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 any one 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. Some one 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."
The room cleared. Harding lingered to exchange a few words with the
superintendent.
"I can do nothing, Mr. Foyle," he said. "From a medical point of view it
is all straightforward. There can be no question about the time and
cause of death. Good night,--or rather, good morning."
"Thank you, Mr. Harding, good morning."
His eyes were roving restlessly about the room, and he dictated the work
the photographer was to do with scrupulous care. Half a dozen times a
dazzling flash of magnesium powder lit up the place. Photographs of the
room in sections were being taken. Then with a curt order to the
photographer to return immediately to Scotland Yard and develop his
negatives, he drew up a chair to the couch and began to go methodically
through the pockets of the dead man.
Green stood by, a note-book in hand. Now and again Foyle dictated
swiftly. He was a man who knew the value of order and system. Every step
in the investigation of a crime is reduced to writing, collected,
indexed, and filed together, so that the whole history of a case is
instantly available at any time. He was carrying out the regular
routine.
Only two things of any consequence rewarded his search--one was a note
from Sir Ralph Fairfield confirming an appointment with Grell to dine at
the St. Jermyn's Club the previous evening; the other was a miniature
set in diamonds of a girl, dark and black-haired, with an insolent
piquant beauty.
"I've 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 every one 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.