Dr. Morelle Meets Murder. Ernest Dudley
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Miss Frayle repeated the word in a hushed whisper, which was a sufficient indication of her alarm.
“In here,” gulped Mrs. Holt in a voice that was not far removed from hysteria. “In the office. And they’ve robbed the safe.” Her voice trailed away.
“Perhaps if I might intrude,” Doctor Morelle said. He had listened to Mrs. Holt’s remarks with close attention and now brought himself to her notice.
“Oh yes,” said Miss Frayle, suddenly remembering his presence which the rush of events had completely driven out of her mind. “This is Doctor Morelle. He was coming to see Colonel—”
Mrs. Holt broke in. “A doctor? Thank heavens! Will you come in here at once, Doctor, though I’m afraid there is nothing much you can do.”
She led the way into the little office off the hotel lobby and the Doctor followed her, Miss Frayle on his heels. “Try to calm yourself,” he said. “I’ll endeavour to ascertain the extent of your husband’s injuries.”
He saw at once, however, that the man’s wife had not been mistaken. The base of the skull was shattered. Clearly he had been struck a heavy blow with some massive object.
“No doubt,” he said to Mrs. Holt, “your husband was struck down with this heavy brass candlestick on the desk?”
“Yes, Doctor,” she agreed. “I kicked against it when I came into the room.”
Dr. Morelle glanced at her sharply. “When did you discover your husband?” he asked
“No more than five minutes ago.” Mrs. Holt was wringing her hands in despair. “Oh, it was horrible, horrible!”
The Doctor was never impressed by exhibitions of emotion. He brought the conversation right back to earth. “Where were you when your husband was attacked?”
“He and I were playing cards in our sitting room. He said that he could hear someone in the office. I thought it was one of the guests and didn’t realise anything was wrong until about ten minutes had passed and he didn’t come back.”
“No one else,” Doctor Morelle queried, “was here when you entered?”
Mrs. Holt shook her head. “I came straight in, the light was on—and saw him. I didn’t know what to do—”
Her voice petered away into a shuddering moan.
“Then Miss Frayle and I arrived, is it not so?”
“Yes. I was just going to phone for a doctor.”
Doctor Morelle, during the latter part of this conversation, had been looking around him with keen interest, studying everything that was in the room.
“You say,” he remarked quietly, “that the safe had been disturbed?”
“Yes. There should be money in it, and some valuables belonging to some of the guests.”
The Doctor walked across to the safe. “Obviously,” he murmured to himself, “the safe has been opened by use of the combination. It has not been forced. The thief or thieves entered and escaped by this window. The lower half is open.”
The Doctor had been speaking his thoughts aloud. Mrs. Holt overheard at least the latter part of them,
“The window must have been forced,” she said. “My husband was always especially careful to lock it up at night.”
Miss Frayle now showed signs of distinct agitation. She moved to Doctor Morelle’s side and gripped his arm tightly.
“Do you wish to attract my attention, Miss Frayle?” he asked acidly.
“Listen!” she hissed. “Someone is coming.”
Footsteps approached. Then the door opened quietly and a dark-skinned man entered noiselessly.
Miss Frayle said, in a voice that was almost a scream: “Mr. Gopay!”
The Indian looked around him, saying:
“I am so sorry if I am intruding.” He broke off suddenly with a gasp, and added: “Mr. Holt! Whatever has happened to the poor gentleman?”
Doctor Morelle, looking carefully at the Indian’s face, replied:
“He’s dead.” Then, sharply turning to Miss Frayle, he added: “Quick, Miss Frayle! I think Mrs. Holt is fainting.”
Indeed, Mrs. Holt seemed to be in a bad way. She was swaying on her feet and appeared likely at any moment to collapse in a heap on the floor.
“I think that it would be as well to take her to the sitting room. Place her in a recumbent position and administer a little water. That should be sufficient to produce satisfactory results.”
Miss Frayle led the fainting woman from the room and Doctor Morelle, dismissing the matter from his mind, turned to the Indian.
“You are the Doctor, yes?” the coloured man said.
“I am Doctor Morelle. You, I presume, are Shan Gopay, Colonel Vane’s servant?”
“That is correct.” The Indian looked at the Doctor with interest. “That candlestick which you are examining,” he said, “did that kill the unfortunate gentleman?”
“Undoubtedly. Traces of blood and several hairs adhering to the base of the candlestick indubitably indicate where it struck against the skull. There are, however, no fingerprints whatever, which seems to suggest gloves, or that the candlestick was carefully cleaned after the crime had been committed.”
The Indian stood by, impassive, while the Doctor described his own theory of what had happened. Now, however, Doctor Morelle turned to him.
“What attracted you downstairs?”
“I heard Mrs. Holt crying out. I thought that something might perhaps be wrong.”
“Who else,” the Doctor next asked, “apart from yourself, Colonel Vane, and Miss Frayle at present resides in this hotel?”
The Indian showed white teeth in a sudden smile. “One person only,” he said. “He is a gentleman named Foster. He went out just after dinner and I have not heard him return.”
Then it seemed that the Indian suddenly caught sight of the safe. He held up his expressive hands in horror.
“Doctor!” he exclaimed. “The safe, it is open! It has been robbed! My master’s dreadful dream has come true! His ruby, it has gone! It was in the safe.”
Doctor Morelle looked remarkably sceptical—a not unusual expression for him—but at this moment much more obviously so than was generally the case.
“You are suggesting,” he said, “that Colonel Vane dreamed that tonight’s tragedy might be about to happen?”
The Indian looked thoughtful. “He has had bad nightmares lately,” he said. “He often cried aloud about the jewel—that something terrible would happen in connection with it. Though when he wakes he usually cannot remember exactly what it is that has disturbed his sleep.”
There was a cry from some room on the floor above.
“Listen! That is the Colonel now! He went early to his room in order to rest. He must have fallen asleep. I must go to him and see if I can help.”
Doctor Morelle eyed the other for a moment. “You would be well advised,” he said, “not to acquaint him with what has occurred here. By tomorrow it is possible that the precious jewel of which he thinks so much may well have been recovered.”
The Indian glanced sharply at the Doctor. It was as if he found it difficult to believe that Doctor Morelle could possibly promise anything so inherently unlikely as the recovery of the Colonel’s ruby. Then he said, turning back in the doorway:
“Very well, Doctor. I will preserve silence on the matter. As you say,