The Grell Mystery
Page 24
In another two minutes he was inside the house, and pulling an electric torch from the capacious pocket of his Norfolk jacket, he swept a thin wedge of light about the room. It was furnished as a sitting-room, but there was no reason for examining it minutely. Foyle pulled open the door and moved into a thickly carpeted corridor, which made his stockinged feet almost unnecessary.
Door after door he opened and noiselessly examined with the aid of his single beam of light. By the time he had come to a finely carved, old oak staircase, he had a rough idea of the plan of the house as far as the ground floor was concerned. The upper floors demanded more caution, for there the servants might be sleeping.
The first door that Foyle tried after the landing was locked. Pressing his ear to the keyhole, he could hear the deep, regular breathing of someone within. Twice he tried keys without success. At the third attempt the bolt of the lock gave. He pushed the door back and there was a crash as a chair which had been wedged behind it was flung to the floor.
A woman shrieked, and Foyle drew back into the shadow of the landing, cursing his luck. Then there came the sound of rapid footsteps. The superintendent drew himself together, and his muscles grew taut as a man came running. A light blazed up as the man passed through the doorway. Foyle caught one glimpse of a square-faced man fully dressed and acted rapidly. He dashed forward and his hand twined itself round the other’s wrist.
‘Mr Robert Grell, I believe,’ he said suavely.
CHAPTER XLVII
WHEN Heldon Foyle leapt forward, his whole body had been keyed for a struggle. Whatever resources Grell might have in the house the detective stood alone, so far as he knew. It was possible that Green might have arranged to have the place watched, but, on the other hand, it was unlikely that he would do more than have the roads patrolled and the railway station warned. To have watched the Grange so effectively that no one could get away from it would have taken a score or more of men, and even so the position would have made it impossible for them to have remained hidden.
All this Foyle reckoned on. He had hoped to find Grell and to catch him unawares, perhaps asleep. That project had failed, and when the man had replied to the woman’s scream, Foyle had deemed the boldest course the safest. Grell had wrenched himself round, the fist of his free hand clenched, but he made no attempt to strike. An elderly woman sat up in bed, surprise and terror in her face. Just behind Foyle stood two maids in their night attire, shivering partly with cold, partly with fright, their eyes wide open.
‘That is my name,’ answered Grell, speaking as quietly as Foyle himself. ‘I can guess who you are. If you will wait just a moment while I assure these women that there is no need for alarm I will come down and talk with you. You had better go to sleep again, Mrs Ellis. And you girls get back to bed. This is a friend of mine.’
The maids retired reluctantly and Foyle linked his arm affectionately in that of Grell. The alarm in the housekeeper’s face did not abate.
‘But who—who is he?’ demanded Mrs Ellis, extending a quivering finger in the direction of the superintendent.
Grell lifted his shoulders. ‘Mrs Ellis is my housekeeper here,’ he explained to Foyle. ‘The maids didn’t know I was in the place. It’s all right, Mrs Ellis. I’ll just have a chat with this gentleman. Don’t you worry.’
He closed the door as he spoke. Foyle’s right hand was resting in his jacket pocket. ‘I may as well tell you, Mr Grell,’ he said, ‘that I am armed. If you make any attempt at resistance—’
‘You will not dare to shoot,’ ejaculated Grell smilingly. ‘Oh, I know. We’re in England, not in the backwoods. Come downstairs and have a drink. I don’t want you to arrest me until we’ve had a talk. By the way, may I ask your name?’
Despite himself the superintendent laughed. If Grell was a murderer he certainly had coolness. But there might be some trick in the wind. He was keenly on the alert.
‘Foyle is my name,’ he answered—‘Superintendent Foyle. I am afraid I shall have to refuse that drink, and as for the talk, I may presently determine to arrest you, so anything you say may be used as evidence. Of course you know that.’
‘Yes, I know that. No objection to my having a drink, I suppose, even if you won’t join me?’
‘Sorry to seem ungracious, but even that I can’t allow.’
‘Ah. Afraid of poison, I suppose. Just as you like. Well, here we are. If you will let go my arm I assure you I will neither attack you nor try to escape. Then we can sit down comfortably.’
They had entered a room whose walls were lined with books and pictures, apparently the library. Foyle shook his head at the other’s request. Of course it might be all right, but the man was a suspected murderer. He would accept no man’s word in such a case. ‘I am afraid it is impossible, Mr Grell,’ he said gently. ‘I am anxious not to seem harsh, but you see I am alone with you and my duty.… If, however, you will allow me, I have a pair of handcuffs.’
Wide as his experience had been he could not recall a notable arrest taking place in this way. He had fallen in with Grell’s mood for many reasons, but he chuckled to himself as he made the polite suggestion of handcuffs. Grell did not seem to mind. His self-possession was wonderful. Foyle reflected that it might be reaction—the man was possibly glad the tension was over.
‘By all means, if it will make you easier,’ he said. Foyle slipped the steel circlets on his wrists, not with the swift click that is sometimes written of, but with deliberate care that they should fit securely, but not too tightly. The juggling feat of snapping a pair of handcuffs instantly on a man is beyond most members of the C.I.D.
Grell selected a chair and Foyle, watchful as a cat, sat by him. ‘May I ask what you intend to do now?’ queried the former.
‘Wait till daylight and then send one of the maids with a message to the nearest police station,’ replied Foyle. ‘Would you like a cigar? I can recommend these.’
He proffered his case and Grell took one. He held it between his fingers with a whimsical smile. ‘Do you mind cutting it and giving me a light?’ he asked. ‘It’s rather awkward with these—er—ornaments.’
The superintendent did as he was requested and Grell puffed luxuriously. Foyle remained silent. Although he was aching to put questions, he dared not. ‘Do you really think that I killed Harry Goldenburg?’ asked Grell suddenly.
‘I don’t know,’ confessed the superintendent non-committally. ‘I think you may have.’
‘Yes. That’s a pity,’ said Grell, lifting his cigar to his mouth. ‘This affair must have cost you a great deal of trouble, Mr Foyle. And it’s all wasted, because, of course, I had nothing to do with it.’
‘I want to know,’ said Foyle, a bit of American vernacular that came from his lips unconsciously.
‘Tell me why you never announced that I was alive?’ asked Grell. ‘You’ll have to do it, you know.’
‘Well, there’s no harm in admitting now that one idea was to make you think that we were deceived, and so to throw you off your guard.’
‘And it did until you got hold of Ivan. Well, you’ve made a mistake this time, Mr Foyle. There were finger-prints on the dagger with which Goldenburg was killed, eh?’
Foyle inclined his head. His blue eyes were alight with interest which he made no effort to conceal. He half guessed what was coming, but he found Grell’s ways disconcerting and could form no certain judgment. Certainly Grell did not behave like a guilty man—that is, a man guilty of murder. But neither did he behave like an innocent man. He was too totally unconcerned with the gravity of his position.
‘Yes, there were finger-prints,’ he said. ‘I have a photograph of them in my pocket if you would like them compared now.’
‘With mine? That’s what I was about to suggest. You’ll find some writing-paper and ink in the desk behind you. I suppose they will do.’
The prisoner smiled as he saw Foyle carefully shift his chair to guard against any sudden rush, before turning his back. He was a moment preparing the mate
rials and then placed a blank sheet of paper on a little table in front of Grell. ‘Will you kindly hold out your hands?’ he said. As Grell did so he smeared the tips of the fingers of the right hand with ink. ‘Now press your fingers lightly but firmly on the paper. Thank you.’
He brought a little standard lamp closer, and under its rays studied the two sets of prints closely. He did not need a magnifying-glass to see that none of Grell’s finger-marks agreed with the two that were clear on the dagger. Grell leaned back in his chair as though the matter were one of complete indifference to him.
‘Does that satisfy you, Mr Foyle?’ he asked at last.
The superintendent nodded as their eyes met. ‘It satisfies me that you did not actually kill the man,’ he said steadily. ‘I’ll own I’m not surprised at that. I believe if you had killed him you would have been man enough to have stayed and faced the consequences. You will observe that I have not formally arrested you yet. But I do believe that you know all about the crime—that you were perhaps an eye-witness.’
For the first time during the interview Robert Grell lost hold of his self-control. His fists clenched and the steel of the handcuffs bit deep into his wrists as he momentarily forgot that he was handcuffed. There was a meaning in Foyle’s tone that he could not fail to understand. He caught at his breath once or twice and his temples flamed scarlet.
‘Speak plainly now!’ he cried hoarsely. ‘What are you hinting at?’
Slowly Heldon Foyle began to tear the sheet of paper bearing Grell’s finger-marks into minute fragments. He was calm, inscrutable. ‘I thought I made myself clear,’ he replied. ‘To make it plainer I will ask you if a man, famous, rich, and with an honourable reputation, flies on the eve of his wedding-day, assisted by his valet, hides himself in a low part of London, and associates with doubtful characters, whose friends abduct and drug police officers, who uses, in short, every effort to avoid or to hamper justice—has not some strong reason for his actions? Is it not plausible to suppose that he is an accessory either before or after the fact?’
Grell sighed as if in relief, and, stooping, picked up his cigar, which had fallen on the carpet. He had recovered his calm. ‘You are a better judge of evidence than I am,’ he said unemotionally. ‘Personally, I don’t think the facts you have mentioned would convict me of anything but eccentricity. Who is this Harry Goldenburg, anyway? Beyond the fact that he’s my double I know nothing of him. That’s certainly a coincidence, but why on earth I should conceal anything I know is beyond me.’
‘You’re talking nonsense, Mr Grell, and you know it,’ said Foyle, with a weary little gesture. ‘There’s too much to be explained away by coincidence. We know who Harry Goldenburg was, and that there was a strong motive for your wishing him out of the way.’ He leaned over a little table and his face was close to Grell’s. ‘You can only delay, you cannot prevent justice by keeping your mouth shut.’
The firm lines of Grell’s mouth grew obstinate. ‘I shall stick to my story,’ he said. And then, with a return to his former flippancy of manner, ‘You’re a clever man, Mr Foyle. I never realised till you and your men were on my heels how hard a time a professional criminal must have. Even now I am not clear how you knew I was down here. When I found the police in charge of the motor-car I had left I thought they were merely guarding it as a derelict. I did not guess that you knew I had escaped from London in it.’
‘A mere question of organisation,’ said Foyle. ‘As a matter of fact, we know most of your movements from the time you left Sir Ralph Fairfield’s flat to the moment you separated from Lady Eileen at Kingston. By the way, she made some money over to you. You may care to know that that was got by forgery.’
Surprise had leapt into Grell’s face as the superintendent drily recounted his movements. It was succeeded by a flash of fury at the last words. ‘Be careful, sir,’ he said tensely. ‘You need not lie to me.’
‘It is the simple truth. Lady Eileen got a note from you asking for money. She had none, and her father was out, so she signed a cheque in his name and cashed it personally.’
Grell’s face had become grey and he buried it in his hands. His shoulders shook and Foyle could understand how hardly he had been hit. To have had to appeal to the girl for monetary help was bad enough. To find that she had committed a crime to help him was to add an anguish to his feelings that he had not known before. Somewhere in the house a clock struck midnight, the slow, deep strokes reverberating heavily.
‘She did that—for me!’ said Grell, lifting his head, haggard and wan. Then, as a thought occurred to him, ‘She is not under arrest?’
‘No. I had her word that she would inform her father.’
Grell made no answer. He stared moodily in front of him. The superintendent had no desire to break in on his reverie. He walked across the room, picked up a magazine, and sat down, again facing his prisoner, while he idly turned over the pages. Presently Grell’s head drooped forward.
He was asleep.
CHAPTER XLVIII
THE hours dragged wearily with Foyle. The soft breathing of the sleeping man as he rested with his head pillowed on his arms was the only sound that broke the stillness of the night. The superintendent himself dared not sleep. He tried to read, but the magazines failed to interest him. He got up and quietly strolled about the room, examining the bookcases with incurious interest.
His thoughts were busy. Apart from all the other facts, Grell’s manner was more than sufficient confirmation of the fact that he was holding something back—something vital to the success of the investigation. The superintendent had a very shrewd idea of his reasons. Grell was a strong man—a man likely to hold to his own line at all costs. He had already proved that no personal considerations would move him.
The superintendent reviewed the situation impartially, his brow furrowed, his lips tight pressed together. He was as certain as though he held the other’s signed confession that Robert Grell had it in his power to say who killed Goldenburg. How would he break through his silence? For, come what might, he felt that Grell’s place was rather in the witness-box than in the dock. That he preferred the dock was proof of the strength of the motive which actuated him. No amount of persuasion, Foyle knew, would make him open his lips. Disgrace by the fear of a public trial had failed to move him. If he was to be induced to tell his secret it must be by strategy.
Heldon Foyle held his own code of ethics in his profession. In his own mind he held that all things which were legal were permissible in facilitating the ends of justice. Grell could, if he were so minded, give sworn evidence on what Foyle could only suspect. Grimly the superintendent resolved that in a contest of will he would win.
A gentle tap at the door broke his train of reflection, and the white face of the housekeeper peered in. Her eyes rested first on the sleeping man, but his attitude concealed the handcuffs. She turned a half-frightened glance on Foyle.
‘Excuse me, sir. I couldn’t sleep, so I dressed, and thought I would look in to see if Mr Grell or you would like anything. Perhaps a cup of coffee—’
‘No, thank you,’ said the superintendent. ‘By the way, now you’re here you’ll perhaps tell me whether you expected Mr Grell’s arrival. Didn’t you think he was dead?’
She advanced a little into the room, closing the door behind her. ‘That I did, sir,’ she answered timorously. ‘I couldn’t make it out when I got his telegram from Liverpool. It gave me a shock.’
‘From Liverpool?’ repeated Foyle slowly. ‘So he sent a wire from Liverpool, did he? Would you mind if I had a look at it?’
He could see the hesitation in her face and went on: ‘See here, Mrs Ellis, there has been a murder, though, fortunately, Mr Grell was not the victim. I am interested in the matter, and you will be acting in his interests if you show it to me.’
‘I don’t know what to do, I’m sure,’ quavered the woman irresolutely. ‘I was supposed to have burnt it. Hadn’t I better wake him up, and then he can let you look if he likes?’
He spoke authoritatively. Her hand fumbled beneath her apron and she produced a buff-coloured envelope. The detective took out and unfolded the wire. He read:
‘Mrs Ellis, Dalehurst Grange, Dalehurst.—There has been mistake of identity. Am safe and well. Shall be down this evening, but time uncertain. Please have room ready. Let no one know you have heard from me. Burn this.—R. G.’
The detective refolded the telegram and placed it in his waistcoat pocket. His mind dwelt more on the significance of its dispatch from Liverpool than on the message itself. The Princess had been at Liverpool. It was a plausible presumption that she had sent the wire and that she therefore must have been in touch with Grell.
‘Yes, I guess you must have been a bit startled when you got that,’ he said. ‘Did Mr Grell give any explanation when he came?’
‘Yes, in a way. He got here an hour or two after it came and must have let himself in with his own key. He walked in on me while I was doing some sewing in my own sitting-room. He said that the police had asked him to keep out of the way, because if it was known that he was alive it might hamper them. He told me not even to let the maids know that he was here, and he came straight up to this room and locked himself in. I had made a bed ready, but he has slept on the couch over there.’ She nodded towards a big settee under the window. ‘He said the bedroom might do for a lady friend he was expecting who might arrive at any moment. He told me, too, that it might be necessary to leave suddenly.’