Dr. Morelle and the Drummer Girl

by Ernest Dudley

‘Someone else?’ Drummer exclaimed.

  ‘Whom?’ the Doctor asked quietly.

  ‘Only an idea of mine,’ the film-actor said hurriedly. ‘I may be wrong.’

  ‘But you must have a reason for it,’ Drummer insisted.

  ‘I tell you I haven’t any reason. It’s just an impression I’ve had most of the time I’ve known her. After all, that isn’t so very long —’

  ‘Did she ever say anything?’ Drummer again.

  ‘It was more what she didn’t say.’

  Miss Frayle flashed Neil Fulton a look of complete understanding. Of course it was what a woman didn’t say that often meant more than mere words when she was in love. She gave a tiny sigh, which she hurriedly turned into a cough as she caught Dr. Morelle’s derisive glance fixed on her.

  ‘Though, as a matter of fact,’ the young man was saying, ‘there was something that started me off thinking if there might be someone in the background.’ He frowned as if trying to refresh his memory. ‘It was after the première of some movie, and she asked me in for a drink. I was looking round at her books, and happened to spot one that interested me. As I opened it a picture fell out. A photo of a man. Before I’d time to pick it up and see who it was she snatched it. She seemed a bit flustered, slipped the photo back in the book and replaced it where I’d found it.’

  Harvey Drummer’s expression was a mixture of surprise and heavy concern. Obviously, Miss Frayle concluded, his daughter had not confided the innermost secrets of her heart to him.

  Dr. Morelle’s eyes were heavy-lidded as he brooded over his cigarette. Watching him it seemed to Miss Frayle that the room had become charged with a sudden tension. Could it be that the young film-actor had revealed a clue that was destined to be of vital importance.

  The clue of the photograph?

  Dr. Morelle’s voice cut across the questions that were chasing their tails round Miss Frayle’s brain.

  ‘You can recall the book in which the picture was concealed?’

  Fulton’s brow corrugated as he glanced round the room.

  ‘Somewhere over here, I think.’ He moved to the books beside the fireplace. He halted, and ran his eye along the shelves. Harvey Drummer and Miss Frayle followed him.

  Dr. Morelle remained where he was, tall, and darkly aloof, his attitude deceptively nonchalant. Suddenly Fulton bent with an exclamation. ‘This is it, I’ll bet.’ His eyes flicked over the title of the book he had picked out. ‘‘The Collected Poems of John Donne’,’ he quoted.

  Eagerly he riffled the pages. He stopped suddenly.

  ‘Is it there?’

  It was Drummer’s voice, a harsh whisper, his jaw jutting forward. The other made no reply. He continued to stare down at the open pages.

  ‘Is it the photo?’ Miss Frayle squeaked.

  Neil Fulton looked up and nodded. ‘Looks as if it’s been cut out of a magazine.’

  ‘Who the devil is it?’ Drummer queried impatiently, and moved to him quickly. He took the glossy clipping, then he, too, gaped at it unbelievingly. ‘Well I’ll be damned,’ he gulped. Miss Frayle was at his elbow. She, too, stared in turn at the picture.

  It was a photograph of Dr. Morelle!

  Chapter Six – The House in Heath Lane

  The man tapped on the taxi-cab window behind the driver.

  ‘Stop here.’

  The taxi pulled up and the man got out, paid it off and stood watching the taxi until it disappeared round the corner. He always preferred to walk this bit of the way at night. It made a pleasant walk, the narrow grove, dark and shadowed, with at intervals the lamp-light making the trees gold and green oases, and then dark and shadowed again.

  He walked slowly up the hill, leaning forward against the incline, and stopping every few yards to gaze around him and take deep breaths of the cool night breeze. It was impossible to believe that the glow away to the right was London; you might be miles from any city, it was so quiet and peaceful. The houses on the opposite side had narrow gardens running down to them, their roofs were below road-level so that he could look straight across Hampstead Heath.

  Beneath the brim of his dark hat Leo Rolf was smiling to himself. It wasn’t a smile of amusement. More like the sort of look a cat might wear after it had been let loose among a batch of chickens. It was a sleek smile of self-satisfaction.

  He stopped at a small house half-way between the pools of light from two street lamps. Directly in front of it a tree trembled and whispered, and the house standing back a little from the houses on either side had the appearance of being drawn in upon itself, as if it were watchful and waiting. The front-door opened on to a few shallow steps to the pavement. He let himself in with one of the keys on his silver key-chain, closed the door behind him.

  He walked through slowly into his study. His movements were relaxed as he took a cigarette from the box on his writing-desk and lit it. Then he went to a side-table and mixed himself a bourbon whisky and soda. He had acquired a taste for bourbon whisky during his sojourn in the writing-mills of Hollywood. The mills of Hollywood which, as he had once observed, grind slowly, and such a lot of corn.

  He had dined out on the paraphrase for a couple of weeks.

  That was when he had first arrived there, when World Wide Films had bought his comedy which had scored a comfortable hit in London, and he had believed every word World Wide told him. It was only when his novelty appeal wore off that he found people not quite so quick off the mark to laugh at his witticisms. Later on it even got so that they turned their back on him the moment he opened his mouth to say anything, even about the humidity. That was when the Hungarian ex-princess hit the place, to be groomed by World Wide. She turned out to be a little Los Angeles hash-slinger, but it didn’t matter by then anyway; an aged and nutty screen-struck New York millionaire, who’d had his face lifted and was trying to crash movies, had the place by its ears.

  As the man drank his whisky he glanced up at a photo on the wall. It was of his school four, after they’d won the Junior Cup at Marlow Regatta on that glorious summer’s day twenty years ago. The fellow on the right bow, was himself. He’d come a long way since then. He took his mind back to that time when he had landed up in Fleet Street as a cub reporter and had quickly realised that unless he wanted to be a newspaperman for the rest of his life, which he didn’t — he wanted to be a writer — he’d have to look around for another sort of job. He found one eventually, still in Fleet Street. But with the difference that he was an assistant editor on a women’s magazine. It was a pretty boring business; but it gave him his evenings and week-ends, and he was able to start planning what was to be his first play. A comedy. He managed to get it tried out at an out-lying theatre. It was so-so. But though it didn’t cut much ice, the mere fact that he’d actually had it produced was encouraging. Seeing his play acted too, taught him a lot.

  Resisting the impulse without much effort — he had enough sense to know where his bread-and-butter was — to turn in his magazine job and concentrate on writing a real winner, he went ahead using up his nights and week-ends and wrote four more plays in a row, all of them comedies, without one of them seeing the glow of a single footlight.

  This was a stiff jolt, and he was about to chuck in his hand and resign himself to being a fourth-rate Fleet Street hack when he decided to have one more shot, and dreamed up the idea for an autobiographical comedy based on his own experiences on the magazine.

  A leading musical-comedy actress, advised by her doctor to give up dancing, chanced to read the play and saw in the leading character of a fashion-editress a part into which she could get her teeth, which happened to be a beautiful crowning job. She got it produced for a suburban try-out tour. Without being a smash it was a nice little proposition, and after the inevitable tinkering around and re-writing, it opened in London and settled down to a comfortable, if unsensational, success.

  One of the small-part actors in the play, making his first professional appearance, was named Ned — afterwards changed to the more eu
phonious Neil — Fulton.

  Leo Rolf’s gaze drifted towards some of the other photos. Views of his house in Beverley Hills; pictures of him tanned and robust-looking on the beach at Malibu; of him at night-clubs, restaurants, premières, with this star; arm-in-arm with that star, this producer, that director. All signed to him most affectionately. He’d had the foresight to build up quite a collection against the time of his return to London. He’d hung on to his American car with its Hollywood number-plate for the same reason; accumulated an awe-inspiring wardrobe of American-made clothes and shoes. He sighed a little and allowed his thoughts to linger over recollections of the blue skies, white houses, Spanish-type, Colonial, mediæval, ye olde English type, and the lush flowers, fruit, and the easy-going Californian scene. The fantastic merry-go-round that was Hollywood. Merry-go-round all right, yes, when you had the in, not so merry when they gave you the out, sign.

  But those first few months had been terrific; he’d wallowed in every minute of it. He’d gone out there as the author of London’s most tenacious comedy success, the film rights of which World Wide had bought for a nicely boosted sum — largely because he’d played hard to get and two other companies had put up strong competition.

  Not only had he worked on the film script of his play, but he’d been called in on an urgent re-write chore, non-stop three days and nights. A musical which had got way behind schedule and simply had to go on the floor pronto. Although he hadn’t known whether he was standing on his head or his feet, by some miracle he turned in a job which had won raves from the director. He didn’t know the director had his knife up to the hilt in the writer Rolf had ousted, and was conditioned to regard anyone on two legs with a mental development a degree above the moronic as a literary genius.

  From then on it was like taking candy from a baby. Until he caught up with Bertie. Or, rather, until Bertie caught up with him. Bertie was from London too, but didn’t allow any little sentimentality like that to interfere with his purpose, which was to shake Rolf down for a hundred and fifty dollars a week. Bertie was quite pleasant about it and, from his point of view, reasonable. Anyone else might have demanded real money — after all they could have him barred from every studio in Hollywood.

  Bertie had discovered that Rolf had employed a ‘ghost’ to write every word of his last picture for him. Not only the screen-play, but the original idea and story itself which Rolf had sold as his own to World Wide for an extra sum had been the ‘ghost’s.’ Moreover, Bertie was able to inform him, the ‘ghost,’ who could prove he had previously submitted the identical idea to the company several years before when it had been rejected, was going to sue for plagiarism. Unless Rolf made that weekly contribution to Bertie.

  After that things weren’t quite the same. It was out of the question for him to use another ‘ghost,’ and if he’d already guessed the grim truth that he carried too few guns to cope with the skill and dextrous literary box of tricks Hollywood demanded, he knew now he was utterly incapable of tackling any of the assignments handed him. His confidence was crumpled, his nerves battered, and when World Wide omitted to take up their option on him he soon found that the sunshine had grown garish and the blue skies brazen, the flowers and colourful backdrop of California cheap and artificial.

  He became homesick for London.

  Besides, if he got out now while the going was good he could cash in on his Hollywood trip, and with a bit of luck land on his feet all right back home. In an effort to elude Bertie he folded his tent like the Arabs, and as silently stole aboard a cargo boat from Los Angeles bound for Liverpool.

  Somewhat unfortunately for his peace of mind Bertie was also destined to develop nostalgic longings, and about a year after he had settled himself in this house overlooking the Heath this unpleasant memory of his Hollywood trip materialised on Rolf’s doorstep.

  Over a cup of China tea Bertie chattily outlined his plans for the future. He had one or two projects lined up, lone wolf stuff, but there might be a way, he felt, in which the other could help. Rolf had made it clear that the possibility of his recommencing the weekly contributions was just laughable and — a trifle ill-temperedly — if Bertie couldn’t see the funny side of it he could go round spilling the beans about that regrettable lapse in Hollywood, and the hell with him. He hadn’t worked on a picture in over three months.

  Bertie had smiled understandingly. Of course he had realised Rolf was nothing like so well-heeled as he’d been on the coast, and he was not the sort to put the squeeze on anyone when things weren’t going so well with them. Rolf expressed himself with certain lucidness on the subject of the other’s magnanimity. Amiably Bertie went on to explain how, without having to put his hand in his pocket, Rolf nevertheless could materially put him in the way of a source of income.

  For instance, Rolf had contact with people in the money. The sort of people, too, among whom might be someone likely to own a skeleton in their cupboard, whose past might harbour some indiscretion, some little folly which in their present position they would prefer not to have brought to light. The very sort of person, in fact, with whom Bertie was most anxious to become acquainted in a purely business way. For which favour he was prepared to reward Rolf with his continued silence and, moreover, if such an introduction resulted in his making a really rich haul, Bertie would gladly cut the other in for a slice of the takings.

  Two or three weeks later at a first-night Rolf, attracted by what seemed to be an entire battery of flashlights popping, had observed that the object of the press-photographers’ attention was Doone Drummer. With her was Neil Fulton. During the second interval in the bar Rolf had carefully manœuvred himself so that the young actor, returning with a drink for the Drummer girl, was bound to see him. They hadn’t met since his return from Hollywood. Judiciously Rolf refrained on this occasion from pushing himself forward to be introduced.

  It was as a direct result of this meeting, however cunningly fostered by ’phone calls and invitations for Fulton to drop in for a drink, that he had brought Doone Drummer to lunch today to talk over the idea she had for a picture.

  Following that casually-contrived meeting with Fulton at the theatre, Rolf had naturally tipped off Bertie. How did the prospect of making the acquaintance of Doone Drummer appeal to him? he had asked over the ’phone. Was she the sort of proposition he had in mind?

  He recalled the little silence before Bertie had answered, almost as if he’d caught his breath, and Rolf had congratulated himself that Bertie was no doubt taken aback by the dazzling prospect that he was dangling before him.

  Then Bertie had said quietly:

  ‘Not bad. Not bad at all.’

  Rolf hadn’t been deceived by the apparent casualness of that response. He knew the other knew that if Doone Drummer could be hooked and played she could be shaken down for something that would really be something. How and when was Bertie’s pigeon. All he had to do was to set the ball rolling.

  ‘Take it along,’ Bertie had told him. ‘Nice and easy. Don’t rush it, and let me know how it goes.’

  Rolf had said leave it to him; he would take care of every little thing.

  He smiled to himself. That same smile that wasn’t particularly humorous but was more like the sleek smile of a cat that had been loosed among some chickens. The doorbell rang. And the smile vanished as if it had been sponged off his face. Slowly he lowered the glass that was halfway to his mouth. He put it down and stood up, and moved hesitantly towards the door.

  He hadn’t ’phoned Bertie yet to give him the news about Doone Drummer’s visit, and it wasn’t usual for him to drop in without pre-arrangement. He couldn’t imagine who else it could be calling on the off-chance.

  Maybe, he thought, Bertie’s got something urgent he wants to get off his chest.

  He opened the door.

  ‘Good evening,’ a voice said to him out of the darkness, a voice he did not know. ‘I am Dr. Morelle.’

  Chapter Seven – The Intruder

  The discovery that
the mysterious photograph was of Dr. Morelle himself had completely non-plussed Drummer and Fulton, while Miss Frayle, of course, had been utterly unable to believe the evidence of her eyes. The Doctor however hadn’t batted an eyelid, explaining its presence in the book with urbane conviction:

  ‘I don’t think I flatter myself unduly when I suggest it is not impossible that, as a result of reading my works, many admirers have on those occasions when it has appeared in print, collected my photograph. As similarly others of lower intellect collect the photographs of their favourite film-star or sports-idol. When the picture fell out of the book,’ he’d added, with a glance at Fulton, ‘Miss Drummer was no doubt a trifle embarrassed at the idea of her harmless admiration being revealed — a perfectly understandable reaction — and she prevented you from picking up the picture.’

  And Harvey Drummer had only succeeded in giving the dagger of growing jealousy a further twist in Miss Frayle’s heart when he’d smiled at Dr. Morelle:

  ‘Doone often chatted about you, but I never knew she was such a fan of yours as all that.’

  Miss Frayle, as she had watched Dr. Morelle calmly return the cut-out photo of himself to the book and the book to its shelf, felt as if she was looking at a complete stranger. For the first time she was seeing him as a creature of flesh and blood, and not the cold, calculating machine-like figure through whose veins she’d always imagined ice and not blood coursed. As she goggled owl-like at him over her spectacles she’d realised that behind the frosty demeanour to which she had grown accustomed existed a human being whose presence she’d never before suspected. Beneath that austere exterior there beat an understanding heart, that flashing sardonic eye could actually grow warm with kindness. Her brain had reeled as the thought struck home that it was not impossible that his pulses might race, his glance soften with love.

  Love for whom?

  For Doone Drummer?

  The awful suspicion beginning to grow at the back of her mind had been interrupted by Dr. Morelle’s announcement that his next step would be to visit Leo Rolf at his house in Heath Lane.