“No doubt a slight effusion from the wound when the body fell,” he murmured thoughtfully. “If only you could have contrived to retain control of your senses at that moment, Miss Frayle.”
“But I’ve never seen a body fall from a cupboard like that before, Doctor!” she protested.
“I hope you are now satisfied. But that is of no assistance to me in discovering the identity of—”
He was interrupted by a ring at the side-door bell.
Miss Frayle jumped. “Oh—what’s that?” she cried.
His mouth twisted into a smile. “Merely the result of electrical impetus upon a mechanical device, actuated through pressure applied by a human agency upon another mechanical device!”
Miss Frayle goggled at him through her spectacles as one word magniloquently followed its predecessor.
“You mean it’s the door bell?” she managed to murmur at last.
“Precisely, Miss Frayle!”
He stubbed out his cigarette.
“Who is it, I wonder?” she asked.
“That,” he said suavely, “may be ascertained by proceeding to the door in question and opening it.”
“I’ll go.” But he motioned to her to remain where she was.
“I would rather you remained here—and sat down,” he said.
“Thank you, Doctor.” She gave him a grateful look. “I am still feeling a bit shaky.”
“Do not misunderstand me,” he replied quickly as he made for the door. “I am merely anxious to avoid the irritation of your again losing that little consciousness with which you are normally endowed!”
Miss Frayle, however, no longer appeared to be paying attention.
“Listen!” she whispered, her eyes widening. “Whoever it is, they’ve got tired of waiting.”
There was a sound of footsteps ascending the wooden stairs.
“Alfred—you there?” called a man’s voice.
Doctor Morelle, who had paused at the door and stood waiting, made no reply.
Miss Frayle breathed: “It’s a man!”
“Brilliant, Miss Frayle!” the Doctor said, without taking his eyes off the door.
In a moment the door opened. A short, thickset man wearing a bowler hat stood there. He removed it to reveal light, almost sandy hair. His eyebrows seemed to be non-existent; and he boasted a straggly sandy moustache. His blue suit was rather shabby, and inclined to be shiny at the elbows. His rather bleary eyes were somewhat shifty, and as he saw them he appeared to assume an air of confident ease which seemed to require of him not a little effort.
“Hello, what’s all this?” he exclaimed heartily, as he came into the room.
“Good evening,” replied the Doctor smoothly, waiting for a further explanation.
“Isn’t Alfred—Mr. Jordan here?” demanded the visitor.
“I fear I cannot tell you.” Doctor Morelle surveyed the newcomer with narrowed eyes calculated to make anyone feel uncomfortable.
“He—he’s disappeared,” Miss Frayle said.
“Disappeared?” repeated the man. “How d’you mean ‘disappeared’? I expect he’s popped out to see one of his pals, more likely than not. Or a customer, maybe. He’s sure to be back soon. You see he was expecting me. I’m his brother-in-law, by the way. Green’s my name.”
“I am Doctor Morelle, and this is my assistant, Miss Frayle.”
Green nodded.
“Have you been here long, Doctor?”
“Some considerable time. I—er—wanted a particular acid from him at rather short notice. But he seems to have vanished in somewhat odd circumstances. A cigarette?”
Green shook his head.
“No thanks—don’t smoke. Funny old Alfred isn’t here. It was rather a particular matter of business I wanted to see him about. I wonder if he got my message wrong? Thought he was to meet me round at my place?”
He raised the hand holding his bowler and scratched his sandy head.
“This is a blooming nuisance! Taken me half an hour to get here, and now he’s out. I wish I knew if he’d gone to my place.” He gave Doctor Morelle a genial grin, who coldly ignored it, and went on to suggest:
“I suppose there is no possibility of telephoning your residence in order to ascertain whether or no he is there?”
“Er—yes—could do that—if his ’phone here had been working.”
“Doubtless there is a call-box within easy reach?”
“Just round the corner, there is as a matter of fact.”
“We will go out together,” said Doctor Morelle. “If you will excuse me a moment…”
He went to the window and flung it open. The taxi-man was busily polishing the radiator of his cab.
“You again, guv’nor?” he grinned, looking up.
“Would you bring your taxi round to the front immediately?”
“Okay—couple of shakes! Just give me time to get me coat on…”
The Doctor closed the window.
“But why do we want a taxi, Doctor?” Miss Frayle asked, a puzzled expression on her face.
“For the purpose of transit to the nearest police station,” replied Doctor Morelle deliberately.
She glanced quickly at Green, who had swung round at the last two words.
“Police station?” he repeated. “What’s on your mind, Doctor?”
Doctor Morelle showed no sign of perturbation. “I have an idea the mystery of the missing Mr. Jordan will very soon be elucidated,” he replied evenly. “Elucidated by me, of course—after which it will be merely a matter of form to hand the culprit over to the appropriate authorities.”
“Anyone would think there’s been some sort of crime,” the other expostulated. “Just because old Alfred pops up the road—”
“If you will come down and make your telephone call, perhaps you may be able to give us some further information regarding Mr. Jordan’s movements?”
“Yes—all right—I’m ready,” agreed the other, moving towards the door. “I hope nothing has happened to him,” he went on. “But I’m sure you’re taking it too seriously.”
“Possibly,” said Doctor Morelle curtly, turning to Miss Frayle.
“Perhaps you will wait here for the taxi-driver and direct him to the telephone box? We shall be awaiting him.”
“Yes—of course, Doctor Morelle.”
The Doctor followed Green down the narrow stair. Miss Frayle came after them. They went out through the side door and Doctor Morelle and the other went off. She waited at the front of the shop until the taxi appeared.
The Doctor and Green reached the call-box, and the man went inside to make his call.
While he was speaking on the telephone, the taxi drove up, Miss Frayle opened the door to find the Doctor waiting, quietly smoking a cigarette.
“Have you really discovered the murderer of Mr. Jordan?” she asked him in a whisper with a hurried glance at the man in the call-box.
“Indubitably, my dear Miss Frayle. He is at present quite busily occupied inside this telephone box.” She gasped and he proceeded smoothly: “We may have a little difficulty in persuading him to visit the police station. However—”
Miss Frayle interrupted him. “Don’t worry about that, Doctor Morelle! We shall have no trouble at all!”
He gave her a quick, quizzical look.
“I am afraid I fail to comprehend you, Miss Frayle. Perhaps you will kindly—?”
Again she interrupted him. This time a triumphant smile lit up her face.
“There isn’t much to explain, Doctor,” she said. “Simply that I’ve brought a policeman with me!”
And she indicated the stalwart figure of a police constable who was at that moment clambering out of the taxi.
It was over an hour later that Miss Frayle, waiting in the study of the house in Harley
Street, heard the front door open, and Doctor Morelle came in. She rushed into the hall to greet him.
“Did he confess?” she gasped excitedly.
“Pray control your exuberance, Miss Frayle,” he replied calmly, divesting himself of hat and coat with maddening deliberation.
“But the man Green—did he kill his brother-in-law?”
“Of course.” Doctor Morelle led the way into the study with Miss Frayle hurrying after him. He seated himself in the chair at his desk.
“The mystery proved quite simple when reduced to its elementals,” he said, taking a Le Sphinx from the skull which had been ingeniously made into a somewhat macabre-looking cigarette-box.
“Under pressure, Green confessed he had paid a visit to his brother-in-law shortly after eight-thirty this evening, quarrelled with him over financial matters and struck him down. This occurred just at the moment you arrived at the side door and rang the bell. Of course, you heard nothing—even if your mind had been alert!” he added sardonically. He went on: “Realising there was no time to be lost, he pushed Jordan’s body into the cupboard and at the same time secreted himself there.”
Miss Frayle shuddered. “How awful—if I’d known that horrible man was in there…”
The Doctor lit his cigarette. “It must have been a cramped space,” he continued through a cloud of cigarette-smoke, “hence the door burst open, with the result that you fainted. During your period of unconsciousness, Green dragged the body to another room, from where it has now been recovered. My rapid arrival upset his calculations, and he left the premises, planning to return later to dispose of the body. Then he recalled he had left his cigarette. He did indulge in the tobacco-smoking habit after all—”
“Yes, I know,” she smiled.
“Indeed?” His eyebrows were raised in inquiry. “May I ask how you formed that opinion.”
“I noticed nicotine stain on his moustache.”
“Yes, yes, quite obvious, of course!” Doctor Morelle said, in a tone of annoyance. “That roused my suspicions, too. He was fearful the remains of the cigarette would incriminate him and he returned, hoping to regain it. My suspicions were confirmed by his complete lack of surprise when he referred to the telephone being out of order… This inferred he must have been in the room earlier in the evening to have observed this fact.” He paused dramatically: “In the room between the time you used the telephone and my arrival! How otherwise could he have known so conclusively it was damaged?”
Miss Frayle nodded vigorously. “Of course!” she said.
He said with a thin smile: “And now, my dear Miss Frayle… I am anxious to resume my experimental work in the laboratory at the point where unfortunately our attention was distracted.”
She looked at him with a slightly dazed expression.
“But—but, Doctor,” she stammered, “the acid?”
He paused with his cigarette half way to his lips. “Do you mean to inform me,” he said, his voice sharp and bitter, “that you have omitted to obtain another phial to replace the one you so carelessly broke?”
She goggled at him. “Well—I—I—Yes, I didn’t—” She broke off floundering.
“Really, your careless inattention to your work is most reprehensible—”
“I’m so sorry, Doctor,” she apologised. But even as she spoke she realised it was no good. She could not prevent that flow of pompously precise words of censure that began to fall from his lips. Miss Frayle sighed resignedly and sat down to wait until Doctor Morelle finished the tirade directed against her.
The Purple Line
John Rhode
John Rhode was the principal pen-name adopted by the industrious detective writer Cecil John Street MC OBE (1884–1964). He also published three novels as Cecil Waye, and a long series of books as Miles Burton. Most of the Burton novels featured Desmond Merrion, and The Secret of High Eldersham (aka The Mystery of High Eldersham, 1930) and Death in the Tunnel (aka Dark is the Tunnel, 1936) have been reprinted as British Library Crime Classics. Rhode introduced Dr Lancelot Priestley in The Paddington Mystery (1925) and this crotchety but brilliant Great Detective continued to appear in Rhode’s novels until the early 1960s.
In his younger days, Rhode served in the army, and in particular in military intelligence, with considerable distinction. He was also an electrical engineer, and his detective stories are the product of a highly practical mind. His interest in and knowledge of gadgetry came into play time and again; many of his best stories turn on tricks concerning methods of murder. The M.O. of Rhode’s killers is often unlikely, but his straightforward and authoritative writing about technicalities facilitated the suspension of disbelief. “The Purple Line” is one of his few short stories; it first appeared in the Evening Standard in 1950, and is characteristic of his style of puzzle-making.
* * *
INSPECTOR Purley picked up the telephone. But the torrent of words which poured into his ears was so turbid that he could make little of it. Something about a wife and a water-butt. The fellow was obviously in such a state that questioning him would elicit no coherent answer. “I’ll come along at once,” said Purley. “Holly Bungalow, you say? On the Cadford road? Right!”
He took the police car, in which he drove out of the fair-sized market town of Faythorpe. The villas on the outskirts extended for a short distance, with a scarlet telephone kiosk near the further end. Beyond this the road, bordered with trees on either side, ran through agricultural country.
Purley kept a sharp look-out as he went, for he was by no means sure of the exact location of Holly Bungalow. It wasn’t any too easy, for it was growing dark on a February afternoon, and it was pouring with rain, as it had been all day. Then, about half a mile beyond the kiosk, he saw, on the left, a white-painted gate between the trees and, standing beside it, a man with a bicycle. The Inspector slowed up as he saw “Holly Bungalow” painted on the gate.
As he got out of the car the man at the gate began gabbling and gesticulating. He was short and stocky, round-faced and goggle-eyed, and was evidently labouring under some violent emotion. He wore a mackintosh, sodden with wet, and was hatless, with the rain pouring from his hair over his face. “Rode at once to the kiosk,” he was rambling incoherently. “That’s where I rang you up from. We’re not on the telephone, you know. I didn’t know what else to do. It’s a dreadful thing. Come, I’ll show you.”
He turned and almost ran up the path leading from the gate. Purley followed him towards the bungalow, a few yards away. The man turned off round the side of the building to the back and stopped abruptly. “There, look!”
At the back of the bungalow was a verandah, looking out over a lawn and garden surrounded by trees. At the further end of the verandah was a round galvanised water-butt, overflowing with the water pouring into it from a spout in the eaves. Projecting from the top of the butt, and resting against the edge, was a pair of inverted high-heeled shoes. “It’s my wife!” the little man exclaimed.
The butt was about five feet high and two feet six inches in diameter, standing on a brick foundation. Beside it was a folding wooden garden chair. Purley climbed on to this and leaned over the edge of the butt. Within it, completely submerged but for the feet, was a woman, head down and fully clothed.
The first problem was how to get her out. It might be possible to push the butt over on its side. He managed to tilt the butt, the water surging over the edge.
“Here, come and bear a hand!” he exclaimed. Between them they tilted the butt still further, the water pouring out and streaming across the lawn. Then it fell on its side.
The little man made no attempt to help Purley as he drew the woman out by the legs. She was fairly tall and slim, apparently in the thirties, wearing a dark frock, silk stockings and high-heeled shoes, with no hat. Purley glanced into the butt. The water had drained out of it, and all it now contained was a layer of slime and a broken ridge
-tile, which had at some time presumably fallen into it from the roof.
Purley carried the body into the shelter of the verandah. The little man was quivering like a jelly. “You’d better come with me,” said Purley.
In a dazed fashion the other followed him back to the car. Purley drove to the kiosk, where he telephoned to the police station. Then the two drove back to the bungalow. “We’ll go inside, out of the rain,” said Purley. “There you can tell me what you know about this.”
They entered by the front door. The bungalow was not large—lounge, dining-room, a couple of bedrooms, and the usual domestic offices. The furnishings, if not luxurious, were well-to-do. In the dining-room a French window leading on to the verandah was open. On the table were still some remains of a meal, apparently lunch, with one place only laid. Beside this, a tumbler, a siphon, and a bottle of whisky, half full.
As they sat down Purley took out his notebook and headed a page “Monday, Feb. 13.” He said, “You told me the name was Briston, I think?”
The other nodded. “That’s right. I am Henry Briston. My wife’s name was Shirley. She had seemed rather depressed for the last few days. I wouldn’t have left her alone if it had ever entered my head that she would do a thing like that.”
“When did you last see her alive?”
“About eight o’clock this morning,” Briston replied. “She was in bed then. I got up early, for I was going to Mawnchester to see my brother, and I took her a cup of tea. She seemed quite cheerful then. I got my own breakfast, and while the egg was frying I put a new chart in the barograph yonder.”
He pointed to the instrument on a bracket fixed to the dining-room wall. Purley was familiar with barographs—there was one in the window of the optician’s next door to the police station. The one on the wall was of the conventional type, with a revolving drum driven by clockwork, and a pen at the end of a long needle. The chart stuck round the drum bore out Briston’s words. It ran from Monday to Sunday, ruled in two-hour divisions, the lines an eighth of an inch apart.
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