Dr. Morelle and the Drummer Girl

by Ernest Dudley

  Inspector Hood regarded Harvey Drummer anxiously. Drummer was only half-convinced by Dr. Morelle’s argument, and Hood feared the other would at any moment charge off, intent upon investigating his suspicions. The Inspector had promptly realised the dilemma in which Dr. Morelle found himself. As a result of their visit to the Aloha, both Hood and Dr. Morelle were satisfied Rosie Huggins was not implicated in the kidnapping. But Dr. Morelle could not inform Drummer accordingly without revealing the liaison which the woman had begged him to keep secret.

  It was more than likely that if Drummer rushed up to the housekeeper’s room at this moment he would discover she was in fact not in bed. In which case, her prearranged excuse might not convince him, and in order to prove conclusively she was not concerned in his daughter’s disappearance the story of her association with Goodwin would have to be revealed. The danger of her being forced into such a damaging confession must be prevented. Obviously, therefore, Dr. Morelle had decided that even if Pearson’s behaviour did invite investigation, this — for Rosie Huggins’ sake — was not the moment to put it into operation.

  ‘If a simple explanation is forthcoming,’ Dr. Morelle was telling Drummer, ‘for your secretary’s black gloves — which are now missing — and Mrs. Huggins’ falsehood, your action might result in their suspicions being aroused regarding your daughter.’

  ‘Supposing they did guess something’s happened to Doone?’ Drummer protested. ‘I don’t see how it matters now. They could be sworn to secrecy —’

  Inspector Hood glanced quickly at Dr. Morelle. How would he wriggle out of that one? Pausing only long enough to tap the ash of his cigarette, Dr. Morelle replied coolly:

  ‘I must remind you of a further aspect of the case. Which is that though Mrs. Huggins or Pearson may not be the actual kidnapper, the possibility still remains that one — or both of them — may nevertheless be implicated in some way. So far,’ Dr. Morelle continued persuasively, ‘we have contrived not to disclose our hands. Though at this stage circumstances may appear dark, we shall not lighten our task by revealing to anyone more than is absolutely necessary.’

  Harvey Drummer’s attitude relaxed somewhat. He turned away from the door and shook off his aggressive eagerness with a fatalistic shrug.

  ‘You don’t think it’d be a good idea, then, to check with my ’phone,’ he said. ‘Just in case we might pick up some clue?’

  Noting the change in his demeanour Dr. Morelle pressed home his advantage. Shaking his head he said:

  ‘It seems to me unlikely it could have been either Pearson or your housekeeper on the telephone. The voice which I have had the opportunity of hearing upon three occasions, although disguised, has nevertheless none of the characteristics of either Mrs. Huggins’ speech or Pearson’s ingratiating tones.’

  ‘You certainly should know about that,’ Drummer agreed. ‘Come to think, if it was either of them they’d be running a bit of a risk, making the call from my office.’

  The Inspector had been thoughtfully massaging his heavy chin.

  ‘I suppose,’ he put in, ‘our friend on the ’phone was telling the truth?’

  ‘So far as Miss Frayle is concerned,’ Dr. Morelle replied, ‘there seems little doubt she is his prisoner. He is fully cognisant of the snare we laid for him; he even mentioned your name in its connection. He must have obtained the information from Miss Frayle. How else could he have come by it?’

  ‘And you think he’s telling the truth about Doone?’ Drummer asked anxiously. ‘You don’t think he’s killed her? After all, he’s already got one murder on his hands. Rolf, I mean.’

  Dr. Morelle drew thoughtfully at his cigarette.

  ‘I favour an optimistic view,’ he declared. ‘If your daughter was alive before tonight’s ill-fated attempt to rescue her, I see no reason why she should not be alive now. The kidnapper is in no greater danger. In fact, Miss Frayle’s capture must give him greater confidence than ever that he can achieve his purpose to his complete satisfaction. Doubtless Miss Frayle, in his view, provides him with a powerful pawn in the game he is playing.’

  Inspector Hood saw Drummer’s face lighten at Dr. Morelle’s optimistic words. He thought he detected a shadow of pessimism at the back of the Doctor’s eyes. Shrewdly he detected that behind the façade he was succeeding magnificently in putting up, the capture of Miss Frayle had struck Dr. Morelle a shattering blow. He promised himself that at the first opportunity he got he’d tell Miss Frayle all about Dr. Morelle’s growing anxiety for her. Anxiety — glancing again at Dr. Morelle — even his inscrutable countenance couldn’t altogether mask. He imagined she’d feel it was almost worthwhile being kidnapped just to be told that. It never occurred to him he might never have the chance of imparting this heart-warming information to Miss Frayle.

  It never entered Inspector Hood’s mind that in fact he might never see Miss Frayle again.

  A little later Dr. Morelle and the Inspector left the house in Park Lane to return to their respective homes, Tired, but resolutely refusing to admit their spirits were low, they had decided they could do little more except patiently await whatever news the next few hours would bring.

  Chapter Twenty-Five – Nightmare

  Dr. Morelle scowled irritably as he watched the slim familiar figure drawing further away from him.

  Soon, he knew, she would be lost to sight among the gravestones that stretched on and on into infinity. It was bright moonlight. Across the graveyard tall cypress trees threw long black shadows into which Miss Frayle kept disappearing, reappearing in the moonlight once more. Dr. Morelle felt a tap on his arm and Leo Rolf materialised before him, sipping from his glass of bourbon whisky. Rolf moved round and obscured the Doctor’s view of Miss Frayle. Irritably Dr. Morelle pushed him aside and tried to hurry away, but his feet were entangled in the roots of one of the cypresses, and he found it impossible to move.

  Rolf’s pale blue eyes wore an aggrieved expression, and he shrugged and hurried off, Dr. Morelle staring after him at the ghastly knife wound in his back. The Doctor turned again to look for Miss Frayle. He was gratified to see her approaching him. He observed she was wearing black silk gloves, and both her bare arms were covered with diamond bracelets. She was looking anxiously from side to side, stopping every now and again to peer behind the gravestones, and he knew she was looking for Pearson’s pince-nez.

  Again Dr. Morelle tried to free himself from the cypress tree roots, but without success. He tried to call out, and then discovered that he was smoking three Le Sphinx at once and he couldn’t speak.

  Miss Frayle drew nearer, still searching for the pince-nez. Suddenly Dr. Morelle became aware that Doone Drummer was in the church-tower behind him preparing to leap down and show Miss Frayle a selection of photographs, all of them of himself. If only, he thought, he could order Miss Frayle away before Doone Drummer landed in her path. Why wouldn’t she leave the churchyard without bothering her silly head about Pearson’s pince-nez? If he could disentangle his feet he could lead her out of the churchyard. Inspector Hood was waiting in his police-car to drive them back to the Aloha off Cheyne Walk.

  With mounting anger and frustration Dr. Morelle knew that there was no need for her to worry about the pince-nez. It was only her ridiculous intuition which made her believe they were a vital clue. The church-bell began to ring behind him. Now Dr. Morelle could see Miss Frayle was wearing the pince-nez herself all the time, and the tempo of the churchbell became a continuous staccato jangling, and he woke up to find the bedside telephone ringing in his ear.

  As he lifted the receiver he glanced at his bedside clock. Seven forty-two a.m. Harvey Drummer’s voice reached him agitatedly over the wire.

  ‘It’s Mrs. Huggins. She’s dead. Committed suicide.’

  Dr. Morelle had been idly speculating about the dream from which he had been awakened. He had been impressed by its Gothic atmosphere of terror and fantasy. Drummer’s words drove everything out of his mind. He sat up in bed, his jaw-line grim and taut as he
listened.

  Hurriedly Harvey Drummer described how Mrs. Huggins had been discovered a few minutes before by Brethers. Apparently the housekeeper habitually brought a morning cup of tea to Brethers at seven o’clock. Half an hour after she had failed to give her usual knock on his door he had gone along to her room. She was in bed. She was dead. On the floor was a glass that had contained orange-juice.

  ‘It was cyanide,’ Drummer asserted. ‘Her face was definitely cyanosed, and there was a smell of almonds round her mouth.’

  ‘Did you try artificial respiration?’

  ‘Yes,’ was the reply. ‘I happen to know a bit about this sort of thing. Brethers and I did all we could. Ammonia. Brandy. But it was hopeless.’

  ‘I will come round at once,’ Dr. Morelle rapped.

  ‘Should I ’phone the police?’

  ‘I will speak to Inspector Hood,’ Dr. Morelle told him. He hung up. He then dialled the number of Inspector Hood’s home.

  What was the meaning of this unexpected and sensational development? he wondered as he listened to the burr-burring of the telephone at the other end. Was Rosie Huggins’ death another twist to the already tangled skein in which he had become involved?

  The receiver at the other end was lifted and a woman answered it. He recognised Mrs. Hood’s voice. He had met the Inspector’s wife when he had visited their garden flat at Belsize Park, one Sunday afternoon. He had found the Scotland Yard man in a hut in the garden indulging in his hobby of carving old sailing-ships. Hood had always nursed a boyhood ambition to run away to sea.

  Her husband, Mrs. Hood told him, was in the middle of shaving. But he came to the ’phone promptly.

  ‘Right, Dr. Morelle,’ he said on hearing the news. ‘Pick you up in twenty minutes, and we’ll go on to Park Lane.’

  Dr. Morelle rang off and slipped on his dressing-gown. He shaved and showered with miraculous speed, allowing himself only a brief moment of regret that Miss Frayle’s absence would mean his having to go out without even a cup of tea. He was consoling himself with a Le Sphinx when the doorbell rang. Inspector Hood was waiting for him in a police patrol-car which had picked him up at Belsize Park.

  ‘You could have knocked me down with a mink coat, as the chorus girl said,’ Inspector Hood grunted as they drove off. ‘What on earth induced her to commit suicide? Couldn’t have been because of last night, surely?’

  Dr. Morelle gave a slight shrug, and there was silence between them for the rest of the journey. Only the inevitable gurglings from Inspector Hood’s pipe as he slumped back in the corner of the car, chin sunk on his chest.

  Brethers opened the door to them, his face set in suitably grave lines. He led the way to the breakfast-room where Harvey Drummer was waiting. After exchanging a few brief words Drummer took them up to Rosie Huggins’ rooms. They went through a small, neat sitting-room and found themselves in a bedroom of about the same size. The curtains were drawn, and the cold light of the morning showed up the figure in the bed. The bedclothes were drawn up to the face, distorted and ghastly.

  ‘Poor thing was half-covered by the bedclothes when Brethers found her,’ Drummer said to Hood. ‘After we tried all we could I drew the clothes over her. The glass,’ he went on, ‘was on the floor. The remains of her drink had spilled from it.’ He pointed to a small patch beside the bed. ‘I picked the glass up in case it got smashed while we were trying to revive her.’

  Hood muttered between his teeth:

  ‘Never saw a more typical cyanide poisoning. Face that blue colour —’

  He broke off as he realised Dr. Morelle had moved away from the body over which he had been bending. He was looking at something on the dressing-table.

  ‘Brethers tells me she was in the habit of having a glass of orange-juice every morning when she awoke,’ Drummer was saying. ‘Prepared it overnight apparently.’

  He broke off also to follow the Inspector’s gaze. He moved to Dr. Morelle and indicated the envelope which was propped on the dressing-table, at which the Doctor was staring.

  ‘Didn’t open it,’ Drummer said. ‘Although it’s addressed to me. Thought I’d better wait until you arrived.’

  Dr. Morelle nodded and picked up the envelope.

  ‘Be her farewell message no doubt,’ Hood said as he joined them. ‘What’s it say, Doctor?’

  Dr. Morelle handed the envelope to Drummer, who gave him and then the Inspector a questioning look.

  ‘See what it says,’ Hood nodded.

  The other tore open the envelope and read the letter aloud.

  ‘I can’t go on any longer without my beloved Bill. Tried to be brave but am desperately lonely. I go to him now. Forgive me — Rosie Huggins.’

  There was a little silence. Inspector Hood was staring at Dr. Morelle with one heavy eye-brow raised. The pale, ascetic features were as inscrutable as ever, but the Inspector had no doubt about what must be passing through the Doctor’s mind. Hood took his pipe out of his mouth to say something and then put it back without speaking. Better leave it to Dr. Morelle. The situation was just about his cup of tea.

  ‘Might I see it?’

  Harvey Drummer handed the letter to Dr. Morelle, who read it through carefully. After a few moments he asked:

  ‘Are you familiar with the deceased’s handwriting?’

  The other hesitated for a moment. Then:

  ‘Wouldn’t say I know it all that well. Though I must have seen it before.’ He seemed to be searching his memory before he went on: ‘I can’t remember when exactly. Why?’

  ‘It will be necessary to establish that this is, in fact, her handwriting.’

  Drummer glanced at the Inspector, his expression somewhat puzzled. He turned back to Dr. Morelle.

  ‘But of course it’s her handwriting,’ he said. He frowned at the Doctor for a moment and then asked: ‘What are you getting at? You suggesting she didn’t commit suicide?’

  ‘I am of the opinion,’ was the reply, ‘that she did not take her own life.’

  Drummer regarded him in blank amazement.

  ‘But this is fantastic,’ he gasped. ‘You mean — you mean somebody murdered her?’

  ‘It appears out of the question that it could have been an accident. Murder offers itself as the only reasonable alternative.’

  Drummer turned appealingly to Inspector Hood.

  ‘Can this be right?’

  ‘Never knew Dr. Morelle to be wrong yet,’ Hood answered heavily. ‘You see, we happen to know a bit more about the poor woman than you do.’

  ‘This is like some nightmare,’ the other exclaimed. ‘That she should have committed suicide was a big enough shock, but murder!’ He shook his head helplessly. ‘I just can’t believe it.’

  ‘I suggest,’ Dr. Morelle put in, ‘we continue this talk elsewhere. Inspector Hood will wish to make necessary arrangements with Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hood said. ‘I’ll speak to the men in the car.’

  Harvey Drummer led the way down to his study, while Inspector Hood hurried ahead to the police-car waiting outside. Automatically Drummer filled his pipe from the tobacco jar on the writing-desk. Then he slumped into an armchair.

  Dr. Morelle gave him a penetrating glance. Drummer appeared utterly crushed by Rosie Huggins’ death. He looked up and found the Doctor’s gaze on him. Interpreting it, he managed a wry smile.

  ‘Just about the last straw,’ he muttered. ‘My daughter, Miss Frayle and now Mrs. Huggins.’

  ‘The vital difference being,’ Dr. Morelle reminded him, ‘that both the former are alive.’

  ‘Yes.’ But Drummer failed to hide the feeling of doubt in his voice. He said: ‘There’s Leo Rolf, too.’ He glanced at Dr. Morelle suddenly. ‘How could this have anything to do with all the other?’

  ‘That,’ returned Dr. Morelle, examining the tip of his cigarette, ‘is a matter for speculation.’

  ‘What did you and Inspector Hood find out about Mrs. Huggins that makes you so sure it wasn’t suicide?’
<
br />   ‘The motive for her deliberate falsehoods the day before yesterday.’

  ‘You mean you discovered where she was that time?’

  ‘She was visiting a man on his converted barge, where he resides, off Chelsea Embankment. An individual with whom she had formed an illicit attachment.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘He is married,’ Dr. Morelle proceeded. ‘His wife, it appeared, was unwilling to divorce him. But he had renewed hope that he would be able to free himself from her and marry Mrs. Huggins.’

  The other drew at his pipe for a moment and, expelling a cloud of tobacco-smoke, said:

  ‘So that stuff about her killing herself on account of her late husband was obviously phoney.’

  ‘Mrs. Huggins emphasised to me last night the depth of her love for this man, and her hope that they would be able to marry. As you have perceived, the note supposedly written by her to the effect that she found it impossible to continue living without her husband is therefore palpably suspect.’

  Drummer was staring at him with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Last night?’ he queried. ‘You saw her last night?’

  ‘Between the hours of approximately one-thirty and two-thirty,’ Dr. Morelle replied. ‘Inspector Hood and I visited the vessel of the man in question.’

  ‘How the devil did you know she’d be there?’

  ‘We were as much surprised as she was at the encounter,’ was the reply. ‘Inspector Hood had received information concerning the presence of a woman on board this particular craft. The circumstances appeared to require our investigation. Accordingly Inspector Hood and I proceeded to the scene. To our amazement we discovered the woman involved was none other than Mrs. Huggins.’

  ‘I can’t imagine Mrs. Huggins down in Chelsea on some man’s boat at that hour,’ the other exclaimed.

  ‘At her last meeting with the man — the occasion upon which she was supposed to have attended the cinema — she told him that unless he could hold out greater hopes of freeing himself from his wife and marrying her, they should end their relationship. Subsequently he wrote begging her to visit him that night — this was yesterday — to convince her he would re-double his efforts to ensure that they could be married. I elicited this information from Mrs. Huggins during the journey back in the police-car in which I accompanied Inspector Hood down to Chelsea. The Inspector also heard the gist of her story.’