Alibi and dr morelle, p.1
Alibi and Dr. Morelle, page 1
Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
Wildside Press
www.WildsidePress.com
Copyright ©1959 by Ernest Dudley
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Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
CAT AND MOUSE
“Know a girl by the name of Myra Campbell?”
The sudden question caused Patrick to blink. Then he
carefully considered the tip of his cigarette, and then shook his head. “Myra Campbell? Can't say I do. Blonde, brunette, or redhead?”
Inspector Hood didn't answer; his eyes were wandering
round the cramped flat. “She's Mrs. Hull's personal maid,” he said.
“Never heard of her, anyway,” Patrick said. “The villains
make a nice haul?”
“Somewhere in the region of forty thousand pounds.”
Ted Patrick whistled quietly through his teeth. He took
another gulp from his glass. He looked sympathetically at the stolid figure in the chair. “Wish I could help, but I've never known anyone as ambitious as that. What about the car? If it ran down the copper, there should be marks on it.”
“We're looking. We think it was ditched somewhere in the
vicinity. It'll be found.” He sounded confident enough.
“I hope it gives you a lead,” Patrick said quietly. “When
you find it.” And then with a wistful smile: “And so save
innocent people who happen to be unlucky enough to have
their names on your books having their pants scared off
them.”
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Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
ALSO BY ERNEST DUDLEY:
The Crooked Straight
The Dark Bureau
The Harassed Hero
The Crooked Inn
Picaroon
The Blind Beak
Leatherface
Meet Dr. Morelle
Meet Dr. Morelle Again
Menace for Dr. Morelle
Dr. Morelle and the Drummer Girl
Dr. Morelle Takes A Bow
Callers for Dr. Morelle
The Mind of Dr. Morelle
Confess to Dr. Morelle
Dr. Morelle and Destiny
Dr. Morelle at Midnight
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Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
ALIBI AND DR. MORELLE
For more information on this or other Wildside Press
books, please contact:
Wildside Press
P.O. Box 301
Holicong, PA 18928-0301
www.wildsidepress.com
5
Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
One
Dr. Morelle eased his gaunt angular frame more
comfortably and his hooded eyes turned from Gilbert
Winterton K.C., to the man in the dock who stood with his
well-fed figure erect, his expression confident. His face was round and smooth, with a clear skin and round blue eyes; he was wearing a dark blue suit expensively cut, which gave him the appearance of a successful business man.
He had enjoyed more success than failure, and he had
never been associated with violence until now. Now he stood indicted on a charge of murder. The murder of a police
officer. The case had proceeded on its normal, unhurried way through four days of speeches, cross-examination and
conflicting evidence. Dr. Morelle had heard it all. The strong case for the prosecution, the ingenious defence, and he felt convinced the man in the dock was guilty; but he would not
have attempted to prophesy the verdict of the jury. In his
opinion the two principal witnesses were responsible for
confusing the issue, their evidence had been sharply
conflicting and must have raised doubts in most minds to the disadvantage of the case for the prosecution.
The man Colson was accused of the murder while on a
breaking and entering enterprise in St. John's Wood. He had denied the charge. He had almost proved, if not quite
conclusively, that he had not been in the vicinity during the time when the crime had been committed.
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Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
The prosecution's case was that he had obtained a small
tradesman's van on which he had lettered the name of a
North London provision merchant. He had arrived at the
house in question during late afternoon, knowing the
occupants were away. He had taken a basket of supposed
goods round the back for appearance's sake and had got in by forcing a window. He had lifted a mink stole, some silverware and a jewellery case containing a necklace and diamond
pendant valued at nine hundred pounds.
Returning to the van he had found a Police-officer waiting
for him. There had been a struggle and the policeman had
been knocked down, regaining his feet as the van started.
Colson had swerved straight at him and the other had died
from his injuries without regaining consciousness.
The firm of provision merchants had categorically denied
that any of their vans had been delivering goods in the St.
John's Wood vicinity at the time; and the principal witness for the prosecution, a mild, oldish woman living in a neighbouring house, who had been in the street just prior to the murder, had been definite that the firm's name had been on the van.
She had recognized Colson as the driver because as she was
passing her attention was drawn to him by the police-officer's presence, whom she overheard question him about a dirty
number plate. She had seen no one else in the van, and she
had thought it strange that goods should be delivered when
she knew the occupants had just gone away. When she had
reached her own house she had looked back to see the van
driving away and the policeman lying in the gutter. Promptly she had dialled 999.
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Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
Witness for the defence, a street-cleaner who had been
working further along the road, stated how he had heard a
shout and a motor starting. He had seen someone lying in the road as the van raced towards him, and had stepped out in
an attempt to stop it but had been forced to jump aside. He had been close enough to see the driver plainly as he went
past. He had not recognized him as the man in the dock. The driver of the van, he had been positive, wore a thin
moustache and a peaked cap. He was also reasonably sure
there was a passenger next to the driver, a woman, he
thought. He had been unable to take the registration number because the rear plate had been obscured by dirt.
A frown creased Dr. Morelle's lofty forehead. How reliable
were the two witnesses? Each had differed in their story. The street-cleaner should have been able to make a reliable
observation. He had attempted to stop the van. His
impression of what he saw should have been gained when his
attention was entirely centred on the vehicle and its driver.
Yet he had failed to recognize him as the man in the dock.
The woman had been equally certain that she did
recognize him, and that there had been no one else in the
van. She did not remember the driver wearing a hat or cap,
but she remembered hearing the policeman question him
about the number plate. Hers had been no more than a
casual interest in the incident and the defence had suggested that she would not have recorded it with such vivid accuracy as that of the second witness who narrowly escaped being run down. But she recognized Colson as the driver while the
street-cleaner did not. Who was right? How much of their
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Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
observation was exaggeration? How much coloured by that
strange mental aberration caused by the sudden realization
that they were individuals of importance? Whose evidence
had weighed the most with the jury? Dr. Morelle thought he
knew.
Now the jury had filed back. They had been out precisely
one hour and twelve minutes. Nine men and three women.
Twelve ordinary people, in whose hands lay the ultimate fate of the prisoner. Every eye was on them as they reached their seats, the shuffle of their footsteps sounding startlingly clear in the heavy silence of the Old Bailey court-room. Someone
coughed. Dr. Morelle f rom the corner of his eye saw a
woman, without taking her gaze off the jury, fumble in her
handbag for some smelling-salts.
Dr. Morelle allowed his gaze to wander abstractedly round
the scene. The sombre oak panelling of the courtroom
accentuating the pale faces of its occupants, the dash of
feminine colour in the public gallery, the stiff pallor of collar and wig. His eyes fixed on the man in the dock. What
moments had he lived through of interminable despair and
hope during the past four days, while the story had unfolded and reached its climax? His story.
There was a rustle of documents pushed aside and the
Clerk of the Court stood up, nervously fiddling with his pince-nez. In a dry, thin voice he said: “Members of the jury, have you considered your verdict?” The foreman, round-faced with beads of perspiration starting on his brow, licked his lips. His voice was scarcely audible.
“We have.”
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Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
Pause.
Then slowly that thin, dry voice framed the words: “Do you
find Brian Colson guilty or not guilty?”
The foreman's low-voiced but firm response: “Not Guilty.”
And the woman with smelling-salts suddenly tipped
forward, uttering a faint moan as she fell into an inert heap. A shuddering sigh seemed to move over the court, and Dr.
Morelle saw the prisoner's hands tighten their grip on the
edge of the dock until it seemed the bone of the knuckles
would pierce the skin.
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Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
Two
That evening Dr. Morelle turned the yellow, rakish
Duesenberg out of Harley Street and headed in the direction of Whitehall. It was a dismal night with a cold drizzle falling out of a lowering sky that appeared no higher than Nelson's Column. The windscreen-wiper carved a continuous panel of
vision through which he could make out the huddled traffic
moving against the background of sloping rain and looming
buildings of Regent Street, the great shops masses of bizarre colour, the side-streets caverns of blackness. The car hissed round Trafalgar Square and then he was turning off Whitehall and into the small forecourt of the club. Parking-space was filling, but he nosed the Duesen-berg into a position so that he would not have far to walk in the rain to the club entrance.
In a few moments he stepped briskly into the warmth of the
foyer, a uniformed porter appeared unobtrusively to take his hat and coat, and Dr. Morelle went leisurely into the bar.
The club was famous for its cosmopolitan membership,
numbering explorers, scientists, lawyers, criminologists
among some of its more distinguished members who made it
their headquarters when in London. Its spacious rooms, lofty ceilings, tall windows, flavoured its atmosphere with an old world tranquillity. Even the bar retained this impression with its round pillars down the centre of the floor, carved ceiling, and two faded oil-paintings either side of the Dutch-tiled
fireplace. The dark oak counter was a modern concession; but there were no stools on which members could perch, they
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Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
either leaned against it or took their drinks to one of the small tables.
It was a little early for dinner and no doubt Gilbert
Winterton had been fully occupied since the close of the trial early that afternoon. But he would show up in due course, he had been keen to suggest the meeting, almost as if, Dr.
Morelle mused, his failure to win the case had made it
imperative he should talk to someone. Was it merely that he needed to relax after the concentration and effort he had
expended over the trial? Dr. Morelle nodded to the white-
coated man behind the bar, and found a leather-covered
corner chair. He took a Le Sphinx from his thin gold cigarette-case and lit it. He sipped the drink the barman had brought him, relishing the smooth flavour while his hooded eyes
flickered across the headlines in an evening paper that
someone had left on the table next to him. COLSON NOT
GUILTY! the banner headline screamed.
Dr. Morelle's mind went back to the Old Bailey. The two
witnesses, two different people coming forward with different stories about the same event. Swearing to the truth of what they had seen yet innocently confusing the issue. On such
conflicting obscuration had hung a man's destiny. It was an exasperating and fascinating subject, and he was still mulling it over when Gilbert Winterton came in.
He was of medium height, broad-shouldered and running
to fat. His sleek dark hair thinned at the temples and above the thick bulbous nose, the cut and thrust of the court still seemed to glint in his round eyes, as he greeted Dr. Morelle.
The barman hovered about them. Winterton did not talk very
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Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
much over drinks, he seemed to be unwinding himself, and
every now and again he sighed and closed his eyes. Over
dinner he relaxed and began to discuss the trial in almost
impersonal tones. He felt that the case against Colson had
been a cast-iron one which had melted in the furnace of the witnesses inconsistencies. The cut and thrust glitter returned to his gaze as he talked.
“You were present throughout, Dr. Morelle. You know his
alibi was broken, that the van was seen outside his lodging-house a few days before the crime, that the planning and
execution of the robbery bore his trade-mark, and the woman recognized him as the driver of the van. Yet the damned
street-cleaner who should have been receptive to an accurate impression comes up with his denial that the driver of the van was him.”
Dr. Morelle touched his mouth with his table-napkin. “I
was not surprised at the jury's verdict. A confliction of such important evidence in the matter of identity would have been sufficient to create reasonable doubt in the minds of any jury.
Although the judge was inclined to favour you in his summing up, he had a duty to perform in emphasizing the disparity.”
The other nodded and drained his wine glass. “I knew what
the result would be,” he said. “But what is the answer?” He delicately operated on a piece of cheddar. He transferred the portion he had cut to his plate and began to butter a biscuit.
Dr. Morelle made no reply. “You might say,” the other went
on, “that counsel could be more careful in their cross-
examination of witnesses. But that would be no remedy.”
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Alibi and Dr. Morelle
by Ernest Dudley
“It would appear a human frailty,” Dr. Morelle said, “that
those subjected to recall observations in the full glare of a police-court with the subsequent publicity, cannot be trusted, the past event is trimmed by their imagination.”
“About time someone did some research on it, “Winterton
said emphatically. “Contributory factors on the unreliability of witnesses, that sort of thing.”
“It would prove an interesting if somewhat exasperating
subject for study,” Dr. Morelle said.
The library made a quiet, restful place after the clatter and bustle of the dining-room. Glass-fronted bookshelves lined
the walls from floor to ceiling, the carpet was Indian, once rich and thick, but now sadly worn in places. There were
three writing tables and a long oak trestle table under the window with neatly arranged copies of current magazines and newspapers. There were deep leather arm-chairs and two
sofas and coffee tables nearby.
Dr. Morelle and Gilbert Winterton found themselves in a
corner and were served coffee, Winterton leaning forward
stirring thoughtfully and puffing a cigar, while Dr. Morelle favoured an inevitable Le Sphinx. The barrister had still not exhausted the subject of the conversation over dinner now
