The Grell Mystery

There was no hint of officialdom in his manner. It was the sympathetic attitude of one friend towards another. Wills gulped down a strong mixture of brandy and soda which Bolt held out to him, and a tinge of colour returned to his pale cheeks.

‘It was awful, sir—awful,’ he said shakily. ‘Mr Grell came in shortly before ten, and left word that if a lady came to see him she was to be brought straight into his study. She drove up in a motor-car a few minutes afterwards and went up to him.’

‘What was her name? What was she like?’ interrupted Bolt. Foyle held up his hand warningly to his subordinate.

Wills quivered all over, and words forsook him for a moment. Then he went on—

‘I—I don’t know. Ivan, Mr Grell’s valet, let her in. I saw her pass through the hall. She was tall and slim, but she wore a heavy veil, so I didn’t see her face. I don’t know when she left, but I went up to the study at one o’clock to ask if anything was needed before I went to bed. I could get no answer, although I knocked loudly two or three times; so I opened the door. My God! I—’

He flung his hands over his eyes and collapsed in an infantile paroxysm of tears.

Foyle rose and touched him gently on the shoulder. ‘Yes, then?’

‘The room was only dimly lit, sir, and I could see that he was lying on the couch, rather awkwardly, his face turned from me. I thought he might have dozed off, and I went into the room and touched him on the shoulder. My hand came away wet!’ His voice rose to a scream. ‘It was blood—blood everywhere—and he with a knife in his heart.’

Foyle leaned over the table. ‘Where’s Ivan?—Russian, I suppose, by the name? He must be about the house somewhere.’

‘I haven’t seen him since he let the lady in,’ faltered the butler.

The superintendent never answered. Bolt had silently disappeared. For five minutes silence reigned in the little room. Then the door was pushed open violently and Bolt entered like a stone propelled from a catapult.

‘Ivan has gone—vanished!’ he cried.

CHAPTER III

FOYLE caressed his chin with his well-manicured hand.

‘H’m!’ he said reflectively. ‘Don’t let’s jump to conclusions too quickly, Mr Bolt. There’s a doctor here, I suppose? Take this man to him, and when he’s a bit calmer take a statement from him. I’ll leave Ivan to you. Get some of the servants to give you a description of him, and ’phone it through to Flack at the Yard. Let him send it out as an “all station” message, and get in touch with the railway stations. The chap can’t have got far. Detain on suspicion. No arrest. Hello, there’s the bell. That’s some of our people, I expect. All right, I’ll answer. You get on with that.’

He had not raised his voice in giving his directions. He was as cool and matter-of-fact as a business man giving instructions to his secretary, yet he was throwing a net round London. Within five minutes of the time Bolt had gathered his description, the private telegraph that links Scotland Yard with all the police stations of London would be setting twenty thousand men on the alert for the missing servant. The great railway stations would be watched, and every policeman and detective wherever he might be stationed would know exactly the appearance of the man wanted, from the colour of his hair and his eyes to the pattern of his socks.

Foyle opened the door to a little cluster of grave-faced men. Sir Hilary Thornton, the assistant commissioner, was there; Professor Harding, an expert retained by the authorities, and a medical man whose scientific researches in connection with the Gould poisoning case had sent a man to the gallows, and whose aid had been most important in solving many murder mysteries; Grant of the finger-print department, a wizard in all matters relating to identification; a couple of men from his department bearing cameras, and lastly the senior officer of the Criminal Investigation Department, Green, and his assistant, Waverley.

Sir Hilary drew Foyle a little aside, and they conversed in low tones. Professor Harding, with a nod to the superintendent, had gone upstairs to where the divisional surgeon and another doctor were waiting with Lomont, the secretary of the murdered man, outside the door of the room where Robert Grell lay dead.

The doctors had done no more than ascertain he was dead, and Foyle himself had purposely not gone near the room until Harding had an opportunity of making his examinations.

‘I shall take charge of this myself, if you do not mind, Sir Hilary,’ Foyle was saying. ‘Mainland is capable of looking after the routine work of the department, and in the case of a man of Mr Grell’s importance—’

‘That is what I should have suggested,’ said Sir Hilary. ‘We must get to the bottom of this at all costs. You know Mr Grell was to have been married to Lady Eileen Meredith at St Margaret’s, Westminster, this morning. It’s a bad business. Let’s see what Harding’s got to say.’

Their feet sank noiselessly into the thick carpet of the stairs as they moved towards the death-chamber. From an open doorway near the landing a flood of light issued.

‘Very handy for anyone to get away,’ commented Foyle. ‘The stairs lead direct to the hall, and there are only two rooms to pass. This carpet would deaden footsteps too.’

They entered softly. Someone had turned all the lights on in the room, and it was bathed in brilliance.

A dying fire flickered in the grate; bookcases lined the red-papered walls, which were broken here and there by curios and sporting trophies gathered from many countries. There were a few etchings, which had evidently been chosen with the skill of a connoisseur.

Parallel with the window was a desk, scrupulously tidy. Half a dozen chairs were scattered about, and in a recess was a couch, over which the angular frock-coated figure of Professor Harding was bent. He looked up as the two men approached.

‘It’s clearly murder,’ he said. ‘He was probably killed between ten and eleven—stabbed through the heart. Curious weapon used too—look!’

He moved aside and for the first time Foyle got a view of the body. Robert Grell lay sprawled awkwardly on the couch, his face turned towards the wall, one leg trailing on the floor. A dark crimson stain soiled the white surface of his shirt, and one side of his dinner jacket was wringing wet. The dagger still remained in the wound, and it was that riveted Foyle’s attention. He stepped back quickly to one of the men at the door.

‘Send Mr Grant to me,’ he ordered.

Returning to the body, he gently withdrew the knife, handling it with the most delicate care. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before,’ he said. ‘Queer thing, isn’t it?’

It was a sheath knife with a blade of finely tempered steel about three inches long and as sharp as a razor. Its abnormality lay in a hilt of smooth white ivory set horizontally and not vertically to the blade, as is a rule with most knives.

Foyle carried it in the palm of his hand nearer to the light and squinted at it from various angles. One at least of the observers guessed his purpose. But the detective seemed dissatisfied.

‘Can’t see anything,’ he grumbled peevishly. ‘Ah, there you are, Grant. I want to see whether we can make anything of this. Let me have a little graphite, will you?’

The finger-print expert took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to the superintendent. From it Foyle scattered fine black powder on the hilt. A little cry of satisfaction came from his lips as he blew the stuff away in a little dark cloud. Those in the room crowded around.

Outlined in black against the white surface of the ivory were four finger-prints. The two centre ones were sharp and distinct, the outside prints were fainter and more blurred.

‘By Jove, that’s good!’ exclaimed the professor.

Foyle rubbed his chin and handed the weapon to Grant without replying. ‘Get one of your men to photograph those and have them enlarged. At any rate, it’s something to go on with. It would be as well to compare ’em with the records, though I doubt whether that will be of much use.’ He drew his watch from his pocket and glanced at it. ‘Now, if you will excuse me, gentlemen, I should like to have the room to myself for a little while. And, Grant, send Green and the photographer up, and tell Waverley to act with Bolt in examining the servants.’

The room cleared. Harding lingered to exchange a few words with the superintendent.

‘I can do nothing, Mr Foyle,’ he said. ‘From a medical point of view it is all straightforward. There can be no question about the time and cause of death. Good night—or rather, good morning.’

‘Thank you, Mr Harding, good morning.’

His eyes were roving restlessly about the room, and he dictated the work the photographer was to do with scrupulous care. Half a dozen times a dazzling flash of magnesium powder lit up the place. Photographs of the room in sections were being taken. Then with a curt order to the photographer to return immediately to Scotland Yard and develop his negatives, he drew up a chair to the couch and began to go methodically through the pockets of the dead man.

Green stood by, a note-book in hand. Now and again Foyle dictated swiftly. He was a man who knew the value of order and system. Every step in the investigation of a crime is reduced to writing, collected, indexed, and filed together, so that the whole history of a case is instantly available at any time. He was carrying out the regular routine.

Only two things of any consequence rewarded his search—one was a note from Sir Ralph Fairfield confirming an appointment with Grell to dine at the St Jermyn’s Club the previous evening; the other was a miniature set in diamonds of a girl, dark and black-haired, with an insolent piquant beauty.

‘I’ve seen that face before somewhere,’ mused the superintendent. ‘Green, there’s a “Who’s Who” on the desk behind you. I want Sir Ralph Fairfield.’

Rapidly he scanned the score of lines of small type devoted to the baronet. They told him little that he had not known before. Fairfield was in his forty-third year, was the ninth baronet, and had great estates in Hampshire and Scotland. He was a traveller and a student. His town address was given as the Albany.

‘You’d better go round to Fairfield’s place, Green. Tell him what’s happened and bring him here at once.’

As the chief inspector, a grim, silent man, left, Foyle turned again to his work. He began a careful search of the room, even rummaging among the litter in the waste-paper basket. But there was nothing else that might help to throw the faintest light on the tragedy.

A discreet knock on the door preceded Waverley’s entrance with a report of the examination of everyone in the house. He had gathered little beyond the fact that Grell, when not concerned in social duties, was a man of irregular comings and goings, and that Ivan, his personal valet, was a man he had brought from St Petersburg, who spoke French but little English, and had consequently associated little with the other servants.

Foyle subsided into his chair with his forehead puckered into a series of little wrinkles. He rested his chin on his hand and gazed into vacancy. There might be a hundred solutions to the riddle. Where was the motive? Was it blackmail? Was it revenge? Was it jealousy? Was it robbery? Was it a political crime? Was it the work of a madman? Who was the mysterious veiled woman? Was she associated with the crime?

These and a hundred other questions beat insistently on his brain, and to none of them could he see the answer. He pictured the queer dagger, but flog his memory as he would he could not think where it might have been procured. In the morning he would set a score of men making inquiries at every place in London where such a thing was likely to have been obtained.

He was in the position of a man who might solve a puzzle by hard, painstaking experiment and inquiry, but rather hoped that some brilliant flash of inspiration or luck might give him the key that would fit it together at once. They rarely do come.

Once Lomont, Grell’s secretary, knocked and entered with a question on his lips. Foyle waved him impatiently away.

‘I will see you later on, Mr Lomont. I am too busy to see you now. Mr Waverley or Mr Bolt will see to you.’

The man vanished, and a moment or two later a discreet tap at the door heralded the return of Green, accompanied by Sir Ralph Fairfield.

The baronet’s hand was cold as it met that of Foyle, and his haggard face was averted as though to avoid the searching gaze of the detective.

CHAPTER IV

FAIRFIELD, awakened from sleep by the news of the murder of his friend, had stared stupidly at the detective Foyle had sent to him.

‘Grell killed!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, he was with me last night. It is incredible—awful. Of course, I’ll come at once—though I don’t see what use I can be. What time was he murdered?’

‘About ten o’clock. So far as we know you were the last person to see him alive—except the murderer,’ said Green. ‘Believe me, we’re sorry to have to trouble you.’

The baronet’s face had suddenly gone the colour of white paper. A sickening dread had suddenly swept over him. His hands trembled as he adjusted his overcoat. He remembered that he had assured Lady Eileen that Grell had been with him at the club from six till eleven. What complexion would that statement bear when it was exposed as a lie—in the light of the tragedy? His throat worked as he realised that he might even be suspected of the crime.

The ordinary person suddenly involved in the whirlpool of crime is always staggered. There is ever the feeling, conscious or unconscious: ‘Why out of so many millions of people should this happen to me?’ So it was with Sir Ralph Fairfield. He pictured the agony in Eileen Meredith’s eyes when she heard of the death of her lover, pictured her denunciation of his lie. The truth would only sound lame if he were to tell it. Who would believe it? Like a man stricken dumb he descended in the lift with Green, out into the wild night in a taxicab, his thoughts a chaos.

He was neither a coward nor a fool. He had known close acquaintance with sudden death before. But that was different. It had not happened so. He was incapable of connected thought. One thing only he was clear upon—he must see Eileen, tell her the truth and throw himself on her mercy. Meanwhile he would answer no questions until he had considered the matter quietly.

This was his state of mind when he shook hands with Foyle. He had schooled his voice, and it was in a quiet tone that he spoke.

‘It’s a horrible thing, this,’ he said, twirling his hat between his long, nervous fingers.

Foyle was studying him closely. The movement of the hands was not lost upon him.

‘Yes,’ he agreed, stroking his chin. ‘I asked you to come here because Mr Grell dined with you last night. Do you know if he left you to keep an appointment?’

‘No—that is, it might have been so. He left me, and I understood he would be back. He did not return.’

‘At what time?’

Fairfield hesitated a second before replying. Then, ‘I haven’t the remotest idea.’

The face of Foyle gave no indication of the surprise he felt. He did not press the question, but slid off to another.

‘Do you know of any woman who was likely to visit him at that time of night?’

‘Great heavens, no, man! Do you suspect a woman? He—’ He checked himself, and looked curiously at the detective. ‘Mr Grell was a friend of mine,’ he went on more quietly. ‘Things are bad enough as they are, but you know that he had influential friends both here and in America. They won’t thank you, Mr Foyle, for trying to go into such things.’

Heldon Foyle’s eyes lingered in quiet scrutiny on the other’s face.

‘I shall do what I consider to be my duty,’ he said, his voice a little hard. ‘Come, Sir Ralph, you will see I must do my best to bring the murderer of this man to justice. Had Mr Grell any relations?’

‘I don’t believe there’s one in the wide world.’

‘And you don’t remember what time he left? Try, Sir Ralph. It is important. Before you came I sent a man to the club, and none of the servants recollects seeing either of you go. They say he was with you most of the evening. You can clear up this matter of time.’

‘I don’t remember what time he left me.’

The baronet’s voice was hoarse and strained. Foyle rose and stood towering over him.

‘You are lying,’ he said deliberately.

Sir Ralph recoiled as though he had been struck in the face. A quick wave of crimson had mounted to his temples. Instinctively his hands clenched. Then regaining a little control of himself he wheeled about without a word. His hand was on the handle of the door when the superintendent’s suave voice brought him to a halt.

‘Oh, by the way, Sir Ralph, you might look at this before you go, and say whether you recognise it.’

He held his clenched hand out, and suddenly unclasped it to disclose the miniature set in diamonds.

Sir Ralph gave a start. ‘By Jove, it’s little Lola of Vienna!’ he exclaimed. Then realised that he had been trapped. ‘But I shall tell you nothing about her,’ he snapped.

‘Thank you, Sir Ralph,’ said the other quietly.

‘But this I think it right you should know,’ went on Fairfield, standing with one hand still on the handle of the door: ‘When Grell was with me last night he showed me a pearl necklace, which he said he had bought as a wedding present for Lady Eileen Meredith. If you have not found it, it may give you some motive for the tragedy.’

‘Ah!’ said Foyle unemotionally.

CHAPTER V

DAY had long dawned ere Foyle and his staff had finished their work at the great house in Grosvenor Gardens. There had been much to do, for every person who might possibly throw a light on the tragedy had to be questioned and requestioned. The place had been thoroughly searched from attic to cellar, for letters or for the jewels that, if Sir Ralph Fairfield were right, were missing.

Much more there would be to do, but for the moment they could go no further. Foyle returned wearily to Scotland Yard to learn that of the finger-prints on the dagger two were too blurred to serve for purposes of identification. He ordered the miniature to be photographed, and held a short consultation with the assistant commissioner. The watch kept for Ivan had so far been without avail. In the corridor, early as it was, a dozen journalists were waiting. Foyle submitted good-humouredly to their questions as they grouped themselves about his room.

‘Yes. Of course, I’ll let you know all about it,’ he protested. ‘I’ll have the facts typed out for you, and you can embroider them yourselves. There’s a description of a man we’d like to get hold of—not necessarily the murderer, but he might be an important witness. Be sure and put that in.’

He always had an air of engaging candour when dealing with newspaper men. Sometimes they were useful, and he never failed to supply them with just as much information about a case as would in any event leak out. That saved them trouble and made them grateful. He went away now to have the bare details of the murder put into shape. When he returned he held the diamond-set miniature in his hand.

‘This has been left at the Lost Property Office,’ he declared unblushingly. ‘It’s pretty valuable, so they’ve put it into our hands to find the owner. Any of you boys know the lady?’

Some of them examined it with polite interest. They were more concerned with the murder of a famous man. Lost trinkets were small beer at such time. Only Jerrold of The Wire made any suggestion.

‘Reminds me of that Russian princess woman who’s been staying at the Palatial, only it’s too young for her. What’s her name?—Petrovska, I think.’

‘Thanks,’ said Foyle; ‘it doesn’t matter much. Ah, here’s your stuff. Good-bye, boys, and don’t worry me more than you can help. This thing is going to keep us pretty busy.’

He saw them out of the room and carefully closed the door. Sitting at his desk he lifted the receiver from the telephone.

‘Get the Palatial Hotel,’ he ordered. ‘Hello! That the Palatial? Is the Princess Petrovska there? What? Left last night at ten o’clock? Did she say where she was going? No, I see. Good-bye.’

He scribbled a few words on a slip of paper, and touching the bell gave it to the man who answered. ‘Send that to St Petersburg at once.’

It was a communication to the Chief of the Russian police, asking that inquiries should be made as to the antecedents of the Princess.

For the next three hours men were coming rapidly in and out of the superintendent’s office, receiving instructions and making reports. Practically the whole of the six hundred men of the C.I.D. were engaged on the case, for there was no avenue of investigation so slender but that there might be something at the end of it. Neither Foyle nor his lieutenants were men to leave anything to chance. Green was seated opposite to him, discussing the progress they had made.

The superintendent leaned back wearily in his chair. Someone handed him a slim envelope. He tore it open and slowly studied the cipher in which the message was written. It read:

Silinsky, Chief of Police, St Petersburg.

To Foyle, Superintendent C.I.D., London.

Woman you mention formerly Lola Rachael, believed born Paris;

formerly on stage, Vienna; married Prince Petrovska, 1898.

Husband died suddenly 1900. Travels much.

No further particulars known.

Foyle stroked his chin gravely. ‘Formerly Lola Rachael,’ he murmured. ‘And Sir Ralph recognised the miniature as little Lola of Vienna. She’s worth looking after. We must find her, Green. What about this man Ivan?’

‘No trace of him yet, sir, but I don’t think he can give us the slip. He hadn’t much time to get away. By the way, sir, what do you think of Sir Ralph?’

‘I don’t know. He’s keeping something back for some reason. You’d better have him shadowed, Green. Go yourself, and take a good man with you. He mustn’t be let out of sight night or day. I may tackle him again later on.’

‘Very good, sir. Waverley’s still at Grosvenor Gardens. Will you be going back there?’

‘I don’t know. I want to look through the records of the Convict Supervision Office for the last ten years. I have an idea that I may strike something.’

Green was too wise a man to ask questions of his chief. He slipped from the room. Half an hour later Foyle dashed out of the room hatless, and, picking up a taxicab, drove at top speed to Grosvenor Gardens. He was greeted at the door by Lomont.

‘What is it?’ he demanded, the excitement of the detective communicating itself to him. ‘Have you carried the case any further?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied the detective. ‘I must see the body again. Come up with me.’

In the death-chamber he carefully locked the door. A heavy ink-well stood on the desk. He twisted up a piece of paper and dipped it in. Then, approaching the murdered man, he smeared the fingers of his right hand with the blackened paper and pressed them lightly on a piece of blotting paper. The secretary, in utter bewilderment, watched him compare the prints with a piece of paper he took from his pocket.

‘What is it?’ he repeated again.

‘Mr Lomont,’ replied the detective gravely, ‘I wish I knew. Unless our whole system of identification is wrong—and that is incredible—that man who lies dead there is not Robert Grell.’

CHAPTER VI

LOMONT reeled dizzily, and his hand sought the support of the wall. To him Foyle’s voice sounded unreal. He stared at the detective as though doubtful of his sanity. His life had been hitherto ordered, placid. That there were such things as crimes, murders, detectives, he knew. He had read of them in the newspapers. But hitherto they had only been names to him—something to make the paper more readable.