It took some moments for the full significance of what he had said to sink into Miss Frayle’s mind. Then she gasped, and her eyes were bright with excitement, and her hand was again adjusting her slipping horn-rims.
‘If somebody wrote it for him,’ she said, then broke off. ‘Oh, goodness, that means they wanted to make it look like suicide. That somebody, whoever it was, shot him and wrote the note and left the gun in his hand all to give the impression he had shot himself.’
‘That is a theory which suggests itself to me,’ Dr. Morelle said.
Miss Frayle’s mind was dazzled with this new idea. A sobering thought came to her and her face clouded. ‘But that means Thelma Grayson might still have done it.’
‘Which brings me back to the plan I have in mind,’ Dr. Morelle said, rising from his desk. He glanced at his wrist-watch. It was just approaching twelve-thirty. ‘You’d better come with me.’
Excitedly, Miss Frayle began tidying her desk, putting the batch of notes she had been poring over in order. She looked out of the window. The September sky was a clear, greyish blue. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Parkview Court.’
‘Parkview Court?’ She stared at him, wide-eyed. ‘That’s where that man Tracy Wright lives. The man who lent her the gun,’ she said.
Miss Frayle studied his saturnine features. Was this mysterious Tracy Wright also involved in the death of the owner of the Black Moth? Was Dr. Morelle on to something, was it more than just a theory he had? Did he know something which led him to believe that this was not a case of suicide after all? After all that had gone before, she found this hard to believe, but none knew better than she his uncanny insight into such bewildering puzzles as this was turning out to be.
She longed to discuss the case further with him during the short journey to Parkview Court, but Dr. Morelle had relapsed into one of his enigmatic silences. Her eager questions brought no response from the brooding figure beside her, and she was feeling somewhat frustrated again when the taxi turned into a narrow street off Park Lane and drew up outside an imposing block of flats which towered many storeys up towards the sky.
Chapter Sixteen
Dr. Morelle and Miss Frayle went into a luxuriously carpeted, discreetly-lit foyer and after inquiring from a uniformed porter in an office in the corner, a beautifully panelled lift shot them smoothly to the top floor, and they stepped out into the softly-lit passage. A few yards along a door before them bore a neat brass plate with the name Tracy Wright on it.
Miss Frayle had given up trying to obtain any answers from Dr. Morelle. Excitement surged through her. She felt they were getting somewhere near the solution of the mystery, and she awaited the meeting with Tracy Wright full of expectation.
A thin, urbane-featured manservant answered Dr. Morelle’s ring. Dr. Morelle gave his name and asked to see Mr. Wright for a few minutes, and the man went away and returned in a moment or two. ‘Mr. Wright will see you, sir,’ he said.
Miss Frayle followed Dr. Morelle’s tall figure across a hall, showing every sign of sumptuousness and luxury living. It was a penthouse flat. Wide windows in the beautifully furnished room they had entered gave on to a roof garden, and beyond Miss Frayle caught a breathtaking view over rooftops and across Hyde Park.
‘Dr. Morelle? I’m Tracy Wright.’
The man at an occasional table turned and putting down a glossy magazine shook hands with Dr. Morelle, and as he did so a light dawned in his eyes. ‘Why, of course,’ he said with a little smile. ‘How stupid of me. I knew your name, but —’ He broke off. ‘You are the great criminologist, I’ve heard about you and read a lot about you.’
While Dr. Morelle gave a deprecatory murmur, Miss Frayle was gazing at Tracy Wright. He was tall and slim and dressed in a dark suit. There were lines of dissipation round his eyes, but his face was hard and bronzed. Placing him at somewhere round forty years of age, she guessed that he was a man who lived hard and played hard and who took pride in keeping himself in perfect physical condition. Her gaze, wandering round the room, took in the many sporting prints and hunting trophies. It seemed to her that the round of gaiety which, according to Thelma Grayson, he led in the night-haunts of London must form only part of his existence.
She started as she became aware that he was glancing at her quizzically.
‘This is Miss Frayle, my secretary,’ said Dr. Morelle.
‘Delighted to meet you Miss Frayle.’
Miss Frayle was blushing. ‘I do so admire your flat, Mr. Wright,’ she said. ‘It’s absolutely charming.’
‘It’s a nice spot to come back to,’ he said casually. ‘I travel a lot, you know.’ He smiled at them as the manservant came softly into the room. He waited until the drinks had been brought and then with a smile full of charm he said to Dr. Morelle: ‘Since your secretary’s here, I take it this is a business call. I can’t imagine what the business is.’
He had become suddenly wary, Miss Frayle thought, and she sat quivering, sipping her beautifully-cut glass of sherry to hide her excitement.
‘I am engaged in an investigation,’ said Dr. Morelle suavely, ‘and it occurred to me that you can help me. And so on an impulse I thought I would call in the hope that you would see me.’
Wright’s eyebrows rose, and he stared at Dr. Morelle. ‘I’ve been behaving myself lately,’ he said, that charming smile in evidence once more, ‘and I haven’t run across any bad lads of the town.’
‘That wasn’t in my mind, Mr. Wright,’ Dr. Morelle’s voice remained light as he appeared to change the subject. ‘What a charming photograph you have over there.’
Tracy Wright turned, his jaw suddenly taut. ‘Thelma Grayson? Yes, a nice girl.’
He said it casually enough, but Miss Frayle, who had not spotted the photograph until Dr. Morelle drew her attention to it, noticed that Tracy Wright had tensed, and again she experienced that quivering thrill of excitement. She observed that there were a number of photographs of other pretty young women scattered about. He was obviously quite a man for the girls, she thought.
‘You know Miss Grayson well?’ Dr. Morelle was saying, conversationally.
The other shrugged. ‘We’ve met on and off, he said, ‘and got on well together.’ He glanced shrewdly at Dr. Morelle. ‘You know her, too? And you’ve come to see me about something which concerns her?’ Wright said. He paused and glanced out of the window and then back to Dr. Morelle. ‘Not about that dreadful affair of her sister?’
‘You are making my task easier,’ Dr. Morelle said, watching him.
‘Really?’ Wright said, and looked startled, and again Miss Frayle saw the wariness in his expression. ‘What are you driving at?’
‘You remarked that you know Miss Grayson fairly well.’ Dr. Morelle had thrown a glance at the photograph in the leather frame. He glanced at Tracy Wright again. ‘Well enough to lend her a revolver?’
The other stared at him. ‘So that’s it,’ he said. ‘The gun.’ Abruptly his tone changed. He frowned. ‘You’re not telling me she’s made a fool of herself with that?’
‘You have some knowledge of guns?’
Tracy Wright smiled. ‘My hobby, you might say. I’ve got quite a collection. Perhaps you’d like to look at it?’
Dr. Morelle and Miss Frayle followed him, Miss Frayle spilling a little of her drink as she set her glass on a low table. They went through a wide doorway into a smaller room, and Miss Frayle looked around her with interest. Round the light-oak panelled walls firearms of all kinds were displayed. There were old-fashioned rifles and modern shotguns, big-game rifles, and plenty of examples of the art of early gunsmiths.
Tracy Wright turned from a 12-gauge wildfowl gun and picked up a flintlock holster pistol which lay with a collection of other flintlocks on a table. ‘This pistol is in fine condition,’ he said, holding it for Dr. Morelle to see. ‘The barrel and lock have a browned finish caused by a thin film of rust which has become highly-polished by constant rubbing of the part of its former owners. Wh
ether or not this browning is the original finish of the pistol it’s impossible to say, although browning is, of course, oxidation produced by water or acid and highly polished.’ Dr. Morelle nodded understandingly, while the other went on. ‘I’m inclined to think the browning is original, the engraving at the baluster turn is deep and clear.’
He indicated a strawberry motif delicately engraved on the barrel. Miss Frayle found herself completely unable to follow as Tracy Wright continued with rising enthusiasm: ‘The frizzen pan,’ he said, ‘is of the detachable type and has been renewed at an early date in the gun’s career. I’d describe it as a semi-military pistol, because of the fine workmanship. You can see how the barrel tang is secured by a screw, the head of which is under the trigger-guard, a neat arrangement, met with on early pieces, but soon to disappear because of the nuisance in dismantling for cleaning purposes. The barrel is pinned to the stock with round steel pins; the side nails securing the lock are massive, round, square-headed screws, undoubtedly genuine. There is no bridle to the tumbler inside the lock or to the frizzen pan. The lack of a bridle to the tumbler is a curious feature on so fine a weapon, and makes me think it’s much earlier than 1702, but at the same time it cannot be as old as 1645, which is the date the bridle was supposed to have been used for the first time in this country.’
Dr. Morelle murmured understandingly, once more though Miss Frayle thought she detected a slightly glazed look in his eyes, even he was surely finding this spate of information on such an obscure subject a bit overwhelming?
‘The wood of the stock, being English field maple,’ Tracy Wright was saying, ‘is unusual. As you can see, the wood is short-grained and brittle, not really suitable for firearms. The old fallacy that these pistols had a large ball butt so that they could be used as a club in a close fight is nonsense; one blow with it would smash it to pieces, and at the price of firearms in those days no one could afford such a luxury.’
Tracy Wright smiled a sudden charming smile at Miss Frayle. ‘But I’m sure all this talk about guns must be boring you?’
‘Not at all,’ she said politely. ‘I don’t mind a bit as long as they don’t go off.’
‘Mr. Wright,’ Dr. Morelle said quietly, ‘don’t you think it was risky to lend Miss Grayson a loaded revolver?’
Tracy Wright put down the flintlock and turned to him coolly. ‘You’re being pretty cagey with me,’ he said. ‘I agree with you she asked me to lend her a gun. So I lent her one. A Smith and Wesson Centennial, a hammerless-job, it fires a .38 calibre cartridge.’ For a moment Miss Frayle thought he was going to launch into another description of the gun, but he paused and merely said. ‘That’s all, quite simple. If that’s what you’ve come to ask, there it is.’
Miss Frayle watched him as he went to a big carved chest-of-drawers. He came back with a small polished wooden box which rattled as he shook it, and opened the lid. From it he took a handful of gleaming cartridges and showed them to Dr. Morelle in his palm before letting them drop back into the box.
‘These are the sort of cartridges I gave her with it.’
‘I see,’ said Dr. Morelle thoughtfully, his gaze still on the contents of the box. ‘Most illuminating.’
‘I only let her have three rounds,’ went on Tracy Wright. ‘Actually I thought she was being a bit alarmist about this burglar scare at her cottage, but she kept on about it, and although she admitted she didn’t know a great deal about handling a revolver, I imagined it would give her confidence.’
‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ Dr. Morelle said.
‘She’s been through a tough time lately, and I wanted to cheer her up a bit.’
A little while later, after what to Miss Frayle seemed to have been a most fruitless visit, she and Dr. Morelle were descending in the quietly humming lift, and were on the pavement outside Parkview Court looking for a taxi.
‘I don’t understand,’ Miss Frayle was saying to Dr. Morelle. ‘That man didn’t tell us anything. He was quite nice, I thought. Very handsome and charming. Even if he did go on a bit about his guns, I really thought he was like a gramophone that would never run down. But we don’t know any more now about what we wanted to know than we did before.’
Dr. Morelle glanced at her with a faint gleam of amusement in his expression. A taxi drew up and they got in, still without his answering her question. He leaned back in the taxi and lit a Le Sphinx. She saw the tantalizing look on his face and gave a sigh of exasperation.
Whatever it was Dr. Morelle had learned from their visit to Tracy Wright, he was not going to impart it to her, yet.
Chapter Seventeen
As Ray Mercury’s lawyer, Larry Bellairs had met Greta Mercury only occasionally. He had been impressed by her good looks, but somewhat chilled by the off-hand manner in which she accepted his compliments. Now, this afternoon, following the inquest on Bellairs’ client, when Mercury’s widow called at his office he was delighted to see her.
With admiration he watched her lithe movements as she came into his large, tastefully appointed office, with its valuable oil-paintings on the walls, and the muted roar of the traffic from Shaftesbury Avenue surging through a partly-opened window.
A plump man in impeccable black jacket and striped trousers, he extended a pudgy hand to her. His manner was a suitable mingling of deference and friendliness. His unblinking eyes were cold and light coloured against his ivory complexion and smoothly brushed back hair.
‘It must have been an ordeal, the inquest,’ he said with a sorrowful shake of his head. He indicated an early edition of the evening paper on his desk, which carried the story on the front page, with the jury’s verdict.
‘I didn’t have to answer many questions,’ Greta Mercury said coolly. ‘I just had to give evidence of identity.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Bellairs shivered slightly, surprised if not faintly shocked at her chill manner. ‘I suppose they wanted to know whether he was happy, and so on?’
‘I told them all I could,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘They asked me when I’d last seen him, and I told them that it had been in the club, some time before he was found dead. Of course, they wanted to know whether I knew of any reason why he should have taken his life.’ She shrugged. ‘Well, I just couldn’t say much. After all they had the note, and that was plain enough. I suppose they had to show sympathy, but they must have known I wasn’t exactly pleased that he’d shot himself over some girl.’
He saw a glitter in her eyes. He gave a little cough, and wondered what her visit was in aid of.
Greta Mercury was thinking that despite his air of respectability and the opulence of his office Larry Bellairs was as sharp and shady a lawyer as could be found. Her husband often had, she knew, good reason to thank him for his nimble wits, and his intricate knowledge of the loopholes in the law, his alertness and devotion to the interests of his clients. He’d done well out of Ray Mercury, Ray had often said it was worth paying that shark lawyer, as he termed him privately, for the services he rendered.
‘Frankly,’ she was saying, ‘I don’t like people pointing at me and saying there’s Mrs. Mercury whose husband ran around after any doll that took his fancy, and killed himself because of one of them.’
Bellairs coughed delicately. He was getting an insight into the nature of this woman which had not been revealed to him before. There was venom in her deep, throaty voice, and it startled him a little, while exciting him at the thought of the smouldering fires that burned beneath her icy exterior. He would like to get to know her better, he told himself.
‘I came to see you to find out how I stand,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ he nodded slowly, thinking she hadn’t wasted much time. ‘Naturally.’
‘I thought of getting away for a while,’ she said. ‘Soon as I could. The South of France. It’s been a shock, all this. But I’d like to know how I stand before I go.’ She paused and looked at him steadily. ‘He never told me everything, but he had a profitable racket and there ought to be somethin
g left for me.’
‘Ray has left you comfortably off,’ he assured her.
‘That’s good to hear,’ she said, and there was a curiously cynical tone in her voice. ‘How much did he leave me?’
‘Twenty thousand,’ he said, ‘and nicely salted away. If you leave all the — ah — arrangements to me, you’ll get it all clear of tax or anything like that.’ He gave another little cough. ‘And then there’s the Black Moth.’
‘The Black Moth,’ she said non-committally. ‘What about it?’
‘I don’t know what your plans for that may be,’ the lawyer said. ‘You may want to continue to run it, or sell out. It’s all yours to decide. Again, I suggest you leave all that to me, when you’ve made up your mind.’
‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘to think of that place belonging to me. I always hated it. It came between me and him.’ And suddenly she launched into a soft-voiced, unemotional, but bitter tirade of abuse against the club and its late owner’s associates, while Larry Bellairs gaped at her in astonishment. What a woman. What fire. Like a tigress, he thought. He’d thought how it would be delightful to know her better, but on second thoughts, he decided it would also be dangerous.
‘I can dispose of it all right,’ he said. ‘If that is what you want.’ He was bending over her, and his moist hand rested on hers. ‘Remember I’m your friend,’ he said insinuatingly. ‘If there is any way in which I can help you, please let me know.’
Her white hot fury subsided, though her eyes still glittered as she looked up at him mockingly. ‘I was thinking,’ she said, ‘that not only might you be a bit of a shark, but a bit of a wolf also. I never suspected it of you.’
The other smiled unabashed. ‘You are an extremely attractive young woman,’ he said warmly. ‘And I will be glad to help you.’
‘We’ll talk about that some time,’ she said, in her deep, throaty tones. ‘We’ll decide what to do about the club, when I come back.’ Her eyes hardened again, and he felt her hand move spasmodically under his.
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