‘Danger?’ the other queried. He walked slowly away from the door.
‘You have wisely agreed to refrain from making known your daughter’s disappearance,’ Dr. Morelle said. ‘If you accuse this woman, the secret will be revealed. She impressed me as being the not exactly reticent type. You could not be sure she would not repeat the story.’
‘I see what you mean,’ Harvey Drummer muttered, more steadily.
Miss Frayle watched him with a surge of sympathy as he brushed his hand with a weary gesture across his face.
‘It is imperative,’ the Doctor’s soothing tone proceeded, ‘that the kidnapper’s suspicions are lulled. If he learns that we actively intend to defeat his purpose, I cannot be held responsible for the consequences.’
The other nodded his head heavily.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘we must be careful. I’m sorry. I’m afraid I lost my head a bit.’
‘So far no damage has been done,’ was the response. ‘But I think it might have been done had you made that accusation. If the woman is innocent, she might allow the news of your daughter’s disappearance to spread. On the other hand, if she is guilty, hastily accusing her could prove nothing. Again if, for instance, she is an accomplice in the crime she might promptly advise her confederate of our suspicions. If we say nothing and she is innocent, we are no worse off. If she is involved she may be the instrument which will lead us to the discovery of the kidnapper himself.’
‘This goes, too, for Pearson, I suppose? Those black gloves, I mean.’
‘The same applies,’ Dr. Morelle acquiesced. ‘The fact that he possesses a pair of black silk gloves which he apparently wishes to keep secret may, under the circumstances, appear suspicious. But it is no proof that he is concerned with your daughter’s disappearance. Openly to accuse him would achieve no better result than in Mrs. Huggins’s case. We must,’ he emphasised, ‘proceed cautiously if your daughter is to return to you unharmed.’
‘A thought occurs to me,’ Harvey Drummer said suddenly frowning. ‘And that is I don’t see why the kidnapper has to have been at the party. As you seem to suggest.’
Dr. Morelle raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘What is there about it which strikes you as being an unreasonable assumption?’
‘I don’t see what grounds you’ve got,’ the other said bluntly.
Miss Frayle stared at him wide-eyed. The idea of anyone questioning Dr. Morelle’s pronouncements was something unusual in her experience. The Doctor, however, bent a magnanimous expression upon Drummer.
‘I mean,’ the other was continuing, ‘how can you be so sure whoever it was must have been present?’
Dr. Morelle drew at his cigarette for a moment before he spoke.
‘The evidence happens to be irrefutable,’ he smiled thinly. ‘How else could the kidnapper have known that I was present when first he telephoned? You will agree he must have known that, otherwise how was he at once aware it was I who answered? I had not announced my identity. He had telephoned your number.’
Harvey Drummer was immediately apologetic.
‘Why of course. You’re absolutely right.’
‘He always is, you know,’ Miss Frayle murmured.
‘What happened then,’ Drummer said thoughtfully, ‘was that they must have seen you and Miss Frayle go off with me to my room, and they nipped out and rang from a call-box?’
‘The call need not necessarily have been made from outside.’
‘What d’you mean?’ the other shot at him.
‘It could have come through from the telephone in your outer office. You have just informed me it is a separate line.’
‘My God, yes!’ Harvey Drummer rapped out. ‘Wouldn’t have taken them a moment to come along here.’
‘Which postulates a further probability.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That the kidnapper,’ Dr. Morelle pointed out, ‘was not only present at the party, but was someone acquainted with the topography of your house.’
Harvey Drummer stared at Dr. Morelle in open admiration.
‘You think of everything,’ he said. ‘Everything.’
Dr. Morelle gave a little smile and turned expectantly to Miss Frayle. But frowning again, Drummer went on thoughtfully: ‘Only thing is nobody springs to mind who knows the arrangement here except the people I employ. Apart from myself, of course,’ adding with a grim smile, ‘and you were witness to the fact that I couldn’t have made the call.’
There was an imperceptible pause before the Doctor observed quietly:
‘Have you considered some of your friends, business acquaintances? Is none of them aware of your separate telephones?’
‘Now you come to mention it,’ Drummer conceded, ‘there must be several.’
‘The circle of suspects therefore is not so narrow as perhaps would at first appear?’
There was a sudden exclamation from Miss Frayle and both of them regarded her questioningly.
‘I’ve just thought of something,’ she said.
‘Is it in any way connected with what we are discussing?’ Dr. Morelle queried sarcastically.
‘Yes, yes. Mrs. Huggins.’
‘What about her?’
‘Aren’t you rather presuming that the kidnapper is a man?’
Harvey Drummer stared at her hard.
‘Have you any reason for believing it isn’t?’ he asked slowly.
‘It might be someone deliberately putting on a man’s voice,’ Miss Frayle declared. ‘Have you thought of that?’
‘I must admit,’ Dr. Morelle said, ‘the idea of such a grotesque impersonation had not occurred to me. My imagination does not tend to become as inflamed as yours.’
‘What are you getting at, Miss Frayle?’ Drummer interposed.
‘Your housekeeper. Don’t you remember? She said she was stage-struck as a child. She used to act in children’s shows — men’s parts, because she could put on a deep voice.’
‘She did say that,’ exclaimed Harvey Drummer. He turned on Dr. Morelle who was staring at Miss Frayle as if fascinated. ‘What do you think of it?’
‘There are moments when Miss Frayle’s theories leave me utterly bereft of words with which to express myself,’ he replied. ‘This is one of them.’
‘But, Doctor —’ Miss Frayle began to protest. She was interrupted by the door opening. Pearson stood there holding an envelope.
‘This has just arrived for you, Mr. Drummer,’ he said. ‘It came by hand,’ he added.
‘By hand?’ Harvey Drummer took the envelope from the other, frowning at it.
‘Brethers found it on the doormat,’ Pearson explained. ‘He brought it to me at once.’
‘Thanks,’ Drummer said, and the secretary went out, closing the door behind him. Harvey Drummer glanced at Dr. Morelle, then down at the envelope again.
‘Delivered by hand,’ he repeated. ‘He certainly moves fast. ‘Harvey Drummer, Esquire!’’ he read aloud. ‘Typewritten, of course.’
‘It’s the reply,’ Miss Frayle gulped. ‘The reply to the advertisement.’
‘Bound to be,’ the other agreed, tearing open the envelope. ‘Asking for the money to be paid in five pound notes.’
Miss Frayle and Dr. Morelle, his eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened, watched Drummer quickly take out a folded sheet of paper and read it.
‘It’s typewritten too,’ he muttered.
‘What does he say?’ Miss Frayle breathed.
There was no reply for a moment. Harvey Drummer’s face had become a mask of dismay.
‘How much money does he want?’ Miss Frayle asked in a tense whisper.
‘He — he doesn’t want money,’ came the choked reply.
Dr. Morelle stepped forward with a quick movement, extending his hand for the letter.
‘Read it for yourself.’ And as the Doctor took the letter Drummer added in a defeated voice: ‘It’s not going to be so easy.’
Dr. Morelle’s eyes scanned the note, his face expressionles
s. Miss Frayle heard him murmur:
‘Diamond bracelet to the value of ten thousand pounds.’
‘Even mentions that Doone says she’ll repay me when she’s freed,’ Drummer muttered.
‘A diamond bracelet,’ Dr. Morelle mused. He looked up at Drummer and said: ‘It would appear that this person also possesses a certain intelligent anticipation.’
‘The cunning swine,’ Drummer burst out.
The Doctor tapped the letter thoughtfully against a thumbnail.
‘Clever. Quite clever,’ he said, half aloud. ‘An adversary worthy of my steel.’
Chapter Twelve – Bertie
Leo Rolf stood in the vestibule of the Marble Arch Hotel scanning the people passing to and fro.
The pink lighting gave their faces a curiously dream-like quality. From the restaurant behind him an orchestra could be heard in faint waves above the clatter of voices around him.
He gave a nervously impatient glance at his gold wrist-watch. Bertie was late. He’d ’phoned again last night after Dr. Morelle had left but only briefly to convey that he was unable to talk from his end, that Rolf would have to wait until they met the next night. He had been desperately impatient to hear what, if anything, Bertie knew about the disappearance of Doone Drummer. There had been nothing for it, however, but for him to wait until tomorrow.
And now his watch said twenty past nine, and Bertie had said he would be here by nine o’clock. Rolf took a packet of American cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped another one out. He was just lighting it when he caught sight of a familiar figure pushing his way through the crowd towards him.
He promptly adopted a slightly peeved expression for the other’s benefit.
‘Sorry, old chappie,’ Bertie apologised, smiling. ‘Just couldn’t get away.’
‘I was giving you up,’ Rolf grumbled.
‘Never do that,’ was the grinning response. ‘You know me; I may not be on the dot, but at least I’m worth waiting for.’
‘I sometimes wonder,’ Rolf said. But the other laughed away the bitterness underlying his voice.
‘Drink?’ he said. ‘There’s a bar downstairs.’
They made their way towards the stairs that curved down to the bar below. As they descended there flashed across Rolf’s mind for the thousandth time the sense of unreality he always felt whenever he and the other met. Had anyone told him that he could have remained on more or less friendly terms with a man who was blackmailing him he would have thought they were raving. Yet the incredible fact remained that though the other’s company was a constant reminder of the hold he had over him, their relationship on the surface at any rate was perfectly friendly.
The bar was full. After they had given their order to a white-coated waiter they looked around for somewhere to sit and talk. By the time their drinks were brought there was still no signs of anyone vacating the few small tables round the walls.
Bertie, however, did not seem to be worried, although Rolf was aware that they couldn’t have a great deal of time in which to talk. The other was never able to get away for more than an hour or so.
Bertie raised his glass.
‘Keep smiling,’ he grinned at Rolf’s somewhat doleful expression.
Rolf took a gulp from his drink, but his anxious face did not clear as he glanced round the bar.
‘I wanted to talk to you about — about last night,’ he muttered. ‘We can’t talk here.’
The other glanced round the bar as if realising for the first time that it was crowded.
‘Bit of a crush,’ he admitted. ‘Not quite the place for a cosy chat. We’ll have to stick to discussing the weather. There’s always the weather,’ he continued lightly. ‘Funny how there’s always a general topic of conversation no matter where you are. Hollywood has its humidity, here it’s the weather.’
Glancing at him Rolf realised Bertie was in one of his slightly irresponsible moods which added to the air of youthful charm about him. The line of his clean-shaven jaw was relaxed. He scrutinised him carefully. He wondered how old he could be. Must be past forty-five, he decided, and glanced up at his carefully dyed hair with its glossy sheen beneath the bright lights of the bar.
He had noticed that the other’s manner had in some subtle way changed since his arrival in London. It was more staid, almost consciously modulated sometimes. It was only on occasions like this that his boyish attitude took command and the near to stagily urbane manner was dropped.
Bertie was saying something to him, but he wasn’t listening. The atmosphere seemed to him to have grown stifling. He ran his finger round the inside of his collar to loosen it.
‘I don’t know about you,’ he muttered, ‘but I can’t breathe in this place. Can’t we get some air?’ He finished his drink while the other regarded him with faint amusement.
‘You’re all jumpy tonight, old chappie.’
‘You know the idea was we were going to talk,’ Rolf said. ‘That’s why we’ve met, isn’t it?’
‘That was the general idea.’
‘Not just about this and that,’ Rolf went on. ‘Besides, you’ll have to be pushing off in a little while. You always do.’
‘Want to move along, eh?’
‘Can’t we find a pub somewhere where there’s plenty of room? Then we can go into a huddle in a corner.’
Bertie glanced round him and then nodded his head.
‘Okay, let’s go.’
A few moments later found them in Oxford Street. They stood on the edge of the pavement for a moment with the stream of traffic and people rushing past them noisily. The lights from the cinema across the road glittered in a variety of colours. Rolf took in grateful gulps of fresh air, as they paused indecisively. A string of buses swung out from Edgware Road into Park Lane. Bertie was glancing round him. He said to Rolf:
‘Which way?’
‘There’s a pub along Oxford Street. Over on the other side.’
The traffic lights in front of them changed to green, and there was a surge of people across the road. Bertie grabbed the other’s arm.
‘Come on. Let’s find your dump.’
They paused for a moment beneath the glare of the cinema lights and continued along Oxford Street. Presently they saw a fake-Tudor public house on the corner.
‘This is it,’ Rolf said.
The long bar was, though fairly full, spacious and at once Rolf spotted a low table in a more secluded corner just being vacated by a young man and a girl. Hurriedly he pushed past some customers towards the corner, Bertie following him at a more leisurely pace. The young couple, the girl trailing a cloud of cheap perfume behind her, edged away from his aggressive approach, and Rolf threw himself triumphantly into a chair.
‘Okay.’ Bertie called out to him. ‘You fight anyone off while I get the drinks.’
Rolf nodded, settled himself and lit a fresh cigarette. He glanced about him. Nobody within a earshot, he noted with satisfaction. At the same time the hubbub of conversation that arose from the half-crowded bar would have made it difficult for anyone to overhear their conversation. He remembered having read somewhere that the best place for a confidential talk was in some crowded place where everyone else was talking so much that they couldn’t hear or weren’t interested in anyone else’s conversation. This seemed to be a pretty good choice.
Bertie arrived with the drinks, and as he sat down the other plunged into the subject that had been on his mind all the evening.
‘Talk about a Yogi’s bed of knives,’ he said; ‘it’s nothing to what I’ve been on since last night. This chap, Dr. Morelle, turning up out of the blue with this news about the Drummer girl. Fairly knocked me for a loop, I can tell you.’
Bertie eyed him over his glass.
‘You didn’t give anything away?’
Rolf snorted and took a drink from his own glass.
‘What sort of a dope d’you take me for?’
‘I thought he might’ve caught you off your guard,’ the other said. ‘That’s
why I rang you earlier, last night, to warn you. I guessed you might be hearing something. Being linked up with Neil Fulton I reckoned there was every chance you’d have someone come snooping round. That, plus the fact you were the last to see her before she vanished.’
‘You seem to know as much about her as Dr. Morelle.’ Rolf was frowning at him.
The other laughed gently.
‘Come to think of it I know a bit more. You see, chum, I’m the man who saw her even later than you.’
‘You?’ Incredulously.
‘Me,’ the other grinned at him broadly. ‘The old brain’s ticking over, eh?’
Bertie smiled mockingly and for several moments Rolf sat staring at him. He found it impossible to believe what had happened.
‘You’re — you’re kidding me,’ he gulped.
‘You’ve just old me yourself I knew more about it than this doctor guy,’ the other reminded him.
Rolf found himself shaking all over as if swept by an icy blast. His hands gripped the edge of the table so that the knuckles were dead white. Bertie’s voice came to him as from a distance.
‘It was a sudden inspiration I got,’ the voice was saying, and the calm amusement in his tone seemed to clear Rolf’s brain. Instinctively he leaned forward to catch the quietly spoken words. As conversationally as if he were describing how he’d caught a bus Bertie went on:
‘I knew she and Fulton were lunching with you, of course,’ he said. ‘I remembered you’d also mentioned Fulton would be leaving first for the studio. You see I’ve been thinking this blackmail racket is too cheap for me. Guess I’ve got a bit more ambitious. So I think to myself, why not pull off something really worthwhile? A big kill in one go, and I suddenly got a mental picture of that girl — worth God knows how many thousands — leaving your place in Heath Lane, all on her little ownsome. I knew it was what I’d been waiting for. Supposing, I asked myself, I meet her, driving a saloon car hired for the job and pick her up with some excuse?’
‘Is that what you did?’ Rolf queried him in a low voice.
The other nodded, leaning back with a self-satisfied smirk. He took a drink from his glass and then leaned forward again.
Dr. Morelle and the Drummer Girl Page 8
