‘And you last saw her when you dropped her here?’
‘She was put down at the entrance to the mews. She intended making her way into the house by way of the garage.’
Harvey Drummer shook his head in bewilderment.
‘I still can’t believe she was murdered,’ he muttered. ‘Yet after what you’ve said the letter’s obviously a forgery. Incidentally,’ he added, ‘Brethers might be able to give you more information about her handwriting. Shall I call him in?’
Dr. Morelle gave him a nod of acquiescence, and the other pressed a bell on his writing-desk.
‘I had intended questioning him,’ Dr. Morelle said. ‘He may have heard something in the night which may prove helpful.’
‘I asked him about that myself,’ Drummer replied. ‘But he’s a pretty sound sleeper, I gather.’
The door opened and Inspector Hood came in, followed by Brethers.
‘Been having a chat with Brethers,’ the Inspector announced. ‘In case he heard anything during the night. Routine questions, that’s all.’
‘I’d just rung for him so the Doctor could ask him the very same thing,’ Harvey Drummer said.
‘Also seen your secretary,’ Hood went on. ‘Pearson, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ Drummer said. ‘I told him what had happened after I rang Dr. Morelle.’
‘Heard nothing suspicious, either,’ the Inspector said. ‘Though he didn’t get to sleep till just after midnight.’
‘Pearson didn’t come in till after eleven,’ Drummer put in. ‘He went out after dinner to see some friends.’
The manservant stood there regarding Dr. Morelle expectantly.
‘One of these chaps with no worries,’ Inspector Hood said genially to Brethers. ‘Sleeps like a log. Right, Brethers?’
‘That’s true, sir,’ Brethers replied. ‘I went to bed at my usual time. About eleven o’clock, and I must have been asleep half an hour later. I didn’t wake until my alarm went off at six-forty-five.’
‘You enjoyed an undisturbed night?’ queried Dr. Morelle.
‘As the Inspector says,’ Brethers nodded, ‘it needs a lot to wake me.’
‘According to Mr. Drummer you found Mrs. Huggins dead some time after she did not arrive as usual with your morning cup of tea.’
‘Yes, Dr. Morelle. Always used to look in at seven o’clock. Just after I’d finished shaving. I was puzzled when she didn’t turn up at the usual time, but didn’t think much about it until half an hour later. I wondered if perhaps she’d overslept, or was ill. I went along and knocked on her bedroom door. There was no reply, and after I’d knocked and called two or three times I went in. There she was, exactly as I described it to Mr. Drummer.’
Brethers’ voice had taken on a tremor, and Dr. Morelle said:
‘It must have been something of a shock to you.’
‘I couldn’t believe my eyes,’ the other shook his head. ‘It’s still impossible to realise it’s happened. What can have made her commit suicide, I can’t think,’ he said. ‘She was always so lively and cheerful. It doesn’t make sense.’
Drummer gave Hood a look. He realised that while questioning Brethers the Inspector had shrewdly withheld the fact that it was no longer suicide, but murder.
‘Doubtless,’ Dr. Morelle was asking Brethers, ‘you noticed there was an envelope addressed to Mr. Drummer on the deceased’s dressing-table?’
‘Yes.’
Dr. Morelle handed him the letter.
‘It explains why she so tragically took her own life,’ he said smoothly. ‘Merely for the benefit of Inspector Hood here, you can of course identify the writing as hers?’
Brethers gave him a sharp look and hesitated.
‘Just a matter of routine,’ Inspector Hood put in with elaborate casualness. The other took the letter and read it through carefully.
‘Poor woman,’ he muttered half to himself. ‘I know she was very cut up about her husband.’ He looked up at the Doctor and went on: ‘I don’t remember ever having noticed her handwriting before. But I suppose this would be hers. Must be, of course.’
Dr. Morelle took the letter from him. He gave Inspector Hood a quizzical glance.
‘All right by me,’ the Inspector grunted.
Dr. Morelle had no further questions to ask, and the manservant went out.
‘Photograph and fingerprint boys are on their way,’ Hood said. Then: ‘Thought it was as well to let Brethers go on thinking it was suicide.’
‘I had rather gathered as much,’ Dr. Morelle said dryly.
Inspector Hood gave him a look. He said:
‘That’s what the other chap still thinks, too.’ He paused for a moment and then went on: ‘One thing, it looks like an inside job all right.’
Harvey Drummer started. Slowly he took his pipe out of his mouth.
‘Good God,’ he said. ‘That means you must suspect either Pearson or Brethers or’ — his voice dropped — ‘or myself.’
‘That’s about it,’ Hood replied cheerfully.
Drummer swung round with a panic-stricken movement, to find Dr. Morelle eyeing him narrowly.
‘For heaven’s sake,’ Drummer choked, ‘you can’t think I did it.’
Dr. Morelle drew at his cigarette and observed quietly:
‘I fear Inspector Hood is on occasion inclined to leap to conclusions.’
‘What d’you mean?’ Hood grunted a trifle truculently.
‘We have yet to receive indisputable proof,’ was the reply, ‘that the murder could not have been committed by someone from outside.’
Chapter Twenty-Six – A Scrap of Evidence?
There was a long pause, then Inspector Hood, frowning, asked Dr. Morelle:
‘Don’t you think this murder is connected with our kidnapper —?’
‘Who murdered Leo Rolf,’ Harvey Drummer put in. ‘And for the same reason.’
‘You’ve been saying all along it’s an inside job,’ Hood went on, and Drummer added:
‘That it must have been a guest at the party —’
‘I have intimated,’ Dr. Morelle replied, assuming a long-suffering air, ‘that whoever abducted Miss Drummer was present on the evening in question, is acquainted with the topography of this house and, it seems, inevitably implicated in the murder of Rolf and the abduction of Miss Frayle.’ He turned to Drummer. ‘You agreed the criminal must be one of a circle including members of your household and several of your closer friends.’
Drummer nodded. ‘It certainly looks that way.’
‘I agree,’ Inspector Hood chimed in. ‘That’s roughly the picture.’
‘A picture,’ Dr. Morelle pointed out, ‘which includes persons other than those resident here. Someone who, for example, could have waited in the mews for Mrs. Huggins’ return. Who could have followed her, gaining admittance to the house by some means, poisoned the glass of orange-juice, knowing she would drink it when she awoke, and as stealthily made off again.’
‘By cripes,’ Inspector Hood exclaimed inelegantly, ‘it could be.’
‘Why pick on that poor woman?’ Drummer queried.
Dr. Morelle eyed him thoughtfully.
‘The most obvious answer to that,’ he replied, ‘would appear to be that the murderer and the person responsible for the other crimes are one and the same.’
‘And he killed her,’ Hood grunted, ‘because she knew too much. Same as Rolf.’
Dr. Morelle nodded and then, glancing at Drummer, indicated the letter he was holding.
‘Might not your secretary have some opinion concerning the handwriting’s authenticity?’
The other hesitated for a moment before he said:
‘We can ask him. Though I don’t know that Pearson will be any more helpful about that than I’ve been.’
‘I could ascertain that for myself on our way to the garage,’ was the reply.
‘You want to take a look at the garage?’ Hood queried.
‘Also the mews outside,’ Dr. Morelle told him.
They found Pearson in his office. Taking the letter from Dr. Morelle he scrutinised it carefully.
‘Just a routine matter, of course,’ Inspector Hood explained easily.
Pearson raised his pince-nez, shaking his head mournfully.
‘What a dreadful thing,’ he said. ‘To the best of my belief,’ he went on, ‘this is her writing.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Though I can’t honestly remember having noticed her handwriting at all before.’
‘That’s all right,’ Inspector Hood said. ‘Just a formality.’
Pearson handed the letter back to Dr. Morelle. He held the door open as Drummer led the Doctor and Hood out of the office.
The man in pince-nez closed the door and, returning to his desk, sat down with a thoughtful expression.
‘Unless we find another specimen of hers,’ Inspector Hood muttered in Dr. Morelle’s ear as they followed Harvey Drummer, ‘it’s going to be tricky proving it is a forgery.’
‘A factor of which the forger was doubtless equally aware,’ Dr. Morelle returned quietly.
‘You mean he knew he was on a good thing because there wasn’t much likelihood of anyone knowing what her handwriting did look like?’
‘I have maintained all along,’ was the reply, ‘that we are at grips with an adversary of calculating cunning.’
‘I think you’ve got something there,’ Inspector Hood said.
Harvey Drummer had led them into the kitchen, and they followed him across to a door, the key of which was in the lock.
‘This is the garage,’ he said. ‘Also the tradesmen’s entrance, only way in from the mews. This is how Mrs. Huggins came in.’
‘Like all criminals, however,’ Dr. Morelle said musingly, ‘our friend has also made one miscalculation.’
‘Eh?’ queried Harvey Drummer, frowning at Dr. Morelle.
‘I refer to a conversation between Hood and I,’ Dr. Morelle returned, ‘regarding the forgery.’ He turned to the Inspector, continuing loftily: ‘The criminal in this case was unaware of Mrs. Huggins’ liaison with Goodwin, who, as it happens, may very well possess specimens of her handwriting proving indisputably this letter is forged.’
‘Goodwin,’ Hood muttered. ‘I’d forgotten about him.’
‘Before you rush off to Chelsea,’ Dr. Morelle said, smiling thinly as he handed over the letter, ‘to confirm the fact, let us proceed to examine the garage and the vicinity outside.’
‘Come to think of it,’ Inspector Hood ventured, ‘he could have murdered Rosie.’
‘Doubtless you will satisfy your curiosity upon that interesting speculation during your interview with him,’ was the cryptic response.
Hood started to say something, then Harvey Drummer turned the key in the lock. He was about to open the door when Dr. Morelle stopped him.
‘This door is habitually kept locked?’
‘It’s only unlocked for tradesmen, or whenever the car’s taken out,’ the other said.
Dr. Morelle glanced at his watch. It was sixteen minutes past nine. To Drummer he said:
‘Have you had occasion to use the door this morning?’
‘No.’
‘And have any tradesmen called?’
Drummer shook his head. He glanced down at the key he had just turned.
‘I’m pretty sure the door hasn’t been unlocked since last night.’
‘No doubt Brethers would corroborate that?’ Dr. Morelle queried.
‘I’ll go and find him and check it,’ Inspector Hood promptly volunteered, and marched off.
Drummer watched the burly back depart, then he opened the door. The garage was dark. He snapped on a switch. The garage was fairly large, most of its space being taken up by an American-made, dark blue coupé. Drummer unlocked the double doors and swung one back as Dr. Morelle, skirting the car, heard Inspector Hood returning through the kitchen. The Scotland Yard man followed Dr. Morelle and Drummer into the mews. Puffing at his pipe a trifle breathlessly, he said:
‘Brethers positive door locked last night. Hadn’t unlocked it this morning.’
‘I was pretty sure he hadn’t,’ Drummer said.
Inspector Hood ambled into the centre of the mews and stood, a burly figure, glancing up and down. Drummer joined him.
‘Dark enough at night,’ he said. ‘If you’re thinking about someone lying in wait for Mrs. Huggins.’
Both their backs happened to be turned on Dr. Morelle as he suddenly picked up a small object which lay between two cobblestones near the garage-door which was closed. He gave the fragment a cursory glance and slipped it into his pocket. Slowly he crossed over to the other two. With his head bent Inspector Hood started pacing the ground round about, his pipe gurgling furiously. After a few moments he returned to Dr. Morelle and Drummer and shrugged his heavy shoulders.
‘Not even so much as a cigarette-stub.’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t smoke,’ Drummer suggested, with a faint smile.
‘Not cigarettes, anyway,’ Hood replied shortly.
Dr. Morelle’s expression remained inscrutable as from the corner of his eye he observed Harvey Drummer unconsciously push his pipe into his pocket.
‘Better take a look round the garage,’ Hood was saying, and he moved away. Drummer followed him and Dr. Morelle into the garage. The Inspector stood staring at the stone floor for a few moments. The highly polished surface of the car glimmered beneath the powerful bulb overhead.
‘Got a torch?’ the Inspector grunted.
Drummer opened the car door and took out a torch from the inside pocket. Grunting and wheezing Inspector Hood got on his hands and knees and flashed the torch under the car. With more wheezing and grunting and puce in the face, he stood up. He pushed his trilby hat which had slipped over his eyes back on his head. He handed the torch back to Drummer who returned it to the car.
‘Not a sign of anything,’ Hood said. ‘Didn’t expect to find much, but you never know.’ He pushed his hat to one side to scratch his head, and offered: ‘One thing about our friend, whoever he is, he hasn’t been very obliging. Left behind no handkerchief with his name on or anything.’
‘Are criminals often as obliging as that?’ Drummer queried.
‘How d’you think we flatties manage to be so successful?’ was the rejoinder. ‘Because we’re so smart? Not a bit of it. Because the crooks are such mugs. But this chap isn’t running a bit true to form.’ And he gave a rueful sigh.
Drummer was locking the garage door when Brethers appeared from the kitchen.
‘Inspector Hood,’ he said. ‘Some more gentlemen from Scotland Yard have arrived.’
‘I’ll come along,’ the Inspector said, and Brethers went away.
‘Be the photo and fingerprint boys,’ Hood explained to Drummer. ‘Better go and take ’em upstairs.’ He glanced questioningly at Dr. Morelle. ‘What’s your next move, Doctor?’
‘In the direction of Harley Street,’ Dr. Morelle replied. ‘For some breakfast.’ He glanced at Drummer’s haggard countenance. ‘You might do worse than follow my example,’ he said.
The other said with a shrug of weariness:
‘I suppose I’d better have something. Won’t you stay and join me?’
‘It is imperative that I should return to Harley Street. Some news may come through.’
Drummer nodded. Turning to the Inspector: ‘You’ll have some coffee, I’m sure. Or tea?’
‘A nice cup of tea won’t come amiss,’ Inspector Hood promptly accepted. ‘I’ll just have a word with the boys first.’
As they made their way out of the kitchen, Hood muttered to Dr. Morelle:
‘Then I’ll be getting down to Chelsea for a chat with Goodwin.’
Dr. Morelle picked up a taxi in Park Lane and returned to 221B, Harley Street. Hanging up his coat and hat he went and abstractedly put on a kettle for some tea. Then he foraged in the breadbin, cut himself some bread and made toast. He found the butter and marmalade, and methodically prepared himself a tray.
The tea made he carried the tray into his study and sat down and thoughtfully poured himself a cup of tea. From a drawer he took a magnifying glass. Taking the small object he had picked up in the mews out of his pocket, he placed it on the table. Carefully he scrutinised it beneath the powerful glass.
Satisfied from his examination his original surmise was correct, he slipped the fragment back in his pocket. With narrowed eyes he began to eat his toast and marmalade. Suddenly he gave a tiny sigh. The flow of his thoughts were interrupted as he realised how empty his study seemed without Miss Frayle. His sharply-etched features softened perceptibly as he glanced across at her chair. In his mind’s eye he pictured the small slim figure, her horn-rimmed spectacles balanced precariously on her nose as they bent over her note-book. Then he gave a scowl as if irritated by this intrusion of his cogitations. With a restless movement he poured himself another cup of tea.
Lighting a cigarette he leaned back in his chair and blew a speculative cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. He reached for the batch of type-written notes Miss Frayle had completed. They amounted to a précis of the events following Harvey Drummer’s disclosure of his daughter’s failure to arrive for the party in Park Lane.
The notes were reasonably detailed, and Dr. Morelle perused them carefully while he finished his cup of tea. Pushing the breakfast-tray aside he proceeded to scratch out the names of Leo Rolf and Mrs. Huggins with his pen. Next he scored a thick line beneath the names of Drummer, Neil Fulton and Pearson. As he reached the last name the telephone rang.
It was Neil Fulton.
‘Been trying to ’phone you several times, but couldn’t get any reply. I’m speaking from my flat before going down to the studio. Not working early today. Just as well; I was out late last night. I know Miss Frayle told me,’ the film-actor went on hurriedly, ‘you’d let me know at once if there was any news about Doone. But there’s this ghastly Leo Rolf business —’
Dr. Morelle and the Drummer Girl Page 19
