Dr. Morelle and the Drummer Girl

by Ernest Dudley

  ‘I gather Inspector Hood visited you in that connection,’ Dr. Morelle said.

  ‘I wasn’t able to tell him much. Didn’t mention anything about Doone, of course. Are the two things mixed up? Incredible to think they could be — I mean it was I who introduced him to Doone — and yet —’ He broke off uncertainly.

  ‘The assumption is that Rolf’s murder may have a bearing on the abduction of Miss Drummer,’ Dr. Morelle replied.

  ‘I’d have rung up her father,’ the other said, ‘only I don’t think he’d exactly welcome it.’

  ‘He can give you no more information than I.’

  Dr. Morelle hung up, dragged deeply at his cigarette and slowly expelled a spiral of smoke.

  Neil Fulton.

  Dr. Morelle recalled his conclusion that Doone Drummer’s kidnapper must have possessed inside knowledge of her father’s house. Fulton was not included in Drummer’s circle of close friends, and had never been a visitor to Park Lane. Nevertheless he could have learned something about the house from Doone Drummer herself.

  On the other hand Fulton had not apparently been present at the party. How, therefore, could he have known it was Dr. Morelle who had answered the telephone in Drummer’s study? But the young actor had just said something over the telephone which was causing Dr. Morelle to reconsider him from a fresh angle. Neil Fulton’s remark to the effect that he had been out late last night. Fulton was an actor. Trained in the art of simulation. Who would find it simpler than most to assume a disguised voice.

  Dr. Morelle stirred in his chair. Was it possible, he wondered, that Fulton had telephoned with the object of deliberately drawing suspicion upon himself? Had there been some subtly ulterior motive behind that apparently casual reference to last night?

  Was it Fulton whom Rosie Huggins had encountered in the shadows of the dark mews?

  Dr. Morelle scored a thicker line under Neil Fulton’s name, and then began reading his notes where he had left off when the telephone had rung. It was Pearson he had been considering then.

  Pearson.

  Dr. Morelle conjured up a mental picture of Harvey Drummer’s secretary furtively quitting the house by way of the garage to telephone his announcement that Miss Frayle was now his captive. Supposing on his return he had encountered Rosie Huggins? His presence in the mews would certainly arouse her curiosity. Curiosity which, if she pursued, it might lead to her denouncing Pearson. What would have been easier than for him subsequently to visit her room while she was asleep and poison her drink?

  Dr. Morelle cupped his chin in his hand. His gaze moved to Harvey Drummer’s name in the notes before him. He began to speculate on the possibility of Drummer still being the motivating force behind his daughter’s kidnapping, when the front door-bell rang.

  Dr. Morelle glanced at his watch.

  Inspector Hood would hardly have had time to conclude his arrangements at Park Lane, proceed to Chelsea Embankment to interview Goodwin and return by now. Slowly he ground his cigarette-stub into the ash-tray. He went along the hall and opened the door.

  A familiar figure stood there blinking nervously up at him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven – The Tip-Off

  ‘I do hope I haven’t disturbed you,’ the man in pince-nez said going through the motions of washing his hands. ‘But I had to see you.’

  Dr. Morelle held the door wide, and the other preceded him to the study. Pearson clutched his black Homburg agitatedly and sat down. The Doctor eyed him curiously over the flame of his lighter as he lit a fresh cigarette.

  ‘I’ve slipped away,’ Pearson explained, ‘on the pretext of seeing my dentist. I hope you won’t think I’m troubling you unnecessarily. I’ll be as brief as I can.’

  He glanced at Dr. Morelle as if awaiting a word of encouragement. There was no response. Only the dark basilisk-like stare fixed on him through a cloud of cigarette-smoke. Pearson cleared his throat nervously.

  ‘I don’t have to tell you,’ he said, ‘how very ill Mr. Drummer’s been looking these last few days. I’ve come to the conclusion something’s terribly wrong. For one thing the fact that you, Dr. Morelle, have been there so frequently started me wondering if something was amiss. Then Mr. Drummer’s preoccupied manner. Not a bit like his usual self, I assure you. Always so brisk and business-like. Full of enthusiasm.’ The pince-nez shook from side to side, and Pearson gave a heavy sigh. ‘Now this ghastly business this morning,’ he went on. ‘Poor Mrs. Huggins, taking her own life like that.’

  He paused and again waited for Dr. Morelle to speak. Still no response and, clasping and unclasping his hat, he continued:

  ‘I have hinted to Mr. Drummer to confide in me. After all I have been his confidential secretary for many years now. I know most of what goes on. But I’m afraid I was rebuffed. Gently, but none the less firmly, rebuffed. And so, Dr. Morelle, you’re the only one I can turn to.’

  ‘What information do you expect from me that your employer refuses to give you?’

  The other regarded Dr. Morelle for several moments. A subtle change came over him. His manner grew less servile, the eyes behind the pince-nez hardened and assumed a shrewd expression. His tone when next he spoke was firm and controlled.

  ‘Tell me frankly if you know him to be involved in deeper waters than I imagine. My object in asking this,’ Pearson went on, ‘is that if I know what is wrong I feel I might help you to help Mr. Drummer. You’ll agree that sometimes help secretly given can prove the most effective.’

  ‘There have been cases in which that has been so,’ Dr. Morelle conceded.

  ‘On the other hand, Mr. Drummer may be making it difficult for you to do your best on his behalf. He may be hiding his troubles from you. For instance, I think you should know he’s suddenly had to realise ten thousand pounds’ worth of his holdings. Then there’s something mysterious about his daughter. She’s supposed to be staying with a relative who’s ill. So far as I know she hasn’t written or telephoned her father since she failed to turn up at the party that was given for her.’ He shook his head. ‘They’ve always been most affectionate. Hardly a day without them seeing each other or at least ’phoning. That alone strikes me as odd. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘From what you say,’ Dr. Morelle replied, ‘the circumstances appear somewhat disturbing.’

  ‘There’s something wrong,’ the other said. ‘I wondered if it was a question of money? Some secret deal Mr. Drummer’s conducting unknown to me. Perhaps on his daughter’s behalf. I’d be only too glad to help him in my small way. I have a modest nest-egg tucked away. I was going to dip into it soon for some treatment for my hands.’

  He glanced at the curiously deformed fingers gripping his hat. With a look at Dr. Morelle:

  ‘Expect you’ve noticed they’re badly arthritic. I’ve become very self-conscious about them. I’ve thought of wearing black gloves.’ He gave an ashamed smile. ‘Silly of me. But we all have our little vanities, I suppose.’

  ‘I can reassure you so far as the financial aspect of Mr. Drummer’s anxiety is concerned,’ Dr. Morelle said slowly. ‘It is true he needed a large sum of money urgently, but finance is not the fundamental cause of his distress. What it is I am not at the moment at liberty to divulge.’

  The secretary had reverted to his former attitude. A hesitant cough was followed by nervous movements of his fingers; the eyes behind the pince-nez blinked and wore their usual subservient look.

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ Pearson mumbled, ‘that I feel I ought to mention.’

  Dr. Morelle who had been apparently gazing abstractedly out of the window at the sky above Harley Street turned, one eyebrow raised questioningly.

  ‘It’s about that poor woman,’ Pearson went on tentatively. He hesitated and then blurted it out: ‘I did hear someone creeping about the house. Early this morning. My room isn’t far from Mrs. Huggins, and just before three o’clock something woke me, as if it was someone creeping along the passage. I listened, wondering who it might be. But I must have d
ropped off to sleep. I deliberately didn’t tell the Inspector.’

  ‘Why?’ Dr. Morelle rapped out.

  Pearson returned his probing glance with an expression of faint surprise.

  ‘I had a feeling it might have been something to do with Mrs. Huggins’ death. I — I suppose I was afraid it might have implicated Mr. Drummer. I don’t know why. I just, had a feeling —’ He stuttered on, then burst out: ‘And that suicide note. I know Inspector Hood’s suspicious it isn’t her handwriting.’

  Dr. Morelle regarded the other with narrowed eyes. He glanced at the tip of his cigarette and observed:

  ‘Your concern for Mr. Drummer has caused your imagination to run away with you. Though your intentions were naturally of the best, you should not have withheld any information from Inspector Hood. Assuming, of course,’ he added insinuatingly, ‘that what you believed you heard last night was not in fact a remnant of a dream you had been experiencing.’

  Pearson opened his mouth as if to say something, but fell silent again. Dr. Morelle had crossed significantly to the door. The other stood up, fumbling with his hat, and blinking agitatedly.

  ‘I must advise Inspector Hood forthwith of what you have informed me,’ Dr. Morelle said suavely. ‘He will fully appreciate your most understandable motive for remaining silent.’

  The other began to mutter something, but Dr. Morelle was urging him out of the study.

  ‘Meantime,’ he told Pearson, ‘I advise you not to give way to further anxious speculation upon the matter.’

  Dr. Morelle opened the front door as the other mumbled his apologetic thanks. Pearson stood for a moment indecisively, and then started to put his hat on. It seemed to slip in his nervous clutch and, catching the side of his head, revealed his luxuriant and glossy hair to be an unmistakable toupee. Pearson’s pale features reddened with embarrassment as he pushed the toupee back into place. He contrived a rueful smile as he caught Dr. Morelle’s sardonic glance.

  ‘Another example of my vanity, I’m afraid,’ he said. Then he asked anxiously: ‘It’s a very good one, don’t you think? Nobody ever notices it.’

  ‘I should never have detected it,’ Dr. Morelle lied dutifully.

  ‘Had it made in America,’ the other volunteered. ‘When I was there on business for Mr. Drummer last autumn. I have three. I change them as my hair is supposed to grow longer. Cunning device, isn’t it?’

  ‘Remarkable,’ Dr. Morelle said.

  He stood at the door for a moment watching the dapper figure hurrying off down Harley Street, looking for a taxi.

  Back in his study Dr. Morelle leaned against his desk, his jaw sunk thoughtfully on his tie. What had been behind Pearson’s visit? Was there some ulterior motive? Was Pearson afraid that in some way he had revealed he knew more about Rosie Huggins’ death than he had admitted? Was his visit an attempted pretence at frankness to divert any suspicion from him on to someone else? On to Drummer himself?

  If it was that, Dr. Morelle decided, it had been a decidedly crude attempt. It occurred to him this apparent crudeness might be part of some subtle game Pearson was playing, when the telephone jarred into his ruminations.

  ‘I’m at Scotland Yard,’ Inspector Hood’s voice boomed against Dr. Morelle’s eardrum. ‘Back from interviewing the great lover. Knocked all of a heap he was when I told him about poor Rosie. Said he couldn’t help on the letter. Said she’d only written him one or two brief notes which he’d destroyed. Seemed to think the one I showed him might be her handwriting, but he was too shaken up to be really coherent. I been checking up on him here, but there isn’t a thing about him. However, we found a letter in her room from her late husband’s sister. Lives in Essex. Where he used to go fishing apparently. She might be able to give us a lead. Tell you one little thing I’ve got for you.’

  ‘Which would be?’

  ‘A tip-off about a character known as Bertie Herberts. Englishman. Known in America. To the Los Angeles police especially. Blackmail used to be his racket.’

  ‘Why should I be interested in this individual?’

  ‘Been putting in some work over the ’phone with Los Angeles,’ Hood said. ‘He knew Leo Rolf in Hollywood. When I say knew, I mean Herberts had put the bite on him. Rolf left Hollywood eighteen months back. A little while later our Bertie was last heard of heading in this direction. If he’s in London it could fit. He could have forced Rolf to line-up the Drummer girl for him. Then when Rolf got panicky and threatened to spill the beans he bumped him off.’

  ‘Is there any possibility of this man being located?’ queried Dr. Morelle.

  ‘Just what I’m working on,’ Hood replied. ‘Soon as I’ve got anything I’ll be on to you.’

  Dr. Morelle replaced the receiver. He glanced down at Miss Frayle’s notes and at what he had absently scribbled while Inspector Hood was talking to him. Suddenly his eyes narrowed. A great wave of exultation uplifted him. As he rode on the feeling of triumph, bitter anger tightened his jaw into a grim line. Anger against himself. Anger that he had failed until now to pierce the mystery. As mentally he fitted the last piece of the jigsaw into place he spoke briefly into the telephone. Slamming the receiver down, he swept out of the house like an avenging angel, brandished his swordstick so alarmingly at a passing taxi it cowered immediately to a stop.

  The taxi pulled up outside the house in Park Lane and Dr. Morelle got out. Brethers opened the door to him; his usually unruffled features exhibited some slight surprise at the tall forbidding figure looming before him. He closed the door and murmured uncertainly:

  ‘Mr. Drummer’s in his office. I’ll tell him you’ve come back.’

  ‘You will kindly refrain from announcing me to anyone,’ Dr. Morelle snapped, and Brethers, catching the unmistakable ring of command in his voice, gave him a startled glance.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight – Unmasked

  The man paused at the bedroom door.

  ‘Go in!’ Dr. Morelle’s voice rasped behind him.

  The man’s body suddenly tensed as if he was about to turn on Dr. Morelle. But the swordstick blade pressed inexorably into his back. He could almost feel the point penetrating through his clothes to the skin. He decided this was not the moment for him to try any tricks. He opened the door. Dr. Morelle followed him into the room. The door remained open.

  ‘Proceed as far as the cupboard.’

  Once again the figure in front of Dr. Morelle hesitated. A tremor seemed to shake him as if he was filled with some icy dread. The swordstick urged him forward until he was forced up against a large built-in cupboard and he could go no farther.

  ‘Keep your hands above your head and turn round.’

  Slowly the other raised his arms.

  ‘Higher.’

  The man reached higher.

  As he faced Dr. Morelle there was a thin flash of steel, and he could feel the point of the swordstick searching his throat just above the knot of his tie. Blinking involuntarily, he contrived to force a derisive smile to his lips.

  ‘Acting tough, eh, Doctor?’

  Now the man’s eyes were lidless and cold and wary as the eyes of a snake.

  ‘Move a fraction of an inch,’ Dr. Morelle retorted through his teeth, ‘and you will discover I am indulging in no histrionics but am deadly serious. Deadly for you.’

  The other made no reply. His mouth tightened into a cruel bitter line.

  It was as if a mask had been snatched suddenly from his face. His personality seemed to have undergone a complete metamorphosis. Even his appearance had altered. His voice was somehow different, pitched on a grating note which had not been apparent before. Had he been attired in a different suit of clothes it would have been possible for mere acquaintances to have failed to recognise him.

  ‘Where are your prisoners?’ Dr. Morelle demanded.

  The other stared back at him. Then with an insolent shrug he replied coolly:

  ‘Don’t know what you’re getting at.’

  Dr. Morelle’s smile was warm and fri
endly as an iceberg.

  ‘You feel you have nothing to lose by a stubborn refusal to reveal where you have hidden them? You intend remaining defiant to the last?’ Dr. Morelle’s lip curled. ‘Unfortunately for you I anticipated such might be your attitude. That you would have the audacity to offer the police the information I ask in exchange for your freedom.’

  ‘Quite the bright one, aren’t we?’

  ‘You are the typical monomaniac. Buoying yourself up in the belief you can successfully defy society, triumph over law and order. Supremely confident that you are in a position to strike a bargain with Inspector Hood.’

  ‘Go on talking.’

  ‘That is why,’ Dr. Morelle continued obligingly, ‘instead of awaiting the arrival of the police I propose taking the matter into my own hands.’

  The other’s expression underwent a change. An apprehensive look flickered in his eyes.

  ‘I somehow fancied my unconventional tactics might upset your calculations,’ Dr. Morelle commented.

  ‘What’s the idea? What’s on your mind?’

  ‘The intention to drag from you the information I want. Here and now,’ the Doctor continued grimly. ‘I must warn you I shall dispense with any niceties you would have received from Scotland Yard. It is you versus me — and I happen to hold the trump card in the contest. A flick of my wrist and you die where you stand.’

  The point of the blade pressed threateningly against the man’s throat, and his head was forced hard against the cupboard. Drops of perspiration began to shine on his brow and on his upper lip. He made as if to say something, and then his mouth tightened in a thin line again.

  ‘No need to inform you that this blade is razor sharp,’ Dr. Morelle told him blandly. ‘You can appreciate the fact for yourself.’

  ‘You wouldn’t dare do it,’ the man muttered. ‘You couldn’t.’