Menace for Dr. Morelle

by Ernest Dudley

  It seemed a strange, unfinished end to the mystery, she thought. The threads of the case seemed to have become lost to her. She was too tired to think clearly, but only felt a vague dissatisfaction. Mrs. Latimer and the Baron. Had it been he, then, who had shot Lugg down in cold blood at Wapping Old Stairs? The Baron who had strangled Charles Gresham?

  These conjectures were flitting hazily through her mind as she saw the Baron placed in the car, then Hood indicated to take her seat. She started to climb in—suddenly a grip of steel clasped her arm. Doctor Morelle was beside her, shaking his head. To her surprise she saw he was also gripping the Inspector, who looked up at him with an expression of almost comical surprise. Doctor Morelle spoke clearly and loudly to the driver:

  “Keep your headlights on. Take us to the hospital first, then on to the police-station. We shall have to return for Mrs. Latimer.”

  He slammed the door of the car shut with his foot. The driver and the two plain-clothes men eyed him questioningly. He inclined his head and, as if in a trance, the driver nodded. The engine started, the car rolled off, leaving Miss Frayle and the Inspector gaping at the Doctor in frank bewilderment.

  As the car receded, Hood opened his mouth to speak but, with a quick, warning movement, Doctor Morelle drew him and Miss Frayle back into the shadows cast by the terrace.

  “Not a sound, either of you,” he hissed. “I have been observing the geography of the lake. Follow me closely, keep under cover at all costs and, above all, silence.”

  Miss Frayle’s eyes grew saucer-like behind her horn-rims. In a whisper no less menacing for its deadly quietness, the Doctor’s voice was in her ear: “No questions at this juncture, I warn you!”

  He turned away from her and began to move swiftly, but with the stealth of a cat, towards the lawn. Instead of crossing the lawn, he now kept to the shadows of the shrubberies which bordered it as it stretched to the lake.

  Cautiously, Miss Frayle and Hood followed.

  The sound of the police-car had died away by the time they reached the end of the shrubbery, which mingled with the semicircle of trees forming the background to the lake. Beneath a tall overspreading tree Doctor Morelle paused, motionless and silent, taking his bearings.

  The house and the lawn now lay behind them. The high shrubbery on their right, the lake immediately to their left. It shimmered smooth and silver where the moonlight shone down upon it, dark as gun-metal where the black shadows of the trees fell.

  It was a rough oval shape, perhaps fifty yards across at its widest point and thirty at the narrowest. The half-circle balustrade round it framed a kind of terrace, and a flagged path, cracked and overgrown with weeds, ran round the lake. On the wooded side, not far from where they stood, a small, semi-ruined temple stood at the foot of the trees that grew by the water’s edge, no more than a marble dome upon weed-clad pillars, a miniature sun-temple beloved of Georgian landscape gardeners. Like a ghostly legend of past glories, it showed no more than a fragile ruin in mingled shadow and moonlight.

  It was soon clear from Doctor Morelle’s quiescent attitude that he intended to wait in the dark shadow of the tree, so near the lake that they could hear the faint whisper of the water and feel its cold dankness on their faces.

  The Doctor’s intentions, so far as they could judge them, utterly mystified Hood and Miss Frayle. Yet so evident was it that he had some purpose known to him, though hidden from them, that they could do nothing but wait unquestioningly, uncomprehending and expectant.

  Despite the discomfort of the damp air and of feeling cramped as the long minutes passed, Miss Frayle felt a tense excitement mounting. Fatigue which she had thought overwhelming but a little while back had unaccountably dropped away. Firmly she straightened her spectacles upon her nose. She felt ready for anything. She glanced at Inspector Hood. He, too, stood motionless, caught up in the contagion of excitement which was heightened by the Doctor’s attitude of patient watchfulness.

  Miss Frayle felt rather than heard Hood give a small sigh. She saw him looking uncertainly at Doctor Morelle’s tall, immobile figure, as if he were conjecturing whether or not to risk speaking to him. She felt her left foot beginning to ache with cramp. She moved it cautiously and Morelle’s head whipped round angrily. He glared at her with dark and saturnine intensity, then his gaze turned back to the lake once more.

  Time ceased to have meaning for Miss Frayle. The minutes ticked by interminably. Nothing moved. No other noise than the faint gurgles and whisperings made by the water disturbed the stillness. It seemed as if all around had fallen into a silence that might never be broken.

  Then suddenly Doctor Morelle’s head lifted. He tensed like a coiled spring. Through the dank silence a faint sound reached Miss Frayle’s ears and icy chills crawled under her scalp. Her heart began to thud violently.

  There was a slither, the water splashed a little more noisily. A thread of silver flashed across the surface of the lake. Miss Frayle gave a sudden gasp. Instantly her arm was in such a grip from the Doctor’s fingers that she had to bite back a cry. Beside her she felt Hood crane forward.

  Something black, snake-like, writhed across the path ahead of them and grew taut. There followed a queer, scraping noise. The water swirled uneasily, making little eddies of white foam.

  They saw then that the taut, snake-like object was a rope, a rope which had lain slack and unseen, but which now, with some heavy object submerged in the lake on the end of it, was writhing towards the ruined sun-temple.

  Near the edge of the lake the surface of the water suddenly broke. The moonlight revealed the square black shape of a box being rapidly hauled in on the end of the rope. The box caught on the stone coping of the flagged path. The rope slackened, tightened again.

  From the shadowed ruins of the sun-temple a figure emerged, moved quickly and silently down to the water. It crouched over the box and hauled it up.

  A cold thrill of horror chilled Miss Frayle as she saw the crouching figure wore the dark coat and pulled-down hat of the man who had appeared from the darkness behind her at Wapping Old Stairs.

  It was too much for her. This was the climax and it was more than she could bear. She screamed. At the same moment, Doctor Morelle raised his voice:

  “Come on, Hood! At him!”

  Not more than a dozen yards separated them from the man lifting the box up to the path. The Doctor leapt towards him, followed closely by Inspector Hood.

  The man’s head jerked up and twisted at their approach, one hand dragging at the pocket of his coat, the other hanging uselessly at his side.

  “Stand back! Stand back, or I’ll shoot!”

  He had fallen across the dripping box as though to guard it with his body, a revolver glinting as he levelled it at them.

  But Hood bore down on him in a fierce rush, grabbed his wrist as the revolver exploded harmlessly upwards. There was a flash of steel and Doctor Morelle’s sword-stick pointed menacingly against the crouching man’s chest. The Inspector gave a twist, the revolver dropped with a clatter and, with a gasping cry, the man collapsed.

  With mingled horror and disbelief, Miss Frayle stared into the distorted face of Richard Whitmore, the pleasant and agreeable secretary to Baron Xavier.

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

  Miss Frayle found it difficult to believe that this creature, mouthing with impotent fury, was the nonchalant young man who had danced and talked with her so pleasantly at Lady Tonbridge’s party only a night or two ago.

  Hood had dragged him upright, holding him securely, but the other seemed in need of support rather than a detaining grip. The once lazy, amused blue eyes were now glaring; the smiling lips drawn back in a writhing grimace, a maniacal babble streaming from them.

  “A million! A million! Cleo—for you and me! A million between us! Cleo! Cleo!”

  He uttered the name in a final, despairing cry. Hood shook him hard. “She won’t answer you, Whitmore! Any more than Zusky, Gresham or Lugg!”

>   The other groaned. The wild expression died from his face. For a moment he stared at them blankly. Then he suddenly sagged forward and would have fallen but that Hood caught him in time and laid him down. Over his shoulder he warned Doctor Morelle, “Watch out for tricks.”

  “He has fainted. He has lost a considerable amount of blood. Observe.”

  He lifted Wihtmore’s useless arm, to reveal a bullet wound from which blood was oozing. With a rolled handkerchief he tied a tourniquet above the wound, observing drily:

  “As I prognosticated, your conjecture proved to be wrong. You did not take into account the possibility that someone other than the Baron and Mrs. Latimer might be here. Hence your assumption that she had attempted to shoot him.”

  “You—you mean you knew this other chap was going to be here?”

  “Certainly. It has been clear to me for some time that he was implicated and that your suspicions regarding Xavier were unfounded. At least, insofar as murder was concerned. He was merely guarding what will doubtless prove to be his own property.”

  He completed the tourniquet, rose and touched the box with his foot.

  “This contains the secret of the Purple Lake. A secret of which the Baron was well aware. Of which Richard Whitmore and Mrs. Latimer also became aware when they ascertained the contents of Zusky’s telegram.”

  Miss Frayle could control her patience no longer.

  “But what’s in the box, Doctor?” she cried. “What’s in it?”

  Without answering, he stooped over the box while Hood directed his torch on it. It was of the size of a small suit-case, covered in water-proofed canvas. Morelle ripped the canvas away with his sword-stick to reveal a heavy leather case fitted with a stout lock. Inserting the sword-stick under the lock, he glanced up at Miss Frayle and, with a sardonic smile:

  “Your insatiable feminine curiosity is about to be satisfied. No doubt you are entitled to some compensation for a somewhat strenuous and possibly nerve-racking evening.”

  He gave a quick twist of his wrist, which wrenched the lock open, and lifted the lid. Folds of oiled silk gleamed in the torchlight. Inspector Hood leaned forward. Miss Frayle, her eyes wide open and eager, watched Doctor Morelle unfold the wrappings.

  The Doctor produced thick wads of banknotes and bonds. A japanned tin document box glistened dully. Tucked beside it was a chamois-leather bag. Doctor Morelle opened the neck and poured a shimmering glitter of precious stones into his palm.

  “For such as this, men lose their heads and commit murder.”

  He glanced with bitter distaste at the sparkling heap he had spilled out of the bag. Then he poured them back, retied the bag, replaced it in the case and closed the lid. He raised his head intently.

  “I hear the car returning,” he said.

  Miss Frayle turned and caught the flash of headlamps from the drive as the police-car approached.

  Chapter Forty-Two – Summing Up

  Miss Frayle sat at her desk in Doctor Morelle’s study amid a litter of papers and unopened correspondence.

  Although there were one or two interesting-looking envelopes which she ardently wished to open, she had been too busily engaged upon a task which occupied her interest even more and from which, anyway, she had no respite.

  Doctor Morelle was working on his case-book. Invisible, sunk in a deep armchair, his precise, modulated voice reached her as if it were disembodied.

  “The primary difficulty in the case lay, of course, in the motive for Zusky’s murder. Several possibilities presented themselves, since he was a man engaged in political activities and machinations. It became more and more apparent as I learned the natures of the protagonists most closely concerned that mere mundane gain was the most likely motive. The greatest difficulty in the elucidation of the mystery lay in the fact that much relative to it had been planned long ago. It was only by patient sifting of facts and their correct interpretation that I was able to reach the first definite conclusions. In this respect, I was struck by the coincidence of Richard Whitmore having entered Baron Xavier’s employ when the latter was in the South of France, and that also there at the time were the remarkable Mrs. Latimer and Gresham.

  “It was at this time that Xavier contrived to begin the conversion of certain of his properties in his country into negotiable bonds and easily portable wealth. It was a matter which required gradual careful negotiating for fear of precipitating the revolution which eventually did, in fact, take place and drove him to seek refuge here. Zusky, faithful friend and secretary, was the means by which that wealth was transferred to this country.

  “The key to the motive for the first murder lay in the telegram Zusky sent Albany. It was evident that the former had urgent need to see Xavier in order to impart a warning, which a third party—Whitmore—was anxious the Baron should not receive, regarding the treasure secreted in the lake. Possibly he knew Whitmore had somehow stumbled on the secret. The telegram hinted at this danger threatening his employer’s fortune.”

  Doctor Morelle paused to take an inevitable Le Sphinx from the human skull which served as a cigarette-box, and light it. Through a cloud of smoke, he continued:

  “Whom did we know for certain was aware of the contents of the telegram? One: the recipient, Albany. Two: Baron Xavier himself. Three: Gresham, since the telegram was found by Miss Frayle in his flat after his demise. Furthermore, it could be assumed the knowledge of the message might also be shared by Mrs. Latimer.”

  Miss Frayle’s flying pencil paused. She frowned a little at him.

  “Why Richard Whitmore, Doctor? We knew all the others were mixed up in it, but how about him?”

  He sighed long-sufferingly.

  “Syntax is not your strong point, Miss Frayle. However . . .”

  He drew at his cigarette.

  “During my interview with Whitmore,” he went on, “he stated that Albany had telephoned Xavier. Whitmore passed the telephone call on to the Baron. I subsequently satisfied myself of the fact that it was possible for Whitmore to listen-in to any telephone calls Baron Xavier received. In questioning him, I asked him if he knew if the Baron had left Lady Tonbridge’s house at any time during that evening. It was at this point that he made his fatal mistake. He answered that he did not know. Later, however, when I questioned the butler, that individual stated quite clearly that Whitmore had approached him earlier in the evening instructing him to be discreet regarding Baron Xavier’s wish to slip out for a quarter of an hour or so, unobserved.

  “The butler was explicit, his word could not be doubted. Why had Whitmore deliberately lied to me? Obviously there was a definite reason for such a palpable falsehood. It led me to review my interview with him, and I gained the impression that he had implied by suggestion, very skilfully and obliquely, never by definite statement, that there was a quarrel between the Baron and Zusky.

  “I checked the time the butler had witnessed Baron Xavier leave the reception and the time he next saw him. The interval proved to be not more than ten minutes—in which time it would have been humanly impossible for him to have reached Jermyn Street, murdered Zusky, and returned. I was not unaware, however, of a certain superficial physical resemblance between the Baron and Whitmore, and, bearing that in mind, it occurred to me it would have been relatively simple for the latter to plant in the butler’s mind that the Baron wished to leave for a brief while. In fact Whitmore himself intended to slip away, safe in the knowledge that the butler would believe him to be the Baron, and murder Zusky. Which, as we now know, is what actually occurred. He arrived a few moments after Gresham had left, just in time to admit his victim into the flat.

  “However, as is so often the case with premeditated homicide, the unforeseen happened. The murderer was observed by the sneak-thief, Lugg. He had not witnessed Gresham’s arrival or departure. Lugg subsequently followed and attempted to blackmail Whitmore, with unfortunate results for himself. His last words as he died were no doubt an attempt to reveal it was the Baron’s man who had followed h
im to Wapping Old Stairs and shot him.

  “Turning to Gresham, he was no more than a catspaw for Mrs. Latimer. Aware he was losing his nerve and was liable to break, she telephoned Whitmore, warning him. In fact she telephoned him while I myself was conversing with Whitmore. Without compunction, he set out to silence Gresham, even as he subsequently silenced Lugg. By now, Mrs. Latimer had discovered the meaning of the reference in the telegram to the Purple Lake. Together with Whitmore, she drove down to Stormhaven Towers following Lugg’s murder. At the same time, Baron Xavier suspected an attempt was being made to rob him of his property and he determined to guard it, no matter what suspicion might fall on him as a result.

  “Therefore we have the arrival at Stormhaven Towers first of Baron Xavier, then Mrs. Latimer and Whitmore. The latter, foreseeing the Baron might be there, took the precaution of placing Mrs. Latimer on guard at the house, then proceeded to the lake. Mrs. Latimer saw the Baron attempt to intercept him and fired, wounding him. This effort proved too much for her. Suffering, as she was, from a fatal heart affection, the intense excitement and strain which had been imposed upon it within twenty-four hours, plus the final shock of the shooting, was too much, and she succumbed. Whitmore was in turn shot in the arm by Baron Xavier, who then collapsed from his own wound. Before Whitmore could reach the house, Inspector Hood and I, accompanied by Miss Frayle, were upon the scene. Whitmore concealed himself, and I deliberately led him to believe we were going off with the Baron in the police-car.”

  Doctor Morelle paused and stubbed out his cigarette.

  “That will suffice for now, Miss Frayle.”

  With a sigh she closed her notebook. She glanced at him for a moment, hesitated, then, fixing her glasses firmly on her nose and her lips tightening with resolution, she rose from her chair, took something from the desk and crossed to the Doctor.

  “I had occasion to go to the safe just now.”