Sir Hilary Thornton lifted his coat-tails to the cheerful blaze as he
stood with his back to the fireplace. Heldon Foyle, with the book which
he was giving his nights and days to compiling on the desk in front of
him, sat bolt upright in his chair talking swiftly. He was giving an
account of the progress of the investigation. Now and again he ran a
well-manicured finger down the type-written index and turned the pages
over quickly to refer to a statement, a plan, or a photograph. Or he
would lift one of the speaking-tubes behind his desk and send for some
man who had been charged with some inquiry, to question him on his
report.
"These youngsters are all the same," he complained querulously. "They
will put flowers into their reports. It is always a beast of a job to
make 'em understand that we want a fact plain and prompt. They can do it
all right in the witness-box, but when they get a pen in their hand they
fancy they're budding Shakespeares. The old hands know better."
He passed from this outburst to particulars of what had happened. The
Assistant Commissioner listened gravely, now and again interpolating a
question or a suggestion. Foyle rapidly ran over the case, emphasising
his points with a tap of his finger on the pile of papers.
"We're progressing a little, though not so fast as I'd like. We know
that Grell is alive, that he is in touch with Ivan Abramovitch and Lola
Rachael--or the Princess Petrovska, as she calls herself. There is at
least one other man in it--probably more. It's fairly certain that Grell
knows who killed Harry Goldenburg even if he didn't do it himself.
Goldenburg was apparently dressed in Grell's clothes before he was
killed. It is clear now that the clothes were his own with Grell's
belongings put in the pockets. A Mexican dagger was used. That may be or
may not be of importance. Grell has travelled in Mexico. We have
eliminated Ivan and Sir Ralph Fairfield as the actual murderers. Nor do
the Princess Petrovska's finger-prints agree. I had Bolt take the
finger-prints of all the servants in the house, so that we are sure that
none of them actually committed the crime. All this narrows the
investigation. If we find Grell we are in a fair way to finding the
author of the murder."
Sir Hilary Thornton stroked his moustache doubtfully.
"That's all very well, Foyle, but Mr. Grell is hardly the sort of man to
commit murder. I gather that your suspicions point to him. Besides,
where is the motive?"
"Every man is the sort of man to commit murder," retorted the
superintendent quickly. "You can't class assassins. All murders must be
looked upon as problems in psychology. Mind you, I don't say that Grell
did have a hand in this murder. I am merely summing up the cold facts.
Why should he disappear? Why should he mix himself up with the shady
crew he is with--people who have twice tried to murder me, and who
knocked out and kidnapped Waverley? If we find him, we shall find the
murderer. That's why I wanted the description of Goldenburg sent out. It
makes work--I've got two men out of town now working on statements made
at Plymouth and Nottingham, which I feel sure will have no result, but
it gives us a sporting chance to nail him if he tries to leave the
country. Another line we're looking after is money. He's failed with
Fairfield. Lola had a try with Lady Eileen Meredith, who handed over her
jewels. We stepped in, bagged 'em, and gave 'em back to the Duke of
Burghley. All this means he'll have to make some desperate try for cash
soon."
"In fact it's check," commented Sir Hilary, who was something of a
chess-player. "Now you're manoeuvring for checkmate."
"Precisely," said Foyle. "I've been trying, too, to get hold of
something about Goldenburg. Neither we nor the American police have yet
been able to connect him up with Grell. We're still trying, though.
Sooner or later we shall get hold of something. And there's Lola. If we
could have got Wills to identify her as the veiled woman, we should have
had a very good excuse for arresting her in spite of her alibi. She's
the sort of woman who would prepare an alibi. We've not got any proof
that she knew Goldenburg. That's our great difficulty now--to link up
the various persons and find how they've been associated with each other
before. There's one thing, sir. I've managed to get the inquest
adjourned for a month, so we shan't have to make any premature
disclosures in evidence. The newspapers are still hanging about. They
got wind that something was happening at Malchester Row, and there were
a dozen or more men waiting for me when I came out, I told 'em that we'd
been trying to identify a woman and had failed. They'd have known that
anyway. They promised to be discreet. They're good chaps. It isn't like
the old days. There was one man--Winters his name was--who came up to
the Yard to see me once. He was told I was at Vine Street. He went down
there and was told I hadn't been there.
"'Here's a piece of luck,' he says to himself, and went back to his
office. There he wrote up a couple of columns telling how the whole of
the C.I.D. had lost trace of me. I came out of Bow Street, where I'd
been giving evidence in a case, to see a big contents-bill staring me in
the face--
FAMOUS
DETECTIVE
VANISHES
"Before I could buy a paper, another newspaper chap comes along. He
stared at me as if I was a ghost.
"'Hello!' he says. 'Don't you know you're lost? Every pressman in London
is looking for you.'
"'Am I?' says I. 'How?'
"Then it all came out. Since then I have been very careful in dealing
with newspaper men."
Sir Hilary laughed and nodded. "Is there anything more?" he asked.
"Yes." Foyle had grown grave once more. "I handed over the cipher that
we found at Grave Street to Jones, to see if he could make anything out
of it. He's an expert at these kind of puzzles. Well, he's just
reported that the thing is simple as it stands though in other
circumstances it might be difficult. The translation runs--
"This will be the best method of communicating with E. M. if L. supplies
her with key. Her 'phone number 12845 Gerrard."