Menace for Dr. Morelle Read online

  MENACE FOR DOCTOR MORELLE

  Ernest Dudley

  © Ernest Dudley 1947

  Ernest Dudley has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1947 by John Long.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One – Mayhem In Mayfair

  Chapter Two – Enter Miss Frayle

  Chapter Three – Doctor Morelle Takes The Stage

  Chapter Four – Baron Xavier Makes His Bow

  Chapter Five – Sherry Carfax Is Scared

  Chapter Six – Shock For The Baron

  Chapter Seven – Surprise For Miss Frayle

  Chapter Eight – The Unpredictable Doctor Morelle

  Chapter Nine – Sufficient For The Day

  Chapter Ten – The Purple Lake

  Chapter Eleven – Worth A Million

  Chapter Twelve – Detective-Inspector Hood

  Chapter Thirteen – Doctor Morelle Theorizes

  Chapter Fourteen – Doctor Morelle Meets Mrs. Latimer

  Chapter Fifteen – Miss Frayle Has An Intuition

  Chapter Sixteen – Cleo Latimer Plays For Sympathy

  Chapter Seventeen – Miss Frayle Takes Notes

  Chapter Eighteen – Two Women Meet

  Chapter Nineteen – Sherry Carfax Takes Orders

  Chapter Twenty – A Frightened Man

  Chapter Twenty-One – Cleo Latimer Makes A ’Phone Call

  Chapter Twenty-Two – Richard Whitmore

  Chapter Twenty-Three – What The Butler Saw

  Chapter Twenty-Four – Gresham Changes His Mind

  Chapter Twenty-Five – ’Phone Call For Miss Frayle

  Chapter Twenty-Six – Miss Frayle Plays Detective

  Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Unbolted Door

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – The Suspects

  Chapter Twenty-Nine – The Sentimental Nurse

  Chapter Thirty – The Patient Whispers

  Chapter Thirty-One – The Watcher

  Chapter Thirty-Two – Wapping Old Stairs

  Chapter Thirty-Three – Voice In The Dark

  Chapter Thirty-Four – The Two Dossiers

  Chapter Thirty-Five – The Perfumed Clue

  Chapter Thirty-Six – The Getaway

  Chapter Thirty-Seven – Hood’s Suspect

  Chapter Thirty-Eight – Stormhaven Towers

  Chapter Thirty-Nine – The Man In The Shadow

  Chapter Forty – Doctor Morelle’s Manoeuvre

  Chapter Forty-One – The Purple Lake Gives Up Its Secret

  Chapter Forty-Two – Summing Up

  Extract from the Medical Directory (current year):

  MORELLE (Christian names given) 221B, Harley St., W.1. (Tel. Langham 05011)—M.D. Berne (Univ. Berne Prize & Gold Medallist) 1924; F.R.C.P. Lond. 1932 (Univ. Vienna, Salzburg, Carfax, U.S.A.); Phys. Dept. Nerv. Dis. & Lect. in Neurol. Rome Academy, 1929; Lect. & Research Fell. Sorbonne, 1928; Carfax, U.S.A. Fell. Med. Research Counc. 1930; Research Fell. Salzburg Hosp. 1931; Psychiat. Carlos Hosp. Rome; Psychiat. Horgan Hosp. Baltimore; Pathol. Rudolfa Clin. Berne; Medico-Psychol. Trafalgar Hosp. and Clin. London.; Hon. Cons. Psychiat. Welbeck Hosp. Lond. Author, “Psychol. aspects of prevent, treat. of drug addiction,” ‘Amer. Med. Wkly.’, 1932; “Study of analysis in ment. treat.” Ib., 1930; “Nervous & mental aspect of drug addict.”, ‘Jl. of Res. in Psychopathol.,’ 1931; “Hypnot. treat. in nerve & ment. disorder,” ‘Amer. Med. Jnl.’, 1930; etc.

  Extract from Who’s Who (current year):

  MORELLE (Christian names, but no date, place or details of birth given). Educated: Sorbonne; Rome; Vienna. M.D. Berne, 1923 (for further details of career as medical practitioner see Medical Directory—current year); Lecturer on medico-psychological aspects of criminology to New York Police Bureau, 1934; Lecturer and medico-psychiat. to police bureaux and criminological authorities of Geneva, Rome, Milan and Paris, 1935–1937. Published miscellaneous papers on medical and scientific subjects (see Medical Directory—current year). Writings for journals include: “Auguste Dupin versus Sherlock Holmes—A Study in Ratiocination,” ‘London Archive & Atlantic Weekly’, 1931; “The Criminal versus Society,” ‘English Note-book’, ‘Le Temps Moderne’ & ‘New York Letter’, 1933; etc., etc. See also the Case-books ‘Meet Doctor Morelle’ and ‘Meet Doctor Morelle Again’ (published by John Long.) Address: 221B Harley St., London, W.1. Recreations: Criminology and fencing—European fencing champion (Epée) Switzerland, 1927–28 29. Clubs: None.

  Chapter One – Mayhem In Mayfair

  “I’m through.”

  Sir Hugh Albany’s mouth set in a line of finality. For the first time since the two others had known him they detected a sudden determination in the young, good-looking features which before had seemed a little weakly drawn. He went on:

  “We’re all washed up. You, Cleo and I. You’ve both got till this time tomorrow to get out of the country, or it’s going to be too bad for you.”

  Gresham tapped the ash off his cigarette. He said:

  “It’s not going to be too good for you.”

  “That’s my concern.”

  There was a heavy pause. Gresham let his gaze flicker to the woman who was watching, a faintly amused smile touching the corners of her softly curving mouth. Mrs. Cleo Latimer had contributed little to the conversation during the last half hour while the two men’s voices, without growing louder, had become razor-edged with increasingly bitter hostility. In answer to his look she murmured:

  “I think Hugh’s being just a little thoughtless.”

  Albany made no pretence at keeping the contempt out of his tone as he answered her.

  “If you mean I don’t give a damn what happens to you, or Charles”—he indicated Gresham—“you’re right.”

  “I mean,” she corrected him gently, “that, in this case, what’s your concern is also ours.”

  He caught the unmistakable threat underlying the quietly spoken words. He stared back at her long, thickly lashed eyes, that could change from brilliant blue to smoky, greenish-grey. They were blue and wide now as she returned his gaze over the cigarette she was lighting from a gold, beautifully made lighter. His spine chilled yet again as he realized behind that lovely face worked a brain that was utterly callous. He said between his teeth:

  “I never thought it possible any woman could look like you and yet be so loathsome, so—horrible.” He nodded towards the other. “He at least always made me think of something that crawled from under a stone, and I blame myself terribly for not guessing his game. But you——” He broke off, unable to find words to express his utter and complete revulsion for her. “And if you imagine any veiled threats are going to stop me from washing my hands of you and the dirt you both stand for, you’re mistaken.”

  She smiled at him lazily through a puff of cigarette-smoke.

  “Spoken like a gentleman,” she said. But he caught the sudden flame of murderous hate that had gleamed momentarily at the back of her eyes. She turned to Gresham and said: “Don’t you agree, Charles?”

  A vein showed across Gresham’s forehead. His voice came thickly. “Before you’re much older, Hugh Albany, I’m going to take pleasure in shooting the guts out of you and then kicking you among the garbage-bins for the alley-cats to sniff round.”

  “Very picturesque, but not likely to get us anywhere.” Cleo Latimer went on: “I don’t think, Hugh, you’re going to get rid of us as easily as that. You’ve been useful to us and, for a little longer, you’re going to remain useful, whether you like it or not. And you know as well as we do you can’t help yourself.”

  “I tell
you——” Albany began, but she ignored his interruption. She said:

  “Perhaps it would be a good plan for our association to end, but you’ve got to help us over the Baron Xavier business first——”

  “I tell you I’m through!” Albany rushed on, and this time she was forced to listen. “God knows how you kept yourselves out of it at the Travers’ girl’s inquest. But I know you and Charles caused her death just as if you murdered her with your own hands——”

  “She was an attractive thing,” Cleo Latimer murmured. “Pity. Weak, however. Just the type something was bound to happen to, sooner or later.”

  “Delightful pair I’ve got myself mixed up with!” Albany said bitterly. “But it’s finished now.”

  “Baron Xavier . . .” the woman interposed softly.

  “Yes, come on,” Gresham cut in, allowing a hint of amiability to creep back into his voice. “Help us out with him and, as Cleo says, then we’ll call it a day.”

  “You’ll have practically nothing to do, my dear Hugh. Just the little matter of Lady Tonbridge’s reception tonight for Xavier, and that’s all.”

  “No! No!” Albany turned on her fiercely. “I’m having nothing more to do with you——”

  “Just a matter of introducing us to him, that’s all,” the other man said.

  “You keep away from Xavier——!”

  But once more Mrs. Latimer’s soft voice interrupted him. “You want to marry Sherry Carfax, don’t you?”

  Albany flinched as if he’d been struck. She looked at him through a puff of cigarette-smoke and now her eyes were that smoky greenish-grey. “You won’t . . . unless I keep my mouth shut. Which of course I shall, if——”

  “You’ll keep your mouth shut for your own sake and Charles’,” he told her grimly.

  “You’re very sure of yourself,” she said slowly, and Gresham chimed in with: “We’ve got the whip-hand, not you——”! He broke off as she turned to him.

  “Give yourself a drink, Charles.”

  At the peremptory note in her voice he muttered to himself and moved to a corner of the room where glasses and decanters glinted. She said to Albany:

  “Now don’t be foolish, Hugh. It’ll be so much easier for us—and I mean you, also—if you co-operate. Such a little thing we want. Just for you to——”

  “What are you after Xavier for?” he flung at her. “He’s got nothing for you. Just another Balkan prince living in exile, that’s all!”

  She laughed softly. “You wouldn’t hold anything out on us, would you? You wouldn’t happen to know something about your friend which could be quite—useful?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No?” She shrugged and threw a glance at Gresham, who was staring at them over his drink. She went on:

  “Anyway, that needn’t bother you. All you have to worry about is the Tonbridge party tonight and see that we are introduced, very charmingly, to your friend Xavier.”

  “I’ve given you both my answer. You’re wasting your time. I only wish to hell I’d never set eyes on you, and the sooner I get myself out of here the cleaner I’ll feel!”

  Albany crossed to the door. Gresham started to say something and moved forward, but the woman gave him a look which stopped him. To the other she said unemotionally:

  “I’m warning you not to go like this, Hugh. If you do, you’re going to regret it.”

  He turned and flashed back at her, his voice harsh with desperation: “Tell Sherry what the hell you like—or as much as you dare! I’d rather lose her than have to listen to you another second. . . .”

  She answered, her voice elaborately casual: “Are you being deliberately stupid?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I mean this has gone beyond merely giving away your past to a girl you want to marry. We’ve reached the stage where we may decide upon action even more painful for you than that.”

  “I’d like to beat the living daylight out of you . . .!” Gresham choked.

  “Shut up . . .” she said to him through her teeth. Then to Albany: “I said, I’m warning you. If you take my advice, you’ll think again.”

  He stood and looked at them for a moment, his eyes narrowed his lip curled with unutterable contempt. Then, without a word, he went out and the door slammed after him.

  With an exclamation, Gresham crossed quickly to the secretaire. Mrs. Latimer had exquisite taste in Empire furniture. The secretaire was of rosewood, ornamented with ormulu, and there was a drawer above the flap. Gresham pulled it open and grabbed a small black automatic. It was flat and ugly and made an unpleasant anachronism with the delicate piece of furniture in which it had lain. He looked up from the gun as the woman stood beside him. She said:

  “Aren’t you being a little crude, Charles?”

  “Maybe,” he snapped back. “But this is a time for something stronger than words!” and he slipped the automatic into his pocket.

  Chapter Two – Enter Miss Frayle

  Miss Frayle was never fortunate with taxis. No doubt because she was slight and unobtrusive, meek of manner, soft of voice. No doubt because of the horn-rimmed spectacles over which she peered somewhat astigmatically and which seemed to be continually in danger of slipping off her nose. Or perhaps it was simply that taxi-drivers decided Miss Frayle was not looking for a taxi really seriously—at any rate, each and every one passed her by, flag up, flag down or flag covered.

  With a sigh, and somewhat in the manner of an enthusiastic naturalist seeking a rare species of butterfly, she had at length set off in pursuit through sundry side-streets. Lured by a hoot here and a taximeter ring there, she presently found herself in the quiet back-streets of Mayfair. It was now about seven o’clock. Miss Frayle had left her hairdresser’s just after six, feeling vitally feminine as befitted a young woman fresh from the master hands of Louis. Then, as taxi after taxi sped by, her spirits had drooped and she now found herself making an uncertain way through a shadowy mews. She had the vague idea of taking a short cut in the general direction of Harley Street. Then, as the twilight deepened and she realized she was going to be later than she intended, or than Doctor Morelle would approve, her footsteps quickened.

  Suddenly, from a shadow-filled turning in the mews, the figure of a man emerged. Miss Frayle pressed on steadily, not concerned with figures emerging from shadows, but intent on reaching her destination as quickly as possible. Then her heart gave an uncomfortable flutter and a horrid feeling of uneasiness came over her as she saw the man lurching towards her unsteadily. In her long association with Doctor Morelle she had witnessed many strange happenings, her spectacles had bent upon sights of varying degrees of unpleasantness and horror. But if there was one thing in the world which dismayed her more than another, it was a drunk.

  The individual approaching appeared to be very drunk indeed. The shadows were deceptive and made it difficult to see his face clearly. But he seemed to be a youngish man by the cut of his clothes and the slightness of his tall figure. He held a hand to his head and for a moment she thought he sounded as if he were groaning. But whether he was, or merely singing drunkenly to himself, she could not quite determine. She paused behind an open garage door, anxious only to be unobserved and hopeful the man would continue on his somewhat erratic way.

  But it was not to be. He reached her and was about to pass, then—as she started to breathe a sigh of relief—his knees suddenly buckled under him. He gave a dreadful groan and pitched forward, flat on his face. He lay still. To her horror, Miss Frayle realized one side of his face was all blood.

  “Oh, good gracious!”

  It was an inadequate exclamation, one she was given to making when confronted with the unexpected. For a moment she stood motionless, eyes wide behind her spectacles. What would Doctor Morelle do in such circumstances?

  It was a question which in the past she had more than once asked herself in situations of varying emergency, and never once had she been able to provide herself with the
answer. This was not altogether unaccountable, of course. The Doctor was inclined to react in a manner unpredictable. In such a case as this which now confronted her, for example, he could be expected to manifest an interest by ignoring the incident completely, proceeding on his way as if nothing had occurred, or on the other hand producing a policeman from the thin air.

  However, it was not in Miss Frayle’s nature to leave anyone obviously hurt, whether he was drunk or sober, and while she wished fervently she could induce a policeman to materialize, one did not appear to be in sight. In fact, the surrounding gloom was empty of anyone except the now significantly still figure lying outstretched upon the cobblestones.

  Heart thumping uncomfortably, she detached herself from the shelter of the garage door and approached the inert form. Stooping beside him she saw her first surmise had been correct. He was a youngish man, fair and, she noted, despite his ghastly pallor, good-looking. She glanced about her. Still the mews appeared empty. It seemed there was nowhere at hand either where she might get help. Suddenly she remembered a public house she had passed just before turning into the mews. The man gave another groan. His lips moved as if he were trying to say something. She could catch only an incoherent mutter. He tried desperately to raise himself and she restrained him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “Try and lie quiet,” she told him. “I’ll get help.”

  She hurried along the mews as fast as she could. Rounding the corner quickly, she saw a light glimmering through the glass doors of the public house. The abundantly bosomed character behind the private bar of the ‘Mayfair Arms’ viewed with some surprise the vision of a slim young woman rushing in, spectacles awry and somewhat breathless. Miss Frayle noted that, apart from the large person who eyed her over a glass she was polishing, the bar was empty.

  “A man in the mews——!” she gasped. “Badly hurt——! Could I have some brandy, please?”

  Sympathetic understanding melted the stony expression on the other’s face. “Make you feel faint, dearie? Yes—I’ve got a drop.”