The Grell Mystery

by Frank Froest

  Heldon Foyle had many avenues of information when it was a matter of ordinary professional crime. The old catchword, ‘Honour among thieves,’ was one he had little reason to believe in. There was always a trickle of information into headquarters by subterranean ways. The commonplaces of crime were effectively looked after. Murders are the exception in criminal investigation work, and while other crimes may be dealt with by certain predetermined if elastic rules, homicide had to be considered differently. Yet Foyle had cause to think that there might be little harm in setting to work the underground agencies which at first sight seemed to have little enough in common with the mystery of the rich Robert Grell. These spies and informers would try to cheat and trick him. Some of them might succeed. It would cost money, but money that might not be wasted.

  Four of the five chief detective-inspectors who form the general staff of the C.I.D. were in the room, among them Wagnell, who had passed a quarter of a century in the East End and knew the lower grades of ‘crooks’ thoroughly, collectively, and individually.

  Foyle shut the door.

  ‘I wish some of you would pass the word among our people that we will pay pretty handsomely for anyone who puts us on to the gang mixed up in this Grell business. Word it differently to that. You’ll know how to put it. You might get hold of Sheeny Foster, Wagnell, or Poodle Murphy, or Buck Taylor. They may be able to nose out something.’

  ‘Buck was sent up for six months for jumping on his wife,’ said Wagnell. ‘I haven’t seen Sheeny lately, but I’ll try to get hold of him, and I’ll have the word passed along.’

  So, having made the first step in enlisting a new and formidable force of guerillas on the side of the law, Foyle went back to his office to revolve the problem in his brain once more.

  His thoughts wandered to Sir Ralph Fairfield. Here was a man whose services would be invaluable if he could be persuaded to help. Grell knew him; trusted him. Foyle was a man who never neglected the remotest chances. He deemed it worth trying. True, so far as their encounters were concerned, Fairfield had not been encouraging. He would probably need delicate handling. Foyle wrote a note, scrutinised it rapidly, and, going out, gave it to a clerk to be sent at once by special messenger.

  ‘Mr Heldon Foyle presents his compliments to Sir Ralph Fairfield and would be obliged if he could see him at his office at six o’clock this evening, or failing that, by an early appointment, on a matter of urgent importance.’

  That was all it said: Foyle never wasted a word.

  At five minutes past six that evening, Sir Ralph Fairfield was announced. He ignored the offer of a chair which was made by the superintendent, and stood with stony face a few paces from the door. Foyle was too wise to offer his hand. He knew it would not be accepted. He nodded affably.

  ‘Good evening, Sir Ralph. I was hoping you would come. I would not have troubled you but that I felt you would like to know how we are getting on. You were a friend of Mr Grell’s.’

  ‘Well?’ said Sir Ralph frigidly. ‘I am here, Mr Foyle. Will you let me know what you want to say and have done with it?’

  His manner was entirely antagonistic. There was still a lingering fear of arrest in his mind, but his attitude was in the main caused by the fact that he believed he had been suspected by the other. The superintendent partly guessed what was passing in his mind.

  ‘I want your word first, Sir Ralph, that what I tell you shall not be spoken of by you to any living soul,’ he said. ‘Then I will tell you frankly and openly the whole history of our investigation, and you can decide whether you will help us or not. No—wait a moment. I know how loyal a friend you were of Robert Grell’s, and it’s in the light of that, that I am going to trust you. He is not dead. He is in hiding. It is for you to say whether you will help us to find him. If he is innocent he has nothing to fear.’

  He was watching the other closely while he sprung the fact that Grell was alive upon him. He wanted to know whether it was really a surprise, whether in spite of the vigilance of the C.I.D. men Grell or his companions had managed to communicate with Fairfield. The baronet had opened his mouth to speak. A flicker of colour came and went in his pale cheeks, and he fingered his stick nervously. Then his jaw set, and he strode to where the superintendent was sitting and clutched him tightly by the arm.

  ‘What’s all this?’ he demanded hoarsely. ‘Do you mean to say Grell is not dead?’

  ‘As far as I know he is as alive as you or I at this present minute,’ said Foyle. ‘If you want to hear about it all, give me your word and sit down. You’re hurting my arm.’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said the baronet mechanically, and, stepping back, seated himself in a big arm-chair that flanked the desk. He passed his hand in a dazed fashion across his forehead and his composure came back to him. Staggering, incredible as the statement seemed, there was that in Foyle’s quiet tones that gave it the stamp of truth.

  ‘Of course, I’ll give you my word,’ he said.

  Foyle was satisfied that the baronet knew nothing. There was a deeper policy behind the pledge he had exacted than that of preventing a leakage of confidence. Fairfield would not go behind his word. In that the superintendent had judged him accurately. But the pledge would also tie his hands should Grell or his companions eventually manage to communicate with him. Even if he decided not to help the police, he would find it difficult, without going behind his word, to assist the missing explorer.

  From the beginning he traced the trend of the investigation, Fairfield leaning forward and listening attentively, his lips tight pressed. As Foyle brought out the points, the baronet now and again jerked his head in understanding. The detective slurred nothing, not even the accusation and resolve of the Lady Eileen Meredith. The baronet choked a little.

  ‘You think she really meant to kill me?’ He waved his hand impatiently as Foyle nodded. ‘Never mind that. Go on. Go on.’

  Foyle finished his recapitulation. Sir Ralph’s eyes were fixed on a Vanity Fair cartoon of the Commissioner of Police hanging framed on the wall. He was trying to readjust his thoughts. From a man who believed himself under deadly suspicion he had suddenly become a confidant of Scotland Yard. He had been released of all fear for himself. And Bob Grell was alive after all; that, he reflected, was the queer thing. What did it mean? Where was the reason for this extraordinary tangle of complications? Grell always was deep, but, so far as his friend knew, he was a man strictly honourable. How had he come to be involved in an affair that looked so black against him? There was Eileen to be considered too. In spite of himself, he could readily believe the story of the pistol. She had believed him guilty of the murder. Her mood when last he saw her had been that of a woman who would stoop to anything to compass her vengeance. But she knew he was not guilty now. That might make a difference to his course of action. Should he throw in his lot with Foyle and assist in bringing Grell within the reach of the law?

  ‘What do you say, Sir Ralph? Will you help us?’

  Foyle’s suave voice broke in upon the thread of his thoughts.

  He shook himself a little and met the detective’s steady gaze.

  ‘If I do, will it mean that you will arrest Grell for murder?’

  The superintendent caressed his chin and hesitated a little before replying.

  ‘I have been quite open with you, Sir Ralph. I don’t know. As things are at present, it looks uncommonly as though he had a hand in it. He is the only person who can clear himself. While he remains in hiding everything looks black against him. We have managed to keep things quiet until the resumption of the inquest. When that takes place we shall not be able to maintain the confusion of identity. With things as they stand, the jury are practically certain to return a verdict of murder against him. If he is not guilty, his best chance is for us to find him. Understand me, Sir Ralph. If he is innocent you are doing him no service by refraining from helping us. Every day makes things blacker. If he is guilty—well, it is for you to judge whether you will shield a murderer even if he is
your friend.’

  To another person, Foyle would have used another method of persuasion, talking more but saying less. He had staked much on his estimate of the baronet’s character, and awaited his reply with an anxiety of which his face gave no trace. Very rare were the occasions on which he had told so much of an unfinished investigation to another person, and that person not an official of Scotland Yard. Often he had feigned to open his heart with the same object—to win confidence by apparent confidence. The difference now was that he had given the facts without concealment or suppression.

  Fairfield fingered his watch-chain, and the big office clock loudly ticked five minutes away.

  ‘I will assist you as far as I can, but you must allow me to decide when to remain neutral,’ he said at last.

  ‘Agreed,’ said Foyle, and the two shook hands on the bargain.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  DUTCH FRED changed his seat to one less conspicuous and farther up the tramcar. He felt that his luck was dead out, that life was a blank. And that Heldon Foyle of all men should have chosen that particular moment to board that particular tramcar had, as Fred would have expressed it, ‘absolutely put the lid on.’ Fred knew very well how to circumvent the precaution taken by order of the police that public vehicles should have the back of the seats filled in to prevent pocket-picking. Instead of sitting behind a victim, one sat by his side, with a ‘stall’ behind to pass the plunder to. A ‘dip’ of class—and Dutch Fred was an acknowledged master—never keeps his plunder on him for a single second longer than necessary. But with Foyle on the car it was too expensive to operate, especially single-handed. Therefore, Fred felt the world a dreary place.

  He had boarded the car alone and without thought of plunder. Had it been in professional hours, he would have had at least one ‘stall’—perhaps two—with him. As chance would have it, a portly business man, with a massive gold chain spanning his ample waist, had seated himself next the operator. And Fred had decided that the watch on the end of the cable was worth risking an experiment upon. Besides, the appearance of prosperity of the ‘mug’ spoke of a possible ‘leather’ stuffed with banknotes. Decidedly, even in the absence of a ‘stall,’ it was worth chancing. And then Foyle got on and spoilt it all. If anyone on the tramcar lost anything he would know who to blame.

  For Heldon Foyle had spoiled one of the greatest coups that ever a crook had been on the verge of bringing off. Fred, immaculately clad, and with irreproachable references, had approached Greenfields, the Bond Street jewellers, with a formula for manufacturing gold. He had discovered the philosopher’s stone. ‘Of course, I don’t want you to go into this until I’ve proved that it can actually be done,’ he said airily. ‘See there. I made that handful of gold-dust myself. You test it, and see that it’s all right. Now, I’ll sell you the secret of making that for £100,000. I don’t want the money till I’ve given you a demonstration.’

  So an arrangement was fixed up. The jewellers, with a faith that long experience had not destroyed, believed in Fred. Nevertheless, they took the precaution of calling in Foyle, then unknown to Fred save by name. In a little room in Clerkenwell the experiment took place. With ingenious candour, Fred prepared a crucible in front of his select audience after the various ingredients had been submitted to strict examination. Then he placed it on the fire, and stirred the contents occasionally. At last the process was finished, and at the bottom of the crucible was found a teaspoonful of undoubted gold-dust. Then, while Fred, with a broad smile of satisfaction, awaited comment, the detective, who had noted the strange fact that he had kept his gloves on while stirring the crucible, stepped up to him and deftly whipped one off. In the fingers were traces of gold-dust—enough to convict Fred and get him three years at the Old Bailey.

  Out of the corner of his eyes, Fred watched the detective presently stand up and pass along the deck of the car towards him. The operator’s face was bland, and he smiled with the consciousness of one who has nothing to hide as the superintendent sat down beside him.

  ‘Hello, Mr Foyle! I am glad to see you,’ he said, with a heartiness that he knew did not deceive the other. ‘It’s a long time since we met.’

  The detective returned the greeting with a cheerfulness that was entirely unassumed.

  ‘It’s a piece of luck meeting you, Freddy,’ he went on. ‘But there, I always was lucky. You’re just the man in the wide world I’ve been wanting to see.’

  ‘What’s on?’ growled Freddy, with quick suspicion.

  ‘Oh, you’re all right,’ the detective reassured him. ‘I want you to help me. Let’s get off at the next stopping-place and have a drink.’

  His fears allayed, Freddy followed the detective off the car. They were professional enemies, it was true, but as a rule their relations were amicable. It was policy on both sides.

  In the saloon bar of an adjacent public-house, Freddy unburdened himself fully and frankly while he sipped the mixed vermuth.

  ‘I’m glad you struck me—on my word I am,’ he said earnestly, while his active wits were wondering what the detective wanted. ‘That bloke was carrying a red clock, and, though I was going for it, I had a feeling I should get into trouble. If you’d been a minute or two later, you’d—’

  ‘Why talk of these unpleasant things, Freddy?’ said Foyle, with a deprecatory wave of the hand. ‘You know how I’d hate to have to do anything to disturb your peace of mind.’ He drew him to a secluded corner of the lounge. ‘Come over here. Now, listen. Do you know Goldenburg or any of his pals?’

  Freddy started a little, and looked meditatively at the tips of his well-polished boots.

  ‘The chap that did in Grell. I knew him a bit,’ he said cautiously. ‘He was in a different line, you know. Mostly works alone, too. I can’t say that I know much about him. There’s Charlie Eden, he was in with him once—I guess he’s in town. And Red Ike, he knew him, too. Perhaps there’s some more of the boys who had some does with him. But he always was a bit above us common crooks. I only went for big game once’—his gaze lingered on Foyle’s ring—‘and then it didn’t come off.’

  ‘Never mind about Eden. You keep your eyes skinned for Red Ike, or anyone else that knew Harry, and give me the office. It’ll be worth your while. You can come to me if you’re hard up. Have a shot at — and — and —’ He named several public-houses which are known rendezvous for crooks of all classes. ‘You see what you can pick up. And if ever you’re in trouble, you’ll know the wife and kid will be looked after.’

  Freddy grinned cynically to hide a real appreciation. He knew that Foyle would do as he said. And in the criminal profession, however big the makings, there is very rarely anything like thrift. For a man who at any time might find himself doing five years, it was something to know that those left outside were in no danger of the workhouse. For even ‘crooks’ have human instincts at times.

  ‘That’s all right, Mr Foyle,’ said Freddy. ‘What you say goes. Who’ll I ask for if you’re not at your office?’

  ‘You can talk to Mr Green.’

  ‘Right oh!’

  Freddy swung out into the dusk, whistling, for he had an assignment with his ‘stalls’ outside one of the big theatres. Foyle waited a few moments to let him get clear, and himself stepped into the street.

  To the surprise and disgust of the rest of the ‘mob,’ Freddy early relinquished the evening’s expedition, although his deft fingers had captured no more than a silver watch (hung deceptively on a gold chain, which he had left hanging), a woman’s purse containing fifteen shillings in silver, and a pocket-book inside which were half-a-dozen letters. It was a poor hand, and Micky O’Brady, who was one of the ‘stalls,’ frankly expressed his disgust.

  ‘What’s the use of chucking it at this time o’ night? It ain’t nine o’clock yet. There’s the lifts at the Tube that we haven’t worked for weeks. ’Struth; what did you want to fetch us out for at all? The stuff you’ve got won’t buy drinks.’

  Freddy’s lower jaw jutted out dangerous
ly. He was a small man, but he had a hair-trigger temper. He always made a point to be unquestioned boss of his gang. Discipline had to be maintained at all costs.

  ‘See here, Micky,’ he said tensely. ‘I’ve had enough tonight, and I’m going to give it a rest. So you’d better shut your face. I’m the man who’s got the say, so here. You just bite on that.’

  Micky, an Irish Cockney who had never been nearer Ireland than a professional visit to the Isle of Man, clenched his fists with an oath. He was a recent ally, and had not fully learned his position in Freddy’s scheme of things. In just two minutes, he was sitting gasping on the pavement, trying to regain his wits after a tremendous punch in the solar plexus, while his fellow ‘stall’ was explaining to a constable that it was all an accident, and Freddy had quietly melted away in the direction of the Tube station.

  The pickpocket never strained his luck, wherein he differed from the lower grade professors of his art. Common sense and superstition were both factors in his decision to suspend operations. He might as well spend his time, he decided, in trying to carry out Foyle’s instructions. His intention took him to three public-houses as far apart as Islington, Blackfriars, and Whitechapel; at the latter place, in an ornate saloon bristling with gilt and glittering with mirrors, he found the man he wanted.

  Leaning across the bar, exchanging sallies with a giggling barmaid, was a lean, sallow-complexioned man, whose rusty, reddish brown hair was sufficient justification for his nickname.

  ‘Hello, Ike,’ said the newcomer, adjusting himself to a high stool. ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Hello, Dutch. Thought you got stuck the other side of the town. What are you going to have?’

  Over the drinks they talked for a little on a variety of subjects—the weather, politics, trade—while the barmaid remained within hearing. Both were craftsmen in their particular line, and they spoke as equal to equal. Ike had made a specialty of getting cheque signatures for a little clique of clever forgers, and had his own ways of getting rid of his confederates’ ingenuity. Nor was he above working side-lines if they promised profit, and in that respect, at least, he resembled Dutch Fred. His abilities in many directions had been recognised by Harry Goldenburg. It was not till they had gone over to a little table in a remote corner that Dutch Fred broached Goldenburg’s name, in a tentative reference to the murder in Grosvenor Gardens.