Menace for Dr. Morelle

by Ernest Dudley

  She opened her bag and handed him the telegram she had found.

  He glanced at it, nodded his head as if in silent agreement with some thought of his own, and put the telegram down on a table.

  “It merely confirms the syllogism I used earlier today at the flat,” he observed. “You will recall I averred the Purple Lake is the significant clue in the case.”

  “The picture,” she nodded. “It was so clever of you——”

  “I remarked that the Purple Lake is the significant clue,” he returned with emphasis. “Where did you find this telegram? Was it on the person of the deceased?”

  “Oh, no! I c-couldn’t have touched him!”

  She shuddered at the thought. Then pointed. “It was in that chair there. Tucked down between the side of the chair and the cushion.”

  In a small, neat notebook, Doctor Morelle was making a copy of the telegram’s message. He shut the notebook with a snap and glanced out of the window as a dark car drew up outside.

  “Inspector Hood has wasted little time.”

  A moment later the Inspector came in briskly, accompanied by a plain-clothes sergeant and a police-surgeon.

  He threw a glance at Miss Frayle, then addressed the Doctor.

  “I was coming along here to interview this chap anyway. . . . Suppose you were, too?”

  Doctor Morelle nodded.

  “That had been my intention. Miss Frayle arrived here first and discovered him.”

  “Let’s have a look at him.”

  Doctor Morelle led the way into the bedroom, leaving Miss Frayle in the sitting-room.

  The police-surgeon bent over the body, where it lay as it had toppled out of the cupboard when Miss Frayle had opened the door.

  “Death by strangulation. Not been dead very long, either.”

  “How long?” Hood grunted, searching in his pocket for his inevitable pipe and filling it with black tobacco.

  “Within the last hour.”

  “What about that crack over his head? That bruise.” Inspector Hood jerked his pipe. “Could that have killed him?”

  “No. The blow just laid him out. He was strangled with the cord afterwards.”

  “The murder was committed by a tall man, who was not unknown to the deceased.”

  It was Doctor Morelle who spoke. He went on quietly: “I think if you look around, or possibly on the body, you will find that the key which he uses to enter the flat is bent, or faulty.”

  Hood was staring at him with a serious face.

  “Uh-huh?” He nodded. “Go on.”

  “May I use the telephone in the next room, please?” the Doctor asked politely. The Inspector eyed him narrowly. Then:

  “Go ahead. I’ll come too. While you’re ’phoning, I’ll ask Miss Frayle all about it.”

  Doctor Morelle dialled and asked to be put through to Baron Xavier’s suite.

  “Richard Whitmore here, Baron Xavier’s secretary.”

  “Ah, would you be good enough to inform me if the Baron has returned yet?”

  “Oh, hullo, Doctor,” Whitmore answered cheerfully. “No, I’m afraid he hasn’t yet. Can I get him to ring you as soon as he returns?”

  “It is of insufficient importance. You did say, did you not, that Baron Xavier was acquainted with a person named Charles Gresham?”

  “Gresham?” The other sounded vague. “Gresham?” And then more brightly: “Oh, Gresham! Sorry, the name didn’t ring a bell for the moment. Yes—but only vaguely, you know. I think I told you, he’s a rum sort of bird—not exactly—er—well, you know. Why?”

  But Doctor Morelle merely answered smoothly: “Thank you. I may call Baron Xavier later.”

  He replaced the receiver thoughtfully, and turned to find Miss Frayle and Inspector Hood watching him as if he were a rabbit who’d just produced a magician out of a hat.

  “You surely—do you mean to say Baron Xavier did it?” Miss Frayle gasped. “Is that why you ’phoned to find out if he was there?”

  Doctor Morelle gave her an enigmatic look.

  “The number of suspects you have hit upon merely by jumping to conclusions is really quite remarkable, my dear Miss Frayle,” he observed. “Before long I feel positive you will arrive at the actual person or persons responsible by the process of elimination!”

  Hood chuckled.

  “I thought Mrs. Latimer was your pet suspect, Miss Frayle?” he threw at her.

  “Well, she was a friend of Gresham, wasn’t she?” Miss Frayle flashed. Then blushed as the Scotland Yard man laughed.

  “A logical conclusion for murdering him, Miss Frayle? No, this job was done by a man. Can’t see Mrs. Latimer cracking someone over the head and then strangling him with a dressing-gown cord.”

  He glanced at Doctor Morelle with puzzled admiration.

  “You were right about the key, Doctor. It’s bent and doesn’t fit the lock properly. Lock’s busted, anyway. That’s why Miss Frayle found the door open when she arrived.”

  Doctor Morelle nodded.

  “I noticed deep scratches and indentations around the keyhole which, as you observed, is of the Yale type. The lock had been broken by the door being slammed from the inside. If it had been forced from the outside, the socket, taking the tongue of the lock, would have been out from the lintel of the door. Instead, it is forced inwards from the effect of the door being slammed violently against it. As Gresham’s key doesn’t fit it properly, one may assume that in a fit of impatience he slammed the door violently, thus breaking the lock which was already weakened.”

  “Which would leave the door open for the murderer to creep in and—and—murder him,” Miss Frayle said.

  “Excepting that Gresham bolted the door in order to keep it shut,” Doctor Morelle answered her dryly.

  He led them to the front door and pointed up to the small brass bolt.

  “Small pieces of dust and fluff have recently been dislodged, indicative of the fact that the bolt had hitherto not been used for some considerable time.”

  Inspector Hood nodded his head in agreement.

  “Very smart, Doctor. Gresham came in, slammed the door, bust the lock, then bolted it so as to keep it shut——–”

  He broke off with a sudden exclamation.

  “In other words,” he said, “Gresham must have known who the caller was—and let him in! That’s what you’re driving at, Doctor, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – The Suspects

  Doctor Morelle smiled thinly at the burly Inspector’s sudden undisguised animation.

  “Precisely,” he murmured. “Gresham heard the ring at the bell, whereupon he opened the door to his caller. If it were merely a message the caller had to give, Gresham would have taken it at the door. As it was, the visitor was admitted. He then attacked his victim suddenly. There is no evidence of a struggle. Gresham was struck down in all probability with a walking-stick. Then his murderer carried him into the bedroom. There he used the cord from the blue silk dressing-gown for the purpose of strangling his victim. It was swift and silent. Speed was the essence of his actions. I should estimate not more than five minutes elapsed between his entering and quitting the flat. He was forced to leave the front door open, the lock being broken. He was unable to bolt it from the outside.”

  There was a little pause. Then Inspector Hood sighed.

  “I can’t help but agree with you,” he said. “And unfortunately I don’t want to. I’ve been working on the theory that our late friend, Charles Gresham, was the bird who bumped off Zusky. Everything pointed to it. At least, I thought so. But there’s only one thing clear now. Gresham knew or suspected who did kill Zusky, that person knew he suspected him, so bumped Gresham off before he could talk.”

  They returned to the sitting-room. The police-surgeon had bustled off, other plain-clothes men had arrived and were busy with photographic and fingerprint paraphernalia. Inspector Hood picked up the telegram which the Doctor had placed on the table.

  “Miss Frayle informs me she fo
und it tucked in the side of the armchair there,” Doctor Morelle told him.

  The other glanced at him, then at Miss Frayle, then back at the piece of paper.

  “If Gresham hadn’t been murdered,” he said, “I’d have said this just about tied up the evidence against him having killed Zusky. It’s addressed to Sir Hugh Albany.”

  He tapped the telegram with his pipe-stem.

  “I’ve established enough evidence to satisfy myself, anyway,” he went on, “that Gresham attempted to murder Albany yesterday. Gresham isn’t altogether unknown to us, as I’ve found since checking up. Never pinned anything on him, but we’ve connected him with quite a few nasty businesses. Always managed to slither out. Bad lot all right. Off the record, I’d say quite a lot of people will breathe easier when they know he’s had his.”

  “He was a blackmailer!” Miss Frayle declared with sudden vehemence. “Sherry always suspected that. And, don’t forget, he was a friend of Mrs. Latimer.”

  Inspector Hood regarded her indulgently.

  “So was Albany,” he remarked.

  “Not willingly, I’m sure,” Miss Frayle retorted. “I think Gresham and—and that woman . . .” She paused, then wound up darkly with: “Got him into their toils.”

  Hood gave a delighted yelp, which he hastily stifled on seeing Miss Frayle’s indignant expression.

  “You should spend your spare time in writing thrillers,” he told her. “You have a nice turn of phrase.”

  “But no spare time,” Miss Frayle said shortly, giving Doctor Morelle a look.

  Inspector Hood was chewing at his gurgling pipe while he glanced at the telegram again.

  “I’m told I’ll be able to talk to Albany for a minute or two early this evening,” he grunted after a moment. “I’ve no doubt he’ll be able to confirm my theory that Gresham shot him. This telegram in Gresham’s possession merely underlines the fact. He must have come by it after he’d knocked out Albany. It’s clear Albany was acting as agent or intermediary between Zusky and Baron Xavier. I think we’re safe enough assuming the ‘X’ in the telegram implies Xavier, eh, Doctor?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  Hood quoted:

  “‘If anything happens see Purple Lake.’”

  There was a pause while his pipe bubbled noisily.

  “What the deuce that Purple Lake business is, frankly I don’t know,” he exclaimed at last. “But the implication is that Zusky suspected something might be going to happen to him.”

  He turned, jabbing his pipe at Doctor Morelle who eyed him impassively.

  “For the moment, let’s skip motive. Let’s enumerate the people who were aware this Stefan Zusky was going to be in the flat last night.”

  “Proceed,” Doctor Morelle murmured, equably bland. “This is most interesting, my dear Inspector.”

  The other cocked a swift look at him, a shrewd look.

  “You wouldn’t by any chance be holding something up your sleeve, Doctor?” he suddenly demanded.

  Doctor Morelle gave him a wintry smile.

  “I have my own theories which, as you know, I never express until I can confirm them with proof positive.”

  “I’ve got a dim suspicion,” Hood said slowly, “that you’re working on different lines from me. However, let’s hope we both arrive at the same place.”

  He smiled broadly, winked at Miss Frayle, and went on:

  “Gresham knew Zusky was going to be at the flat,” he grunted. “Albany knew, since he received the telegram.”

  “But he couldn’t have had anything to do with it,” Miss Frayle objected. “He was lying half-dead outside Doctor Bennett’s house at the time Zusky was killed.”

  “Inspector Hood is merely concerned with tabulating those people who were aware Zusky had a rendezvous at Albany’s flat,” the Doctor told her.

  Hood nodded.

  “In any case, Miss Frayle,” he said, “we don’t know just what Albany was doing between your finding him in the mews and his arrival at Doctor Bennett’s. Though we assume he was in a state of unconsciousness or semi-consciousness somewhere. Then, Baron Xavier knew Zusky was going to be at the flat. I learned that in my interview with him this morning. Albany telephoned him yesterday, as soon as he got the telegram, and delivered the message.”

  “He received the message personally from Albany?”

  It was Doctor Morelle who put the question, his eyes slightly speculative.

  “He was quite frank about it. He said Albany spoke to him on the ’phone. If you ask me, I think he’s a bit too frank altogether.”

  “Too frank?” Miss Frayle’s gaze was round behind her horn-rims.

  “His answers are too pat. Seems over-anxious to help.”

  “Well, after all,” Miss Frayle objected, “naturally he wants to do all he can to help catch the murderer. Wasn’t Zusky his friend as well as his secretary? An old and trusted servant?”

  “The best of friends fall out,” Hood murmured, puffing at his pipe. “And the oldest servants sometimes get the bird.”

  He paused with a heavy sigh.

  “I never care for cases like this,” he went on. “People with big names are hard to handle. They hit the headlines at once, and if you’ve made a mistake——” He broke off with an eloquent shrug. “Give me a murder involving plain Mr. Brown or Mr. Smith.”

  “What are your plans regarding Xavier?” Doctor Morelle asked.

  Hood’s pipe bubbled and spluttered.

  “He’ll be available when I want him. He’s an intelligent man. He’ll know I haven’t been asking him questions just to pass the time. If he makes a move to leave his hotel—I’ll nab him, and risk the consequences.”

  The Doctor contemplated him gravely. “I trust you will be—ah—kind enough to consult me before taking such a step,” he said.

  “Have you finished with your list, Inspector?” Miss Frayle put in, sweetly. Perhaps just a little too sweetly, for the Inspector frowned as he turned to her.

  “Because you have left Mrs. Latimer out!” Miss Frayle ended triumphantly.

  Hood gave her a wide grin.

  “Don’t worry, Miss Frayle. I’m not allowing that one’s charms to deflect me. I’ve got an appointment to keep with her presently.”

  Miss Frayle looked disappointed.

  “You know she knew Zusky?”

  “She ’phoned and admitted to me she had told a lie,” he answered. “On the face of it, it was a natural one. She was afraid of getting mixed up in the case.”

  He observed Miss Frayle’s scornful expression.

  “Oh, I know, I know, Miss Frayle,” he went on. “But people who don’t want to get mixed up in anything unpleasant often try to lie their way out of their responsibilities. Mrs. Cleo Latimer’s got a pretty tough interview coming to her, believe me.”

  He paused, his expression hardening. Then he continued:

  “You’re assuming she knew Zusky was going to be at the flat because she’s an associate of Gresham?”

  Miss Frayle nodded vigorously.

  “Fair enough. I’ll be going to work on that idea, anyway, when I see her. Meantime, I’m going back to the Yard to pick up a dossier on Gresham. Maybe I’ll get round to a few tips on your Mrs. Latimer, too.” He turned to Doctor Morelle. “You doing anything special, Doctor? Like to come along, too?”

  “I will accompany you, Inspector, if I may.”

  The Doctor paused and said to Miss Frayle:

  “You will return to Harley Street.”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “Communicate with Miss Carfax, with whom you appear to be on the friendliest terms, and ascertain if you can remain in her company until she visits Albany at the nursing-home. Then await me at Harley Street.”

  “Supposing she asks me about Gresham? What do I tell her?”

  “You may tell her precisely what has happened,” he replied. And added, with sardonic amusement:

  “It may help to add to the brilliance of your conversational gifts, whil
e no doubt affording you the opportunity of re-examining, sifting and finally solving the mystery for us, my dear Miss Frayle.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine – The Sentimental Nurse

  Cleo Latimer stepped out of the taxi with a purposeful air.

  She had changed from the simple but extremely smart black dress she had worn in the morning. Beneath the expensive coat, which had given Miss Frayle a certain amount of heart-burn, she now wore a tweed coat and skirt. Maybe it was this which gave her an air of purpose. At any rate, Mrs. Latimer looked no less beautiful.

  She went up the steps of the nursing-home and pressed the bell. After a minute the door was opened by a nurse in starched white. She hesitated, then stepped back as Mrs. Latimer, without a word, walked straight in.

  “Is Doctor Bennett here, please?”

  She smiled at the nurse with great and calculating sweetness, her fine eyes softly grey and luminous. The nurse, young and rather plain, responded eagerly to that smile and gentle tone.

  “I’m afraid not, Madam—was he expecting you to call here?”

  “No—no.” Mrs. Latimer seemed to droop. Her voice, still huskily soft, was faltering. “I just—prayed he would be here. When are you expecting him?”

  She gazed at the nurse, apparently hanging on her next words. The nurse looked somewhat anxious.

  “He’ll be at his own house, I expect. I—I’m afraid I don’t expect him here before five o’clock. But if it is anything urgent, I might be able to contact him by telephone——”

  “Don’t do that.”

  Mrs. Latimer’s distress deepened. She gestured towards the half-open door of the waiting-room and moved towards it, murmuring: “May I?”

  In the waiting-room she crossed to the big, polished mahogany table in the centre and rested her hands on it, leaning a little. She pulled off her gloves. Her hands looked long and slender, white and beautifully fragile, against the dark table.

  The nurse watched her in puzzled distress. There was something infinitely appealing and rather tragic in this beautiful, superbly dressed woman, who seemed to be struggling under some great emotion. The nurse’s private life was monotonous enough for her to be glad of the glow brought into it by so glamorous a visitor.