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THE
GRELL MYSTERY
BY
FRANK FROEST
13
New York
Edward J. Clode
Publisher



Copyright, 1913,
IT
FRANK FROEST
Copyright, 1914,
■T
EDWARD J. CLODE


THE GRELL MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
Outside the St. Jermyn's Club the rain pelted piti-
lessly upon deserted pavements. Mr. Robert Grell
leaned his arms on the table and stared steadily out
through the steaming window-panes for a second.
His shoulders lifted in a shrug that was almost a
shiver.
"It's a deuce of a night," he exclaimed with con-
viction.
There was a faint trace of accent in his voice—an
almost imperceptible drawl, such as might remain in
the speech of an American who had travelled widely
and rubbed shoulders with all sorts and conditions of
men.
His companion lifted his eyebrows whimsically and
nipped the end from a cigar.
"It is," he agreed. "But the way you put it is
more like plain Bob Grell of the old days than the
polished Mr. Robert Grell, social idol, millionaire and
diplomat, and winner of the greatest matrimonial prize
in London."
Grell tugged at his drooping iron-grey moustache.
"That's all right," he said. "This is not a meeting of
the Royal Society. Here, in my own club, I claim the
right of every free-born citizen to condemn the weather
—or anything else—in any language I choose. Great


THE GRELL MYSTERY
Scott, Fairfield! You don't expect me to wear my
mantle all the time. I should explode if I didn't have
a safety valve."
x Sir Ralph Fairfield nodded. He understood. For
years the two had been close friends, and in certain
phases of temperament they were much alike. Both
had tasted deeply of the sweets and hardships of life.
Both had known the fierce wander-lust that drives men
into strange places to suffer hunger, thirst, hardship
and death itself for the sheer love of the game, and
both had achieved something more than national fame.
Fairfield as a fertile writer on ethnography and travel;
and Grell equally as a daring explorer, and as a man
who had made his mark in the politics and finance of
the United States. More than once he had been em-
ployed on delicate diplomatic missions for his Govern-
ment, and always he had succeeded. Great things were
within his reach when he had suddenly announced his
intention of giving up business, politics and travel to
settle in England and lead the life of a gentleman of
leisure. He had bought a thousand acres in Sussex, and
rented a town house in Grosvenor Gardens.
Then he had met Lady Eileen Meredith, daughter of
the Duke of Burghley. Like others, he had fallen a vic-
tim to her grey eyes. The piquant beauty, the supple
grace, the intangible charm of the girl had aroused his
desire. A man who always achieved his ends, he set
himself to woo and win her with fierce impetuosity. He
had won. Now he was spending his last night of bach-
elordom at his club.
A man of about forty-five, he carried himself well and
the evening dress he wore showed his upright muscular


THE GRELL MYSTERY
S
figure to advantage. Every movement he made had a
swift grace that reminded one irresistibly of a tiger,
with its suggestion of reserve force. His close-cropped
hair and a drooping moustache were prematurely grey.
He had a trick of looking at one through half-closed
eyelids that gave the totally erroneous impression that
he was half asleep. The face was square, the chin
dogged, the lips, half-hidden by the moustache, thin and
tightly pressed together. He was the type of man who
emerges victor in any contest, whether of wits or muscle.
Plain and direct when it suited his purpose; subtle
master of intrigue when subtlety was needed.
A nervous gust of wind flung the rain fiercely
against the window. Sir Ralph Fairfield uncrossed
his knees with care for the scrupulous crease in his
trousers.
"You're a great man, Bob," he said slowly. "You
take it quite as a matter of course that you should win
the prettiest girl in the three kingdoms." His voice
became meditative. "I wonder how married life
will suit you. You know, you're not altogether the
type of a man one associates with the domestic hearth-
stone."
Their eyes met. The twinkle of humour which was in
the baronet's did not reflect itself in the other's. Grell,
too, was wondering whether he was fitted for domestic
life. He had a taste for introspection, and was specu-
lating how far the joyous girl who had confided her
heart to his keeping would fit in with the scheme of
things. He roused himself with an effort and glanced
at his watch. It was half-past nine.
"You make a mistake, Fairfield," he laughed.


4 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"Eileen and I fit each other, and you'll see we'll settle
down all right. Care to see the present I'm giving her
to-morrow? It's to be a little surprise. Look here!"
He inserted a hand in his breast pocket and pro-
duced a -flat case of blue Morocco leather. He touched
a spring: "There!"
Soft, shimmering white against the sombre velvet
lining reposed a string of pearls which even the un-
trained eye of Fairfield knew must be of enormous value.
Each gem was perfect in its soft purity, and they had
been matched with scrupulous care. Grell picked it up
and dangled it on his forefinger, so that the crimson
glow of the shaded electric lights was reflected in the
smooth surface of the jewels.
"Pretty toy, isn't it?" he commented. "I gave
Streeters carte blanche to do the best they could."
He dropped the necklace carelessly back in its case,
snapped the catch, and placed it in his pocket. Fair-
field's jerk of the head was significant.
"And you are fool enough to carry the thing around
loose in your pocket. Good heavens, man! Do you
know that there are people who would not stick at
murder to get a thing like that?"
The other laughed easily. "Don't you worry, Fair-
field. You're the only person I've shown it to, and I'm
not afraid you'll sandbag me." He changed the subject
abruptly. "By the way, I've got an engagement I
want to keep. Do you mind answering the telephone
if I'm rung up by any one? Say I'm here, but I'm
frightfully busy clearing up some business matters, will
you?"
The baronet frowned half in perplexity, half in pro-


THE GRELL MYSTERY
5
test. "Why—forgive me, Bob—why not say that you
are gone out to keep an appointment?"
Grell was plainly a little embarrassed, but he strove
to disguise the fact. "Oh, it's only a fancy of mine,"
he retorted lightly. "I shan't be gone long. You'll
do it, won't you?"
"Of course," agreed Sir Ralph, still frowning.
"That's all right, then. Thanks. I'll be back in
half an hour."
He strode away with an abrupt nod. Shortly after-
wards Fairfield heard a taxicab scurry away down the
sodden street. He leaned back in his chair and puffed a
cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. There was a dim
uneasiness in his mind, though he could have given no
reason for it. He picked up an evening paper and
threw it aside. Then he strolled up into the cardroom
and tried to interest himself in watching a game of
bridge. But the play only bored him. Time hung
heavily on his hands. A servant spoke to him. In-
stantly he rose and made his way to the telephone. A
call had been made for Grell.
"Hello! Is that you, dear? This is Eileen speak-
ing. ... I can't hear. What do you say?"
It was the clear, musical voice of the girl Robert
Grell was to marry. Fairfield wondered if his friend
had expected this.
"This is not Mr. Grell," he said. "This is Fairfield
—Sir Ralph Fairfield—speaking."
"Oh!" He could detect the disappointment in her
voice. "Is he there? I am Lady Eileen Meredith."
Fairfield mentally cursed the false position in which
he found himself. He was usually a ready-witted man,


6
THE GRELL MYSTERY
but now he found himself stammering almost incoher-
ently.
“ Yes-no-yes. He is here, Lady Eileen, but he
has a guest whom it is impossible for him to leave.
It's a matter of settling up an important diplomatic
question, I believe. Can I give him any message? ”
“No, thank you, Sir Ralph.” The voice had become
cold and dignified. He could picture her chagrin, and
again anathematised Grell in his thoughts. “Has he
been there long? When do you think he will be free?"
“I can't say, I'm sure. He met me here for dinner at
seven and has been here since.”
He hung up the receiver viciously. He had not
expected to have to lie to Grell's fiancée when he had
promised not to disclose his friend's absence from the
club. It was too bad of Grell. His eye met the clock,
and with a start he realised that it was a few minutes to
eleven o'clock. Grell had been gone an hour and a half.
“ Queer chap," he murmured to himself, as he lit a
fresh cigar and selected a comfortable chair in the de-
serted smoking-room. “He's certainly in love with her
all right, but it's strange that he should have used me to
put her off to-night like that. Wonder what it means."
Two hours later a wild-eyed, breathless servant bare-
headed in the pouring rain, was stammering incoher-
ently to a police-constable in Grosvenor Gardens that
Mr. Robert Grell had been found murdered in his study,


CHAPTER II
The shattering ring of the telephone awoke Heldon
Foyle with a start. There was only one place from
which he was likely to be rung up at one o'clock in
the morning, and he was reaching for his clothes with
one hand even while he answered.
"That you, sir? "... The voice at the other end
was tremulous and excited. "This is the Yard speak-
ing—Flack. Mr. Grell, the American explorer, has
been killed—murdered . . . yes ... at his house
in Grosvenor Gardens. The butler found him. ..."
When a man has passed thirty years in the service
of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scot-
land Yard his nerves are pretty well shock-proof. Few
emergencies can shake him—not even the murder of so
distinguished a man as Robert Grell. Heldon Foyle
gave a momentary gasp, and then wasted no further
time in astonishment. There were certain obvious
things to be done at once. For, up to a point, the
science of detection is merely a matter of routine. He
flung back his orders curtly and concisely.
"Right. I'm coming straight down. I suppose the
local division inspector is on it. Send for Chief Inspec-
tor Green and Inspector Waverley, and let the finger-
print people know. I shall want one of their best men.
Let one of our photographers go to the house and wait
for me. Send a messenger to Professor Harding, and

7


8
THE GRELL MYSTERY
telephone to the assistant commissioner. Tell any of
the people who are at the house not to touch anything
and to detain every one there. And Flack—Flack.
Not a word to the newspaper men. We don't want any
leakage yet."
He hung up the receiver and began to dress hurriedly,
but methodically. He was a methodical man. Reso-
lutely he put from his mind all thoughts of the murder.
No good would come of spinning theories until he had
all the available facts.
For ten years Heldon Foyle had been the actual
executive chief of the Criminal Investigation Depart-
ment. He rarely wore a dressing-gown and never
played the violin. But he had a fine taste in cigars,
and was as well-dressed a man as might be found be-
tween Temple Bar and Hyde Park Corner. He did not
wear policemen's boots, nor, for the matter of that,
would he have allowed any of the six hundred odd men
who were under his control to wear them. He would
have passed without remark in a crowd of West-end
clubmen. It is an aim of the good detective to fit his
surroundings, whether they be in Kensington or the
Whitechapel Road.
A suggestion of immense strength was in his broad
shoulders and deep chest. His square, strong face
and heavy jaw was redeemed from sternness by a
twinkle of humour in the eyes. That same sense of
humour had often saved him from making mistakes,
although it is not a popular attribute of story-book
detectives. His carefully kept brown moustache was
daintily upturned at the ends. There was grim tenac-
ity written all over the man, but none but his intimates


THE GRELL MYSTERY
9
knew how it was wedded to pliant resource and fertile
invention.
Down a quiet street a motor-car throbbed its way
and stopped before the door of his quiet suburban
home. It had been sent from Scotland Yard.
"Don't worry about speed limits," he said quietly
as he stepped in. "Refer any one to me who tries to
stop you. Get to Grosvenor Gardens as quickly as you
can."
The driver touched his hat, and the car leapt for-
ward with a jerk. A man with tenderer nerves than
Foyle would have found it a startling journey. They
swept round corners almost on two wheels, skidded on
the greasy roads, and once narrowly escaped running
down one of London's outcasts who was shuffling across
the road with the painful shamble that seems to be the
hall-mark of beggars and tramps. Few, save policemen
on night duty, were about to mark their wild career.
As they drew up before the pillared portico of the
great house in Grosvenor Gardens a couple of policemen
moved out of the shadow of the railing and saluted.
Foyle nodded and walked up the steps. The door
had flown open before he touched the bell, and a lanky
man with slightly bent shoulders was outlined in the
radiant glow of the electric light. It was Bolt, the
divisional detective inspector, a quiet, grave man who,
save on exceptional occasions, was with his staff re-
sponsible for the investigation of all crime in his district.
"You're the first to come, sir," he said in a quiet,
melancholy tone. "It's a terrible job, this."
He spoke professionally. Living as they do in an
atmosphere of crime, always among major and minor


10 THE GRELL MYSTERY
tragedies, C.I.D. men—official detectives prefer the
term—are forced to view their work objectively, like
doctors and journalists. All murders are terrible—as
murders. A detective cannot allow his sympathies or
sensibility to pain or grief to hamper him in his work.
In Bolt's sense the case was terrible because it was
difficult to investigate; because, unless the perpetrators
were discovered and arrested, discredit would be brought
upon the service and glaring contents-bills declare the
inefficiency of the department to the world. The C.I.D.
is very jealous of its reputation.
"Yes," agreed Foyle. "Where is the butler? He
found the body, I'm told. Fetch him into some room
where I can talk to him."
The butler, a middle-aged man, nervous, white-faced
and half-distracted, was brought into a little sitting-
room. His eyes moved restlessly to and from the de-
tective: his fingers were twitching uneasily.
Foyle shot one swift appraising glance at him. Then
he nodded to a chair.
"Sit down, my man," he said, and his voice was silky
and smooth. "Get him a drink, Bolt. He'll feel better
after that. Now, what's your name?—Wills?—Pull
yourself together. There's nothing to be alarmed about.
Just take your own time and tell us all about it."
There was no hint of officialdom in his manner. It
was the sympathetic attitude of one friend towards
another. Wills gulped down a strong mixture of
brandy and soda which Bolt held out to him, and a
tinge of colour returned to his pale cheeks.
"It was awful, sir—awful," he said shakily. "Mr.
Grell came in shortly before ten, and left word that


THE GRELL MYSTERY 11
if a lady came to see him she was to be brought straight
into his study. She drove up in a motor-car a few
minutes afterwards and went up to him."
"What was her name? What was she like?" inter-
rupted Bolt. Foyle held up his hand warningly to his
subordinate.
Wills quivered all over, and words forsook him for
a moment. Then he went on—
"I—I don't know. Ivan, Mr. Grell's valet, let her
in. I saw her pass through the hall. She was tall and
slim, but she wore a heavy veil, so I didn't see her face.
I don't know when she left, but I went up to the study
at one o'clock to ask if anything was needed before I
went to bed. I could get no answer, although I knocked
loudly two or three times; so I opened the door. My
God! I . . ."
He flung his hands over his eyes and collapsed in
an infantile paroxysm of tears.
Foyle rose and touched him gently on the shoulder.
"Yes, then?"
"The room was only dimly lit, sir, and I could see
that he was lying on the couch, rather awkwardly, his
face turned from me. I thought he might have dozed
off, and I went into the room and touched him on the
shoulder. My hand came away wet!" His voice rose
to a scream. "It was blood—blood everywhere—and
he with a knife in his heart."
Foyle leaned over the table. "Where's Ivan ?—
Russian, I suppose, by the name? He must be about
the house somewhere."
"I haven't seen him since he let the lady in," faltered
the butler.


12
THE GRELL MYSTERY
The superintendent never answered. Bolt had
silently disappeared. For five minutes silence reigned
in the little room. Then the door was pushed open
violently and Bolt entered like a stone propelled from
a catapult.
“ Ivan has gone vanished !” he cried.


CHAPTER III
Foyle caressed his chin with his well-manicured hand.
"H'm!" he said reflectively. "Don't let's jump to
conclusions too quickly, Mr. Bolt. There's a doctor
here, I suppose? Take this man to him, and when
he's a bit calmer take a statement from him. I'll leave
Ivan to you. Get some of the servants to give you a
description of him, and 'phone it through to Flack at
the Yard. Let him send it out as an 'all station'
message, and get in touch with the railway stations.
The chap can't have got far. Detain on suspicion. No
arrest. Hello, there's the bell. That's some of our
people, I expect. All right, I'll answer. You get on
with that."
He had not raised his voice in giving his directions.
He was as cool and matter-of-fact as a business man
giving instructions to his secretary, yet he was throwing
a net round London. Within five minutes of the time
Bolt had gathered his description, the private telegraph
that links Scotland Yard with all the police stations of
London would be setting twenty thousand men on the
alert for the missing servant. The great railway sta-
tions would be watched, and every policeman and de-
tective wherever he might be stationed would know
exactly the appearance of the man wanted, from the
colour of his hair and his eyes to the pattern of his
socks.
Foyle opened the door to a little cluster of grave-
ls


14 THE GRELL MYSTERY
faced men. Sir Hilary Thornton, the assistant com-
missioner, was there; Professor Harding, an expert re-
tained by the authorities, and a medical man whose
scientific researches in connection with the Gould poison-
ing case had sent a man to the gallows, and whose aid
had been most important in solving many murder mys-
teries; Grant of the finger-print department, a wizard
in all matters relating to identification; a couple of
men from his department bearing cameras, and lastly
the senior officer of the Criminal Investigation Depart-
ment, Green, and his assistant, Waverley.
Sir Hilary drew Foyle a little aside, and they con-
versed in low tones. Professor Harding, with a nod to
the superintendent, had gone upstairs to where the
divisional surgeon and another doctor were waiting with
Lomont, the secretary of the murdered man, outside
the door of the room where Robert Grell lay dead.
The doctors had done no more than ascertain he
was dead, and Foyle himself had purposely not gone
near the room until Harding had an opportunity of
making his examinations.
"I shall take charge of this myself, if you do not
mind, Sir Hilary," Foyle was saying. "Mainland is
capable of looking after the routine work of the depart-
ment, and in the case of a man of Mr. Grell's impor-
tance"
"That is what I should have suggested," said Sir
Hilary. "We must get to the bottom of this at all
costs. You know Mr. Grell was to have been married
to Lady Eileen Meredith at St. Margaret's, West-
minster, this morning. It's a bad business. Let's see
what Harding's got to say."


THE GRELL MYSTERY 15
Their feet sank noiselessly into the thick carpet of
the stairs as they moved towards the death-chamber.
From an open doorway near the landing a flood of
light issued.
"Very handy for any one to get away," commented
Foyle. "The stairs lead direct to the hall, and there
are only two rooms to pass. This carpet would deaden
footsteps too." _/
They entered softly. Some one had turned all the
lights on in the room, and it was bathed in brilliance.
A dying fire flickered in the grate; bookcases lined
the red-papered walls, which were broken here and
there by curios and sporting trophies gathered from
many countries. There were a few etchings, which had
evidently been chosen with the skill of a connoisseur.
Parallel with the window was a desk, scrupulously
tidy. Half a dozen chairs were scattered about, and in
a recess was a couch, over which the angular frock-
coated figure of Professor Harding was bent. He
looked up as the two men approached.
"It's clearly murder," he said. "He was probably
killed between ten and eleven—stabbed through the
heart. Curious weapon used too—look!"
He moved aside and for the first time Foyle got a
view of the body. Robert Grell lay sprawled awk-
wardly on the couch, his face turned towards the wall,
one leg trailing on the floor. A dark crimson stain
soiled the white surface of his shirt, and one side of his
dinner jacket was wringing wet. The dagger still re-
mained in the wound, and it was that riveted Foyle's
attention. He stepped back quickly to one of the men
at the door.


16
THE GRELL MYSTERY
"Send Mr. Grant to me," he ordered.
Returning to the body, he gently withdrew the knife,
handling it with the most delicate care. "I've never
seen anything like this before," he said. "Queer thing,
isn't it?"
It was a sheath knife with a blade of finely tempered
steel about three inches long and as sharp as a razor.
Its abnormality lay in a hilt of smooth white ivory set
horizontally and not vertically to the blade, as is a
rule with most knives.
Foyle carried it in the palm of his hand nearer to
the light and squinted at it from various angles. One
at least of the observers guessed his purpose. But the
detective seemed dissatisfied.
"Can't see anything," he grumbled peevishly. "Ah,
there you are, Grant. I want to see whether we can
make anything of this. Let me have a little graphite,
will you?" m,
The finger-print expert took an envelope from his
pocket and handed it to the superintendent. From it
Foyle scattered fine black powder on the hilt. A little
cry of satisfaction came from his lips as he blew the
stuff away in a little dark cloud. Those in the room
crowded around.
Outlined in black against the white surface of the
ivory were four finger-prints. The two centre ones
were sharp and distinct, the outside prints were fainter
and more blurred.
"By Jove, that's good!" exclaimed the professor.
Foyle rubbed his chin and handed the weapon to
Grant without replying. "Get one of your men to
photograph those and have them enlarged. At any


THE GRELL MYSTERY 17
rate, it's something to go on with. It would be as well
to compare 'em with the records, though I doubt
whether that will be of much use." He drew his watch
from his pocket and glanced at it. "Now, if you will
excuse me, gentlemen, I should like to have the room
to myself for a little while. And, Grant, send Green
and the photographer up, and tell Waverley to act with
Bolt in examining the servants."
The room cleared. Harding lingered to exchange a
few words with the superintendent.
"I can do nothing, Mr. Foyle," he said. "From a
medical point of view it is all straightforward. There
can be no question about the time and cause of death.
Good night,—or rather, good morning."
"Thank you, Mr. Harding, good morning."
His eyes were roving restlessly about the room, and
he dictated the work the photographer was to do with
scrupulous- care. Half a dozen times a dazzling flash
of magnesium powder lit up the place. Photographs
of the room in sections were being taken. Then with
a curt order to the photographer to return immediately
to Scotland Yard and develop his negatives, he drew
up a chair to the couch and began to go methodically
through the pockets of the dead man.
Green stood by, a note-book in hand. Now and
again Foyle dictated swiftly. He was a man who knew
the value of order and system. Every step in the in-
vestigation of a crime is reduced to writing, collected,
indexed, and filed together, so that the whole history of
a case is instantly available at any time. He was
carrying out the regular routine.
Only two things of any consequence rewarded his


18 THE GRELL MYSTERY
search—one was a note from Sir Ralph Fairfield con-
firming an appointment with Grell to dine at the St.
Jermyn's Club the previous evening; the other was a
miniature set in diamonds of a girl, dark and black-
haired, with an insolent piquant beauty.
"I've seen that face before somewhere," mused the
superintendent. "Green, there's a 'Who's Who' on
the desk behind you. I want Sir Ralph Fairfield."
Rapidly he scanned the score of lines of small type
devoted to the baronet. They told him little that he
had not known before. Fairfield was in his forty-third
year, was the ninth baronet, and had great estates in
Hampshire and Scotland. He was a traveller and a
student. His town address was given as the Albany.
"You'd better go round to Fairfield's place, Green.
Tell him what's happened and bring him here at once."
As the chief inspector, a grim, silent man, left, Foyle
turned again to his work. He began a careful search
of the room, even rummaging among the litter in the
waste-paper basket. But there was nothing else that
might help to throw the faintest light on the tragedy.
A discreet knock on the door preceded Waverley's
entrance with a report of the examination of every one
in the house. He had gathered little beyond the fact
that Grell, when not concerned in social duties, was a
man of irregular comings and goings, and that Ivan,
his personal valet, was a man he had brought from
St. Petersburg, who spoke French but little English,
and had consequently associated little with the other
servants.
Foyle subsided into his chair with his forehead puck-
ered into a series of little wrinkles. He rested his chin


THE GRELL MYSTERY 19
on his hand and gazed into vacancy. There might be a
hundred solutions to the riddle. Where was the motive?
Was it blackmail? Was it revenge? Was it jealousy?
Was it robbery? Was it a political crime? Was it the
work of a madman? Who was the mysterious veiled
woman? Was she associated with the crime?
These and a hundred other questions beat insistently
on his brain, and to none of them could he see the
answer. He pictured the queer dagger, but flog his
memory as he would he could not think where it might
have been procured. In the morning he would set a
score of men making inquiries at every place in London
where such a thing was likely to have been obtained.
He was in the position of a man who might solve a
puzzle by hard, painstaking experiment and inquiry,
but rather hoped that some brilliant flash of inspiration
or luck might give him the key that would fit it to-
gether at once. They rarely do come.
Once Lomont, Grell's secretary, knocked and entered
with a question on his lips. Foyle waved him im-
patiently away.
"I will see you later on, Mr. Lomont. I am too
busy to see you now. Mr. Waverley or Mr. Bolt will
see to you."
The man vanished, and a moment or two later a
discreet tap at the door heralded the return of Green,
accompanied by Sir Ralph Fairfield.
The baronet's hand was cold as it met that of
Foyle, and his haggard face was averted as though to
avoid the searching gaze of the detective.


CHAPTER IV
Fairfield, awakened from sleep by the news of the
murder of his friend, had stared stupidly at the detec-
tive Foyle had sent to him.
"Grell killed!" he exclaimed. "Why, he was with
me last night. It is incredible—awful. Of course, I'll
come at once—though I don't see what use I can be.
What time was he murdered?"
"About ten o'clock. So far as we know you were
the last person to see him alive—except the murderer,"
said Green. "Believe me, we're sorry to have to
trouble you."
The baronet's face had suddenly gone the colour of
white paper. A sickening dread had suddenly swept
over him. His hands trembled as he adjusted his
overcoat. He remembered that he had assured Lady
Eileen that Grell had been with him at the club from
six till eleven. What complexion would that statement
bear when it was exposed as a lie—in the light of the
tragedy? His throat worked as he realised that he
might even be suspected of the crime.
The ordinary person suddenly involved in the whirl-
pool of crime is always staggered. There is ever the
feeling, conscious or unconscious: " Why out of so many
millions of people should this happen to me?" So it
was with Sir Ralph Fairfield. He pictured the agony
in Eileen Meredith's eyes when she heard of the death
of her lover, pictured her denunciation of his lie. The
20


THE GRELL MYSTERY 21
truth would only sound lame if he were to tell it. Who
would believe it? Like a man stricken dumb he de-
scended in the lift with Green, out into the wild night in
a taxicab, his thoughts a chaos.
He was neither a coward nor a fool. He had known
close acquaintance with sudden death before. But that
was different. It had not happened so. He was in-
capable of connected thought. One thing only he was
clear upon—he must see Eileen, tell her the truth and
throw himself on her mercy. Meanwhile he would
answer no questions until he had considered the matter
quietly.
This was his state of mind when he shook hands
with Foyle. He had schooled his voice, and it was in a
quiet tone that he spoke.
"It's a horrible thing, this," he said, twirling his hat
between his long, nervous fingers.
Foyle was studying him closely. The movement of
the hands was not lost upon him.
"Yes," he agreed, stroking his chin. "I asked you
to come here because Mr. Grell dined with you last
night. Do you know if he left you to keep an appoint-
ment?"
"No—that is, it might have been so. He left me,
and I understood he would be back. He did not re-
turn."
"At what time?"
Fairfield hesitated a second before replying. Then,
"I haven't the remotest idea."
The face of Foyle gave no indication of the surprise
he felt. He did not press the question, but slid off to
another.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 23
door when the superintendent's suave voice brought him
to a halt.
"Oh, by the way, Sir Ralph, you might look at this
before you go, and say whether you recognise it."
He held his clenched hand out, and suddenly un-
clasped it to disclose the miniature set in diamonds.
Sir Ralph gave a start. "By Jove, it's little Lola of
Vienna!" he exclaimed. Then realised that he had
been trapped. "But I shall tell you nothing about
her," he snapped.
"Thank you, Sir Ralph," said the other quietly.
"But this I think it right you should know," went
on Fairfield, standing with one hand still on the handle
of the door: "When Grell was with me last night he
showed me a pearl necklace, which he said he had
bought as a wedding present for Lady Eileen Meredith.
If you have not found it, it may give you some motive
for the tragedy."
"Ah!" said Foyle unemotionally.


CHAPTER V
Day had long dawned ere Foyle and his staff had
finished their work at the great house in Grosvenor
Gardens. There had been much to do, for every person
who might possibly throw a light on the tragedy had
to be questioned and requestioned. The place had been
thoroughly searched from attic to cellar, for letters or
for the jewels that, if Sir Ralph Fairfield were right,
were missing.
Much more there would be to do, but for the moment
they could go no further. Foyle returned wearily to
Scotland Yard to learn that of the finger-prints on the
dagger two were too blurred to serve for purposes of
identification. He ordered the miniature to be photo-
graphed, and held a short consultation with the assist-
ant commissioner. The watch kept for Ivan had so far
been without avail. In the corridor, early as it was,
a dozen journalists were waiting. Foyle submitted
good-humouredly to their questions as they grouped
themselves about his room.
"Yes. Of course, I'll let you know all about it," he
protested. "I'll have the facts typed out for you, and
you can embroider them yourselves. There's a descrip-
tion of a man we'd like to get hold of—not necessarily
the murderer, but he might be an important witness.
Be sure and put that in."
He always had an air of engaging candour when
24


THE GRELL MYSTERY 25
dealing with newspaper men. Sometimes they were
useful, and he never failed to supply them with just
as much information about a case as would in any
event leak out. That saved them trouble and made them
grateful. He went away now to have the bare details
of the murder put into shape. When he returned he
held the diamond-set miniature in his hand.
"This has been left at the Lost Property Office," he
declared unblushingly. "It's pretty valuable, so they've
put it into our hands to find the owner. Any of you
boys know the lady?"
Some of them examined it with polite interest. They
were more concerned with the murder of a famous
man. Lost trinkets were small beer at such time. Only
Jerrold of The Wire made any suggestion.
"Reminds me of that Russian princess woman who's
been staying at the Palatial, only it's too young for
her. What's her name ?—Petrovska, I think."
"Thanks," said Foyle; "it doesn't matter much.
Ah, here's your stuff. Good-bye, boys, and don't worry
me more than you can help. This thing is going to
keep us pretty busy."
He saw them out of the room and carefully closed
the door. Sitting at his desk he lifted the receiver
from the telephone.
"Get the Palatial Hotel," he ordered. "Hello!
That the Palatial? Is the Princess Petrovska there?
What? Left last night at ten o'clock? Did she say
where she was going? No, I see. Good-bye."
He scribbled a few words on a slip of paper, and
touching the bell gave it to the man who answered.
"Send that to St. Petersburg at once."


26 THE GRELL MYSTERY
It was a communication to the Chief of the Russian
police, asking that inquiries should be made as to the
antecedents of the Princess.
For the next three hours men were coming rapidly
in and out of the superintendent's office, receiving in-
structions and making reports. Practically the whole
of the six hundred men of the C.I.D. were engaged on
the case, for there was no avenue of investigation so
slender but that there might be something at the end
of it. Neither Foyle nor his lieutenants were men
to leave anything to chance. Green was seated
opposite to him, discussing the progress they had
made.
The superintendent leaned back wearily in his chair.
Some one handed him a slim envelope. He tore it
open and slowly studied the cipher in which the mes-
sage was written. It read—
"Silinsky, Chief of Police, St. Petersburg. To Foyle,
Superintendent C.I.D., London.
"Woman you mention formerly Lola Rachael, be-
lieved born Paris; formerly on stage, Vienna;
married Prince Petrovska, 1898. Husband
died suddenly 1900. Travels much. No fur-
ther particulars known."
Foyle stroked his chin gravely. "Formerly Lola
Rachael," he murmured. "And Sir Ralph recognised
the miniature as little Lola of Vienna. She's worth
looking after. We must find her, Green. What about
this man Ivan?"
"No trace of him yet, sir, but I don't think he can


THE GRELL MYSTERY 27
give us the slip. He hadn't much time to get
away. By the way, sir, what do you think of Sir
Ralph?"
"I don't know. He's keeping something back for
some reason. You'd better have him shadowed, Green.
Go yourself, and take a good man with you. He
mustn't be let out of sight night or day. I may tackle
him again later on."
"Very good, sir. Waverley's still at Grosvenor
Gardens. Will you be going back there?"
"I don't know. I want to look through the records
of the Convict Supervision Office for the last ten years.
I have an idea that I may strike something."
Green was too wise a man to ask questions of his
chief. He slipped from the room. Half an hour later
Foyle dashed out of the room hatless, and, picking up
a taxicab, drove at top speed to Grosvenor Gardens.
He was greeted at the door by Lomont.
"What is it?" he demanded, the excitement of the
detective communicating itself to him. "Have you
carried the case any further?"
"I don't know," replied the detective. "I must see
the body again. Come up with me."
In the death-chamber he carefully locked the door.
A heavy ink-well stood on the desk. He twisted up
a piece of paper and dipped it in. Then, approaching
the murdered man, he smeared the fingers of his right
hand with the blackened paper and pressed them lightly
on a piece of blotting paper. The secretary, in utter
bewilderment, watched him compare the prints with a
piece of paper he took from his pocket.
"What is it? " he repeated again.


28
THE GRELL MYSTERY
“Mr. Lomont,” replied the detective gravely, “I wish
I knew. Unless our whole system of identification is
wrong—and that is incredible—that man who lies dead
there is not Robert Grell.”


CHAPTER VI
Lomont reeled dizzily, and his hand sought the support
of the wall. To him Foyle's voice sounded unreal. He
stared at the detective as though doubtful of his sanity.
His life had been hitherto ordered, placid. That there
were such things as crimes, murders, detectives, he
knew. He had read of them in the newspapers. But
hitherto they had only been names to him-something
to make the paper more readable.
He was a thin-faced man of about thirty, with some-
what sallow cheeks on which there was now a hectic
flush, a high-pitched forehead that seemed to have con-
tracted into a perpetual frown, and colourless eyes.
The son of a well-known barrister, he had tried his
luck in the City after leaving Cambridge. In a few
years the respectable income he had started with had
dwindled under the drain of his speculations, and it was
then that a friend had recommended him to Robert
Grell, who was about to take up his residence in Eng-
land. James Lomont had jumped at the chance, for
the salary was respectable and would enable him to
maintain a certain footing in society.
“Not Robert Grell!” he echoed incredulously.
Foyle fancied that there was some quality other than
incredulity in the tone, but decided that he was mis-
taken. The young man's nerves were shaken up. So
far as time would allow he had gathered all there was
to know about him. Lomont had not escaped the net-
29


30
THE GRELL MYSTERY
work of inquiry that was being woven about all who had
associated with Robert Grell.
No fewer than three chapters in a book the Criminal
Investigation Department had commenced compiling
were devoted to him. They lay with others neatly typed
and indexed in Heldon Foyle's office.
One was his signed statement of events on the night
of the tragedy. The last time he had seen Grell alive
was at half-past six, when his employer had left for the
St. Jermyn's Club. He himself had gone to the Savoy
Theatre, and, returning some time after eleven, had let
himself in with his own key and gone straight to bed.
He had only been aroused when the police took posses-
sion of the house. The third was headed: “ Inquiries
as to career of, and corroboration of statements made
by, James Lomont.”
The curtains had remained drawn, and only a dim
light filtered through into the room. Foyle lifted a
little green-shaded electric lamp from the table, and
switched on the light so that it fell on the face of the
dead man.
“ Look," he said, in a quiet voice,“ do you recognise
your chief?”
The young man flung back his shoulders with a jerk,
as though overcoming his own feelings, and approached
the body with evident distaste. His hands, slender as
a woman's, were tight-clenched, and his breath came and
went in nervous spasms. For a moment he gazed, and
then shook his head weakly.
“ It is not,” he whispered with dry lips. “There is
an old scar across the temple. Mr. Grell's face was
not disfigured.” He stretched out a hand and clutched


THE GRELL MYSTERY
31
the superintendent nervously by the shoulder. “Who
is this man, Mr. Foyle? What does it all mean? Where
is Mr. Grell?”
Foyle's hand had stolen to his chin and he rubbed
it vigorously.
“I don't know what it means," he confessed irritably.
“ You know as much as I do now. This man is not
Robert Grell, though he is astonishingly like him. Now,
Mr. Lomont, I rely on you not to breathe a word of
this to a living soul until I give you permission. This
secret must remain between our two selves for the time
being.”
“ Certainly."
In spite of his air of candour, Heldon Foyle had not
revealed all he knew. He left the house pondering
deeply.
“You see, sir,” he explained to the Assistant Com-
missioner later, “no one who knew Grell had seen the
body closely. The butler had taken it for granted that
it was his master. It was pure luck with me. In look-
ing through the records in search of this woman
Petrovska, I hit against the picture of Goldenburg. It
was so like Grell that I went off at once to compare
finger-prints. They tallied; and then young Lomont
spoke of the scar. Though what Harry Goldenburg
should be doing in Grell's house, with Grell's clothes,
and with Grell's property in the pockets, is more than
I can fathom.”
Sir Hilary Thornton drummed on his desk with his
right hand.
“Isn't this the Goldenburg who engineered the South
American gold mine swindle ?” he asked.


THE GRELL MYSTERY
"That's the man," agreed Foyle, not without a note
of rueful admiration. "He'd got half-a-dozen of the
best-known and richest peers in England to promise
support, when we spoilt his game. No one would prose-
cute. He always had luck, had Goldenburg. He's been
at the back of a score of big things, but we could never
get legal proof against him. He was a cunning rascal
—educated, plausible, reckless. Well, he's gone now,
and he's given us as tough a nut to crack as ever he did
while he was alive."
"How did you get his finger-prints if he was never
convicted?" asked Sir Hilary with interest.
Foyle looked his superior full in the face and smiled.
"I arrested him myself, on a charge of pocket-pick-
ing in Piccadilly," he said. "Of course, he never picked
a pocket in his life—he was too big a crook for that.
But we got a remand, and that gave us a chance to get
his photograph and prints for the records. We offered
no evidence on the second hearing. It was perhaps not
strictly legal, but "The superintendent's features
relaxed into a smile. "He never brought an action
for malicious prosecution."
"And about Grell? How do you propose to find
him?"
Foyle drew his chair up to the table and scribbled
busily for a few minutes on a sheet of paper. He
carefully blotted it, and handed the result of his labours
to Sir Hilary, who nodded approval as he read it.
"You think we shall catch one man by advertising
for another?"
"I think it worth trying, sir," retorted the super-
intendent curtly. "The description and the photograph


THE GRELL MYSTERY 38
fit like a glove—and we shan't be giving anything
away."
As Heldon Foyle passed through the little back door
leading to the courtyard of Scotland Yard an hour
later, he stopped for an instant to study a poster that
was being placed among the notices on the board in
the door. It ran:
POLICE NOTICE.
£100 REWARD
HARRY QOLDENBURG, alias THE HON.
RUPERT BAXTER, MAX SMITH, JOHN
BROOKS, etc.
Wanted For
MURDER.
Description.—Age, about 45; height, about 6 ft.
1 in.; complexion, bronzed; square features;
grey hair; drooping grey moustache; upright
carriage.
Notb.—Henry Goldenburg has travelled exten-
sively, and is an American by birth, but his ac-
cent is almost impreceptible. He speaks ^sev-
eral languages, and has resided in Paris, Ma-
drid, and Rome.
The above Reward will be paid to any person
(other than a member of any Police force in the
United Kingdom) who gives such information as
will lead to the apprehension of the above-named
person.
The superintendent had wasted no time.


CHAPTER VII
The first grey daylight had found Sir Ralph Fairfield
pacing his sitting-room with uneven strides, his hands
clasped behind his back, the stump of a cold cigar
between his teeth. His interview with Heldon Foyle
had not been calculated to calm him.
“ I'm a fool-a fool,” he told himself. “Why should
they suspect me? What have I to gain by Grell's
death? "
It was the attitude of a man trying to convince him-
self. There was one reason why he might be supposed
to wish his friend out of the way, but he dared not
even shape the thought. There was one person who
might guess, and it was she whose lips he hoped to
seal. A quick dread came to him. Suppose the police
had already gone to her. The thought stung him to
action. He had not even removed his hat and coat
since his return from Grosvenor Gardens. He made
his way to the street and walked briskly along until he
sighted a taxicab.
“ 507 Berkeley Square,” he told the driver.
It was a surprised footman who opened the door of
the Duke of Burghley's house. Fairfield, at the man's
look of astonishment, remembered that he was unshaven,
and that his clothes had been thrown on haphazard.
It was a queer thought to intrude at such a time.
But he was usually a scrupulously dressed man, and
the triviality worried him.
by
34


THE GRELL MYSTERY 35
"Lady Eileen Meredith. I must see her at once,"
he said peremptorily. "Don't stand staring at me,
man. You know me."
The footman coughed apologetically.
"Yes, Sir Ralph. Lady Eileen is not up yet. If
it is important I can get a maid to call her. Shall I
tell his Grace?"
"No. It is of the utmost importance that I see her
personally immediately."
Sir Ralph breathed a sigh of relief as he was ushered
into the cool morning room and the door closed behind
him. At all events, the police had not seen her yet.
He was first. That meant he would have to break the
news to her. How would she take it?
"The poor little girl!" he muttered to himself. And
then the door clicked.
Eileen Meredith stood there, a pink dressing-gown
enveloping her graceful figure from shoulders to feet.
There was questioning wonder in her grey eyes as she
extended her hand, but no alarm. He almost wished
there was. It would have made things easier.
"You, Sir Ralph? " she cried. "What has brought
you here so early? Has Bob repented of his bargain
and sent you to call it off at the last moment?"
The man fumbled for words. Now that he was face
to face with her the phrase he had so laboriously worked
out to lead up to the news had deserted him. He
pushed a chair towards her.
"Er—won't you sit down?" he said awkwardly.
He was striving for an opening. Both words and
tone called the girl's direct attention to the haggard
face, the feverish eyes. Her fears were alight on the


36
THE GRELL MYSTERY
instant. She regarded him with parted lips and
gripped his arm impulsively.
“ Something has happened!” she cried apprehen-
sively. “Why do you look like that? What is it?"
Her voice rose and she tried to shake the silent
man. “ Answer—why don't you answer? Is he ill-
dead?”
Sir Ralph choked over his reply.
“ He was killed last night-murdered.”
It was out at last. He had blundered clumsily, and
he knew it. The colour drained from Eileen's face and
she stood rigid as a statue for a moment. Then slowly
she swayed forward. He stretched out his arms to
prevent her from falling. She waved him aside dumbly
and tottered to a couch. His directness had been more
merciful than he had thought. She was stunned, dazed-
by her calamity. Her very silence frightened the man.
She sat bolt upright, her hand resting limply in her
lap and her dull eyes staring into vacancy. A tiny
clock on the mantelpiece ticked loudly.
“Dead!” she whispered at last. There was no trace
of unsteadiness in her voice and her eyes were dry.
She spoke mechanically. “And it is our wedding-day!
Dead! Bob is dead?”
Her hair had fallen about her shoulders, and, beau-
tiful in her grief, she inspired the man with almost
supernatural awe. He had moved to the mantelpiece
and, resting an arm upon it and one foot upon the
fender, remained looking down upon her. He was wait-
ing until the first numbness of the shock had passed.
The little clock on the mantelpiece had ticked out ten
minutes ere she spoke again. But her voice was pitched


THE GRELL MYSTERY
in more natural tones, and her face had regained some-
thing of its colour.
"How did it happen?"
Haltingly he gave such details as he knew. Her eyes
were fixed on his face as he narrated his story. He
hesitated as he referred to his telephone conversation
with her. In her clear eyes he saw challenging scorn
and stopped abruptly.
"You say that Bob asked you to lie to me?" she
demanded.
"Not to you in particular. To any one who rang
up. I couldn't know whether he wished his instructions
to apply to you."
"No, no, of course not," she interposed quickly, but
with a tightening of the heart he recognised the bitter-
ness of her tone. For all her soft daintiness, there
was something of the tigress in Eileen Meredith.
The man she loved was dead. Well, she would have
her vengeance—somehow, on some one. She was ready
to suspect without thinking. And Sir Ralph Fairfield
had laid himself open to suspicion.
"He was killed before eleven," she went on remorse-
lessly, "and you told me he was in the club with you
at that time."
"You don't believe me." He held out his arms to
her imploringly, and then dropped them to his side.
"I give you my word that everything I have told you
is true. Why should I lie now?"
She wheeled on him passionately.
"You ask me that?" she said tensely. "You who
thought he was in your way—that what you could
not gain while he was living you might take when he


38 ,THE GRELL MYSTERY
was dead. Do you think your smooth-faced hypoc-
risy deceives me now? You pretended to accept your
dismissal, pretended to be still my friend—and his."
Her anger disconcerted the man more than her an-
guish had done. His breath caught sharply.
"You don't realise what you are saying," he said,
speaking calmly with an effort. "Because I once loved
you—love you still if you will—before ever Robert Grell
came into your life, you hint an unthinkable thing."
She crossed the room in a graceful swirl of draperies,
and laid a finger on the bell. Her features were set.
She was in no state to weigh the justice or injustice of
the implied accusation she had made. And the man, for
his part, felt his oppression brushed away by anger
at her readiness to judge him.
"We shall see whether the police believe it unthink-
able," she said coldly.
A servant tapped discreetly and opened the door.
"Show this person out," she said.
Sir Ralph bowed mechanically. There was nothing
more to be said. He knew that in her present con-
dition an appeal to her to suppress the story of the
telephone message would be worse than useless. As he
passed down the steps and into the street, a man saun-
tered idly a dozen yards behind him. And thirty yards
behind that man was another whom the baronet might
have recognised as Chief Detective-Inspector Green—
had he seen him.
Within the house a girl, no longer upheld by the
strength of passionate denunciation, had collapsed on
a couch, a huddled heap of draperies, sobbing as though
her heart would break.


CHAPTER VIII
It was an hour after Fairfield had left her before
Eileen Meredith's sobs died away in the deserted room.
There was none to hear or see, and she gave way to her
grief uncontrolled. Gradually the first shock passed.
Her calmness came back to her, but she was a different
woman to the vivacious, sunny girl who had looked
forward to her wedding-day. Her face was set stonily,
and in the grey depths of her eyes there lurked in place
of laughter an implacable determination.
She had loved Robert Grell with the fierce, passionate
devotion of a strong nature. The sudden news of his
death had brought out the primitive woman bent on
vengeance. It was no impulse of suddenly shattered
nerves that had made her turn on Fairfield. To coldly
analyse the facts for and against him was beyond her.
She only thought of the man who had a possible motive
for slaying her lover and had had a possible oppor-
tunity.
Yet none would have guessed the burning emotion
that thrilled in her veins as she submitted to the minis-
trations of her maid. She had not even troubled to
tell her father, although the elderly peer was her only
near relative. Not until he was seated at breakfast
did she inform him in level, passionless tones of what
had happened. Even then she said nothing of her sus-
picions of Ralph Fairfield. But for her pale face she


40 THE GRELL MYSTERY
might have been speaking of something in which she
was but slightly interested.
The Duke of Burghley dropped his knife and fork
at her first words. As she finished, he stood over her
and passed a hand tenderly around her.
"My poor, poor little girl," he said. "This is ter-
rible. Fairfield ought to have seen me first. I must
telephone for your aunt to come and stay here until we
can get away."
She shook her head a trifle impatiently.
"I don't want her, father. She cannot help me. I
would rather be here alone with you. It would drive
me mad to have sympathy showered on me. I want
to see no one. I want to be left to myself."
"But—my dear, I know it is a shock, but you cannot
be allowed to brood"
She rose abruptly from the table and put him from
her.
"I shall not brood," she said. "I shall work. I
am going to Scotland Yard to learn what they know."
"Yes, yes, if you wish it," he said soothingly. "We
will go at once. I will order the car now."
"I would rather go alone, if you don't mind," she
said decisively, and the door closed behind her.
"She always was headstrong," remarked the Duke
of Burghley to the devilled kidneys, and stared mood-
ily into the fire.
Since his wife had died he had always been governed
by his impetuous, strong-willed daughter, and accepted
the situation philosophically so long as he had his books
and his club. He led a complacent life from which he
was rarely stirred. But he was hit harder than he cared


THE GRELL MYSTERY
41
to admit by the way in which she accepted the tragedy.
He wondered vaguely what he ought to do, and decided
to consult Brown—Brown being the senior member of
his firm of family solicitors.
In his room at Scotland Yard Superintendent Heldon
Foyle, a cigar between his teeth, was studying the book
which his staff was compiling. Already it formed a
bulky volume of many hundred typewritten pages. Here
were reports, signed statements, photographs, personal
descriptions, facsimiles of finger-prints, telegrams, let-
ters, surveyors' plans, notes—everything, important and
unimportant, that might have a possible bearing on the
case. The superintendent turned over the pages with
a moistened forefinger, and made a note now and again
on a writing-pad by his side.
"Puzzling cases are like a jig-saw puzzle," he had
once said. "You juggle about with the facts until you
find two or three that fit together. They give you the
key, and you build the rest up round 'em. But it's no
good trying to do it unless you've got your box of
pieces complete."
His box of pieces was not complete, and he knew
it. Nevertheless, he could not resist trying to fit them
together. But the announcement made by his clerk of
the arrival of Lady Eileen Meredith came while he was
still puzzling. She stood in the doorway, a dainty
figure in furs, a heavy veil drawn over her face.
"Mr. Foyle?" she asked hesitatingly.
He bowed and wheeled a big arm-chair near his desk.
"Yes. Won't you sit down, Lady Eileen? You
have just missed one of our men. I sent him round to
break the news to you. I need not tell you that we


THE GRELL MYSTERY
recognise how you must feel in these terrible circum-
stances. We shall trouble you as little as possible after
you have answered a few questions."
He was studying her shrewdly while he spoke, and
her strange composure struck him at once. Even to
her he had decided to say nothing of the identity of
the murdered man. That could wait until he had had a
better opportunity to judge her.
She sat down and rested her chin on one slim, gloved
hand, her elbow on the desk.
"That's very good of you," she said formally. And
then broke direct into her mission. "Have you found
out anything, Mr. Foyle?"
"It's rather early to say anything yet," he hedged.
"Our inquiries are not completed."
"There is no need for further inquiry. I can tell
you who the murderer is."
Superintendent Foyle coughed and idly shifted a
piece of paper over the notes on his blotting-pad. His
face was inscrutable. She could not tell whether her
statement had startled him or not. For all the change
in his expression she might have merely remarked that
the weather was fine. Had it been any one else he
would have said that before the day was out he expected
a dozen or more people to tell him that they knew
the murderer—and that in each case the selection would
be different. As it was he merely said with polite
interest—
"Ah, that will save us a great deal of trouble. Who
is it?"
"He is—I believe him to be Sir Ralph Fairfield."
The superintendent's eyelids nickered curiously;


THE GRELL MYSTERY
43
otherwise he gave no sign of the quickening of his in-
terest. He was a judge of men, and although Fairfield
had rebuffed him he did not believe him to be a mur-
derer. Still, one never knew. Those who kill are not
cast in one mould. If Sir Ralph had slain Goldenburg
in mistake for Grell, and Lady Eileen knew there
must be a motive—for that motive he had to look
no further than the beautiful, unsmiling face before
him.
"You realise that you are making a very grave ac-
cusation, Lady Eileen? " he said. "What reason should
there be?"
She spoke rapidly, steadily, and he did not interrupt
her. His pen rushed swiftly across the paper, taking
down her words. They would presently be neatly typed
and added to the book. When she paused, he replaced
the pen tidily in its rack.
"This is what it comes to—that at eleven o'clock
Sir Ralph said Mr. Grell was with him. You say that
you had refused an offer of marriage from Sir Ralph,
and think that he murdered Mr. Grell from jealousy.
I may say that, though we know Sir Ralph was at his
club for dinner and at eleven o'clock, we can find
neither servants nor members who can say for certain
that be was there at the time the murder was com-
mitted."
She caught her breath. "Then it was he!" she
exclaimed eagerly. "Bob had not another enemy in
the world. You will arrest him."
"Not yet," Foyle retorted, and noted that her face
fell. "All this is only suspicion. We must have proof
to satisfy a jury before we can do anything with a man


44 THE GRELL MYSTERY
in Sir Ralph's position. And now, if you don't mind,
I should like to put a few other questions to you."
When she left after half an hour, Foyle threw back
his head with a jerk.
"A pleasant girl," he commented. "Seems won-
derfully anxious to have Fairfield hanged. I suppose
she was really infatuated with Grell. You never know
how women are going to take things. I wonder if I
can get a set of his finger-prints. That ought to settle
the matter one way or the other, so far as he is con-
cerned. But it won't clear up what Goldenburg was
doing in Grell's place. I'll have to fix that somehow."


CHAPTER IX
The overmastering energy of Heldon Foyle was at once
the envy and despair of his subordinates. There was a
story that once he went without sleep for a week while
unravelling the mystery of the robbery of the Countess
of Enver's pearls. That was probably exaggerated, but
he certainly spent no unnecessary time for rest or food
when work was toward—and he saw also that his staff
were urged to the limits of human endurance.
Having spent four hours sleeping in his clothes, he
deemed that he had paid full courtesy to nature. He
unlocked a drawer, picked out a deadly little automatic
pistol, and dropped it into his jacket pocket. He
rarely went armed, and had never fired a shot in his
life save at a target. But on certain occasions a pistol
was useful to "back a bluff." And on the mission he
had in mind he might need something. He felt in his
breast-pocket to make certain that the enlarged photo-
graph of the finger-prints found on the dagger were
there, and sallied forth into the dusk.
In his own mind he had definitely decided on .the
immediately important points in the inquiry. There
was Ivan, the missing servant, to be found, as also the
Princess Petrovska. The police of a dozen countries
were keeping a look-out for them. Then there was
the knife with its quaint, horizontal hilt of ivory.
Rigorous inquiry had failed to elicit its place of origin,
yet so strange a weapon once seen would infallibly be
45


46 THE GRELL MYSTERY
recognised again. Finally, there was the question of
Sir Ralph Fairfield.
The evening papers had seized avidly on a mystery
after their own heart, and glaring contents-bills told
of "Millionaire Murdered on Wedding Eve. Strange
Mystery." But Foyle had already seen the papers.
He held straight on for the Albany.
"Was Sir Ralph Fairfield in?" The question was
superfluous, for he had already seen Chief Detective-
Inspector Green standing outside apparently much
interested in an evening paper. And Green would
not have been there unless Sir Ralph were about.
Foyle was received coldly by the baronet, and his
quick eyes noted a half-empty decanter on the table.
Fairfield was palpably nervous and ill at ease. He was
plainly distrustful of his visitor's purpose. The de-
tective was apologetic and good-humoured.
"I have come to apologise for my rudeness at Gros-
venor Gardens," he began. "I was worried, and you
were, of course, upset. Now we are both more calm,
I come to ask you if you would like to add anything
to what you said. Of course, you'll be called to give
evidence at the inquest, and it would make it easier for
you as well as for us if we knew what you were going
to say."
Fairfield shrugged his shoulders. "I have told you
all you will learn from me," he said quickly. "I sup-
pose you've seen Lady Eileen Meredith."
"No." The lie was prompt, but the superintendent
salved his conscience with the thought that it was a
necessary one. "I don't know that she can tell us any-
thing of value."


THE GRELL MYSTERY 47
An expression of relief flitted over the face of Grell's
friend. After all, it was something to have the worst
postponed. A man may face swift danger with
debonair courage, may be undaunted by perils or
emergencies of sport, of travel, of everyday life. But
few innocent men can believe that a net is slowly
closing round them which will end in the obloquy of the
Central Criminal Court, or in a shameful death, without
feeling something of the terror of the hunted. "The
terror of the law " is very real in such cases. Fairfield
was no coward, but his nerves had begun to go under
the strain of the suspense. It would have been different
had he been able to do anything—to find relief in
action. But he had to remain passively impotent.
"Well," he said, "I expect you're very busy, Mr.
Foyle. I don't want to keep you."
The detective received the snub with an amiable
smile. "I won't force my company on you, Sir Ralph.
If you will just dictate to me a description of the
string of pearls that Grell showed you, I will go. Can
yon let me have a pen and some paper?"
Ungraciously enough Fairfield flung open a small
inlaid writing-desk, and Foyle took down the descrip-
tion as though he really needed it. As he finished he
held out the pen to Fairfield.
"Will you sign that, please? No, here."
Their hands were almost touching. Foyle half rose
and stumbled clumsily, clutching the other's wrist to
save himself. The baronet's hand and fingers were
pressed down heavily on the still wet writing. The
detective recovered his balance and apologised pro-
fusely, at the same time picking up the sheet of paper.


48
THE GRELL MYSTERY
“I don't know how I came to do that. I am very
sorry. It's smudged the paper a bit, but that won't
matter. It's still readable. Good-bye, Sir Ralph.”
So admirably had the accident been contrived that
even Fairfield never suspected that it was anything but
genuine. In a public telephone-box, a few hundred
yards away, Heldon Foyle was examining the half-sheet
of notepaper side by side with the photograph of the
finger-prints on the dagger. A telephone-box is ad-
mirably constructed for the private examination of
documents if one's back is towards the door and one
is bent over the directory. Line by line Foyle traced
“ laterals,” “lakes,” and “ accidentals,” calling to his
aid a magnifying glass from his waistcoat pocket.
When he emerged he was rubbing his chin vigor-
ously. The prints were totally different. . Sir Ralph
Fairfield was not the murderer of the man so astound-
ingly like Robert Grell.


CHAPTER X
The evidence of the finger-prints was entirely negative.
Though Foyle believed that Fairfield was innocent, he
never permitted himself to be swayed by his opinions
into neglecting a possibility. It was still possible that
the baronet might have been concerned in the crime
even though they were some one else's prints on the
dagger. At any rate Fairfield was suppressing some-
thing. It could do no harm to continue the watch that
had been set upon him. So Foyle left Green and his
companion to continue their unobtrusive vigil.
To justify his stay in the box—for he was artist
enough to do things thoroughly even though it might
be unnecessary—he lifted the receiver and put a call
through to Scotland Yard.
"This is Foyle speaking," he said when at last he
had got the man he asked for. "Is there anything
fresh for me?"
"Nothing important, sir, except that Blake has
found a curiosity dealer who says that the knife is one
that must have come from South America. It is, he
says, an unusual sort of Mexican dagger."
"Oh. Is the man who says that to be relied on?
He isn't just guessing? We can do all the guessing
we want ourselves."
"No, sir, we think he's all right. It's Marfield—one
of the biggest men in the trade. By the way, sir,
there's a lot of newspaper men been asking for you
49


so
THE GRELL MYSTERY
since you left. They want to know about Golden-
burg."
"So do I," retorted the other. "You'd better be
strictly truthful with 'em, Mainland. Tell 'em you
know no more than is on the reward bill. They won't
believe you, anyway. You can say I've gone home to
bed, and that there will be nothing more doing this
evening. Good-bye."
"A Mexican dagger," he muttered to himself as he
left the telephone-box. "Now, if I were a story-book
detective I should assume that the murderer was either
a South American or had travelled in South America.
It looked the kind of thing a woman might carry in
her garter. And a veiled woman called on him that
night "—he made a wry face. "Foyle, my lad, you're
assuming things. That way madness lies. The dagger
might have been bought anywhere as a curiosity, and
the veiled woman may have been a purely innocent
caller."
His meditations had brought him to a great restau-
rant off the Strand. He passed through the swing
doors into the lavishly gilded dining-room, and selected
a table somewhere near the centre. With the air of a
man taking his ease after a strenuous day in the City,
he ordered his dinner carefully, seeking the waiter's
advice now and again. Then his eye roved carelessly
over the throng of diners while he waited for his orders
to be fulfilled. The apparently casual scrutiny lasted
rather less than a minute. Then he shifted his seat
so that he could see without effort the table where two
men lingered over their liqueurs. A moment later one
of the men noted the solitary figure of the detective.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 51
He emptied his glass without haste and signalled to
the waiter. Before that functionary had made out the
bill Foyle had strolled over to the table, his face beam-
ing, his hand outstretched.
"How are you, Eden? " he cried effusively. "Who'd
have thought of seeing you here! Business good? Still
picking flowers?"
An expression of annoyance crossed the face of the
slighter built of the two men, yet he shook hands readily.
"Why, it's Mr. Foyle!" he exclaimed heartily.
"How are you? We were just going. Let me intro-
duce Mr. Maxwell."
They called him the Garden of Eden at Scotland
Yard—probably because the unwary might have
thought him full of innocence. His smooth, bronzed
boyish face showed ingenuousness and candour in every
line. A glittering diamond pin adorned his necktie, a
massive gold chain spanned his waistcoat, a gold ring
with a single great ruby was on his finger. That was
the only ostentation about him, and his quiet, well-cut
clothes were in good taste.
Foyle acknowledged the introduction.
"From the colonies, I suppose, Mr. Maxwell? I
suppose Eden has told you he's just come over." Eden
surveyed the detective with wide-open, innocent blue
eyes in which there dwelt hurt reproach. "I hate to
separate you, but I've got important business with him.
Perhaps you'll meet another time."
"Yes, you'll excuse me now, old man," chimed in
Eden blandly. "Call for me at the Palatial at eleven
to-morrow, and we'll make a day of it."
Maxwell had no sooner accepted his dismissal than


THE GRELL MYSTERY
Foyle led the other over to his table. Eden walked with
the manner of one uncertain what was about to happen.
"It is all right, Mr. Foyle," he protested eagerly.
"It is all right. I haven't touched him for a sou."
Foyle began on the soup placidly.
"You're a joker, Jimmy," he smiled. "Don't get
uneasy. I'm not going to carry you inside. Only
you'll have to leave the Palatial to-night, Jimmy—
to-night, do you understand? And if Maxwell turns
up with a complaint against you there'll be pretty bad
trouble. You'll be put out of temptation for good
and all. There's such a thing as preventive detention
in this country now, you know."
The Garden of Eden looked pained.
"Truth, Mr. Foyle, I haven't done a thing," he de-
clared earnestly. "I'm trying the straight game now."
Heldon Foyle wagged his head.
"And staying at the Palatial," he smiled. "Oh,
Jimmy, Jimmy! I believe you, of course." And he
went on with his soup.
Suddenly he looked up. "When did you last see
Goldenburg?" he demanded curtly. "No nonsense,
mind, Jimmy."
Eden's face had cleared. "So that's the lay, is it?"
he said with relief. "I saw the bills out for him, and
I don't mind helping you if I can, Mr. Foyle. He was
never what you'd call a proper pal, and I don't bear
any malice, though you've just done me out of a cool
five hundred. That mug who's just gone "—he jerked
his head towards the door—" was going to follow my
tip and back a horse that won't win to-morrow. That's
a bit hard, isn't it, Mr. Foyle?"


THE GRELL MYSTERY
53
From his breast-pocket Foyle took a ten-pound note
and slid it across the table. He followed Eden's mean-
ing.
"Cough it up," he advised.
The Garden of Eden took the note and thrust it into
his trousers pocket.
"He was in Victoria Station, talking to a foreign-
looking chap, on Wednesday night." A look of aston-
ishment crossed his face while he spoke. "By the living
jingo, there's the very man he was talking to coming in
now."
Foyle folded his serviette neatly and rose.
"Right, Jimmy. I'll talk to you later. Go to the
Yard and wait till I come," he said, and, walking swiftly
across the room, thrust his arm through that of the
new arrival.
"You are the man who used to be Mr. Grell's valet,"
he said quietly in French. "lama police officer, and
you must come with me."


CHAPTER XI
THE man tried to jerk himself free, but the detective's
fingers closed tightly about his wrist.
“ There is no use making a scene, my man,” he said,
still speaking in French, his voice stern, but pitched
in a low key. “You are Ivan something-or-other, and
you know of the murder of your master. So come
along.”
“It's a mistake," protested the other volubly in the
same language. His words slurred into each other in
his excitement. “I am not the man you take me for.
I am Pierre Bazarre, a jeweller of Paris, and I have
my credentials. I will not submit to this abominable
outrage. I know nothing of M. Grell; you shall not
arrest me
Heldon Foyle cut him short. He had, without the
appearance of force, quietly forced his prisoner outside
the restaurant and signalled to a passing taxicab.
“I am not arresting you,” he said, ignoring the pro-
testations of the other. “I am going to detain you
till you give a satisfactory explanation of your reason
for leaving Mr. Grell's house on the night of the
murder."
They were on the edge of the pavement close to the
cab. Ivan with a quick oath wheeled inward, and struck
savagely at the superintendent's face. Foyle's grip did
not relax. He merely lowered his head, seemingly with-
out haste, and, as the man swung forward with the
54


THE GRELL MYSTERY 55
momentum of the blow, jabbed with his own free hand
at his body. So neatly was it done that passers-by
saw nothing but an apparently drunken man collapse
on the pavement in spite of the endeavours of his friend
to hold him up.
The whole breath had been knocked out of Ivan's
body by those two swift body-blows. Before he could
recover, Foyle had lifted him bodily into the cab.
"King Street," he said quietly to the driver, and sat
down opposite to Ivan, alert and watchful.
"Sorry if I hurt you," he apologised. "It will be
all right in a minute. It has only upset your wind a
little. That will pass off."
Ivan, his hands pressed tightly to the pit of his
stomach, groaned. Presently he straightened himself
up, and Foyle, calmly ignoring the assault, produced a
cigar-case.
"Have a cigar? I've no doubt you'll be able to
make things all right when we get to the station. There's
nothing to worry about. You will just have a little
talk with me, and as soon as one or two points are
cleared up you'll be able to go."
The case was struck angrily aside. Foyle smiled,
and although his whole body was taut in anticipation
of any fresh attempt at violence, he quietly struck a
match and lit one himself.
"As you like," he said imperturbably. "They're
good cigars. I have them sent over to me by a friend
direct from Havana."
All the while he was speaking he was scrutinising
the man who had been Grell's valet with deliberate
care. Ivan was sleek and well-groomed, with a dark


56 THE GRELL MYSTERY
face and prominent cheekbones that betrayed his Cau-
casian origin. The brows were drawn tightly in a surly
frown; a heavy dark moustache hid the upper lip, and
though the shoulders were sloping he was obviously a
man of considerable physical strength.
Foyle felt that it was going to be no easy matter
to win this man's confidence. Yet he was determined
to do so. Beyond the fact that he had vanished when
the murder was discovered, there was nothing so far to
suggest that he was the actual culprit. Certain it was,
however, that he must have knowledge of matters which
would prove valuable. If he would volunteer the in-
formation, well and good. The detective did not wish
to have to question him, for such a course, however
advisable it might appear, could be made to assume an
ugly look in the hands of the astute counsel, should
the man be charged with the crime. Where by French
or American methods a statement might have been ex-
tracted by bullying or by cross-examination, here it had
to be extracted by diplomacy if possible.
Sullen and silent, Ivan alighted from the cab as it
drew up under the blue lamp outside King Street
police station. He passed arm-in-arm with Foyle up
the steps. With a nod to the uniformed inspector in
the outer office, the superintendent led him into the
offices set apart for the divisional detachment of the
Criminal Investigation Department. A broad-shoul-
dered man with side whiskers, who was writing at a
desk, looked up as they entered.
"Good morning, Mr. Norman," said Foyle. "This
gentleman wants to tell me something about the Grell
case. Just give him a chair, will you, and send in a


THE GRELL MYSTERY 57
shorthand writer who understands French to take a
statement."
"I shall make no statement," broke in the Russian
angrily, speaking in French, but with a readiness that
showed he was able to follow English. "It's all a
mistake—a mistake for which you will pay heavily."
"Ah! that's just what I wish to get at. There
seems to be a little confusion. Perhaps I have been
over-zealous, but the fact is, Monsieur—er—Bazarre,
you are wearing a false moustache, and that rather
aroused my suspicions—see?"
His hand did not seem to move, yet a second later
the heavy moustache had been torn from the man's
face. He started to his feet with an exclamation. Foyle
waved him back to his chair.
"I only wanted to feel sure that I was right. Now,
monsieur, I want to make it clear that I have no right
to ask you anything. If you wish to say anything, it
will be taken down, and what action I take depends on
what you say."
Ivan scowled into the fire and preserved a stubborn
silence. Whether he knew it or not, he held all the
advantage. Unless he committed himself by some in-
cautious word, there was little to implicate him in the
murder. Suspicion there might be, but legal proof there
was none. It would scarcely do to arrest him on such
flimsy evidence. The Russian police had failed to
trace his antecedents, and the Criminal Investigation
Department were ignorant even of his surname. He
had been known simply as Ivan at Grosvenor Gardens.
Foyle tried again, and this time his voice was silky
and soft as ever as he uttered a plainer threat.


58 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"I want to help you if I can. I don't want to have
to charge you with the murder of Mr. Grell."
The warm blood surged crimson to Ivan's face. In
an instant he was out of his chair and had leapt at the
throat of the detective. So rapid, so unexpected was
the movement that, although Heldon Foyle had not
ceased his careful watchfulness, and although he writhed
quickly aside, he was borne back by his assailant. The
two crashed heavily to the floor. As they rolled over,
struggling desperately, the grip upon the detective's
throat grew ever tighter and tighter.
Half a dozen men had rushed into the room at the
noise of the struggle, and strove vainly to tear the
Russian from his hold. But he hung on with the tenac-
ity of a mastiff. There was a ringing in Foyle's ear
and a red blur before his eyes. With a superhuman
effort he got his elbow under the Russian's chin and
pressed it back sharply.
The grip relaxed ever so slightly, but it was enough.
Instantly Foyle had wrested himself free, and Ivan was
pinioned to the floor by the others.
"Handcuffs," said the superintendent sharply.
Some one got a pair on the prisoner's wrists, and he
was jerked none too gently to his feet. A couple of
men still held him. At a word from Foyle the others
had gone about their business, with the exception of
Norman. The superintendent flicked the dust from his
clothes, and picked something, which had fallen during
the struggle, from the floor.
"You admit you are Ivan, then?" he said quietly.
The Russian showed his teeth in a beast-like snarl.
"Yes, I am Ivan," he said. "Make what you can


THE GRELL MYSTERY 59
of that, but you cannot have me hanged for the murder
of Mr. Grell—and you know why."
"Because Mr. Grell is not dead," retorted the de-
tective smoothly. "Yes, I know that."
He counted the rough-and-tumble but little against
the fact that the Russian had now admitted that he
knew it was not Grell's body that had been found in
the study. Here was a starting-point at last.
"What I want now," he went on slowly, "is an ex-
planation of how you came to have possession of these."
He held up the thing he had picked from the floor.
It was a case of blue Morocco leather, and as he opened
it a magnificent string of pearls showed startlingly
white against a dark background.
"These pearls were bought at Streeters' by
Mr. Grell as a wedding present to Lady Eileen Mere-
dith," he said. "How do they come in your posses-
sion?"
"They were given to me by Mr. Grell," cried Ivan.
The fierce passion that had made him attack Foyle on
the hint of arrest seemed to have melted away.
Heldon Foyle's mask of a face showed no sign of the
incredulity he felt. He made no comment, but ran his
hands swiftly through the Russian's pockets, piling
money, keys, watch, and other articles in a little heap
on the table. Beyond a single letter there were no docu-
ments on the man. He scanned the missive quickly.
» It was an ordinary commonplace note from a jeweller
in Paris, addressed to Ivan Abramovitch. This he
placed aside.
"May as well have his finger-prints," he said, and
one of the officers present pressed Ivan's hands on a


60 THE GRELL MYSTERY
piece of inky tin, and then on a piece of paper. The
superintendent glanced casually at the impression.
"All right," he said. "Take those handcuffs off.
You may go, Mr. Abramovitch."
The Russian stood motionless, as though not under-
standing. Foyle wheeled about as though the whole
matter had been dismissed from his mind, and caught
Norman by the sleeve.
"Drop everything," he said in a curt whisper.
"Take a couple of men and don't let that man out of
your sight for an instant. I'll have you relieved from
the Yard in an hour's time."
"Aren't you going to charge him, sir?" asked the
other in astonishment.
"Not likely," said Foyle, with a laugh.


CHAPTER XII
HELDON FOYLE walked thoughtfully back to Scotland
Yard, satisfied that the shadowing of Ivan Abramo-
vitch was in competent hands. With the strong man's
confidence in himself, he had no fears as to his decision
to release the man. He was beginning to have a shad-
owy idea of the relation of pieces in his jig-saw puzzle.
Ivan, he knew, ought to have been arrested if only for
failing to give a satisfactory account of his possession
of the pearl necklace. But the superintendent had, as
he mentally phrased it, “ tied a string to him," and it
would not be his fault if nothing resulted.
It was well after midnight before he had finished his
work at Scotland Yard. He had had a long interview
with the Garden of Eden, in which promises were
adroitly mingled with threats. In the result the “ bunco-
steerer" had promised to keep his eyes and ears alert
for news of any one resembling Goldenburg. There
was a string of other callers who had been discreetly
sorted out by the superintendent's diplomatic lieuten-
ants. Finally, he pulled out the book which dealt with
the case, and with the aid of a typist added several
more chapters. With a sigh of relief, he at last saun-
tered out into the cool, fresh midnight air.
Nine o'clock next morning saw him again in his
office. Sir Hilary Thornton was his first caller. Foyle
put aside his reports at his chief's opening question.
“ Yes, we've taken every human precaution to pre-


62 THE GRELL MYSTERY
serve secrecy," he replied. "Every one who knows that
it is not Grell's body in the house has been pledged to
hold his tongue. I have managed to get the inquest put
back for three days, so that there will be no evidence
of identification till then. That gives us a chance. And
I've made out a confidential report to be sent to the
Foreign Office, so that Grell's Government shan't get
restive. Here are the latest reports, sir."
The Assistant Commissioner bent over the sheaf of
typewritten documents for a little in complete absorp-
tion. As he came to the last sheet he gave a start of
surprise.
"So you let this man Ivan go? Do you think that
wise?"
"I'm fishing," answered Foyle enigmatically. "I
couldn't have better bait than Ivan. There are three
men sticking to him like limpets now, and a couple are
keeping an eye on Sir Ralph Fairfield. I think that
will be all right. Do you remember the Mighton
Grange case? We knew there had been a murder, but
couldn't do anything till we found the body. Dutful,
the murderer, would have slid off to some place where
there's no extradition, but for the fact that I had him
arrested on a charge of being in the unlawful possession
of a pickaxe handle. This affair is the converse of
that. We can't afford to have Ivan under lock and
key."
Sir Hilary Thornton bit his lip and looked stead-
fastly at the scarlet geranium on the window-sill, as
though in search of enlightenment.
"I believe I see," he exclaimed after a pause. "Ivan
must have been something more than a valet. He's a


THE GRELL MYSTERY 63
superior type of man, and the conclusion to be drawn
if he knows that Grell is alive"
"Precisely," interrupted the superintendent.
"Any result from the offer of a reward for Golden-
burg?"
A flicker of amusement dwelt in Heldon Foyle's blue
eyes. "Yes. He has been seen by different people
within an hour or two of each other in Glasgow, South-
ampton, Gloucester, Cherbourg, Plymouth, and Cardiff.
Our information on that point is not precisely helpful.
Of course, we've got the local police making inquiries in
each case, but I don't anticipate they will find out much.
Still, it will keep 'em amused."
The necessity of a conference broke up further con-
versation. Gathered in the building were some thirty
or forty departmental chiefs of the C.I.D., the picked
men of their profession. Most of them were divisional
detective inspectors who were in charge of districts, and
some few were men who had special duties. They
were ranged about tables in a lofty room, its green dis-
tempered walls hung with stiff photographs of living
and retired officials. Men of all types were there, from
the spruce, smartly groomed detectives of the West End
to the burly, ill-dressed detectives of the East. Between
them they spoke every known language. Here was
Penny, who had specialised in forgeries; Brown, who
knew every trick of coiners; Malby, the terror of race-
course sharps; Menzies, who had as keen a scent for
the gambling hell as a hound for a fox; Poole, who
was intimate with the ways of railway thieves and shop-
lifters. Not one but thoroughly understood his pro-
fession, and knew where to look for his information.


64 THE GRELL MYSTERY
Foyle took the chair, and the buzz of conversation
became general. It was a business conference of ex-
perts. Views were exchanged on concrete problems;
the movements of well-known criminals discussed. "Vel-
vet-fingered Ned " had disappeared from Islington and
reappeared in Brixton. "Tony" Smith was due out
of prison. Mike O'Brien had patched up the peace
with " Yid " Foster, and when they got together
So the talk went on, and so every district learned
what was taking place in other districts. The super-
intendent sat silent for a while, listening. At last his
smooth voice broke in.
"The man Ivan, whose description was circulated, is
not to be touched now. Tell your men to let him alone
if they come across him."
There was a deep chorus, "Very good, sir," and
Foyle, with a nod of dismissal, left the room. He
stopped to make an inquiry in the clerk's office, and
passing along the corridor unlocked a door and pressed
a bell.
In under half an hour a big labourer, with corduroys
tied about the knees, lurched unsteadily out of the Lost
Property Office and passed into Whitehall. Rough,
tousled hair, an unkempt moustache, and a day's growth
of beard on the chin were details warranted to stand
inspection. Heldon Foyle rarely used a disguise, but
when he did he was careful that nothing should get out
of order. Hair and moustache were his own, dyed
and brushed cunningly. Yet, when he reeled against
Green near the Albany, the inspector, who was an ob-
servant man, pushed him roughly aside with an anath-
ema on his clumsiness.


66
THE GRELL MYSTERY
trusted his appearance, was cut short by a deposit of
five shillings as a guarantee of good faith, and the super-
intendent also began the journey. Behind him a third
cab carried the man who had been so deeply interested
in the bookseller's window.


CHAPTER XIII
Grave Steeet, Whitechapel, is not a savoury neigh-
bourhood. One may pass from end to end of its squalid
length and hear scarce a word of English. Yiddish is
the language most favoured by its cosmopolitan popu-
lation, although one may hear now and again Polish,
Russian, or German. In its barrack-like houses, rising
sheer from the pavement, a chain of tenancy obtains,
ranging from the actual householder to the tenant of
half a room, who sublets corners of the meagre space
on terms payable strictly in advance. A score of
people will herd together in a room a few feet square,
and never realise that they are cramped for space.
Here you will find petty thieves, versatile rascals ripe
for any mischief, and sweated factory workers; here
sallow-faced anarchists boldly denounce the existing
order of things to their fellows and scheme the millen-
nium. Slatternly women quarrel at the doors, and
horse-flesh is a staple article of diet.
The neatly dressed Fairfield descending at the end
of the street from his taxicab was as conspicuous among
the unshaven idlers who hung about the pavements as
the moon among the stars.
Sir Ralph picked his way towards a newspaper shop,
his mind full of the message that had brought him to
the spot. The letter delivered by the messenger had
contained but a few words in printed characters.
67


68 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"If you would learn the truth about the murder
in Grosvenor Gardens, come immediately to No.
— Grave Street."
There was no signature, no clue to the identity of
the writer. Fairfield had leapt at the chance to do
something. Even if it were a hoax it would occupy his
mind for a time, and take his thoughts away from the
sinister shadow that overhung him. Somehow, however,
he did not think it was a hoax.
The newspaper shop displayed the number given
in the note on its grimy facia. The baronet, as he
moved towards it, was unconscious of the slouching
figure of the labourer, who had been selling matches
near the Albany, a few paces behind him. His foot
was on the threshold of the shop when a man, black-
bearded and swarthy, pressed an envelope into his
hand.
Foyle watched the incident and his pace quickened.
Before Fairfield had time to do more than glance at
the inscription of the envelope he was abreast. He
lurched inward and his fingers snatched quickly at the
note. The next instant he was running with long, even
strides for the open of the main road.
It was barefaced robbery, of course, but he had not
the inclination to stick at trifles. That the note had
some bearing on the case he was investigating he felt
certain. There was only one way to get it at once, and
that was to steal. Anywhere else but in Grave Street
he would have waited to face the matter out. Not that
Grave Street would have frowned upon a theft, but
that he would have been forced to reveal his identity,


THE GRELL MYSTERY 69
and Grave Street was not a healthy neighbourhood for
solitary detectives.
Sir Ralph stood thunderstruck, but some one else
acted. The black-bearded man had disappeared. From
somewhere there were a couple of dull thuds like a
hammer falling upon wood, and Foyle heard the whistle
of bullets over his head.
"I'll get even for that," he muttered between his
teeth, but his headlong flight never slackened.
Behind him was a clatter of pursuing feet. Fair-
field, recovering himself, had raised a cry and it was
taken up.
"Stop thief! Hold him!"
He passed the man who had been so eagerly intent
on the bookshop. The man made a clutch at him,
missed and fell headlong right in the path of Fairfield,
now a few paces behind. The baronet tripped over
his body and was thrown violently to the ground.
Foyle made a mental note in favour of Detective-
Sergeant Chambers, who had so adroitly intercepted
the pursuit. As he came to the main road he slackened
his pace to a sharp walk, and dived into an under-
ground station. He breathed a sigh of relief as he
passed down the steps to the platform.
He had anticipated trouble, but pistol-shots in broad
daylight, even in Grave Street, had been outside his
calculations. He had recognised the peculiar report of
an automatic pistol. His adversaries, whoever they
might be, were obviously very much in earnest. Pistol-
shooting at detectives is not a commonplace pastime
even with the most reckless of criminals. Foyle decided
on another and early visit to Grave Street, and prom-


70 THE GRELL MYSTERY
ised himself grimly that the target should be some
one else, if it came to shooting again. He was in
danger of losing his temper.
Not until he had got in the train did he open the
note that was still between his fingers. He frowned
as he read it.
"Curse it! This comes of acting on impulse. Why
couldn't I have waited! I had the whole thing in my
hands."
The note said simply—
"I am alive. I must see you. Follow the man
who gives you this note.—R. G."
Heldon Foyle had seen much of Robert Grell's writing
during his search of the house in Grosvenor Gardens,
and had no doubt that the note was his. His peace of
mind was not increased by the reflection that had he
waited and continued to shadow Fairfield he might
have discovered the whereabouts of the missing diplo-
mat. Now he had merely given notice as plainly as
though he had shouted from the housetops that Fair-
field was under observation. He had committed a
blunder, and he did not forgive blunders easily, espe-
cially in himself.
Even a bath and a change into his normal clothing
did not restore his equanimity. In his office he found
Green, with a strange excitement in his usually stolid
face.
"Hello, Mr. Green. What's wrong? " he demanded.
The veteran chief detective-inspector pulled at his
moustache.


THE GRELL MYSTERY
"I don't know, sir, yet. You've come just in time.
Waverley is missing.
"Waverley missing! That's nonsense. He was put
on to relieve Norman in shadowing Ivan Abramovitch."
"He's missing," repeated the other doggedly. "Ivan
went into a shop with an entrance in two streets, and
the man who was assisting Waverley slipped round
to the other side. He waited there an hour, and then
went to look for Waverley."
The superintendent gave a short, contemptuous
laugh.
"Green, I guess you've been working too hard lately.
You ought to apply for a fortnight's leave. Can't
you see, Ivan came out and that Waverley never had
time to give the tip to his man, but followed him
straight away? There ought to have been three men
on the job."
Green drew himself up stiffly. Foyle had not re-
covered from the irritation caused by his own mistake,
otherwise he would not have spoken as he did. Green
was not the kind of man to hastily jump to conclusions.
"A third was not available when Waverley left," he
said. "Here is why I say Waverley is missing. It
came by messenger five minutes ago, addressed to you.
As senior officer I opened it."
Foyle took a typewritten sheet of paper from the
other's hand. It read simply—
"Dear Mr. Foyle,—You had better call your men
off. We have got one of them safe, and hold him
as a hostage for our own safety. If your people go on
trying to make things unpleasant for us, things will get


72 THE GRELL MYSTERY
unpleasant for him. This is not melodrama, but brutal
fact."
There was no signature. Foyle's square j aw became
set and grim. He had no doubt that the unknown
writer fully meant the threat. He liked Waverley, yet
the thought of the other's peril did not sway him for
a moment. The man had fallen a victim to one of the
risks of his profession.
"Do they expect us to back down?" asked the super-
intendent harshly. "If Waverley has been fool enough
to get himself in a fix, he must take his chance if we
can't get him out. Let's have a look at this paper."
He thrust his hand in a drawer, and, flinging a
pinch of black powder on the letter, sifted it gingerly
to and fro. In a few seconds four finger-prints stared
out blackly from the white surface. They were at right
angles to the type, and just beneath it. Foyle's face
relaxed in a pleased smile.
"They've given us something that may help us, after
all, Green," he cried. "Look here; these two middle
ones are the prints on the dagger. Now let's see if we
can learn anything from the typing."
Half an hour later three men stood in a tiny room,
darkened, save for a vivid patch of white on a screen
a yard and a half square. Foyle and Green watched
the screen intently as the third man inserted the slide
in the powerful magic lantern. Magnified enormously,
the typewritten characters stood out vividly black
against the white.
"What do you make of it, Green? " asked the super-
intendent after a pause.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 73
"Remington machine, latest pattern," answered the
other briefly. "The letter 'b' slightly battered, and
the ' o ' out of alignment. Used by a beginner. There
is double spacing between some of the lines and single
in others. A capital ' W ' has been superimposed on a
small one."
"That's so," agreed his superior thoughtfully. "You
might see if the Remington people can give us any
help with that. If possible, get a list of all the people
who have bought machines during this last six weeks.
It's a long shot, but long shots sometimes come off".
And if you come into my room I'll give you a pistol.
It'll be as well for you to carry one while you're on this
case. I was shot at myself, to-day."
"Thank you, sir, I think I'll do without one," said
the other quietly. "My two fists are good enough for
me."
"As you like," agreed Foyle, and Green departed on
his mission. When he returned, he walked into Foyle's
Toom and laid a long list before his chief. The super-
intendent cast his forefinger slowly down it.
"October 14," he read, " Mr. John Smith, c/o Israels,
404a Grave Street, Whitechapel." He looked up into
the stolid face of Green. "That seems like it," he
went on. "You and I will take a little trip this
evening, Green. And I think you'd better have a pistol,
after all."


CHAPTER XIV
To all callers, relatives, friends, newspaper men, alike,
Eileen Meredith denied herself resolutely. "She has
been rendered completely prostrate by the shock," said
the Daily Wire in the course of a highly coloured char-
acter sketch. Other statements, more or less true, with
double and treble column photographs-of herself, crept
into other papers. Night and day a little cluster of
journalists hung about, watching the front door, scan-
ning every caller and questioning them when they were
turned away. Now and again one would go to the door
and make a hopeless attempt to see some member of
the household.
But Eileen was not prostrate, in spite of the Daily
Wire. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts. Her
gay vivacity had deserted her, and she had become a
sombre woman, with mouth set in rigid lines, and with
a fierce intensity for vengeance, none the less implac-
able because she felt her impotence. In such unreason-
ing moods some women become dangerous.
She had curtly rejected her father's suggestion that
she should see a doctor. Nor would she leave London
to try and forget amid fresh surroundings.
"Here I will stay until Bob's murderer is punished,"
she had said, and her white teeth had come together
viciously.
A night and a day had passed since her interview
with Heldon Foyle. Reflection had not convinced her
74


THE GRELL MYSTERY
75
that his cold reason was right. She had made up her
mind that Fairfield was the murderer. Nothing could
shake her from that conviction. Scotland Yard, she
thought, was afraid of him because he was a man of
position. The square-faced superintendent who had
spoken so smoothly was probably trying to shield him.
But she knew. She was certain. Suppose she told all
she knew? Her slim hands clenched till the nails cut
her flesh, as she determined that he should pay the price
of his crime. There was another justice than the law.
If the law failed her-
A medical man or a student of psychology might
have found an analysis of her feelings interesting. She
had reached the border-line of monomania, yet he would
have been a daring man who would have called her
absolutely insane. Except to Foyle she had said nothing
of the feeling that obsessed her.
With cool deliberation she unlocked a drawer of her
escritoire and picked out a dainty little ivory-butted
revolver with polished barrel. It was very small-
almost a toy. She broke it apart and pushed five
cartridges into the chambers. With a furtive glance
over her shoulder she placed it in her bosom, and then
hastily returned to her chair by the fire and picked up
a book. Her eyes skimmed the lines of type mechanic-
ally. She read nothing, although she turned the pages.
Presently she flung the book aside and, without ring-
ing for a maid, dressed in an unobtrusive walking
costume of deep black. She selected a heavy fur muff
and transferred the pistol to its interior. Her fingers
closed tightly over the butt. On her way to the door
she was stopped by an apologetic footman.


76
THE GRELL MYSTERY
"There's a lot of persons from the newspapers wait-
ing out in the streets, Lady Eileen," he said.
"Indeed!" Her voice was cold and hard.
"They might annoy you. They stop every one who
goes in or out."
She answered shortly and stepped out through the
door he held open. There was a quick stir among
the reporters, and two of them hastily detached them-
selves and confronted her, hats in hand. She forced
a smile.
"It's no use, gentlemen," she said. "I will not be
interviewed." She looked very dainty and pathetic as
she spread out her hands in a helpless little gesture.
"Can I not appeal to your chivalry? You are besieg-
ing a house of mourning. And, please—please, I know
what is in your minds—do not follow me."
She had struck the right note. There was no attempt
to break her down. With apologies the men withdrew.
After all, they were gentlemen whose intrusion on a
private grief was personally repugnant to them.
The girl reached Scotland Yard while Heldon Foyle
was still in talk with Green. Her name at once procured
her admission to him. She took no heed of the chair
he offered, but remained standing, her serious grey eyes
searching his face. He observed the high colour on her
cheeks, and almost intuitively guessed that she was
labouring under some impulse.
"Please do sit down," he pleaded. "You want to
know how the case is progressing. I think we shall
have some news for you by to-morrow. I hope it will
be good."
"You are about to make an arrest?"


THE GRELL MYSTERY
77
The words came from her like a pistol-shot. A light
shot into her eyes.
The detective shook his head. He had seen the look
in her face once before on the face of a woman. That
was at Las Palmas, in a dancing-hall, when a Portuguese
girl had knifed a fickle lover with a dagger drawn from
her stocking. Lady Eileen was scarce likely to carry
a dagger in her stocking, but—his gaze lingered for a
second on the muff, which she had not put aside. It
was queer that she should not withdraw her hands.
"I don't say that. It depends on circumstances,"
he said gently.
Her face clouded. "I will swear that the man Fair-
field killed him," she cried passionately. "You will
let him get away—you and your red tape."
He came and stood by her.
"Listen to me, Lady Eileen," he said earnestly.
"Sir Ralph Fairfield did not kill Mr. Grell. Of that I
have proof. Will you not trust us and wait a little?
You are doing Sir Ralph a great injustice by your sus-
picions."
She laughed wildly, and flung herself away from him.
"You talk to me as though I were a schoolgirl," she
retorted. "You can't throw dust in my eyes, Mr.
Foyle. He has bought you. You are going to let him
go. I know! I know! But he shall not escape."
The superintendent stroked his chin placidly. As
if by accident he had placed himself between her and
the door. He had already made up his mind what to
do, but the situation demanded delicate handling.
•" You will regret this when you are calmer," he said
mildly.


THE GRELL MYSTERY
79
from the floor and, jerking the cartridges out, placed
it on the mantelpiece.
“You can never tell what a woman will do,” he said
to himself. “ All the same, I think I have saved Ralph
Fairfield's life to-day.”


CHAPTER XV
Heldon Foyle was more deeply chagrined than he
would have cared to admit by the disappearance of
Waverley. It was not only that one of the most expe-
rienced men of the Criminal Investigation Department
had fallen into a trap and so placed his colleagues in
difficulties. The very audacity of the coup showed that
the department was matched against no ordinary oppo-
nents. There is a limit even to the daring of the great-
est professional criminals. If there were professionals
acting in this business, reflected the superintendent, the
idea was none of theirs. Besides, no professional would
have written the letter threatening the Yard. That
was no bluff—the finger-prints proved that. To hold a
Scotland Yard man as a hostage was a game only to be
played by those who had much at stake.
Only one man shared Heldon Foyle's confidence.
That was Sir Hilary Thornton. To the Assistant
Commissioner he talked freely.
"It's an ugly job for us, sir, there's no disguising
that. Naturally, they count on us keeping our mouths
shut about Waverley. It's lucky he's not a married
man. If the story of the way he was bagged becomes
public property we shall be a laughing-stock, even if
we get him out of his trouble. And if we don't, the
scandal will be something worse."
"Yes. It's bad—bad," agreed the Assistant Com-
missioner. "The Press must not hear of this."
80


THE GRELL MYSTERY 81
"Trust me," said Foyle grimly. "The Press won't."
"I don't like this affair of Lady Eileen Meredith,"
went on Sir Hilary. "After all, she has a good right
to know the truth. Wouldn't it be better to let her
know that Grell is alive?"
Foyle jingled some money in his trousers pocket.
"I hate it as much as you do, Sir Hilary. I can't
take any chances, though. Grell knows we know he
is alive. When he finds that this girl has not been
told he may try to communicate with her, and then
we may be able to lay hands on him and Ivan, and
so clear up the mystery. There's another thing. As
far as our inquiries through his solicitors and the bank
go, he couldn't have had much ready cash on him. He'll
try to get some sooner or later—probably through his
friends. He's already tried to approach Fairfield."
"I see," agreed the other in the tone of a man not
quite convinced. "Now, when are you going down to
Grave Street again? You'll want at least a dozen
men."
"There won't be any trouble at Grave Street," an-
swered Foyle with a smile; " and if there is, Green and
I will have to settle it. More men would only be in the
way. Our first job is to get hold of Waverley."
"But only two of you! Grave Street isn't exactly a
nice place. If there is trouble"
"We'll risk that, sir," said Foyle, stiffening a trifle.
He went back to his own room and signed a few
letters. Some words through a speaking-tube brought
Green in, stolid, gloomy, imperturbable. The chief in-
spector accepted and lit a cigar. Through a cloud of
smoke the two men talked for a while. They were going


82 THE GRELL MYSTERY
on a mission that might very easily result in death.
No one would have guessed it from their talk, which,
after half an hour of quiet, business-like conversation,
drifted into desultory gossip and reminiscences.
"Sir Hilary wanted me to take a dozen men," said
Foyle. "I told him the two of us would be plenty."
"Quite enough, if we're to do anything," agreed
Green. "I wouldn't be out of it for a thousand. Poor
old Waverley and I have put in a lot of time together.
I guess I owe him my life, if it comes to that."
Foyle interjected a question. The chief inspector
lifted his cigar tenderly from his lips.
"It was in the old garrotting days," he said. "Wa-
verley and I were coming down the Tottenham Court
Road a bit after midnight—just off Seven Dials. There
were half-a-dozen men hanging about a corner, and
one of them tiptoed after us with a pitch plaster—
you'll remember they used to do the stuff up in sacking
and pull it over your mouth from behind. I never
noticed anything, but Waverley did. The man was just
about to throw the thing over me when Waverley
wheeled round and hit him clean across the face with a
light cane he was carrying. The chap was knocked in
the gutter and his pals came at us with a rush. A
hansom driver shouted to us to leave the man in the
roadway to him, and hanged if he didn't drive clean
over him with the near-side wheel. That gave us our
chance. We hopped into the cab and got away without
staying to see if any one was hurt. But if Waverley
hadn't hit out when he did I'd have been a goner."
"I had a funny thing happen to me once in the
Tottenham Court Road," said Foyle reminiscently. "I


THE GRELL MYSTERY 83
was an inspector then and big Bill Sladen was working
with me—he had a beautiful tenor voice, you will re-
member. We were after a couple of confidence men and
had a man we were towing about to identify them.
Well, we got 'em down to a saloon bar near the Oxford
Street end, but I daren't go in because they knew me.
It was a bitter cold night, with a cold wind and snow
and sleet. So I stayed on the opposite side of the road
and induced Bill to go over and sing ' I am but a Poor
Blind Boy,' in the hope that our birds would call him in
and give him a drink. He hadn't been at it five minutes
before a fiery, red-headed little potman had knocked
him head over heels in the gutter and told him to go
away. Bill could have broken the chap in two with his
little finger, but he daren't do anything. He came over
to me and I sent him back again. This time he did get
invited inside. And there he stayed for a full hour,
while the witness and I stood shivering and wet and
miserable in the snow. We could hear him laughing and
singing with the best of 'em. They wouldn't let him
come away. It was not until I took all risks and
marched in with the witness and arrested them that they
tumbled to the fact that he wasn't a real street singer."
He glanced at his watch. "You'd better go and have a
rest, Green. Meet me here at half-past twelve. We'll
take a taxi to Aldgate and walk up from there. And,
by the way, here's a pistol. I needn't tell you not to
use it unless you've got to."


CHAPTER XVI
A bittee wind was sweeping the Commercial Road,
Whitechapel, as the two detectives, each well muffled up,
descended from their cab and walked briskly eastwards.
Save for a slouching wayfarer or two, shambling un-
steadily along, and little groups gathered about the
all-night coffee-stalls, the roads were deserted. Neither
man had attempted any disguise. It was not necessary
now.
As they turned into Grave Street they automatically
walked in the centre of the roadway. There are some
places where it is not healthy to walk at night on
shadowed pavements. They moved without haste and
without loitering, as men who know exactly what they
have to do. From one of the darkened houses a woman's
shrill scream issued full of rage and terror. It was
followed by a man's loud, angry tones, the thud of
blows, shrieks, curses, and brutal laughter. Then the
silence dropped over everything again. The two men
had apparently paid no heed. Even had they been
inclined to play the part of knights-errant in what was
not an uncommon episode in Grave Street, they knew
that the woman who had been chastised would probably
have been the first to turn on them.
There was a side entrance to 404a, which was the
newspaper shop that Foyle had cause to remember. He
struck the grimy panel sharply with his fist and waited.
There was no reply. Again he knocked, and Green,
84


THE GRELL MYSTERY 85
unbuttoning his greatcoat, flung it off and laid it
across his arm. He could drop it easily in case of an
emergency. Still there was no answer to the knock.
"Luckily I swore out a search warrant," muttered
Foyle, and searched in his own pockets for something.
It was a jemmy of finely tempered steel gracefully
curved at one end. He inserted it in a crevice of the
door and, leaning his weight upon it, obtained an
irresistible leverage. There was a slight crack, and it
swung inwards as the screws of the hasp drew. The
two men stepped within and, closing the door, stood
absolutely still for a matter of ten minutes. Not a
sound betrayed that their burglarious entry had
alarmed any one.
Presently Green made a movement, and a vivid shaft
of light from a pocket electric lamp played along the
narrow uncarpeted passage. The superintendent
gripped his jemmy tightly and turned towards the
dirty stairs. Then the light vanished as quickly as it
had flared up, and from above there came a sound of
shuffling footsteps. Even Heldon Foyle, whom no one
would have accused of nervousness, felt his heart beat
a trifle more quickly. He knew that if he were as near
the heart of the mystery as he believed any second
might see shooting. Penned as he and his companion
were in the narrow space of the passage barely three
feet wide, a shot fired from above could scarcely miss.
Crouching low, he sprang up the narrow staircase in
three bounds, making scarcely a sound. On the landing
above he wound his arms tightly about the person whose
movements he had heard and whispered a quick, tense
command.


86 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"Not a word, or it will be the worse for you. Let's
have a light, Green."
The prisoner kept very still, and Green flashed a
light on his face. It was that of a man of forty or
so, with pronounced Hebrew features. His greasy
black hair was tangled in coarse curls, and a smooth
black moustache ran across his upper lip. A pair of
shifty eyes were fixed fearfully on Foyle, and the man
murmured something in a guttural tongue.
"We are police officers. How many people are there
in this house?" demanded Foyle sternly, in a low
voice. "You may as well answer in English. Quietly,
now."
He had released his hold round the Jew's waist, but
stood with the jemmy dangling by his side and with
ears cocked ready for any sound. Green had climbed
the stairs and stood by his side.
Domiciliary visits are unfrequent in England, but
the Jew was not certain enough to stand upon a legal
technicality. As a matter of fact, the search warrant
would have met the difficulty. He cringed before the
two men, whose faces he could not see, for Green had
thrown his wedge of light so that it showed up the man's
sallow face and left all else in darkness.
"I do not know why you have come," he answered,
forming each word precisely. "I have done nothing
wrong. I am an honest newsagent. There is only my *
wife, daughter, son, lodger in house."
"You are a receiver of stolen goods," answered
Foyle, something, it must be confessed, at a venture.
"Don't trouble to deny it, Mr. Israels. We're not
after you this time—not if you treat us fairly. What


THE GRELL MYSTERY 87
about this lodger of yours? Have you bought him a
typewriter lately?"
"Yes—yes. I help you all I can," protested the
Jew, with an eagerness that deceived neither of the
detectives. There is no class of liar so abysmal as
the East-end criminal Jew. They will hold to a glib
falsehood with a temerity that nothing can shake. If
there is no necessity to lie, they lie—for practice, it is
to be presumed. The best way to extract a truth is to
make a direct assertion by the light of apparent knowl-
edge and so sometimes obtain assent. Foyle knew the
idiosyncrasies of the breed. Hence the threat in his
demand.
"I bought a typewriter—yes," went on Israels. "I
think he was honest. Didn't seem as though police
after him."
"Which room is he in?"
Israels jerked a thumb upwards. "Next landing.
Door on left," he ejaculated nervously.
The superintendent pushed by the man. He knew
that the critical moment had come. With his quick
judgment of men he had summed up Mr. Israels. What-
ever the Jew's morals, it was evident that he had a
wholesome respect for his own oily skin. He would
not risk himself to save the neck of another man.
Foyle's intentions were simple. He would steal quietly
up the second flight of stairs, burst the door open if
it were locked, and seize the man he was in search of
in his sleep. But his plans were frustrated.
He had not taken two steps when a woman peeped
from an adjoining room. He caught one glimpse of
her in the semi-darkness with a police whistle at her


'88
THE GRELL MYSTERY
lips. He sprang forward, and as he did so a shrill,
ear-piercing blast rang out. Green was close behind
him.
She shrieked as the detective tore the whistle from
her, and he felt her slender figure entwine itself about
him. Down he went, with his companion on top of
him, and another woman's loud hysterical cries added
to the pandemonium. Foyle picked himself up and,
lifting the girl bodily, flung her without ceremony into
the room from which she had emerged. From above
a voice shouted something, and a knife whizzed down-
wards and struck quivering in the bare boards of the
landing, grazing Green's shoulders.
All need for caution was gone now. Foyle had
dropped his jemmy and his hand closed over his pistol.
Only as a last resource would he use it, but if he had
towell, there could be no harm in having it handy.
A door slammed as the two detectives climbed the
second flight of stairs. Green flung himself against
the one that had been indicated by Israels, and the
Alimsy fastening gave way under the shock of his
thirteen stone. There was no one in the room. Sav-
agely Heldon Foyle turned and caught the handle of a
second door. It turned, and they entered the room,
empty like the first, but with an open window looking
out on a series of low roofs a dozen feet below. And
over the roofs a shadowy figure of a man was clamber-
ing hurriedly. He could only dimly be seen. ..
Green clambered through on to the window-sill and
dropped. He was unlucky. A projecting piece of
wood caught his foot, and he staggered and lost time.
Before he had recovered himself the fugitive was out


THE GRELL MYSTERY
89
of sight, and the sound of his progress had ceased.
Foyle called to him to come back and, without waiting
to see whether his orders were obeyed, made his way
back again to the first-floor landing. Israels was still
there, very white and shaky, as the superintendent
struck a match.
“ Where's that girl?” said the detective curtly.
“ The one who gave the alarm.”
“My daughter? She thought you were burglars.
She didn't know."
" Where is she? ”
Without waiting for a reply he entered the room:
whence she had emerged and, striking another match,
applied it to a gas-bracket. A fat woman was sitting
up in bed looking at him timorously. He paid no heed
to her, but stooped to look under the bed. When he
straightened himself Green had rejoined him.
“ The girl gave us away,” exclaimed Foyle. “Here,
you, where is she gone?” He shook the woman roughly
by the shoulder. “Go to the bottom of the stairs,
Green, and see that no one slips in or out. Take that
chap outside down with you."
“My daughter? ” exclaimed the woman helplessly.
“ She has gone to stay with her aunt. We are re-
spectable people. You frightened her. We don't like
the police coming here."
“Highly respectable," repeated Foyle under his
breath. Aloud he said menacingly, “We shall soon
know whether you are respectable. Where does the
girl's aunt live? ”
“Twenty-two Shadwell Lane," was the reply, glib
and prompt.


90
THE GRELL MYSTERY
Foyle looked for an instant penetratingly at her.
Her eyes dropped. His hand went to his pocket and
he calmly lighted a cigar. Then he went downstairs
to where Green was on guard and politely apologised
to Israels. Casually he repeated the question he had
put to the woman. Yes, the Jew had seen his daughter
go out. She said she was going to her aunt. Her
aunt lived at 48 Sussex Street.
"I see," said the superintendent quietly. "The fact
is, of course, that she is not your daughter, and that
she has not gone to her aunt's. You are in an awk-
ward corner, my man," he went on, changing his tone
and moving a step nearer. "Better tell us the truth.
Your wife has let me know something."
As if mechanically, he was dangling a pair of shiny
steel handcuffs in his fingers. Handcuffs seldom
formed a part of his equipment, but^p-night he had
carried them with him on the off-chance that he might
have to use them. The Jew shrank away, but the
sight had proved effective.
"I'll tell all the truth," he whined, with an outspread-
ing gesture of his hands. "I've done no wrong. You
can't hurt me. She came here a day or two ago and
paid five pounds for a week's lodging. I was to tell
any one who inquired that she was my daughter. She
slept with my wife. What harm was there? I am
poor. Five pounds isn't picked up like that every day.
The man came afterwards. He said he was a journal-
ist and asked me to buy him a typewriting machine.
I asked no questions. Why should I?"
His manner was that of a much-injured man. Foyle
cut him short now and again as he rambled on with a


THE GRELL MYSTERY : 91
question. In half an hour he felt that he had extracted
a fair amount of truth, mingled though it was with
cunning lies. He guessed now that the woman whom
he had vaguely seen was she whose part in the mystery
of the house in Grosvenor Gardens had always been
shadowy and vague. She could be none other than
Lola Rachael, little Lola of Vienna, otherwise the
Princess Petrovska.


CHAPTER XVII
Theae was nothing more to be done at Grave Street.
Heldon Foyle remained in the house while Green
walkld to the chief divisional station, and in an hour
or two the divisional inspector with a couple of men
arrived. Then Foyle saw to a strict search of the
house from top to bottom. Nothing there was that
seemed to possess any great importance as bearing on
the case. The man who had fled over the roof had used
a single room, apparently as bed- and sitting-room,
so it was to this place that the detectives devoted chief
attention.
"He must have been sleeping in his clothes,"
grumbled Green. "He hadn't time to dress. There's
the typewriter the note was written on."
He sat down before a rickety table and, inserting a
piece of paper in the machine, slowly tapped out the
alphabet, and after a brief inspection passed the paper
on to the superintendent, who scanned it casually, and
was about to throw it away when something gripped
his attention.
"This looks queer," he muttered, and held the paper
up slantingly away from the gas-jet in order to ex-
amine it by what photographers call transmitted light.
His brows were drawn together tightly. The sheet
of paper which Green had used was an ordinary piece of
writing-paper. On its rough surface Foyle had noted
a slight sheen, unusual enough to attract his attention.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 98
Even he would not have noticed it but for the angle
in which he had happened first to look at it when he
took it from Green. It might be an accidental fault in
the manufacture of the paper. Yet, trivial as it seemed,
it was unusual, and one of the chief assets in detective
work is not to let the unusual go unexplained.
"It's the same typewriter. There can be no ques-
tion of that," said Green. "You can see that the 'b' ,
is knocked about and the ' o' is out of line."
"That's all right," said Foyle. "I wasn't thinking
of that. It looks to me as if there's some sympathetic
writing on this."
He held the paper so that the heat from the gas-jet
warmed it. Every moment he expected that the heat
would bring something to light on the paper. He gave
a petulant exclamation as nothing happened, and his
eyes roved over the table whence Green had taken the
paper. He believed that he was not mistaken, that there
was something written which could be brought to light
if he knew how. He knew that there were chemicals
that could be used for secret communications which
could only be revealed by the use of other chemicals—
a process something akin to development in photog-
raphy. It was unlikely, if the user of the room had
used some chemical agent, that he would have thought
of destroying and concealing it. But there was nothing
on the table that suggested itself to Foyle as having
been used in the connection. Keenly he scrutinised the
room, his well-manicured hand caressing his chin.
"Ah!" he exclaimed at last. He had noted a small
bottle of gum arabic standing on the cast-iron mantel-
piece.


94 THE GRELL MYSTERY
Now, gum arabic can be used for a variety of pur-
poses, and it has the merit of invisible ink of being made
decipherable by quite a simple process which minimises
the risk of accidental disclosure. The superintendent
held the paper to the gas again for a few minutes.
Then from a corner of the room he collected a handful
of dust—no difficult process, for it was long since the
place had felt the purifying influence of a broom—
and rubbed it hard on the rough surface of the paper.
A jumble of letters stood out greyly on the surface.
He looked at them hard, and Green, peeping over his
shoulder, frowned.
"Cipher! ". he exclaimed.
It was undoubtedly cipher, but whether a simple or
abstruse one Foyle was in no position to judge. He
had an elementary knowledge of the subject, but he
had no intention of attempting to solve it by himself.
There were always experts to whom appeal could be
made. A successful detective, like a successful journal-
ist, is a man who knows the value of specialists—who
knows where to go for the information he wants. That
meaningless jumble of letters could only be juggled
into sense by an expert. Foyle nevertheless scrutinised
them closely, more as a matter of habit than of reading
anything from them. They were—
ujqW; bjnt. fj. ujm. fjtv. uiyiql. sk.
dquqzokkeyjpk. anuj. m.q. ng. n. ayuqn-
qix. igz. anuj. sio. igz. smppn. rt. 12845
HGZVFSF.
"We'll let Jones have a go at that," he said. "Any-
thing else now?"


THE GRELL MYSTERY 95
Some one handed him the knife that had been thrown
at him on the landing and a curious leather sheath that
had been picked up near the bed. From the bottom
of the sheath depended a leather tassel. Foyle looked
it over and failed to discover any manufacturer's name.
He slipped the weapon into his pocket with the mental
reflection that it looked Greek. The search went on
from attic to cellar, and profuse notes were taken of
everything found, with its exact position. The elabo-
rate trouble taken by these men to describe minutely
in writing every little thing would have seemed absurd
to any one not versed in the ways of the Criminal
Investigation Department. Yet nothing was done that
was not necessary. An error of an inch in a measure-
ment might make all the difference when the case came
on for trial.
Foyle and Green left the house in charge of the
divisional man. Already a description had been cir-
culated of the man they had failed to surprise; but
as neither had caught more than a glimpse of a shadowy
figure in the darkness, they had had to rely on the
descriptions given by Israels and his wife. And even
if that estimable pair had really tried honestly to give
a fair description of the man—which the detectives
thought was extremely doubtful—there could be little
hope that it was accurate. If the average man tries to
describe the appearance of his most intimate friend and
then asks a stranger to identify him, he will realise how
misleading such descriptions may be even at the best
of times. Yet the Criminal Investigation Department
had to work with such material as they had.
Heldon Foyle was very silent as they trudged side


96 THE GRELL MYSTERY
by side out of Whitechapel into the silent City streets
—for there are no taxicabs to be found in the East
End at such hours. The case was developing; but
though he was beginning to have a hazy glimpse into
some of its workings, there was much that remained
a mystery to him. His questionings of Israels had
satisfied him that the man who had escaped was neither
Grell nor Ivan. He could not blame himself for not
effecting an arrest. Looking back over the night's
events, he could not see that he could have taken
further precaution. If he had taken more men the
escape would have occurred just the same over the
roofs, for he would still have felt it his duty to question
Israels. He could not have foreseen that the ready-
witted Lola was there, nor that she should have so
ingeniously given the alarm. The luck had been against
him.
Nevertheless he had gained an important fact. Lola
was in London and was obviously acting in concert
with Grell. It was easier to look for two persons than
one. Sooner or later he would lay hands on them and
solve the mystery of the murder. He clenched his
fists resolutely as his thoughts carried him away.
Meanwhile there was the cipher. If that could be
de-coded it might be valuable.
Green's voice broke in upon his thoughts.
"We didn't find anything bearing on Waverley."
"Waverley?" repeated Foyle. "Oh yes, I had al-
most forgotten him."
For an hour after they had reached Scotland Yard
the superintendent laboured at his desk, collecting re-
ports and writing fresh chapters in the book which


THE GRELL MYSTERY 97
held all the facts in relation to the crime, so far as he
knew them. He slipped the result of his labours at
last in an envelope and left them over to be dealt with
by the inspector in charge of the Registry, which is a
department that serves as official memory to Scotland
Yard.
"That is all right," he said, and stretched himself.
Some one knocked at the door. The handle turned
and an erect man with his right arm carried in a black
silk handkerchief improvised into a sling entered the
room. It was Detective-Inspector Waverley.
»


CHAPTER XVIII
Heldon Foyle was on his feet in a second, and he
pushed a chair towards his subordinate. Detective-
Inspector Waverley sat down and drummed nervously
on his knees with the fingers of his left hand.
"Well, you've got back," said the superintendent in
a non-committa1 tone. "We were beginning to wonder
what had happened to you. I hope that arm of yours
is not badly hurt. What has been the trouble?"
The inspector winced and sat bolt upright in his
chair.
"I guess I was to blame, sir," he said. "I fell into
a trap like a new-joined cabbage-boy. This man, Ivan
Abramovitch, must have known that he was followed
by a couple of us, so he threw off Taylor, who was
with me, very simply, by going into a big outfitter's
place in the City. I dodged round to a second entrance
and, sure enough, he came out there. I couldn't get
word to Taylor, so I picked him up, and a pretty
dance he led me through a maze of alleys up the side
of Petticoat Lane and round about by the Whitechapel
Road. You will know the sort of neighbourhood it is
there. Well, I suppose I must have got a bit careless,
for in taking a narrow twist in one of those alleys
some one dropped on me from behind. I hit out and
yelled, but I didn't get a second chance, for my head
was bumped hard down on the pavement and I went to
sleep for good and plenty. There were a couple of
98


THE GRELL MYSTERY 99
men in it, for I could hear 'em talking before I became
properly unconscious. They dragged me along, linking
their arms in mine, and we got into a cab. I guess the
driver thought I was drunk, and that they were my pals
helping me home.
"When I came round my head was bandaged up,
and I was in quite a decent little room, lying on a
couch, with Mr. Ivan Abramovitch sitting opposite to
me. I couldn't give a guess where it was, for the window
only looked out on a blank wall. I sat up, and he
grinned at me.
"' I am a police officer,' I said. 'How did I get
here?'
"' I brought you,' he says with a grin. 'You were
taking too great an interest in my doings for my
liking. Now I am going to take an interest in yours.'
"At that I jumped for him and got a knife through
my arm for my pains. After he'd sworn at me like a
trooper in English, French, and Russian for about ten
minutes he bandaged up the cut with his handkerchief,
and told me if I made any more fuss I was in for
trouble. Some one knocked at the door, but he ordered
them off.
"' You won't get away from here alive without per-
mission if I can help it,' he said; 'but if you do, you
won't be able to identify any one but myself. If you
take it coolly there'll be no harm come to you.'
"I tried to bluff a bit, but he just laughed. And
then I stayed with him in the same room up to within
an hour or two ago, when some one came into the house
and he was summoned outside the door. They had
an excited pow-wow, and I could hear a woman talking.


100
THE GRELL MYSTERY
Finally, the man came back and told me they'd deter-
mined to let me go. He put a handkerchief over my
eyes, and after a while I was taken down into what I
thought was a taxicab. I was turned out a quarter of
an hour ago at the Blackfriars end of the Embank-
ment."
Foyle was by now striding up and down the office,
his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets. He
paused long enough to blow down a speaking-tube and
put a quick question.
"What was the number of the cab?"
"It had no police number. Its index mark was A.A.
4796."
The superintendent drew from his pocket a little
black book, such as is carried by every police officer
in London. On the outside was inscribed in white
letters: "Metropolitan Police. Pocket Directory."
He turned over the pages until he found what he wanted.
A messenger had pushed open the door.
"Southampton registration," said the superintend-
ent. "Johns, get through on the 'phone to the South-
ampton police, and ask 'em to trace the owner of this
car the moment the county council offices open."
The messenger disappeared, and he turned on Wa-
verley.
"The number's probably a false one—a board slipped
over the real number, as they did in the Dalston case
when some American toughs went through that jeweller
a month or two back. We might as well look into it,
though. These people are wily customers, or they
wouldn't have kept you from seeing the rest of the
gang. They tried to frighten us by threatening to


THE GRELL MYSTERY
101
make away with you. I think it likely that they found
it rather a nuisance to look after you—especially when
Green and I tumbled on to some of their people an hour
ago. You haven't exactly covered yourself with glory,
Waverley, but under the circumstances I shall take
no disciplinary action. Now go and write out a full
report, and then go home. The police surgeon will
recommend what leave of absence you want to get over
the stab in the arm. Good night—or rather, good
morning."
"Thank you, sir. Good morning, sir."
Foyle never forgot discipline, which is as necessary,
or more necessary within limits, in a detective service
as in any other specialised business. To have sym-
pathised with Waverley would have been bad policy.
He had been made to feel that he had blundered in
some way, and the feeling with which he had entered
the room, that he was a martyr to duty, had vanished
in the conviction that he was simply a fool.
Foyle lit a cigar and fell into a reverie that lasted
perhaps ten minutes. He was glad that Waverley was
safe, but a little disgusted that he had failed to baffle
the precautions taken while he was a prisoner, and so
have learnt something that might have been of value in
the investigations. Presently he lifted the telephone
receiver and ordered a taxicab from the all-night rank
in Trafalgar Square. In a little while he was being
whirled homeward.
Not till midday next day did he arrive at the Yard.
A slip of paper was^Jying on his desk—the record of a
telephone message from the Southampton police. It
read—


102 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"Halford, Chief Constable, Southampton, to
Foyle, C.I.D., London.
"Car No. A.A. 4796 belongs to Mr. J. Price,
The Grange, Lyndhurst. Mr. Price is an old
resident in the neighbourhood and a man of means.
The car is a six-cylinder Napier."
"As I thought," commented Heldon Foyle thought-
fully, tearing the paper into little bits and dropping
them into the waste-paper basket. "The number was
a false one. They knew that Waverley would have a
look at the number. Oh, these people are cunning—
cunning."
Green found him, half an hour later, hard at work
with the collection of typewritten sheets which formed
the book of the case. Foyle was still juggling with
his jig-saw puzzle, trying to fit fresh facts in their
proper position to old facts.
"Well? " asked the superintendent abruptly.
Green read from a paper in his hand.
"Taylor, who is watching the Duke of Burghley's
House in Berkeley Square, has just telephoned that
a woman who corresponds to the description of Lola
Rachael has just been admitted and is still there."
Into Foyle's alert eyes there shot a gleam of interest.
"You don't say so?" he muttered. And then, more
alertly, "Is he still on the telephone? If so, tell him
to detain her should she come out before I can get
down. He must be as courteous as possible. We
mustn't lose her now. And send a man down at once
to bring Wills, the butler at Grosvenor Gardens, here.
He's the only man who saw the veiled woman enter the
house on the night of the murder."


CHAPTER XIX
ITkom behind the curtains of the sitting-room Eileen
Meredith could see two men occasionally pass and re-
pass the house. They did not go by often, but she knew
that even if she could not see them they always held the
house in view. They were not journalists—they were
more sedate, older men. Nor did they molest any one
who entered or left the house. They merely exercised
a quiet, unwearying, unobtrusive surveillance, and
Eileen knew that Heldon Foyle had taken his own way
of preventing her from seeing Sir Ralph Fairfield. She
felt certain that were she to leave the house the men
would follow her. She did not guess, however, that
Foyle had intended them to give her an opportunity
of discovering their presence. She would be the more
unlikely to persist in her rash resolve if she knew it
would be frustrated. Nor did she know that Fairfield
was equally closely watched in all his comings and
goings.
The hysterical outbreak that had been provoked by
the superintendent's penetration of her doings when
she had visited his office at Scotland Yard had been
followed by hours of almost complete collapse. To her
father enough had been told to make him hurriedly
summon a specialist. The doctor explained.
"I have known similar cases follow a great shock.
She is mentally unbalanced on one point. Unless any-
thing occurs to excite her in connection with that, time
103


104
THE GRELL MYSTERY
will effect a cure. She must not be opposed in her
wishes, and I would suggest that she be taken out of
London and an effort made to distract her. Plenty of
society, outdoor amusements—anything to occupy her
mind."
"I suggested that we should leave London," said
Lord Burghley gloomily. "She refuses."
"Then don't press her. Ask her friends to visit
her, and don't let her leave the house except with a
competent attendant."
So it was that Eileen found herself practically a
prisoner in her own home. She received the visitors
invited by her father at first with a mechanical courtesy,
but later on with an assumption of cheerfulness that
deceived her father and even to more extent the doctor.
She had begun to realise that she would never shake
off the vigilance which surrounded her until she had
convinced folk that she had regained her normal spirits.
Her capabilities as an actress, which had won for her
leading parts in many amateur plays, had never been
taxed so hardly. But then she had invariably been
cast for comedy. Now she felt she was playing trag-
edy. For night and day she never forgot. Always
there was one thought hammering at her brain.
She withdrew into the room as a neat little motor-
brougham halted at the door. In a little while Mrs.
Porter-Strangeways was announced. Reluctantly Eileen
condescended to welcome the portly, middle-aged dame
who was tacitly recognised as being the leader of Amer-
ican society in London. The girl smiled brightly as
the woman rose to greet her with both arms out-
stretched.


106 THE GRELL MYSTERY
cinated her. When the time came for leave-taking she
found herself giving a pressing invitation to the other
to call again. With a smile of satisfaction the Princess
promised.
They had not been gone a quarter of an hour when
the Princess was announced alone. Eileen, a little
astonished, received her questioningly.
"I had to see you alone," explained the older woman.
"I have something of importance to say to you—
that's why I made Mrs. Porter-Strangeways bring me.
I feared that you would not see me otherwise."
"To see me alone?" repeated Eileen, with the air
of one completely mystified. Then, as the other nodded
grimly, she closed the door of the room.
With a murmured " Pardon me " the Princess walked
across the room and turned the key. "It will be bet-
ter so," she said. "What I have to say must not be
overheard. The life of a—some one may depend on
secrecy."
Eileen had begun to wonder if her strange visitor
were mad. There was something, however, in her quiet,
methodical manner that forbade the assumption. The
Princess Petrovska had settled herself gracefully in a
great arm-chair.
"No, I am not mad." She answered the unspoken
question. "I am quite in my senses, I assure you. I
have come to you with a message from one you think
dead—from Robert Grell."
The room reeled before Eileen's eyes. She clutched
the mantelpiece with one hand to steady herself.
"From one I think dead!" she repeated. "Bob is
dead." She gripped the other woman fiercely by the


THE GRELL MYSTERY
107
shoulder and almost shook her in the intensity of her
emotion. “He is dead, I tell you. What do you
mean? I know he is dead. Do not lie to me. He is
dead.”
The Princess Petrovska glanced gravely up into the
strained features of the girl. Her own face was a mask.
“Calm yourself, Lady Eileen,” she said. “You
have been made the victim of a wicked deceit. He is
not dead-but a man wonderfully like him is. I have
come here at his request to relieve your mind.” She
dropped her voice to a whisper. “At the same time, he
is in grave danger, and you can help him."
The girl's hands dropped to her side, and she re-
garded her visitor helplessly. A new hope was beginning
to steal into her heart, but her reason was all on the
other side.
“He is dead,” she protested faintly. “Fairfield
killed him. Why should he hide if he is not dead? Why
should he not come here himself? Why should he send
you?"
“Don't be a fool,” retorted the other impatiently,
and the impertinence of the words had the effect in-
tended of bracing the half-fainting girl. “He does not
come because to do so would be madness-because if he
showed himself he would be at once arrested by Scot-
land Yard detectives. They believe him to be the mur-
derer of his double-a man named Goldenburg. There
is a note he gave me for you."
The letters danced before Eileen's eyes as she tore
open the thin envelope and held what was undoubtedly
Robert Grell's writing in her shaking hand. She was
startled as never before in her life save when she heard


108 THE GRELL MYSTERY
of the murder. Slowly she read, the words biting into
her brain—
"Deabest,—Forgive me for not letting you know
before that I am safe. I had no means of communicat-
ing with you with safety. The man who is dead was
killed by no wish of mine. Yet I dared not run the
risk of arrest. The bearer of this is an old friend of
mine who will herself be in peril by delivering this.
Trust her, and destroy this. She will tell you how to
keep in touch with me."
There was no signature. Mechanically Eileen tore
the letter in two and dropped the fragments on the
blazing fire. She felt the dark eyes of the Princess
upon her as she did so. A spasm of jealousy swept
across her at the thought that this woman should have
been trusted, should have had the privilege of helping
.Grell rather than herself. She strove to push it aside
as unworthy. He was alive. He was alive. The
thought was dominant in her mind. She could have
sung for very joy.
"Well?" asked the Princess.
"I don't understand," said Eileen wearily. "He
does not explain. There is nothing clear in the note
but that he is alive."
"He dare say no more. We—that is—he's succeeded
in evading the police so far. If by any chance that
letter had fallen into their hands, it would have told
them no more than they knew at present."
"Where is he?" demanded Eileen. "I must go to
him."


THE GRELL MYSTERY 109
"No, that will never do. You would be followed.
I will give any message for you. You can help, but
not in that way. He is in need of money. Have you
any of your own? Can you let him have, say, five
hundred pounds at once?"
The girl reflected a moment.
"There is my jewellery," she said at last. "He—
or you—can raise more than five hundred on that. Wait
a moment."
She left the room, and a smile flitted across the
grave face of the Princess. A few moments later she
returned with a little silver casket in her hands.
"And now," she said, "tell me what happened.
Who killed this man Goldenburg?"
The Princess Petrovska gave a dainty little shrug.
"Mr. Grell shall tell you that in his own fashion,"
she said. "Listen."
For ten minutes she talked rapidly, now and again
writing something on a slip of paper and showing
it to Eileen. The girl nodded in comprehension, occa-
sionally interjecting a question. At last the Princess
rose.
"You fully understand?" she said.
"I fully understand," echoed Eileen.


CHAPTER XX
Heldon Foyle had been prepared to take any risk
rather than allow the Princess Petrovska to escape him
again. There was nothing against her but suspicion.
It was for him to find evidence that might link her with
the crime. It is in such things that the detective of
actuality differs from the detective of fiction. The de-
tective of fiction acts on moral certainties which would
get the detective of real life into bad trouble. To
arrest the Princess was out of the question; even to de-
tain her might make matters awkward. Yet the super-
intendent had made up his mind to afford Wills the
butler a sight of her at all costs. If Wills identified
her it would be at least another link in the chain of
evidence that was being forged.
He carried the butler in a taxicab with him to the
nearest corner to the Duke of Burghley's house. A
well-groomed man sauntered up to them and shook
hands warmly with Foyle.
"She has not come out yet," he said.
"Good," exclaimed Foyle. "Come on, Wills. You
have a good look at this woman when she does come
out, and stoop down and tie your shoe-lace if she's
anything like the woman who visited Robert Grell on
the night of the murder. Be careful now. Don't make
any mistakes. If you identify her you'll probably have
to swear to her in court."
"But I never saw her face," complained Wills help-
110


THE GRELL MYSTERY
111
lessly. "I told you I was not certain I'd know her
again."
He was palpably nervous and unwilling to play the
prominent part that had been assigned to him. Foyle
laughed reassuringly.
"Never mind. You have a look at her, old chap.
You never know in these cases. You may remember
her when you see her. Every one walks differently,
and you may spot her by that. It won't do any harm
if you don't succeed."
He led Wills to a spot a few paces away from the
house, but out of view of any one looking from the
windows, and gave him instructions to remain where
he was. He himself returned to the corner where Tay-
lor, the detective-inspector who had greeted them when
they drove up, was waiting. The other end of that side
of the square was guarded by one of Taylor's assist-
ants. Lola was trapped—if Foyle wished her to be
trapped.
He beckoned to a uniformed constable who was pac-
ing the other side of the road. The man nodded—de-
tectives whatever their rank are never saluted—and
took up his position a few paces away.
They had not long to wait. A taxicab whizzed up
to the house, evidently summoned by telephone. Wills
was staring as though fascinated at the slim, erect
figure of the woman outlined on the steps of the house.
He half stooped, then straightened himself up again.
The superintendent muttered an oath under his breath
and nodded to the loitering policeman. The constable
immediately sprang into the roadway with arm out-
stretched, and the cab, which was just gathering way,


112
THE GRELL MYSTERY
was pulled up with a jerk. The blue uniform is more
useful in some cases than the inconspicuous mufti of
the C.I.D.
“ Get hold of Wills and bring him after us to Mal-
chester Row Police Station.” And, opening the door,
he stepped within as the driver dropped in the clutch.
The Princess had half risen and gave a little cry
of dismay at the intrusion. With grim, set face the
detective adjusted his tall form to the limits of the cab
and sat down beside her. His hand encircled her wrist,
and he forced her back to the seat.
“I shouldn't try to open the door if I were you,” he
said quietly. “You might fall out.”
The woman dropped back and did some quick think-
ing. She had no difficulty in guessing who Foyle was,
and she could scarcely have failed to see the staring
figure of the butler as she left the Duke of Burghley's
house. She fenced for time, doing the astonished, out-
raged, half-frightened innocent to perfection.
“What does this mean? How dare you molest me?'
Where are you taking me?”
The detective smiled easily as he answered in the
formal words of C.I.D. custom: “I am a police officer
-perhaps I needn't tell you that—and I am taking you
to Malchester Row Police Station.”
“To arrest me? You would dare? Do you know
I am the Princess Petrovska? There is some mistake.
I shall appeal to the Russian Ambassador. What do
you say I have done? I am a friend of Lady Eileen
Meredith, the daughter of the Duke of Burghley. She
will tell you I have only just left her. You are con-
fusing me with some one else."


THE GRELL MYSTERY 118
It was admirably done. The mixture of indignation
and haughtiness might have imposed upon some people,
and the threat of appeal to the Russian Ambassador
had been very adroit. Heldon Foyle merely nodded.
"This is not arrest," he replied. "It is not even
detention—unless you force me to it. I am inviting
you to accompany me to give an account of your move-
ments on the night that Harry Goldenburg was mur-
dered. I will call your bluff, Lola, and we will call at
the ambassador's if you like."
She made a gesture with one hand, as of a fencer
acknowledging a hit, and, turning her head, smiled
sweetly into his face. Nevertheless, in spite of every-
thing, she felt a little nervous. She had gone to see
Eileen with her eyes not fully open to the risk she ran.
Deftly used, newspapers have their uses. In supplying
the story of the murder to the pressmen, Foyle had
omitted all mention of the finding of the miniature.
The woman had not known that Scotland Yard had a
portrait of her, and had deemed it unlikely that she
would be recognised by the watchers of the house. Al-
though she had lived by her wits in many quarters of
the world, she had hitherto avoided trouble with the
police in England. She wondered how much Foyle
knew. It was evidently of no use trying to impress
him with the importance of her rank and connections.
Princesses are cheap in Russia.
"You are Mr. Heldon Foyle, of course," she said.
"I have heard that you are very clever. I don't see
what I can have had to do with the murder, even if I
am Lola Rachael—which I admit."
"We shall see. Can you prove where you were be-


114 THE GRELL MYSTERY
tween ten o'clock, when you left the Palatial Hotel, and
midnight on that date?"
She laughed merrily. "You are not so clever as I
thought," she exclaimed. "Do you think that I am a
murderess? I went straight to an hotel near Charing
Cross—the Splendid—and caught the nine o'clock boat
train to Paris. It is easily proved."
Foyle shifted to the seat opposite, so that he could
see her face more easily.
"Then you don't deny that you visited Grosvenor
Gardens that night, that you were admitted by Ivan
Abramovitch, Grell's valet, and taken to his study?"
"Of course I do," she retorted laughingly. " If that's
all you've got to go upon you may as well let me go
now."
"Very well. We shall see," he answered.
The cab stopped at Malchester Row Police Station.


CHAPTER XXI
To the constable who opened the cab door Foyle gave
quick instructions in a low voice. The Princess
Petrovska found herself ushered into a plainly furnished
waiting room, decorated with half-a-dozen photographic
enlargements of the portraits of high police officials and
a photogravure of "Her Majesty the Baby." There
the policeman left her.
Foyle came to her a moment later. His couple of
questions to the cabman as he paid him had not been
fruitful. He had been ordered by the lady to drive to
Waterloo Station. It was a fairly obvious ruse, which
would have had the effect of effectually confusing her
trail, for from there she might have taken train, tube,
omnibus, tram, or cab again to about any point in
London.
"I am sorry," he apologised. "We shall have to
keep you here for an hour or two while your statements
are verified."
"I don't mind," she countered lightly. "It will be
an amusing experience. I have never seen a police
station before. Perhaps you would like to show me
over while we're waiting, Mr. Foyle."
The superintendent was admiring her confidence a
little ruefully. A pleasant-faced, buxom woman tapped
at the door, and Lola eyed her with misgivings. Foyle's
blue eyes were fixed on her face.
"I am afraid I must deny myself that pleasure," he
115


116 THE GRELL MYSTERY
said suavely. "There are other matters which will take
up our time. First, I shall be obliged if you will let
the matron here search you."
The nonchalance of the Princess Petrovska had dis-
appeared in a flash, and Foyle noted her quick change
of countenance. She had recollected she was carrying
Lady Eileen Meredith's jewels. They would inevitably
be found if she were searched. She was not so much
worried by what explanation she could give as to what
would be the result of a questioning of Eileen. Angrily
defiant, she was on her feet in a flash.
"You have no right to search me. I am not under
arrest," she declared.
Foyle knew she was right. What he was doing was
flagrantly unlawful unless he charged her with some
offence. Yet there are times when it is necessary for
a police officer to put a blind eye to the telescope and
to do technically illegal things in order that justice may
not be defeated. This he felt was one of the occasions.
He ignored her protestations and left the room, closing
the door after him. For a brief moment the woman
forgot the breeding of the Princess Petrovska in the
fiery passion of Lola the dancer. But if she meditated
resistance, a second's reflection convinced her that it
would be futile. The matron, for all her good-tempered
face, was well developed muscularly, and did not seem
the kind of woman to be trifled with. The Prin-
cess submitted with as good a grace as she could
muster.
As the woman drew forth the casket of jewels Lola
made one false move. She laid a slim-gloved hand on
her arm.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 117
"If you want to earn ten pounds you will give me
that back," she said softly.
The matron shook her head with so resolute an ex-
pression that the word "twenty," which trembled on
the Princess Petrovska's lips, was never uttered.
Gathering in her hands the articles she had found, she
stepped outside. In three minutes her place was taken
by Foyle. He quietly returned to her everything but
the jewel case. This he held between his fingers.
"Where did you get this?" he demanded. His
voice was keyed to the stern, official tone he knew so
well how to assume.
She gripped the side of a chair tightly.
"What is that to do with you? It is mine. Give
it to me."
"Not unless you can prove it is yours. If you do
not, I shall charge you with being in possession of
property suspected to be stolen."
She bit her lips until the blood came. Her face had
become very pale. If the threat were meant seriously
—and she could see no reason why it should not be—
she was in an awkward predicament. Ordinarily she
had ready resource, a fertile genius for invention. Now
her wits seemed to have deserted her. Cudgel her
brains as she would, she could see no way out of the
difficulty. To boldly state that the jewels had been
entrusted to her by Eileen would involve opening up a
fresh line of inquiry for the C.I.D. men that might have
disastrous results. Nor was there any person who
might bear out a story invented on the spur of the
moment.
"Well?" He spoke coldly.


118
THE GRELL MYSTERY
"I refuse to tell you where I got them," she retorted.
"You must do as you like."
"Then it is my duty to warn you that anything you
say may be used in evidence against you. You will be
charged." He opened the door and cried down the
corridor, "Reserve!" To the constable who answered
he indicated the Princess by a nod. "Take this woman
to the detention room. She will be paraded for identi-
fication in half an hour."
The detention room of a London police station is a
compromise between the comparative luxury of a wait-
ing-room and the harshness of a cell. Like a waiting-
room it is 'furnished with chairs and tables, and like a
cell its door is provided with a strong, self-acting lock.
The Princess Petrovska gritted her teeth viciously as
she was left alone, and paid no heed to the magazines
and papers left on the table—a consideration for visit-
ors that had not been discernible in the waiting-room.
Meanwhile, Foyle had set every available man of
the divisional detachment of the C.I.D. busily at work.
A couple had been sent to verify the account given
by the woman of her movements on the night when
the murder occurred. The remainder had been sent to
bring in a score of women, the wives and daughters of
inspectors and other senior officers.
Detective-Inspector Taylor had turned up with
Wills, who was informed of the part he had to play.
"You say you couldn't recognise the woman who
came out of Lord Burghley's house. Now we're going
to give you another try. We don't want you to pick
any one out unless you're absolutely sure. Mind that."
Some of the women who had been fetched in by the


THE GRELL MYSTERY 119
detectives were rejected by Foyle as being too unlike
the Princess. He intended the identification test to be
as fair as possible. The ten who finally took their
places in the high-pitched charge room were as nearly
like the Princess in build and dress as could be managed
from the choice afforded. They stood in a row on the
opposite side of the room from the steel-railed dock
and the high desk. Then Lola was brought in. Her
head was held high, and her lips curled superciliously
as she took in the arrangements.
"Please choose a position among these ladies," said
Foyle urbanely. "You may stand anywhere you like."
There was an angry glitter in her dark eyes as she
obeyed. She was not the sort of woman to risk a
scene uselessly. Then Wills was brought in. Foyle put
a formal question to him.
"Have you seen any of these ladies before? Don't
be in a hurry to answer. Walk down the line and take
a good look at each."
Wills slowly carried out his instructions. As he
reached the last woman he shook his head. Lola's eyes
caught those of Foyle with a glance of malicious tri-
umph. But the superintendent was not done yet.
"Walk round the room, if you please, ladies—from
left to right. No, a little quicker. Now,'Wills, see if
you can recognise any of them by their walk."
Three times they made the circuit of the room, while
the butler darted nervous glances from one to the
other.
"It's no good, sir," he confessed at last. "I don't
know any of 'em."
To Foyle the result was not unexpected. He had
f


120 THE GRELL MYSTERY
adopted the expedient as a forlorn chance of linking
up the Princess with the crime. Now it had failed, he
intended to try other measures. He dismissed Wills
and the women with a nod of caution not to speak of
the formality they had witnessed, and at a nod from
him a uniformed inspector stood up by the high desk
pen in hand.
"Do you charge this woman, Mr. Foyle?" he asked.
Taylor had ranged up against her, and almost uncon-
sciously she found herself standing by the desk facing
the officer.
She searched the superintendent's inflexible face to
see if it gave any sign of relenting. Foyle was calm,
inscrutable, business-like. That was what had struck
her from the moment she entered the police station—
the cool, business-like fashion in which these men had
dealt with the situation. There were no histrionics.
They might have been clerks engaged in some monot-
onous work for all the emotion they evinced. They
treated her as impersonally as though she was a bale
of goods about which there was some dispute.
She was not a person easily daunted, but the atmos-
phere chilled her.
She reflected quickly that her refusal to explain the
possession of • the jewels was playing into Heldon
Foyle's hands. He would guess that they were Eileen
Meredith's—in any case, she could not stop him from
seeing and questioning the girl. What advantage would
it be to be placed under lock and key? Before the
superintendent could reply she had made up her mind.
"One moment. I can explain how I got the jewels
if I can see Mr. Foyle alone."


THE GRELL MYSTERY 1*1
The inspector looked hesitatingly at the superin-
tendent, who was stroking his chin with his hand. Foyle
murmured an assent and led the way back to the deten-
tion room. The woman swung round to him quickly
once they were alone.
"Those jewels were entrusted to me for a particular
purpose by Lady Eileen Meredith," she said peremp-
torily. "That is all you have any right to know. You
can easily ring her up and ask her. Do it at once and
let me go."
"Very well,"1 he said imperturbably. "I shall keep
you here until I have done so."
But it was not to Berkeley Square that he telephoned
from the privacy of the divisional C.I.D. offices. It was
to Scotland Yard. Within five minutes Chief Inspector
Green was setting out from the great red-brick building
to see, first, the Duke of Burghley and, secondly, Lady
Eileen Meredith. A full hour passed away, and Foyle
received the result of the inquiries into Petrovska's
movements. Her alibi was complete. In every par-
ticular her story of her movements had proved right.
Green, arriving at the police station with an agitated
and puzzled nobleman and his solicitor, saw his chief
for a few moments alone.
"She admits having handed over the jewels to Lola,
but she won't say a word beyond that," he Laid. "She's
as obstinate as a mule. I have told the Duke something
of where we stand, and he has agreed to take the gems
back without letting her know. It was a tough job,
but I got him to see at last that the girl might be
implicating herself. He says he's never heard of
Petrovska."


122 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"H'm." Foyle rubbed his chin vigorously. "I'll
have a talk with the old boy. See if you can get the
Public Carriage Office to borrow us a taxicab, and get
Poole to drive it slowly up and down this street. If
she hails it when she goes out, well and good. If not,
Bolt and you had better follow her, and the cab will
come after you so that you can use it in emer-
gency."
Green had done his work with the Duke and the
lawyer with tact. Foyle found his interview with them
confined to evading questions that he had no wish to
answer. He dismissed them at last with the jewels in
the custody of the man of the law. Then he went
straight to his prisoner.
"You can go," he said abruptly. "I shall ask you to
be very careful, however, Princess. If you are wise you
will leave England at once."
"Why?" she asked, opening her blue eyes wide and
gazing at him with blank astonishment.
His voice became silky.
"Because, my dear lady," he said, " I feel that your
career in England may not be altogether without re-
proach. I shall try to find out a little more about
it, and if I get a chance, I warn you frankly, I shall
have you taken into custody. You are too mischievous
to be allowed to run around loose."
Her red lips parted in a scornful smile.
"Oh, you make me tired," she retorted. "Good-bye,
Mr. Foyle."
"Pardon me," he said, and thrusting a couple of
fingers into his waistcoat pocket, fished out a piece of
paper. "Do you know this writing?"


THE GRELL MYSTERY . 123
She handed the piece of paper back to him with a
shake of the head.
"No. I never saw it before," she retorted, and
passed out.
But Heldon Foyle had her finger-prints.


CHAPTER XXII
Sir Hilary Thornton lifted his coat-tails to the cheer-
ful blaze as he stood with his back to the fireplace.
Heldon Foyle, with the book which he was giving his
nights and days to compiling on the desk in front of
him, sat bolt upright in his chair talking swiftly. He
was giving an account of the progress of the investiga-
tion. Now and again he ran a well-manicured finger
down the type-written index and turned the pages over
quickly to refer to a statement, a plan, or a photo-
graph. Or he would lift one of the speaking-tubes be-
hind his desk and send for some man who had been
charged with some inquiry, to question him on his
report.
"These youngsters are all the same," he complained
querulously. "They will put flowers into their reports.
It is always a beast of a job to make 'em understand
that we want a fact plain and prompt. They can do
it all right in the witness-box, but when they get a pen
in their hand they fancy they're budding Shakespeares.
The old hands know better."
He passed from this outburst to particulars of what
had happened. The Assistant Commissioner listened
gravely, now and again interpolating a question or a
suggestion. Foyle rapidly ran over the case, empha-
sising his points with a tap of his finger on the pile of
papers.
"We're progressing a little, though not so fast as
124


THE GRELL MYSTERY
125
I'd like. We know that Grell is alive, that he is in
touch with Ivan Abramovitch and Lola Rachael—or
the Princess Petrovska, as she calls herself. There is at
least one other man in it—probably more. It's fairly
certain that Grell knows who killed Harry Goldenburg
even if he didn't do it himself. Goldenburg was ap-
parently dressed in Grell's clothes before he was killed.
It is clear now that the clothes were his own with Grell's
belongings put in the pockets. A Mexican dagger was
used. That may be or may not be of importance.
Grell has travelled in Mexico. We have eliminated
Ivan and Sir Ralph Fairfield as the actual murderers.
Nor do the Princess Petrovska's finger-prints agree. I
had Bolt take the finger-prints of all the servants in
the house, so that we are sure that none of them actually
committed the crime. All this narrows the investiga-
tion. If we find Grell we are in a fair way to finding
the author of the murder."
Sir Hilary Thornton stroked his moustache doubt-
fully.
"That's all very well, Foyle, but Mr. Grell is hardly
the sort of man to commit murder. I gather that your
suspicions point to him. Besides, where is the motive?"
"Every man is the sort of man to commit murder,"
retorted the superintendent quickly. "You can't class
assassins. All murders must be looked upon as prob-
lems in psychology. Mind you, I don't say that Grell
did have a hand in this murder. I am merely summing
up the cold facts. Why should he disappear? Why
should he mix himself up with the shady crew he is with
—people who have twice tried to murder me, and who
knocked out and kidnapped Waverley? If we find him,


126
THE GRELL MYSTERY
we shall find the murderer. That's why I wanted the
description of Goldenburg sent out. It makes work—
I've got two men out of town now working on state-
ments made at Plymouth and Nottingham, which I
feel sure will have no result, but it gives us a sporting
chance to nail him if he tries to leave the country. An-
other line we're looking after is money. He's failed
with Fairfield. Lola had a try with Lady Eileen Mere-
dith, . who handed over her jewels. We stepped in,
bagged 'em, and gave 'em back to the Duke of Burghley.
All this means he'll have to make some desperate try for
cash soon."
"In fact it's check," commented Sir Hilary, who was
something of a chess-player. "Now you're manoeuv-
ring for checkmate."
"Precisely," said Foyle. "I've been trying, too, to
get hold of something about Goldenburg. Neither we
nor the American police have yet been able to connect
him up with Grell. We're still trying, though. Sooner
or later we shall get hold of something. And there's
Lola. If we could have got Wills to identify her as
the veiled woman, we should have had a very good
excuse for arresting her in spite of her alibi. She's
the sort of woman who would prepare an alibi. We've
not got any proof that she knew Goldenburg. That's
our great difficulty now—to link up the various persons
and find how they've been associated with each other
before. There's one thing, sir. I've managed to get
the inquest adjourned for a month, so we shan't have
to make any premature disclosures in evidence. The
newspapers are still hanging about. They got wind
that something was happening at Malchester Row, and


THE GRELL MYSTERY
127
there were a dozen or more men waiting for me when
I came out. I told 'em that we'd been trying to identify
a woman and had failed. They'd have known that any-
way. They promised to be discreet. They're good
chaps. It isn't like the old days. There was one man-
Winters his name was—who came up to the Yard to see
me once. He was told I was at Vine Street. He went
down there and was told I hadn't been there.
6. Here's a piece of luck,' he says to himself, and
went back to his office. There he wrote up a couple
of columns telling how the whole of the C.I.D. had
lost trace of me. I came out of Bow Street, where I'd
been giving evidence in a case, to see a big contents-bill
staring me in the face
FAMOUS
DETECTIVE
VANISHES
“ Before I could buy a paper, another newspaper
chap comes along. He stared at me as if I was a
ghost.
“Hello!' he says. "Don't you know you're lost?
Every pressman in London is looking for you.'
6 6 Am I?' says I. "How?'
“ Then it all came out. Since then I have been very
careful in dealing with newspaper men."
Sir Hilary laughed and nodded. “Is there anything
more?” he asked.
“ Yes.” Foyle had grown grave once more. “I
handed over the cipher that we found at Grave Street
to Jones, to see if he could make anything out of it.


128 THE GRELL MYSTERY
He's an expert at these kind of puzzles. Well, he's
just reported that the thing is simple as it stands
though in other circumstances it might be difficult. The
translation runs—
"This will be the best method of communicating with
E. M. if L. supplies her with key. Her 'phone number
12845 Gerrard."


CHAPTER XXIII
TJnuess a case is elucidated within a day or two of the
commission of an offence the first hot pursuit resolves
itself into a dogged, wearisome but untiring watchful-
ness on the part of the C.I.D. A case is never aban-
doned while there remains a chance, however slight, of
running a criminal to earth. And even when the de-
tectives, like hounds baffled at a scent, are called off,
there remains the gambler's element of luck. Even if
the man who had original charge of the case should be
dead when some new element re-opens an inquiry, the
result of his work is always available, stored away in the
Registry at Scotland Yard. There are statements, re-
ports, conclusions—the case complete up to the moment
he left it. The precaution is a useful one. A death-bed
confession may implicate confederates, accomplices may
quarrel, a jealous woman may give information. There
have been unsolved mysteries, but no man may say
when a crime is unsolvable.
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 subter-
ranean ways. The commonplaces of crime were effec-
tively looked after. Murders are the exception in
criminal investigation work, and while other crimes
may be dealt with by certain predetermined if elastic
139


130 THE GRELL MYSTERY
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
any one 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;


THE GRELL MYSTERY 181
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, Fair-
field 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.


132 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"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 Fair-
field. 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 state-


THE GRELL MYSTERY 183
ment 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 con-
fidence. 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 in-
vestigation, 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 Com-
missioner 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


134
,THE GRELL MYSTERY
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 un-
commonly 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


THE GRELL MYSTERY 135
to Teturn a verdict of murder against him. If he is not
guilty, his best chance is for us to find him. Under-
stand 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 un-
finished investigation to another person, and that per-
son 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 conceal-
ment 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.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 137
even in the absence of a " stall," it was worth chancing.
And then Foyle got on and spoilt it all. If any one
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 bring-
ing off. Fred, immaculately clad, and with irreproach-
able 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 precau-
tion 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


138
tTHE GRELL MYSTERY
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 noth-
ing 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 cheerful-
ness 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"


THE GRELL MYSTERY
139
"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 any one 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 b^ 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


140 THE GRELL MYSTERY
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.
4Po the surprise and disgust of the rest of the " mob,"
Freddy early relinquished the evening's expedition, al-
though his deft fingers had captured no more than a
silver watch (hung decepljvely 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 ex-
pressed 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 dangerously. 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 to-night, and I'm going to give it a rest. So


142
THE GRELL MYSTERY
maid 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' in-
genuity. Nor was he above working side-lines if they
promised profit, and in that respect, at least, he re-
sembled 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.
"Funny thing you should speak about that," com-
mented 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


THE GRELL MYSTERY 143
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 busi-
ness.
"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 mur-
derer or not, he held the key to the heart of the mys-
tery. 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
144


THE GRELL MYSTERY 145
•
the marks made by any one 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 —9
Three coincidences =6
Four coincidences =24
Five coincidences —ISO
"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 tike him
is murdered in his study a short time afterwards. Coin-
cidence number two. He is apparently dressed in Grell's
clothes and has Grell's belongings in his pockets. Coin-
cidence number three. Both Grell and his valet, Ivan
Abramovitch, disappear. Coincidence number four.
Ivan is found with the pearl necklace on him. Coinci-
dence 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


146 * THE GRELL MYSTERY
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 hundreth case,
you know, and there may be some satisfactory explana-
tion of his actions."
"I quite agree. Even cumulative proof may be de-
stroyed. 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 de-
cide 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 any one 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 adver-
tisement, 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."


148
THE GRELL MYSTERY
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 per-
forming 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 things,
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 to-night, while Freddy
keeps watch outside"
"And some one keeps an eye on Freddy, if I'm any
judge. Go on. Who put Ike up to it?"


THE GRELL MYSTERY 149
"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 any one 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 to-night. You might
find out for sure, Green. 'Phone Lomont, but don't
stop 'em if they've made arrangements. It would sim-
plify 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 some one 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 sur-
rounded. I'll send for a section map of that part."
A clerk brought the map, and Foyle's fingers de-
scribed a wide, irregular circle, now and again hailing
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 precau-
tion. 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 mis-
carried? 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


THE GRELL MYSTERY
151
of the house if Ike was not to be lost sight of, and a
disadvantage because it would afford increased facilities
for any one 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 any one but the
most suspicious.
Heldon Foyle had entered the hotel, for he did not
care to run the risk of frightening his quarry by show-
ing 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.


THE GRELL MYSTERY
153
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 every one 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 comes 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 surren-
dered 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 ?


154
THE GRELL MYSTERY
You've fallen into it this time, and no blooming error.
Where's Fred?"
"Fred who?" queried Foyle. "Is there some one
else in this job?"
But Red Ike was too old a bird to be deceived. In-
stinct, as well as reason, told him that he had been be-
trayed, 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 in-
structions, 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 al-
though suspicious, he was nevertheless flattered. All
criminals, whether at the top or bottom of their pro-
fession, are beset by vanity.
"A little out of your usual line this," went on Foyle,
watching his man intently. "As neat a job as ever


THE GRELL MYSTERY
155
was spoiled by accident. Now you know, as well as I
do, that we can't force you to talk. But it'll help us a
bit if you tell us who you got those keys from, for in-
stance."
The office was small and plainly furnished, and Ike
stared into the fire as he sipped his whisky, with placid
face. That the interview was to be the English equiv-
alent of the third degree, he knew not. There would be
no bullying, only coaxing. Foyle was in a position
where consummate tact was needed if he was to extract
anything from the prisoner. He dared neither threaten
nor promise. However helpful Ike might be, he would
still have to submit the issue of guilt and punishment to
a judge and jury. Ike, unlike Dutch Fred, had no rela-
tions, and if he had it was doubtful if any promise of
consideration for them would move him.
"It's no good, Mr. Foyle," said Ike. "The only
man that was in this with me was Dutch Fred. You'd
better go and get him, because I shall tell all about it in
court. He gave me the keys."
"Don't be a fool, Ike," interposed Green.
The prisoner glanced from one to the other with cun-
ning, twinkling eyes. He was too wary to say anything
that may be used as evidence.
"I guess that it isn't bursting into the place that's
put you two to work," he said. "You want to know
something. If I could help you I s'pose you'd drop this
case?"
Heldon Foyle shook his head resolutely.
"You know we can't do that in a case of felony. Mr.
Green will put in a good word for you at the trial.
That's the farthest we can go to."


CHAPTER XXVII
A gkim smile flickered under Chief Inspector Green's
grey moustache as Heldon Foyle stepped briskly back
into the room and closed the door. Ike met a stare of
the superintendent's cold blue eyes squarely.
"You've got the bulge on me this time, guv'nor," he
admitted ruefully. "I give you best. You're welcome
to all I know—though that isn't much."
Now that he was near attaining his end, Foyle had
to steer a delicate course. The law very rightly insists
that there shall be neither threat nor promise held out
to any person who is accused of a crime. From the
moment a police officer has made up his mind to arrest
a man, he must not directly or indirectly induce a per-
son to say anything that might prove his guilt—and a
warning of the possible consequences is insisted upon
even when a statement is volunteered. Otherwise admis-
sions or evidence so obtained are ignored, and there is
trouble for the police officer who obtained them. That
is one of the reasons why detective work in England de-
mands perhaps nicer skill than in most other countries.
Green had pulled a fountain pen from his pocket
and adjusted a couple of sheets of official foolscap.
Foyle remained standing.
"Don't let's have any misunderstanding," he said.
"We're not making any promises except that the court
will know you helped us in another case. If you choose
to keep quiet we can't do a thing to you.'*
"I know all about that," said Ike, with a little shrug
157


158 THE GRELL MYSTERY
of his shoulders. "You know I wouldn't squeal in an
ordinary job. I'm no Dutch Freddy to give my pals
away. I don't owe the chap anything who put me up
to this. What do you want first?"
"Tell us all about it your own way. Where did you
get the keys of the house?"
"Off that chap you raked in along of me. I Was
sitting in a little game of faro at a joint in the Com-
mercial Road about a week ago, when this tough pulls
me out and puts it up to me. I didn't much like it, but
the chink who runs the show told me he was straight,
and he offered me half"
"You told Freddy you were only getting a third,"
interposed Green.
"Did I?" Ike grinned cunningly. "It must have
been a slip of the tongue. Anyway, I said I'd chip
in for half or nothing. He pow-wowed a bit, but at
last he gave in. Funny thing about it was he wouldn't
hear of keeping an eye open on the day we brought the
job off. Said I must get a pal. Yet here he turns up
as large as life all the time."
The prisoner had hit on a point which had puzzled
Foyle for a time, but light had already flashed upon
him. In the ordinary course of things, a robbery at
Grosvenor Gardens by two known criminal characters
would not of necessity be associated with the murder.
The third man was taking no chances of being identified
as an associate.
"Anyway, I took the job on, and he handed me over
the twirls and a lay-out of the house. He didn't tell
me who was behind him. And I didn't ask too many
questions. He called himself Mr. Smith, and we met


THE GREIX MYSTERY 159
once or twice at the "He named a public-house
in Leman Street, Whitechapel. "That's where I was
to have met him to-night with the stuff. Now you know
all I know."
"Not quite," said Foyle quietly. "What's the ad-
dress of this gambling-joint where you first met him?"
Ike shook his head. "Oh, play the game, guv'nor..
You aren't going to have that raided after what I've
done for you?"
"We'll see," evaded Foyle. "Where is it?"
Reluctantly, Ike gave the address. Green held out a
pen to him and pointed to the bottom of the foolscap.
"Read that through and sign it if it's all right."
The man appended a dashing signature, and with a
cheerful "Good night, Mr. Foyle," was ushered by a
chief detective-inspector down to the charge-room.
Heldon Foyle rested his elbows on the table and re-
mained in deep thought, immobile as a statue. He
roused himself with a start as Green returned.
"Both charged," said the other laconically. "The
other chap refuses to give any account of himself. Re-
fuses even to give a name. Seems to be a Yankee. I
had his finger-prints taken. There was nothing on him
to identify him."
"Yankee, eh? " repeated Foyle. "So is Grell. There
won't be any one in the finger-print department at this
time of night. We'll go along and have a search by
ourselves, I think. If we've not got him there, Pinker-
ton of the U. S. National Detective Agency is staying at
the Cecil. We'll get him to have a look over our man
and say whether he recognises him."
"Very good, sir. There's one other thing. When


160 THE GRELL MYSTERY
I searched this man I found this. I don't know if you
can make anything out of it. I can't."
He handed across an envelope already torn open,
addressed to "The Advertisement Dept., The Daily
Wire." Within were two plain sheets of notepaper and
a postal order. On one was written: "Dear Sir,
please insert the enclosed advts. in the personal column
of your next issue.—John Jones." On the other were
two advertisements—
"R.F. You are closely watched. Don't forget
2315. Don't forget 2315. G.
"E. £27.14.5. To-morrow. B."
"Very curious," commented Foyle. "Copy them
out carefully and have 'em sent to the paper. They
can't do any harm. Now let's get along."
The fog hung heavy over a muffled world as they
walked down Victoria Street. Green, whose wits were
a trifle less supple than those of his chief when imagina-
tion was required, put a question. Foyle answered
absently. The mysterious advertisements were not al-
together mysterious to him. He recalled the cipher
that had been found at Grave Street, and decided that
there was at least room for hope in that direction.
Besides, there was at least one man now in custody who
knew something of the mystery, and, even if he kept
his lips locked indefinitely, there was a probable chance
of a new line of inquiry opening when his identity was
discovered. And even if finger-prints and Pinkerton
failed to resolve that, there was still the resource of
the newspapers. With a photograph scattered far and
wide, the odds were in favour of some one recognising
its subject.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 161
As Foyle switched on the lights in the finger-print
department, Green sat down at a table and with the
aid of a magnifying-glass carefully scrutinised the
prints which he carried on a sheet of paper. Ranged
on one side of the room were high filing cabinets divided
into pigeon-holes, numbered from 1 to 1024. In them
were contained hundreds of thousands of finger-prints
of those known to be criminals. It was for the detec-
tives to find if among them were any identical with those
of their prisoner.
The whole science of finger-prints for police purposes
resolves itself into the problem of classification. It
would be an impossible task to compare myriads of
records each time. The system employed was absurdly
simple to put into execution. In five minutes Green
had the finger-prints of the two hands classified into
"loops" and "whorls " and had made a rough note.
"W.L.W.L.L.
"L.W.W.L.W."
That done, the remainder was purely a question of
arithmetic. Each whorl was given an arbitrary number
according to its position. A whorl occurring in the
first pair counts 16 in the second, the third 4, the fourth
2, and the fifth 1. Thus Green's effort became—
16-4. 80
-8.4-1 _ 13
The figure one was added to both numerator and
denominator, and Green at once went to the fourteenth
pigeon-hole, in a row of the filing cabinet numbered 81.


162
THE GRELL MYSTERY
There, if anywhere, he would find the record that he
sought. For awhile he was busy carefully looking
through the collection.
"Here it is," he said at last and read: "Charles J.
Condit. American. No. 9781 Habitual Convicts'
Registry."
"Put 'em back," said Foyle. "We'll find his record
in the Registry."
The two detectives, uncertain as to where the regular
staff kept the files of the number they wanted, were
some little time in searching. It was Foyle who at
last reached it from a top shelf and ran his eye over it
from the photograph pasted in the top left-hand corner
to the meagre details given below.
"This is our man right enough," he said. "American
finger-prints and photograph supplied by the New York
people when he took a trip to this country five years
ago. Never convicted here. It says little about him.
We'll have to cable over to learn what they know."
"That gives us a chance for a remand," remarked
Green.
"Exactly. And in the meantime he may tell us
something. A prisoner gets plenty of time for reflection
when he's on remand."


CHAPTER XXVIII
Five minutes after Big Ben had struck ten o'clock
Heldon Foyle walked into his office to find Sir Ralph
Fairfield striding up and down and glancing impatiently
at the clock. He made no direct answer to the detec-
tive's salutation, but plunged at once into the object of
his visit.
"Have you seen the Wire this morning? " he asked
abruptly.
Foyle seated himself at his desk, imperturbable and
unmoved.
"No," he answered, " but I know of the advertisement
that brought you here. As a matter of fact, I sent it
to the paper. I should have called on you if you
hadn't come. Grell meant it for you, right enough."
The significance of the detective's admission that heY
knew of the advertisement did not immediately strike
Fairfield. He unfolded a copy of the Daily Wire.
"What do you make of the infernal thing?" he
demanded. "It's absolute Greek to me."
With a letter selected from the pile of correspondence
on his desk unopened in his hand, Heldon Foyle swung
round and faced his questioner.
"It's simply a sighting shot, Sir Ralph," he remarked
quietly. "Grell credits you with intelligence enough
to remember that number later. Have you any knowl-
edge of ciphers?"
"I have an elementary idea that to unravel them
163


164 THE GRELL MYSTERY
you work from the most frequently recurring letter;
E, isn't it?"
"That's right," said Foyle. "But there are other
ciphers where that system won't work. Mind you, I
don't pose as an expert. If I had a cipher to unravel,
I should go to a man who had specialised in them,
exactly as I should go to a doctor on a medical question.
Still, the advertisement to-day isn't a cipher. It means
exactly what it says."
"Thank you," said Fairfield drily. "I am now as
wise as when I started."
"Sorry," murmured Foyle suavely. "You'll be wiser
presently. The thing isn't complete yet. If you'll
excuse me a few minutes, I'll just run through my
letters, and then, if you don't mind taking a little walk,
we'll go and see Lady Eileen Meredith."
Some formal reply rose to Fairfield's lips—he never
knew what. The last time he had seen Eileen was
fixed in his memory. Then she had practically de-
nounced him as a murderer. Since then she had learnt
that every shadow of suspicion had been cleared away,
from him. How would she receive him if he visited
her unexpectedly with Foyle? Why did Foyle wish
him to go? Perhaps, after all, there was nothing in it.
He told himself fiercely that there was no reason why
the meeting should embarrass him. Some day, sooner
or later, they would have to meet. Why not now?
He was hungry for a sight of her, and yet he was as
nervous as a child at the thought of going to her.
The slamming of a drawer and the soft click of a
key in the lock told that Foyle had finished. He picked
up a copy of the Daily Wire and his hat and gloves.


THE GRELL MYSTERY
165
"Now, Sir Ralph," he said briskly, and together
they descended the narrow flight of stone steps which
leads to one of Scotland Yard's back doors. The
detective was apparently in a talkative mood, and
Fairfield got no chance to ask the questions that were
filling his mind. Spite of himself he became interested
in the flow of anecdotes which came from his compan-
ion's lips. There were few corners of the world, civilised
or uncivilised, where the superintendent had not been
in the course of his career. He had the gift of dramatic
and humorous story-telling. He spoke of adventures
in Buenos Ayres, in South Africa, Russia, the United
States, and a dozen other countries, of knife-thrusts
and revolver shots, of sand-bagging and bludgeoning,
without any suspicion of vaunting himself. The baro-
net made some comment.
"No," said Foyle. "Take it all round, a detective's
life is more monotonous than exciting. It's taken me
thirty years to collect the experiences I'm telling you
about. Things always happen unexpectedly. Some
of my narrowest squeaks have taken place in England,
in the West End. Why, I was nearly shot in one of
the best hotels by an officer sent over from the United
States to take charge of a man I had arrested. He
was the sheriff of some small town and had a bit of a
reputation as a gun-man, and had come over with the
district attorney to escort the chap back. They did
themselves well while they were here waiting to catch a
boat back. One morning I strolled into the hotel, and
who should run into me but the attorney with a face
the colour of white paper.
"'That you, chief?' he gasps. 'For God's sake


166
THE GRELL MYSTERY,
don't go upstairs. - 's on the landing, blazing
drunk and with his gun out. He's a dead shot.'
“Well, I could see that a Wild West sheriff was
out of place in a decent hotel, so up I went. He had
me covered like a flash, and I yelled out to him not
to shoot.
6. Hello, chief,' he says. "That's all right. Come
right up. I won't do a thing. Just wait till I've plugged
that cur of an attorney and we'll go and have a drink.'
“By this time I was up level with him. I daren't
risk trying to get the revolver from him, for he was
a quick shot, so I pushed my arm through his.
“I haven't got much time, sheriff,' says I. 'Let's
go and have a drink first, and you settle up with him
afterwards..
666 That's a bet,' he says, and I led him down to the
bar. I persuaded him to try a new drink of my own
invention—its chief component was soda-water-and
followed it up with strong hot coffee. Meanwhile I
managed to get the gun away, on the pretext of ad-
miring it. He was reluctant at first, telling me I could
have it for keeps after he had finished that cur of an
attorney. But I got it, and he was fairly sober by the
time I left him.
“ Then there was a sequel. I had warned the sheriff
and the attorney, who had made up their differences,
that the man they had got was a slippery customer to
handle. However, they got him in the boat all right.
When they got to New York I had a cable from the
captain-a friend of mine. He said the prisoner had
not only cleared off the ship by himself, but had carried
away the hand-baggage of his escort.”


THE GRELL MYSTERY 16*7
This reminiscence had brought them to Berkeley
Square. Fairfield felt his heart thumping quickly
although his face was impassive as the door was opened
in response to Foyle's ring. She might be out; she
might refuse to see them. Neither of the two alterna-
tives happened. Within three minutes Eileen had de-
scended to them in the drawing-room.
She stopped, a graceful figure in black, by the door-
way, and gave a barely perceptible start as her eyes
rested on the baronet. She bowed coldly.
"I did not know you were here, Sir Ralph. I under-
stood Mr. Foyle wished to see me."
She was frigid and self-possessed. He had half ex-
pected some expression of apology for the wrong she
had done him, but she entirely ignored that. But that
Fairfield had himself well in hand he would have openly
resented the snub inflicted on him. It was Foyle who
answered.
"I brought Sir Ralph here. I thought his presence
might be necessary."
She moved across1 the room, and sank on a couch
with a petulant frown,
"Well, I suppose you have some disagreeable busi-
ness to transact. Let us get it over."
The superintendent knew that he was dealing with
a woman entirely on her guard. Her steady grey eyes
were fixed on him closely, as though she could read his
thoughts. He thought he could detect a slight twitch-
ing of the slender hands that rested idly on her lap.
"I want to know," he said slowly, "the meaning of
the advertisement addressed to you by Robert Grell in
this morning's Daily Wire.''''


168 THE GRELL MYSTERY
He could have sworn that his shot had hit, that she
flinched a little as he spoke. But if so she showed no
further sign. Instead, her face was all astonishment as
she replied—
"I don't quite understand. What advertisement? I
know nothing about Mr. Grell since he left Grosvenor
Gardens. Will you explain?"
Deliberately the superintendent took from his breast-
pocket a copy of the Daily Wire, folded back at the
personal column, and read:
"E. £27.14.5. To-morrow. B."
"That," he said, " is addressed to you. It is hardly
worth while denying knowledge of it. It was found
last night on a man arrested for attempted house-
breaking at Mr. Grell's house. I ordered that it be
sent to the paper, together with another intended for
the eye of Sir Ralph Fairfield."
Her interest was plainly awakened.
"Then the other was for you!" she cried, turning
to Fairfield. "I wondered if"
She paused with the realisation that she had ad-
mitted what she had a moment before denied. Foyle's
foot pressed heavily on the toe of the baronet to warn
him not to speak.
"Yes, it was for Sir Ralph," he said. "That is
why I brought him here. It is you, though, who hold
the key to this mystery. We know that you would
have sent your jewels to Grell, that you are in communi-
cation with his friends. You are young, Lady Eileen,
and don't realise that you are playing with fire. Your
silence can do your lover no good—it may do him and
yourself harm. You have been visited by the Priricess


170
THE GRELL MYSTERY
"Absolute common sense, my dear sir. That's all.
Absolute common sense. If you are a chess-player,
you know that the man who can foretell what move
his opponent is going to make usually wins. Here,
let's find a quiet Piccadilly tea-shop and I'll tell you
all about it."
There is no place which one may find more con-
venient for a quiet conversation than the London tea-
shop before twelve in the morning. Over a cup of
coffee in the deserted smoking-room Foyle spoke to the
point.
"I did not tell you why I took you to see Lady
Eileen, because I was afraid you might refuse. She
has been antagonistic to you hitherto. The fact that
Grell advertised you in somewhat the same manner as
herself has given her the idea that, after all, you too
might be trying to shield him. Naturally, she wants
to be certain, in order that you may join forces. That's
why I prevented you saying anything. Now, if you
go back to her you may tell her that I practically
forced you to accompany me. You can win her confi-
dence, and through her we may get on the right track."
An angry flush mounted to Fairfield's temples.
"In short," he said curtly, "you want me to act
as a spy on an unsuspecting girl. No, thanks. That's
not in our bargain."
He was genuininely angry at the proposal. The
superintendent saw that he had been too blunt, and
made haste to repair his error.
"Don't be in a hurry," he protested. "The girl,
as I told her, is beginning to be mixed up in a danger-
ous business. This is the only way to extricate her.


THE GRELL MYSTERY
17,1
You may help her and Grell and us by doing as I ask.
Consider it coolly, and you will see it is the best thing
to do."
Sir Ralph set down his cup and fingered his watch-
chain. Foyle signalled the waitress, paid the bill, lit a
cigar and waited.
"I'll have to think over it," said Fairfield thought-
fully. "Give me an hour or two."
"Right you are," agreed the detective heartily, and
they made their way out into the street.


CHAPTER XXIX
It was with mixed feelings that Fairfield yielded at
last to Foyle's arguments and returned to see Eileen
Meredith. To his consent he had attached the con-
dition that he was to be allowed to use his own judg-
ment as to how much of the interview he should com-
municate to the detective, and with this Foyle had to
be content.
The baronet found the girl waiting for him, her
face alight with eagerness. She was in her own boudoir,
luxuriously ensconced in a big arm-chair, and she
smiled brightly at him—such a smile as he had not seen
since before the murder. He obeyed her invitation to
sit down.
“ You wanted to see me alone,” he said.
She nodded. “Yes, I want to know if we are allies
-or enemies. I know I have treated you abominably,
but I was driven half mad by the thought that Bob was
dead. Now we are working together-are we not? "
He made a little gesture with his hands, helplessly
as, one at a loss.
“In so far as we both wish to get Grell out of his
difficulty-and I wish I knew what that was-yes," he
replied. “I don't believe him to be a murderer, but why
does he remain in hiding? He is not the sort of man
to do foolish things, and that is foolish on the face of
it. He has some strong reason for being out of the
way. Can you explain? "
172


THE GRELL MYSTERY 173
She pulled her chair closer to him, and laid one
slim hand on his.
"I cannot explain—I can only trust. He looked
to us to help him. I know that he wants money, for
he sent a friend to tell me. I had none, but I gave
her my jewels. Detectives were watching her, and
they, with the connivance of my father, took them
from her. Now, you, his most intimate friend, must
help him. He has given you the key to the cipher
which will appear, and then, I suppose, he will tell
you how to get it to him."
She had apparently taken it for granted that the
baronet was with her in whole-souled devotion to her
lover. His fingers beat a tattoo on his knee.
"So that advertisement was the key to a cipher?
Do you know when I shall get a message?"
"I shall get one to-morrow. You—who knows?"
"Then you can tell me how to read it?"
She hesitated a moment, finger on chin. Then, ani-
mated by a quick resolve, she moved to a little inlaid
desk and unlocked a drawer. She returned with a
piece of paper in her hand.
"What was the number mentioned in your adver-
tisement?"
"2315."
For a little the only sound in the room was the
scratching of pencil on paper. At last she finished,
and handed the result to him. He wrinkled his brows
as he studied it.
THIS IS THE KEY
2315 23 152 315
VKJX KV UMG NFD


174 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"The bottom line is the top one turned into cipher,"
she explained. "The middle line is the key number.
In the first word you take the second letter from T,
the third from H, the first from I, and so on. It is
a cipher that cannot be unravelled without the key
number. H becomes K once and M once."
"I see." The simplicity of it at once dawned on
him. "That was what Foyle meant when he said that
some ciphers could not be solved by the recurring E,"
he said unthinkingly.
She had risen and flung away from him in quick
revulsion. One glance at her face told him what he
had done.
"You spy!" There was stinging scorn in her
tone. "You have talked it over with Foyle, and that
man knows all. You are here to worm out what I
know in order to betray your friend. Oh, don't
trouble to lie,"—as he would have spoken,—" I can see
your object. And I nearly fell into the trap."
The man was not without dignity, as he stood a
little white but steady. "You may call me what you
like," he said in a low voice. "Spy, if you will.
Believe me or not, I have acted for the best, for you
and for Grell. You once called me a murderer—with
what justification you now know. Are you so ready
to judge hastily again?"
If he had hoped to move her from her gust of
passion, he quickly learned his mistake. Her lips
curled in contempt, and, drawing her skirts aside as she
passed him as though a touch might contaminate her,
she swept to the doorway. For one instant she stood
posed.


THE GRELL MYSTERY
175
"You call yourself a spy. It is a good name. For
a police spy there is no room in this house."
With that she was gone. The man had flushed
under the biting contempt in her voice and words, and
now stood for a little with hands tightly clenched,
gazing after her. He felt that, from her point of view
at least, there was some truth in her words. He was
—whatever his motives—a police spy. And yet he was
but concerned to clear up the horrible tangle in which
his friend and the girl had become involved.
He did not know that he was watched from behind
the curtains as he walked blindly into the street.
Eileen, with lips firmly set and face tense, was con-
cealed behind curtains. No sooner had he gone than
she hurriedly dressed herself and ordered an electric
brougham. She had come to believe that her lover's
safety depended on her actions that day. Foyle knew
the secret of the cipher, and Grell's advertisement told
her that he intended communicating something to her
by that method the next day. At all costs she must
prevent him betraying himself.
Only one course occurred to her. She must go to
the office of the Daily Wire and prevent his advertise-
ment from appearing. How she was to do it she had
not the slightest idea. That she left for later
reflection.
The car rolled smoothly towards Fleet Street, but
no inspiration came to her. She alighted at the adver-
tisement office, with its plate glass and gilded letters,
and was attended by an obsequious clerk. Outwardly
calm, but with her heart beating quickly beneath her
furs, she put her inquiry to a sleek-haired clerk. He


176" THE GRELL MYSTERY
was polite but firm. It was quite possible that such
an advertisement as she mentioned had been sent for
insertion the following day, and again it might not.
In any case he was forbidden to give any information.
It would be quite out of the question to stop any
advertisement unless she held the receipt.
"But if the advertisement has not already been
given in, can you give a note to whoever brings it?"
she asked, in a flash of inspiration.
"Yes, that could be done. She tore off her glove,
and with slim, nervous fingers wrote hurriedly. The
sleek clerk supplied her with an envelope, and as she
placed her message in it and handed it to him she felt
it was a forlorn hope. There was only one other way
of outwitting the detectives.' Should Grell give any
address in his message, she must reach him early in
the morning before the police could act. A couple of
questions elicited the fact that the paper would be on
sale by four the next morning. That would mean
another journey to Fleet Street, for the ordinary news-
agents' shops would not be open at that time. The
brougham turned about and began the homeward
journey.
A respectably dressed working man, who had appar-
ently been absorbed in a page of advertisements of
situations vacant displayed on a slab in the window,
slouched into the office, and a man bareheaded and
wearing a frock-coat moved briskly forward, apparently
to attend to him. Yet it was more than coincidence
that they met at a deserted end of the counter.
"That was Lady Eileen Meredith," said the work-
man, in a quick, low voice. "What did she want?"


THE GRELL MYSTERY 177
"She's guessed that we know the cipher," retorted
the other. "She gave a letter to be handed over to
whoever brings the advertisement. Here is what she
says." He pulled the letter which Eileen had written
five minutes before from its envelope: "' The police
know the cipher. Be very cautious. R. F. is acting
with them.' I'll telephone to Mr. Foyle at once. You
had better stay outside."
The second man went back to the pavement and
resumed his study of the advertisement board, but a
close observer might have seen that his eyes wandered
past it now and again to the persons inside the office.
Half an hour went by. Then the frock-coated man
inside took a silk hat from a peg and placed it on his
head. Simultaneously a woman went out. A dozen
paces behind her went the workman, and a dozen paces
behind him the frock-coated man.
Heldon Foyle had selected his subordinates well for
their work. Acting on the policy of leaving nothing
to chance, he had taken a hint from the advertisement
addressed to Eileen, and had the office watched from
the time it opened. It was simple to get the manager's
permission to place one man within, and to get him
to direct the clerks to pass through his hands all cipher
advertisements for the personal column. If the adver-
tisement came through the post, their time would be
thrown away. If it was delivered by hand, there was
a chance of learning whence it had been dispatched.
The intervention of Lady Eileen was an accident that
could not have been foreseen. In that matter luck
had played into Foyle's hands.


CHAPTER XXX
BETWEEN Berkeley Square and Scotland Yard, Fair-
field consumed ten cigarettes in sharp jerky puffs. Yet
he was scarcely conscious of lighting one. Indeed,
as he climbed the wide flight of steps at the main
entrance, it seemed as though no palpable interval of
time had elapsed since he had been practically turned
out of her father's house by Eileen Meredith.
Heldon Foyle put away the bundle of documents
that contained the history of the case as the baronet
was announced, and waved his visitor to a chair.
“Well? ” he asked.
Fairfield shrugged his shoulders. “A nice mess
you've got me into,” he complained. “Why didn't
you tell me you knew the secret of the cipher?"
The detective's face was full of ingenuous surprise
as he answered—
“ Didn’t I? I thought I made it perfectly clear to
you. I am sorry that you misunderstood. I should
have made it plainer. What has gone wrong?"
Sir Ralph made an impatient gesture. “Oh, what's
the use of talking nonsense? You did not tell me that
you knew the cipher, and as a consequence Lady,
Eileen now knows that you know.”
The superintendent gave no indication of the
chagrin with which the news filled him. His features
were perfectly expressionless. A part of his plans had
failed from excess of caution. He did not need Fair-
178


THE GRELL MYSTERY 179
field to tell him what had happened. He could make
a fairly accurate guess as to the manner in which
he had been unwittingly betrayed. His thoughts
turned at once to the question of what the girl would
do. If he had judged her right, she would try to
warn Grell. Either she knew his address or not, but
it was unlikely that she did, as they were communicat-
ing in cipher. The obvious thing for her to do was
to try to stop the advertisement. There was, however,
little he could do. He had men on duty in Berkeley
Square and in Fleet Street. He would soon hear of
any new developments.
"That's a pity," he said reflectively. "It may mean
a re-arrangement of our plans. And believe me, Sir
Ralph, I badly regret now that I did not go into fuller
details with you. What happened?"
Stumblingly, Sir Ralph recapitulated the scene at
Berkeley Square, giving even the epithets by which
the girl had addressed him. Foyle tapped lightly on
his desk with the end of a penholder. The event had
been as he thought. He looked Sir Ralph straight in
the eye.
"She told you that you were a spy—that I had
used you as a tool," he said sharply. "You have been
hurt by her words. I don't want you to feel that you
are anything but a free agent, or to do anything
that you consider dishonourable. But I must know
whether you are still willing to act with us, or whether
you wish to stand aside."
Fairfield threw the stump of cigarette viciously into
the fire."
"I am acting with you, of course," he answered


180 THE GRELL MYSTERY
sullenly, "though I wish you to ask for my help only
when it is absolutely necessary. What I complain of
is, that I have not been frankly treated, and that I
have been placed in an invidious position with Lady
Eileen. You must remember that I have feelings, and
that it is not pleasant to be told one is acting as a
spy, especially by—by an old friend. You know, Mr.
Foyle, that I have only been wishful to serve those*
I have known."
There was something pathetic in his endeavour to
justify his actions to himself. Foyle murmured a
sympathetic, "I understand—yes, yes, I know," and
then became thoughtful.
"After all," he said at last, "this does not make
us so very badly off. You are openly on our side now,
Sir Ralph, so there can be no fear of your again
being accused of acting in an underhand manner.
There is nothing more to be done at the moment. I
will keep you posted as to any steps we are taking."
"Very well. Good morning, Mr. Foyle."
The baronet was gone. The superintendent re-
sumed his perusal of documents. He felt some little
compunction at what had happened. Yet it was his
business to clear up the mystery, and to use what
instruments came to his hand, so long as the law was
not violated. There is a code of etiquette in detective
work in which the first and most important rule is:
"Take advantage of every chance of bringing a crim-
inal to justice." In using Fairfield as an instrument,
Foyle was merely following that code.
In a little, Foyle had finished and sent for Green.
The chief inspector came with a report.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 181
"A woman brought the advertisement to Fleet
Street, sir," he said. "Blake has just telephoned up
that he and Lambert are keeping her under observa-
tion. He 'phoned earlier that Lady Eileen Meredith
had been there."
"Yes, I suppose so. What does the advertisement
say?"
"He couldn't tell me on the 'phone. He had to
hurry away to look after the woman. It is being sent
up by taxicab."
"That's good. By the way, Green, keep half-a-
dozen men handy, and be about yourself."
"Very good, sir. Is there anything on?"
"I don't quite know. We may have to go out in
a hurry. I'll tell you after we have deciphered the
advertisement."


THE GRELL MYSTERY
183
writing. Anyhow, we'll have a look more closely at it
when the finger-print people have done."
He bent once more to his desk with the copy of the
cipher. He knew the key, and it was not necessary to
resort to an expert. By the time the chief inspector
came back he had a neatly copied translation on his pad.1
"Listen to this, Green," he said.
"' E. M. Am now safe on board a barge moored
below Tower Bridge, where no one will think of looking
for me. Have good friends but little money, owing to
action of police. Trust, little girl, you still believe in
my innocence, although things seem against me. There
are reasons why I should not be questioned. Shall try
to embark before the mast in some outward bound
vessel. Crews will not be scrutinised so sharply as
passengers. There are those who will let you know
my movements. Fear the police may tamper with
your correspondence, but later on when hue and cry
has died down will let you know all.'"
The two detectives looked at each other.
"A barge below Tower Bridge," repeated Green,
with something like admiration. "That was a good
shot. He might have stayed there till doomsday
without our hitting on him, or any one taking any
notice of him."
"I don't know," said Foyle. "A newcomer on the
river would attract attention. These water-men know
each other. There's only one way that I can see in
which he would avoid being talked about. He is a
watchman."
"You're right, sir," agreed the other emphatically.
"This is a matter where Wrington of the Thames


184.
THE GRELL MYSTERY
Division will be able to help us. Hope we can find
him at Wapping. Shall I ring through?"
"There's no hurry for a minute or two," said Foyle.
"Let's get the hang of the thing right. There's prob-
ably some hundreds of barges below Tower Bridge. It
will be as well to keep a close eye on the docks and
shipping offices. You see, he asserts his innocence."
"H'm," commented Green, with an intonation that
meant much. "He says, too, that there are reasons
why he shouldn't be questioned."
"Well, we shall see. There had better be an all-
station message about the docks. Send two or three
men down to Tilbury to watch outgoing boats there.
We shan't need any other men from here. Wrington's
staff know the river, and will get on best with them.
I don't want to leave here until Blake lets us know
more about the woman who left the advertisement.
That gives us another possible clue."
It was some time before Wrington, the divisional
detective-inspector at the head of the detective staff
of the Thames Division, could be found, for like other
branches of the C.I.D. he and his men did their work
systematically, and usually left their office at nine
o'clock only to return at six. At length, however, he
was found at a wharfinger's office, where there had
arisen some question of a missing case of condensed
milk. Within half an hour he was at Scotland
Yard.
A tall man with tired grey eyes, about the corners
of which were tiny wrinkles, with a weather-beaten
face and grey moustache, he aimed to look something
like a riverside tradesman. There was a meekness in


THE GRELL MYSTERY 185
his manner and speech that deceived people who did
not know his reputation. He spoke five languages
fluently, and two more indifferently. Along the banks
of the thirty-five-mile stretch of river for which he was
responsible he had waged incessant warfare on thieves
and receivers for thirty years, till now practically all
serious crime had disappeared.
He it was who, a dozen years before, had fought
hand to hand with a naked and greased river thief
armed with a knife, in a swaying boat under Black-
friars Bridge; he, too, solved the mystery of a man
found dead in the Thames who had been identified
by a woman as her husband—a dare-devil adventurer
and unscrupulous blackmailer, who was declared by a
doctor and a coroner's jury to have been murdered.
Step by step he had traced it all out, from the moment
when a seaman on a vessel moored at one of the
wharves had taken a fancy to bathe, and being unable
to swim had fastened a line round his waist and
jumped overboard. He had neglected to make the
end on board properly fast and was swept away by
the current. The rope had twirled round him, and as
the body swelled became fixed. A blow on the head
from the propeller of a tug completed a maze of circum-
stantial evidence which might have served as an excuse
to most men for giving up the problem. Yet Wrington
had solved it, and the record, which had never seen
the light of publicity, was hidden in the archives of
the service.
This was the man Foyle had now called in. He
stood, with stooping shoulders, nervously twisting his
shabby hat, apparently ill at ease. His nervousness


THE GRELL MYSTERY 187
Grant shifted his magnifying glass to another angle
and grunted.
“ Can't tell yet," he said irritably. “ I've only just
started. Go away."
“ Sorry I spoke, old chap," said the other. “Don't
shoot; I'm going."
Grant rested his chin on one elbow and stared sourly
at the intruder.
“Great heavens !” he said. “Isnt it enough to have
two of my men ill when there are four hundred prints
to classify, to have three newspaper reporters and a
party of American sociological researchers down on me
in one day, without- "
But Green had fled to the more tranquil quarters on
the first floor.
“ Mr. Foyle asking for you, sir,” said the clerk.
He pulled open the door of the superintendent's
room. Foyle had got his hat and coat on.
“ Blake's wired that the woman has taken a ticket
for Liverpool,” he said. “He's gone on the same
train. Now that's settled, let's see if we can't hurry
Wrington up."


CHAPTER XXXII
In the corner of the first-class carriage farthest away
from the platform, the Princess Petrovska sat with her
hands on her lap and a rug rdund her knees, glancing
idly from under her long eyelashes at the people
thronging the Euston departure platform. Her eyes
rested incuriously now and again upon a couple of men
who stood in conversation by a pile of luggage some
distance away, but within eyeshot of the compart-
ment.
She had some vague recollection of having seen one
of the men before, and though she remained apparently
languidly interested in the business of the platform,
she was racking her brains to think who he was or
where she had seen him. It was recently, she was
certain. Suddenly she leaned forward, and her smooth
brow contracted in a frown. Yes—she was nearly
certain. He had an overcoat and a silk hat on now,
but when she last saw him he had been a bare-headed,
frock-coated clerk in the advertisement office of the
Daily Wire. The frown disappeared and she dropped
back. But behind the placid face an alert brain was
working. Had the man followed her, or was it a mere
coincidence? Was he a detective? With an effort of
will she stilled the apprehension in her breast. Her
confidence reasserted itself. Even if he were a de-
tective, what had she to fear? She had merely
delivered a cipher advertisement over the counter. It
188


THE GRELL MYSTERY
189
was unlikely that it would be read by others than the
person for whom it was intended. Even if it were,
there was nothing in it to incriminate her.
Her lips parted in a contemptuous smile.
"I don't believe he is a detective at all," she
murmured.
All doubts on the subject, however, were set at rest
as the express began to glide out of the station. As
though taken unawares by its departure, the man
hastily shook hands with his friend and sprinted for
the train, swinging himself into the woman's compart-
ment with a gasp of relief.
"Phew," he said. "A narrow shave that," and then,
as if realising the sex of his companion, "I—I beg
your pardon. I hope the carriage is not reserved. If
so, I will change."
She smiled winningly at him.
"No, don't disturb yourself, I beg. It would be a
pity after all the trouble you have taken—to catch the
train."
Detective-Inspector Blake was not by any means
dull. His immobile features gave no sign that he was
half inclined to believe the woman was gibing him.
"Now, what the devil does she mean by that? " he said,
under his breath. He bowed in acknowledgment of
her courtesy, and drawing a paper from his pocket
unfolded it.
"And how is the charming Mr. Foyle?" said the
Princess, speaking with a soft drawl. "I do hope he
is still well."
This time Blake was taken unawares. He dropped
the paper as though it were red-hot, and the woman


THE GRELL MYSTERY 191
Mr. Foyle will tell you so, if you ask him. Do
detectives often make mistakes?"
Her air of refreshing innocence tickled Blake. He
laughed.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "I made a mistake just
now in coming on this train alone."
She laughed musically in pure amusement.
"I believe the man is afraid of me," she said,
addressing the ceiling. Then more directly, "Why,
what harm could a poor creature like myself do to
a great stalwart man like you? I should have thought
you'd greater sense."
"Common sense is my strong point," he parried.
"And therefore you are afraid," she laughed.
"Come—Mr.—Mr."
"Smith—John Smith."
"Mr. John Smith, then. It's a good English name.
I shan't do you any harm. But if you like to lose sight
of me when we reach Liverpool"
"Well?"
"It would be worth £50 to you."
He shook his head. "I am afraid, Princess, you
have a very poor opinion of the London police. Be-
sides, I told you just now that common sense was my
strong point."
She shrugged her shoulders for answer. The train
droned on. They had lunch together and chatted on
like old friends. It was when they had returned to their
own compartment, and the train was nearing Liver-
pool, that Blake found his cigarettes had run short.
The Princess produced a daintily-jewelled enamelled
case.


192 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"Won't you try one of mine?" she asked. "That
is, if you care for Egyptian."
He took one. What harm would there be in a ciga-
rette? Yet, in half an hour's time, when the train
slowed into Lime Street Station, the Princess descended
to the platform alone. In his corner of the compart-
ment Blake slumbered stertorously.


CHAPTER XXXIII
Heldon Foyle and Chief Inspector Green paced to
and fro along Westminster Pier watching a couple of
motor-boats as they swung across the eddies to meet
them. A bitter wind had chopped the incoming tide
into a quite respectable imitation of a rough sea. There
were three men in each boat. Wrington at the tiller
in one, Jones, his lieutenant, steering the other.
"It's going to be a cold job," commented Foyle, as
he turned up his coat collar and stamped heavily on
the frosty boards.
"Ay," agreed Green. Then, without moving his
head: "There's that chap Jerrold of the Wire behind
us. Has he got any idea of what we're on?"
Foyle wheeled sharply, and confronted a thin-faced,
sallow-complexioned man with a wisp of black hair
creeping from under his hat, and with sharp, penetrat-
ing, humorous eyes. Jerrold was one of the most
resourceful of the "crime investigators" of Fleet
Street, and, while he had often helped the police, he
could be a dangerous ally at times. He started with
well-affected surprise as Foyle greeted him.
"Well, I never! How are you, Mr. Foyle? And
you, Mr. Green? What are you doing down here?"
"For the matter of that, what are you doing? " asked
the superintendent, who had made a shrewd guess that
he and his companion had been seen from the Embank-
ment, and that Jerrold, scenting something afoot, had
193


194 THE GRELL MYSTERY
descended to wait an opportunity. But Jerrold was
ready.
"Me? " he retorted. "Oh, I'm writing a story about
Westminster Bridge. Cracks have developed in the
pier. Is it safe? You know the kind of thing."
"Yes, I know," agreed Foyle, with a smile and a
glance at the waiting boats. "Well, it's nice weather.
Green and I are just going off with Wrington. There's
some question of increasing the river staff, and we've
got to go into it."
Jerrold nodded as gravely as though he quite ac-
cepted the explanation. In fact, Foyle, shrewd as he
was, could not feel certain that he had. The journalist
took a casual glance about the wide stretch of water,
and with an unconscious gesture that had become
habitual with him flung back the lock of hair that
dangled over his right eyebrow.
"Got a minute to spare?" he asked. "A rather
quaint thing happened at our office. You know they're
excavating the foundations for a big hotel in Piccadilly?
Well, on Monday a couple of burly navvies, carrying a
big paper parcel, came up to the Wire office and
Brashton saw them.
"' Me an' my mate 'ere,' says the spokesman, ''ave
been employed on those works in Piccadilly, and we
made an interesting discovery to-day. Seeing as the
Wire is an enterprising paper an' pays for news, we
thought as 'ow we'd come along.'
"' Always glad to pay for information if we use it,'
says Brashton.
"< Well leave it to you,' says the spokesman, undo-
ing the parcel. • Look at this.'


THE GRELL MYSTERY 195
"Inside the wrappings was a battered but full-sized
human skeleton. Brashton was a bit staggered, but
put a few more questions to the men, and they went
away. He forgot all about the skeleton till M'Gregor,
the news editor, happened in. Mac's hair stood on end,
and he pointed at the skeleton with a long forefinger.
"' What's that? ' he demanded.
"Brashton looked up from some copy he was writing.
'That,' he said calmly. 'Oh, that's not necessarily for
publication; it's just a guarantee of good faith.' And
he explained.
"Mac was horror-struck. He stared at Brashton as
though he had taken leave of his senses.
"' Good God, man,' he cried, 'why did you let them
leave it here? It might have died of the plague or
something.' And, stepping back into the corridor, he
yelled for a boy. 'Take that thing away,' he ordered.
'Get rid of it. Put it in the furnace.'
"Well, they took it down and cremated it. To-day,
a fine, old, crusty police sergeant rolled up to the office.
He wanted to see some one, he said, about the find of a
body in Piccadilly.
"Brashton received him suavely. 'Very good of
you to come, sergeant,' he said. 'We're always
grateful for any information about matters of in-
terest.'
"The sergeant fidgeted with his helmet. 'That's
all right, sir,' he said. 'As a matter of fact, though,
I've come to you for information this time. You see,
I'm a coroner's officer, and we've got to hold an inquest,
but we ain't got no body to hold it on!'
"For a moment Brashton was flabbergasted, but


196 THE GRELL MYSTERY
he recovered himself almost immediately. 'I'm very
sorry,' he apologised,' but the fact is, although we had
the skeleton here it has—er—been mislaid.'
"That coroner's officer," went on Jerrold gravely,
"is now looking over the excavations to see if it's pos-
sible to find a few odds and ends to hold the inquest on.
But I see Mr. Green's getting impatient. Don't let me
keep you."
The boats had been brought up to the quay and,
as the detectives stepped aboard, slipped downstream,
hugging the Embankment. Foyle turned a speculative
eye on the pier they had just quitted. A steam launch
had just brought up, but Jerrold had vanished. The
superintendent swore softly.
"So that's why he kept us talking," he said. "He
suspects something, and wanted to keep us till he
could send for a boat himself. We shall be a regular
procession if we don't stop that." He leaned over and
spoke to Green in the second boat. Immediately it
slackened speed, and as the launch came alongside the
chief inspector swung deftly aboard.
"Where's Mr. Jerrold?" he demanded of the man
at the wheel.
"Who's he? " was the gruff response.
"Come, you know who he is well enough. He's
the man who's borrowed or hired this craft, and he got
on board just now. I want to speak to him. If he
has ordered you to follow us, let me tell you that I
am a police officer, and shall be justified in arresting
you for obstructing me in the execution of my duty if
you are not careful."
"Hello, Mr. Green. Threatening the skipper?


THE GRELL MYSTERY
197
What's wrong?" said the equable voice of Jerrold,
emerging with cigarette between his teeth through the
sliding door of the saloon.
The detective swung round upon him angrily. "This
isn't the game, Mr. Jerrold. We can't have you fol-
lowing us like this."
The journalist gave a shrug. "Really? Do you
object to me having a blow on the river? Because
I'm going on, in any case. I can't help it if you're
going the same way."
Green was helpless, and he knew it. Although he
raged inwardly, he knew that it would be unwise to
arrest the journalist, though such a course might be
justified. Apart from the bad feeling such procedure
might create, there was the difficulty of establishing a
case without disclosing the object of their journey. It
was a dilemma where diplomacy might with advantage
be employed. He smiled at the reporter.
"Mr. Jerrold, can't we settle this without quarrel-
ling? We're on a queer job, and you might spoil it all
by hanging around. Leave us to it, and if there's
anything fit for publication you shall have first
pull. Don't ask me anything else and I'll promise you
that."
"Honour? " queried Jerrold.
"Honour," repeated Green.
"Right you are. Slip off and we'll go back. Ring
me up at the office."
The steam launch wheeled about as Green took his
place in his own boat. Both men were satisfied. Each
knew that the other would not go back on his word.
The chief inspector's boat caught up with that which


198 THE GRELL MYSTERY
carried Foyle and Wrington just below Waterloo
Bridge. They were threading the tiers of barges
moored on the southern side. The group of detectives,
with eyes ceaselessly watchful, passed comments in a
low voice. They were not hopeful of finding their
quarry yet. The search was merely one of precaution.
Now and again one of the boats stopped and a man
clambered aboard a barge, dropping back in a few
minutes with a shake of the head. Foyle and Green
left all this to the river men. They knew the work.
But, swift as they were, they made slow progress.
Foyle glanced uneasily at his watch. It was already
growing dusk, and the lights on the bridges were re-
flected in fantastic shapes from the dark waters. The
superintendent spoke in a low voice to Wrington, who
jerked his head in sharp assent.
"You're right, sir. If we take the likely one now
we can leave the others till we've finished. We'll get
on. Let her out, boys."
The two boats leapt forward, unobtrusively stealing
a course in the shadow of the barges. It was delicate
work in the gathering darkness, for many times a lighter
swinging at its moorings threatened to crush them;
but always they avoided the danger, though to the
untrained faculties of Foyle it seemed that the margin
of safety was no more than the breadth of a knife
blade.
At London Bridge they crossed to the northern
side, and here the real hunt began. Wrington signalled
for the lights to be put out, and they stole forward,
two black blotches on the dark water. Once they nar-
rowly escaped running down a Customs' patrol boat,


THE GRELL MYSTERY 199
and voices cursed them with vigour out of the gloom.
Again, as they were about to pass under a mooring
rope, some one yelled to Foyle to duck. The warning
came too late, and he would have been swept into the
water but that a ready knife severed the rope. Then
there was a halt for a little, while the barge was se-
cured again.
"There's a new caretaker on a tier of barges just
above Tower Bridge," whispered Wrington tensely.
"We'll try there first. Keep your voice low if you
want to speak, sir. Sound travels a long way on the
water. Ah, there it is."
Foyle had got good eyesight, but he could make
out nothing but a smudge where Wrington pointed—a
smudge emphasised by a tiny point of twinkling light.
The two motor-boats slowed down and approached,
as it were, on tiptoe one on either side of the vessel.
As they came nearer a barge took shape at the head
of a long string. .
"Stop her," ordered Wrington. "Now, sir, will you
board her with me? Get ready."
As they lurched against the sides of the craft the
two leapt aboard. Green and Jones had come up from
the other side. The superintendent gave a whispered
order, and the other three ranged themselves around a
small deck cabin, while he thrust open the door and
entered. It was quite dark within, and a smell of stale
tobacco smoke met his nostrils.
He stood still and lit a match, holding himself in
readiness for anything. A figure was dozing in a chair
at the other side of the cabin. Foyle crossed stealthily
and quietly encircled the man around the waist, press-


200 THE GRELL MYSTERY
ing his arms to his side with all his strength. The man,
suddenly awakened, struggled vigorously.
"Keep still," ordered Foyle, doggedly maintaining
his hold. "Hi, Green, Wrington! Give me a hand
here, will you?"


CHAPTER XXXIV
Powerful as he was and with his prisoner at a dis-
advantage, Foyle found it all he could do to maintain
his hold until his companions broke through to his help.
Even then it was no easy task, and the fight raged
over the tiny cabin with the police hanging on to their
prisoner like dogs to a wounded bear. No one spoke
a word; there was only the quick panting of struggling
men, the shuffling of their footsteps, and now and again
a sharp crash as some piece of furniture overturned.
Their very numbers handicapped the police in that
confined space. Hands sometimes tore at Foyle, some-
times at the prisoner. The superintendent hung on
with the tenacity of a bulldog, until a sudden lurch
against the side brought his head sharply in contact
with the boarding. Half dazed, he involuntarily relaxed
his grip. The prisoner tore himself away and struck
out viciously. A man fell heavily. For the fraction of
a second a shadowy figure was indistinctly outlined in
the doorway. Almost simultaneously Foyle,- Green, and
Wrington flung themselves in pursuit. They were too
late. A soft splash told that the man had taken the
only possible avenue of escape.
"Look lively with those boats. He's gone over-
board," yelled Wrington. "Light up and get close in to
the bank."
With the alacrity of men well used to sudden emer-
gencies those detectives in the boats were at work on
201


202 THE GRELL MYSTERY
the word. One darted to cut off retreat to the northern
bank, though the forbidding parapet of the Tower
made it impossible for any man to land for a hundred
yards or more. The other cruised cautiously among
the strings of barges, watching for any attempt to
land on one of them.
The superintendent had dashed to the stern of the
barge and dropped into a small dinghy tethered there.
At his word the others came running, and with Wring-
ton at the oars they also crept about in determined
search.
"It's hopeless," growled Green, in an undertone.
"On a night like this we might as well look for a
needle in a haystack."
"We won't give up yet, anyway," retorted Foyle,
and there was an unwonted irritability in his tone.
"We've mucked it badly enough, but I'm not going
to fling it up while there's a sporting chance of finding
him. Do you think he'll be able to swim across the
river, Wrington?"
"It would need a good man to do it in his clothes.
The tide's running pretty strong. More likely he's
let himself drop down below the bridge, and will try
to pull himself aboard one of these craft."
Heldon Foyle rubbed his chin. Every moment their
chances of catching the fugitive lessened. In the dark-
ness, which the lights from the bridge and from adjacent
boats only made more involved, there was little hope of
finding the man they wanted. He had not been seen
from the moment of the first plunge, and there were a
score of places on which he might have taken refuge,
and where, now that he was warned, he could dodge


THE GRELL MYSTERY 203
the searchers. He might have committed suicide, it was
true, but somehow Foyle did not think that likely.
For two hours the search continued, and then Foyle,
chilled to the bone, decided that it was hopeless.
Wrington hailed the other boats, and the detectives
returned to the barge. A light thrown into the tiny
cabin disclosed amid the disorder an open kit-bag full
of linen. Green pulled out the top shirt and felt
its texture between thumb and finger. Then he pointed
to the name of a West-end maker on the collar.
"Yes, it's hardly the kind of thing a barge watch-
man would wear," commented Foyle. "We'd better
take the bag along, and you can go through it at
your leisure. The laundry marks will tell whose they
are. You had better stop here, Wrington, and take
charge. Find out whom the barge belongs to, and make
what inquiries you can. Better have it thoroughly
searched, and report to me in the morning. Use your
discretion in detaining any one who comes aboard."
One of the motor-boats took Foyle and Green back
to Scotland Yard. Both were glum and silent: Foyle
because his plan had miscarried at the very moment
that he had reached the keystone of the problem;
Green because it was his natural habit. It was easy
enough to realise now that the whole question was
one of light. Had some one thought to strike a match
while the struggle was going on there would have been
no confusion, and the man would have been unable to
get away.
Nor did the news that awaited Foyle at his office
tend to make him more pleased with the progress of
the investigation. A telephone message had come


204 THE GRELL MYSTERY
through the chief of the Liverpool detective force—
"Man found drugged in first-class compartment
of express from London, bears warrant card and
other documents identifying him as Inspector
Robert Blake, C.I.D., London. Is now under
care of our surgeon, and has not yet recovered
consciousness. In no danger. He travelled from
London with a woman fashionably dressed, dark
hair, dark blue eyes. Am now endeavouring to
find her. Can you suggest any steps we can
take?"
Foyle banged his fist viciously on his desk. "There!
We're not the only people who have made blunders
to-day, Green. Look at that. Wire to them a full
description of this woman Petrovska, and tell 'em to
detain her if they come across her. We charge her
with administering a noxious drug, and that'll hold her
safe till we get the business cleared up. If she's trying
to slip out of the country, they're pretty safe to get
her in one of the liners. Wire over our men at Liver-
pool to the same effect."
Green slipped away. In a little he returned with
a slip of paper in his hand. "Wire's gone to Liver-
pool. I've drafted this out for Mr. Jerrold, if you'll
just look at it. I promised him he should know any-
thing there was to tell."
The sheet of paper read—
"In connection with the investigation into the
murder of Mr. Robert Grell, Superintendent
Heldon Foyle, accompanied by Chief Detective-


THE GRELL MYSTERY 205
Inspector Green, Divisional Detective-Inspector
Wrington, and other detectives, examined the body
of a man found in the river, whom it was supposed
might be the man Goldenburg, for whom search
is being made. The police are of the opinion that
the drowned man is not Goldenburg."
A light of amusement twinkled in Foyle's blue eyes.
"Don't you think he'll discover that to be a de-
liberate lie, Mr. Green?"
"Well," said Green doggedly, "we can't tell him
what has happened, and we've got to satisfy him some-
how. I promised to let him know something, and it's
true that a body has been found. I asked Wrington.
And it's true that it's not Goldenburg."
"Oh, all right, let it go. You'd better arrange the
laundry inquiry first thing in the morning. Now let
me alone. I want to think."


CHAPTER XXXV
Sir Hilary Thornton had come to Heldon Foyle's
stocktaking. The superintendent, with a mass of papers
on the desk in front of him, talked swiftly, now and
again referring to the typewritten idex of reports and
statements in order to verify some point. The Assist-
ant Commissioner occasionally interpolated some ques-
tion, but for the most part he remained gravely silent.
Foyle recapitulated the events of the preceding day.
"It was sheer foolishness, Sir Hilary," he admitted
bitterly. "If we hadn't blundered Grell would have
been in our hands now. As it is, we have to begin
the search for him all over again."
Through the open window came the rumble of a
motor-omnibus used by the police to test applicants for
licenses. Thornton swung the window close.
"You still think that Grell had a hand in it?"
"I'm never positive, Sir Hilary, when it is a question
of circumstantial evidence. But there can be no ques-
tion that if he is not guilty himself he knows who
is. I am so certain that I had a schedule of witnesses
made out for the Treasury. Here they are."
He selected a sheet of paper and passed it to the
other. Thornton read it and handed it back without
comment.
"There are gaps in it, of course," went on Foyle.
"As a matter of evidence, though, practically all we
want is to identify the finger-prints. They of them-
206


THE GRELL MYSTERY 207
selves would determine the investigation. But we can't
tell whether they are Grell's or not until we get hold of
him. We've identified the linen found in the bag on
the barge as having been bought for Grell, but there
is no name or initials on the bag itself. I have not
yet heard from Wrington. He may have something
further to report. About Goldenburg. I got Pinker-
ton's to look into his career in America. They have
discovered that five years ago he was in San Francisco
for three months, and at that time he was apparently
well supplied with money. Grell arrived there a month
before he left, and they left the city within a day of
each other."
"A coincidence."
"It may be or may not. Grell's movements were
pretty well chronicled in the American Press at that
time, and it is at any rate conceivable that Goldenburg
went there with the express intention of meeting him.
More than that, Grell was staying at the Waldorf
Astoria in New York two years ago. Goldenburg went
straight there from India—which he had made too hot
to hold him—stayed at the same hotel, and left within
three days for Cape Town. Why should he go to
Cape Town via New York? I may be right or wrong
in the opinion I have formed, but at any rate we have
established a point of contact between the two men."
"There is something in that," agreed Sir Hilary,
with a jerky nod of the head.
"More than that, on the New York visit Goldenburg
was accompanied by a woman whose description in
every particular corresponds with that of the Prin-
cess Petrovska—though she called herself the Hon.


208 THE GRELL MYSTERY
Katherine Bait on. There is material enough in that
information, Sir Hilary, to draw a number of con-
clusions from. At any rate, they go to confirm my
opinions at present. I know very well that there is
sometimes smoke without fire, but my experience is that
you can usually safely lay odds that there is a fire
somewhere when you do see smoke."
The elliptic form of speech was sometimes adopted
by Heldon Foyle in discussing affairs with one whose
alertness of brain he could depend upon. Thornton
twisted his grey moustache and his eye twinkled
appreciatively.
"That's all right," he said. "But how do you
account for Grell finding people ready to his hand in
London to help him disappear at the very moment he
needs them? There are several people mixed up in it,
we know; but how is it that they are all loyal to him?
We know that criminals will not keep faith with each
other unless there is some strong inducement. How
do you account for it?"
"There may be a dozen reasons. Purely as an
hypothesis, Grell may have a hold on these people by
threatening them with exposure for some crime they
have committed. Self-interest is the finest incentive
I know to silence."
"All the same, it's queer," said Sir Hilary, with a
little frown. "What do you propose to do?"
Heldon Foyle's lips became dogged. "Break 'em
up piecemeal as we lay our hands on 'em now.
We've got one—the man we roped in with Red Ike.
He's as tight as an oyster; but while we've got him he
can't do anything to help his pals. Then there's the


210 THE GRELL MYSTERY
Machin says he had no chance to telephone through
before. She has not gone to Wapping," he added, as
he saw the eyes of his chief seek the clock. "She
went straight back home and has not come out
since."
A low whistle came from between Foyle's teeth and
his eyes met Thornton. "She knew the advertisement
was to appear in the Daily Wire, and she got up early
to warn Grell that we know, in case he should give an
address. She did not discover a little paragraph of
Mr. Green's invention till after she returned home, and
then her curiosity was stirred, and she hoped, by going
to Waterloo, to find a subordinate detective whom she
might pump. What do you think, Green?"
"I agree with you, sir. She'll turn up here later,
I shouldn't wonder."
Sir Hilary Thornton strode to the door, returning
the greeting of Wrington, whom he passed as he retired.
The river man was evidently pleased with himself.
Foyle took a place in front of the fire and waited.
"Had a cold night?" he queried.
"Been too busy to think about it, sir," he chuckled.
"We discovered that the owners of the barge engaged
the man who gave the name of Floyd on the written
recommendation of a firm of steamship agents—that,
by the way, was forged, for the agents deny all knowl-
edge of the man. He was supposed to have been an
American sailor. Once or twice he has been visited
on the boat by a couple of men who pulled up in a
dinghy hired from Blackfriars. The regular waterman
hardly ever caught a glimpse of him—he never showed
himself by day. This morning a letter was sent


THE GRELL MYSTERY
211
aboard addressed to James Floyd, Esq. I never
opened it, thinking perhaps you might prefer to do so.
We searched the barge from end to end, and Jones is
outside with a bag of different things you might like
to see. What I thought most important, however, was
this."
He dipped his hand in his jacket pocket and, with-
drawing a small package wrapped in newspaper, care-
fully unfolded it. Something fell with a tinkle on
Foyle's desk.
"By the living jingo!" ejaculated Green. "It's the
sheath of the dagger!"
The superintendent picked up the thing1—a small
sheath of bright steel with, on the outside, a screw
manipulating a catch by which it might be fastened to
a belt. He handled it delicately from the ends.
"I believe you're right," he said. "Now, what
about the letter?"


THE GRELL MYSTERY 2ia
walking costume, and she had not even removed her
hat since she returned. In answer to her summons
a maid appeared with a cup of coffee and a couple
of biscuits on a tray. That reminded her that she had
not eaten since she had risen. She drank the coffee
and ate the biscuits, while waiting for the brougham
she had ordered. Within a quarter of an hour she
was on her way to Scotland Yard.
In the circular hall, entered through swing-doors
from the wide steps of the main entrance, a uniformed
policeman hurried forward to take her card. Through
the big windows she could see beneath her the surging
life of the Embankment and the smooth traffic of the
river. Had the river given up its secret? The con-
stable returned, and she was ushered along a grey and
green corridor to Foyle's room. He had his overcoat
on, and his hat and stick lay on the table. He smiled
a polite welcome at her, and she strove to read his
genial face without success. For her there was some-
thing of humiliation in the situation. She, who had
taken pains to be offensive on the last occasion that
they had met, was now dependent upon his good-nature
for the information she wanted.
"What can I do for you, Lady Eileen?" he asked
with grave courtesy.
She had dropped into a chair and her grey eyes
met his, half defiant, half entreating. She answered
with quick directness—
"You can tell me what has happened to Mr. Grell."
He opened his hands in a gesture of surprised ex-
postulation. "My dear young lady! I only wish we
knew."


214 THE GRELL MYSTERY
Her foot tattooed impatiently on the floor. "Please
don't treat me as if I were a child, Mr. Foyle. Some-
thing has happened since yesterday morning. I
demand to know what it is."
Foyle was invariably gentle with women, and her
insistent dignity rather amused than angered him.
"Since you demand it," he said suavely, laying a
scarcely perceptible stress on the word demand, "I
will tell you. As the result of certain information,
observation has been kept on Lady Eileen Meredith.
She was followed yesterday to the advertisement offices
of the Daily Wire, where she made inquiries respecting
a certain cipher advertisement which was to appear in
that paper. Failing to obtain what she wanted, she
left a note warning some one in the following terms:
'The police know the cipher. Be very cautious. R. F.
is acting with them.'"
An angry flush swept across the girl's pale cheeks.
"I know you have set your spies about me," she said
scornfully. "I did not come here to ask you that.
What"
"One moment. Let me finish. This morning
Lady Eileen rose at an unfashionable hour—about four,
to be exact—and went out to obtain a copy of the
Daily Wire. Having deciphered the advertisement,
and finding that it afforded no direct clue to Grell's
whereabouts, she returned home and there came across
a paragraph—which I will confess was inspired in this
office—that set her wondering whether, after all, her
lover was safe. She went out again—this time to
Waterloo Bridge police station—and there made some
inquiries"


THE GRELL MYSTERY 215
Eileen had got to her feet. She was plainly angry.
"I don't want to know how effective your spying on a
harmless woman can be."
"I am glad you admit it is effective," he answered
quickly. "I wanted to bring that home to you. You
cannot or will not understand in how perilous a situa-
tion you may find yourself if you go on playing with
fire. There is no one else who has fuller sympathy
with you or greater understanding of your feelings
than I. Therefore I warn you. Do you know that
merely on what you have done and are doing I should,
were I certain that Grell was guilty, be justified in
having you arrested as an accessory after the fact?"
His voice became very grave. "If your conduct has
not hampered this investigation, Lady Eileen, it has
not been for want of effort. Take the warning of a
man who wishes you well. For neither your position
nor your friends will save you if ever you stand in my
way. I shall do my duty, whatever the consequences."
She was more impressed by his words and his tone
than she would have cared to admit. But except that
her face became a shade paler, she gave no indication
that the warning touched her. Foyle had picked up
his hat and stick.
"You have not found him, then? " she cried. "Can
it be doing you any harm to say what has happened?"
"We have not found Grell—yet," he answered. "We
found where he had been hiding, but he got away."
A sigh of relief came from between her lips. She
scarcely noticed the abruptness with which he ended
the interview, and returned his bow almost with
cordiality. Foyle only stayed long enough to thrust


216 THE GRELL MYSTERY
a few papers into the safe, and then followed her out.
Two resounding smacks called his attention to the
landing of the private stairs, where Chief Detective-
Inspector Green was struggling in the embrace of a
stout, matronly woman, while a half-suppressed snigger
came from a passing clerk.
Green, his solemn face crimson, pushed the woman
gently away from him towards a girl and a young
man who were apparently waiting for her. "There,
there; that will do. Let us know if everything does
all right. Won't keep you a moment, sir," and he
disappeared along the corridor.
When he returned he had recovered something of
his usual impassivity. But he could not be oblivious
to the twinkle in Foyle's eyes. "Women are the very
devil," he said as if in answer. "There's no knowing
what they'll do. Now, the young girl there wanted
to run away with a man of fifty, who is already a
married man. So her mother—the old lady you saw
kissing me—brought her up here, evidently under the
impression that we can do anything. I took the girl
into my room and gave her some good advice, telling
her she had much better marry the young man you
saw—they had been engaged, and quarrelled—and I
told of some cases like her own that had come under
my own knowledge. She wept a bit, admitted I was
right, and then suddenly flung herself on top of me
and started hugging and kissing me. I got her out-
side, told her mother that the matter was all right,
when I'm blessed if she didn't try it on too. That
was just as you came out. You may have noticed
that I side-stepped warily round the young man."


THE GRELL MYSTERY 217
"Be careful, Green. Is she a widow?" laughed
Foyle. And then, more seriously: "How far is it to
this place? Our man may be out when we get
there."
"Shall we leave it till to-night, sir? It will be more
certain then."
"No, we'll chance it. Let's have a look at the
letter." He fished a note out of his pocket and paused
to read it through, carefully replacing it in its envelope
as he finished.
It was the letter that had been addressed to Floyd
on the barge "Flowery Land." It read—
"Dear Me. Floyd,—I have tried to carry out your
instructions, but luck has been against me, as I have
to be very careful. It has been easy enough to buy
the seamen's discharges that you require, but I have
been unable to see Lola since she took the advertise-
ment to-day, so do not know if she has managed to
raise money. I believe I am fairly safe here, and my
friends are to be relied upon, though they are much
occupied with the gambling and the smoke, so there is
not much quietness. If you write, address me as Mac-
kirty, 146 Smike Street, Shadwell."
It had needed little penetration to identify the
writer of the note as Ivan, and to guess that he had
taken refuge in a gambling and opium den. Indeed,
this latter fact was soon verified by a telephone appeal
to the detective-inspector in charge of the district, who
declared that he was only waiting for sufficient proof
of the character of the house before making a raid.


218 THE GRELL MYSTERY
Foyle had promptly ordered the place to be discreetly
surrounded, but that no steps were to be taken until
his arrival. He had conceived an admiration for
Ivan's cunning in the matter, for there was no place
where a fugitive could be more certain of having the
intrusion of strangers more carefully guarded against
than a gambling-house.
He was willing to forego a conviction against the
keepers of the place rather than miss an opportunity
of securing Ivan. For cautious steps are always
necessary in proceeding against such places. It is so
easy to transform a game of baccarat, faro, or fantan
into an innocent game of bridge or whist with a few
innocent spectators, and to hide all gambling instru-
ments between the time the police knock and the time
they effect an entry. Then, however positive the officers
may be, they have no legal proof, unless one of their
number has been previously introduced as a "punter,"
and to do that would require time.
Smike Street at one time had been a street of some
pretensions. Even now, in comparison with the neigh-
bourhood in which it was set, it maintained an air
of genteel respectability, and its gloomy three-storeyed
houses had in many cases no more than one family to
a floor. It was, however, one of those back streets of
the East End which are never deserted, for its adult
inhabitants plied trades which took them abroad at all
hours—market porters, street hawkers, factory work-
ers, dock labourers, seamen, all trades jostled here. One
or two of the houses bore a sign, "Hotel for Men
Only."
It was at the corner that Foyle and Green were


THE GRELL MYSTERY 219
joined by the divisional detective-inspector, and the
three swung into the deserted saloon bar of a shabby
public-house which afforded a better opportunity for
unobtrusive conversation than the street. Leaving the
glass of ale he ordered untouched upon the counter,
the superintendent rapidly learned all steps that had
been taken.
"It's a corner house on this side," said the local
man, "kept by an old scoundrel of a Chinaman calling
himself Li Foo, and a man who was a bit of a bruiser
in San Francisco at one time—a chap called Keller.
He looks after the faro game in a back room on the
first floor, while the chink runs the black smoke
upstairs on the stop storey. They're the bosses, but
there's three under-dogs, and the place is kept going
night and day."
Foyle grunted. "How long have you known this?
Couldn't you have dropped on 'em before?"
The other made a deprecatory gesture with his
hands. "They're cunning. The show had been
running three months before we got wind of it.
That was about a month ago, and we've tried every
trick in the bag to get one of our men inside.
There's no chance of rushing the place on a warrant
either, because both front and back doors are double,
and only one man is allowed to go in at a time. They
won't open to two or more. Before we could get the
doors down there'd not be a thing left in the place as
evidence."
A gleam of temper showed in Foyle's blue eyes.
"That's all very well, Mr. Penny. It won't do to tell
me that you've known of this place for a month and


220 THE GRELL MYSTERY
that it is still carried on. Why didn't you let a man
try single-handed? With the door once open he could
force his way in."
"I couldn't send a man on a job like that," pro-
tested the other. "Why, you don't know the place.
They'd murder him before we could get at him."
He flinched away from Foyle as though afraid his
superior would strike him. For the superintendent's
hands were clenched and his eyes were blazing. Yet
when he spoke it was with dangerous quietness.
"A man of your experience ought to know by now
that it's his business to take risks. If you'd made up
your mind there was no other way of obtaining evi-
dence you should have sent a man in. Never mind
that now. Take your orders from Mr. Green for the
day. Green, I'll be back in an hour. I'm going into
that place. Act according to your own discretion if
you think I'm in difficulties."


CHAPTER XXXVII
The game of faro is one that makes no strenuous
demands on the skill of the players. It is chance pure
and simple, and therein lies its fascination. While
baccarat or chemin-de-fer are almost invariably games
to be most in favour when the police raid a gambling-
house in the West End, at the other side of the town
it is invariably discovered that faro holds first place in
the affections of gamblers. In its simplest form it is
merely betting on the turn of each card throughout
a pack.
Although it was broad daylight, the room in which
the operations took place was shuttered and had the
blinds drawn. A three-light gaselier beat down on a
big table in the centre of the room, round three sides
of which were ranged a dozen or fifteen men eagerly
intent on the operations of the banker. A heavy-
jowled man with overhanging black eyebrows, he was
seated in a half-circle cut into the centre of one side
of the table. In front of him was a bright steel box
sufficiently large to contain a pack of cards with the
face of the top card discernible at an opening at the
top. The cards were pressed upwards in the box by
springs, and at the side a narrow opening allowed the
operator to push the cards out one at a time, thus
disclosing the faces of those underneath and deciding
the bets. On each side of the box were the discarded
winning and losing cards, and on the dealer's left a
221


222 THE GRELL MYSTERY
tray which served the purpose of a till in receiving
or paying out money. A cloth with painted repre-
sentations of the thirteen cards of a suit was pinned
to the table nearest to the players, and they placed
stakes on the cards they fancied would next be dis-
closed. Twice the box would click out cards amid
a dead silence. Those who had staked out money on
the first card disclosed won, those who had staked on the
second lost.
There was often dead silence while the turn was
being made, save for the click of a marker shown on
the wall and guarded by a thick-set little man with
red hair, fierce eyes, and an enormous chest. But
directly afterwards babel would break out, to be sternly
quelled by the heavy-jowled man.
"I 'ad set on sa nine," ..." Say, that king was
coppered," . . . "I ought ter have split it."
The jargons of all the world met and crossed at
such time. It was rarely that there arose a serious
quarrel, for Keller and his myrmidons had a swift way
of dealing with malcontents. When a man became
troublesome, the fierce-eyed little marker with the big
chest would tap him on the shoulder.
"That's enough, you," he would say menacingly.
If the warning were not sufficient the left hand of
the little man would drop to his jacket pocket, and
when it emerged it would be decorated with a heavy
brass knuckle-duster. It took but one blow to make
a man lose all interest in the game, and thereafter he
would be handed over to the tender mercies of " Jim,"
a giant of a door-keeper, who after dark would drop
him into the street at some convenient moment, with


THE GRELL MYSTERY 223
a savage warning to keep his mouth shut lest a worse
thing befall him.
This was the place Heldon Foyle had made up his
mind to enter single-handed—a place in which the pre-
cautions against surprise were so complete that every
article which could be identified as a gambling imple-
ment was made of material which could be readily burnt,
or soluble at a temperature lower than that of boiling
water. A big saucepan was continually simmering on
the fire, so that the implements could be dropped in it
at a second's notice.
But Heldon Foyle had hopes. At the worst he could
only fail. He returned to Scotland Yard and shut
himself up for twenty minutes in the make-up room.
When he reached Smike Street again he was no longer
the spruce, upright, well-dressed official. A grimy cap
covered tousled hair. His face was strained, his eyes
bloodshot and his moustache combed out raggedly. A
set of greasy mechanic's overalls had been drawn over
his own clothes. He walked uncertainly.
Green and the local inspector saw him reel past the
public-house in which they still remained, as affording
an excuse to be near the spot, and reel up Smike Street.
Towards the end he appeared confused and gravely
inspected several houses before approaching the gam-
bling-joint. He rapped on the door with his knuckles,
ignoring both the knocker and the bell. It opened a
few inches wide, enough for the scowling face of Jim
the door-keeper to appear in the aperture.
Supporting himself with one hand on the door-post,
Foyle leered amiably at the Cerberus. "Hello, old
sporty want t'come in. Open the door, can't you?"


224
THE GRELL MYSTERY
"Git out of it, you drunken swab. You don't live
here," said Jim, taking stock of the drunken intruder
and coming to a quick decision.
The door slammed. Foyle beat a tattoo on the
panels with his hands, swaying perilously to and fro
the while. Again the door opened the cautious six
inches, and Jim's face was not pleasant to look on as
he swore at the disturber.
"Tha'ss allri', ol' sport," hiccoughed Foyle. "I
want to come in. A Bill Reid tol' me if I wanted—
hie—game I was to come here. You know ol' Bill
Reid "—this almost pleadingly—" he'll tell you I'm
allri', eh?"
The door-keeper of the gaming-house holds an
onerous responsibility. On him depends the safety of
the gamblers from interference by the representatives
of law and order. Jim's suspicions were lulled by
Foyle's quite obvious drunkenness. Nevertheless, a
drunken man who had apparently been told of the
place was a danger so long as he remained clamouring
for admittance on the step. Jim tried tact.
"There's nothing doing now," he explained. "You
go away and come back to-night. It'll be a good game
then."
"Tha'ss a lie," said Foyle, with an assumption of
drunken gravity. "Old Bill Reid he says to me, he
says"
But Jim had lost the remainder of his small stock
of patience. He jerked the door again in Foyle's face,
pulled off the chain and leapt out, his intention of throw-
ing the other into the street and so ending the argument
once for all written on every line of his stalwart figure.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 225
That was his programme. But Foyle had also his
programme. He had got the door open. All that
remained between him and the entrance was the
muscular figure of Jim. He suddenly became sober.
The door-keeper's hand grasping at his collar clutched
empty air. The detective's head dropped. Jim was
met half-way by a short charge and Foyle's shoulder
caught him in the chest. Both men were forced by
the momentum of the charge back through the open
door and fell in a heap just within.
At ordinary times the two would have been fairly
evenly matched. Both were big men, though the
door-keeper had slightly the advantage in size. He
had, however, been taken by surprise and received no
opportunity to utter more than a stifled oath before his
breath was taken away. Inside the house Foyle stood
on no ceremony in order to silence his opponent before
those within could be alarmed. He had fallen on top
of Jim. Pressing down on him with head and knee,
he swung his right fist twice. Jim gave a grunt and
his head rocked loosely on his neck. He had, in the
vernacular of the ring, been put to sleep.
The effects of a knockout blow, however deftly
administered, do not last long. The detective's first
move was to close the street door, leaving the bolts
and chains undone, so that it was fastened merely by
the catches of the Yale locks. Then he whipped a
handkerchief about the unconscious man's mouth, and
silently dragging him to a sitting posture, handcuffed
his wrists beneath his knees, so that he was trussed in
the position schoolboys adopt for cock-fighting. He
surveyed his handiwork critically, and, a new idea


226 THE GRELL MYSTERY
occurring to him, unlaced the man's boots, and, taking
them off, tied the laces round the ankles. That would
prevent the man rattling his boots on the floor when he
came to, and so have given the alarm.
The inner door had been left open by Jim, a lucky
circumstance for Foyle, as otherwise he would have been
at a loss, for it was of stout oak and he must have made
considerable noise in forcing it. Yet he did not make
any attempt to soften his footsteps as he climbed the
stairs. He hoped to be taken as an ordinary client long
enough, at any rate, to discover the whereabouts of
Ivan. Once that was achieved he was reckless as to
his identity becoming known.
He needed no guide to the right door, for the clink
of money and the exclamations of many voices guided
him. He threw it open and entered the faro room with
quiet assurance. Beyond a quick glance from Keller no
one took any notice of him. They took it for granted
that Jim had gone into his bona-fides and that he was
"square."
He took up a position at the end of the table nearest
the door, and apparently watched the game before
staking. In reality he was studying the faces of the
players. He was uncertain whether he would find Ivan
there, but he had calculated that the Russian would
at least be watching, if not taking a hand, if only as a
means of passing the time during his voluntary impris-
onment. And he was right. Seated at the table two
or three paces away was the Russian, lost to all save
the turn of the card.
Foyle bent over and staked a coin. At the same
moment Ivan's eyes met his in puzzled recognition.


THE GRELL MYSTERY
227
There was a crash and the gambler sprang up, over-
turning the chair. His hand was outstretched, the
finger pointing at the detective.
“ That man-how did he get in here?” he cried, with
something like alarm,


CHAPTER XXXVIH
For a second or a trifle more a dead silence followed
Ivan's denunciation. Heldon Foyle backed towards
the door, dragging with him a chair which he had
clutched with some idea of using it as a shield should
there be a rush. There arose an angry snarl among
the gamblers, for with them suspicion was quick. A
rush of crimson had swept across Ivan's face at the first
alarm. He ejaculated something excitedly in Russian,
and then went on in English—
"He is a police officer. I know him. It is the man
Foyle of Scotland Yard."
At the mention of the word police the hubble died
down a little. Heldon Foyle, leaning quietly on the
back of the chair, took advantage of the lull.
"Yes, I am a police officer," he admitted confidently.
"The place is surrounded. It will pay you to behave
yourselves—you over there, put that knife away, do
you hear?"
The order was sharp and authoritative, and the
Greek in whose hand the detective had caught the gleam
of steel thrust it back hastily into the sheath at his
belt. There were men there who would have thought
little of murder, and Foyle knew that once they were
roused to fighting-pitch he stood little chance. At the
first sign of flinching on his part they would be on him
like a pack of wolves. He held them for the moment
only, as a lion-tamer holds his beasts under control—
228


THE GRELL MYSTERY 229
by fearless domineering assumption of authority.
They were like a flock of sheep. Only two men he
feared—Ivan and Keller. Both were men above the
average intelligence, and both had more reason to fear
the law than the others. If either of them took the
initiative he might be placed in an ugly position. He
felt for his whistle while they remained inactive,
uncertain.
"Let's teach the dog a lesson," hissed a venomous
voice—that of Keller. "He's trying to bluff us."
"Boot him, boys," incited Ivan, edging forward and
so creating a movement towards the detective.
Heldon Foyle put his whistle between his teeth and
gripped the heavy chair with both hands. As the rush
came he blew the whistle three times in the peculiar
arrangement of long and short blasts that is the special
police call, and swung the chair down with all his force
on the leading man. It was Keller. The gaming-
house keeper dropped, stunned, and the detective swept
the chair sideways and so forced a clear space about
himself. Again the whistle thrilled out, and Ivan
dodging sideways seized one of the legs of Foyle's
unwieldy weapon. Menacing faces besieged the de-
tective on all sides. Other hands assisted the Russian
to hold the chair. And still no help came. Once the
door opened and the wrinkled leathern face of a China-
man protruded through the slit, took in the scene with
quick understanding and disappeared. That was all
the notice taken of the row by the habitues of the
opium den on the high floor. The two or three clients
who were stretched on the low couches were either
entirely under the influence of the drug or too listless


280
THE GRELL MYSTERY
to worry about anything short of an earthquake—if
even that would have aroused them.
It was with small hope that the superintendent
sounded his whistle again. A heavy blow on the face
laid open his cheek, and he saw the little red-headed
man who had slipped on his heavy brass knuckle-duster
dodge back into the crowd. He relinquished his hold
of the chair and defended himself with his hands. He
carried a pistol in his pocket, but, imbued with the
traditions of the London police, he would not use a
lethal weapon save in the last extremity. Inch by inch
he sidled along the wall, fighting all the while until
he reached the corner. Here the crowd could only
come at him from the front.
A knife was thrown and a bottle crashed against
his shoulder. The crisis had come. He dropped his
guard and his hand closed over his pistol. Those
nearest to him recoiled as the muzzle was thrust into
their faces.
"He daren't shoot," insisted a voice which Foyle
recognised as that of Ivan.
In fact, the gibe was partly true. The detective had
himself well in hand, and he knew that even though
he were justified, a wounded man would lead to an
inquiry which at the very least would prevent his going
on with the Grell investigation for some time. But to
let the taunt pass would invite disaster. He dropped
the weapon to his thigh, forefinger extended along the
barrel to help his aim, and pressed the trigger with
his second finger twice. The reports were deafening
in the confined space of the room, and one man put
his hand to his head with a sharp cry. He need not


THE GRELL MYSTERY 231
have disturbed himself, for the bullets had passed over
him and were buried in the opposite wall.
"We'll see whether I daren't fire," said Foyle grimly.
"Come on. Who'd like to be the first?"
There was no answer to his challenge, for from
below came the sound of a crash and the quick tread
of many men racing up the stairs. One or two of the
gamblers turned white, and Foyle felt the tension of
his nerves relax. Half-a-dozen men, headed by Green
and Penny, were rushing into the room.
A little gurgling laugh burst from the superin-
tendent, and he waved his hand about the room. "You
see, Penny, it could be done, single-handed. That is
Ivan over there. Take good care of him, Green.
Keller is that man knocked out down there." And,
swaying, he crashed forward to the floor in a dead
faint.
When he came round he was lying on a couch with
his injured face and shoulder neatly bandaged. There
were only two other persons in the room, Green and
one of the local detectives, who were systematically
making an inventory of everything in the room. The
superintendent struggled to a sitting position and the
movement brought Green to his side.
"Hello, Green," said the superintendent cheerfully.
"You've got 'em all away, I see. How long have I
been lying here?"
"Matter of half an hour. It's only a case of loss
of blood, I think. You must have been bleeding for
some time before we broke in on the tea-party. We
put some first-aid bandages on."
"I'm all right," said Foyle, rising stiffly. "What


232 THE GRELL MYSTERY
happened? You were a deuce of a time answering my
whistle."
"We tried the wrong door first, and it's my belief
that nothing short of dynamite would move it. It's
steel-lined, and with all the bolts pushed home we stood
no chance. We gave it up after awhile and tried the
other. Luckily that was not bolted."
"I know. I left it like that purposely."
"Well, we didn't know. By that time we got thirty
uniform men down here, and they followed us up.
Once we got the door down and found the chap you'd
trussed behind it, we had no trouble worth mentioning
except with Master Ivan, who fought like a wild cat.
We got the cuffs on him at last, but even then it took
four men to get him away. Penny is down at the
station waiting till you come before charging 'em.
What is it to be? Attempt to murder?"
"No, I don't think we can get a conviction on that,"
answered Foyle. "There's plenty up against them—
unlawful wounding, assaulting a police officer in the
execution of his duty, frequenting a gaming-house, and,
of course, Ivan could be charged with the Waverley
affair if we find it necessary now. I see you've started
running over the house."
"Only just started. We are waiting for the
divisional surgeon to see to you and three men who
are sleeping like logs in the opium-joint upstairs. The
Chinaman seems to have vanished—at any rate, he
can't be found. It's just about time this place was
broken up. Keller took no chances with the bank."
He picked up the faro-box. "Now, in the States this


THE GRELL MYSTERY
kind of thing would not go. It's a two-card needle-
tell swindle."
"That's done with fifty-four cards to the pack, isn't
it?" asked Foyle indifferently, handling the box.
"I've seen something like it before. The dealer is
warned of the approach of duplicate cards by a tiny
needle-point jumping out of one side of the box."
"That's it."
"Well, all that will have to be explained when the
case comes on for trial. I'm more interested in Ivan
just now. It's something to have him under lock and
key. I'll leave you here to handle the remainder of
the business and get down to the station. No—I'll not
wait for the doctor. I feel perfectly fit now."
In spite of his assertion the superintendent felt a
little dizzy when he reached the open air. A big crowd
filled the street, and a dozen reporters who had been
held sternly at bay by the constables on duty at the
gambling-house pounced on him determinedly. He
laughingly waved them aside, but they would not be
denied, and while they walked at his side gave a suc-
cinct account of what had happened, omitting all refer-
ence to Ivan Abramovitch.
"New thing for you to come all the way to the
East End to take charge of a gambling raid, isn't it?"
asked Jerrold, the Wire man, in a tone that told of a
shrewd suspicion of something underlying.
"Oh, it's been an experience," said Foyle lightly,
indicating his bandaged head. "I've told you every-
thing I know now, boys. If there's anything else you
can use, I'll have it at the Yard presently. So-long."
The journalists melted away, and Foyle presently


THE GRELL MYSTERY 235
"Very well. Have 'em all in except Abramovitch
and Keller. I will pick out those I want charged with
assault, or who I think were mixed up with Keller.
The remainder might be let out on bail after you have
verified their addresses."
The prisoners were ushered into the room, a shame-
faced, sullen, dispirited gang now. Penny and a clerk
passed along the line, taking their names, while Foyle
scrutinised their faces. Finally, the superintendent
touched four men on the shoulder one after the other.
One was Jim, the door-keeper; another the red-haired
man with the big chest; the third and fourth two men
who had been prominent in the attack. Penny put a
tick against their names, and the whole of the prisoners,
many of whom had broken into voluble protest and
appeal, were taken back to the cells. Foyle had
determined to leave the business of charging them to
Green and Penny.


CHAPTER XXXIX
Something of the chagrin caused to Heldon Foyle by
the escape of the man on the barge had vanished with
the success of his operations in Smike Street. If his
frontal attack had failed, he had at least achieved
something by his flank movement. The break-up of
the gambling-den, too, was something. Altogether he
felt that his injuries were a cheap price to pay for what
had been achieved.
In bare detail he related the sequence of events to
Sir Hilary Thornton, who, with a gloved hand jerking
at his grey moustache, listened with only an occasional
observation.
The inevitable crowd of journalists, who had been
warned by telephone from their colleagues at Smike
Street, were jumbled in a tiny, tiny waiting-room when
Foyle and his superior reached headquarters. The
superintendent, having changed his attire, made it his
first business to satisfy their clamorous demands by
dictating a brief and discreet account of the raid, to
be typed and handed out to them, then with a head
that ached intolerably he forced himself to do some
clear thinking.
With the dossier of the case before him, he read and
re-read all that had been gathered by his men and
himself since that night when he had been called from
his sleep to find Harry Goldenburg dead. Was there
some point he had overlooked? He knew how fatal
236


THE GRELL MYSTERY 237
it was in the work of criminal investigation to take
anything for granted. Although the main work of the
explorer was now focused on Grell, it was not entirely
certain that he was the murderer. Indeed, strange as
his proceedings had been, there might be some ex-
planation that would account for them. It might be
that after Grell was found the whole investigation
would have to begin again with the scent grown cold.
Stranger things had happened.
The superintendent dropped his papers wearily into
a drawer and turned the key. His speculations were
unprofitable. He turned over in his brain his plans
for running down Grell. Of the people who had been
assisting him to evade capture three were out of the
way for the time being. Ivan Abramovitch and Condit
were safely under lock and key. The Princess
Petrovska was out of London, and there was a fair
margin of assumption that she was located somewhere
in Liverpool, where the local police were assisting the
Scotland Yard men. It was hardly possible that she
would double back, even if she evaded their rigorous
search. With the detectives on duty at the London
termini reinforced and on strict watch, her chances of
doing so were very slim.
With three of his friends out of touch, and hampered
by want of money, Grell would have to seek a fresh
refuge. The chief result of Foyle's actions had been
to make any steps he might take more difficult. That
was all. It was still possible for him to dodge the
pursuit..
The evening papers with the story of the raid were
already upon the streets. What would be the effect


238 THE GRELL MYSTERY
upon Grell's plans when he learned that Ivan had been
captured? In the case of an ordinary criminal, Heldon
Foyle might have forecasted what would happen with
a fair degree of certainty. But Grell was not an
ordinary criminal, even if he were a criminal at all.
If he could gain a hint of the possible intentions of the
fugitive he might be able to meet them.
There was a vague chance that either Ivan Abramo-
vitch or Condit might be induced to volunteer a state-
ment, although the possibility was remote. In America
or France there would have been ways of forcing them
to speak. In England it was impossible.
With a yawn Foyle relinquished his efforts, and his
head dropped forward on his desk. In a little he was
fast asleep. He was roused by a light touch on the
shoulder. Green had returned.
"Hello!" said the superintendent. "I must have
dozed off. How have you got on?"
Green adjusted his long body to the comfort of an
arm-chair. "We found the Chinaman. He'd climbed
through a trap-door on to the roof. We went over the
house with a tooth-comb, both before and after I'd had
a little talk with Keller. It seems that both he and
his partner the Chinaman had known the man for some
time before they gave him a room. They're old hands
at the game and won't talk too much. He went out
very occasionally, and mostly at night. We found
nothing bearing on the murder, but plenty to show that
Keller and his pal were running a pretty hot shop."
"H'm! could you dig anything out of any of the
others? There was the door-keeper."
"No. Tight as oysters, all except those who don't


THE GREIX MYSTERY 239
know anything. Ivan has a fit of the sulks. He's called
in Mordix to help him fix up his defence.
The superintendent was rubbing his chin. "Mordix
isn't too scrupulous. I think we'll hold over the charge
of abduction for the time being until we see how things
look. Nobody hurt much, I suppose?"
The saturnine features of the inspector wrinkled into
as near a grin as they were capable of. "Some of
them are rather sore, but the doctor thinks they can
all appear in court to-morrow."
Foyle stretched himself and rose. "Right. We
won't worry any further about it for the moment. I'm
feeling that the best thing for me is a good night's rest.
You'd better go home and do the same. Good night."


CHAPTER XL
A note came to Sir Ralph Fairfield while he was lin-
gering over his breakfast, and the first sight of the
writing, even before he broke open the envelope, caused
a thrill to run through him.
"You must see me at once," said the well-remem-
bered writing imperatively. "Urgent, urgent!"
The paper trembled in Fairfield's hands, and it was
only the reminder of the servant that the messenger
was waiting that brought him sharply out of his daze.
"Yes, yes. Show him in. And, Roberts, while I
am engaged I don't want to be disturbed by anybody
or anything. Don't forget that."
If Roberts had not been so well trained it was possi-
ble that he might have shown surprise at his master's
order. For through the door he held open there sham-
bled an ungainly figure of a man, hunchbacked, with
a week's growth of beard about his chin, and wearing
heavy, patched boots, corduroys, a shabby jacket and
a bright blue muffler. His cap he twisted nervously in
gnarled, dirty hands as he stood waiting just inside
the room till he was certain that the servant had retired
out of hearing.
Then, with a swift movement, he locked the door,
straightened himself out, and strode with outstretched
hand to where Fairfield stood, stony-faced and im-
passive. The baronet deliberately put his hands behind
him, and the other halted suddenly.
"Fairfield!"
840


242 THE GRELL MYSTERY
The man in the chair lifted his shoulders.
"That is fairly obvious. I want you to do what, if
our situations were reversed, I would do for you. I
want money. If you can get me a few hundreds I shall
be all right."
A spasm contracted Fairfield's face for a second.
He had not asked for explanations. Grell had
volunteered none. It seemed as though he were
taking for granted the assumption that he was guilty
of the murder. Surely an innocent man would have
been eager to assert his innocence at the first oppor-
tunity. When Sir Ralph answered, it was slowly, as
though he were weighing each word that he spoke. "I
would be willing enough to help a friend—you know
that, Grell. But why you should think I would lift
a finger to help you evade justice I fail to see. I know
enough of the law to know that I should become an
accessory to the fact."
"You really think I killed that man?" The words
came quick and sharp, like a pistol shot. "I thought
you had known me long enough"
"Words," interrupted Fairfield bitterly. "All
words. You were the last man I should have thought
capable of such a thing; but all the facts are against
you. Need I go over them? Let me tell you that if
ever a jury knows what Scotland Yard knows and you
stand in the dock, no earthly power can save you. If
that crime is on your conscience it seems to rest lightly
enough."
Grell stood up and rested one hand lightly on the
sleeve of his companion. "Fairfield, old chap," he
said earnestly, " we have been through enough together


THE GRELL MYSTERY 243
to prove to you that I am not a coward. I swear on
my honour that I had nothing to do with that man's
death—though I have had reason enough to wish him
dead, God knows. Do you think it is fear for myself
that has driven me into hiding?"
Fairfield shook his head impatiently, and shaking
himself clear paced quickly up and down the room.
"That's all very well, Grell," he said more mildly,
"but it is hardly convincing in the face of facts. You
disappear immediately after the murder, having got me
to lie to cover your retreat, and the next I hear from
you is when you want money. It's too thin. If I
were you I should go now. For the sake of old times
I will say nothing about your visit here, but to help
you by any other means—no. If you had no hand in
that murder, come out like a man and make a fight for
it. I will back you up."
"Thanks." There was a dry bitterness in Grell's
tone that did not escape Sir Ralph. "I couldn't have
got better advice if I'd gone to Scotland Yard itself."
His voice changed to a certain quality of harshness.
"Look here, Fairfield. Suppose I do know something
about this business; suppose I know who Harry
Goldenburg was, and how and why he was killed;
suppose I had stayed while inquiries were being made,
then I should either have to have betrayed a friend or
taken the burden on my own shoulders; suppose I say
I was honest that night when I asked you to conceal
my absence from the St. Jermyn's Club; that I did
nothing which I would not do over again "—he banged
his fist on the table and his eyes glowed fiercely—" I
tell you I have had no choice in this matter. Even you,


THE GRELL MYSTERY
"Ah yes, Eileen," he said quietly. "What about
her?"
"This," Fairfield spoke tensely, "that if you are
guilty you have ruined her life; if you are innocent and
cannot prove it you might as well be guilty. I'll not
conceal from you that I have given Scotland Yard some
measure of assistance in trying to find you. Do you
know why? Because I judged you to be a man. Be-
cause I thought that if put to it you might prove your
innocence or take the only course that could spare her
the degradation of seeing the man she loved convicted
as a murderer."
A grim unmirthful smile parted Robert Grell's lips.
He understood well enough what was meant. "You
always were a good friend, Fairfield," he retorted.
"Perhaps you have a revolver you could lend me."
"Will you use it if I do?" burst impulsively from
Fairfield's white lips. He was sincere in his suggestion.
To his mind there was only one escape from the predica-
ment in which his friend found himself. Anything was
preferable, in his mind, to the open scandal of public
trial.
"Don't be a fool," said Grell, making a gesture as
though waving the subject aside. "I shall not commit
suicide—at any rate, while I've got a fighting chance.
Let's get to the point. Will you lend me some money?"
The clear-cut face of Fairfield had gone very pale.
When he answered it was with dry lips and almost in
a whisper.
"Not a farthing." And then with more emphasis—
"Not a farthing."
A mist was before his eyes. The lock of the door


246 THE GRELL MYSTERY
clicked and Grell shambled out. For ten minutes or
more Ralph Fairfield remained, his fingers twitching at
the buttons of his waistcoat. A revulsion of feeling
had come. Had he done right? Was Grell's course
the wisest, after all? How had his own feelings
towards Eileen influenced him in his decision not to
help the man who had been his friend?
He resolved to try to shake the matter from his
mind, and his hand sought the bell-push. Twice he
rang without receiving any reply, and he flung open the
door and called imperatively—
"Roberts!"
Still his man failed to answer. He walked quickly
through all the rooms that constituted his apartments.
There was no trace of the missing servant. A quick
suspicion tugged at his brain, and he wondered why he
had not thought of it before. Of course, Roberts knew
Grell, but the disguise of the explorer was not abso-
lutely impenetrable. In spite of his clothes, his missing
moustache, and his tousled hair dyed black, Fairfield
had known him. Why not the servant? And if
Roberts had recognised him and was missing—
Fairfield began to hurriedly put on an overcoat.


CHAPTER XLI
The police court proceedings in connection with the
gambling-joint in Smike Street had opened satisfac-
torily so far as the police were concerned. All the
prisoners but the principals and those involved in the
attack on Heldon Foyle had been subjected to small
fines, and were, as the legal phrase goes, " bound over."
The remainder had been remanded for a week at the
request of the prosecuting solicitor, a half-hearted re-
quest for bail being refused.
For the first time since he had attained the rank of
superintendent, Foyle himself had gone into the witness-
box. That was unavoidable, as he was the only man
who could give direct evidence of the character of the
house. Hitherto he had arranged so that the court
work fell on his subordinates while he gave his atten-
tion to organisation and administrative detail; for the
giving of evidence is only the end of the work of a
detective. There are men behind the scenes in most
cases that come into the criminal courts who are never
told off, happenings never referred to. They are
summed up in the phrase "Acting on information
received, I "The business of a detective is to se-
cure his prisoner and give evidence, not to tell how it
was done.
"Still no news from Liverpool," said the superin-
tendent as he left the court with Green. "I begin
247


248 THE GRELL MYSTERY
to wish I'd sent you down there. That woman has
got the knack of vanishing."
"Yes," agreed his lieutenant, producing a well-worn
brier and pressing the tobacco down with a horny
thumb. "And yet people think we've got an easy job.
Lola knows her business, and I'm open to bet she'll not
be found before she wants to be found."
Foyle chuckled at this enunciation of rank heresy.
Only a veteran of Green's experience would have dared
question the ability of Scotland Yard to maintain a
scent once picked up. The superintendent did not take
the pessimism too seriously. In theory it is not difficult
for one person to disappear among forty millions, but
to remain hidden indefinitely, in the face of a vigorous,
sustained search by men trained to their business is not
so simple in practice.
"You've got a habit of looking on the worst side
of things," he laughed. "I've never known us want
any one we knew badly but what we got 'em at last.
Besides, Blake's down there, and he's a good man.
He's got a personal interest in running her down now."
"H'm," commented Green, in the tone of one not
entirely convinced, and lapsed into a stolid silence which
would have irritated some men, but merely amused the
superintendent.
They separated at the door of Foyle's room at
headquarters, and an impatient detective-sergeant,
whose duty it was to weed out callers, promptly headed
Heldon Foyle off.
"A man's been waiting to see you, sir," he said.
"He refused to give his name, but said he had some
important information which he would only give to you


250 THE GRELL MYSTERY
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 some one intimately associated with the
baronet, some one 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 Fair-
field 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 some-
how. I want a good man whom he doesn't know to


THE GRELL MYSTERY 251
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


THE GRELI, MYSTERY
back. I've come to see what this important informa-
tion 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 mis-
take," 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 him-
self 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 con-
tempt 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 sup-


THE GRELL MYSTERY 253
pose you've deceived yourself with some fancied resem-
blance."
"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 gossipping, and for that reason it
was policy to discount the importance of his informa-
tion. 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


CHAPTER XLII
But that his breath came a little faster, Fairfield gave
no sign of the perturbation that Heldon Foyle's pres-
ence 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 detective 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 some-
where. 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 mud-
dled 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.
255


256 THE GRELL MYSTERY
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.
<s 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 to-day?" 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
Tiands 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
Teplied, " 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 indica-
tion 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


258 THE GRELL MYSTERY
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 fright-
fully 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 but 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.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 259
"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


260 THE GRELL MYSTERY
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 answered 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


262 THE GRELL MYSTERY
black background. Foyle did not touch the paper till
he had read:
“... both .. , minent . . . sufficient money
to ... ade for ... Petrov ..guesse . ...
fear . . . timately exposure must come. If ...
open cheque . . . ther... gold, and bring ...
God's sake . . . desperate."
Foyle's lips puckered into a whistle as he transferred
the words to his pocket-book. He dared not touch
the fragments till he had done so, and every moment
he feared that some draught might destroy the whole
thing. His keen professional instincts were saddened
by the impossibility of saving what might be an
important piece of evidence. Under favourable
circumstances there might have been some chance of
retrieving and preserving it by blocking the chimney
to prevent a draught and then carefully sticking the
burnt fragments with gum on to transparent paper.
But that method was impossible. Foyle tried gingerly
to rescue the fragments, but a burst of flame frustrated
him, and a moment later they were destroyed.
An ejaculation of annoyance escaped his lips, and
he turned to the dainty little desk at another portion
of the room. It was locked, but that was a matter of
little consequence. Like most detectives, Foyle carried
a bunch of keys rather larger than are to be found in
the possession of the ordinary man, and the fourth that
he tried fitted.
The neat interior slab of the desk was clear and
tidy. One or two letters of no consequence reposed in


THE GRELL MYSTERY 263
an inside drawer, and these the superintendent replaced.
A footstep outside caused him hurriedly but noiselessly
to close the desk and resume his seat, sitting idly with
crossed legs. But the interrupter passed, and he re-
turned to the desk. From a recess he drew out a
cheque-book and examined the counterfoils of the used
cheques with interest. The last counterfoil was blank.
"Ah!" he muttered, with a jerky little nod of satis-
faction, and turned his attention to the blotting-pad.
A few minutes' close inspection and he drew the top
sheet away and, rolling it up, placed it in the breast-
pocket of his overcoat. Again he closed the desk and
glanced at his watch. A touch at the bell summoned
the footman.
"I don't think I'll wait, after all," said Foyle.
"Time's getting on, and I've several things to attend
to."
"Shall I tell Lady Eileen you called, sir?"
"Oh yes, certainly. Tell her I'll call back about six
this evening."
In deep thought Heldon Foyle sauntered away from
the house, and Maxwell joined him as they turned a
corner. The superintendent said nothing till they
reached Piccadilly. Then he tore a sheet of note-paper
from his pocket-book and handed it to his companion.
"Cut along up to the Metropolitan and Provincial
Bank, Maxwell. A cheque, No. A834,076 for £200,
signed Burghley, has been presented this morning.
Find out who cashed it and how it was paid. If there
were any notes, get their numbers and come straight on
to me at the Yard."
The superintendent swung himself on to a passing


264 THE GRELL MYSTERY
motor-bus and selected a seat on top, with his brain
still revolving the events of the morning. Once he
took out a pencil and drafted a description of Grell's
appearance and dress as Roberts had seen him. As a
matter of course, he intended that to be telegraphed
and telephoned to his men all over London. It was as
well not to neglect any precaution.
He was passing through the little back door which
leads to the quarters of the C.I.D. when he came face
to face with a young man bearing all the appearance
of a clerk who was just passing out. "Hello,
Phillips!" he exclaimed. "You've been after Lady
Eileen, haven't you? What luck did you have?"
"I've just reported to Mr. Green, sir," was the
answer. "She walked to the Metropolitan and Pro-
vincial Bank and took a taxi when she came out. I
followed in another cab, but my man punctured a tyre
in the Strand and I missed her."
Foyle frowned and gripped the man's arm. "Come
upstairs with me and tell me all about it. What
number was her taxi?"
"County Council LD 6182, police 28,293. Mr.
Green has got the name of the driver from the Public
Carriage Department, and I was just going out to see
if I could get hold of him."
"Right; you get along, then. And don't forget
that if you miss people like that again, accident or no
accident, there'll be trouble."
Green was waiting for his chief. A question elicited
the steps he had taken to get hold of the driver of the
cab, from whom some account of Lady Eileen's move-
ments might be expected. An all-station message had


CHAPTER XLIII
There is no person in London easier to find than a
cab-driver whose number is known, for the supervision
of the Public Carriage Department is exhaustive.
Yet, even so, it was some hours before the man Foyle
sought was reported as being on his way to Scotland
Yard.
He came at last, wonder and a little alarm in his
face as he was brought into the room where the
superintendent and Green sat. There are many rules
the infringement of which will imperil a licence, and
he was not quite sure that he might not have broken
one.
Foyle motioned for the door to be shut. "So
you're the cab-driver we're looking for, are you?" he
said. "You're William White?"
"Yes, sir," answered the man. "That's my name."
"All right, White. There's nothing to be alarmed
about. You picked up a lady outside the Metro-
politan and Provincial Bank this morning. Just sit
down and tell us where you took her."
"Oh, that is it? " said White, relieved to find that it
was merely an inquiry and not an offence that he was
called upon to answer for. "Yes, sir. I did pick up
a lady there. I took her along to the General Post
Office, and waited while she went in. Then"
"Wait a minute," interrupted Foyle. "How long
was she in there?"
886


THE GRELL MYSTERY 267
"Ten minutes as near as a touch, according to the
way the taximeter jumped while I was waiting. When
she came out she asked me if I could take her to Kings-
ton. I said yes. And she told me to stop on the
Surrey side of Putney Bridge, because she expected
to pick up a friend, sir. Well, he was waiting there
for us"
"What kind of a looking man was he?"
"A tough sort of customer. Dressed like a labour-
ing chap. I thought it was a queer go, but it wasn't
none of my business, and ladies take queer fancies at
times. She didn't say nothing to him that I could
hear, but just leaned out of the window and beckoned.
He jumped in and off we went. We stopped at a
tailor's shop in Kingston, and the man went in while
the lady stayed in the cab."
"What was the name of the shop?"
"I didn't notice. I could show it to any one, though,
if I went there again."
"Very well. Go on," said Foyle curtly.
"Well, in a matter of a couple of minutes out comes
the chap again and spoke to the lady. She got out
and paid me off. He went back into the shop and
she walked away down the street."
"And that's the last you saw of them, I suppose?"
asked the superintendent, with his left hand rubbing
vigorously at his chin.
White shook his head. "No, sir. I went away and
had a bit of grub before coming back. As I passed
Kingston railway station, I saw the lady standing by a
big motor-car, talking to the man seated at the wheel.
I thought at first it was the chap I had driven down, but


270 THE GRELL MYSTERY
tenacious as a bull-dog when he's got something to
take hold of."
With his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets,
Sir Hilary strode to and fro across the room. "It's
time we got a bit forward," he said. "The adjourned
inquest will come on again soon, and we shan't be able
to keep the question of identity up our sleeves any
longer."
"There's a week yet," answered Foyle. "I don't
think it will much matter what is revealed then."
The Assistant Commissioner came to a halt. "You're
not a man to be over-confident, Foyle," he explained.
"Do you feel pretty certain of having Grell under
arrest by that time? I've not interfered with you
hitherto, but for heaven's sake be careful. It won't
do to make a mistake—especially with a man of Grell's
standing."
Heldon Foyle lifted his shoulders deprecatingly. "It
all depends upon an idea I have, sir. I am willing to
take all responsibility."
"You're still convinced that Grell is guilty?"
"I am convinced that he knows all about the mur-
der," answered Foyle ambiguously. "With the help
of Pinkerton's, I've traced his history back for the last
twenty-five years. He's had his hands in some queer
episodes in his time before he became a millionaire.
There are gaps which we can't fill up, of course, but
we're pretty complete. There was one thing in his
favour. Although he's known toughs in all corners of
the world, he's never been mixed up in any dirty busi-
ness. And as he's carried out one or two political
missions for the United States, I suppose he's had to


THE GRELL MYSTERY 271
know some of these people. To-morrow or the next
day, I expect to have the records of both Ivan Abram-
ovitch and Condit. It will all help, though the bearing
on the murder is perhaps indirect."
"You're talking in parables, like a detective out of
a book," said Thornton, with a peevishness that his
covering smile could not entirely conceal. "But I
know you'll have your own way when you don't want
to be too precise. How do you regard the burnt
paper? Is it important?"
"It would have been if I could have saved it," said
the detective regretfully. "As it is, it's of no use as
evidence in a court, for it only rests on my word. I
keep pegging away at it, but I'm not certain that I
can fill it out as it should be. But you never know
your luck in our trade. I remember a case of forgery
once. The counterfoil of a tradesman's paying-in
book showed £100 with which he was not credited
in the books of the bank. The cashier was confident
that his initials in blue pencil on the counterfoil were
genuine. Yet he was equally certain that he had not
received the money. The tradesman was certain that he
had sent the money. There it was. I was at a dead
end. One day, I noticed a little stationer's store near
the tradesman's office. In the window were some blue
pencils. I walked in and bought something, and
casually remarked that I shouldn't have thought there
was much demand for those pencils. 'Oh, schoolboys
buy 'em,' said the old woman who served me. 'There's
old s' son over the way. He buys half a dozen
at a time.' Well, off I went to the grammar school
that the boy was attending, and had a talk with one


272
THE GRELL MYSTERY
of the masters. He admitted that the lad was ex-
ceptionally clever at drawing. I was beginning to see
my way, so had the boy called out of his class into
a private room. 'Now, tell me, my boy,' I said, ' what
did you do with the money you stole from your father
on such and such a date?' The bluff worked. He
turned pale, and then admitted that he had forged the
initials, taken the money, and gone on a joy-jaunt for
a week while he was supposed to be staying with an
aunt. There was the luck of the idea coming in my
head through looking at those pencils."
"Have you been looking at blue pencils to-day?"
asked Thornton with interest.
"Something of the kind," admitted Foyle with a
smile, and before he could be questioned further had
vanished.
He had said nothing of the blotting-paper incident,
for there were times when he wished to keep his own
counsel even within the precincts of Scotland Yard
itself. He did not wish to pin himself down until he
was sure. In his own room, he unlocked the big safe
that stood between the two windows, and taking out
the roll he had abstracted from Lady Eileen's desk,
surveyed it with a whimsical smile playing about the
corners of his mouth. Once he held it to the mirror,
and the word " Burghley " was plainly reflected.
"That ought to do," he murmured to himself, and,
replacing it in the safe, swung the heavy door to.
The jig-saw puzzle to which he had likened criminal
investigations was not so jumbled as it had been. One
or two bits of the picture were beginning to stick to-
gether, though there were others that did not seem to


THE GRELL MYSTERY 273
have any points of junction. Foyle pulled out the
dossier of the case, and again went over the evidence
that had been collected. He knew it practically by
heart, but one could never be too certain that nothing
had been overlooked. He was so engaged when Mr.
Fred Trevelyan was announced.
"Fred Trevelyan? Who is he?" he asked mechanic-
ally, his brain still striving with the problem he wished
to elucidate.
"That's the name he gave, sir," answered the clerk,
who ranked as a detective-sergeant. "I should call
him Dutch Fred."
"Oh, I was wandering. Send him in."
There was nothing of the popular conception of the
criminal about Freddy as he swaggered into the room,
bearing a glossy silk hat of the latest fashionable shape
on one arm. His morning coat was of faultless cut.
His trousers were creased with precision. Grey spats
covered his well-shone boots.
Foyle shook hands with him, and his blue eyes
twinkled humorously. "On the war-path, I see,
Freddy. Sit down. What's the game? Going to the
big fight?"
The last remark was made with an object. Profes-
sional boxing attracts perhaps a larger number of the
criminal fraternity than any other sport, except, pos-
sibly, horse-racing. In many cases, it is purely and
simply love of the game that attracts. There is no
ulterior motive. But in the case of Freddy, and men
in his line, there was always the chance of combining
pleasure with profit. The hint was not lost on the
pick-pocket. A hurt expression crossed his face.


274 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"No, Mr. Foyle," he declared earnestly. "I don't
take any interest in boxing. I just called in to put
you wise to something as I was passing."
"That's very nice of you, Freddy. What was it?"
The pick-pocket dropped his voice. "It's about
Harry Goldenburg," he said. "I saw him to-day."
Foyle beat a tattoo on his desk with his fingers.
"That so?" he said listlessly. "Out on the Ports-
mouth Road, I suppose?"
Dutch Fred sat up with a start. "Yes," he agreed,
"just outside Kingston. How did you know?"
"Just a guess," laughed the superintendent. "Well,
what about it? Did you speak to him?"
"I didn't have a chance," retorted Freddy. "I
was in a little run-about with a pal when he came
scooting by hell-for-leather. We only got a glimpse of
him, and if he noticed us he made no sign. I thought
you'd like to know, that's all. It was an open car,
brown colour. I couldn't see the number for dust; it
was A something."
"Well, we know all that," said Foyle. "All the
same, Freddy, I am glad you dropped in: I won't
forget it."
"Right oh, Mr. Foyle. Good evening." And the
pick-pocket swaggered out, while Foyle thoughtfully
stowed away his papers.
Some one brought in a cup of tea and some biscuits,
and his watch showed him that it was a quarter to five.
He had promised to call on Lady Eileen about six
o'clock, and his mind dwelt on the potentialities of the
interview as he lingered over his frugal meal. He had


THE GRELL MYSTERY 275
just poured out his second cup, when the telephone
buzzer behind him jarred.
"A call from Liverpool, sir," said the man in the
private exchange. "Mr. Blake wants you. Shall I
put him through?"
A few minutes elapsed before Foyle heard the voice
of the man who had been outwitted by the Princess
Petrovska. "Is that Mr. Foyle? This is Blake
speaking. We've got on the track of the lady again.
She'd been staying at a boarding-house pretending she
was a member of a theatrical company. A local man
spotted her and came back to fetch me to make certain
of her identity. But she must have got wind of it
somehow, for she's hired a motor and slipped off. We're
after her now. She's only got half an hour's start, and
we've wired to have the main roads watched. I expect
we'll have her in an hour or two."
The superintendent coughed. "Get along then,
Blake. And don't smoke when you're on the job this
time. Good-bye."
He replaced the receiver and returned to his neg-
lected cup of tea. Things were evidently stirring.
Was it altogether chance, he wondered, that Petrovska
had chosen the day to make a move? Strange coinci-
dences did happen at times, yet there was a possibility
that her movements were correlated to those of Grell.
Had the two managed to communicate? Well, at any
rate he could rely on Blake and his assistants to find
out whether she had received letters or messages. The
matter was out of his hands, and it was not his habit
to worry about affairs which he could not influence.


CHAPTER XLIV
THAT Heldon Foyle had come so closely on the heels
of Grell's message was something of a shock to Eileen.
She had not supposed that the detectives would be so
quickly again on the trail. Her heart beat a little
quicker, but her face gave no sign as she drew off her
gloves while the footman told her of the superin-
tendent's call at six.
When she was alone she sat with her long, slender
hands gripping the arms of her chair, her grey eyes
reflecting the light of the fire as she stared abstractedly
into its depths. That she had done her utmost to help
Grell escape she did not regret; she rather triumphed
in the fact. Foyle could know nothing of that -at the
worst he could only suspect. Her precautions had
been too complete. She was confident that she and
Grell were the only two people who knew of the day's
happenings. In any case, she argued to herself, it
was better to see Foyle. She had come to respect his
acumen, and fear he might draw an inference not too
far from the truth if she denied him an interview.
Besides, she asked herself, what had she to fear? Grell
was safely away, and she could trust not to betray
herself.
At six o'clock to the minute a footman-whose
wooden face gave no indication of the fact that a
moment before he had confidently informed Foyle in
a stage whisper, “She seemed pretty cheerful when
she came in, sir-been sitting all alone since”-
276


THE GRELL MYSTERY 277
brought her a card. Then Foyle was ushered in—
calm and unruffled as though he were merely making a
social call. She returned his bow frigidly.
"I hope you will not consider my call inconvenient,
Lady Eileen," he said suavely. "I considered it of
importance that I should see you as soon as possible."
She crossed her knees and regarded him composedly.
"I am sorry I was out when you called this morning.
Had I known, I should have waited for you."
The detective admired the manner in which the girl
carried off a difficult situation. She spoke quite
indifferently, and yet he knew that she was entirely
on her guard. He smoothed the top of his hat with
his hand.
"Sometimes an appointment with one's bankers is
a thing one can't put off," he said blandly.
A tiny spot of colour burned in each of her cheeks
and she flashed one quick look at the detective. This
was an attack in flank which she had not expected. " My
bankers?" she lied instantly, "I have not been to my
bankers'."
"I beg your pardon," he said, his voice keyed to a
curious inflection. "1 was under the impression that
you had—that, in fact, you changed a cheque for £200
made payable to bearer."
She tried to hide a new feeling of alarm under a smile.
"Well, and if I did?" she challenged. "That is, of
course, my private business, Mr. Foyle. You surely
haven't come to cross-examine me on my habits of per-
sonal extravagance?"
"Partly," he countered. "Shall we be plain with
one another?"


278 THE GRELL MYSTERY
She rose and stood with one arm resting on the man-
telpiece, looking down on him. "By all means let us
be plain. I am only a girl and I cannot altogether
follow the subtleties of your work."
"We are not such dreadful people really," he smiled.
"We try to do unpleasant work as little unpleasantly
as possible. As you say, you are only a girl, and al-
though perhaps uncommonly clever, you are—if you
will pardon me—a little apt to let your impulses out-
reach your reason. More than once I have tried to
advise you as I would my own daughter. Well, now,
here is some more advice—for what it is worth. Tell
me exactly what you did between the time you went out
this morning and the time you came in—whom you saw
and where you went. Will you do that?"
The tick of a small clock on the mantelpiece was loud.
Eileen contemplated the tips of her boots with interest.
Then a little ripple of laughter shook her. "You are
a dreadfully suspicious man. If it interests you, then,
you can have it. I went to the bank, and from there
took a cab to my dressmaker's, where I paid a bill and
was fitted for a new gown. I went on and did some
shopping at various places. Shall I write out an exact
account for you?"
If it had been the detective's design to entrap her into
a series of falsehoods he might easily have done so. But
there was no object in pursuing that course. He met
her ingenuous gaze with a little lift of his shoulders.
"This is mere foolishness, Lady Eileen. I want to give
you the opportunity of stating frankly what occurred
from the moment you got Robert Grell's letter this
morning. You know this story of the dressmaker would


THE GRELL MYSTERY 279
fall to pieces the instant we started making inquiries to
verify it."
"So I'm on my defence, then?" she said abruptly.
He nodded and watched closely the changing expres-
sion of her features. "I have done nothing that gives
you any right to question me," she went on defiantly.
"And I am not going to submit to any more questions.
Good morning. Can you find your own way out?"
She caught at her skirt with one hand and with her
chin tilted high in the air would have withdrawn haugh-
tily from the room. She was afraid that his shrewd, per-
sistent questioning and persuasion might end in eliciting
from her more unguarded admissions. He had reached
the door before her, however, and stood leaning with his
back against it and his legs crossed and his arms folded.
She stopped sharply and he divined her intention.
"I shouldn't touch the bell if I were you," he said
peremptorily. "It will be better for both of us if I say
what I have got to say alone."
The decision in his tone stopped her as her hand was
half-way to the bell-push. She paused irresolute, and
at last her hand dropped at her side. Foyle moved to
her, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and half forced
her to a seat. After all, with all her beauty and her
wits she was but a wayward child. Her eyes questioned
him and her lips quivered a little.
"Now," he said sternly. "Tell me if your father
signed the cheque you cashed, or whether you put his
signature to it yourself?"
Her lips moved dumbly and the room seemed to
quiver around her. Finely as she had held herself in
control hitherto, she was now thoroughly unnerved. She


THE GRELL MYSTERY 281
"You—know—that?" she gasped, the words com-
ing slowly one by one from her lips. The accuracy of
his knowledge, and the swiftness with which it must have
been gained both astonished and astounded her.
"I know that," he repeated. "And I know more.
I know, for instance, that Mr. Grell went to Sir Ralph
Fairfield before applying to you. Did he tell you
that?" He waited, but she made no answer. "I know
too that he has left London. You know where he is
making for. Where is it?"
Slowly she shook her head. "I can't tell you," she
cried vehemently. "You cannot force me to. He is an
innocent man. You know he is. You can expose me—
tell all the world that I have been guilty of forgery if
you like—you will not get me to lift a finger to hound
him to his death."
Foyle had failed. He knew it was of little use push-
ing the matter further. He picked up his hat and
gloves and mechanically passed a hand over his fore-
head. But there was one thing that had to be done •
before he left. "I will not trouble you any further
now," he said in a level voice. "I may take it you will
tell your father of the—the banking episode. That will
relieve me of a rather painful task."
"I will tell him," she said dully.
"Then good evening, Lady Eileen."
"Good evening."
The superintendent drew on his gloves as he passed
out of the street door. "She knows her own mind, that
girl," he said tq^ himself. "She won't give away a
thing. Either she's very much in love with him, or"
He rounded the corner into Berkeley Street.


CHAPTER XLV
The first part of the commission given by Heldon Foyle
to Chief Detective-Inspector Green was simple to ex-
ecute and cost him no effort of ingenuity. A straight
drive through into Kingston, a call at the tailor's shop
where Grell had re-fitted himself with clothes, and a few
minutes' conversation with the assistant who had served
him, gave him all the facts concerning the appearance
of the man he was following.
"I'd better take these two notes away," he said, be-
ginning to fold up the flimsies. "I shall want you to
keep a note of the numbers, in case you are called upon
to give evidence."
The tailor scratched his head doubtfully, and cast a
glance on a policeman passing slowly on the other side
of the street. He was beginning to suspect the tall
stranger who asserted he was a police officer, and so
calmly appropriated money. He was wondering
whether, after all, it might not be an ingenious scheme
of robbery. He had heard of such things, and the com-
posure of the detective did not comfort him. Green had
given no proof of his identity beyond his bare word.
With some mumbled excuse the tailor stepped to the
door and beckoned to the policeman. With much volu-
bility he explained the situation and his suspicions. The
constable listened gravely. He was very young to his
duties, and remembered the cautions that had been given
him not to accept any one's word where actions were
suspicious.
282


£84
THE GRELL MYSTERY
"That won't do, old chap," said the constable, in the
manner of one well used to the ways of the criminal
fraternity. "You don't come that on me. You might
have written those envelopes yourself. You'll have to
come along."
If the letters had failed to impress him, Green felt
certain that his visiting-card would be of little use.
Since he had decided to visit the police station in any
case, it did not much matter. It was humiliating, in a
way, but it did not much matter.
"All right, my man," he said authoritatively. "I'll
see the station officer. Send for a cab."
"Cool hand, isn't it?" whispered the policeman to
the tailor. "See how he's dropped trying to pull off
his bluff on me. Just hop out and see if you can find
a cab. I'll keep an eye on him."
So it was that a high official of the Criminal Investi-
gation Department reached an outlying police station
under the conduct of a young constable whose swelling
pride was soon reduced to abject misery as the divi-
sional detective-inspector, who was leaning on a high
desk and chatting with a station-sergeant, sprang for-
ward to greet the suspect.
"They 'phoned through from headquarters for me
to meet you here, sir. There's one or two messages
come through for you."
The constable's jaw dropped. "Is this man—this
gentleman from the Yard? " he gasped.
The local man stared from Green to the policeman,
and from the policeman to Green. Some notion of what
had happened began to occur to him. "What the


288
THE GRELL MYSTERY
they were off. Ten minutes later, another cyclist,
pedaling furiously, rode into the zone of light cast by
their head-lamps. A hail brought him to a stop, and
Green put a question, explaining who he was.
"We've found it, sir," exclaimed the man excitedly.
"It's in a lane at the other side of the little village
called Dalehurst, a mile farther up. It had been run
into a ditch and left there. There's no sign of the
man who was in it. I'm just riding in to report.
There's a sergeant looking after it."
"Never mind about reporting, yet," said Green.
"You come back with us and show us where this car
is. I'll take all responsibility."
They travelled on at a pace that permitted the cyclist
to keep alongside, and presently, turning sharply to
the right, picked their way along a narrow roadway
which, overgrown with grass and flanked by densely-
wooded country, was as desolate and lonely a spot as
could be conceived. The car bumped and swayed over
ruts and hummocks, and Green touched his companion's
sleeve to bid him stop.
"We shall get on quicker and safer if we walk," he
said, and dropped stiffly to the ground. Malley fol-
lowed suit, and swung his arms vigorously about his
body to restore some degree of warmth to his cramped
frame.
"We'll carry one of the headlights with us," said
Green. "Faith, it's muddy."
Their boots made a soft, squelching noise as they
tramped on under black shadows of the trees for a
hundred yards. The track of the previous car was
embedded plain on the soft earth. And here and there


290 THE GRELL MYSTERY
foot-prints had become more and more indistinct with
the transition to ground covered with fallen leaves.
They had failed entirely as Green spoke, and he flung
the light about in an effort to pick them up again.
Then something met his eye on a spike of blackthorn,
and he carefully picked off a thread of brown cloth.
"We're done for to-night, I'm afraid," he said. "He's
gone off the track and got into the wood. We'll get
back, Malley, and try to find a room or somewhere to
sleep near here. Then we can turn out with daylight.
But first of all we must 'phone to the Yard. By the
way, sergeant, do you know whose estate we're on?"
"I'm not quite sure," growled the officer. "It used
to be Colonel Sawford's, but I believe he sold it to that
man who was killed in London a little while back.
Grell was his name, wasn't it?"
"Really? Thank you, sergeant. Come on, Malley.
Perhaps we can find the village post office and use the
'phone."


292 THE GRELL MYSTERY
the place. We'll need a search warrant to go over the
place, but I don't think it'll be any good."
"Nor I," agreed Foyle. "It'll have to be done some
other way. You've asked the county constabulary to
make inquiries and to watch the railway stations round
about, of course? All right. You run things on your
own discretion, and if you or Malley see me just shut
your eyes. Now give me your address and report to
the Yard as usual."
The superintendent lit a cigar after he had replaced
the receiver, and thoughtfully toasted his slippered feet
before the fire. Presently he rose, turned over the
leaves of a time-table, and discovering that Dalehurst
possessed no railway station, discarded it in favour of
a gazetteer. From that he found that the village was
four miles from Deepnook, and the time-table again
consulted showed him that he could reach the latter
place in a couple of hours from Waterloo.
Before he went to bed that night he packed the kit-
bag that had accompanied him in most of his wander-
ings all over the globe. Other things than clothes
found a place in its depths, among them a jemmy, some
putty, and a glazier's diamond. The superintendent
had an idea that they might be more effective than a
search warrant.
Yet, as he turned the key, he realised that the energy
and the efforts of both himself and Green might be
wasted. There was a possibility that it was a blind trail
—that Grell had contrived the whole thing as a blind,
and had slipped out of the net that had been drawn
for the brown motor-car. The thought induced Foyle
to telephone through to headquarters to order a fresh


THE GRELL MYSTERY 293
warning to be wired through to the police at all the
ports. He believed in leaving as little as possible to
chance.
The night staff was still on duty when he reached
Scotland Yard the next morning. The detective-in-
spector in charge stared at a corpulent man clad in a
Norfolk jacket, knickerbockers of brown tweed, whose
heavy boots clanged along the corridor. The hair,
moustache, and eyebrows of the intruder were a shiny
black, and a little trimming with scissors and a judicious
use of a comb and brush had altered the appearance of
the superintendent's face as completely as the clothes
had altered his figure.
He was no believer in stage disguises. False beards
and wigs were liable to go wrong at critical moments.
He nodded reassuringly to the inspector and placed his
kit-bag on the floor.
"It's all right, I'm Foyle right enough. I'm think-
ing of a change of air for a day or two," was all the
explanation he vouchsafed. "I want to just run
through my letters and catch the nine-ten train from
Waterloo. I'll leave a note over for Mr. Mainland,
who'll take charge while I'm away."
He went methodically through the heavy morning's
correspondence, pencilling a few notes here and there
on the letters, and sorting them into baskets ranged
on the table as he finished. Precisely at a quarter to
nine he touched a bell, and gave a few brief instructions.
Then, carrying his bag, he descended the flight of steps
at the front entrance and walked briskly along the
Embankment. As he crossed the footway of Hunger-
ford Bridge, a biting wind swept up the river and he


THE GRELL MYSTERY 295
this way? Dalehurst Grange or something? I suppose
you never saw him?"
"That I 'ave," asserted the porter, eager to associate
himself, however remotely, with the tragedy. "I've
seen him time and again. He always used this station
when he came down from London—though that wasn't
often, worse luck. He was a nice sort of gentleman,
though some of the folks down here pretended that 'e
was not what you'd call in proper society, because he
was an American. But I always found 'im generous
and free-'anded. And to think of 'im being done to
death! My missus says she's afraid to go to bed afore
I go off duty now. It was a great shock to us, that
murder."
He spoke with a solemn shake of the head, as though
he lived in daily dread of assassination himself. "You
see the last train through, I suppose?" asked Foyle
irrelevantly.
"Yes, sir. The ten-nine up. As I was saying, what
with these 'ere murders and things"
"Have they shut the Grange up, or is there still
some one living there?"
"Well, they got rid of most of the servants. I
believe there's still a 'ousekeeper there and a maid, as
well as a gardener. I remember when Mr. Grell first
took over the place, Bill Ellis—'e's the blacksmith—
ses to me "He entered into lengthy reminiscence,
to which Foyle only paid casual heed. He had learned
what he wanted to know. Grell, if he had left the
neighbourhood the preceding night, had not done so
from Deepnook, where he would have infallibly been
recognised. ,


298 THE GRELL MYSTERY
place where Green had found the strip of brown cloth,
which was fairly plain to find, for the footsteps of
Green and the other police officers when they followed
the trail ceased there as Grell's had done.
Here he drew a small pocket-compass from his waist-
coat pocket, and pressing a spring released the needle.
As it came to rest he thrust aside the hazel bushes and
plunged in among the undergrowth. Now and again
he consulted the compass as he walked leisurely for-
ward, wet branches brushing his face and whipping at
his clothes. For the brief portion of the way a keeper's
path facilitated his progress, but at last he was forced
to abandon this and return to the wilder portion of the
wood. He was making a detour which he hoped would
lead him to the back of Dalehurst Grange.
At last he could see a clear space ahead of him, and
in a little, sinking on his knees on a bank, was peering
downhill to an old-fashioned, Jacobean manor-house,
from whose chimney smoke was lazily wreathing up-
ward. Between him and the house a meadow sloped for
a hundred yards, and the back of the house was bounded
by an irregular orchard.
"Pity I didn't think to bring a pair of field-glasses,"
muttered Foyle, as his eyes swept the place. "I can't
tell how those mullioned windows are protected. Well,
I may as well make myself comfortable, I suppose."
A little search rewarded him with a great oak tree,
and in the fork of a branch twenty feet high he found
an easy seat from which he could watch the house
without any great risk of being seen himself. Immobile
as a statue, he remained till long after dusk had fallen
and a steady light appeared at one of the windows.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 299
It was, in fact, ten o'clock, and the light had dis-
appeared when he dropped quietly to earth and, with
quick footsteps, began to cross the meadow to the or-
chard.
Under the fruit trees the detective moved slower and
held his stick before him, softly tapping the ground as
though he were blind. He had not taken half-a-dozen
steps before the stick touched something stretched
about a foot from the ground. Stooping, he groped
in the darkness.
"A cord," he muttered. "Now I wonder if that is
merely a precaution against burglars or "and,
stepping over the obstacle, he went on cautiously feel-
ing his way. Twice more he found cords stretched
across the grass, so that an unwary intruder might be
tripped up, but his caution enabled him to avoid them.
The walls of the house loomed before him. He
stepped to the nearest window and tested it. It was
fastened tightly, nor could he see inside. Foyle had
no taste for the haphazard, and would have liked to
be certain of the run of the house. But one window
was as good as another in the circumstances. He
worked deftly with a glazier's diamond for a while, and
at last removing one of the diamond panes of glass
thrust his hand through and undid the latch. The
window swung open, and the superintendent sat down
on the grass underneath and swiftly unlaced his boots.
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


300 THE GRELL MYSTERY
€
pulled open the door and moved into a thickly carpeted
corridor, which made his stockinged feet almost un-
necessary.
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 de-
manded 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 some one within.
Twice he tried keys without success. At the third at-
tempt 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 it-
self 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 at-
tempt to strike. An elderly woman sat up in bed, sur-
prise 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
301


302 THE GRELL MYSTERY
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, ex-
tending a quivering finger in the direction of the super-
intendent.
Grell lifted his shoulders. "Mrs. Ellis is my house-
keeper 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 smil-
ingly. "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."


THE GRELL MYSTERY 305
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 be-
hind 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
materials 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.


306
THE GRELL MYSTERY
"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 frag-
ments. 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 ab-
duct 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?"


THE GRELL MYSTERY 307
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 evi-
dence than I am," he said unemotionally. "Personally,
I don't think the facts you have mentioned would con-
vict 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 jus-
tice 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 pro-
fessional 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.


808 THE GRELL MYSTERY
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 super-
intendent drily recounted his movements. It was suc-
ceeded by a flash of fury at the last words. "Be care-
ful, 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 under-
stand 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 confirma-
tion 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 impar-
tially, his brow furrowed, his lips tight pressed to-
gether. 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


310 THE GRELL MYSTERY
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 m 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 reflec-
tion, 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 timor-
ously. "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 inter-


THE GRELL MYSTERY 313
Faith, you could in response to the lo he gained. But
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 super-
intendent 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 nerv-
ous 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.


314
THE GRELL MYSTERY
"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 after-
wards."
"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 con-
tinued, as though thinking aloud—
"Now I come to think of it, was Goldenburg a rela-
tive of yours? The likeness is amazing. Well, suppose,
for the sake of argument, he was. And Lola—where


THE GRELL MYSTERY 315
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 fol-
lowed 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 some one after the murder'had occurred.
However, let the subject drop. Perhaps your house-
keeper 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 over-
coat on to a chair. His eyes wandered over the prisoner


316 THE GRELL MYSTERY
with a little pardonable curiosity. Grell bore the in-
spection 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 ap-
preciation. 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 to-day. 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
to-day. Listen."
He told of what he had learned from the housekeeper,
and they discussed the probabilities of the woman reach-


THE GRELL MYSTERY 317
ing 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 my-
self, 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 i»
In a quarter of an hour all preparations were finished.
Malley 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 him-
self. It was merely a matter of travelling precaution.
The superintendent did not believe that Grell would


318 THE GRELL MYSTERY
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. Mean-
while, 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 "sen-
sational." 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 care-
fully, making one or two alterations.
319


820 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"When the inquest in reference to the Gros-
venor 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 vil-
lage by Scotland Yard officers, acting in conjunc-
tion 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 rep-
resentative of this journal was informed that the
officers engaged on the case expect to be in a posi-
tion 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 some
one to 'phone through to all the journalists on the list,
asking 'em to call here at half-past six to-night. 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


THE GRELL MYSTERY 321
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 them-
selves, and he had seen to it that there should be no
indiscretion at Malchester Row.
"Sir Hilary just come in, sir," said some one, opening
the door just wide enough to permit a head to be thrust
within; but before Foyle could move the Assistant Com-
missioner 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 type-
written 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.


822 THE GRELL MYSTERY
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 resig-
nation."
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 misunder-
standing. 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


THE GRELL MYSTERY. S23
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 every
day 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, con-
ducted by a warder, he was taken over the nagged court-
yard 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
824


826
THE GRELL MYSTERY
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 gam-
bling-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 Fran-
cisco 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.”
“ That would be almost five years ago?" interposed
Foyle quietly.
“ Just about that. They never came together, by
the way, and Grell always called himself Mr. Johnson.
His own name would have been too well known. Well,
one night, or rather one morning, he had been winning
pretty heavily. He must have had close upon four or
five thousand dollars in notes on him. At the time I
1 salu..
with you.”;Ch &
de ',,ch any significance to the fact that two or
irst toughs at the table went out shortly
Ivan rose ana
yed about five minutes later to get a
must go to my sol.
ask,” he said sullenlja.
Game on the gang in a narrow, de-
Heldon Foyle seate"
4. they brought Grell down with a
and nursed his stick. isiness of mine and ordinarily I
would it? » he asked smil, but that I'd had a little differ-
to you about has nothing farlier in the day, so I sailed
against you. Mr. Grell iso, and helped Grell to his
324 I left him, and I told him


328 THE GRELL MYSTERY
that I might have to bribe officials. He offered to do
more—to accompany me to St. Petersburg and use all
his influence on behalf of my sister.
"It was at his suggestion that I travelled as his
valet. My appearance had altered since I was last in
Russia, but difficulties might have arisen. We travelled
night and day, but we were too late. The girl who had
never harmed a single person in her white life was dead
—killed by the hardships to which she had been sub-
jected. I—I"
He covered his eyes with his hands for a moment,
and Foyle waited patiently. Ivan controlled himself
with an effort. "Grell advised me to come away, but
I was determined to stay for a while. I had work to
do. I told him nothing, but steadily I sought for the
man who had killed her as surely as though he had
plunged a dagger in her heart. I found him at last"
"Wait a moment," interjected Foyle quickly. "I
want to know nothing of that; that has nothing to do
with me." He had guessed what work it was that the
hot-blooded Russian had remained to do. No man is
bound to incriminate himself.
"It was through Grell that I got away scot-free.
No one suspected the valet of so well-known a man.
He asked no questions, though I could tell that he knew
what—what I knew. He risked much to shield me, al-
though never a word passed between us. Could I do
less when it came to my turn? I came back to England
with him, and I remained his personal servant. I kept
my distance from the other servants."
"In fact, you pretended to have little acquaintance
with English? " interrupted Foyle.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 329
Ivan nodded. "That was so. On the nights when
I was free, I wandered about London and picked up
a few old acquaintances, among them being Charlie
Condit. I shan't tell what I knew about him, but it was
enough to keep him civil, and later on he did what I
told him.
"On the night that the murder occurred, I happened
to be in the hall about nine or a little after, when I saw
a man and a woman through the shaded glass standing
on the steps outside. I opened the door before they
could ring. For the moment I thought the man was
Mr. Grell, but a second later I recognised Goldenburg.
He did not remember me. The woman, too, I knew
at once. I had met her occasionally in different cities
of Europe. It was the Princess Petrovska. Golden-
burg spoke of an appointment and showed me a note
from Mr. Grell directing that the bearer should be shown
to the study to await his arrival.
"That was enough for me. I showed them up and
left them. I did not hear Mr. Grell return, but about
ten o'clock he rang for me and met me at the door of
his study. He told me that he was expecting a lady,
and if she called she was to be brought straight up;
and he said the other people were just going. Almost
immediately after he told me she came. Wills was going
to the door, but I was in front, and I showed her up."
Foyle shifted his position a little. "Who was she?"
he asked.
"I couldn't see her face; she wore a heavy veil."
"All right; go on."
"I knocked at the door of the study, but no one
replied. She pushed by me and entered, closing the


882 THE GRKLL MYSTERY
me, and I led him down to Whitechapel. It was simple
enough for Condit to drop on him from behind, and then
the two of us knocked him senseless, got him into a cab,
and carried him away to Smike Street—to the place
which you raided.
"Mr. Grell knew nothing about that incident till it
was over. He was staying in Grave Street at the time,
and the idea occurred to me of holding your man as a
hostage. We meanwhile contrived to send a note to
Sir Ralph Fairfield. In case of accidents, I was to meet
him in Grave Street and lead him round about till I was
certain he was not followed."
"Then you were the black-bearded man who fired
at me!" exclaimed Foyle. "I might have guessed it."
"And so you were the navvy!" said Ivan. "I didn't
know that, but I at once made up my mind it was dan-
gerous to meddle with Fairfield if he was watched. I
gave him the slip, went back to Mr. Grell, and typed
out a note to you. You got it?"
"Yes. I got it. Where did the paper you used come
from?"
Ivan's brow contracted into a frown of deep thought.
"I forget—no—I got it from Mr. Grell. He tore off
a half-sheet from a letter."
Foyle was thinking of the finger-prints he had found
on that notepaper. Ivan plunged again into his narra-
tive. "After that the Princess came, and Condit. She
had fixed up an arrangement with the people living in
the house that they were to declare her their daughter
if inquiries were made. I don't know if she slept there
after, but she did that night. We worked out a cipher
in order to attempt to communicate secretly with either


THE GRELL MYSTERY 333
Sir Ralph Fairfield or Lady Eileen Meredith. As I
have said, the lack of money was our trouble, and we had
to get some—somehow. Condit went away, and I per-
suaded Mr. Grell to go with him and spend the night at
a gambling-joint in Smike Street. I remained. You
see, we guessed you might want to examine the house, but
we weren't certain. We were right. As you know, I
only got away over the roofs just in time, and the
Princess slipped away while you were engaged.
"After that it was a game of hide-and-seek. We de-
cided that it was too dangerous to keep your detective
a prisoner, and sent him back in a motor-car we hired.
It was easy enough to make a false number to slip over
the real one, so that it couldn't be traced.
"It was my idea after that that Mr. Grell should
become a watchman on the river until we could get away
by embarking before the mast. We tried the advertise-
ment method of communication and failed.
"The Princess undertook to see Lady Eileen—with
what result you know. You know all that has happened
since. I do not regret what I have done. If the killing
of you or any other man would have saved Grell, I would
not have hesitated."
"Thanks," said Foyle drily. "You had a good try
more than once. Now, are you willing to have your
statement taken down by a shorthand writer—so far as
it refers to events in London?"
"I'll repeat it when you like," answered Ivan, squar-
ing his shoulders. "Now you say that you want to
prove Mr. Grell's innocent I have nothing to hide. For
I am certain that he is innocent."
"Tell me one other thing," said the superintendent.
<
/


SS4, THE GRELL MYSTERY
"What is the association between Petrovska and Grell?
Why should she have taken part in this business?"
Ivan spread out his white hands. "That you must
find out either from Mr. Grell or her. I don't know."
Foyle drew out his watch. "All right, Ivan. I'll see
you again shortly. Meanwhile, I'll send some one along
to get your statement. I don't think you'll regret hav-
ing decided to speak. Good-bye."


THE GRELL MYSTERY 837
turbed, Foyle and his chief entered the room. Under
the escort of a uniformed inspector, Grell was brought
in. The superintendent closed and locked the door,
Grell moving stiffly aside to allow him to do so.
"Do you know Sir Hilary Thornton? " asked Foyle
suavely.
Grell bowed. The Assistant Commissioner extended
his hand. "How do you do, Mr. Grell? I should have
been glad to have met you under happier circumstances,
but I assure you that the respect in which I have always
held you is not lessened by this unfortunate business."
The prisoner shook hands doubtfully and his eyes
flashed a questioning look upon Foyle. The superin-
tendent's face was blandly unconscious of the effect of
the Assistant Commissioner's remark, although the
words had been rehearsed and revised a dozen times dur-
ing their walk to the police station. But he had to do
with a man as astute and ready as himself.
"That's very good of you, I'm sure," said Grell, and
a smile illumined his face as he added: "Though I
don't know why this matter should increase your re-
spect."
"Don't you? " said Foyle, laying stress on his words
and eyeing the other meaningly. "Suppose it is because
since I left you this morning, Ivan Abramovitch has
made a full statement to me?"
A little apprehensive shudder swept through Grell's
frame. His lips opened to say something, but he
checked himself suddenly. "What's that to do with
me?" he demanded quietly.
"A great deal, if it's true, as I know it to be. Now,
Mr. Grell, you are not obliged to answer any questions


338
THE GRELL MYSTERY
unless you like—you know that—but I warn you that
your failing to do so cannot prevent us arresting the
guilty person. We know you are innocent—though
whether you may be charged as an accessory after the
fact or not is another question. What do you say?"
The prisoner had leaned his arm on the table. His
fists were clenched until the finger-nails bit into the
flesh.
"If you've made up your minds, so much the better
for me," he said with a half laugh. "Who have you
fixed your suspicions on?"
It was clear that he had doggedly set himself to avoid
affording them any help. His chin was as fixed as that
of Foyle himself. The strong wills of the two men had
crossed. The superintendent felt all his fighting quali-
ties rise. He was determined to break down the other's
wall of imperturbability. He accepted Grell's silence as
a challenge.
Thornton's gentle, cultured voice broke in. "We are
only anxious to spare you as much as possible. You are
a prominent man, and though you must be brought in,
it will serve no purpose to increase what will create
enough scandal."
"I fear you are wasting your time, gentlemen," said
Grell, stretching himself wearily. "Won't it cut this
short if I admit that I killed Goldenburg? I will sign a
confession if it will please you."
The eyes of Thornton and Foyle met for a second.
There was a meaning look in the superintendent's, as
who should say, "I told you so." Then he took from
his breast-pocket a piece of paper, which he unfolded as
he smiled amiably at Grell.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 339
"That is childlike. Your finger-prints prove it is
false. Perhaps you will tell us what underlies this note
that you sent to Lady Eileen Meredith the day you left
London."
He read:
"We are both in imminent danger unless I can
procure sufficient money to help me evade the
search that is being made for me. If I am arrested,
I fear ultimately exposure must come. If you have
no other way of obtaining money, will you try to
get an open cheque from your father? You could
cash it yourself for notes and gold and bring it to
me. For God's sake do what you can. I am des-
perate."
He read it swiftly, as though certain of the accuracy
of the words. As a matter of fact, he was not. He
had pieced together the broken words and phrases that
he had taken from the burning paper in Eileen Mere-
dith's room as well as he could. In filling up some of the
gaps he might have been preposterously wrong.
"Where did you get that? " demanded Grell. "Ei-
leen told me she had burnt it."
His words were an admission that the note was prac-
tically correct. Foyle placed it carefully back in his
pocket, while Grell stared at the opal shade of the elec-
tric light.
"She did burn it," he answered. "I chanced to be
able to retrieve the message. I feel certain that, how-
ever dire your necessity, you would not have written to
her in that strain unless you had some strong reason.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 841
he left you, however low he might be before. I think it
is a fair inference."
"Quite fair." Grell's face was a little drawn, but
he spoke quietly. "You are quite correct, Mr. Foyle.
As you know so much, there can be little harm in en-
lightening you on that part of the story. I take it that
you treat it as confidential."
"Unless it becomes necessary to use it for official
purposes, as evidence or otherwise," said Thornton be-
fore the superintendent could reply. "We cannot give
an absolute pledge."


CHAPTER IH
"Veky well; I am content with that." The prisoner
nursed his chin in his cupped hands and stared unsee-
ingly at the distempered walls. "It began years ago,
on a little farm in New Hampshire. That was my
father's place. He died when I was six or seven, and
my mother married again. The man was the father of
Harry Goldenburg. I was eight years old when Harry
was born. Four years later, my mother died, and when
I was sixteen I ran away from home. You will know
something of my career since then: the newspapers have
repeated it often enough—office-boy, journalist, trav-
eller, stockbroker, politician. I was still young when I
became a fairly well-known man. In the meantime I had
not seen nor heard anything of my brother except that
he had left the village when my stepfather died.
"In Vienna some years ago I became intimate with
Lola Rachael—the woman you know as the Princess
Petrovska. She was a dancer then and had hosts of
admirers among the young men about town. As a mat-
ter of plain fact, I believe she was employed by the
Russian Government for its own purposes. But of that
I was never certain. Anyway she entangled me. And
I believe she really had an affection for me. It was dur-
ing that time that I was fool enough to write her letters
—letters which she kept.
"Eventually I went back to the United States. I
became a state senator and became involved in politics.
842


THE GRELL MYSTERY
343
One day I was in my hotel in Washington when I re-
ceived a visit from my brother Harry Goldenburg. I
was in a way glad to see him, although he was practi-
cally a stranger. He impressed me favourably-per-
haps the fact that we were so alike physically had as
much to do with it as his suave ways and gentle manners.
Even at the time I believe he was suspected by the police
of being an astute swindler. Of that, of course, I was
ignorant. He told me a story of a mail order business
he had established in Chicago which was doing great
things, but which was hampered for lack of capital.
Well, to cut the story short, I lent him five thousand
dollars. A month later, he wrote to me for two thou-
sand, and got it. A few weeks after that I read of a
great fraud engineered in Central America and there
was a three-column portrait in the paper of the man at
the bottom of it-my brother. That opened my eyes.
When next he came to me-he was audacious enough to
do it within the year-I charged him with living by
fraud. He laughed in my face and admitted it. When
I threatened to call in the police, he merely shrugged his
shoulders and asked what I thought of a flaming head-
line in the press :
"BROTHER OF SENATOR GRELL HELD FOR BIG FRAUDS."
“I could see it all just as he painted it. My political
career was very dear to me just then. Such a thing
would have killed it. I knew if I exposed him he was
capable of carrying out his threat. However, I told him
to get out of the place before I threw him out of the
window. He could see I was losing my temper and took
a little pistol from his pocket-a Derringer.


344 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"11 have a number of letters which you sent to a
lady in Vienna,' he said. 'I know many newspapers
which would offer me a good price for 'em.'
"I think it was perhaps fortunate for me that he
held the pistol—or I might have done something I
should afterwards have regretted. He flung a letter
face upwards on the table. It was one of those I had
written to Lola Rachael. If he had the rest of the
correspondence—and he swore that he had—it would
have been deadly in the hands of an unscrupulous
political opponent. As you know, electioneering in the
States is rather different from what it is here. I was
fool enough to pay him money on his promise to suppress
them. He would not sell them outright.
"That was the beginning. After that I never had
a secure moment unless I was away on an exploring
expedition. The moment I reappeared in civilisation
my brother would seek me out. He was cunning enough
to press me only to the verge of endurance. He could
judge exactly how much I would stand. At last, how-
ever, I resolved not to yield another penny to his ex-
tortions. I cut loose from all my affairs in the United
States and came to England. I thought I could fight
him when I had reduced the stakes. I found after all
that I had increased them, for I met Eileen—Lafldy
Eileen Meredith."
He paused. Neither of his two hearers said anything.
An injudicious remark might break the thread of his
thoughts.
"When I became engaged to her," Grell resumed, " I
knew that it would not be long before Goldenburg would
see his chance. I set to work to find Lola, and discovered


THE GRELL MYSTERY 345
her as the Princess Petrovska. Then for the first time
I learned that she had married Goldenburg—but she ad-
mitted that any affection she held for him had long since
faded. They had parted a few weeks after the marriage
—which they both seemed to regard somewhat cynically
—and she had resumed her first husband's name. She
admitted that she had helped him to blackmail me, but
apparently she herself had handled little enough of the
loot. She was vicious enough about it. I gave her a
cheque and induced her to come to London. I had it in
mind to stop this blackmail before I was married.
"As I expected, Goldenburg was not long in scent-
ing profit. He descended on me ravenously. I told
him that I would pay him ten thousand pounds if he
would put all the letters he possessed in my hands but
that I would not otherwise buy his silence. He could
see that I was in earnest, and asked for time to consider.
I gave him till the night before my wedding. I said
nothing of the Princess Petrovska. I knew that they
would meet. One cannot be too scrupulous in dealing
with a scoundrel, and she had her instructions—to steal
the letters from him if necessary, while pretending that
she was only anxious to join forces with him in looting
me.
"But all her efforts went for nothing. He recognised
the value of her co-operation in the circumstances, but
would give her no hint of the place where he had con-
cealed the letters. Time drew on. You will know
enough of her to recognise Lola as a clever, resolute
woman. She made up her mind to accompany Golden-
burg to his appointment with me as a last resort. It
was to keep that appointment that I left Ralph Fair-


THE GRELL MYSTERY
field at the club the night before the wedding—the night
of the murder."
He breathed heavily. Thornton picked up a piece
of paper and crumbled it nervously between his lean
hands. Foyle, eager and alert, was leaning forward,
anxious not to miss a word. A great deal of what had
been obscure was being cleared up. But so far nothing
that Grell had said but could be interpreted as a motive
—and a singularly strong one—which might in other
circumstances weave a hangman's rope about his own
neck.
"You did not want any one to know that you were
absent from the club," remarked Foyle. "Why?"
"That was merely a matter of precaution. I wanted
my interview with Goldenburg to be secret. I had given
Goldenburg a note which would ensure his being shown
to my study and I was purposely a bit late for the ap-
pointment. I wanted to give the Princess Petrovska all
the opportunities possible. But when I reached there it
was clear to me that she had failed. He had not brought
the letters with him. I got rid of the woman, and Gold-
enburg and I quarreled. Then it was that I killed him."
"And what of the other woman?" asked the super-
intendent.
"What other woman?"
"The veiled woman who was shown up to you by
Ivan."
"There was no other woman," said Grell, his lips
tightening. "I have told you as much as I intend to."
"Just as you like. I believe you have told the truth
up to a point, Mr. Grell. It is fair to assume that a
blackmailer of Goldenburg's calibre would have taken


THE GRELL MYSTERY 847
precautions lest you should fail to comply with his de-
mands. Doesn't it appear a fair assumption that he
might have taken steps to arrange the presence of the
person most interested, next to yourself? He probably
never mentioned that he had done so until it was too late
for you to stop her. I mean Lady Eileen Meredith."
The table crashed to the floor as Grell, the last
remnants of his self-restraint gone, leapt to his feet.
Sir Hilary Thornton sprang between the two men.
Foyle also had risen, and though his face was impassive
the blue eyes were sparkling and his fists were clenched.
"You liar!" raved Grell. "How dare you bring her
name into it!"
"This excitement will not advance matters," said
Foyle placidly. "Sit down for a little, Mr. Grell. You
cannot prevent the inevitable."
The tense muscles of the prisoner relaxed and a
shivering fit shook him from head to foot. He could
see the blow that he had striven to avert falling while
he stood impotent. He had taken every risk, made
every sacrifice man could make, to turn it aside. Now
he had been told that he had failed. It was not easy
to admit defeat. His debonair courage had gone.
Sir Hilary Thornton laid a hand gently on his
shoulder. "My dear Mr. Grell," he said, " I don't want
to use the ordinary cant about duty and all the rest of
it. We may sympathise with you—personally, I ad-
mire the attitude you have taken, though perhaps I
shouldn't say it—but our own feelings do not matter the
toss of a button. Nothing you can do or say will
swerve us from what we judge to be the interests of
justice."


848 THE GRELL MYSTERY
"Let me alone for a little while," answered Grell
dully; "I want to think."
They sent him back to the detention-room where,
with a constable seated opposite to him, he was to spend
the night. Foyle rested one arm on the mantelpiece and
kicked the fire viciously into a blaze.
"Ours is an ungrateful business, Sir Hilary," he
grumbled, "but I've never come across a man who put
so many difficulties in the way of being saved from the
gallows as Mr. Robert Grell."
Thornton took a long breath that was almost a sigh.
"Poor chap," he said reflectively. "Poor chap!" And
then, after an interval, " Poor girl! Couldn't you have
dropped a hint, Foyle?"
The introduction of sentiment into business was a
folly that Heldon Foyle seldom permitted himself. With
a shrug he pulled himself together. He shook his head.
"We've got to be more certain yet. I daren't tell him
too much—for my idea may prove to be wrong. You
must remember that it was undoubtedly Eileen Mere-
dith's finger-prints on the dagger. At present it is only
surmise of mine how they got there. Finding the prints
on her blotting-pad, which I showed you, corresponded
with those on the dagger you gave me, was one of the
biggest surprises of my life. But we may clear it up
now."
"H'm," said Thornton. "Well, we shall have to look
sharp."
A thought struck Foyle. He stood rigid as a statue
for a moment, and then slapped his knee with sudden
energy, " By God! I believe I've got it!" he exclaimed,
and jumped for the telephone.


350 THE GRELL MYSTERY
one else. There could be only one person for whom
he was willing to make such a sacrifice—Lady Eileen
Meredith."
"Yes, I understand that. But the finger-prints on
the warning?"
"They puzzled me for a while. But that was made
clear when I talked to Ivan. He had typed it on the
blank half-sheet of a letter given to him by Grell. That
letter—it is only an assumption of mine—was one that
had been written to Grell by Lady Eileen. That clears
that point."
"Still, I don't see how you have anything against
Lola more than you had before."
"There is this. The weak link in the chain of evi-
dence against Lady Eileen Meredith was the lack of
motive. That was why I did not have her arrested im-
mediately I found that it was her finger-prints upon the
dagger. The strongest point against the Princess is the
motive. She was married to Goldenburg, but was not on
the best of terms with him. She was bought by Grell to
play the part of Delilah to the blackmailer. My theory
is this—bear in mind that it is only a theory at the
moment. Grell, for some reason, left her alone with
Goldenburg in his study. There was a quarrel, and she
stabbed him. It must have been all over in a few seconds,
and there was no outcry. You will remember that the
body was found on a couch in a recess, and you may
have noted that curtains could be drawn across to shield
it from the rest of the room. Petrovska may have drawn
the curtains and slipped away before Grell returned.
She is a woman of nerve and would at once set about
manufacturing an alibi."


THE GRELL MYSTERY 851
"All this is very ingenious, Foyle," remarked Thorn-
ton, "but I don't know that it sounds altogether con-
vincing to me."
"It is pure surmise, Sir Hilary. Its chief merit is
that it fits the facts. Of course, Lady Eileen may be the
murderess after all. I am only working out an alterna-
tive. To carry it on a bit further. When Lady Eileen
came, Ivan showed her up to the room. No one an-
swered his knock. She went in and shut the door after
her. It is my idea that there was no one in there when
she discovered the dead man. She was dumbfounded at
first, and probably the body being in the shade did not
permit her to see the face clearly. She placed her hand
on the hilt of the dagger, intending to withdraw it, but
could not bring herself to use the necessary force."
"Why didn't she call out?" demanded Thornton.
"It seems to me"
"There is no accounting for actions arising out of
sudden emotions. Lady Eileen Meredith is as extraordi-
nary a woman in her way as the Princess Petrovska in
hers. She had found a man murdered in her lover's
study—and she may have had a shrewd idea of the rea-
son why she was summoned there. You follow me?
Probably as she stood there, hesitating what to do, Grell
returned. I think it likely that he stood by the door,
took in the situation quietly, and stole away with the
impression that she had killed Goldenburg. If she was
bending over the dead man, that was what he might
naturally think.
"It is likely that he would make up his mind in an
instant. To him the fact that she had raised no outcry
would be significant of her guilt. She, let us suppose,


THE GRELL MYSTERY 358
have had many reasons for assisting him. She most
likely had a shrewd idea of the situation and resolved
to profit by it to avert suspicion. While Grell was sus-
pected she would be safe. But it may have occurred to
her that if we laid our hands on him and he told us any-
thing, we might get on her track. Suppose that to be
so, it is not difficult to see why she should take a prom-
inent part in assisting him. She would still have a cer-
tain amount of money, for he paid her to come to Eng-
land, and she, as we know, would stand at nothing."
"It all sounds very interesting," commented the As-
sistant Commissioner, " biit it looks to me as though it
may be a tough proposition to get evidence bearing it
out."
Foyle pulled out his watch. "My idea may all tum-
ble to pieces as soon as a test is applied. I can't pretend
to be infallible. But we can try. I am going back to
Scotland Yard now, sir. It is ten o'clock. I expect to
be at it all night. Are you coming back?"
"No, I don't think I can be of any assistance to you.
I shall be glad if your theory does come out all right
this time. The alternative suspicions are horrible. Good
night, Mr. Foyle."


356 THE GRELL MYSTERY
her questions to see if she can clear herself. But our
best chance is to take her off her guard. We might go
along and wake her out of her sleep now and chance it."
The Princess Petrovska had been allotted a couch
in the matron's room of Malchester Row police station,
partly to spare her the ignominy of a cell, partly to
ensure that she should be under constant supervision.
Her sleep was troubled, and she woke with a start when
the matron roused her.
"You must dress at once. Some gentlemen are
waiting to see you."
"Waiting to see me? Who are they?" she asked.
Her nerves were still quivering, but her voice was steady
and her face composed.
The matron had received her instructions. "I don't
know who they are," she replied, in a tone that did not
invite further questioning.
Lola, for all her iron will, found her mind dealing
with all sorts of possibilities as she dressed herself
mechanically. It was not for nothing that Foyle had
chosen that hour for his visit. The sudden summons
at such an hour, amid unusual surroundings and the
speculation as to what it would be for, had upset the
woman's balance.
She was taken by the matron into the same room
where Grell had been questioned an hour before.
Foyle and Green sat at the table and, to her imagina-
tion, there was something of judges in their attitude.
A chair had been placed at the other side of the table
facing them, and the lights were so arranged that while


THE GRELL MYSTERY 357
her face would be fully illuminated, theirs would remain
in the shadow.
"Sit down, will you," said Foyle suavely, when the
matron had gone, closing the door behind her. "We're
sorry to trouble you at this hour, but matters of
urgency have arisen."
She strove to read their faces as she seated herself,
but the light baffled her. "I am quite at your disposal,
Mr. Foyle," she said, hiding her uneasiness under an
appearance of flippancy. "What do you want?"
The superintendent balanced a pen between his
fingers. "Mr. Green has already explained that you
are not under arrest," he said, in a quiet, cold voice.
"We are detaining you. Whether you will be the
subject of a grave charge depends upon your answers to
the questions we shall put to you. You must clearly un-
derstand, however, that you are not bound to answer."
"That sounds serious," she laughed. "Go on, Mr.
Foyle. Put your questions."
"Very well. Do you still deny that you visited Mr.
Grell's house on the night that the murder took place?
I think it fair to tell you that we have had statements
both from Ivan Abramovitch and Mr. Grell that you
were there."
He eyed her sternly. She made an expressive
gesture with her white hands, and her rings sparkled
in the electric light. "I'll not dispute it in the cir-
cumstances."
"You went there with Harry Goldenburg, your hus-
band, in connection with a scheme of blackmail he had
conceived. You were to get certain letters from him
for Mr. Grell if you could?"


358
THE GRELL MYSTERY
She bowed. "You are correct, as usual."
"Mr. Grell left the room for some reason, and during
his absence you had an altercation with Goldenburg."
One slender hand resting on the table opened and
clenched. She contemplated her finger-nails absently.
"Oh, no," she said blandly. "We were always on the
most amicable terms."
Foyle leaned over the table, his face set and stern,
and gripped her tightly by the wrist. "Do you realise,"
he demanded, and his voice was fierce, almost theatrical
in its intensity, "that you left your finger-prints on
the hilt of the dagger with which you killed that man—
indisputable evidence that will convict you?"
She shuddered away from him, but his hand-grip
bruised the flesh of her wrist as he held her more tightly.
He had timed his denunciation well. The strain she
had put on herself to meet the situation snapped with
the sudden shock. For a brief second she lost her head.
She struggled wildly to release herself. His blue eyes,
alight with apparent passion, blazed into hers as though
he could read her soul.
"I never left finger-prints," she exclaimed wildly.
"I wore gloves. . . . Oh, my God!"
The superintendent's hand opened. The storm of
passion on his face died down. The woman, now with
a full realisation of what her panic had done, was staring
at him in an ecstasy of terror. Green was writing
furiously.
It was Foyle who broke the stillness that followed.
"That will do, I think," he said in an ordinary tone of
voice, as though resuming a dropped conversation.
"Have you got that down, Green? Mrs. Goldenburg,"


CHAPTER LIV
The blaze of electric lights under their opal shades in
Heldon Foyle's office became dim before the growing
of the dawn. The superintendent, a cigar between his
lips, was working methodically over half-a-dozen piles
of papers. At the other side of the table Green puffed
furiously at an old brier as he compiled from the docu-
ments Foyle handed him a fresh list of witnesses and
their statements to be submitted to the Treasury
solicitors.
All night the two men had toiled without conscious-
ness of fatigue. Their jigsaw puzzle was at last right-
ing itself. The fragments of the picture had begun to
shape clearly. Their efforts had at last been justified.
That alone would be their reward. The trial would
show little of the labour that the case had cost—only
the result. The hard labour of many scores of men
would never be handled outside the walls of Scotland
Yard. They had nothing to do with the guilt or inno-
cence of the Princess Petrovska. When the case was
handed over to the Treasury it would be entirely
straightened out, and it would be for them to present
the simple issue to the judge and jury at the Old
Bailey.
Foyle flung away the remnant of his cigar, and drew
out his watch. It was nine o'clock. Sir Hilary
Thornton, who had heard of the woman's confession
by telephone, might be expected at any moment.
860


862 THE GRELL MYSTERY
Foyle rubbed his chin. "It said that we had de-
tained a man in Sussex," he said encouragingly.
She pulled herself together a little, but her whole
form was trembling. "It was Mr. Grell?" she asked
eagerly.
He inclined his head in assent. "Yes, it was Mr.
Grell."
Her face dropped to her hands and her frame shook.
But when she raised her head she was dry-eyed. The
emotion that possessed her was too deep for tears. She
gazed in a kind of stupor at the immobile face of the
detective.
"You have made a ghastly mistake," she said, and
her voice was level and dull. "Mr. Grell had nothing
to do with the murder. I killed that man. I have
come here to-day to give myself up."
A twinkle of amusement shot into the blue eyes of
Heldon Foyle. The girl, oblivious to all save the misery
that enwrapped her, noticed nothing of his amusement.
But his next words aroused her.
"That's curious," he said slowly, "very curious.
You are the third person to confess to the murder.
Really, I don't believe you can all be guilty."
She stared at him in dumb amazement. Her tortured
mind was slow to accept a new idea. "The third!"
she echoed mechanically.
"Yes, the third. The others are Mr. Robert Grell
and the woman you know as the Princess Petrovska,
who in our police jargon would be described as alias
Lola Rachael, alias Lola Goldenburg." He smiled
down at her as she turned her bewildered face towards
him. "So you see, there is no great need to alarm


364 THE GRELL MYSTERY
He shook his head. "Assume that I know nothing.
Begin at the beginning."
"Well, that was the beginning. I did not know it
was from Goldenburg then, for it was unsigned, and
both the address and the note itself were in type-
writing. It was delivered by an express messenger. It
said that the writer had something of importance affect-
ing my future happiness to say to me, and that I could
learn what it was by calling at Mr. Grell's house about
ten. The writer advised me to keep my visit as secret
as possible."
"Ah! What time did you get the note?"
"I am not quite sure. It was about half-past nine
or quarter to ten."
"Very neatly timed to prevent you making inquiries
beforehand. Go on."
"I was perhaps a little frightened and the note
piqued my curiosity. The quickest way to learn what
was wrong seemed to me to follow the writer's instruc-
tions. I went to Grosvenor Gardens, where I was
apparently expected, for a man-servant let me in and
took me to Mr. Grell's study. I walked in by myself,
not permitting him to announce me. The room was in
semi-darkness, but I could make out a figure on a couch
at the other end of the room. I walked over to it. The
face was in shadow, and not until I was quite close
could I see the stain on the shirt front. It took me
a few moments to realise that the man was dead.
"Then I wanted to scream, to call out for help, but
I could not. It was all too terrible—horrible—like a
ghastly dream. Gradually my wits and my senses
returned to me. It came inta my mind like a flash


THE GRELL MYSTERY 365
that the letter I had received hinted at blackmail. I
could not see the dead man's face."
Her voice died away and she looked a little
hesitatingly at the superintendent. He nodded encour-
agingly.
"Don't be afraid, Lady Eileen. You had found a
dead man in Mr. Grell's house—a man whom you
suspected of blackmailing your fiance. You not un-
naturally thought that he had been killed by Mr.
Grell."
"Yes." She was speaking in a lower key now. "I
feared that Mr. Grell in an excess of passion had killed
him. What was I to think?" She made a gesture of
helplessness with her hands. "My brain was in a whirl,
but I seemed to see things clearly enough. I dared not
raise an alarm, for I recognised that my evidence as
far as it went would be deadly against the man I loved.
I laid my hand on the dagger to withdraw it, but at
that moment I heard the door behind me open and close
quickly. I turned, but not sharply enough to see who
the intruder was.
"Then the idea came to me that I must get quietly
out of the place. So far as I knew I was the only person
who could guess that Mr. Grell had been blackmailed
and so supply a motive for the crime. I slipped down-
stairs and went home. You will understand my state
of mind. At about eleven o'clock I thought of a possible
chance of speaking to Mr. Grell. I rang up his club.
Sir Ralph Fairfield answered. He assured me that Mr.
Grell had been there all the evening, but was too busy
to speak to me. I was unspeakably relieved.
"Then in the morning, he, Sir Ralph Fairfield, came


366
THE GRELL MYSTERY
to see me. I partly guessed his mission, but the full
shock came when he told me that it was Mr. Grell who
was murdered. I think I must have been mad at the
time. I said nothing about my own discovery-if Mr.
Grell had been blackmailed, I did not want any details
to come out. Besides, it seemed obvious to me that
Fairfield had said Grell was at the club in order to shield
himself.” She flushed slightly. “I knew Sir Ralph loved
me. I thought he was guilty and—and denounced him.
“I continued to believe that until the Princess
Petrovska came to me with a note from Mr. Grell
bidding me trust her. I gave her my jewels, and she
told me he could communicate with me by cipher. I
returned to my first idea that he had killed Goldenburg
—the Princess told me the murdered man's name
rather than submit to blackmail. I determined to do
all I could to help him, for, murderer or not, I loved
him-I loved him. You know how our attempt to
communicate by cipher failed.
“ A day or two ago he sent me a notea mysterious
note-saying we were both in danger. I could not
understand that part of it, but it was clear he wanted
money. I could not get it except by putting my
father's name to a cheque. You know all about that.
I took a taxicab and arranged to meet him at Putney."
“ You went to the General Post Office before that,"
interposed Foyle.
“Yes, I wanted to order a motor-car to meet us at
Kingston. I thought it safer to do it from a public-call
office so as to leave as little trace as possible. I picked
Mr. Grell up at Putney, and gave him the money.
Neither of us referred directly to the murder during


CHAPTER LV
For ten minutes the (two heads of the detective service
of London were in conference. Then there was an
interruption. The door was pulled open without any
preliminary knock, and Chief-Inspector Green strode
swiftly in, with Robert Grell at his heels. Both men
were plainly stirred by some suppressed excitement.
Green laid a note down in front of Foyle.
"Petrovska has killed herself," he exclaimed. "The
matron found her poisoned in her cell, a minute or so
after I reached Malchester Row. There was poison in
one of her rings. She left this letter addressed to you."
"Ah!" There was no betrayal of astonishment or
any other emotion in the superintendent's tone. He
fingered the letter carelessly. "Won't you sit down,
Mr. Grell? No doubt you'll excuse us for a moment.
Sit down, Green."
He tore open the letter and glanced over the neat,
delicate handwriting. Thornton was leaning eagerly
across the table. "A confession? " he asked.
"Yes—a confession," he replied. "Shall I read it
aloud?" His eyes rested for an instant on Robert
Grell. "You may care to hear it," he added.
"Go on," said Thornton.
Poyle spread the sheets on the table in front of him
and began to read in a steady, expressionless tone.
"Heldon Foyle, Esq., Superintendent, C.I.D., New
Scotland Yard, S.W.—Sir,—It would be futile, after
369


THE GRELL MYSTERY 871
woman will be a fool sometimes. You will guess what
happened. He saw no need to share his plunder with me,
and he left me. There was no open quarrel, but I deter-
mined that some day I would get even. But on the few
occasions we met afterwards I preserved a friendly atti-
tude. I even helped him in certain affairs.
"Then there came the time when Mr. Grell sought
me out and paid me to attempt to recover his letters. I
jumped at the chance, for apart from the money it
seemed a fine opportunity to score off Goldenburg. I
hadn't much difficulty in getting in touch with him when
he reached London. He thought—and I encouraged
the thought—that, like himself, I had been attracted
here by the prospect of bleeding Grell on the eve of his
marriage. I proposed a business partnership, and he,
probably laughing in his sleeve, agreed. He had no
intention of paying me my share, but he thought I
might be useful in case the threat of publishing the
letters might not be enough.
"But I never got the letters, although I used every
means that occurred to me. I even suggested that he
should entrust them to me so that I might try to
extort money by their means from Lady Eileen
Meredith. He would have none of it. I changed my
ground and arranged to accompany him on what was
to be the final decisive interview with Grell on his
wedding eve.
"I said little during the preliminary talk. Both
men were firm. Goldenburg declared that he would not
give up the letters entirely. Grell was equally deter-
mined not to pay unless they were given to him.
"When I at length broke into the conversation I


THE GRELL MYSTERY
asked Grell for the letters I had written to him. I
wanted to get him out of the room. He must have
understood my look, for he at once said he had burnt
them, but would make sure. He left the room. As
soon as he was gone I played my final card with
Goldenburg. I knew that the time had gone by for
finesse; I told him that unless he gave up the letters
I would suggest to Grell that he should declare them
forgeries, and that I would bear him out.
"I think even Goldenburg was taken aback, for the
revelation that I was playing double came as a shock
to him. He laughed at me at first, but I could see
that he had lost his temper. Then he swore at me
for a Jezebel, and half rose as though he would strike
me. But I was first. There was a dagger on the
mantelpiece. For a moment I saw red. When I was
again capable of thought I saw Goldenburg lying on
the couch, motionless, and I knew what I had done.
"I struggled to get a grip on myself. At any
moment Grell might return. I could not be sure of
what he might do, and my whole idea was to save
myself at any cost. Goldenburg had fallen back on
the couch. I had taken two steps to the door when
there was a sound outside. I drew back behind a
curtain, expecting Grell. Instead of that a woman
came in. She was heavily veiled', and though I did
not know her then I was positive it was Lady Eileen
Meredith, for Goldenburg had hinted at some such
dramatic surprise if Grell did not come to terms. I
saw her stoop over the murdered man, and then Grell
opened the door. He stared for a second, and then
closed the door again just as Lady Eileen looked up.


THE GRELL MYSTERY 373
"To him it must have appeared that she had killed
the man. I expected her to scream, but she did nothing
of the sort. She went out, closing the door softly. I
followed her within a minute or so, for I began to
have an idea how things might be turned to my advan-
tage. I went straight back to my hotel, and made
arrangements to secure a sort of alibi. But I wanted
to know how things were going. I had told Grell that
if it became necessary to write me under cover, he
might do so at the poste restante, Folkestone. There
it was I heard before I returned to London. He de-
clared that he had killed Goldenburg, a statement I
had the best of reasons for knowing was false. But
it left me with an easier mind. I had no wish that he
should be questioned by the police, for that might have
given rise to questions as to why I was at the house,
and how I left.
"That was why I helped him by every means in
my power. I think now it would have been perfectly
easy for me to have disappeared without raising more
than a fleeting suspicion in any one's mind. But we
cannot foresee everything. And I believed that my
safety lay in keeping Grell at liberty % What he thought
of my motives for helping him, I do not know—he may
have believed them to be gratitude, or something else.
Anyway, he trusted me, and to make sure, I more than
once hinted that I had an idea that Lady Eileen Mere-
dith was the guilty person.
"It was I who supplied funds for the most part,
and it was only when my resources threatened to give
out, that we tried other methods. When I left for
Liverpool, I was nearly at the bottom of my purse.


874 THE GRELL MYSTERY
The arrangement with Mr. Grell was, that I should
remain in hiding there until such time as he could
obtain money to enable us to get out of the country.
Then I was to join him. I got a wire from him at last
fixing Dalehurst Grange, and knowing that the stations
would be watched, I determined to motor down.
"This explanation should make the things clear you
do not already know,—L.P."
Heldon Foyle finished reading, and there was a
moment's silence, broken at last by a gasp from Grell.
"It was she, then, not—not"
"Not Lady Eileen Meredith," interrupted Foyle.
"But do you confirm what she says there, Mr. Grell?"
Grell reached out, and took the paper with a hand
that shook. He scanned it quickly, and handed it back
to the superintendent.
"She is right in everything she says about me," he
admitted. "I did think—God forgive me!—that my
own eyes were right. I believed that Eileen had killed
that man. That it was influenced me in everything
I did. Till this moment, I had no idea "He
wheeled almost angrily on Green. "Why didn't you
say why you brought me here?"
The chief inspector shrugged his shoulders. "My
instructions were to bring you here—not to give ex-
planations."
"I thought it best that you should learn all there
was to know at your leisure," interjected Foyle. "Of
course, we knew nothing of this "—he tapped the con-
fession as he spoke—" before you came in."
Sir Hilary Thornton smoothed his moustache. "It


878
THE GRELL MYSTERY
"Previously, the time of the murder had been fixed
by Professor Harding as between ten and twelve. It
was our business to find out who had been with Harry
Goldenburg at that time. Among those persons was
the guilty one."
"I can't see how that helped you at all," said Grell,
his brows bent.
"In this way, and as a negative test. The alibi is
a commonplace of the criminal courts. Every person
on whom clues might ultimately rest would be eliminated
from the investigation if it could be proved beyond
doubt that they were elsewhere at the time. You must
remember, that we had not only to find the murderer,
but to produce evidence that would satisfy a jury that
we were right. But we worked, first of all, from such
main facts as we had. You were missing. Ivan was
missing. A mysterious veiled woman was missing.
There was the pearl necklace that you had bought as
a wedding present for Lady Eileen. There was the
strange dagger used in the murder. There was the
miniature of Lola on the dead man. These were
the chief heads. There were scores of minor things to
be dealt with.
"The matter was complicated, too, by the dead man's
clothes. In the pockets, there were your personal be-
longings. A natural, but erroneous assumption was
that they were your clothes. There is not much scope
for individuality in evening dress. I confess I was
misled and puzzled at first, but a little thought afforded
the explanation, and, in fact, it would have been cleared
up automatically in any event by the examination of
the garments.


380
THE GRELL MYSTERY
that he was not the man. Of course, I was then
presuming that the finger-prints were those of the
murderer.
"Then I received information that Ivan and a man
my informant took for Goldenburg had been seen at
Victoria Station on the night of the murder. I
managed to find Ivan and, by a threat, got a partly
formed opinion confirmed. He knew that the murdered
man was not Mr. Grell. I took from him the pearls
that were to have formed a wedding present, and let
him go after taking his finger-prints. My idea was to
have him watched, for I felt confident that he was in
touch with his master—whom I believed to be the
murderer.
"But it was not enough to follow one line. We
used the fact of the striking similarity of Grell and
Goldenburg to advertise for the former under the name
of the latter. The mere fact of throwing the descrip-
tion broadcast, was calculated to make any attempt
to escape more difficult. Meanwhile, we were making
inquiries about every one concerned in the case by co-
operation of foreign police-forces, and particularly with
the help of Pinkerton's agency in the United States.
It was all organisation, you see—the individual counted
for little.
"The first attempt to communicate with Fairfield
failed, not through the working of any miracle on our
part, but by patient watching. I stole a note from
Fairfield, which gave us something to act upon, in the
East End. Remember, the immediate object of our
search was Robert Grell—not necessarily for the mur-
derer. Do you follow?"


THE GRELL MYSTERY 883
other belongings you left behind. By the way, we
understand that that dagger had belonged to Harry
Goldenburg—how came it to be lying about your
room?"
Grell shook his head. "That is a mistake. The
dagger was mine. It is possible that he had a similar
one."
"Yes, that is possible. But in the event, the point
does not matter much. What was more important
was, that we had driven you out of a secure hiding-
place.
"Meanwhile, Pinkerton's had been hard at work on
the other side of the Atlantic, and many episodes of
your private life were minutely examined. Their de-
tectives it was, too, who had discovered that Golden-
burg and Petrovska had in some way been associated
with you. What they found out pointed to blackmail.
Here appeared an adequate motive for you to murder
Goldenburg."
Grell tapped impatiently on the table, but did not
interrupt. Heldon Foyle went on.
"We could not blind ourselves to the fact that you
were not the type of man who would commit an ordi-
nary crime under stress of temptation. But homicide is
in a class by itself. You might have committed murder.
Indeed, there was the strongest possible assumption
that you had done so.
"You will observe that there was nothing miraculous
in what we did. One step led to another in natural
sequence. On the barge, we got the letter that led to
the tracing of Ivan at the gambling-house in Smike
Street. We knew your finances were cramped. We


384
THE GRELL MYSTERY
were, as opportunity offered, limiting your helpers, so
that we might force you to show yourself.
"That is what happened. You went to Sir Ralph
Fairfield, and succeeded in dodging our men—so far.
It was Fairfield's servant who gave you away. He
came to Scotland Yard and, in my absence, was taken
away by Sir Ralph. When I returned, I arranged to
get Sir Ralph out of his chambers for a time, sufficient
to allow me a talk with his servant. I then bluffed
some idea of your mission out of Sir Ralph. I found
you had been refused money.
"You had already applied once to Lady Eileen
Meredith for money. There seemed a chance that, in
your desperate state, you might do so again. I went
to Berkeley Square. Lady Eileen had gone out. I got
into her sitting-room on pretext of waiting for her. On
the fire were fragments of a note from you, and I was
able to make clear several words.
"That made me determined to examine her desk. I
found a cheque-book, but the used counterfoils were not
in her handwriting, nor did the amounts and the people
to whom they were payable seem those that would be
found in a personal cheque-book of hers. I searched the
blotting-pad, and was able to make out the words
Burghley and £200. The assumption I drew from that
was startling enough, but it was still more startling to
discover on the blotting-pad a finger-print which, as
far as my recollection went, corresponded with those
on the dagger.
"Up to that moment, the possibility that Lady
Eileen might be the guilty person had not occurred to
me. But now a rearrangement of the circumstances,


886 THE GRELL MYSTERY
jou were asleep, I thought the matter over and formed
an hypothesis. I put several questions to you later,
and found that a woman had visited your house with
Goldenburg. That was Lola Petrovska. Now, if she
was not the veiled woman who came later, who was?
For the sake of my theory, I put her as Lady
Eileen.
"Very well. Lola and Goldenburg had visited you
together. But she had assisted you since the murder,
and she was hardly likely to do that if she was on
friendly terms with the blackmailer and knew you had
killed him. So it came to my mind that you might
have used her in an attempt to get the compromising
letters. And then it occurred as a remote possibility
that she might, after all, be the guilty person, but, to
assume that, it was necessary to explain away the
finger-prints—for they were not hers.
"All this led to the supposition that the dagger had
been handled by some one after the crime. That person
must have been Lady Eileen—therefore she must have
been the veiled woman—you see?
"But this was supposition, which a single fresh fact
would destroy. I held on to you, and Lola walked into
our trap. An interview with Ivan cleared up some of
the vague points in the story, and confirmed my theory
—you will understand that I was ready to drop it
the moment it failed to fit the facts. Indeed, to make
assurance more sure, I sent a story out to the papers,
which I felt sure would convey to Lady Eileen Meredith
that you were in great peril—and which, if she was
guilty, might induce her to confess to save you. It had
an effect rather different to that which I intended.


\ \
- - i'HE GRELL MYSTERY 887
"Your clumsy attempts to take the guilt on yourself
made me more sure than ever of your innocence.
This morning we laid a trap for Lola. She was sud-
denly aroused out of her sleep, and I surprised her into
what amounted to an admission of guilt."
Grell rose from his chair with extended hand. "I
rather believe that I have made a fool of myself," he
said. "You have done a great deal more than you
adopt credit for. I cannot thank you now, but later—
I suppose I am at liberty now. I must see Ei—Lady
Eileen at once."
"You will have to give evidence at the inquest," said
Thornton. "That is all. The step this woman has
taken will save us all a great deal of trouble. Of course,
what Mr. Foyle has told you is entirely confidential."
"Of course."
"Lady Eileen is here, if you would care to see her
now," said Foyle. "Will you come with me?"
Grell followed the superintendent along the corridor.
At the door of his own room, Heldon Foyle stopped
and knocked.
"Here you are," he said.
Robert Grell opened the door.
THE END





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