The Grell Mystery | Page 5

the police stations of London would be setting
twenty thousand men on the alert for the missing servant. The great
railway stations would be watched, and every policeman and detective
wherever he might be stationed would know exactly the appearance of
the man wanted, from the colour of his hair and his eyes to the pattern
of his socks.
Foyle opened the door to a little cluster of grave-faced men. Sir Hilary
Thornton, the assistant commissioner, was there; Professor Harding, an
expert retained by the authorities, and a medical man whose scientific
researches in connection with the Gould poisoning case had sent a man
to the gallows, and whose aid had been most important in solving many
murder mysteries; Grant of the finger-print department, a wizard in all
matters relating to identification; a couple of men from his department
bearing cameras, and lastly the senior officer of the Criminal
Investigation Department, Green, and his assistant, Waverley.
Sir Hilary drew Foyle a little aside, and they conversed in low tones.

Professor Harding, with a nod to the superintendent, had gone upstairs
to where the divisional surgeon and another doctor were waiting with
Lomont, the secretary of the murdered man, outside the door of the
room where Robert Grell lay dead.
The doctors had done no more than ascertain he was dead, and Foyle
himself had purposely not gone near the room until Harding had an
opportunity of making his examinations.
"I shall take charge of this myself, if you do not mind, Sir Hilary,"
Foyle was saying. "Mainland is capable of looking after the routine
work of the department, and in the case of a man of Mr. Grell's
importance----"
"That is what I should have suggested," said Sir Hilary. "We must get
to the bottom of this at all costs. You know Mr. Grell was to have been
married to Lady Eileen Meredith at St. Margaret's, Westminster, this
morning. It's a bad business. Let's see what Harding's got to say."
Their feet sank noiselessly into the thick carpet of the stairs as they
moved towards the death-chamber. From an open doorway near the
landing a flood of light issued.
"Very handy for any one to get away," commented Foyle. "The stairs
lead direct to the hall, and there are only two rooms to pass. This carpet
would deaden footsteps too."
They entered softly. Some one had turned all the lights on in the room,
and it was bathed in brilliance.
A dying fire flickered in the grate; bookcases lined the red-papered
walls, which were broken here and there by curios and sporting
trophies gathered from many countries. There were a few etchings,
which had evidently been chosen with the skill of a connoisseur.
Parallel with the window was a desk, scrupulously tidy. Half a dozen
chairs were scattered about, and in a recess was a couch, over which the
angular frock-coated figure of Professor Harding was bent. He looked

up as the two men approached.
"It's clearly murder," he said. "He was probably killed between ten and
eleven--stabbed through the heart. Curious weapon used too--look!"
He moved aside and for the first time Foyle got a view of the body.
Robert Grell lay sprawled awkwardly on the couch, his face turned
towards the wall, one leg trailing on the floor. A dark crimson stain
soiled the white surface of his shirt, and one side of his dinner jacket
was wringing wet. The dagger still remained in the wound, and it was
that riveted Foyle's attention. He stepped back quickly to one of the
men at the door.
"Send Mr. Grant to me," he ordered.
Returning to the body, he gently withdrew the knife, handling it with
the most delicate care. "I've never seen anything like this before," he
said. "Queer thing, isn't it?"
It was a sheath knife with a blade of finely tempered steel about three
inches long and as sharp as a razor. Its abnormality lay in a hilt of
smooth white ivory set horizontally and not vertically to the blade, as is
a rule with most knives.
Foyle carried it in the palm of his hand nearer to the light and squinted
at it from various angles. One at least of the observers guessed his
purpose. But the detective seemed dissatisfied.
"Can't see anything," he grumbled peevishly. "Ah, there you are, Grant.
I want to see whether we can make anything of this. Let me have a little
graphite, will you?"
The finger-print expert took an envelope from his pocket and handed it
to the superintendent. From it Foyle scattered fine black powder on the
hilt. A little cry of satisfaction came from his lips as he blew the stuff
away in a little dark cloud. Those in the room crowded around.
Outlined in black against the white surface