Lomont reeled dizzily, and his hand sought the support of the wall. To
him Foyle's voice sounded unreal. He stared at the detective as though
doubtful of his sanity. His life had been hitherto ordered, placid. That
there were such things as crimes, murders, detectives, he knew. He had
read of them in the newspapers. But hitherto they had only been names to
him--something to make the paper more readable.
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.