Menace for Dr. Morelle

by Ernest Dudley

  The cringing figure before them said: “Oh!” in a surprised voice and rocked back on his heels. “’E did it,” he murmured, as his legs buckled and he fell on his face.

  Impulsively Miss Frayle swung round. She caught a glimpse of a figure racing up the steps, then he was swallowed in the darkness. She dropped to her knees beside the creature on the ground. His face was a drawn blur. A little thread of blood trickled from the corner of his lips. He opened his mouth and she bent her head.

  He was choking in a strangled voice:

  “Baron—The Bar—ahh——!”

  Suddenly he was silent. His jaw sagged, his head fell forward on his chest.

  Miss Frayle drew back slowly, then straightened. She looked at Sherry. Sherry Carfax hadn’t moved. She stood as if turned to stone, staring in front of her. And then suddenly she screamed, scream after scream that split the night.

  There came the sound of running footsteps, of someone shouting, and then the narrow, dark alley seemed clamorous with voices rushing in upon them. Miss Frayle saw burly figures hurrying towards her. Questions filled the air. Sherry was sobbing hysterically now, and Miss Frayle remembered wishing passionately that Doctor Morelle was among these rescuers.

  Then everything turned black, and she dropped neatly to the ground in a dead faint.

  Chapter Thirty-Four – The Two Dossiers

  Doctor Morelle and Inspector Hood reached Scotland Yard, both silent and thoughtful.

  To say that Gresham’s murder had shaken the Inspector would be somewhat of an understatement. Beneath his mask of studied preoccupation he was sorely nonplussed. More than once he cast an anticipatory, sideway glance at his equally silent companion in the hope that the Doctor would, in manner no matter how caustic, be forthcoming with a suggestion which would offer some sort of lead.

  Whatever analysis Doctor Morelle might have regarding this new murder, however, he was keeping it to himself behind a reserve even colder and more formidable than the other’s.

  They went into Hood’s office.

  After indicating a chair, into which Doctor Morelle silently sank, the Inspector slumped behind his desk and stared gloomily at the scattered papers upon it. The Doctor regarded him with an attitude of cold detachment, through a cloud of smoke from an inevitable Le Sphinx. After a few moments of silence which was beginning to grow oppressive, Hood suddenly straightened himself, sniffed, sighed, reached for his pipe and began filling it from a tin on his desk.

  “But what’s the motive?”

  He put the question slowly and heavily. “Zusky. Gresham. What’s the tie-up? Obviously the two are connected. Gresham. Zusky. The attempt on Albany. They all tie up.”

  He threw a look at Doctor Morelle from beneath lowered lids.

  “Aren’t they?” he asked hopefully, puffing an acrid cloud of tobacco-smoke ceilingwards.

  Doctor Morelle’s finely chiselled nostrils flared as the fumes from the other’s blackened briar billowed in his direction.

  “In view of the fact that Zusky was found murdered in Albany’s flat,” he said judiciously, “and that we have established Gresham was on the scene at the time of the shooting of Albany, and that he subsequently telephoned my house to inform me he had evidence concerning Zusky’s demise, it would be ridiculous to surmise that none of them is connected. If the motive for the first homicide is established, I fancy the motive for Gresham’s murder will follow as a natural corollary.”

  “Yes?”

  There was a hopefully interrogative note in Hood’s voice.

  The Doctor unobligingly failed to embroider further, however. Instead, fixing the Inspector with a somewhat ironic look, he murmured:

  “I was under the impression that you were going to obtain a dossier on Gresham’s past activities for our perusal.”

  The other grunted and reached for the telephone.

  “Give me Records.” After a pause: “Hood here. See if you’ve got anything on Gresham, will you? Yes—the new one—this afternoon. Charles Gresham. Quickly as possible. Oh, and while you’re about it, have a dekko and see if you’ve got anything about a Mrs. Latimer. Cleo Latimer.”

  He hung up and drew noisily at his pipe, slumping back into his chair again with an unaccustomed scowl. Presently he jerked up and said abruptly:

  “That clue you pointed out at the flat, Doctor.”

  Doctor Morelle lifted an eyebrow inquiringly.

  “That picture, the Purple Lake.”

  The Doctor nodded silently.

  With gloomy relish the other went on: “I don’t think there’s anything in it myself. Hang on a minute.”

  He crossed the office to a communicating door through which he poked his head and called: “The picture we brought from Albany’s flat. Purple Lake thing.”

  He returned carrying the picture, which he propped up on the mantelpiece so that the light fell on it fully. He stepped back, squinted at it, then cocked a look at Doctor Morelle. The Doctor glanced at the picture without the slightest interest.

  “The telegram Miss Frayle found,” Hood grunted, “and which you were good enough to hand on to me, said: ‘If anything happens see Purple Lake.’ Obviously Gresham had got possession of it from Albany and he thought it would put him on to something. Your deduction was brilliant enough and perfectly correct. Gresham went to the flat, and first thing he did was to go for the picture. But where did it get him?”

  Doctor Morelle glanced idly at his watch.

  “Not very far, possibly,” he murmured politely.

  Hood’s pipe bubbled furiously. “I began to form a theory,” he said. “I decided Gresham was after something in the flat, something to do with the Purple Lake. Zusky surprised him there, and Gresham shot him. But that theory doesn’t lead anywhere now, does it?”

  Still the Doctor remained unobligingly and obdurately uncommunicative.

  “Because,” the other proceeded, “who killed Gresham? Anyway, I brought the damn’ picture back here. I’ve had it subjected to every expert and every scientific examination. Had the frame taken to pieces and the picture X-rayed, and we can’t find a damn’ thing. Not a sausage. I thought maybe the picture had been painted over an Old Master or something like that, but there’s nothing. It’s my opinion that the sentence in the telegram about the Purple Lake hasn’t got anything to do with this picture at all. Just a coincidence.”

  Doctor Morelle shot him a narrowed glance.

  “An exceedingly bizarre coincidence,” he said blandly.

  “Anyway,” Hood added with finality, “there’s nothing in that picture.” He fixed Doctor Morelle with a challenging stare. “Or do you really think there is?” he asked bluntly.

  The Doctor put his head slightly on one side and studied the picture for a moment.

  “It possesses some artistic merit,” he observed. “The chiaroscuro is good. Quite good. I would say it was painted some fifty or sixty years ago by a talented amateur, influenced by the pre-Raphaelites——”

  An eloquent sigh from Hood interrupted Doctor Morelle’s critical analysis.

  “Spare us, Doctor! I’m not in the art business and this isn’t an art gallery. I couldn’t care less if it was painted by Michelangelo himself. I just thought you must have a line on the picture since you were so keen on picking it up as a clue. That’s all. But I take it you’re not ready to talk yet, is that it?”

  A knock at the door spared the Doctor having to make some reply. A messenger entered the room and he turned with a murmured: “Ah, the dossier!”

  “Two.” Hood dismissed the messenger with a nod. “So we’ve got something on Mrs. Latimer, too. That’s a help, maybe. We’ll take Gresham first.”

  Charles Gresham’s dossier was not large, but it was revealing.

  The Inspector read from it while Doctor Morelle sat apparently absorbed in watching the unwavering blue thread of smoke that coiled up from his cigarette.

  Gresham’s age was given as forty-one. A good education had been followed by a commission in th
e Army when he was twenty. Two years later he was court-martialled for falsifying a mess account, found guilty and cashiered. Two years after that he was in trouble in connection with a share-pushing concern, and received twelve months’ imprisonment. From then on, he appeared to have embarked on a career of unspectacular crime, specializing for the most part in fraud of one form or another. Later he became suspected of widening his criminal experience, becoming involved in blackmail, but no real evidence had ever been produced against him. After his last sentence of three years, he had contrived to keep clear of the police during the last ten years. It was known he paid several visits to France, most frequently to the Riviera, Cannes particularly. His visits, however, appeared to be in a legitimate capacity as agent for a motor-car firm and a totalizator company respectively.

  The pages of the dossier rustled. Hood’s voice droned on, interrupted only by the spasmodic gurgles from his pipe.

  It seemed Gresham’s family had long since ceased to have anything to do with him. Nevertheless, he had a certain entrée which enabled him to pursue his activities, particularly those of suspected blackmail, among so-called Society.

  While in Cannes he had come under the notice of the Sûreté in connection with a fraud perpetrated on some wealthy Americans. For an unspecified reason, his victims had been reluctant to take up charges, and Gresham had wriggled out.

  That incident was the last entry against him.

  Inspector Hood closed the dossier and cocked a quizzical glance at Doctor Morelle.

  “What d’you think of it?”

  The Doctor contemplated his cigarette.

  “From your narrative, the implication that there are at large a number of persons, each a potential murderer of Gresham, each with a different motive, would, I think, be sound. I assume Scotland Yard was, in fact, aware of his blackmailing activities, though not possessing actual proof?”

  The other nodded.

  “To know is one thing, to be able to prove what you know, another. I don’t have to tell you how tricky evidence of blackmail is to nail. Especially among the people he got around with. They’d rather pay than talk.”

  “Any indication of his associates? Any names?”

  “Half a dozen,” Hood chuckled. “Three of ’em are serving time now. I personally don’t know anything about two more who are mentioned, but we can check up on them if necessary. And one other name has recently been added. You can guess who.”

  The Doctor frowned impatiently, he was in no mood for playing guessing games. He observed drily:

  “It needs little powers of ratiocination to estimate the name to be that of Mrs. Latimer. I offer the estimation, however, based upon inference rather than direct evidence——”

  Hood raised his hand in good-humoured surrender. “All right, all right, Doctor!” he chuckled. “I asked for it!”

  “More time would be gained if we were to proceed immediately into the question of her dossier rather than merely accepting her former associates as a postulate.”

  The Inspector gave him a dizzy look, then nodded. He pushed Gresham’s dossier to one side and picked up the other.

  “This is stuff the Sûreté supplied us with. We’ve no dope of our own on her at all.”

  Doctor Morelle contrived to refrain from an expression of pain at the other’s use of slang, and waited without comment.

  The picture of Cleo Latimer as drawn by the French police authorities was, if somewhat sketchy, at any rate dramatic.

  If ever there had existed a Mr. Latimer, he was an entirely unknown quantity, and it had been broadmindedly assumed that the ‘Mrs.’ was a courtesy title.

  Cleo Latimer was the daughter of a colourful personality who had emigrated to America, finding work in Chicago as a meatpacker, and subsequently blossoming forth under the glamorous if phoney title of Colonel Tom O’Hara. His end was the one expected. He was found dead with a knife in his back after he had outrageously bamboozled another crook of a very considerable sum of money.

  It was this affair which had first brought Cleo to the notice of the American authorities. For a few years after that there was nothing recorded. She was never heard of in Paris, which city she had been unofficially but very firmly asked to leave after a scandal involving a young, wealthy Middle Eastern prince who had attempted to commit suicide.

  Reaching this point in Cleo Latimer’s biography, Hood grunted.

  “I smell a strong scent of blackmail about the lady from now on!”

  “Undoubtedly,” Doctor Morelle agreed.

  Staring absently at the dossier, the other mused:

  “Hard to think the expensive-looking, beautiful woman we saw today was once little Cleo—she was probably Connie then!—skipping about the pavements of Chicago while her father packed meat.”

  “Apply yourself to the story of the female throughout history and you will cease to be surprised at any feminine achievement.”

  Hood grinned at him.

  “You’ve probably got something there, Doctor, I shouldn’t wonder. Well, let’s get on.”

  Following the episode of the Middle Eastern prince, Mrs. Latimer appeared to have been adequately supplied with money, since she travelled extensively, visiting most of the Middle European capitals.

  Then, abruptly, she returned to America, remaining there for three or four years. Until, in one of New York’s clean-ups, she was exposed as the hostess at a notorious gambling-house. She was arrested as she was preparing to fly for Europe, convicted, but shortly after sentence released on parole.

  A year later, she reappeared in the South of France. It was here her name was first associated with that of Charles Gresham. She was involved with him in the fraud on the Americans who had not pressed the charge.

  After that, she had either been very careful or very lucky, contriving to escape further attention of the police. It was believed she had eventually transferred her activities to London. But there was no record of her by Scotland Yard.

  “There it is.”

  Inspector Hood threw the dossier on to the desk. “Fills in a picture of the lady, but doesn’t tell us anything with a bearing on either of the murders. No tie-up between her and the Baron. Though, at a guess, I’d say she bumped into him some time during her travels around the Continent.”

  “Circumstances could point in that direction,” Doctor Morelle conceded. “However, that is not definite——”

  “It can pretty soon be made definite,” Hood interrupted him, a hint of grimness in his usually genial tones. “I think the time is approaching when Mrs. Latimer might be asked one or two leading questions.” He tapped the dossier. “This alone is good enough reason.”

  The Doctor glanced at his watch.

  “It is six thirty,” he observed. “I wonder if I may use your telephone?”

  The Inspector looked at him sharply, then laughed.

  “Go ahead.” As Doctor Morelle lifted the receiver: “Just what have you got up your sleeve? Evidently you and I are thinking along quite different lines——” He broke off, a note of alarm in his voice, as he added: “Not going to telephone the lovely Mrs. L., are you?”

  “I would not dream of depriving you of that pleasure! At the present juncture Mrs. Latimer does not fit into place in my analysis. Which is not to say,” he added carefully, “that she may not yet do so.”

  The other’s pipe bubbled, and a cloud of smoke billowed upwards. Moodily: “So you have got something up your sleeve?”

  Doctor Morelle smiled frostily. Then he spoke into the telephone.

  “This is Doctor Morelle. I wish to speak to Doctor Bennett.”

  Chapter Thirty-Five – The Perfumed Clue

  Inspector Hood paused with his pipe in mid-air, eyeing Doctor Morelle shrewdly.

  “Bennett, eh? So that’s the line you’re taking! Going to try and talk to Albany?”

  “Doctor Bennett?” Doctor Morelle was saying into the telephone. “As a result of my investigations, it is vital for me to speak to your patient. I
have but one question to ask him. He shall not be disturbed by me more than that. You will be at the nursing-home? Thank you. Oh”—he glanced sardonically over the telephone at Hood, who was frowning at him thoughtfully—“I shall be accompanied by Detective-Inspector Hood of Scotland Yard. His presence will not disturb your patient either, I can assure you.”

  And as Hood raised his eyebrows sharply at this ambiguous remark, he replaced the receiver.

  Hood snorted.

  “What makes you think I’m going on a wild-goose chase with you to ask a semi-conscious man a lot of questions?”

  “A single question,” Doctor Morelle corrected him smoothly, “which may save us considerable time and trouble.” He gave a look at the picture of the Purple Lake which stood propped up on the mantelpiece and nodded at it. “In regard to our clue.”

  “That damned picture!” the Inspector exploded disgustedly. “I’m going after Mrs. L. She’ll have to answer more than one question, I’m telling you. And I’ll get more out of her than you will asking your one question about that daub!”

  Doctor Morelle shrugged.

  “As you wish, my dear Inspector.”

  He stalked imperturbably towards the door. He was halfway out of the office when Hood caught up with him.

  “Hey! Where’s the fire! What is this question you’re going to ask Albany?”

  The Doctor’s smile was faintly enigmatic.

  “It has occurred to me, I confess somewhat belatedly, that much time might be saved if we discover the source of inspiration for the painting.”

  Hood stared at him, frankly puzzled.

  “Source of inspiration?”

  “I merely wish to learn where the subject of the picture is located,” Doctor Morelle said patiently.

  “Subject of the picture located . . .?”

  Then light dawned on the other’s face.

  “Of course!” he exclaimed. “Of course! I’m a fool not to have thought of it myself. It could give us a real lead if we can find out that!”

  “Precisely. In fact,” Doctor Morelle said, quietly, “I believe it will supply us with the motive for the crimes.”