Frank Froest - The Grell Mystery

He was a thin-faced man of about thirty, with somewhat sallow cheeks on which there was now a hectic flush, a high-pitched forehead that seemed to have contracted 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 England. 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 mistaken. 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 network 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 possession 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 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 Commissioner 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 looking 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.

‘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 prosecute. 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-picking 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 superintendent curtly. ‘The description and the photograph 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 GOLDENBURG, 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.

NOTE.—Henry Goldenburg has travelled extensively, and

is an American by birth, but his accent is almost

imperceptible. He speaks several languages, and

has resided in Paris, Madrid, 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.

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 himself. 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.