Ernest Dudley
Vivian Ernest Coltman-Allen (1908–2006), who worked under the name Ernest Dudley, was a modestly successful actor who turned to journalism in the 1930s. According to his obituary in The Times, he “worked for various newspapers, as a boxing correspondent, crime reporter, jazz critic and gossip columnist. At one point, he was nightclub correspondent for the Daily Mail, a position which allowed him to indulge his taste for the high life. In one scoop, he described how he helped Fred Astaire to create a new dance step.” During the war he worked for the BBC, and was asked to write a crime series; the result was a series of radio programmes featuring Doctor Morelle, a character inspired by Dudley’s memories of the actor and director Erich von Stroheim.
Morelle, a scientific and medical expert with a fondness for criminology (and fencing) became a hugely popular character, and appeared in fourteen novels, over one hundred short stories and a film. This story is taken from Meet Doctor Morelle (1943); the back of the dust jacket proclaimed: “Meet Doctor Morelle has been on the air twice weekly for nine months—a record-breaking run. As millions of readers will know, these episodes are based on the memoirs of Doctor Morelle, that strange and sardonic character who wields an almost hypnotic influence over his assistant, Miss Frayle.” The book was a selection of the Crime Book Society, but in inscribing one first edition, Dudley noted wryly that he’d been commissioned to write the stories and been paid £300, “but no further royalties”!
* * *
“QUICKLY—the acid, Miss Frayle!”
Miss Frayle rapidly scanned the row of test tubes and bottles.
“The small phial—next to the iron sulphate—” snapped Doctor Morelle, his hand outstretched impatiently.
His peremptory command flustered her for a moment. She snatched the phial and caught it against a large container of distilled water. There was a crash and tinkling of broken glass. Without a word and with incredible quickness the Doctor took Miss Frayle’s hand and placed it under the full force of the cold water tap. Then he examined it carefully.
“You are singularly fortunate. You might have sustained a very nasty burn.”
Miss Frayle readjusted her glasses and regained her breath.
“I—I’m sorry, Doctor Morelle,” she managed to stammer. “It slipped and—”
“I am not incapable of perceiving you do not appear to exercise full control over your digital extremities! Has the acid splashed your clothes at all?”
“No—just the corner of my overall.”
He seized a bottle of alkaline solution and applied it liberally to the part of her overall indicated. Then he turned out the Bunsen burner beneath the retort which had been emitting a pungent odour.
“That brings our little experiment to an abrupt conclusion for the time being at any rate,” he said, with a chilling glance at her.
“I’m so sorry, Doctor,” she apologised again.
“I think your expressions of regret might well take a practical form, Miss Frayle. Perhaps you would care to procure another phial of acid for me.”
“If you’ll tell me the name—”
“I’ll write it down. It’s just possible that Mr. Jordan may be of some assistance to me. You know his shop?”
“The little chemist’s shop in the turning off Welbeck Street? Will there be anyone there at this time?”
“Mr. Jordan resides on the establishment. You will ring at the side entrance. I have written the formula on this card of mine—you will present it to Mr. Jordan with my compliments.”
She took the card upon which he had scribbled his requirements. He went on:
“I am confident he will have a sufficient supply to enable me to carry on with my work tonight. So that if you will hasten, Miss Frayle, I should have time in which to complete the experiment I am engaged upon before retiring for the night.”
Miss Frayle hurried off, while Doctor Morelle lit an inevitable Le Sphinx cigarette and then divested himself of his white coat. In a moment he had returned to his study to make some notes.
Despite its undistinguished frontage, Miss Frayle had no difficulty in finding Mr. Jordan’s chemist shop. She made her way to the side door which was in a narrow entrance between the shop and a garage. She rang three times, but there was no response. No sound of any movement within. She knocked loudly. It was then she realised that the door was not firmly fastened. Her first knock sent it slightly ajar. She banged the old iron knocker again, but there was still no reply. After a pause she stepped inside with some idea of perhaps finding Mr. Jordan in a room at the back. A strong smell of antiseptics greeted her as she hesitated for some moments, trying to make up her mind whether to call out or not.
She called quietly at first: “Mr. Jordan?” Then louder. But no reply.
At the far end of the tiny hallway, she noticed a flight of stairs. Thinking the chemist might be occupied in an upstairs room and perhaps slightly deaf, she decided she had better investigate further. It was a choice between that and going back without the precious acid. She decided she could not face the sardonic rebuffs from Doctor Morelle if she should return empty-handed.
Very gingerly, she began to climb the stairs. It was only a short flight, opening on to a small landing which was crowded with crates, packing cases and cardboard boxes of all descriptions. She tapped on the door immediately facing her, and as there was no reply, tried the handle, feeling more and more like a person intent upon some guilty purpose.
The door opened to reveal an unusual-looking room. It was a combination of warehouse, laboratory, office and living room. Nearest the door were still more packages and shelves containing innumerable bottles, whilst under the window was a large sink and bench, obviously used for dispensing. In the wall opposite were large cupboards, and near the fireplace was a table upon which were the remnants of a hasty meal. Two or three chairs made up the rest of the furniture.
It was growing dusk, so she snapped on the electric light switch by the door. This, she felt should convince anyone that she did not seek concealment, and that her presence in the place was not for some dishonest motive.
The only sound emanated from an old-fashioned, noisy wall clock, and once again Miss Frayle stood nonplussed as to what she had better do next. Then she caught sight of the telephone perched on a roll-top desk in a corner near the fire. If she rang up Doctor Morelle and explained the position, she argued to herself, perhaps he would suggest some other chemist. Or he might even have some idea where Mr. Jordan was likely to be found. At any rate, those saturnine features would not be visible at the other end of the wire. She was assailed by doubts once more. Suppose Mr. Jordan came in and found her using his telephone? Well, she would have to explain that’s all, she told herself. It would be embarrassing, but a vision of the Doctor awaiting her return with increasing impatience spurred her to action. She went over to the instrument and dialled.
In a moment there came Doctor Morelle’s familiar tones:
“Yes?”
“Oh Doctor Morelle, it’s me,” she stammered. “I mean it’s ‘I’—Miss Frayle—” She hastily corrected her grammatical error and prayed he hadn’t noticed it. All he said was:
“I am not incapable of recognising that the sounds impinging on my ear emanate from your vocal chords,” his voice crackled over the wire. “From where are you telephoning?”
“Mr. Jordan’s. I’m upstairs in his laboratory. He isn’t here.”
“Then where is he?”
“I—I’m afraid I don’t know.”
“Who admitted you then?”
“I knocked and rang, but no one answered. I tried the side door and as it wasn’t locked I went in. I called out, still no reply. Then I thought he might be working upstairs so I came up. But no one’s here at all.” She drew a deep breath, “I’ve telephoned to know if you would like me to wait till Mr. Jordan comes back or—”
Doctor Morelle heard
her break off with a sharp intake of breath, then give a terrified scream.
“Miss Frayle!”
There came another scream, which died into a moan. Followed a clattering thud, as if the telephone receiver had fallen.
“Miss Frayle—what is it! Answer me—what happened?” He waited a moment or two, then murmured himself. “Confounded nuisance she is!… Here am I waiting to proceed with my experiment… Frightened by a mouse no doubt!…” He flashed the receiver bar impatiently…“Hello?… Miss Frayle?…” After one more attempt, he replaced the instrument.
“Ah, well,” he snapped to himself, “I suppose I had better go round and revive her.”
It was now dark outside, and he might have had some little difficulty in finding the chemist’s side door, but for the fact that he had his narrow examination torch with him. The door was as Miss Frayle had found it, half-open. He walked in quickly, called: “Is anyone there?” Then made his way swiftly upstairs. By his torch he could see the door slightly open at the top of the stairs. He went in, found the switch and flooded the room with light, to reveal Miss Frayle lying crumpled by the desk. In her fall, she had somehow contrived to wrench the telephone receiver from its cord, and the useless instrument lay on the floor. He picked it up and placed it on the desk, then turned his attention to Miss Frayle. She was still unconscious. Her face was ashen. He picked her up and laid her flat on an old couch that ran along one side of the room. Then he opened the window. Within a few moments she began to show signs of recovery. She moaned once or twice, then opened her eyes and blinked at him. She pushed her spectacles which had fallen awry back into position. Fortunately they had not been broken.
“Oh, Doctor, I must have fainted… I’m so sorry…”
“Why apologise?” he retorted with heavy sarcasm. “You are little more than semi-conscious at any time!” She passed her hand over her forehead in bewilderment, then struggled into a sitting position. He steadied her. He continued:
“However, perhaps you can recall what caused you completely to lose consciousness?”
She looked up at him in utter bewilderment for a moment. Then suddenly her eyes dilated with horror behind her spectacles and she swung her feet to the floor. She clutched at his arm:
“Where—where is it?”
He regarded her narrowly.
“Where is what?”
“The body! It fell out of that cupboard over there.” She shuddered, and for a second looked as if she might be about to faint again. “It was horrible! Horrible!”
“Come, come!” said Doctor Morelle sharply. “Pull yourself together! As you can see, there is no body anywhere.”
Miss Frayle blinked shortsightedly.
“But I saw it! While I was ’phoning you, the cupboard door over there started to open—it’s open now—”
“Cupboards have opened before now as a result of traffic vibration from the street.”
“That’s what made me scream,” she went on, not listening to his suggested explanation. The picture of what she had seen was too vivid in her mind. “When the door had swung open, the man fell out—and I fainted.”
“Can you recall what he looked like?”
“His face was ghastly…there was blood on the side of his head…his hair was grey…he had a moustache…oh, it was terrible!” She shuddered once more. “Do you think it might have been Mr. Jordan?” she asked.
“He could answer to that very incomplete description,” he agreed, but there was doubt in his voice. He said smoothly:
“There is, however, an aspect of this case which interests me particularly, Miss Frayle. Briefly it is how you managed to distinguish this man’s appearance in the dark.”
Miss Frayle sat straight upright with a jerk.
“In the dark?”
Doctor Morelle nodded, a sardonic expression on his face. “Yes, my dear Miss Frayle. When I arrived here this room was in complete darkness. While it may have been only dusk when you arrived here, still it would not have been light enough for you to observe—”
“But I put the light on when I came in,” she said. And added quickly: “Otherwise, how would I have seen to telephone?”
He regarded her closely. There was no doubt about the certainty with which she spoke. She went on:
“Somebody must have come into the room while I was unconscious—and moved the body. And they switched off the light when they went out.”
“H’m, that would have been possible, I suppose.” He conceded the point reluctantly. He was annoyed that her explanation would cause him to abandon his theory that Miss Frayle had been suffering from some stupid hallucination. “I wish you would adjust your spectacles, instead of blinking at me in that astigmatic fashion,” he snapped suddenly.
They had slipped again in Miss Frayle’s excited vehemence. She put them into position once more. Meanwhile the Doctor was carefully examining the cupboard she had indicated. He discovered a small, dark, wet stain that might have been blood.
He surveyed the rest of the room. Standing on a small cupboard near the sink he found a bowl containing two or three goldfish. “Somewhat incongruous,” he mused. “Mr. Jordan’s laboratory would appear to be adequately equipped.” His gaze rested upon a collection of test-tubes and various chemical apparatus. To his experienced eye they told him the chemist had obviously been engaged in research work of some nature.
He moved over to the table and gave a cursory glance at the remains of Mr. Jordan’s tea, which had been laid on a check cloth covering only half the table’s surface. He was about to pass on when he noticed a cigarette-end almost concealed by a folded evening newspaper. It had apparently burnt itself out on the edge of the table.
“Do you recall noticing this before?” he asked Miss Frayle, pointing to the cigarette end. She shook her head.
“Then perhaps you will assist me to look for an ash-tray.”
Puzzled by his request, Miss Frayle nevertheless obeyed. They searched every likely place during the next few minutes. At length, having failed to find any ash-tray, he murmured:
“It would appear indicative that Mr. Jordan is—or was—a non-smoker. That might, in turn, suggest he recently entertained a visitor who did smoke.”
“Yes—yes, that would be it,” agreed Miss Frayle enthusiastically. “Perhaps we could trace the man that way—if we could find out the make of cigarette—” she concluded somewhat vaguely.
“I had already ascertained the name of the manufacturers of the brand in question,” replied the Doctor with a frosty smile. “As, however, I imagine they sell the better part of a million a day of this particular brand this knowledge would not seem to be of much assistance to us!”
Miss Frayle subsided.
Doctor Morelle continued to survey the room in search of some sort of clue. Finally, he went to the window. With some difficulty he managed to open it to its full extent, and stood looking out on the yard of the garage below. It was moonlight. “I wonder,” he mused, “if the body could have been removed by way of this window?”
Miss Frayle joined him and too looked out.
“It isn’t very high from the ground,” she said helpfully. He nodded and thoughtfully lit a cigarette. “It is just possible that man cleaning his car down there may have noticed something unusual.”
“I’ll call him,” said Miss Frayle promptly, and proceeded to do so. The man looked up and replied in a Cockney accent. He wore overalls, but there was a taxi-driver’s hat perched on the back of his head.
“Wot’s the trouble?” he asked, looking up from his work.
“Er—do you—have you…?” Miss Frayle became incoherent, not knowing what question would be quite the one to ask. Doctor Morelle unceremoniously edged her aside.
“During this evening, have you, by any chance, observed a person or persons descending from this window?” he said.
The m
an eyed him quizzically, then pushed his cap even further back on his head.
“No, guv’nor, I ain’t seen no person or persons. I ain’t seen nobody. But then I been inside the garridge this last ’alf hour, cleaning up the old taxi. I reckons to give ’er a sluice twice a week, and it’s usually about this time, on account of business bein’ a bit slack. So I takes this opportunity to—”
“Quite so,” Doctor Morelle cut short the garrulous explanation.
“I can’t say as I’ve ever seen anybody climb out o’ that window,” pursued the taxi-driver. “But wiv’ that spout,” he waved in the direction of where a rain-spout might be, “it shouldn’t be much trouble—especially to one of these cat burglars. Why—is there anything wrong?”
“Nothing wrong,” replied the Doctor and pulled down the window.
“There would not appear to be any egress in that direction,” he murmured.
“Wasn’t he smoking a cigarette?” asked Miss Frayle. “I saw the glow of it, I’m sure.”
“That fact alone would not necessarily implicate him in this affair,” replied the Doctor acidly. “At this moment, there are possibly five million people in London, including the murderer, smoking a cigarette. Even I am indulging in the pernicious habit!”
With a saturnine smile he flicked the ash of his Le Sphinx. Then he leaned against the edge of the table and surveyed the room once more. Miss Frayle regarded him anxiously.
“What are you going to do now, Doctor? Don’t you think we ought to notify the police?”
“All in good time, my dear Miss Frayle, all in good time! First, I wish to consider the evidence so far manifest. There are several quite amateurish aspects of this case which should not render the mystery particularly difficult to elucidate.”
“Well, I don’t quite see that we’re getting much further… Perhaps if the police could examine some fingerprints or—”
“Such elementary routine, while it may serve to fire your some-what fevered imagination, would merely hinder the process of deduction at this stage.”
He took out his magnifying glass and examined another blotch on the floor, just outside the cupboard from which Miss Frayle had seen the body fall. For the greater part uncovered, the floor was marked with stains of all sizes and descriptions, but this particular one seemed to be fresh, and also had the appearance of blood.
The Measure of Malice Page 26