The Grell Mystery

by Frank Froest

  ‘I see,’ said the superintendent. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Why, Sir Ralph asked to see you and was shown into the waiting-room with the other man. They both seemed a bit upset, and the first chap’s jaw dropped. “So you are here,” says Sir Ralph, a bit angrily. “Yes, sir,” says the other, and he had become sulky. “This is my man,” says Sir Ralph to me, “and I would like a word with him alone, if you don’t mind.” Of course, I left ’em alone. In a quarter of an hour they came out, and Sir Ralph told me that there had been a little misunderstanding—that neither of them wished to see you after all.’

  ‘Thank you, Shapton,’ said the superintendent, resting his chin on his hand. ‘Ask Mr Green if he can spare a moment, will you?’

  In the interval that elapsed before the chief inspector came, Foyle did some quick thinking. Criminal investigation is always full of unexpected developments, and this seemed to him to offer possibilities. It was clear to him that a man had come to Scotland Yard to give some information, and that Fairfield had followed post-haste to shut the man’s mouth. For the moment he put aside all speculation as to the baronet’s motive. The question was, who was the man he had taken away? Who would be likely to know something? It must be someone intimately associated with the baronet, someone who probably lived with him. There was only one man—his servant.

  The line of reasoning became clear. What would a servant know which he would recognise as of obvious importance? Fairfield might have received a letter from Grell, but if he did not wish to let the police know of it, he would scarcely have been careless enough to leave it where his man might have obtained access to it. The second solution was more probable. Suppose Grell had paid a visit to Fairfield and the man had recognised him?

  Foyle was not led away by theories. He knew that the most ingenious deductions often led to failure. But in this case he had nothing to lose by putting the matter to the test. He had not taken off his hat or coat, and when Green came in he was ready to put his plan into execution. In a few words he told what had happened and his conclusions.

  ‘What I want you to do, Green, is to ring up Fairfield and get him out of the way on some pretext. Keep him here till I come back. I’m going to have a talk with that servant. If you can’t get him on the ’phone, you’ll have to go round and get him out somehow. I want a good man whom he doesn’t know to come to the Albany with me. Give me a chance to get there before you ring up.’

  ‘Very good, sir. Maxwell is free. I’ll tell him you want him.’

  In a quarter of an hour Maxwell, an unobtrusive, well-dressed man, had taken up his station and was casually loitering where he could see all who entered or emerged from the Albany. Foyle himself was out of view, but he had a fine sight of his subordinate. Ten minutes elapsed. The well-dressed detective dropped the stick he was listlessly swinging between his fingers, and Foyle knew that Sir Ralph had risen to the bait. It remained to be found out whether the servant was still in the chambers.

  Waiting just long enough for Fairfield to get a reasonable distance away, Foyle was whirled up in the lift to the baronet’s rooms. His first pressure on the bell remained unanswered, but at a second and longer ring he was confronted by the upright figure of Roberts. The servant gave a little gasp of astonishment as he saw his visitor.

  ‘Sir Ralph is out, sir,’ he stammered.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said the detective pleasantly. ‘I did not come here to see Sir Ralph, but to see you. You know who I am. Let me in, won’t you?’

  He pushed his way into the place and entered the sitting-room, Roberts following closely behind him. The man was evidently very nervous. Foyle sat down.

  ‘Now, my man, you needn’t feel nervous. Your master won’t be back yet awhile. You came to my office to see me this morning, and left before I got back. I’ve come to see what this important information you’ve got for me is.’

  Roberts shifted his weight from one foot to the other and rubbed his hands together nervously. His eyes never met the superintendent’s. ‘It’s all a mistake,’ he asserted unsteadily. ‘I—I—’

  ‘That won’t do, my man,’ said Foyle brusquely. ‘You know something which it is important I should know. Sir Ralph has told you to keep your mouth shut. But you’re going to tell me before either of us leaves this room. I want you to speak now. Never mind about thinking of a lie.’

  His blunt manner had its effect. Roberts drew himself together. ‘Right, sir, I’ll tell you what I came about. You’re a gentleman and won’t see me a loser. Sir Ralph, he promised to look after me if I kept my mouth shut.’

  It is no part of a detective’s duty to allow personal feelings to interfere with his business. Foyle’s contempt for a man who was ready to bargain to betray his master’s confidence was sunk in his content at so easily obtaining his ends. ‘That will be all right,’ he answered. ‘You’ll be paid according to the value of your information.’

  ‘Then it’s this, sir,’ blurted out Roberts. ‘Mr Grell, whom you thought was murdered, is not dead. He came here an hour or two ago, and was in with Sir Ralph for quite a time.’

  ‘Oh.’ The detective smiled incredulously, and snapping open his cigar-case selected a smoke, nipped off the end, and deliberately struck a match. ‘You’ve got hold of some cock-and-bull idea. I suppose you’ve deceived yourself with some fancied resemblance.’

  ‘It was Mr Grell himself, I tell you,’ averred the servant earnestly. ‘Don’t I know him well enough? He was roughly dressed and had shaved off his moustache, but I’m certain of it. He came up by the lift as large as life with a note for Sir Ralph. I didn’t notice him much at first, because I thought he was a street messenger. But when Sir Ralph told me to bring him in I had a good look at him. I knew I had seen him before, but the change in him threw me off for a while. It was only after I left him with Sir Ralph that it came on me like a shot. I knew that there was a reward out in connection with the murder, and I came on to you at once. If you had been in I should have told you all this then, but Sir Ralph came after me and promised to pay me well to keep my tongue between my teeth. But right is right, sir, and I hope you’ll do what you can for me. For I’ll take my dying oath that the man I saw here was Mr Grell.’

  With calm, expressionless face Foyle listened. His inferences were justified. It would be necessary to keep Roberts from gossiping, and for that reason it was policy to discount the importance of his information. The detective puffed a cloud of smoke to the ceiling.

  ‘You seem pretty sure of yourself. I think you’ve made a mistake, but we’ll go into the thing fully and you’ll get whatever your information is worth. How long was this chap in with your master?’

  ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see him come out. He had been in there about ten minutes when I started out to see you.’

  ‘Right. Now I’m going to wait here till your master comes back. You can deny that I have questioned you, or that you have told me anything, if you like. I shan’t give you away. Where’s the telephone?’

  With a little breath of relief the servant conducted Foyle to an inner room and pointed out the instrument. A few seconds sufficed to put the superintendent in communication with Green, and in a quick, low-voiced conversation he was told what device had been practised to keep Sir Ralph away.

  ‘I’ll let him go now, then?’ said Green, and his superior assented.

  When Sir Ralph Fairfield returned to his chambers, he found Heldon Foyle seated before the fire engrossed in a paper and with his feet stretched out to the cheerful blaze.

  ‘Good morning, Sir Ralph,’ said the detective, rising. ‘I just dropped in as I was near here to tell you how things were progressing, and to see if you’d got any news.’

  CHAPTER XLII

  BUT that his breath came a little faster, Fairfield gave no sign of the perturbation that Heldon Foyle’s presence caused him. That the summons to Scotland Yard had been a pretext to get him out of the way was now obvious. The only question was whether Roberts had divulged anything to the det
ective during his absence.

  It was quite impossible to allow Grell’s visit to him to be used in the investigation. That was not in the bargain with Foyle. Innocent or guilty, his friend had trusted him, and to use that trust to hound him down would savour of treachery. There was no doubt that Foyle knew something. He wondered how much.

  He returned his visitor’s greeting. ‘Always glad to see you, Mr Foyle, though I’m afraid there’s nothing fresh so far as I am concerned. I see my man’s made you comfortable. There’s been a mistake somewhere. I’ve been to Scotland Yard waiting for you.’

  His head was in the shadow and Foyle could not see his face. He could not be sure whether the words were a challenge, and made a little gesture with his hand.

  ‘That’s a pity,’ he said. ‘Things have got muddled up somehow. However, now we’re here it’s all right. By the way, we narrowly missed laying our hands on Grell an hour or two ago.’

  Although he was staring placidly into the fire he did not fail to note the quick start that the baronet gave. And it was not a feigned start. Fairfield could not understand this indirect method of attack.

  ‘What!’ he stammered. ‘You nearly arrested him?’

  ‘It was touch and go,’ said Foyle languidly. ‘Some of our men got on his trail and followed him until he reached here. They never saw him come out.’

  ‘Do you mean to say that Grell has been here—here today?’ demanded Fairfield, putting as bold a face on the matter as was possible.

  ‘I do,’ said Foyle quietly.

  ‘Without my knowledge?’

  Heldon Foyle shook his head, and thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets faced the baronet squarely. ‘That’s what I want to know. Was it without your knowledge, Sir Ralph?’

  Fairfield met that searching gaze unflinchingly. There was a touch of hauteur in his tone when he replied, ‘Do you suggest that I am hiding him?’

  Had Foyle not been sure of his facts the manner of the baronet might have convinced him that he was in error. As it was, he ignored the evasion. It was essential to know whether the fugitive had been supplied with any money and whether he had given any indication of his plans. ‘I feel quite certain that you have had a talk with him lately,’ he said. ‘I thought you were going to do what you could to help us clear up this mystery. Why deny a fact that is plain?’

  Sir Ralph clenched his teeth. It was clear that Foyle was certain of his ground; that it was no use any longer trying to throw dust in his eyes. ‘Well?’ he demanded icily. ‘I suppose I am not entirely a spy at your disposal, Mr Foyle. I am like most men, I have my limits. I prefer to remain master of my own actions.’

  ‘I should be the last to dispute it,’ said Foyle, with a slight bow, ‘or to take advantage of the good-nature that has led you to assist us hitherto. Of course you could not foresee that Grell would come to you, and you naturally do not want to take advantage of his confidence. But we already know of his visit, so there is no breach of trust there. All I ask is that you should simplify the matter by telling me what occurred at your interview. Perhaps you have forgotten, Sir Ralph, that there is a punishment for assisting a man to escape—by lending him money or otherwise. That is merely for information. It is not a threat.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the other. ‘It would make no difference to me whether it was a threat or not.’ He remained in thought for a moment. The fact that Grell had entered the place and apparently got clear away had led him to believe that the police knew nothing of the visit, that the only risk of the interview being disclosed lay with Roberts. If the detectives had really been close on the heels of the fugitive, as Foyle said, it could do no harm to admit the truth. His promise to say nothing could hardly be considered to cover the contingency. ‘Has Roberts been talking to you?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘Roberts?’ repeated the superintendent, with a puzzled frown. ‘Oh, of course, he’s your servant. I asked him one or two questions, but he didn’t seem to understand me.’

  The answer was so quick, so naturally given, that any suspicion that remained in Fairfield’s mind was lulled. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, for what it is worth, I don’t mind admitting that Grell did come to see me. All he wanted was money. He is frightfully hard up, and apparently the operations of your people have harassed him dreadfully.’

  ‘Did you let him have any money?’

  Fairfield shook his head. ‘No; I absolutely refused unless he would come out of concealment and try to justify himself. With that he went. He was here less than twenty minutes or half an hour.’

  The detective played with his watch-chain. ‘Yes, yes. I don’t see that you could have done anything else. I suppose you made no suggestion to him?’

  ‘In what way?’

  Gently stroking his chin, Foyle answered in a soft voice, ‘The other day a man came to see me. He was a man of high social standing and had fallen into the clutches of a gang of blackmailers. He wanted us to take action, but he absolutely refused to go into the witness-box to give evidence. I pressed him, pointing out that that was the only way in which we could bring home anything against them. “It will ruin me,” he declared. “Is there no other way it can be put a stop to?” I replied that we were helpless. “What can I do?” he cried. “Is the thing they accuse you of true?” I asked. He flushed and admitted that it was. “Well,” I said, “if you ask my advice as a man and not as an official, I should meet with an accident.” But he would not take my advice,’ he concluded, with a keen glance at the baronet, on whom the parable was not lost.

  ‘I did suggest that way out,’ admitted the baronet reluctantly. ‘He wouldn’t hear of it. And Grell is not a coward.’

  ‘He gave no hint of where he was going when he left you?’

  ‘Not the slightest.’

  Foyle picked up his hat. There was nothing more of value to be gained by prolonging the interview. ‘I am very much obliged to you, Sir Ralph,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you will keep in touch with me in case anything arises. Good morning.’

  Long ago Foyle had made up his mind as to the probable course that would be taken by Robert Grell. The man was evidently driven into a corner, or he would scarcely have taken the enormous risk of going to see Ralph Fairfield. There remained two things, the detective reasoned, which he might now do. Penniless and without help, he might try to plunge back into the obscurity of underground London, or he might try some other friend or acquaintance. But every person he confided in would increase his risk. Fairfield was his closest friend, and yet he had declined to lift a finger. Would he go to men he was less intimate with—or would he endeavour in person to enlist the aid of the woman he was to marry?

  No one knew better than Heldon Foyle the danger of jumping to conclusions. Inferences, however clever, however sound they may seem when they are drawn, are apt to lead one astray. The detective who habitually used the deductive method would spend a great deal of his time exploring blind alleys. Yet Foyle, with the unostentatious Maxwell at his right hand, hurried in the direction of Berkeley Square with a hope that his theory might not be ill-founded.

  A little distance away from the Duke of Burghley’s house he crossed the road and spoke to a cabman who was lounging on the seat of his motionless vehicle. Curiously enough, the constables patrolling the beat did not order that particular cabman away to a rank, although he had been there for several hours, creating a technical obstruction.

  ‘Have you seen a man call over the road lately?’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘No, sir,’ answered the cabman alertly. ‘The only person has been a messenger-boy with a note for Lady Eileen Meredith. He told me it had been handed in at the district messenger office at Victoria. Lady Eileen came out shortly afterwards and walked away in the direction of Piccadilly. Phillips has gone after her.’

  ‘Right. Report to the Yard directly she returns, and keep a sharp look-out.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said the cab-driver, and Foyle turned away to mount the steps of the house. The footman who answer
ed the door replied that both his Grace and the Lady Eileen were out. He could not say when they would return. The superintendent tapped the step impatiently with the tip of his well-polished American boot, and his brow puckered. Finally he produced a card.

  ‘I think I had better wait,’ he said. ‘My business is important.’ That procured his admission into the house, but he had no idea of waiting in idleness in one of the reception-rooms. Eileen had received a note which had taken her out—he shrewdly suspected that it was from Grell. It was conceivable, though it was not probable, that she might have left it about. It was for him to learn the contents of that note if possible. ‘Look here, old chap,’ he said, with an assumption of familiarity that flattered the frigid footman, ‘I want to see Lady Eileen directly she comes in, and I don’t want to be announced.’ He winked as though from one man of the world to another. ‘You understand, don’t you?’

  The footman grinned knowingly as he thrilled all over with the knowledge that the Scotland Yard man was making a confidant of him. It was one of Foyle’s ways always to attach as many people as he could to his object. He had an extensive acquaintance with waiters and hotel hall-porters.

  ‘Yes, sir, I think I can arrange that,’ said the footman. ‘I can put you in her own sitting-room, and she’ll most likely go straight there when she comes back.’

  ‘That’s the ticket,’ said Foyle. ‘I like a man who’s got brains.’ A sovereign changed hands. ‘Now, if you ever hear anything, perhaps you’ll let me know. Drop into my office when you’re by and have a chat and a cigar.’

  ‘I will that, sir,’ said the man. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Heldon Foyle was left alone in the room. He sat quite still for a little, but his eyes were busy. At last he rose and aimlessly paced the floor once or twice. In the grate a dull fire was burning, and a few fragments of blackened paper lay on the dying coals. Here and there a word stood out in a mouldy grey against a black background. Foyle did not touch the paper till he had read: