Dr. Morelle and the Drummer Girl

by Ernest Dudley

  ‘She’d just turned out of Heath Lane when I saw her,’ he said. ‘I pulled alongside and went into my patter. Told her I’d just come from Park Lane where her father had been taken suddenly ill. We’d tried to ’phone her at your place, I said, but your line must have been out of order. So I’d driven up to fetch her and get her back to her father quickly as possible. She fell for it hook, line and sinker, and we drove off. On the way I pulled up at a furnished house which I’d rented specially, saying I had to call there to pick up her father’s doctor who was visiting another patient. Might be a few moments before he could get away, so would she like to come in and ’phone and see how her old man was? She fell for that too. Of course the moment she was inside the door I gave her a shot with the old hypodermic, and there she is all nicely hidden away.’

  He took another drink and said:

  ‘Not bad, eh? For a first time.’

  Rolf was staring at him, his pale blue eyes suddenly sharp.

  ‘You dirty rat,’ he grated through his teeth. ‘You’ve been planning this for months.’

  The other’s face changed. It was suddenly hard.

  ‘That was the reason for you wanting me to help you,’ Rolf went on, his face working. ‘You’ve got me to put the finger on somebody for a kidnapping job. Not blackmail at all. You’d got this in mind all along.’

  ‘Okay. Okay,’ the other said lazily. ‘I’ll come clean. You’re a little brighter than I took you for.’

  ‘Thanks,’ was the bitter retort.

  ‘So what?’ The other shrugged his shoulders. ‘You still get your cut and it’ll be a bigger one than for just the old blackmail gag.’

  ‘I don’t want any cut.’

  ‘Take it easy,’ Bertie told him gently. ‘You’re in this, anyway. Remember?’

  Rolf’s blood seemed to freeze up as he caught the hint of menace in the other’s tone.

  ‘You’ve got to keep your trap shut, however squeamish you feel about it,’ Bertie was continuing. ‘So why not earn yourself a little jack at the same time.’

  ‘You must be crazy,’ Rolf flared up at him. ‘This is London. Not New York or Los Angeles. You’ll never get away with it.’ And another spasm of terror shook him as he went on in a choked whisper: ‘Supposing anything happens to her? Supposing she — she died —’ He broke off as he caught a sudden look in Bertie’s eyes. ‘She is dead,’ he said suddenly, his voice a flat whisper. ‘You’ve murdered her.’

  Chapter Thirteen – Fear and Trembling

  Bertie leant forward with a sudden savage movement. Rolf flinched back as if the other was going to hit him.

  ‘Shut up, you dope,’ Bertie grated. ‘Of course the girl isn’t dead.’

  Rolf stared at him, his pale blue eyes wary. After a moment his expression relaxed. Something in the other’s tone and expression convinced him that now, at any rate, he was speaking the truth. Rolf said:

  ‘I’m sorry if I blew my top. But I still think you’re crazy to believe you’ll get away with it. They’ll be on to you like a pack of wolves —’

  He broke off. From the corner of his eye he saw someone sitting a few yards across from them. It was a man in a check overcoat and bowler hat. The coat was dirty and wrinkled. Rolf hadn’t noticed him there before. The man was staring at them curiously until he met Rolf’s gaze, when he turned his face quickly away. Again that fit of trembling shook Rolf’s frame.

  ‘We can’t talk here,’ he suddenly muttered.

  Bertie regarded him with amused contempt.

  ‘What you scared about?’

  ‘I’m scared, I admit it,’ Rolf said. ‘You’ve got yourself in a spot even if you won’t realise it.’ He added bitterly: ‘And you’ve dragged me in it with you.’

  He looked round again. The man in the bowler hat seemed to be concentrating his attention on his glass of beer. But now the whole place appeared sinister. The laughter suddenly had a devilish ring. The faces in the garish light had become cruel, like faces in a nightmare. He fully expected the appearance at any moment of a squad of policemen who would bear down upon him relentlessly. He stood up shakily.

  ‘Come on,’ he insisted. ‘We’ll talk at my place.’

  Bertie shrugged and finished his drink and rose to his feet casually.

  ‘Okay,’ he said agreeably. ‘Let’s do that.’

  ‘We can’t go to your place, can we?’ Rolf put in meaningly. ‘I’ve never had the pleasure of visiting you yet.’

  The other regarded him thoughtfully for a moment

  ‘You’re not likely to, either,’ he said. His voice was still affable. ‘Sorry to sound inhospitable, but where I live and where I work is strictly my business. I thought I’d told you that.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Rolf replied hurriedly, and led the way out of the bar.

  They stopped a prowling taxi. As Rolf bustled the other quickly into it he glanced round to make sure no one from the pub was following them. Then he got into the taxi and it drove off.

  This time when they reached the foot of Heath Lane, Rolf didn’t suggest stopping the taxi and walking the rest of the way. In his anxiety to reach the friendly harbour of his own house he had no desire to linger over the pleasure of the view.

  He touched the switch and the house glowed in the soft lamp light; he took the other’s hat and he contrived to get control of the shakiness that still sapped the strength from his knees. He mixed Bertie a drink and then poured himself a stiff bourbon. Bertie was unconcernedly gazing at the photographs, smiling reminiscently.

  ‘Gee, those were the days,’ he said. ‘What the hell got into me that made me think of quitting Hollywood? I’ll never forgive myself; I tell you that.’

  Rolf relaxed enough to mutter his agreement.

  ‘I think you’ve got something there.’

  ‘Soon as I make this clean-up,’ the other went on, staring lovingly at a picture of Rolf and a blonde actress at Malibu, ‘London won’t see me for dust. First boat for the good old U.S.’ He gave a sudden harsh laugh. ‘Maybe, I’ll have to clear out for safety at that.’

  Rolf found his glass rattling against his teeth as he took another drink.

  ‘For God’s sake, Bertie,’ he managed to gulp, ‘be careful. Don’t forget I’m in this too —’

  He broke off with a sudden start and jerked his head towards the door.

  ‘Now what’s eating you?’ Bertie queried.

  ‘Thought I heard something.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ the other replied disgustedly.

  Rolf, ignoring him, had put down his glass and was moving to the door. He was convinced he’d heard the sounds of footsteps outside. He could feel little beads of perspiration on his forehead. His heart was thudding violently in his throat. For a moment he stood at the door and then, with a tremendous effort, he steadied himself. He pulled open the door and stepped out into the darkness. As he did so he heard Bertie’s mocking voice from the room behind him.

  ‘If it’s the cops, tell ’em you did it, and I don’t know you.’

  Rolf stood on the pavement looking up and down the shadowed street. There seemed to be no one about. He must have been mistaken. He pulled out his handkerchief and, wiping his face, turned and went back into the house.

  ‘No cops?’ the other greeted him with an expression of mock disappointment. ‘Too bad.’

  ‘It’s all right for you,’ Rolf flung at him. ‘You’re different; you’ve graduated in crookery. So far,’ he added bitterly, ‘I’ve only been at the receiving end of it.’

  Bertie’s face darkened a little.

  ‘Now don’t let’s get unfriendly,’ he said. ‘Relax.’

  Leo Rolf slumped into a chair with his drink at his elbow and tried to fend off the waves of terror that kept on sweeping towards him.

  ‘If we don’t lose our heads,’ he heard the other saying, ‘we’ll get away with it. I tell you, pal,’ Bertie’s voice was supremely confident, ‘if I play the cards the way I’ve got ’em stacked, I’ll collec
t the swag in the next day or two.’

  ‘Swag?’ Rolf raised his head questioningly.

  ‘What d’you think I’m doing this for? Excitement?’

  ‘Money, of course.’

  ‘Bull’s-eye first time.’

  ‘The way you said ‘swag’ sounded as if —’

  ‘You don’t imagine,’ Bertie said easily, ‘I’m going to fall for them paying me in five-pound notes, while they take careful records of the numbers? Or,’ he sneered, ‘were you thinking I’d take a cheque?’

  Rolf understood what Bertie was driving at. ‘Can you be paid in one-pound notes?’ he suggested. ‘They’re easy to get rid of.’

  ‘Dope,’ the other retorted. ‘To carry ten thousand in one-pound notes would need a truck.’

  ‘Ten thousand,’ Rolf gasped.

  ‘I told you, I’m doing this for money.’

  ‘They’ll never pay.’

  ‘No? Drummer’s hardly down-and-out, and the girl must have cleaned up around ten thousand herself lately. They can rake it up between ’em.’

  ‘You seem to have got the whole thing taped.’

  ‘Been working on this gag the last year,’ the other admitted. He took a gulp from his glass. Rolf looked at him.

  ‘You got her in that house like you said?’ he queried.

  Bertie answered him with a noncommittal laugh.

  ‘She’s in a hide-away all right,’ he said. ‘But the house was only temporary. I moved her later, when it was dark. Somewhere I’d chosen way back. Where it is needn’t bother you one little bit. The less you know about this the less you’ll know. Get it?’

  There was a little pause and then Rolf said slowly:

  ‘In a minute you’ll be admitting you have bumped her off. You’ll get your money, but Drummer will never see his daughter alive.’ Suddenly he sprang to his feet. ‘I’m not standing for it,’ he said, his voice rising wildly. ‘You’re making me accessory to a murder. They’ll hang me as well as you.’

  ‘Shut up!’

  But the other raved on unheeding:

  ‘I’m going to spill the beans, I tell you. You can’t stop me. You can tell ’em what you like about me, but I’m not going to be mixed up in a murder —’

  Bertie’s fist drove against his mouth. Rolf found himself lurching against the piano, staring down at the shattered whisky glass at his feet. It had been one of a prized set of Jacobean glasses, and he gave a moan of mingled rage and despair. He raised his head to find the other’s gaze boring into him.

  ‘You need your handkerchief,’ Bertie said quietly. ‘Your mouth’s bleeding.’

  Automatically Rolf dabbed at the little trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth. Bertie asked:

  ‘You okay?’

  Rolf nodded. The punch in the mouth seemed, in fact, to have stopped his trembling, and the shakiness that had threatened to demoralise him completely. Now his brain was working more coolly. He was realising that if he wanted to come out of this business and land on his feet he’d have to take a grip on himself.

  ‘Sorry I had to do that,’ the other was saying. ‘But it was a case of being cruel to be kind.’ His teeth were bared in that old charming grin, and he patted Rolf’s shoulder. ‘Eh?’

  ‘I was beginning to make a fool of myself,’ Rolf admitted. ‘I see now you’re right,’ he went on slowly. ‘If we play it the right way we can get away with it.’

  ‘That’s the kind of talk I like to hear.’

  ‘I’ll follow your example,’ Rolf was continuing. ‘As soon as the job’s done and I get my cut I’ll pull out too.’

  Bertie’s expression assumed a boyish pleasure at the other’s change of attitude. He said:

  ‘You’ll get your cut all right. I won’t let you down over that. All you’ve got to do is to keep a grip on yourself and your trap shut. Leave the rest to me. Stick to the story you’ve told this doctor chap; just that and nothing more. Forget about what you’ve learnt this evening and we’ll see ourselves in the clear.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Time for me to beat it.’

  Rolf got him his hat. As they went to the door the other said:

  ‘If anybody does start nosing around tip me off when I ’phone.’

  After Bertie had gone he went back and poured himself a fresh drink. Carefully and with seething bitterness in his heart he cleared up the pieces of the broken glass. That done, he glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes since Bertie had gone. He got his hat, switched out the lights and went out. He paused for a moment, trying to fix his mind on his next course of action.

  He’d just walk around a little, he decided, as he stared across at the darkness and the glow in the sky beyond. That’s it. He knew what he was going to do, but he’d walk around a little just so as to fix it in his mind. So that there would be no slip-up.

  He gave a startled gasp as something curled round his ankles. He looked down with a muttered curse at the white cat purring up at him. Savagely he pushed it aside with his foot. It sprawled across the pavement before it turned and flashed out of sight. Rolf pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes and set off down Heath Lane.

  A few yards away the watching figure detached itself from the shadows and silently followed him.

  Chapter Fourteen – Ring at the Door

  ‘The conclusions I have so far reached,’ Dr. Morelle was saying, as he paced his study, ‘appear to indicate four suspects, one or all of whom might be implicated in the kidnapping.’

  Miss Frayle looked up from her pencil flying across the page of her note-book.

  ‘All of them?’ she queried, her eyes wide over her horn-rims. ‘D’you mean they might be working together?’

  ‘I have not entirely dismissed such a possibility,’ was the reply. ‘Though I incline to the theory that the crime was, in fact, carried out single-handed.’

  He paused to stub out his cigarette. At the sudden cessation of his steady flow of words, Miss Frayle gave an almost inaudibly expectant sigh. Perhaps he’d reached the end of his dictation for the evening? She threw a surreptitious glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. Just on ten-thirty. He had been talking and pacing up and down before his writing-desk since eight o’clock. Examining the mystery of Doone Drummer’s disappearance in all its aspects from the fateful evening of yesterday up to their visit to Harvey Drummer that morning.

  Leaving Miss Frayle to catch up with transcribing a batch of dictation concerned with his routine work, Dr. Morelle had gone out shortly after lunch. He had thought it unnecessary to inform Miss Frayle where he was going. She had been left to wonder if he were pursuing some secret line of inquiry or merely walking round and round the Inner Circle of Regent’s Park. This was a method he sometimes employed to help his cogitations. She had expected his return for tea, but he had not arrived. She had been left to finish the bread-and-butter she had cut beautifully thin for him all by herself.

  Just before dinner he had stalked in without any explanation of his absence. In answer to her query had he had any tea? Miss Frayle had received no reply. Realising he was not in the mood for questioning she had wisely decided to remain silent, although longing to know what he’d been up to. He had spoken to her only to ask, with the somewhat hypocritical smile she was used to on these occasions, if she would mind doing a little work after dinner.

  Now she watched him take a fresh cigarette from the human skull which served him as a cigarette-box, on the desk. She shuddered slightly as she always did whenever her gaze encountered the thing. She glanced round the quiet study, lit only by a large standard lamp and the desk lamp throwing its pool of light on her note-book. Round the walls were row after row of bookshelves fairly sagging with the weight of their contents.

  There was one wall of shelves filled with books, the titles of which she knew by heart. She had stared at them often enough in moments of morbid curiosity, though she had never trusted her nerves so much as even to glance through one. Frightening titles they were to her, in German, French and Italian. Such as: Kriminalan
thropologie und Kriminalistik; Technique Policière; Medécine Légale; Kriminalistische Monatshefte; Kriminalpsychologie; Die Technik der Blutgruttenuntersuchung; Manuel de Identificatión Judicial; Le Chambre Noir and L’Enquête Criminelle, and dozens more. Every volume in no matter what language, devoted to more or less the same theme; criminal violence, murder and sudden death. His own contributions to the subject in English and their various translations were, of course, prominently displayed.

  Against another wall were filing-cabinets relating to every imaginable aspect of psychiatry and psychology, including his own notes and papers which formed the basis for innumerable lectures and articles for scientific journals all over the world.

  The lighter flamed, illuminating Dr. Morelle’s saturnine features and glinted for a moment in his dark and curiously penetrating eyes. As he drew at his cigarette he murmured:

  ‘I should like to check back over the notes I have dictated to you. Especially with regard to the suspects.’

  ‘Starting with Neil Fulton?’ Miss Frayle queried. ‘After all he was the first we really thought was mixed up in it.’

  The Doctor regarded her for a moment without replying. Then, with a thoughtful glance at his cigarette, he said:

  ‘I was under the impression you have never seriously suspected him, Miss Frayle.’

  ‘No, but I thought you had.’

  ‘So far, admittedly, his story rings true,’ Dr. Morelle said. ‘I have ascertained that his arrival at the film-studio yesterday afternoon was compatible with the time of his leaving Doone Drummer with Leo Rolf at the latter’s house in Hampstead.’

  ‘You rang up about it?’ Miss Frayle asked, a slightly surprised note in her voice.

  Dr. Morelle shook his head.

  ‘My inquiry was conducted much more discreetly,’ he said. ‘It is imperative no suggestion that he is in any way suspected should reach the young man. In case he is connected with the kidnapping.’

  ‘How did you find out?’ Miss Frayle asked.