The Grell Mystery

by Frank Froest

  The old lady had, it was evident, made a good guess at the identity of her questioner or she would not have answered so freely, in spite of the detective’s authoritative manner. Foyle put one or two further questions to her and then dismissed her with a quiet word of thanks. He began to see that he had struck harder than he knew when he had descended on the house in the guise of a burglar. Dalehurst Grange was, of course, a rendezvous, and the Princess Petrovska was on her way to join Grell. The superintendent rubbed his hands together as he thought of the surprise in store for her.

  Dawn was breaking over the woods when Robert Grell woke with a shiver. He stood up and stretched himself. ‘Good morning, Mr Foyle,’ he said genially. ‘I’m afraid I dropped off, but I’ve had rather a wearying time lately. Now, what’s the programme? I suppose a bath is out of the question, or’—with a glance at his fettered hands—‘even a wash may be dangerous. Faith, you don’t believe in running risks!’

  Foyle smiled in response to the banter. ‘Only a fool runs risks when there’s nothing to be gained. But I’m prepared to run one if you like to fall in with a plan I’ve thought out. You’re not under arrest yet. You needn’t be if you care to undertake to give evidence when the inquest is resumed. For you are at present the only person who can clear up the whole thing. Mind you, it would depend on what came out at the inquest whether we should then arrest you. I can give no guarantee about it. But if you accept, all that will be necessary is to quarter a couple of my men with you for the time being.’

  Grell walked to the window and stared out upon the wooded country. Presently he wheeled upon the superintendent with a short laugh. ‘My dear man,’ he cried, ‘you will harp on that one point. I appreciate your offer of comparative liberty, but if I accepted I should do so under false pretences, because my evidence will be that I know nothing.’

  ‘You can’t stop my knowing the truth,’ answered Foyle equably. ‘Sooner or later I shall be able to prove it. And if you persist it will make things much more unpleasant for you.’

  The other said nothing for a while. A struggle was taking place in his mind that was indicated with a nervous twitching of the fingers. His shoulders were bent and his head bowed. Foyle waited patiently. Outside a bird started a ‘jig-jig-jig—br-brr’ that set the teeth on edge. The trees, stirred by a newly sprung up breeze, rustled uneasily.

  ‘No, it’s no good,’ said Grell at last. ‘I know nothing.’

  The detective rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Will you tell me if you had any visitors on the evening of the murder?’ he inquired, blandly ignoring the other’s refusal. He noticed a quick flash of surprise pass over Grell’s countenance and drew his own conclusions. Swiftly a new thought came to him. ‘Did Goldenburg come to you alone?’

  The prisoner remained silent, and Foyle knew that he was considering the advisability of answering. ‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t know that, if you want to. He came with a friend of mine. She left shortly afterwards.’

  ‘She?’ Foyle seized on the word. ‘It was a woman, then?’

  Grell bit his lip. He had said more than he meant to. The superintendent frowned thoughtfully, and his active brain was beginning to see things more clearly. It was a full five minutes before he spoke again as one making an assertion rather than asking a question.

  ‘That would be Lola, of course.’ His blue eyes met Grell’s frown with an ingenuous stare. ‘This is beginning to get clearer, Mr Grell. Goldenburg was blackmailing you, eh? Maybe he had letters which you wouldn’t have liked Lady Eileen to see—what?’

  An ejaculation came from Grell. The detective directed his gaze to a picture opposite him, and continued, as though thinking aloud:

  ‘Now I come to think of it, was Goldenburg a relative of yours? The likeness is amazing. Well, suppose, for the sake of argument, he was. And Lola—where does Lola stand? Was it to her, by any chance, that the letters were directed? Was she merely a friend, or did she stand in closer relationship to either of you?’

  Grell yawned ostentatiously, but although Foyle had been apparently looking away from him he had followed the effect on the other’s face of every one of the seemingly casual questions he had put.

  ‘I am afraid I am boring you. It’s a bad habit, thinking aloud.’

  ‘It does seem futile,’ agreed Grell. ‘You surely have little need to exercise yourself about these things.’

  ‘Ah, you think so? I am beginning to think that something more is necessary. It may be—of course, this is only for the sake of illustration—that the dagger was handled by someone after the murder had occurred. However, let the subject drop. Perhaps your housekeeper will get us some breakfast while one of the girls runs into Dalehurst.’

  While waiting for a reply, he rang the bell and gave some directions, with a note to the housekeeper. The breakfast that she ultimately served up was a credit to her skill as a cook. Both men ate with an appetite that the unusual nature of the situation did not destroy, though Grell found the handcuffs troublesome.

  The superintendent laid down his knife with a sigh of content.

  The sound of a motor-car horn was borne faintly in upon them. In a few minutes the housekeeper ushered Green and Malley into the room. The chief inspector returned Foyle’s greetings and flung his heavy overcoat on to a chair. His eyes wandered over the prisoner with a little pardonable curiosity. Grell bore the inspection with a smile.

  ‘I congratulate you, sir,’ said Green. ‘We’ll have the thing fairly straightened out in a day or two now.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Foyle. ‘Mr Malley, will you stay with this gentleman for five minutes? I want to speak to you in another room, Green.’

  He led the way to the little sitting-room, through the window of which he had effected an entrance. A look of comprehension spread over Green’s face as he noticed the missing diamond pane. ‘Malley told me he passed you in the village yesterday. You got our man quicker than I should have thought possible in the circumstances. How did he take it?’

  The superintendent gave a brief recapitulation of the steps he had taken since he left London. Green rubbed his grizzled head and followed the recital with keen appreciation. It did not occur to him to feel hurt that Foyle had acted independently.

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a search-warrant in my pocket, and we were coming over this house today. I didn’t anticipate much profit, because he could have easily slipped away into the woods. I got the county constabulary to put a cordon of patrols round about, and hoped to drive him into their hands. But it was a slim chance. However, we’ve got him now.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve got him now,’ agreed Foyle. ‘There only remains the Petrovska woman, and we’ll have her today. Listen.’

  He told of what he had learned from the housekeeper, and they discussed the probabilities of the woman reaching Dalehurst Grange. If she managed to escape Blake and the other detectives who were hot-foot on her trail there was little doubt but that she would walk blindly into a trap. That she had not already reached the Grange and departed Foyle was satisfied, although she had had ample time to travel from Liverpool. As Green phrased it, ‘she might almost have walked it.’ But the exigencies of the pursuit might have brought about delay if she attempted to confuse her track. If Foyle had been able to get in touch with Blake he would have called him off in order to let her proceed unfettered. That could not be done.

  ‘She’ll not dream anything’s wrong here if we’re careful,’ said Green. ‘Will you wait for her, or shall I?’

  ‘This is up to you, Green. I’ll leave you. You might have had Malley, but I can’t drive the car myself, and I want to get back to town. Do you think you’ll be able to manage alone?’

  ‘I think so,’ said the chief inspector confidently.

  ‘I’ll get the local superintendent to send up a couple of plain-clothes men as we pass. You’ll bring her straight back to town.’

  ‘Ay!’

  In a quarter of an hour all preparations were finished. Mal
ley was in the driving-seat of the car. Foyle and Grell sat in the tonneau, and it was no coincidence that the right hand of the prisoner and the left hand of the detective were hidden beneath the rug which covered their knees. For Foyle had handcuffed his man to himself. It was merely a matter of travelling precaution. The superintendent did not believe that Grell would attempt to escape, but there was no excuse for giving him any temptation. Anyway, it did no harm.

  ‘You’ll charge him with the murder directly you reach town, I suppose?’ whispered Green, standing by the step of the car.

  ‘Murder?’ repeated Foyle. ‘Grell did not commit the murder. I shall detain him a day before making any charge against him at all. Drive on, Malley. See you later, Green.’

  The car whizzed away. Chief Inspector Green stood bare-headed in front of the house, scratching his head, and with a look of bewilderment on his face.

  CHAPTER XLIX

  IT is permissible in certain circumstances for the police to detain a suspect, without making any charge, for a period of not more than twenty-four hours. Heldon Foyle had taken advantage of this to hold Grell while he tried to draw further together the tangled threads of the investigation.

  He had changed out of his tweeds and, once more the spick-and-span man about town, he sat down in his office with an order that he was to be informed the moment that Sir Hilary Thornton returned. Meanwhile, he occupied himself with a work of composition. It was necessary to break gently to the public the fact that Robert Grell was not dead. But it had to be done in the right way. He could not altogether see what evidence might have to be offered at the inquest, but he was sure the newspapers would label it ‘sensational.’ He wanted to prepare, at any rate, for the revelation of the dead man’s identity. That there was no possibility of avoiding, but it could be rendered less startling if it did not come suddenly. And beyond the public interest in the case Foyle had another reason for the publication of his effort. He worked steadily and made three drafts before he had completed his task. Two of them he tore up, and the third he read over carefully, making one or two alterations.

  ‘When the inquest in reference to the Grosvenor Gardens murder is resumed it is understood that evidence of a remarkable nature will be brought forward by the police. Inquiries made by the C.I.D. have placed it beyond all doubt that the crime was not a planned one, and evidence is still being collected against a suspected person.

  ‘A man for whom a rigorous search has been made by the police has been found in a Sussex village by Scotland Yard officers, acting in conjunction with the county constabulary. He was taken to Malchester Row police station, where he has been detained. It is understood that he refuses to give any account of the circumstances in which he took to flight.

  ‘On inquiry at Scotland Yard yesterday, a representative of this journal was informed that the officers engaged on the case expect to be in a position to clear up the mystery in the course of the next few days.’

  ‘That ought to do,’ he muttered, as he blew down a speaking-tube. To the detective-inspector who came in response to his summons he handed the paper. ‘Have fifty copies of that made, and bring me one. Put someone to ’phone through to all the journalists on the list, asking ’em to call here at half-past six tonight. They’re each to have a copy of that.’

  There was guile in Foyle’s fixing of the time. He knew that the paragraph would be a bombshell in Fleet Street, and did not want it to explode prematurely. At half-past six all the evening papers would have ceased publication for the day. At half-past six, too, he would take good care to be far away from the hordes of Press men, hungry for details, who would strive to find more information from the hints given. At that time they were likely to find any person wiser than themselves, and he had seen to it that there should be no indiscretion at Malchester Row.

  ‘Sir Hilary just come in, sir,’ said someone, opening the door just wide enough to permit a head to be thrust within; but before Foyle could move the Assistant Commissioner himself walked in.

  ‘One moment, Sir Hilary,’ said the superintendent, and dashed out, to return again almost immediately. ‘I just wanted to make certain that we shouldn’t be disturbed. There’s a lot to tell you. Things have been happening.’

  ‘So I gather,’ said the other, settling himself in the arm-chair. ‘You’ve got Grell, I hear. What’s the next move? Do his finger-prints agree?’

  ‘They do not. He is not the murderer, but he won’t say who is. The next move is, that I intend that to go in all the morning papers.’

  He placed in Thornton’s hand a copy of the typewritten paragraph, and the Assistant Commissioner read it slowly through. ‘I don’t quite follow,’ he said as he handed it back. ‘It hints that Grell will be charged with the murder.’

  ‘Exactly. It is intended to convey that impression. To tell you the truth, I have a piece of evidence of which I have not spoken to you before. It indicates a person possibly guilty whom we must not neglect. If she is guilty—which I half doubt—that paragraph may help us to get at the missing evidence.’

  His voice sank to a whisper and he leaned forward with arms outspread over his desk. As he spoke, Thornton’s voice changed. He leapt to his feet and brought his fist down vehemently on the desk.

  ‘I don’t believe it, man!’ he cried. ‘I don’t believe it! It’s incredible. You’ve made a mistake. It can’t be. Why, you’ve believed it was Grell yourself all along. If you’ve made a mistake then, why not now?’

  Foyle’s chin became a trifle aggressive. Thornton’s astonishment was natural, but the superintendent did not like the appearance of lack of confidence. His blue eyes were alight. ‘You can draw your own inference from the facts, Sir Hilary,’ he said coldly. ‘I am clear in my mind. I have done nothing, because I want to make the evidence as to motive indisputable. Should I find I am wrong I shall, of course, write out my resignation.’

  Thornton was not usually an impulsive man. He had recovered himself immediately upon his outburst and was once more calm and self-possessed.

  ‘Don’t be offended, Foyle,’ he said, more mildly. ‘I beg your pardon. It was just a bit startling at first. We’ve been associated too long for misunderstanding. I’ll back you up, and there’s not going to be any talk of resignations.’

  ‘Thank you, Sir Hilary,’ said the superintendent, entirely mollified. Going to the big safe he unlocked it and took something from the shelf which he handed to the Assistant Commissioner. The two bent over it.

  It was nearly two hours before the two concluded their task. Sir Hilary, his hands clasped behind his back, walked in deep thought back to his own room. Heldon Foyle put on his hat and coat and ordered a taxi.

  ‘Brixton Prison,’ he said to the driver.

  CHAPTER L

  THERE are many people who pass Brixton Prison everyday who have no conception of its whereabouts. The main entrance is tucked away a hundred yards or so down an unobtrusive turning off Brixton Hill. Within a little gate-house inside the barred gates a principal warder sits on duty.

  Although Foyle was tolerably well known to the prison officials, the usual formalities had to be gone through, and he was kept outside till a note he had pencilled was sent up and replied to by the governor. Then, conducted by a warder, he was taken over the flagged courtyard and through long corridors to the remand side of the prison.

  Another warder opened one of the heavy cell doors, and a man seated on a low bed looked up with a frown of recognition. The superintendent remained standing by the doorway. ‘Sorry to trouble you, Abramovitch,’ he said briskly. ‘I just wanted to have a little talk with you.’

  Ivan rose and deliberately turned his back. ‘You must go to my solicitor if you have any questions to ask,’ he said sullenly.

  Heldon Foyle seated himself at the end of the bed and nursed his stick. ‘That wouldn’t be of much use, would it?’ he asked smilingly. ‘What I want to speak to you about has nothing to do with the present charge against you. Mr Grell is in our hands now, and in the ci
rcumstances I thought you might care to know it.’

  The valet wheeled about and thrust his face close to the immobile face of the detective.

  ‘You’ve arrested Mr Grell?’ he cried. ‘Are you lying?’

  ‘I am not lying. He is in custody and may be charged unless you like to clear him.’

  Ivan took a couple of short steps. His lips were firmly pressed together. The detective watched him narrowly as he came to an abrupt halt.

  ‘You think I can clear him?’ he said slowly. ‘You are wrong.’

  ‘But you know he never committed the murder?’ The words came sharp as a pistol shot. Ivan never answered, and Foyle went on: ‘You have done all you could to help him escape us. Now we have got him you can only help him by telling the truth. There was some strong motive to induce you to take all the risks you have done. What is at the back of it?’

  Ivan studied his questioner suspiciously. Foyle made haste to dispel what was at the back of his mind. ‘You had reason for refusing to speak before,’ he insisted. ‘I’m not blaming you. Consider the thing fairly as it stands now and you’ll see that you best serve your master by perfect frankness. I’m not trying to trap you. You may trust me.’

  The scowl on the face of the valet faded and his sloping shoulders squared a little.

  ‘You are right. Secrecy can no longer do good,’ he said. ‘I will tell you what I know.’

  He sat down by Foyle’s side and went on: ‘I was always what you English call a bad egg. I broke with my family many years ago—it doesn’t matter who they were—and left Russia to become an adventurer at large. In the years that followed I was everything everywhere—seaman, barber, waiter, soldier, and gambling-house cheat. I wasn’t particular how I picked up a living nor where it led me. All that won’t interest you. I was operator in a gambling-joint at San Francisco when I first met Goldenburg, though I knew him by reputation. He came to our place now and again, and we were on speaking terms. After that Grell came and I mistook him for the other man. That was how we first became acquainted.’