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Published by COLLINS CRIME CLUB
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain 1913
Published by The Detective Story Club Ltd
for Wm Collins Sons & Co. Ltd 1929
Introduction © Tony Medawar 2015
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1929, 2015
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780008137175
Ebook Edition © August 2015 ISBN: 9780008137182
Version: 2015-08-17
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Chapter XXI
Chapter XXII
Chapter XXIII
Chapter XXIV
Chapter XXV
Chapter XXVI
Chapter XXVII
Chapter XXVIII
Chapter XXIX
Chapter XXX
Chapter XXXI
Chapter XXXII
Chapter XXXIII
Chapter XXXIV
Chapter XXXV
Chapter XXXVI
Chapter XXXVII
Chapter XXXVIII
Chapter XXXIX
Chapter XL
Chapter XLI
Chapter XLII
Chapter XLIII
Chapter XLIV
Chapter XLV
Chapter XLVI
Chapter XLVII
Chapter XLVIII
Chapter XLIX
Chapter L
Chapter LI
Chapter LII
Chapter LIII
Chapter LIV
Chapter LV
Chapter LVI
The Detective Story Club
About the Publisher
First published a hundred years ago, The Grell Mystery is best regarded as an early example of what has become known as the police procedural. However, it is also one of the earliest instances of a novel written by an individual who has already attained fame, in this case Frank Froëst, a former Superintendent at Scotland Yard and once the most famous policeman in the world.
Frank Castle Froëst was born in the West of England around 1858. He joined the Metropolitan Police in 1879 and was promoted to detective two years later. In 1903, Froëst attained the rank of Chief Inspector and in 1906 he was appointed Superintendent of the Yard’s premier division, the Criminal Investigation Department. According to contemporary newspaper reports, ‘Frankie’ Froëst was a genial, kindly-faced man, broad-shouldered and thick-set with twinkling blue eyes, a short greyish moustache and a misleading air of innocence. There are also numerous references to Froëst’s extraordinary strength and, in particular, his ability to bend coins and to tear a pack of playing cards in two.
There are therefore some similarities between Froëst and Heldon Foyle, the detective who resolves The Grell Mystery, and if its central puzzle has little in common with any of the crimes that Froëst himself investigated, the detective’s experiences and knowledge of what happened at a real crime scene give the novel a more realistic feel than many of its contemporaries. Heldon Foyle also works closely with the newspapers, something that Froëst was renowned for, but it is hard to believe that the real detective ever used disguise as Foyle does in The Grell Mystery. The book has a strong sense of place and the locations and minor characters are vividly realised.
Froëst achieved international renown in 1894 with the arrest of Jabez Balfour. In 1869, Balfour, a Liberal Party politician and one time Member of Parliament for Tamworth, founded the Liberator Permanent Benefit and Investment Society. The society grew to become one of Britain’s largest but its success was built on false accounting and, inevitably, it collapsed, owing millions and leaving thousands of small investors defrauded and penniless. Balfour promptly fled to South America with his wife and sister-in-law, and he must have believed himself far beyond the reach of the Metropolitan Police. But he had reckoned without Frank Froëst. Tasked by the Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard with bringing the financier to justice, the detective travelled to Argentina where, after a year of battling officialdom, he tracked down his man. However, the business of returning Balfour to England was far from straightforward. Working with a British diplomat, Froëst chartered a train and, narrowly evading arrest for murder en route when a local sheriff’s officer was killed trying to board the moving train, the two men reached the coast with their prisoner. Froëst chartered passage for Britain and as soon as the ship reached international waters he arrested Balfour who was later sentenced to fourteen years. The arrest was Froëst’s first major success and in the course of his long career there would be many, many others, including the resolution of the Liverpool Bank Fraud and the arrest of Dr Hawley Crippen after he too had fled from justice.
When Frank Froëst retired in September 1912 after over 30 years’ service, he was by general acclaim ‘the best known of all the detectives in the world’. His fame was even such that the speech marking his retirement was given by King George V, who a few months earlier had awarded the detective the King’s Police Medal, an honour then given rarely to officers of Froëst’s rank.
On his retirement, Frank Froëst and his wife Sarah moved to Axbridge in Somerset, where he became a justice of the peace. Working with the journalist George Dilnot, he wrote The Grell Mystery and in return he helped Dilnot with his history of the Metropolitan Police, The Story of Scotland Yard (1915). The newspaperman and the former policeman got on well together and co-authored two further works of fiction: The Crime Club (1915), an entertaining collection of short stories; and The Rogues’ Syndicate (1916). A silent film was made of each of the two novels by the Vitagraph Company of America and released in 1917 with The Rogues’ Syndicate re-titled as The Maelstrom. Both films starred Earle Williams, an American actor, who played Heldon Foyle in the film of The Grell Mystery.
After his wife died in 1916, Frank Froëst lost his appetite for writing about crime. He moved into politics instead and was elected to Somerset County Council on which he served for some years before a second retirement after the onset of blindness. He died in 1930 in a convalescent home at Weston-super-Mare. Froëst’s passing was marked around the world with one obituary describing him as ‘one of the most brilliant, courageous and resourceful men who ever graduated through Scotland Yard’.
TONY MEDAWAR
February 2015
CHAPTER I
OUTSIDE the St Jermyn’s Club the rain pelted pitilessly upon deserted pavements. Mr Robert Grell leaned his arms on the table and stared steadily out through the steaming window-panes for a second. His shoulders lifted in a shrug that was almost a shiver.
‘It’s a deuce of a night,’ he exclaimed with conviction.
There was a faint trace of accent in his voice—an almost imperceptible drawl, such as might remain in the speech of an American who had travelled widely and rubbed shoulders with all sorts and conditions of men.
His companion lifted his eyebrows whimsically and nipped the end from a cigar.
‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘But the way you put it is more like plain Bob Grell of the old days than the polished Mr Robert Grell, social idol, millionaire and diplomat, and winner of the greatest matrimonial prize in London.’
Grell tugged at his drooping iron-grey moustache. ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘This is not a meeting of the Royal Society. Here, in my own club, I claim the right of every free-born citizen to condemn the weather—or anything else—in any language I choose. Great Scott, Fairfield! You don’t expect me to wear my mantle all the time. I should explode if I didn’t have a safety valve.’
Sir Ralph Fairfield nodded. He understood. For years the two had been close friends, and in certain phases of temperament they were much alike. Both had tasted deeply of the sweets and hardships of life. Both had known the fierce wander-lust that drives men into strange places to suffer hunger, thirst, hardship and death itself for the sheer love of the game, and both had achieved something more than national fame. Fairfield as a fertile writer on ethnography and travel; and Grell equally as a daring explorer, and as a man who had made his mark in the politics and finance of the United States. More than once he had been employed on delicate diplomatic missions for his Government, and always he had succeeded. Great things were within his reach when he had suddenly announced his intention of giving up business, politics and travel to settle in England and lead the life of a gentleman of leisure. He had bought a thousand acres in Sussex, and rented a town house in Grosvenor Gardens.
Then he had met Lady Eileen Meredith, daughter of the Duke of Burghley. Like others, he had fallen a victim to her grey eyes. The piquant beauty, the supple grace, the intangible charm of the girl had aroused his desire. A man who always achieved his ends, he set himself to woo and win her with fierce impetuosity. He had won. Now he was spending his last night of bachelordom at his club.
A man of about forty-five, he carried himself well and the evening dress he wore showed his upright muscular figure to advantage. Every movement he made had a swift grace that reminded one irresistibly of a tiger, with its suggestion of reserve force. His close-cropped hair and a drooping moustache were prematurely grey. He had a trick of looking at one through half-closed eyelids that gave the totally erroneous impression that he was half asleep. The face was square, the chin dogged, the lips, half-hidden by the moustache, thin and tightly pressed together. He was the type of man who emerges victor in any contest, whether of wits or muscle. Plain and direct when it suited his purpose; subtle master of intrigue when subtlety was needed.
A nervous gust of wind flung the rain fiercely against the window. Sir Ralph Fairfield uncrossed his knees with care for the scrupulous crease in his trousers.
‘You’re a great man, Bob,’ he said slowly. ‘You take it quite as a matter of course that you should win the prettiest girl in the three kingdoms.’ His voice became meditative. ‘I wonder how married life will suit you. You know, you’re not altogether the type of a man one associates with the domestic hearthstone.’
Their eyes met. The twinkle of humour which was in the baronet’s did not reflect itself in the other’s. Grell, too, was wondering whether he was fitted for domestic life. He had a taste for introspection, and was speculating how far the joyous girl who had confided her heart to his keeping would fit in with the scheme of things. He roused himself with an effort and glanced at his watch. It was half-past nine.
‘You make a mistake, Fairfield,’ he laughed. ‘Eileen and I fit each other, and you’ll see we’ll settle down all right. Care to see the present I’m giving her tomorrow? It’s to be a little surprise. Look here!’
He inserted a hand in his breast pocket and produced a flat case of blue Morocco leather. He touched a spring: ‘There!’
Soft, shimmering white against the sombre velvet lining reposed a string of pearls which even the untrained eye of Fairfield knew must be of enormous value. Each gem was perfect in its soft purity, and they had been matched with scrupulous care. Grell picked it up and dangled it on his forefinger, so that the crimson glow of the shaded electric lights was reflected in the smooth surface of the jewels.
‘Pretty toy, isn’t it?’ he commented. ‘I gave Streeters carte blanche to do the best they could.’
He dropped the necklace carelessly back in its case, snapped the catch, and placed it in his pocket. Fairfield’s jerk of the head was significant.
‘And you are fool enough to carry the thing around loose in your pocket. Good heavens, man! Do you know that there are people who would not stick at murder to get a thing like that?’
The other laughed easily. ‘Don’t you worry, Fairfield. You’re the only person I’ve shown it to, and I’m not afraid you’ll sandbag me.’ He changed the subject abruptly. ‘By the way, I’ve got an engagement I want to keep. Do you mind answering the telephone if I’m rung up by anyone? Say I’m here, but I’m frightfully busy clearing up some business matters, will you?’
The baronet frowned half in perplexity, half in protest. ‘Why—forgive me, Bob—why not say that you are gone out to keep an appointment?’
Grell was plainly a little embarrassed, but he strove to disguise the fact. ‘Oh, it’s only a fancy of mine,’ he retorted lightly. ‘I shan’t be gone long. You’ll do it, won’t you?’
‘Of course,’ agreed Sir Ralph, still frowning.
‘That’s all right, then. Thanks. I’ll be back in half an hour.’
He strode away with an abrupt nod. Shortly afterwards Fairfield heard a taxicab scurry away down the sodden street. He leaned back in his chair and puffed a cloud of smoke towards the ceiling. There was a dim uneasiness in his mind, though he could have given no reason for it. He picked up an evening paper and threw it aside. Then he strolled up into the card-room and tried to interest himself in watching a game of bridge. But the play only bored him. Time hung heavily on his hands. A servant spoke to him. Instantly he rose and made his way to the telephone. A call had been made for Grell.
‘Hello! Is that you, dear? This is Eileen speaking.… I can’t hear. What do you say?’
It was the clear, musical voice of the girl Robert Grell was to marry. Fairfield wondered if his friend had expected this.
‘This is not Mr Grell,’ he said. ‘This is Fairfield—Sir Ralph Fairfield—speaking.’
‘Oh!’ He could detect the disappointment in her voice. ‘Is he there? I am Lady Eileen Meredith.’
Fairfield mentally cursed the false position in which he found himself. He was usually a ready-witted man, but now he found himself stammering almost incoherently.
‘Yes—no—yes. He is here, Lady Eileen, but he has a guest whom it is impossible for him to leave. It’s a matter of settling up an important diplomatic question, I believe. Can I give him any message?’
‘No, thank you, Sir Ralph.’ The voice had become cold and dignified. He could picture her chagrin, and again anathematised Grell in his thoughts. ‘Has he been there long? When do you think he will be free?’
‘I can’t say, I’m sure. He met me here for dinner at seven and has been here since.’
He hung up the receiver viciously. He had not expected to have to lie to Grell’s fiancée when he had promised not to disclose his friend’s absence from the club. It was too bad of Grell. His eye met the clock, and with a start he realised that it was a few minutes to eleven o’clock. Grell had been gone an hour and a half.
‘Queer chap,’ he murmured to himself, as he lit a fresh cigar and selected a 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 tonight 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 everyone 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 anyone 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 hallmark 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 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.’