The Grell Mystery | Page 9

back wearily in his chair. Some one handed
him a slim envelope. He tore it open and slowly studied the cipher in
which the message was written. It read--
"Silinsky, Chief of Police, St. Petersburg. To Foyle, Superintendent
C.I.D., London.
"Woman you mention formerly Lola Rachael, believed born Paris;
formerly on stage, Vienna; married Prince Petrovska, 1898. Husband
died suddenly 1900. Travels much. No further particulars known."
Foyle stroked his chin gravely. "Formerly Lola Rachael," he murmured.
"And Sir Ralph recognised the miniature as little Lola of Vienna. She's
worth looking after. We must find her, Green. What about this man
Ivan?"
"No trace of him yet, sir, but I don't think he can give us the slip. He
hadn't much time to get away. By the way, sir, what do you think of Sir
Ralph?"

"I don't know. He's keeping something back for some reason. You'd
better have him shadowed, Green. Go yourself, and take a good man
with you. He mustn't be let out of sight night or day. I may tackle him
again later on."
"Very good, sir. Waverley's still at Grosvenor Gardens. Will you be
going back there?"
"I don't know. I want to look through the records of the Convict
Supervision Office for the last ten years. I have an idea that I may strike
something."
Green was too wise a man to ask questions of his chief. He slipped
from the room. Half an hour later Foyle dashed out of the room hatless,
and, picking up a taxicab, drove at top speed to Grosvenor Gardens. He
was greeted at the door by Lomont.
"What is it?" he demanded, the excitement of the detective
communicating itself to him. "Have you carried the case any further?"
"I don't know," replied the detective. "I must see the body again. Come
up with me."
In the death-chamber he carefully locked the door. A heavy ink-well
stood on the desk. He twisted up a piece of paper and dipped it in. Then,
approaching the murdered man, he smeared the fingers of his right
hand with the blackened paper and pressed them lightly on a piece of
blotting paper. The secretary, in utter bewilderment, watched him
compare the prints with a piece of paper he took from his pocket.
"What is it?" he repeated again.
"Mr. Lomont," replied the detective gravely, "I wish I knew. Unless our
whole system of identification is wrong--and that is incredible--that
man who lies dead there is not Robert Grell."
CHAPTER VI

Lomont reeled dizzily, and his hand sought the support of the wall. To
him Foyle's voice sounded unreal. He stared at the detective as though
doubtful of his sanity. His life had been hitherto ordered, placid. That
there were such things as crimes, murders, detectives, he knew. He had
read of them in the newspapers. But hitherto they had only been names
to him--something to make the paper more readable.
He was a thin-faced man of about thirty, with somewhat sallow cheeks
on which there was now a hectic flush, a high-pitched forehead that
seemed to have contracted into a perpetual frown, and colourless eyes.
The son of a well-known barrister, he had tried his luck in the City after
leaving Cambridge. In a few years the respectable income he had
started with had dwindled under the drain of his speculations, and it
was then that a friend had recommended him to Robert Grell, who was
about to take up his residence in England. James Lomont had jumped at
the chance, for the salary was respectable and would enable him to
maintain a certain footing in society.
"Not Robert Grell!" he echoed incredulously.
Foyle fancied that there was some quality other than incredulity in the
tone, but decided that he was mistaken. The young man's nerves were
shaken up. So far as time would allow he had gathered all there was to
know about him. Lomont had not escaped the network of inquiry that
was being woven about all who had associated with Robert Grell.
No fewer than three chapters in a book the Criminal Investigation
Department had commenced compiling were devoted to him. They lay
with others neatly typed and indexed in Heldon Foyle's office.
One was his signed statement of events on the night of the tragedy. The
last time he had seen Grell alive was at half-past six, when his
employer had left for the St. Jermyn's Club. He himself had gone to the
Savoy Theatre, and, returning some time after eleven, had let himself in
with his own key and gone straight to bed. He had only been aroused
when the police took possession of the house. The third was headed:
"Inquiries as to career of, and corroboration of statements made by,
James Lomont."

The curtains had remained drawn, and only a