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 anyone? 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 card-room 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 tonight 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.
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 everyone 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 anyone 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 hallmark of beggars and tramps. Few, save policemen on night duty, were about to mark their wild career.
As
