could think of at the moment was to hurry off and see Charles Gresham herself.
The temerity of her idea shook her at first. Especially in view of the fact that Doctor Morelle had expressly, and in no uncertain terms, forbidden Sherry Carfax to go anywhere near Gresham.
But, Miss Frayle argued to herself, as she hastily straightened her spectacles and dabbed a powder-puff on her nose, that command had been directed particularly to Sherry. Not to her. And since Doctor Morelle had given his orders, the situation had changed not inconsiderably. Gresham himself had telephoned. He had offered important, perhaps vital, information.
Menace for Dr. Morelle Page 14