The Grell Mystery. Frank Froest
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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 everyone 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 puckered into a series of little wrinkles. He rested his chin 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 together at once. They rarely do come.
Once Lomont, Grell’s secretary, knocked and entered with a question on his lips. Foyle waved him impatiently 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.
FAIRFIELD, awakened from sleep by the news of the murder of his friend, had stared stupidly at the detective 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 whirlpool 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 truth would only sound lame if he were to tell it. Who would believe it? Like a man stricken dumb he descended 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 incapable 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 appointment?’
‘No—that is, it might have been so. He left me, and I understood he would be back. He did not return.’
‘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.
‘Do you know of any woman who was likely to visit him at that time of night?’
‘Great heavens, no, man! Do you suspect a woman? He—’ He checked himself, and looked curiously at the detective. ‘Mr Grell was a friend of mine,’ he went on more quietly. ‘Things are bad enough as they are, but you know that he had influential friends both here and in America. They won’t thank you, Mr Foyle, for trying to go into such things.’
Heldon Foyle’s eyes lingered in quiet scrutiny on the other’s face.
‘I shall do what I consider to be my duty,’ he said, his voice a little hard. ‘Come, Sir Ralph, you will see I must do my best to bring the murderer of this man to justice. Had Mr Grell any relations?’
‘I don’t believe there’s one in the wide world.’
‘And you don’t remember what time he left? Try, Sir Ralph. It is important. Before you came I sent a man to the club, and none of the servants recollects seeing either of you go. They say he was with you most of the evening. You can clear up this matter of time.’
‘I don’t remember what time he left me.’
The baronet’s voice was hoarse and strained. Foyle rose and stood towering over him.
‘You are lying,’ he said deliberately.
Sir Ralph recoiled as though he had been struck in the face. A quick wave of crimson had mounted to his temples. Instinctively his hands clenched. Then regaining a little control of himself he wheeled about without a word. His hand was on the handle of the 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 unclasped 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: