Dr. Morelle and the Drummer Girl

by Ernest Dudley

  ‘Regarding your telephone conversation at midday. A point occurs to me —’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Was your daughter speaking from her own flat?’

  ‘You mean,’ Miss Frayle broke in excitedly, ‘she might have been decoyed and then forced to —?’

  Dr. Morelle subjected her to a withering glance and she relapsed into silence.

  ‘Certainly she was ’phoning from her flat,’ Drummer said. ‘She would have told me if she was anywhere else, I’m sure.’ A sudden thought appeared to strike him. ‘Besides, I remember before she rang off I said something about I’d ring her back if I’d anything more to ask her about this evening’s arrangements.’

  ‘But you didn’t ring her back?’ Miss Frayle asked.

  ‘No.’ He said to the Doctor: ‘I thought of going round to her flat, only it would mean leaving all these people here. And of course I’ve been hoping she’d turn up any minute.’

  Dr. Morelle gave him a slight nod. ‘You mentioned just now that your daughter owned a car. Would she have gone for a drive somewhere, either before or after her lunch appointment?’

  The other’s reply was prompt enough. ‘Her car’s laid up at the moment, being overhauled.’ He paused, staring down at his glass. Then with a quick gulp drained it and braced himself. ‘What shall I do?’ he said. ‘Call in the police?’

  Dr. Morelle had moved to the window. Already the street lamps and car lights glimmered against the bluish-grey backdrop that was beginning to descend over Hyde Park. At that moment the telephone rang. Drummer turned to answer it. But before he could do so the Doctor had whipped away from the window, and with a hawk-like movement pounced on the telephone. With a bland smile he queried:

  ‘Shall I answer it?’

  Harvey Drummer hesitated only momentarily. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  ‘Hello,’ Dr. Morelle said into the mouthpiece, while the other two watched him intently. There was a pause and they caught the distorted mutter of a voice at the other end. It sounded as if it might be a man’s voice.

  ‘This is Mr. Drummer’s house,’ the Doctor said. ‘Do you wish to speak to him personally?’

  Drummer made a move to take the telephone. The muttering continued, and Dr. Morelle motioned him to wait. Then the voice at the other end went suddenly silent. After a moment Dr. Morelle replaced the receiver.

  ‘What — what did he say?’ Miss Frayle gulped.

  ‘It was a man, wasn’t it?’ Drummer asked.

  The Doctor inclined his head. ‘His message was succinct and to the point,’ he said. And Miss Frayle caught the speculative look in his eyes. ‘He said: ‘Tell Drummer if he wants to see his daughter again he’d better follow the instructions I’ve left at her flat.’’

  ‘Oh!’ Miss Frayle squeaked.

  ‘What — what does it mean?’ Harvey Drummer’s voice was low and tense.

  ‘I am not in the habit of generalising on a situation the details of which are not clear to me,’ Dr. Morelle replied. ‘But I suggest it means we should proceed to your daughter’s flat without delay.’

  Chapter Three – At Dark Lantern Street

  Doone Drummer’s flat turned out to be on the ground floor of a narrow-fronted, three-storey house in Dark Lantern Street, that cobbled, almost alley-like thoroughfare which cuts through from Park Street to Park Lane. The entrance-hall of the house led to the basement and upper floors, and the flat was on the right as they went in. The main door, heavy and dark-painted, with an arched transom over it, was open. Harvey Drummer explained it was closed after dark. They followed him along the hall, and he let them into the flat with a key.

  ‘We both have a key to each other’s front door,’ he said.

  As the carefully subdued light sprang from two standard lamps, Miss Frayle’s glance followed the line of low built-in bookshelves running round the pale green walls. The room was heavy with the scent of flowers.

  With long raking strides Dr. Morelle reached the flat-topped writing desk by the tall windows.

  ‘The note!’ Drummer exclaimed, as the Doctor bent over the typewriter which was surrounded by note-books and typing-paper. In the machine a half-sheet of paper projected prominently above the keys.

  ‘Do not touch it,’ Dr. Morelle said. ‘There may be fingerprints.’

  The note was typed.

  Dear Mr. Drummer, — Your daughter is safe and sound. She is somewhere it will be impossible for you to find. If you want her back alive I am afraid it is going to cost you money. How much I will let you know later. Also how, when and where it is to be paid. Don’t call in the police. You are under observation, so don’t try any tricks.

  Dr. Morelle glanced at the man by his side. Harvey Drummer might have been turned into stone. He stood there speechless. Miss Frayle, who had joined them, gave a low gasp of horror.

  ‘It isn’t signed,’ Drummer found his voice and muttered automatically. ‘I suppose —’ He broke off and then went on again. ‘You don’t think it could be somebody fooling?’

  Dr. Morelle regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Can you think of anyone who might be capable of perpetrating a practical joke of this nature?’

  The other shook his head. He passed his hand over his face as if to push away the bewilderment that seemed to have stunned him.

  ‘Nobody could be so cruel,’ Miss Frayle said.

  ‘It has every appearance of having been written in all seriousness,’ was Dr. Morelle’s opinion.

  ‘Kidnapped,’ Drummer said slowly. ‘It’s unbelievable.’

  There was a heavy silence. Dr. Morelle gazed round the room and asked:

  ‘I presume that your daughter employs domestic help only during the daytime?’

  Harvey Drummer made a tremendous effort to pull himself together.

  ‘A sort of housekeeper comes in every morning. Stays to prepare lunch and only comes back in the evening if she’s needed.’

  ‘Apparently she was not required tonight,’ Dr. Morelle commented. ‘Which suggests that your daughter anticipated dining out.’

  ‘Not necessarily. When Doone was working she often preferred to get her own meals.’

  The Doctor gave the typewritten message a further scrutiny. Then he moved away from the writing-desk to pause before the bookshelves. They watched him as he peered at the tightly-packed books. His gaze moved along them, then hovered for a moment. ‘Freud’s Civilisation and Its Discontent, he murmured half to himself. ‘Adler . . . Jung and the other school, I perceive . . . Pavlov . . . Watson . . .’ Over his shoulder he observed: ‘Your daughter would appear to be a student of the subconscious.’

  ‘She was very interested in psychology and that sort of thing.’

  Dr. Morelle suddenly picked out a book and flipped its pages. Miss Frayle thought she detected a faint smirk light up his face. She was unable to resist querying artlessly:

  ‘One of yours, Doctor?’

  He threw her a side-long glance. ‘It does happen to be my collected papers on Lombroso’s L’Uomo Delinquente,’[1] he replied. ‘Pity,’ he said, ‘had I known she wanted to read it I could have presented her with a copy. Autographed,’ he added, and returned the book to its place.

  Harvey Drummer made a restless movement.

  ‘Don’t — don’t you think we ought to do something?’

  Dr. Morelle looked at him over his Le Sphinx. ‘Your view is that the situation demands immediate and dramatic action?’ As the other started to speak the Doctor proceeded smoothly. ‘Accept my assurance that my apparent leisurely attitude is definitely warrantable. It is absolutely essential that the initial moves in this matter should be carefully weighed before putting them into effect.’

  ‘But they may kill her — murder her —’

  ‘Such a possibility at this juncture is so unlikely that we can safely discard it.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘I do not think,’ Dr. Morelle remarked coolly, ‘I know that at present your daughter is in no danger of being
murdered.’

  ‘You honestly mean that?’ The note of relief sounded in Harvey Drummer’s voice. ‘How do you know that?’

  Dr. Morelle glanced at him as he tapped the ash off his cigarette. He murmured urbanely:

  ‘Because of the evidence before our eyes.’

  ‘Evidence?’

  Frankly mystified Drummer stared round the room. Automatically Miss Frayle followed his gaze and then turned back to the Doctor.

  ‘Evidence?’ she echoed.

  Dr. Morelle inclined his head towards the writing desk.

  ‘I do not expect you, my dear Miss Frayle, to see the importance of the most self-evident phenomenon until it has been explained to you in detail.’ He turned to the other. ‘But surely you, however, have grasped the significance of that message in one vital aspect.’

  Harvey Drummer stared at the piece of paper stuck in the typewriter, and then back at Dr. Morelle.

  ‘I — I don’t quite see —’

  The Doctor compressed his lips into a thin line of impatience.

  ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘the object of your daughter’s abduction is expressed with crystal clarity.’

  ‘To get money, you mean?’

  ‘To extract money from you,’ Dr. Morelle said. ‘The publicity given to your daughter such as, for instance, her recent business transaction with a Hollywood studio, has prompted this kidnapping, from which it should not be difficult to deduce that the kidnapper’s aim is to separate her money from her rather than yours from you.’

  ‘Doone certainly has made a terrific amount recently. She’s decidedly better off than I am.’

  ‘And her money is, no doubt, banked in her own name?’

  ‘Yes.’ Slowly.

  ‘It therefore follows,’ Dr. Morelle pointed out, ‘that in order for you to obtain the money to effect her release she will be required to authorise you to draw from her bank.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that,’ Miss Frayle said.

  ‘You amaze me,’ was the Doctor’s inevitable retort, and Miss Frayle bit her lip and was silent, at any rate for the moment.

  ‘You mean then,’ Harvey Drummer went on eagerly, ‘that they daren’t harm her or she won’t be able to give me the necessary authorisation.’

  ‘And that being so,’ the Doctor continued, ‘it is clearly in their interests, for the present at any rate, to guard her welfare with the utmost care. One would have imagined,’ he added as a humorless afterthought, ‘that you would have been the most appropriate person to abduct.’

  ‘I wish it had been me,’ the other declared fervently.

  ‘No doubt,’ murmured Dr. Morelle. ‘But then criminals as a class are singularly devoid of imagination.’

  ‘Anyway, Doctor, I believe you’re absolutely right about her being safe for now,’ Harvey Drummer said, optimistic excitement slackening the tension that had gripped him.

  Dr. Morelle made no reply, though from his expression he made it obvious that he had no doubts whatever regarding his infallibility. He stood by the green-coloured telephone that was on an upper bookshelf.

  ‘Miss Frayle,’ he directed, ‘bring me a sheet of typing paper.’

  She obeyed with alacrity, and he took the piece of paper from her and curved it in his hand. She remained at his elbow watching him intently. He said to her:

  ‘If I might use some of your face-powder.’

  ‘Face-powder,’ she said, puzzled.

  Deliberately misunderstanding her he snapped:

  ‘Only a small portion, which considering the amount you waste on yourself you should not miss.’

  She continued to gape at him for a moment, then dived into her handbag and quickly produced a compact. She opened it for him, and he tipped some powder into the curved paper. Then he carefully blew the powder on to the telephone while she watched him, puzzled and intrigued by his performance.

  ‘What’s the idea, Doctor?’ Harvey Drummer asked.

  ‘I’m dusting the instrument in order to ascertain whether the last person to use it left any fingerprints.’

  ‘The chap who ’phoned just now?’

  Dr. Morelle was gently blowing away the powder, which covered the telephone receiver in a fine dust, scrutinising its surface closely as he did so.

  ‘Any luck, Doctor?’ Miss Frayle queried.

  There was no answer for a moment. Both of them watched him silently, and then he straightened himself.

  ‘I can find no signs of it having been used by anyone recently.’

  ‘So he wore gloves, or was smart enough to clean the ’phone afterwards with his handkerchief?’

  Dr. Morelle eyed Drummer quizzically.

  ‘Or, alternatively, he telephoned not from here but from a public call box.’

  ‘Funny he should have done that,’ the other said slowly, ‘when he could have made the call before he left.’

  ‘It is of relatively little importance,’ Dr. Morelle shrugged, ‘where he made the call from.’

  ‘I suppose so. What ought to be the next move?’

  Dr. Morelle made no answer. After a moment it was Miss Frayle who suddenly threw a glance at the door, and said in a tense whisper:

  ‘Doctor —!’

  He turned to her slowly.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Do you hear what I hear?’

  ‘If you mean the sound of footsteps in the hall,’ he said, ‘I do.’

  ‘It’s someone coming in!’ Miss Frayle clutched convulsively at his arm. ‘They’ve stopped outside.’

  The approaching footsteps had stopped at the door and they heard a key turn in the lock. Harvey Drummer swung round and was staring as if he expected the appearance of a ghost, as Miss Frayle gulped in another whisper:

  ‘Who can it be?’

  The door opened.

  Chapter Four – The Visitor

  Miss Frayle’s heart was thudding in her throat. She had no idea whom it might be, but she felt it in her bones that the newcomer was bound to be mixed up in some way with the mysterious kidnapping of Doone Drummer. She gave a little gasp at the figure who stood staring at them from behind an armful of flowers.

  Miss Frayle’s gasp may have been one of surprise or even disappointment, but she had certainly expected a somewhat more sinister figure than this. Anything less sinister than this tallish, good-looking young man who stood framed in the doorway it would have been difficult to imagine. There was also something about his features which she found vaguely familiar. She felt sure she had seen him somewhere, if only she could place him.

  ‘What goes on?’ the newcomer queried, taking a few tentative steps into the room. ‘Who are you, and where’s Miss Drummer?’

  ‘I happen to be her father,’ Harvey Drummer said.

  ‘Oh . . . I didn’t know.’

  ‘I don’t recall the pleasure of having met you,’ Drummer said.

  ‘My name’s Fulton. Neil Fulton.’

  ‘That’s where I’ve seen you!’ Miss Frayle exclaimed. ‘The film actor.’

  He gave her a faint smile.

  Drummer said: ‘This is Miss Frayle and Dr. Morelle. Incidentally, might I ask how you happen to have a key to my daughter’s flat?’

  ‘She lent it me,’ was the easy reply. The young man closed the door behind him, glanced down at the flowers he was hugging, and with a grin that was without any self-consciousness, put them carefully upon a table. ‘You see,’ he explained, ‘Doone knew I might be late from the studio, and we arranged that I should come straight here and duck her party. I’m not very good at parties.’

  ‘You seem to be quite friendly with my daughter.’

  ‘We’ve been around together a little.’ Suddenly he looked at Miss Frayle, then Dr. Morelle, and then back to Drummer with a frown.

  ‘Is there anything wrong?’ His voice took an upward inflection. ‘Nothing’s the matter with her?’

  Harvey Drummer turned to Dr. Morelle questioningly. The Doctor, who had remaine
d impassively silent since Fulton’s appearance, interpreted the look. He responded with a slight nod.

  ‘I’m afraid something has happened,’ Drummer told the newcomer quietly.

  Fulton tensed, and Miss Frayle thought he suddenly looked a little wary.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She’s been kidnapped.’

  The film-actor’s mouth fell open. ‘Kidnapped!’ he said incredulously. ‘But this is fantastic.’

  Drummer shook his head slowly. ‘It may seem like that,’ he said heavily. ‘But it’s true enough.’

  ‘Doone kidnapped? Who on earth could have done such a thing?’

  ‘That,’ Dr. Morelle said at last, ‘is what I am in the process of elucidating.’

  Fulton stared at him uncertainly.

  Drummer said: ‘Dr. Morelle has already started the job of trying to find her.’

  ‘I’ve heard about the Doctor, of course,’ the young man said, with, Miss Frayle felt, a shade of doubt in his tone.

  ‘I am suitably flattered,’ Dr. Morelle murmured.

  Then as Miss Frayle was thinking to herself that he had missed the other’s dubious note, Fulton went on:

  ‘But I should have thought —’ He broke off.

  ‘What would you have thought?’

  Fulton hesitated at Dr. Morelle’s question, and looked somewhat embarrassed.

  ‘I was going to say,’ he mumbled, ‘I should have thought it was a job for the police.’

  ‘You might care to take a look at the message the kidnapper left,’ Drummer cut in. ‘It’s all right for him to see it?’ he said to Dr. Morelle.

  The Doctor nodded.

  ‘In the typewriter,’ Drummer told Fulton. And as the young man crossed to the writing-desk he added: ‘Dr. Morelle doesn’t want it touched.’

  Miss Frayle watched Fulton’s lips moving as he read the message to himself, then he looked up at Dr. Morelle and said:

  ‘Seems as if we daren’t call ’em in.’

  ‘If we do . . .’ Drummer left the rest of his sentence unfinished, his mouth a grim line.