‘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.
THE first grey daylight had found Sir Ralph Fairfield pacing his sitting-room with uneven strides, his hands clasped behind his back, the stump of a cold cigar between his teeth. His interview with Heldon Foyle had not been calculated to calm him.
‘I’m a fool—a fool,’ he told himself. ‘Why should they suspect me? What have I to gain by Grell’s death?’
It was the attitude of a man trying to convince himself. There was one reason why he might be supposed to wish his friend out of the way, but he dared not even shape the thought. There was one person who might guess, and it was she whose lips he hoped to seal. A quick dread came to him. Suppose the police had already gone to her. The thought stung him to action. He had not even removed his hat and coat since his return from Grosvenor Gardens. He made his way to the street and walked briskly along until he sighted a taxicab.
‘507 Berkeley Square,’ he told the driver.
It was a surprised footman who opened the door of the Duke of Burghley’s house. Fairfield, at the man’s look of astonishment, remembered that he was unshaven, and that his clothes had been thrown on haphazard. It was a queer thought to intrude at such a time. But he was usually a scrupulously dressed man, and the triviality worried him.
‘Lady Eileen Meredith. I must see her at once,’ he said peremptorily. ‘Don’t stand staring at me, man. You know me.’
The footman coughed apologetically.
‘Yes, Sir Ralph. Lady Eileen is not up yet. If it is important I can get a maid to call her. Shall I tell his Grace?’
‘No. It is of the utmost importance that I see her personally immediately.’
Sir Ralph breathed a sigh of relief as he was ushered into the cool morning room and the door closed behind him. At all events, the police had not seen her yet. He was first. That meant he would have to break the news to her. How would she take it?
‘The poor little girl!’ he muttered to himself. And then the door clicked.
Eileen Meredith stood there, a pink dressing-gown enveloping her graceful figure from shoulders to feet. There was questioning wonder in her grey eyes as she extended her hand, but no alarm. He almost wished there was. It would have made things easier.
‘You, Sir Ralph?’ she cried. ‘What has brought you here so early? Has Bob repented of his bargain and sent you to call it off at the last moment?’
The man fumbled for words. Now that he was face to face with her the phrase he had so laboriously worked out to lead up to the news had deserted him. He pushed a chair towards her.
‘Er—won’t you sit down?’ he said awkwardly.
He was striving for an
