Dr. Morelle and the Drummer Girl

by Ernest Dudley

  Little did she guess that early that morning a tall, gaunt figure in a long dressing-gown had crept cautiously down to the hall. After scrutinising every word about Leo Rolf’s murder he had carefully refolded the newspapers and, leaving them artistically sticking through the letter-box, Dr. Morelle had gone back to bed.

  Miss Frayle picked up the Telegram for the second time, and stared at the headline.

  CORPSE ON FAMOUS

  DOCTOR’S DOOR-MAT!

  Once again she skimmed through the racily lurid and not entirely accurate account of the murder. She was fascinated by the imaginative trimmings with which the reporter had decked out his story. She felt she was reading about a lot of people she had never known.

  There were photographs of Leo Rolf, Dr. Morelle and herself. She regarded them closely. Rolf looked all right. The Doctor looked extraordinarily attractive: what a pity he hadn’t gone on the films, she thought irrelevantly. As for herself, she had to admit it didn’t exactly flatter her.

  With a sigh she wondered if she really could have looked like that white blob with two circles which she presumed were her spectacles. It occurred to her the photographer responsible must have deliberately touched up the picture under Dr. Morelle’s instructions to make her appear as ghastly as possible.

  Replacing the newspaper she switched the ’phone through to the laboratory. Dr. Morelle did not look up as she came in, but remained with his eye glued to a microscope, intent on the slide he was examining.

  He was investigating the possibility of determining the difference between blood-groups in relation to the criminal tendencies of the persons concerned. He had been for some time considering a theory that any emotional upheaval must give rise to certain glandular reactions which in turn might have an effect on the blood. This effect might remain apparent in the blood for a length of time afterwards. The conclusion, therefore, was that it would be possible by applying an appropriate blood-test to discover whether a suspect had suffered any emotional stress at the time of the crime in question. Such an indicator could prove of inestimable value in the process of determining a suspect’s innocence or guilt.[3]

  Miss Frayle stood patiently waiting for the figure concentrated over his instrument to condescend to notice her presence. She regarded the array of paraphernalia on the bench at which he was working, then her gaze wandered round the laboratory. It was small, but had been constructed under Dr. Morelle’s supervision so that every inch of space was utilised to the full.

  The most modern equipment in gleaming steel and glass occupied the shelves, cupboards and benches all around her. In one corner taps shone over a bright sink. There were stacks of basins of varying sizes, in copper, aluminium and porcelain. Beakers, graduated flasks, specimen-jars, miscellaneous pipettes stood in orderly array. A wonderful and complicated apparatus for micro-analysis, with improvements designed by Dr. Morelle himself, took up the entire length of one bench. Mortars and pestles, retorts and bulbs, crucibles and test-glasses winked and glinted from the shelves. Racks of test-tubes, syphons, funnels and condensers filled the glass-fronted cupboards.

  On one wall a synchronous clock silently registered the passing seconds. An electric signal timing clock stood near an analytical precision balance, capable of accurately weighing the minutest portion of a single hair. There was a percentage hygrometer, and a thermograph, towards which Miss Frayle inevitably turned to watch, fascinated, the delicate tracing of the pen.

  Dr. Morelle glanced up as if aware for the first time of Miss Frayle’s presence. As usual she received — as she did whenever she entered the laboratory — the distinct impression that he was subjecting her to the identical scrutiny he gave one of his specimen-slides.

  She gave him a faint, nervous smile, but his expression remained sombre as he produced his cigarette-case and lit an inevitable Le Sphinx.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she queried brightly.

  ‘How is what going?’

  She nodded towards the bench at which he was working.

  ‘Why all that, of course.’

  He fixed his gaze on her, and then asked through a spiral of cigarette-smoke:

  ‘Miss Frayle, have you the faintest conception of the investigation with which I am at this moment occupied?’

  She hesitated, started to say something and then gave it up.

  ‘As I suspected, you have not,’ he said. ‘I mention the fact merely to point out that your question was purely rhetorical. Had I bothered to answer it I should have been wasting my time.’

  Refusing to be snubbed, however, she continued chattily:

  ‘I see none of the newspapers have mentioned anything about Doone Drummer being kidnapped.’

  He moved round the bench glancing at some pages of notes he had picked up before he made any reply.

  ‘Inspector Hood’s assurance sufficed me in that respect. There remained the possibility, of course,’ he added, ‘that you might indiscreetly reveal the secret while gossiping with one of those pestering journalists.’

  ‘Dr. Morelle,’ she protested. ‘As if I ever would.’

  He made no further comment, but gave his complete attention to the notes he was reading. Miss Frayle tried again.

  ‘They’ve splashed it all over the front pages,’ she said. ‘With your picture, and mine too.’

  ‘No doubt you extended the aforementioned reporters some bribe in order to obtain publicity for yourself.’

  An angry retort rose to her lips, but before she was able to utter it the telephone rang.

  ‘I’ll answer it,’ she said.

  ‘That,’ he observed still without looking up from his notes, ‘is the first constructive remark you have so far made.’

  ‘Dr. Morelle’s house.’ And then Miss Frayle’s expression underwent a dramatic change. Her eyes widening behind her horn-rims, she held her hand over the receiver and whispered urgently to the Doctor. ‘It’s him —’

  He glanced across at her with a faint expression of interest.

  ‘He, I presume you mean.’

  ‘Never mind all that,’ she breathed agitatedly. ‘It’s the kidnapper.’

  She had hardly completed the word before the Doctor was at her side and had wrenched the telephone from her grasp.

  ‘Dr. Morelle speaking.’

  The familiarly disguised voice with its underlying mocking tone greeted him.

  ‘The newspapers tell me someone staged quite a performance for you last night. Though I imagine a little thing like a murder wouldn’t bother you at all.’

  ‘I find it difficult to believe you have telephoned me merely to discuss a matter in which you can have no real interest,’ Dr. Morelle replied.

  There was a slight pause, then:

  ‘Just some opening conversation, that’s all.’

  ‘I think we may dispense with any such formalities.’

  ‘Bit touchy aren’t we this morning? Okay. I called you to say how pleased I was you didn’t take the opportunity to mention our little matter to the cops. And since we are chatting we can talk a little business. Save me having to trouble Drummer. He’s got the diamond bracelet?’

  ‘He has.’

  ‘A ten thousand pounds’ job?’

  ‘It is.’

  There came a malicious chuckle from the other.

  ‘Daresay that took the wind out of your sails, eh? Expecting I’d ask for five-pound notes and give you the chance of taking the numbers.’

  Dr. Morelle remained silent.

  ‘Anyway,’ the other went on, ‘next thing is for you to hand over the bracelet and me to hand over the girl.’

  ‘That is the procedure I was anticipating.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ve kept your word with me, I’ll keep my word with you. So this is how it goes. Listen.’

  Dr. Morelle glanced at Miss Frayle. She stood tensed and taut, every nerve tingling at the recollection of that sinister voice at the other end of the telephone. The Doctor gave a nod at her note-book. In her excitement she let i
t slip from her hand to the floor. He glared at her as she bent and quickly picked it up.

  ‘There’s a small church between Gloucester Terrace and Sussex Gardens,’ the voice was saying in Dr. Morelle’s ear. ‘St. Julian’s it’s called. Almost directly behind Lancaster Gate tube station. Got that?’

  ‘A small church named St. Julian’s,’ Dr. Morelle said, and Miss Frayle scribbled quickly. ‘Almost behind Lancaster Gate tube station, between Gloucester Terrace and Sussex Gardens.’

  ‘Correct. A passage runs through with the church on one side and a graveyard behind a high wall on the other. Get that?’

  Again Miss Frayle bent her nose over her note-book and scribbled.

  ‘At exactly midnight tonight you will be half-way along the passage. Alone. With the bracelet. You’ll hear this from the other side of the wall.’ The speaker whistled some bars of haunting music.

  ‘Rubenstein’s Melody in F,’ Dr. Morelle said.

  ‘Is that what it is?’ was the slightly surprised reply. ‘One lives and learns. Anyway, when you hear that tune from the graveyard you just sling the package containing the bracelet over the wall. Simple as that. Okay?’

  ‘You make yourself perfectly clear,’ Dr. Morelle said smoothly.

  ‘If it sounds melodramatic — midnight at the churchyard stuff — don’t let it bother you a little bit. I picked the time and place on account of it’s where there’ll be no one around, and you won’t get a chance to see me. Don’t make any mistake about that either. Be there alone, and soon as you’ve chucked the bracelet over the wall, beat it. It can be unhealthy around a graveyard at that hour, and you wouldn’t want to catch a chill.’

  ‘And Miss Drummer?’

  ‘She’ll be delivered back at her flat soon as I’ve checked the diamonds are a hundred per cent. Say within a couple of hours of you doing your stuff.’

  ‘What guarantee do you offer that you will complete your part of the bargain?’

  ‘The guarantee that if I say I’ll do a thing I do it,’ the voice rasped. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  Dr. Morelle gazed abstractedly at Miss Frayle for a moment. Her pencil poised she gave him a questioning look. Then he spoke into the telephone again.

  ‘It would appear I have no alternative but to take it,’ he said.

  Chapter Seventeen – The Trap

  ‘It’s a great idea,’ Inspector Hood is saying. ‘We’ll give you all the co-operation we can.’ It is later that morning in Dr. Morelle’s study. Stirring the inevitable cup of tea Miss Frayle has produced for him on his arrival, the Inspector glances at the Doctor with frank admiration. Miss Frayle scribbles some hieroglyphics in her note-book, then looks up expectantly.

  ‘I flatter myself,’ Dr. Morelle murmurs, leaning back in his chair behind the writing-desk, ‘the scheme is fool-proof. There is no risk of the man being scared off, with fatal consequences for Miss Drummer.’

  Miss Frayle represses a shudder. She recalls that sinister voice over the telephone. In her mind’s eye she holds the picture of the owner of the voice — a dark, vulture-like creature who would revenge himself upon anyone who crossed him with remorseless cruelty.

  Inspector Hood jams his pipe into his mouth and gets up from his chair. He stands there, a burly, comforting figure, one hand grasping his trilby, and he gives Miss Frayle and Dr. Morelle a confident smile.

  ‘Be getting along,’ he says. ‘Set about briefing my chaps for the job. Need around twenty men, I reckon.’

  Dr. Morelle smooths his chin thoughtfully.

  ‘What might appear to be the scheme’s one slight disadvantage,’ he observes, ‘is the force of men required to trap a single individual.’

  ‘So long as we nab him,’ the other replies, ‘and the girl’s unharmed. That’s all that matters.’

  ‘That is the objective. It must be attained with no risk of failure.’

  ‘Let’s check through the plan again,’ the Inspector says. ‘Though it’s simple enough.’

  Dr. Morelle nods. ‘Having reconnoitred the ground, so to speak, I am convinced the operation can be carried out successfully.’

  Hood massaged his jaw and drew his brows down in a frown of concentration.

  ‘First,’ he said, ‘we plant one man in the church belfry with his portable combined transmitting and receiving radio.’

  ‘One of those walkie-talkie things,’ Miss Frayle put in.

  ‘That’s what they’re called,’ Hood said. ‘We’ve got the newest type. About the size of an ordinary telephone, with a small aerial. Work on a special dry battery.’

  ‘What range have they?’ Dr. Morelle queried.

  ‘Two, three hundred yards.’

  ‘I see.’ The Doctor tapped the ash off his cigarette with a faintly dubious expression.

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Hood asked. ‘That’ll be ample range for us.’

  ‘It occurs to me,’ was the reply, ‘in the case of these portable combined radios —’

  ‘Walkie-talkies,’ Miss Frayle smiled at him, knowing his abhorrence of slang terms. Ignoring her the Doctor went on musingly:

  ‘Their range must be governed by the terrain over which they are employed. In open country, for example, obviously it would be much wider than in crowded districts. In the locality in which we shall be operating the range could be reduced to almost nil.’

  ‘All that’ll be taken into account,’ Inspector Hood told him firmly.

  The frown that had clouded Dr. Morelle’s face suddenly cleared.

  ‘You may take it,’ he went on, ‘that your — ah — walkie-talkies — I suppose I must refer to them thus in order to make myself understandable to Miss Frayle — will operate successfully. You would encounter impossible interference only in the vicinity of steel and concrete buildings, and where you had extraneous noises such as traffic with which to contend. You will be employing your device tonight, however, against dwelling-houses for the most part. There are no structures of the type I have mentioned, while traffic at that time of night will be almost negligible.’

  Inspector Hood took a moment to absorb the Doctor’s exposition of the conditions under which he would be working. Then he said:

  ‘Fine. Now, where were we?’

  ‘With your man in the church belfry,’ Miss Frayle said.

  ‘From which position,’ Dr. Morelle said — and Miss Frayle sighed to herself; there were times when he did love the sound of his own voice so much — ‘he can overlook the wall. Without revealing his presence he can easily observe anyone in the graveyard — their arrival and departure. He will keep his voice down to a whisper as he broadcasts into the special microphone provided for him.’

  ‘It’ll be like one of those running commentaries over the radio,’ Miss Frayle put in.

  ‘That’s the idea,’ Inspector Hood grinned at her.

  ‘The object of this commentary is of a somewhat more serious nature than is generally the case,’ Dr. Morelle said coldly. ‘You have the street map of locality,’ he proceeded. ‘It should be a simple matter for you to plant the rest of your force at strategic points.’

  ‘About four spots round the church will cover that,’ Inspector Hood nodded. ‘They’ll pick up what the chap in the belfry says. Then, whichever route the blighter takes after he’s collected the bracelet, they’ll relay the information over their walkie-talkies to my other men in their positions farther away.’

  ‘Those who will not be on the route he takes should of course be able to converge upon the quarry.’

  ‘That’s the idea,’ Hood said enthusiastically. ‘Soon as they know he isn’t coming their way, they’ll shift over to the streets he does take.’

  ‘So all the way along,’ Miss Frayle said, ‘somebody will be able to keep track of him. Until he reaches his hiding place.’

  Inspector Hood’s brow corrugated slightly, his great hand mauled his jaw as he said to Dr. Morelle:

  ‘Think my chap in the belfry will be able to see all right? Be damn dark tonight, d
on’t forget. No moon. If he can’t see and this feller’s wearing rubber shoes he might make his getaway.’

  ‘I am perfectly aware that the night will be completely dark,’ Dr. Morelle replied. ‘The conditions favour both sides, however. It will lessen the risk of the presence of your officer in the belfry being detected. And,’ he added, ‘our friend will announce himself by whistling the tune of Rubenstein’s Melody in F.’

  Inspector Hood’s expression grew dubious.

  ‘Don’t expect my man’s all that musical,’ he said. ‘But soon as he hears that whistle he’ll know it’s him.’

  ‘It goes like this,’ Miss Frayle offered helpfully, starting to whistle the melody. She broke off with a blush as she caught Dr. Morelle gazing at her with exaggerated wonder.

  ‘A creature of varied talents,’ he observed to Inspector Hood. ‘Capable of rendering extracts from the classics upon the slightest provocation.’

  Miss Frayle turned away, biting her lower lip.

  ‘I thought she was doing rather nicely,’ Inspector Hood said comfortingly. But Dr. Morelle was continuing:

  ‘I took the precaution personally to survey the graveyard from the belfry.’

  ‘But that was an hour or two ago,’ Miss Frayle swung round quickly to remind him. ‘In broad daylight.’

  ‘I hardly need reminding of that,’ he snapped at her, and she subsided again. He turned to Inspector Hood. ‘There is only one entrance to the graveyard, a small gate in Sussex Gardens. It will be the entrance and exit used tonight, for even though the gate is locked it is a simple matter to climb over it.’

  ‘No other entrance?’ Inspector Hood queried.

  ‘Positively none,’ Dr. Morelle was emphatic. ‘The gate,’ he went on, ‘is well within vision of the belfry, there is a street lamp a few yards away.’