The Grell Mystery

by Frank Froest

  ‘Funny thing you should speak about that,’ commented Ike, glancing casually about to make certain that no one was within earshot. ‘I hear that there’s piles of stuff in that house, and there’s only a butler and a man named Lomont, who was Grell’s secretary, living there now to look after things. It would be easy to do a bust there.’

  Fred’s pulses jumped a little faster as he toyed with his glass. He knew something of Red Ike’s methods, and felt certain that some proposal was coming. He could see the gratitude of Foyle taking some tangible form if he were able to bring this off. He had no scruples. Even if Ike suspected treachery after the event—well, he could look after himself.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, shaking his head doubtfully. ‘It isn’t like a lonely suburban street.’

  Ike grinned.

  ‘I’m not a mug, am I? What do you say to walking in the front door, opening it with a key, and with the keys of the rest of the house in my “sky”? All I want is a straight man to keep doggo.’

  ‘Criminy! Have you got the twirls?’ he gasped. ‘Where did you get ’em?’

  ‘Never mind where they came from. I’ve got ’em. That’s enough. More than that, I’ve got a lay-out of the house all marked out on paper, with every bit of stuff marked out where it ought to be. It’s as easy as falling off a log.’

  ‘Am I in it?’ demanded Freddy.

  ‘Why should I be telling you if you wasn’t? You keep doggo outside if you like.’

  More drinks were ordered, and Freddy came to business.

  ‘What do I get?’

  Ike let his chin rest meditatively on his slim fingers.

  ‘Let’s see. I cut in for a third, and I shall do all the work. I’ll give you a quarter of that third. You won’t have anything to do, except give me the office if anything goes wrong.’

  ‘’Struth!’ Freddy was more hurt than indignant. ‘You aren’t going to Jew me down like that. Who else is in it?’

  ‘Never mind who else is in it. I give you first chance, as a pal. You can take it or leave it.’

  ‘Right, I’m on,’ agreed Freddy.

  CHAPTER XXV

  THE compact between Heldon Foyle and Sir Ralph Fairfield had begun to bear fruit. For three days an advertisement had appeared in the personal column of the Daily Wire:

  ‘Will R. G. communicate with R. F. Very anxious.’

  Much thought had gone to the wording of the line. If Grell or any of his companions noticed it, Foyle felt certain that in some way or other an attempt would be made to get in touch with the baronet. He was fairly confident that the missing man needed money. He would probably not question how Fairfield knew that he was alive. If he rose to the bait there would be a catch of some sort. Whether Grell was the murderer or not, he held the key to the heart of the mystery. The superintendent emphasised this in a talk with Fairfield.

  ‘It’s a fair ruse. We’re pretty certain he’s hiding somewhere in London, and it’s a big field unless we’ve got a starting-point. That’s our trouble—finding a starting-point. In detective stories the hero always hits on it unerringly at once. There was one yarn in which the scratches on the back of a watch gave the clue to the temperament and history of its possessor. Now, that watch might have been borrowed or bought second-hand, or lost and restored at some time, and the marks made by anyone but its owner. That kind of subtlety is all right in print, but in real life it would put you on a false track in nineteen out of twenty cases. In ninety cases out of a hundred the obvious solution is the right one. In an investigation there may be coincidences of circumstantial evidence pointing in the wrong direction. But when you get first one coincidence, then a second, a third, and a fourth, you can be fairly sure you’re on the right track. You don’t add proof together. You multiply it. See here.’

  He drew a piece of paper towards him and rapidly scribbled upon it.

  One coincidence= 0

  Two coincidences= 2

  Three coincidences= 6

  Four coincidences= 24

  Five coincidences= 120

  ‘That’s the kind of thing in terms of arithmetic. Now look at the parts in relation to each other. Grell leaves the club and gets you to lie about his absence. Coincidence number one. A man astonishingly like him is murdered in his study a short time afterwards. Coincidence number two. He is apparently dressed in Grell’s clothes and has Grell’s belongings in his pockets. Coincidence number three. Both Grell and his valet, Ivan Abramovitch, disappear. Coincidence number four. Ivan is found with the pearl necklace on him. Coincidence number five. Grell writes you a note, which I stole from you. Coincidence number six. You follow me? I could go on with other proofs. Grell must know who committed this murder, and if we get hold of him we shall know.’

  ‘I see the point,’ confessed Fairfield. ‘All the same, I don’t believe, even if he knows as you say, that he had a hand in it. This may be the hundredth case, you know, and there may be some satisfactory explanation of his actions.’

  ‘I quite agree. Even cumulative proof may be destroyed. I can guess what you are half thinking. You believe that I’ve fastened my suspicions on Grell, and that I’m determined to go through with it right or wrong. That’s a common mistake people fall into in regard to police functions. In fact, it doesn’t matter a bit to a police official whether he gets a conviction or not—unless, of course, he neglects an important piece of proof through gross carelessness. All he has to do is to solve a problem and to place his answer before a magistrate, and then a judge and jury to decide whether he’s right or wrong. No one but a fool would attempt to bolster up a wrong answer. In this case, too, you must remember that there are finger-prints. They cannot lie. If we get the right man—Grell or anyone else—there will be no question of doubt.’

  Fairfield tapped a cigarette on the back of his left hand and rose.

  ‘Well, even if you do draw Grell with that advertisement, I doubt if you’ll get anything from him if he doesn’t want to talk. I know the man, and he’s hard to beat out of any decision that he makes up his mind to, as hard’—he bowed smilingly to the detective—‘as you would be.’

  ‘Thank you. If it were a question of Grell against Foyle I might have to go under. But it isn’t. Behind me is the C.I.D., behind that the whole force, behind that the Home Secretary, and behind him the State. So you see the odds are on my side.’

  A jerky buzz at the telephone behind the superintendent’s desk interrupted any reply that Fairfield might have made. With a muttered ‘Good-day’, the baronet moved across the carpeted floor out of the room. As he closed the door Foyle put the receiver to his ear.

  ‘Hello! Hello!…Yes, this is Foyle speaking. Oh yes, I know.… No, you’d better not tell me over the telephone. You can’t come here. Somebody who knows you might see you.… Is it important?…All right. You’d better come to Lyon’s tea-place in the Strand—the one nearest Trafalgar Square. I’ll get Mr Green to go along and have a talk with you. Good-bye.’

  Rubbing his hands together thoughtfully, the superintendent sent for Green. In a few moments the big figure of the chief inspector loomed in the doorway.

  ‘Dutch Fred thinks he’s got hold of something,’ opened Foyle abruptly. ‘I’ve told him to meet you at Lyon’s in the Strand. I think he’s all right, but don’t let him have any money until you’ve tested his yarn.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Green. ‘I’ll look into it.’

  As he left, Foyle bent over his desk and, with the concentration that was one of his distinguishing traits, busied himself in a series of reports on a coining raid in Kensington, sent up to him by those concerned for his perusal. He had a theory that the efficiency of the battalion of detectives under him was not lessened by making his men tell him exactly how they were performing their work, both verbally and in writing. ‘You may have brains, you may have intuition, you may have courage, but you’ll never make a good detective without system,’ he sometimes told young officers when they joined the staff of the C.I.D. There were t
hings, of course, that could not be put in writing, but Foyle never invited his subordinates to act against the law. Such things have to be done at a man’s own discretion without official sanction.

  It was less than an hour when the chief inspector returned, portentously grave.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Foyle.

  ‘The real goods,’ said Green, who was obviously feeling pleased with himself. ‘Your long shot has come off. They’re falling short of money, for they’ve put Red Ike up to break into Grell’s house and steal all the stuff in sight. Ike has asked Fred to give him a hand.’

  A low whistle came from Foyle’s lips. Why hadn’t he thought of this? Discreetly done, with the help of a confederate—and apparently Grell had no lack of confederates—it would get over the money difficulty quite simply.

  ‘Sit down, Green. Let’s hear all about it,’ he said, diving into his pocket for the inevitable cigar.

  ‘It’s all fixed up. Ike walks into the place with Grell’s keys at eight o’clock tonight, while Freddy keeps watch outside—’

  ‘And someone keeps an eye on Freddy, if I’m any judge. Go on. Who put Ike up to it?’

  ‘He won’t say. He’s as tight as a drum about all that, according to Freddy. When we arrest him we must get something out of him.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Foyle slowly. ‘Ike’s a queer bird. Dutch Fred will need to look after himself if ever he knows who gave the game away. Well now, let’s fix up things. Is anyone keeping an eye on the place for Ike?’

  ‘Freddy’s supposed to be there.’

  ‘And I guess that they’ve found out that Lomont and Wills will be out of the house tonight. You might find out for sure, Green. ’Phone Lomont, but don’t stop ’em if they’ve made arrangements. It would simplify matters if we could get one or two of our own men in the house. We daren’t do that, though.’

  ‘Why not? If Freddy’s keeping watch—’

  ‘That’s all right. It isn’t Freddy I’m afraid of. There’ll be someone else there. The people who put this game up are not going to trust a couple of crooks entirely. I think I’ll take a stroll out that way myself about seven o’clock. We’d better have the place surrounded. I’ll send for a section map of that part.’

  A clerk brought the map, and Foyle’s fingers described a wide, irregular circle, now and again halting at one spot where he wished a man to be placed.

  ‘That ought to do,’ said the superintendent when Green had finished taking a note of the various points. ‘Pick out some good men, though I don’t suppose they will have much to do. It’s only a measure of precaution. You’d better be on hand yourself about half-past seven. If all goes well we shall get bigger game than Ike.’

  CHAPTER XXVI

  WITHIN the invisible cordon that Foyle had drawn about Grell’s house in Grosvenor Gardens, Dutch Fred loitered, his keen, ferret eyes wandering alertly over passers-by. Misgivings had assailed him during a vigil that had lasted several hours. It was all very well to be ‘in with’ the police; but suppose their plans miscarried? Suppose Red Ike and his unknown friends got to know that the ‘double cross’ was being put on them? Fred fingered a heavy knuckle-duster in his pocket nervously. Man to man, he was not afraid of Ike, but there were his friends.

  The tall straight figure of Heldon Foyle, with coat collar turned high up, had passed him once without sign of recognition and vanished in the enveloping shadow of the slight fog that confused the night. Yet, though the superintendent had apparently paid no heed, he was entirely alert, and he had not failed to observe Freddy. What he wanted was to see who else was in the street. He returned by a detour to an hotel in the Buckingham Palace Road, outside which a big motor-car was at rest, with a fairly complete mental picture of three people who might be possible spies among those he had passed.

  The thickening fog was both an advantage and a disadvantage to the detectives—an advantage because it would force any person watching on behalf of Grell and his associates to keep within a reasonable distance of the house if Ike was not to be lost sight of, and a disadvantage because it would afford increased facilities for anyone to slip away.

  To Green, seated in the motor-car, Foyle commented on this fact.

  ‘You’ll have to have your breakdown rather closer to the house than we thought,’ he said. ‘Give Ike a good chance inside. You’ve got the duplicate key all right?’

  ‘That’s safe enough,’ answered Green, tapping his pocket. ‘If I don’t see you after we’ve bagged him I’d better charge him with housebreaking, I suppose?’

  ‘Certainly. Now get along. It’s a quarter to eight.’

  The car moved silently forward and took the corner of Grosvenor Gardens. Thirty paces beyond the spot where Dutch Freddy was lighting a cigarette it came to a stop, while the chauffeur, dropping to the ground, rummaged fiercely with the interior. Green leaned back in the shadow, his eyes fixed on the steps leading to Grell’s house. There was a sufficient air of plausibility about the whole accident to impress anyone but the most suspicious.

  Heldon Foyle had entered the hotel, for he did not care to run the risk of frightening his quarry by showing himself again until it was necessary. But he kept a vigilant eye on the clock. Promptly as the hands touched ten minutes past eight he made his way once more to the corner of Grosvenor Gardens. A labourer, with corduroy trousers tied about the knee and a grimy, spotted blue handkerchief about his neck, approached him with unlit pipe and a request for a match.

  ‘Red Ike’s gone along,’ he said, as Foyle supplied him. ‘Nobody else has been hanging round except Freddy. The constable on the beat passed along just after Ike.’

  The match was dropped in the gutter, and the superintendent, his face set grimly, moved slowly on. The labourer crossed to the other side of the road and followed. Foyle was quite near the house when Green walked up, accompanied by his chauffeur, and made quickly up the steps. Shadowy in the fog, the superintendent could see the dim outline of a constable’s uniform. The man was peering anxiously at the doorway through which Green had gone.

  ‘Well, my man,’ said Foyle sharply, ‘are you on duty here? Who are those people who have just gone in there?’

  The policeman gave a barely perceptible start, and then took a pace forward.

  ‘I—I believe they have no right there. I must go and see,’ he said, but was brought up with a jerk as Foyle’s hand clutched his wrist. The labourer who had wanted a light was coming across the road at a run and, though a little puzzled, had seized the constable’s other hand.

  ‘No, you don’t,’ said Foyle peremptorily. ‘When you masquerade as a policeman again, my friend, make sure you have a letter of the right division on your collar. This district is B, not M. I am a police officer, and I shall arrest you on a charge of being concerned in an attempt at housebreaking. You’d better not make a fuss. Come on, Smithers. Let’s get him into the car.’

  The prisoner made no resistance. He seemed dazed. Once in the car, the detective took the precaution to handcuff him to his subordinate—right wrist to the officer’s left wrist—for he did not know how long the wait for Green might be, and it seemed wisest not to run risks. Detectives rarely handcuff their prisoners unless travelling. It is conspicuous and unnecessary.

  ‘Now we’re more comfortable,’ said Foyle, sinking into the cushions of the car. ‘If you want to give any explanation before I formally charge you, you may. Only don’t forget that anything you say may be used in evidence against you.’

  ‘Is it an offence to go to a fancy-dress ball in a police officer’s uniform?’ asked the prisoner. ‘Because if it is, I shall plead guilty.’

  ‘You can make that defence if you like—if you think it will be believed,’ retorted Foyle. ‘It will be better for everyone if you tell the truth, though.’

  The man lapsed into a surly, sullen silence, and the superintendent could feel that he was glaring at him in the darkness of the closed car. The other detective looked through the window.

  ‘Here come
s Mr Green, sir.’

  Arm in arm and in amicable converse with Ike, the chief detective-inspector was approaching the car, with the chauffeur on the other side. Ike, it appeared, had been run to earth in the dining-room, and had surrendered at discretion. He had all the philosophy of the habitual thief who knows when the game is up. He grinned a little when he saw the handcuffed policeman in the car.

  ‘Why, it’s you, Mr Smith! Didn’t you think I could be trusted for fair does over the stuff inside? You’ve fallen into it this time, and no blooming error. Where’s Fred?’

  ‘Fred who?’ queried Foyle. ‘Is there someone else in this job?’

  But Red Ike was too old a bird to be deceived. Instinct, as well as reason, told him that he had been betrayed, and the absence of Fred but lent fuel to his suspicions.

  ‘Aw—don’t come it, Mr Foyle,’ he said disgustedly, and added a picturesque flow of language, elaborating the steps he would take to get even with Dutch Fred when he had the opportunity. Not one of the detectives interrupted him. The more he talked the better, for he might drop something of value. Not until they drew up at the police station did his eloquence desert him. The superintendent descended first and gave a few instructions, while the soi-disant constable was taken to the cells. Ike found himself escorted upstairs into the C.I.D. office. Only Heldon Foyle and Green remained with him.

  ‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable,’ said the superintendent cheerfully. ‘We want to have a little talk with you, Ike. Would you like a drink? Here, have a cigar.’

  Red Ike’s swift wits were on the alert. Never before had he known this kind of hospitality to be tendered in a police station to a man arrested red-handed. And although suspicious, he was nevertheless flattered. All criminals, whether at the top or bottom of their profession, are beset by vanity.