The Grell Mystery | Page 3

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 to-night 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.
CHAPTER II

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 every one 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 any one 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 hall-mark of beggars and tramps. Few, save
policemen on night duty, were about to mark their wild career.
As they drew up before the pillared portico of the great house in
Grosvenor Gardens a couple of policemen moved out of the shadow of
the railing and saluted.
Foyle nodded and walked up the steps. The door had flown open before
he touched the bell, and a lanky man with slightly bent shoulders was
outlined in the radiant glow of the electric light. It was Bolt, the

divisional detective inspector, a quiet, grave