Frank Froest - The Grell Mystery

‘What was her name? What was she like?’ interrupted 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.

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.

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 stations would be watched, and every policeman and detective 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-faced men. Sir Hilary Thornton, the assistant commissioner, was there; Professor Harding, an expert retained by the authorities, and a medical man whose scientific researches in connection with the Gould poisoning case had sent a man to the gallows, and whose aid had been most important in solving many murder mysteries; 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 Department, Green, and his assistant, Waverley.

Sir Hilary drew Foyle a little aside, and they conversed 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 department, and in the case of a man of Mr Grell’s importance—’

‘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, Westminster, this morning. It’s a bad business. Let’s see what Harding’s got to say.’

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 anyone 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. Someone 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 awkwardly 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 remained in the wound, and it was that riveted Foyle’s attention. He stepped back quickly to one of the men at the door.

‘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?’

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 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.’