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 speaking--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 Scotland 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 Inspector 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 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. Resolutely 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 Department. 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 between 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 tenacity written all over
the man, but none but his intimates 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 forward 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 responsible 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 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 detective: 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 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?" 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.