The Grell Mystery

by Frank Froest

  Green found him, half an hour later, hard at work with the collection of typewritten sheets which formed the book of the case. Foyle was still juggling with his jig-saw puzzle, trying to fit fresh facts in their proper position to old facts.

  ‘Well?’ asked the superintendent abruptly.

  Green read from a paper in his hand.

  ‘Taylor, who is watching the Duke of Burghley’s house in Berkeley Square, has just telephoned that a woman who corresponds to the description of Lola Rachael has just been admitted and is still there.’

  Into Foyle’s alert eyes there shot a gleam of interest.

  ‘You don’t say so?’ he muttered. And then, more alertly, ‘Is he still on the telephone? If so, tell him to detain her should she come out before I can get down. He must be as courteous as possible. We mustn’t lose her now. And send a man down at once to bring Wills, the butler at Grosvenor Gardens, here. He’s the only man who saw the veiled woman enter the house on the night of the murder.’

  CHAPTER XIX

  FROM behind the curtains of the sitting-room Eileen Meredith could see two men occasionally pass and re-pass the house. They did not go by often, but she knew that even if she could not see them they always held the house in view. They were not journalists—they were more sedate, older men. Nor did they molest anyone who entered or left the house. They merely exercised a quiet, unwearying, unobtrusive surveillance, and Eileen knew that Heldon Foyle had taken his own way of preventing her from seeing Sir Ralph Fairfield. She felt certain that were she to leave the house the men would follow her. She did not guess, however, that Foyle had intended them to give her an opportunity of discovering their presence. She would be the more unlikely to persist in her rash resolve if she knew it would be frustrated. Nor did she know that Fairfield was equally closely watched in all his comings and goings.

  The hysterical outbreak that had been provoked by the superintendent’s penetration of her doings when she had visited his office at Scotland Yard had been followed by hours of almost complete collapse. To her father enough had been told to make him hurriedly summon a specialist. The doctor explained.

  ‘I have known similar cases follow a great shock. She is mentally unbalanced on one point. Unless anything occurs to excite her in connection with that, time will effect a cure. She must not be opposed in her wishes, and I would suggest that she be taken out of London and an effort made to distract her. Plenty of society, outdoor amusements—anything to occupy her mind.’

  ‘I suggested that we should leave London,’ said Lord Burghley gloomily. ‘She refuses.’

  ‘Then don’t press her. Ask her friends to visit her, and don’t let her leave the house except with a competent attendant.’

  So it was that Eileen found herself practically a prisoner in her own home. She received the visitors invited by her father at first with a mechanical courtesy, but later on with an assumption of cheerfulness that deceived her father and even to more extent the doctor. She had begun to realise that she would never shake off the vigilance which surrounded her until she had convinced folk that she had regained her normal spirits. Her capabilities as an actress, which had won for her leading parts in many amateur plays, had never been taxed so hardly. But then she had invariably been cast for comedy. Now she felt she was playing tragedy. For night and day she never forgot. Always there was one thought hammering at her brain.

  She withdrew into the room as a neat little motor-brougham halted at the door. In a little while Mrs Porter-Strangeways was announced. Reluctantly Eileen condescended to welcome the portly, middle-aged dame who was tacitly recognised as being the leader of American society in London. The girl smiled brightly as the woman rose to greet her with both arms outstretched.

  ‘It is so good of you, dear Mrs Porter-Strangeways,’ she exclaimed. ‘I have only my friends to look forward to now.’

  Mrs Porter-Strangeways indicated her companion by some subtle means of her own.

  ‘You poor girl!’ she exclaimed, throwing just the right reflection of sympathy into her not unmusical voice. ‘I called before, but you were unfit to see anyone then. I took the liberty of bringing a friend to see you—the Princess Petrovska.’

  The name conveyed nothing to Eileen. She knew not how the woman she faced was concerned in the tangle in which she herself was involved. She saw only a slim, beautifully dressed woman, whose age might have been somewhere between thirty and forty, and who still laid claim to a gipsy-like beauty. The dark eyes of the Princess dwelt upon the girl with a sort of well-bred curiosity. Mrs Porter-Strangeways imparted information in a swift whisper.

  ‘A Russian title, I believe. Met her in Rome two years ago. She is a delightful woman—so bright and happy, though I believe, poor dear, she had a terrible time before her husband died. She called on me yesterday and asked me to bring her to see you. She’s so interested in you. You don’t mind?’

  The quick thought that she was being made a show of caused a spasm to flicker across Eileen’s face. Almost instantly she regained her composure, and for half an hour Mrs Porter-Strangeways prattled on. The other took little part in the conversation. Eileen could feel that the Princess was watching her closely under her cast-down eyelashes. The woman repelled and yet fascinated her. When the time came for leave-taking she found herself giving a pressing invitation to the other to call again. With a smile of satisfaction the Princess promised.

  They had not been gone a quarter of an hour when the Princess was announced alone. Eileen, a little astonished, received her questioningly.

  ‘I had to see you alone,’ explained the older woman. ‘I have something of importance to say to you—that’s why I made Mrs Porter-Strangeways bring me. I feared that you would not see me otherwise.’

  ‘To see me alone?’ repeated Eileen, with the air of one completely mystified. Then, as the other nodded grimly, she closed the door of the room.

  With a murmured ‘Pardon me’ the Princess walked across the room and turned the key. ‘It will be better so,’ she said. ‘What I have to say must not be overheard. The life of a—someone may depend on secrecy.’

  Eileen had begun to wonder if her strange visitor were mad. There was something, however, in her quiet, methodical manner that forbade the assumption. The Princess Petrovska had settled herself gracefully in a great arm-chair.

  ‘No, I am not mad.’ She answered the unspoken question. ‘I am quite in my senses, I assure you. I have come to you with a message from one you think dead—from Robert Grell.’

  The room reeled before Eileen’s eyes. She clutched the mantelpiece with one hand to steady herself.

  ‘From one I think dead!’ she repeated. ‘Bob is dead.’ She gripped the other woman fiercely by the shoulder and almost shook her in the intensity of her emotion. ‘He is dead, I tell you. What do you mean? I know he is dead. Do not lie to me. He is dead.’

  The Princess Petrovska glanced gravely up into the strained features of the girl. Her own face was a mask.

  ‘Calm yourself, Lady Eileen,’ she said. ‘You have been made the victim of a wicked deceit. He is not dead—but a man wonderfully like him is. I have come here at his request to relieve your mind.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘At the same time, he is in grave danger, and you can help him.’

  The girl’s hands dropped to her side, and she regarded her visitor helplessly. A new hope was beginning to steal into her heart, but her reason was all on the other side.

  ‘He is dead,’ she protested faintly. ‘Fairfield killed him. Why should he hide if he is not dead? Why should he not come here himself? Why should he send you?’

  ‘Don’t be a fool,’ retorted the other impatiently, and the impertinence of the words had the effect intended of bracing the half-fainting girl. ‘He does not come because to do so would be madness—because if he showed himself he would be at once arrested by Scotland Yard detectives. They believe him to be the murderer of his double—a man named Goldenburg. There is a note he gave me for you.’

 
The letters danced before Eileen’s eyes as she tore open the thin envelope and held what was undoubtedly Robert Grell’s writing in her shaking hand. She was startled as never before in her life save when she heard of the murder. Slowly she read, the words biting into her brain:

  ‘DEAREST,—Forgive me for not letting you know before that I am safe. I had no means of communicating with you with safety. The man who is dead was killed by no wish of mine. Yet I dared not run the risk of arrest. The bearer of this is an old friend of mine who will herself be in peril by delivering this. Trust her, and destroy this. She will tell you how to keep in touch with me.’

  There was no signature. Mechanically Eileen tore the letter in two and dropped the fragments on the blazing fire. She felt the dark eyes of the Princess upon her as she did so. A spasm of jealousy swept across her at the thought that this woman should have been trusted, should have had the privilege of helping Grell rather than herself. She strove to push it aside as unworthy. He was alive. He was alive. The thought was dominant in her mind. She could have sung for very joy.

  ‘Well?’ asked the Princess.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Eileen wearily. ‘He does not explain. There is nothing clear in the note but that he is alive.’

  ‘He dare say no more. We—that is—he’s succeeded in evading the police so far. If by any chance that letter had fallen into their hands, it would have told them no more than they knew at present.’

  ‘Where is he?’ demanded Eileen. ‘I must go to him.’

  ‘No, that will never do. You would be followed. I will give any message for you. You can help, but not in that way. He is in need of money. Have you any of your own? Can you let him have, say, five hundred pounds at once?’

  The girl reflected a moment.

  ‘There is my jewellery,’ she said at last. ‘He—or you—can raise more than five hundred on that. Wait a moment.’

  She left the room, and a smile flitted across the grave face of the Princess. A few moments later she returned with a little silver casket in her hands.

  ‘And now,’ she said, ‘tell me what happened. Who killed this man Goldenburg?’

  The Princess Petrovska gave a dainty little shrug.

  ‘Mr Grell shall tell you that in his own fashion,’ she said. ‘Listen.’

  For ten minutes she talked rapidly, now and again writing something on a slip of paper and showing it to Eileen. The girl nodded in comprehension, occasionally interjecting a question. At last the Princess rose.

  ‘You fully understand?’ she said.

  ‘I fully understand,’ echoed Eileen.

  CHAPTER XX

  HELDON FOYLE had been prepared to take any risk rather than allow the Princess Petrovska to escape him again. There was nothing against her but suspicion. It was for him to find evidence that might link her with the crime. It is in such things that the detective of actuality differs from the detective of fiction. The detective of fiction acts on moral certainties which would get the detective of real life into bad trouble. To arrest the Princess was out of the question; even to detain her might make matters awkward. Yet the superintendent had made up his mind to afford Wills the butler a sight of her at all costs. If Wills identified her it would be at least another link in the chain of evidence that was being forged.

  He carried the butler in a taxicab with him to the nearest corner to the Duke of Burghley’s house. A well-groomed man sauntered up to them and shook hands warmly with Foyle.

  ‘She has not come out yet,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ exclaimed Foyle. ‘Come on, Wills. You have a good look at this woman when she does come out, and stoop down and tie your shoe-lace if she’s anything like the woman who visited Robert Grell on the night of the murder. Be careful now. Don’t make any mistakes. If you identify her you’ll probably have to swear to her in court.’

  ‘But I never saw her face,’ complained Wills helplessly. ‘I told you I was not certain I’d know her again.’

  He was palpably nervous and unwilling to play the prominent part that had been assigned to him. Foyle laughed reassuringly.

  ‘Never mind. You have a look at her, old chap. You never know in these cases. You may remember her when you see her. Everyone walks differently, and you may spot her by that. It won’t do any harm if you don’t succeed.’

  He led Wills to a spot a few paces away from the house, but out of view of anyone looking from the windows, and gave him instructions to remain where he was. He himself returned to the corner where Taylor, the detective-inspector who had greeted them when they drove up, was waiting. The other end of that side of the square was guarded by one of Taylor’s assistants. Lola was trapped—if Foyle wished her to be trapped.

  He beckoned to a uniformed constable who was pacing the other side of the road. The man nodded—detectives whatever their rank are never saluted—and took up his position a few paces away.

  They had not long to wait. A taxicab whizzed up to the house, evidently summoned by telephone. Wills was staring as though fascinated at the slim, erect figure of the woman outlined on the steps of the house. He half stooped, then straightened himself up again. The superintendent muttered an oath under his breath and nodded to the loitering policeman. The constable immediately sprang into the roadway with arm outstretched, and the cab, which was just gathering way, was pulled up with a jerk. The blue uniform is more useful in some cases than the inconspicuous mufti of the C.I.D.

  ‘Get hold of Wills and bring him after us to Malchester Row Police Station.’ And, opening the door, he stepped within as the driver dropped in the clutch.

  The Princess had half risen and gave a little cry of dismay at the intrusion. With grim, set face the detective adjusted his tall form to the limits of the cab and sat down beside her. His hand encircled her wrist, and he forced her back to the seat.

  ‘I shouldn’t try to open the door if I were you,’ he said quietly. ‘You might fall out.’

  The woman dropped back and did some quick thinking. She had no difficulty in guessing who Foyle was, and she could scarcely have failed to see the staring figure of the butler as she left the Duke of Burghley’s house. She fenced for time, doing the astonished, outraged, half-frightened innocent to perfection.

  ‘What does this mean? How dare you molest me? Where are you taking me?’

  The detective smiled easily as he answered in the formal words of C.I.D. custom: ‘I am a police officer—perhaps I needn’t tell you that—and I am taking you to Malchester Row Police Station.’

  ‘To arrest me? You would dare? Do you know I am the Princess Petrovska? There is some mistake. I shall appeal to the Russian Ambassador. What do you say I have done? I am a friend of Lady Eileen Meredith, the daughter of the Duke of Burghley. She will tell you I have only just left her. You are confusing me with someone else.’

  It was admirably done. The mixture of indignation and haughtiness might have imposed upon some people, and the threat of appeal to the Russian Ambassador had been very adroit. Heldon Foyle merely nodded.

  ‘This is not arrest,’ he replied. ‘It is not even detention—unless you force me to it. I am inviting you to accompany me to give an account of your movements on the night that Harry Goldenburg was murdered. I will call your bluff, Lola, and we will call at the ambassador’s if you like.’

  She made a gesture with one hand, as of a fencer acknowledging a hit, and, turning her head, smiled sweetly into his face. Nevertheless, in spite of everything, she felt a little nervous. She had gone to see Eileen with her eyes not fully open to the risk she ran. Deftly used, newspapers have their uses. In supplying the story of the murder to the pressmen, Foyle had omitted all mention of the finding of the miniature. The woman had not known that Scotland Yard had a portrait of her, and had deemed it unlikely that she would be recognised by the watchers of the house. Although she had lived by her wits in many quarters of the world, she had hitherto avoided trouble with the police in England. She wondered how much Foyle knew. It was evidently of no use
trying to impress him with the importance of her rank and connections. Princesses are cheap in Russia.

  ‘You are Mr Heldon Foyle, of course,’ she said. ‘I have heard that you are very clever. I don’t see what I can have had to do with the murder, even if I am Lola Rachael—which I admit.’

  ‘We shall see. Can you prove where you were between ten o’clock, when you left the Palatial Hotel, and midnight on that date?’

  She laughed merrily. ‘You are not so clever as I thought,’ she exclaimed. ‘Do you think that I am a murderess? I went straight to an hotel near Charing Cross—the Splendid—and caught the nine o’clock boat train to Paris. It is easily proved.’

  Foyle shifted to the seat opposite, so that he could see her face more easily.

  ‘Then you don’t deny that you visited Grosvenor Gardens that night, that you were admitted by Ivan Abramovitch, Grell’s valet, and taken to his study?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ she retorted laughingly. ‘If that’s all you’ve got to go upon you may as well let me go now.’

  ‘Very well. We shall see,’ he answered.

  The cab stopped at Malchester Row Police Station.

  CHAPTER XXI

  TO the constable who opened the cab door Foyle gave quick instructions in a low voice. The Princess Petrovska found herself ushered into a plainly furnished waiting room, decorated with half-a-dozen photographic enlargements of the portraits of high police officials and a photogravure of ‘Her Majesty the Baby.’ There the policeman left her.

  Foyle came to her a moment later. His couple of questions to the cabman as he paid him had not been fruitful. He had been ordered by the lady to drive to Waterloo Station. It was a fairly obvious ruse, which would have had the effect of effectually confusing her trail, for from there she might have taken train, tube, omnibus, tram, or cab again to about any point in London.