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THE GRELL MYSTERY
BY FRANK FROEST
[Illustration: Publisher's logo]
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1913,
BY FRANK FROEST
COPYRIGHT, 1914,
BY EDWARD J. CLODE
THE GRELL MYSTERY
CHAPTER I
Outside the St. Jermyn's Club the rain pelted pitilessly 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 conviction.
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 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."
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
employed on delicate diplomatic missions for his Government, 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 victim 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 bachelordom at his club.
A man of about forty-five, he carried himself well and the evening dress
he wore showed his upright muscular 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 hearthstone."
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
speculating 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. "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 produced 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 untrained 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. Fairfield'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, Fairfield. 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 protest. "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 afterwards 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. Instantly he rose and made his way to the telephone. A
call had been made for Grell.
"Hello! Is that you, dear? This is Eileen speaking.... 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, but now he found himself stammering
almost incoherently.
"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 deserted 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 bareheaded in the
pouring rain, was stammering incoherently to a police-constable in
Grosvenor Gardens that Mr. Robert Grell had been found murdered in his
study.