Luke Roper found it impossible to hold the knife, it dropped from his paralysed fingers, and in that instant Phil hit him, his fist crashing against his jaw and hurling him back against the divan.
Phil went after him, giving him no quarter, battering him with punches in a primitive fury. He found Luke stronger than he looked, he was tough and steely. He fought back, clawing at Phil’s hair, his thumbs trying to gouge his eyes, and as they grappled in a fierce clinch they rolled to the floor.
Phil fell underneath his opponent, and at first he thought the other meant to reach for his knife, which lay where it had fallen, a few feet way. Then he saw the deadly intent in the man’s glittering eyes as, blood trickling from the side of his mouth, he hooked his finger’s swiftly round Phil’s throat and began to squeeze.
Phil brought his knee up sharply. With a groan of agony Luke relaxed his vicious grip and Phil struck him again, jerking his head back sickeningly. He caught him another tremendous blow over his ear and Luke fell to one side. Phil scrambled to his feet, hauling him up and hit him again. Arms flailing wildly, Luke crashed backwards, to be brought up against the bureau, overturning it in a litter of papers.
Blood was streaming from the gash which he had opened under his eye, Luke came up blindly at Phil, who sent him reeling round the room, with a series of blows and there was grim and bitter satisfaction in every punch he threw. Finally, Luke Roper staggered against a table, which went over with a crash, and a chair splintered as Luke collapsed on it, completely unconscious. Phil bent over him, gulping for air, and it was then that he saw something gleaming amongst the wreckage. It had rolled from the direction of the bureau, and he picked it up. It was a small capsule, and as he stood, regaining his breath, the sight of it struck a chord at the back of his mind.
He dropped the capsule into his pocket, though he didn’t quite know the reason for doing so, and then with a look of satisfaction at the figure sprawled amongst the wreckage of the room, he went out, slamming the door behind him, and down the stairs.
As he reached the door to the street, Thelma Grayson, accompanied by Miss Frayle, appeared, hurrying into the entrance. They saw him and instinctively Phil straightened his tie and tried to smooth his hair.
‘Are you all right?’ Thelma said.
He nodded. ‘Enjoyed every minute of it,’ he said. ‘Knocked the living daylights out of him.’
Miss Frayle’s eyes were round behind her horn-rims. ‘We were afraid you might run into some trouble,’ she said.
‘Luke’s the one who ran into trouble,’ Phil said.
Thelma Grayson had taken his arm and was urging him towards the street. ‘Come away quickly,’ she said, with a look upstairs, ‘we’ve got a taxi.’
He wiped a smear of blood from his chin. ‘I’ve nothing to hang around for here,’ he said. ‘I’ve done what I came to do.’ And he allowed himself to be hurried out to the taxi. As they drove off a sudden flash of revelation struck him and he dipped his fingers into his pocket. He brought out the capsule and showed it to Thelma. He was recalling now why it had at once attracted his attention. And the significance of its presence in the wrecked room he had just quitted dawned upon him in all its force.
‘Remember the inquest?’ he said. ‘They said the poison Julie took might have been in something like this.’
She looked at the gleaming object in his hand. Miss Frayle took it gingerly for a moment to look at it, then handed it back.
‘I found it at that rat’s place,’ Phil said.
‘It’s the sort of thing Dr. Morelle would like to have a look at,’ Miss Frayle said. And Phil Stone’s head came up with a jerk at her words.
‘Let’s take it to him,’ he said. ‘Now.’
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dr. Morelle was toying delicately with the capsule Phil Stone had handed him, in his study in Harley Street. Thelma Grayson, Phil Stone and Miss Frayle watched him, each with an air of suppressed excitement.
It was early afternoon, Dr. Morelle had just come in after a lunch-appointment, to find Miss Frayle and the other two awaiting him. The three of them had grabbed sandwiches and coffee on their way back from Anderson Street.
It had been an afterthought of Dr. Morelle’s which had prompted him to send Miss Frayle along to the Charlotte Street flat with instructions to impress upon Thelma Grayson that there was no necessity ever to describe to any other living soul the part she had played in the macabre business at the Black Moth. It was to be a secret locked in the hearts of the three of them, Thelma Grayson, Dr. Morelle and Miss Frayle, which would help no one if it were told.
‘Tell her she’d make me an accessory after the fact,’ Dr. Morelle had said to Miss Frayle with a sardonic smile. ‘And if she goes about telling people she’ll get me into trouble with the police. Simply because she was innocent all the time doesn’t alter my position, which was to have placed the knowledge in my possession in the hands of Scotland Yard.’
Miss Frayle had carried out her errand after Phil Stone had left to call upon Luke Roper, and Thelma Grayson had agreed to take Dr. Morelle’s advice very much to heart. Then she had accompanied her in the taxi to Anderson Street.
‘You say you chanced upon this in the man’s flat?’ Dr. Morelle said, turning to Phil Stone.
‘After the fight. It had rolled out of a drawer in the bureau that got knocked over.’ Dr. Morelle glanced at the graze on the other’s jaw and his eyes twinkled. ‘Miss Frayle suggested that you might be interested in having a look at it.’
‘Miss Frayle was right,’ Dr. Morelle said, and Miss Frayle blushed suitably. It was not often that Dr. Morelle unburdened himself to the extent of paying her a compliment.
‘You’d better come with me,’ Dr. Morelle said to the three of them.
They followed him out of the study, across the hall into his laboratory. Miss Frayle closed the door behind her and with the two others bent her attention upon Dr. Morelle. He made his way to a bench, where he concentrated himself fully upon his task.
The laboratory was small, but had been constructed under Dr. Morelle’s supervision, so that every inch was utilized to the full. All around was the most modern equipment in gleaming steel and glass occupying the shelves, cupboards and benches. In one corner taps shone over a bright sink. There were stacks of basins of varying sizes, in copper, aluminium and porcelain. Beakers, graduated flasks, specimen-jars, miscellaneous pipettes stood in orderly array.
A wonderful and complicated apparatus for micro-analysis, with improvements designed by Dr. Morelle himself, took up the entire length of one bench. Mortars and pestles, retorts and bulbs, crucibles and test-glasses winked and glinted from the shelves. Racks of test-tubes, syphons, funnels and condensers filled the glass-fronted cupboards.
On one wall a synchronous clock silently registered the passing seconds. An electric signal timing clock stood near an analytical precision balance, capable of accurately weighing the minutest portion of a single hair. There was a percentage hygrometer, and a thermograph, towards which Miss Frayle inevitably turned to watch, fascinated, the delicate tracing of the pen.
Soon Dr. Morelle turned from the bench to bring the small test-tube he carried over to Phil Stone and Thelma Grayson, Miss Frayle hovering in the background.
The two others could smell the aroma of bitter almonds emanating from the test-tube.
‘It’s the same smell that was round Julie’s mouth,’ Phil said.
Dr. Morelle nodded. ‘That capsule contained a lethal dose of cyanide.’ He turned towards Thelma Grayson. ‘It is suggested,’ he said, ‘that this is the form in which your sister took the poison which killed her.’ He looked at the test-tube with a faint frown, as if expressing his feeling of revulsion towards whoever was responsible for putting the deadly poison in the dead girl’s possession.
‘Am I not right in saying that at the inquest the view was expressed that the poison might have been administered in some such capsule?’ he said.
Thelma nodded her head
slightly.
‘That is correct,’ Phil said quietly.
‘When you first found her, was there anything particularly that struck you about her appearance? Anything which suggests to you, on reflection, a method by which she took the poison?’
‘She was tensed, with an expression of great pain and horror,’ Phil spoke in a low voice.
‘Anything else?’
Phil hesitated. ‘I did notice something about her mouth. They referred to it at the inquest, I remember. She might have pinched her nose and mouth, to —’
He broke off, with a glance at Thelma.
Dr. Morelle appeared lost in thought. ‘The poison administered in a capsule,’ he said, half to himself, ‘such as was found at the flat of this man Luke Roper, an associate of the late Ray Mercury.’
Phil Stone had informed Dr. Morelle of his visit to Little Tiplow, his shattering discovery through his meeting with the poacher that Luke Roper had been seen at Lilac Cottage on the fatal night, and his determination to have it out with Ray Mercury’s one-time right-hand man. He had gone on to describe his visit to the flat over Pelotti’s shop.
‘What exactly did you say to this man?’ Dr. Morelle was asking him now.
‘I accused him of being at the cottage on the night of Julie’s death. I bluffed a little, I told him he’d given her the poison. I must have caught him completely unawares, because he never tried to call my bluff. I knew he knew a hell of a lot about what had happened, and he knew I knew it. It was that really started things going.’
‘You felt that your accusation really had struck home?’
Phil Stone nodded. ‘It was that started the row.’
Dr. Morelle said musingly: ‘It struck near the truth, and he was very much alarmed.’ He eyed the other with interest. ‘This information you have given me opens up a new avenue of approach to the case.’
‘What does it suggest to you?’ Thelma Grayson said.
‘There is no proof. There are no witnesses.’ His voice trailed off musingly. Suddenly he seemed to rouse himself out of these deep ruminations, and spoke directly to Phil Stone, ‘are you prepared to put yourself in my hands?’
The other stared at him, wonderingly. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘of course.’
‘Go from here back to Baker Street, and keep your eyes open, be very careful and watchful of strangers. Don’t try to be clever and tangle Luke Roper any more. You’ve done more than enough, playing a lone hand. Next time you might not be so fortunate.’
There was a grave note in Dr. Morelle’s voice and Phil Stone solemnly assured him he would keep out of the way of any potential danger.
‘I have a plan of my own for Luke Roper,’ Dr. Morelle said. ‘And I don’t want pugilistic young men like you interfering, to spoil it.’
The three of them began asking him questions, but he retained an enigmatic composure, and presently Phil Stone and Thelma Grayson went off together, their curiosity unsatisfied.
After they had gone, Miss Frayle, unable to stem her inquisitiveness, said to Dr. Morelle: ‘I don’t understand what all that was about.’
He smiled at her bleakly. ‘There are moments, my dear Miss Frayle,’ he said, ‘when faith is more desirable than understanding. I believe I can turn this situation to good account. I am convinced that there is a solution to this whole affair, which lacking proof as I do at the moment, I should find difficult to reach in any manner other than the one I now propose to adopt.’
He started to pace the study, his firmly carved chin sunk on his chest, while Miss Frayle threw herself into a chair.
‘A trap must be set,’ Dr. Morelle said presently.
‘A trap?’ Miss Frayle said. ‘For whom?’
‘For Ray Mercury’s murderer,’ Dr. Morelle said.
Miss Frayle uttered a gasp, but Dr. Morelle gave her no respite. ‘I wish you to type a note, Miss Frayle,’ he said.
She jumped up and grabbed her notebook and pencil. ‘Who to?’
‘You will not require your notebook,’ Dr. Morelle said. ‘It will be brief and you can type it straight down. Please use plain paper.’
Miss Frayle regarded him with some surprise and moved to her desk before the typewriter. She placed some paper into the machine and sat there poised expectantly. Dr. Morelle pondered for a few moments, and then said:
‘Type this, Miss Frayle. ‘I know something about Ray Mercury’s death the police do not know, but would like to. Meet me at the Black Moth to-night at nine o’clock sharp, or it will be the worse for you.’’
Miss Frayle’s eyebrows rose, and her glasses slipped down her nose as she rattled the message off. She looked up, her expression completely baffled and Dr. Morelle smiled at her thinly.
‘Sign it ‘X’,’ he said suavely. ‘That would seem to be an appropriately compelling pseudonym.’
‘But who’s it to?’
Dr. Morelle made no answer, instead he picked up the telephone and dialled Scotland Yard. As he waited to be put through to Inspector Hood, a thought occurred to him and he spoke to Miss Frayle:
‘If you could whip up your flagging energy sufficiently,’ he said, ‘to type out precisely the same message on a separate piece of paper, I should be greatly obliged to you.’
Miss Frayle glared at him and would no doubt have uttered some words of protest, except for the fact that Dr. Morelle would not have been listening to her.
He was speaking incisively into the telephone to Inspector Hood.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The figure paused on the corner of Meard Street, and went a few yards along Frith Street before turning into another street, narrow and ill-lit, where the once familiar neon sign jutting out above the pavement was now dark. No longer was the shape of a black moth picked out in crimson neon, no more did its eyes flash on and off underneath the name: The Black Moth.
No cars or taxis were driving up to set down visitors to the club, no stalwart, saluting figure of the commissionaire in his opulent-looking uniform. Quickly the figure passed the club shuttered and dark, until it reached the alley, black and cavernous beyond which it knew lay the yard, upon which opened the back entrance to the Black Moth.
The figure went quickly down the alley and into the darkness of the yard.
There were no lights in the yard, but the shadow moved unerringly to the iron staircase that led to the door of the passage, which in turn led to the late Ray Mercury’s private office at the back of the club. The figure went up the iron stairs, the soft scuffing of its shoes was the only sound as it reached the door.
Glancing over its shoulder into the darkness the figure slipped the key into the lock with infinite care and quiet. A moment, and the shadowy shape was inside, with the door closed behind it, standing listening in the silence and darkness.
The figure brushed against a door, paused to listen, hesitated as if it was about to turn back to explore the main part of the premises, when it saw the thin wedge of light from the door of Ray Mercury’s office.
The shape stole forward and kicked the door open suddenly.
Even Luke Roper’s self-control deserted him for a moment, as he stood there in the doorway eyeing the woman whose pale blonde hair shimmered in the light as she leaned casually against the ornately-carved writing-desk.
Greta Mercury herself was equally astonished by Luke Roper’s sudden appearance. Then her strangely green slanting eyes turned to cold anger.
‘So it was you?’ she said in a harsh voice.
Luke Roper recovered his composure swiftly. He prided himself on his coolness and self-control, and despite the shock he had received, this was a time for wariness. Something had gone wrong. He couldn’t believe it was Ray Mercury’s widow who had sent him that mysterious note inviting him to be at the Black Moth to-night.
‘What are you talking about?’ he said. He fingered the painful bruise which ran along his jaw-bone. ‘What was me?’
‘You sent me that note saying you knew something about Ray’s death. I was to be here to-
night. Or else, you said. Do you mean to try to blackmail me?’
So she’d had a similar mysterious invitation, too? But Luke allowed none of his surprise to show in his face. He shrugged, watching her.
‘You’re talking like you’re crazy,’ he said softly. ‘Anyway what is there to put the black on you about?’
‘You’re on to something, you rat,’ she said.
‘Guilty conscience, eh? I’ll tell you something. Since we’ve met up this way, and I feel chatty, I’ll tell you. I never believed he shot himself, if that’s what’s worrying you. Too fond of life, and of girls —’
The ice-green eyes flashed and her face contorted.
‘Hit you on the raw, eh?’ Luke Roper said with a chuckle. ‘I had a few ideas who might have given him lead-poisoning, but why should I tell? I never mentioned to no one how there was a certain party who knew Ray’s handwriting better than anybody. I wonder what the cops would have done if somebody had tipped them off it was that certain someone who might have written that note so no one could have told the diff?’
‘You think I did it?’
‘You had as good a motive as anyone. You were crazy jealous of him.’ His thin moustache curled back over his teeth. ‘But I don’t have to think anymore, now. Now I know for sure you did it. You just gave yourself away.’
‘If it wasn’t you who sent the note,’ she said, ‘why have you turned up?’
‘I happened to be passing,’ he said, he didn’t see why he should tell a thing more than he needed to her. ‘Thought I’d drop in, just for old times’ sake. I’m glad I did. I learnt something. Now I know you killed Ray, it might be worth something to me, if I needed it.’
‘All right, I shot him,’ she said, her tone emotionless. ‘You won’t make anything out of it. I gave him all the chances but he just laughed at me. I’d made up my mind already after I’d seen him here that night, when he had the nerve to say he couldn’t help it.’
‘I know,’ he said, interrupting her. ‘I saw you come out, remember? Sometime before he was found.’
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