The Grell Mystery | Page 4

man who, save on
exceptional occasions, was with his staff responsible for the
investigation of all crime in his district.
"You're the first to come, sir," he said in a quiet, melancholy tone. "It's
a terrible job, this."
He spoke professionally. Living as they do in an atmosphere of crime,
always among major and minor tragedies, C.I.D. men--official
detectives prefer the term--are forced to view their work objectively,
like doctors and journalists. All murders are terrible--as murders. A
detective cannot allow his sympathies or sensibility to pain or grief to
hamper him in his work. In Bolt's sense the case was terrible because it
was difficult to investigate; because, unless the perpetrators were
discovered and arrested, discredit would be brought upon the service
and glaring contents-bills declare the inefficiency of the department to
the world. The C.I.D. is very jealous of its reputation.
"Yes," agreed Foyle. "Where is the butler? He found the body, I'm told.
Fetch him into some room where I can talk to him."
The butler, a middle-aged man, nervous, white-faced and
half-distracted, was brought into a little sitting-room. His eyes moved
restlessly to and from the detective: his fingers were twitching uneasily.
Foyle shot one swift appraising glance at him. Then he nodded to a
chair.
"Sit down, my man," he said, and his voice was silky and smooth. "Get
him a drink, Bolt. He'll feel better after that. Now, what's your
name?--Wills?--Pull yourself together. There's nothing to be alarmed
about. Just take your own time and tell us all about it."
There was no hint of officialdom in his manner. It was the sympathetic
attitude of one friend towards another. Wills gulped down a strong
mixture of brandy and soda which Bolt held out to him, and a tinge of
colour returned to his pale cheeks.

"It was awful, sir--awful," he said shakily. "Mr. Grell came in shortly
before ten, and left word that if a lady came to see him she was to be
brought straight into his study. She drove up in a motor-car a few
minutes afterwards and went up to him."
"What was her name? What was she like?" interrupted Bolt. Foyle held
up his hand warningly to his subordinate.
Wills quivered all over, and words forsook him for a moment. Then he
went on--
"I--I don't know. Ivan, Mr. Grell's valet, let her in. I saw her pass
through the hall. She was tall and slim, but she wore a heavy veil, so I
didn't see her face. I don't know when she left, but I went up to the
study at one o'clock to ask if anything was needed before I went to bed.
I could get no answer, although I knocked loudly two or three times; so
I opened the door. My God! I..."
He flung his hands over his eyes and collapsed in an infantile paroxysm
of tears.
Foyle rose and touched him gently on the shoulder. "Yes, then?"
"The room was only dimly lit, sir, and I could see that he was lying on
the couch, rather awkwardly, his face turned from me. I thought he
might have dozed off, and I went into the room and touched him on the
shoulder. My hand came away wet!" His voice rose to a scream. "It was
blood--blood everywhere--and he with a knife in his heart."
Foyle leaned over the table. "Where's Ivan?--Russian, I suppose, by the
name? He must be about the house somewhere."
"I haven't seen him since he let the lady in," faltered the butler.
The superintendent never answered. Bolt had silently disappeared. For
five minutes silence reigned in the little room. Then the door was
pushed open violently and Bolt entered like a stone propelled from a
catapult.

"Ivan has gone--vanished!" he cried.
CHAPTER III
Foyle caressed his chin with his well-manicured hand.
"H'm!" he said reflectively. "Don't let's jump to conclusions too quickly,
Mr. Bolt. There's a doctor here, I suppose? Take this man to him, and
when he's a bit calmer take a statement from him. I'll leave Ivan to you.
Get some of the servants to give you a description of him, and 'phone it
through to Flack at the Yard. Let him send it out as an 'all station'
message, and get in touch with the railway stations. The chap can't have
got far. Detain on suspicion. No arrest. Hello, there's the bell. That's
some of our people, I expect. All right, I'll answer. You get on with
that."
He had not raised his voice in giving his directions. He was as cool and
matter-of-fact as a business man giving instructions to his secretary, yet
he was throwing a net round London. Within five minutes of the time
Bolt had gathered his description, the private telegraph that links
Scotland Yard with all