With his mind revolving the strength and weakness of his theory, Heldon Foyle returned to Scotland Yard. He paused for a moment at the door of the night-inspector's room.
"Anything for me, Slack?" he asked. "Has Mr. Bolt come in? Ah, there you are, Bolt. Come down to my room." He led the way down the green corridor, the divisional inspector following.
"Well?" asked the superintendent sharply, as he seated himself in his office.
"I have seen the manager, a hall-porter and a chamber-maid at the Palatial, sir. They repeat what they said in their statements before. The Princess left the hotel at about ten o'clock. No one can fix the time precisely, but it was certainly not before ten. She made up her mind very suddenly, the manager tells me."
Foyle was rummaging with some papers. "Thanks very much, Bolt. Stand by in case I want you. Tell Slack if he hears from Mr. Green to ask him to leave things and come up to me."
He concentrated himself on the neat bundle of documents in front of him, and gave his mind with complete detachment to the study of several of them. The investigation had narrowed itself. Whoever was guilty was in his hands. The choice lay between Robert Grell, Lady Eileen Meredith, and the Princess Petrovska.
The reconstruction of the crime for the benefit ofthe Assistant Commissioner, Foyle had purposely made provisional, but he was becoming more than ever convinced in his own mind that, in spite of appearances, Lola was the person at the bottom of the matter. She had left the Palatial about ten. If, he argued, she had left Grosvenor Gardens immediately after the murder it would have been possible for her to get to the Palatial by that time and to immediately make arrangements to leave. But for all that his intuition told him he was right, he could see no way of fixing the guilt on her.
He placed the dossier back in a drawer and, lighting a cigar, paced up and down the room puffing furiously. Half an hour after midnight Green came in.
"Yes, it's worth trying," soliloquised Foyle aloud.
"What is, sir?" asked the chief inspector, stopping with his hand on the door-handle.
"Ah, Green. I was just thinking aloud. Everything all right in Berkeley Square?"
"Everything quiet, sir."
"Well, things have been happening since I last saw you. I want your opinion. Sit down and listen to this."
Green selected a comfortable arm-chair by the desk, while the superintendent went over his interview with Grell. The chief inspector made no comments until the story was finished. Then he sat in silent thought for a while.
"I've got faith in your idea, sir," he admitted at last. "It's likely to be right as anything. But I am doubtful if we shall be able to get any admission from the Princess."
"One never knows," retorted Foyle. "She's not under arrest yet—only detained. We're entitled to askher questions to see if she can clear herself. But our best chance is to take her off her guard. We might go along and wake her out of her sleep now and chance it."
The Princess Petrovska had been allotted a couch in the matron's room of Malchester Row police station, partly to spare her the ignominy of a cell, partly to ensure that she should be under constant supervision. Her sleep was troubled, and she woke with a start when the matron roused her.
"You must dress at once. Some gentlemen are waiting to see you."
"Waiting to see me? Who are they?" she asked. Her nerves were still quivering, but her voice was steady and her face composed.
The matron had received her instructions. "I don't know who they are," she replied, in a tone that did not invite further questioning.
Lola, for all her iron will, found her mind dealing with all sorts of possibilities as she dressed herself mechanically. It was not for nothing that Foyle had chosen that hour for his visit. The sudden summons at such an hour, amid unusual surroundings and the speculation as to what it would be for, had upset the woman's balance.
She was taken by the matron into the same room where Grell had been questioned an hour before. Foyle and Green sat at the table and, to her imagination, there was something of judges in their attitude. A chair had been placed at the other side of the table facing them, and the lights were so arranged that whileher face would be fully illuminated, theirs would remain in the shadow.
"Sit down, will you," said Foyle suavely, when the matron had gone, closing the door behind her. "We're sorry to trouble you at this hour, but matters of urgency have arisen."
She strove to read their faces as she seated herself, but the light baffled her. "I am quite at your disposal, Mr. Foyle," she said, hiding her uneasiness under an appearance of flippancy. "What do you want?"
The superintendent balanced a pen between his fingers. "Mr. Green has already explained that you are not under arrest," he said, in a quiet, cold voice. "We are detaining you. Whether you will be the subject of a grave charge depends upon your answers to the questions we shall put to you. You must clearly understand, however, that you are not bound to answer."
"That sounds serious," she laughed. "Go on, Mr. Foyle. Put your questions."
"Very well. Do you still deny that you visited Mr. Grell's house on the night that the murder took place? I think it fair to tell you that we have had statements both from Ivan Abramovitch and Mr. Grell that you were there."
He eyed her sternly. She made an expressive gesture with her white hands, and her rings sparkled in the electric light. "I'll not dispute it in the circumstances."
"You went there with Harry Goldenburg, your husband, in connection with a scheme of blackmail he had conceived. You were to get certain letters from him for Mr. Grell if you could?"
She bowed. "You are correct, as usual."
"Mr. Grell left the room for some reason, and during his absence you had an altercation with Goldenburg."
One slender hand resting on the table opened and clenched. She contemplated her finger-nails absently. "Oh, no," she said blandly. "We were always on the most amicable terms."
Foyle leaned over the table, his face set and stern, and gripped her tightly by the wrist. "Do you realise," he demanded, and his voice was fierce, almost theatrical in its intensity, "that you left your finger-prints on the hilt of the dagger with which you killed that man—indisputable evidence that will convict you?"
She shuddered away from him, but his hand-grip bruised the flesh of her wrist as he held her more tightly. He had timed his denunciation well. The strain she had put on herself to meet the situation snapped with the sudden shock. For a brief second she lost her head. She struggled wildly to release herself. His blue eyes, alight with apparent passion, blazed into hers as though he could read her soul.
"I never left finger-prints," she exclaimed wildly. "I wore gloves.... Oh, my God!"
The superintendent's hand opened. The storm of passion on his face died down. The woman, now with a full realisation of what her panic had done, was staring at him in an ecstasy of terror. Green was writing furiously.
It was Foyle who broke the stillness that followed. "That will do, I think," he said in an ordinary tone of voice, as though resuming a dropped conversation. "Have you got that down, Green? Mrs. Goldenburg,"—he gave her her real name,—"you will be charged with the wilful murder of your husband. It is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be taken down in writing and used as evidence against you."
A hysterical laugh came from the woman's lips. She flung her hands above her head and went down in a heap, while shriek after shriek of wild, uncanny laughter echoed in the room.
The blaze of electric lights under their opal shades in Heldon Foyle's office became dim before the growing of the dawn. The superintendent, a cigar between his lips, was working methodically over half-a-dozen piles of papers. At the other side of the table Green puffed furiously at an old brier as he compiled from the documents Foyle handed him a fresh list of witnesses and their statements to be submitted to the Treasury solicitors.
All night the two men had toiled without consciousness of fatigue. Their jigsaw puzzle was at last righting itself. The fragments of the picture had begun to shape clearly. Their efforts had at last been justified. That alone would be their reward. The trial would show little of the labour that the case had cost—only the result. The hard labour of many scores of men would never be handled outside the walls of Scotland Yard. They had nothing to do with the guilt or innocence of the Princess Petrovska. When the case was handed over to the Treasury it would be entirely straightened out, and it would be for them to present the simple issue to the judge and jury at the Old Bailey.
Foyle flung away the remnant of his cigar, and drew out his watch. It was nine o'clock. Sir Hilary Thornton, who had heard of the woman's confession by telephone, might be expected at any moment.
"That ought to do, Green," said the superintendent, as he strung tape round the discarded bundles. "We'll have the lady brought up at the afternoon sitting of the court. That'll give us time to talk it over with the people from the Treasury. Yes, what is it?"
A man had tapped and opened the door. Before he could reply, a slim figure pushed by him. Green rose to his feet and hastily pushed his pipe into his pocket. Foyle raised his eyebrows and stood up more slowly. Lady Eileen Meredith confronted them with wild eyes and pallid face. She swayed a trifle, and the chief inspector with a quick movement placed his arm round her waist and helped her to a chair.
"You are not well, Lady Eileen," said Foyle, slipping to her side. "Shall I do something?—send for a doctor?"
She waved a slim hand in an impatient negative. "I—I shall be all right in a minute," she gasped. Her throat worked. "I wanted to see you, Mr. Foyle. I wanted to tell you—to tell you——"
Her voice trailed away in piteous indecision. Heldon Foyle whispered a few words to Green, who nodded and passed out. The superintendent took a small decanter from a cupboard, poured something into a glass, and added some water.
"Drink this," he said sympathetically. "You will feel better afterwards. That's right. Now, you wanted to tell me something."
A little colour returned to the girl's pale cheeks. Her hands opened and shut convulsively.
"The paper—this morning!" she exclaimed incoherently. "It said—it said——"
Foyle rubbed his chin. "It said that we had detained a man in Sussex," he said encouragingly.
She pulled herself together a little, but her whole form was trembling. "It was Mr. Grell?" she asked eagerly.
He inclined his head in assent. "Yes, it was Mr. Grell."
Her face dropped to her hands and her frame shook. But when she raised her head she was dry-eyed. The emotion that possessed her was too deep for tears. She gazed in a kind of stupor at the immobile face of the detective.
"You have made a ghastly mistake," she said, and her voice was level and dull. "Mr. Grell had nothing to do with the murder. I killed that man. I have come here to-day to give myself up."
A twinkle of amusement shot into the blue eyes of Heldon Foyle. The girl, oblivious to all save the misery that enwrapped her, noticed nothing of his amusement. But his next words aroused her.
"That's curious," he said slowly, "very curious. You are the third person to confess to the murder. Really, I don't believe you can all be guilty."
She stared at him in dumb amazement. Her tortured mind was slow to accept a new idea. "The third!" she echoed mechanically.
"Yes, the third. The others are Mr. Robert Grell and the woman you know as the Princess Petrovska, who in our police jargon would be described as alias Lola Rachael, alias Lola Goldenburg." He smiled down at her as she turned her bewildered face towards him. "So you see, there is no great need to alarmyourself. The mystery is all but cleared up. If you will permit me, my dear young lady, I should like to congratulate you."
"But—but——" She struggled for words.
Foyle seated himself, and picking up a pen beat a regular tattoo on his blotting-pad. He went on, unheeding the girl's interruption.
"I won't deny that if you had told me you killed Harry Goldenburg a day or two ago, I might have believed you, and it might have made things awkward. But there is now no question of that. We know now that it was neither you nor Mr. Grell. If you had told us the real facts at first so far as you were concerned, it would have simplified matters. However, there is no reason why you shouldn't do so now."
The warm blood had suffused her cheeks. She had risen from her seat, unable at first to comprehend the full meaning of it all. "I cannot understand," she exclaimed.
"You will presently. Now, if you don't mind, sit down quietly, and tell me in your own way exactly what happened on the night this man was killed. Take your own time. I shall not interrupt."
A lurking fear at the back of the girl's mind that he was trying by some subtle means to entrap her into an admission that would implicate Grell disappeared. He dropped his pen. She searched the square face, but could see nothing behind the mask of smiling good-nature. Her own curiosity was alight, but she sternly suppressed it.
"You know about the letter?" she asked. "The letter I got from Goldenburg."
He shook his head. "Assume that I know nothing. Begin at the beginning."
"Well, that was the beginning. I did not know it was from Goldenburg then, for it was unsigned, and both the address and the note itself were in typewriting. It was delivered by an express messenger. It said that the writer had something of importance affecting my future happiness to say to me, and that I could learn what it was by calling at Mr. Grell's house about ten. The writer advised me to keep my visit as secret as possible."
"Ah! What time did you get the note?"
"I am not quite sure. It was about half-past nine or quarter to ten."
"Very neatly timed to prevent you making inquiries beforehand. Go on."
"I was perhaps a little frightened and the note piqued my curiosity. The quickest way to learn what was wrong seemed to me to follow the writer's instructions. I went to Grosvenor Gardens, where I was apparently expected, for a man-servant let me in and took me to Mr. Grell's study. I walked in by myself, not permitting him to announce me. The room was in semi-darkness, but I could make out a figure on a couch at the other end of the room. I walked over to it. The face was in shadow, and not until I was quite close could I see the stain on the shirt front. It took me a few moments to realise that the man was dead.
"Then I wanted to scream, to call out for help, but I could not. It was all too terrible—horrible—like a ghastly dream. Gradually my wits and my senses returned to me. It came into my mind like a flashthat the letter I had received hinted at blackmail. I could not see the dead man's face."
Her voice died away and she looked a little hesitatingly at the superintendent. He nodded encouragingly.
"Don't be afraid, Lady Eileen. You had found a dead man in Mr. Grell's house—a man whom you suspected of blackmailing your fiancé. You not unnaturally thought that he had been killed by Mr. Grell."
"Yes." She was speaking in a lower key now. "I feared that Mr. Grell in an excess of passion had killed him. What was I to think?" She made a gesture of helplessness with her hands. "My brain was in a whirl, but I seemed to see things clearly enough. I dared not raise an alarm, for I recognised that my evidence as far as it went would be deadly agamst the man I loved. I laid my hand on the dagger to withdraw it, but at that moment I heard the door behind me open and close quickly. I turned, but not sharply enough to see who the intruder was.
"Then the idea came to me that I must get quietly out of the place. So far as I knew I was the only person who could guess that Mr. Grell had been blackmailed and so supply a motive for the crime. I slipped downstairs and went home. You will understand my state of mind. At about eleven o'clock I thought of a possible chance of speaking to Mr. Grell. I rang up his club. Sir Ralph Fairfield answered. He assured me that Mr. Grell had been there all the evening, but was too busy to speak to me. I was unspeakably relieved.
"Then in the morning, he, Sir Ralph Fairfield, cameto see me. I partly guessed his mission, but the full shock came when he told me that it was Mr. Grell who was murdered. I think I must have been mad at the time. I said nothing about my own discovery—if Mr. Grell had been blackmailed, I did not want any details to come out. Besides, it seemed obvious to me that Fairfield had said Grell was at the club in order to shield himself." She flushed slightly. "I knew Sir Ralph loved me. I thought he was guilty and—and denounced him.
"I continued to believe that until the Princess Petrovska came to me with a note from Mr. Grell bidding me trust her. I gave her my jewels, and she told me he could communicate with me by cipher. I returned to my first idea that he had killed Goldenburg—the Princess told me the murdered man's name—rather than submit to blackmail. I determined to do all I could to help him, for, murderer or not, I loved him—I loved him. You know how our attempt to communicate by cipher failed.
"A day or two ago he sent me a note—a mysterious note—saying we were both in danger. I could not understand that part of it, but it was clear he wanted money. I could not get it except by putting my father's name to a cheque. You know all about that. I took a taxicab and arranged to meet him at Putney."
"You went to the General Post Office before that," interposed Foyle.
"Yes, I wanted to order a motor-car to meet us at Kingston. I thought it safer to do it from a public-call office so as to leave as little trace as possible. I picked Mr. Grell up at Putney, and gave him the money. Neither of us referred directly to the murder duringthe journey. He told me that he was making for his place in Sussex, and should there make a plan for getting out of the country. He argued that the less I knew of details the better."
"A reasonable feeling, under the circumstances," murmured Foyle. And then, with a smile, "Your finger-prints on the dagger have been partly responsible for a lot of bother, Lady Eileen. If you had followed my advice at first—but it's no use harping on that. You have believed Mr. Grell to be the murderer, I suppose, and made your own confession to shield him. I don't know that I oughtn't to congratulate you both, for he has certainly made enormous sacrifices, and taken enormous risks to shield you."
"To shieldme?" Her astonishment was palpable.
"To shield you. He had at least as much reason—if you'll forgive me saying so—to believe you guilty as you had to think he was a murderer. It was he—if my guess is correct—who opened the door while you were stooping over the murdered man. He must have jumped to the conclusion that you had at that moment killed the man, and took his own way of diverting suspicion from you. That is the only explanation that appears plausible to me."
A new light of happiness was in her grey eyes, and she smiled. The direct common sense of the detective had brought home to her the motive for the portion of the mystery that until that moment had perplexed her. Robert Grell had laid down everything for her sake. And she had never thought—never dreamed.... The voice of Foyle, apparently distant and far away, broke in on her thoughts.
"I have sent for Mr. Grell. He will be here shortly. There is still some light that he may be disposed to throw on the affair—now. Meanwhile, if you do not object, I should like to have the statement you have just made put in writing. I will have a shorthand writer in and place this room at your disposal."
She murmured some words of assent and he disappeared. In a few minutes he returned with one of the junior men of the C.I.D., who carried a reporter's notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other.
Heldon Foyle strolled away to Sir Hilary Thornton's room. The Assistant Commissioner was just hanging up his overcoat. He turned quickly and held out his hand to the superintendent.
"Congratulations, Foyle. I hear it's all plain sailing now. Come and tell me all about it."
For ten minutes the two heads of the detective service of London were in conference. Then there was an interruption. The door was pulled open without any preliminary knock, and Chief-Inspector Green strode swiftly in, with Robert Grell at his heels. Both men were plainly stirred by some suppressed excitement. Green laid a note down in front of Foyle.
"Petrovska has killed herself," he exclaimed. "The matron found her poisoned in her cell, a minute or so after I reached Malchester Row. There was poison in one of her rings. She left this letter addressed to you."
"Ah!" There was no betrayal of astonishment or any other emotion in the superintendent's tone. He fingered the letter carelessly. "Won't you sit down, Mr. Grell? No doubt you'll excuse us for a moment. Sit down, Green."
He tore open the letter and glanced over the neat, delicate handwriting. Thornton was leaning eagerly across the table. "A confession?" he asked.
"Yes—a confession," he replied. "Shall I read it aloud?" His eyes rested for an instant on Robert Grell. "You may care to hear it," he added.
"Go on," said Thornton.
Foyle spread the sheets on the table in front of him and began to read in a steady, expressionless tone.
"Heldon Foyle, Esq., Superintendent, C.I.D., New Scotland Yard, S.W.—Sir,—It would be futile, afterwhat happened this morning, to dispute any longer the correctness of the conclusions you have come to. I killed Harry Goldenburg, and there is no need for any cant about repentance. He deserved all he got. As for myself, I was fool enough to step into a trap, and there is only one way out. I ought to have beaten you, but as I failed, it may interest you to know the bare facts.
"Goldenburg was, as you guessed, my husband, though it was long since we had lived together. Before I met him, however, I had become acquainted with Mr. Grell—I think it was in Vienna. I was on the stage there, and had a circle of admirers, of whom he became one. Whether you believe it or not, I assure you, on the word of a dying woman, there was nothing harmful in our intimacy. But letters passed, and his I kept.
"He disappeared out of my life after a while, and ultimately I met Goldenburg. We were both living on our wits. I, of course, could not fail to be struck by his astonishing likeness to Mr. Grell, and he told me eventually of their relationship. There is no use beating about the bush. Other people than Grell had written to me in the old days, and I had my own methods of forcing them to keep me silent. In plain words, a great part of my living was by blackmail, but I naturally acted very delicately. Harry Goldenburg wormed his way into my confidence, and it occurred to me that such a man would be an invaluable ally.
"We worked together for a while—I forgot to say we had been married—and I entrusted him with all the letters I had—including Grell's. Even the keenestwoman will be a fool sometimes. You will guess what happened. He saw no need to share his plunder with me, and he left me. There was no open quarrel, but I determined that some day I would get even. But on the few occasions we met afterwards I preserved a friendly attitude. I even helped him in certain affairs.
"Then there came the time when Mr. Grell sought me out and paid me to attempt to recover his letters. I jumped at the chance, for apart from the money it seemed a fine opportunity to score off Goldenburg. I hadn't much difficulty in getting in touch with him when he reached London. He thought—and I encouraged the thought—that, like himself, I had been attracted here by the prospect of bleeding Grell on the eve of his marriage. I proposed a business partnership, and he, probably laughing in his sleeve, agreed. He had no intention of paying me my share, but he thought I might be useful in case the threat of publishing the letters might not be enough.
"But I never got the letters, although I used every means that occurred to me. I even suggested that he should entrust them to me so that I might try to extort money by their means from Lady Eileen Meredith. He would have none of it. I changed my ground and arranged to accompany him on what was to be the final decisive interview with Grell on his wedding eve.
"I said little during the preliminary talk. Both men were firm. Goldenburg declared that he would not give up the letters entirely. Grell was equally determined not to pay unless they were given to him.
"When I at length broke into the conversation Iasked Grell for the letters I had written to him. I wanted to get him out of the room. He must have understood my look, for he at once said he had burnt them, but would make sure. He left the room. As soon as he was gone I played my final card with Goldenburg. I knew that the time had gone by for finesse; I told him that unless he gave up the letters I would suggest to Grell that he should declare them forgeries, and that I would bear him out.
"I think even Goldenburg was taken aback, for the revelation that I was playing double came as a shock to him. He laughed at me at first, but I could see that he had lost his temper. Then he swore at me for a Jezebel, and half rose as though he would strike me. But I was first. There was a dagger on the mantelpiece. For a moment I saw red. When I was again capable of thought I saw Goldenburg lying on the couch, motionless, and I knew what I had done.
"I struggled to get a grip on myself. At any moment Grell might return. I could not be sure of what he might do, and my whole idea was to save myself at any cost. Goldenburg had fallen back on the couch. I had taken two steps to the door when there was a sound outside. I drew back behind a curtain, expecting Grell. Instead of that a woman came in. She was heavily veiled, and though I did not know her then I was positive it was Lady Eileen Meredith, for Goldenburg had hinted at some such dramatic surprise if Grell did not come to terms. I saw her stoop over the murdered man, and then Grell opened the door. He stared for a second, and then closed the door again just as Lady Eileen looked up.
"To him it must have appeared that she had killed the man. I expected her to scream, but she did nothing of the sort. She went out, closing the door softly. I followed her within a minute or so, for I began to have an idea how things might be turned to my advantage. I went straight back to my hotel, and made arrangements to secure a sort of alibi. But I wanted to know how things were going. I had told Grell that if it became necessary to write me under cover, he might do so at theposte restante, Folkestone. There it was I heard before I returned to London. He declared that he had killed Goldenburg, a statement I had the best of reasons for knowing was false. But it left me with an easier mind. I had no wish that he should be questioned by the police, for that might have given rise to questions as to why I was at the house, and how I left.
"That was why I helped him by every means in my power. I think now it would have been perfectly easy for me to have disappeared without raising more than a fleeting suspicion in any one's mind. But we cannot foresee everything. And I believed that my safety lay in keeping Grell at liberty. What he thought of my motives for helping him, I do not know—he may have believed them to be gratitude, or something else. Anyway, he trusted me, and to make sure, I more than once hinted that I had an idea that Lady Eileen Meredith was the guilty person.
"It was I who supplied funds for the most part, and it was only when my resources threatened to give out, that we tried other methods. When I left for Liverpool, I was nearly at the bottom of my purse.The arrangement with Mr. Grell was, that I should remain in hiding there until such time as he could obtain money to enable us to get out of the country. Then I was to join him. I got a wire from him at last fixing Dalehurst Grange, and knowing that the stations would be watched, I determined to motor down.
"This explanation should make the things clear you do not already know,—L.P."
Heldon Foyle finished reading, and there was a moment's silence, broken at last by a gasp from Grell.
"It was she, then, not—not——"
"Not Lady Eileen Meredith," interrupted Foyle. "But do you confirm what she says there, Mr. Grell?"
Grell reached out, and took the paper with a hand that shook. He scanned it quickly, and handed it back to the superintendent.
"She is right in everything she says about me," he admitted. "I did think—God forgive me!—that my own eyes were right. I believed that Eileen had killed that man. That it was influenced me in everything I did. Till this moment, I had no idea——" He wheeled almost angrily on Green. "Why didn't you say why you brought me here?"
The chief inspector shrugged his shoulders. "My instructions were to bring you here—not to give explanations."
"I thought it best that you should learn all there was to know at your leisure," interjected Foyle. "Of course, we knew nothing of this"—he tapped the confession as he spoke—"before you came in."
Sir Hilary Thornton smoothed his moustache. "Ithas been an unpleasant business for all of us," he said urbanely, "and particularly for you, Mr. Grell. I can scarcely apologise for the trouble you have been caused, for, frankly, you have brought it all on yourself, though unofficially, I may say that I have never known a man behave with greater courage than you have in this matter. I am afraid that some of the things your fr——, your associates, have done, will have to be answered for, but anything consistent with our duty will be done for them. Perhaps Mr. Foyle will tell us the story of the case now. You are at least entitled to that."
A deprecating smile came to the superintendent's lips. Robert Grell was studying him curiously. He recognised that he owed much to the blue-eyed, square-faced detective.
"Yes, I think I am at least entitled to that," he echoed.
Foyle gave a shrug. "As you like, gentlemen. You once complained, Sir Hilary, that I talked like a detective out of a book. This kind of thing makes me feel like one—except that, in this case, I cannot claim much credit. I only used common sense and perseverance."
"Let us have it," said Grell. He was beginning to be his own masterful self.
"Very well. It has all been a matter of organisation. You will remember, that in dealing with an intricate case no man is at his best working alone. However able or brilliant a detective is, he cannot systematically bring off successful coups single-handed—outside a novel. He is a wheel in a machine. Or perhaps, a better way to put it would be to say, he is a unit in an army. He is almost helpless alone.
"There are many people who believe that a detective's work is a kind of mental sleight of hand. By some means, he picks up a trivial clue which inevitably leads, by some magical process, to the solution of themystery. I do not say that deductions are not helpful, but they are not all. A great writer once compared the science of detection to a game of cards, and the comparison is very accurate. A good player can judge, with reasonable certainty, the cards in the hands of each of his opponents. But he can never be absolutely certain—especially when he is unacquainted with his opponents' methods of play.
"Detection can never be reduced to a mathematical certainty until you level human nature, so that every person in the same set of circumstances will act in exactly the same way. Like doctors, we have to diagnose from circumstances—and even the greatest doctors are wrong at times. Specialist knowledge has often to be called in.
"When this case commenced, specialist knowledge had to be enlisted to fix our facts—and the one general difficulty which arose as always, was that we did not know which facts might prove important. As an instance, I may say that the finger-prints on the dagger were wholly misleading, and might have brought about a miscarriage of justice.
"It was necessary that we should collect every fact we could about the murder, whether great or small. That was one phase for the investigation where organisation was necessary. A man working alone would have taken months, perhaps years, in this preliminary work. Then luck favoured us. Our records—collected, of course, by organisation—contained a portrait of a man strikingly like you"—he nodded to Grell—"and a comparison of finger-prints told us that the dead man was not you, but Harry Goldenburg.
"Previously, the time of the murder had been fixed by Professor Harding as between ten and twelve. It was our business to find out who had been with Harry Goldenburg at that time. Among those persons was the guilty one."
"I can't see how that helped you at all," said Grell, his brows bent.
"In this way, and as a negative test. The alibi is a commonplace of the criminal courts. Every person on whom clues might ultimately rest would be eliminated from the investigation if it could be proved beyond doubt that they were elsewhere at the time. You must remember, that we had not only to find the murderer, but to produce evidence that would satisfy a jury that we were right. But we worked, first of all, from such main facts as we had. You were missing. Ivan was missing. A mysterious veiled woman was missing. There was the pearl necklace that you had bought as a wedding present for Lady Eileen. There was the strange dagger used in the murder. There was the miniature of Lola on the dead man. These were the chief heads. There were scores of minor things to be dealt with.
"The matter was complicated, too, by the dead man's clothes. In the pockets, there were your personal belongings. A natural, but erroneous assumption was that they were your clothes. There is not much scope for individuality in evening dress. I confess I was misled and puzzled at first, but a little thought afforded the explanation, and, in fact, it would have been cleared up automatically in any event by the examination of the garments.
"Now, subtlety may be an admirable thing, but it can be overdone. I have never believed that, because a certain thing seems obvious, it is necessarily wrong. It was reasonably certain that one, or all of the missing persons, had knowledge of what had happened. It was extremely probable that one of them was guilty. Our starting-point was to find them. That was where organisation came in. The miniature helped me to bluff Sir Ralph Fairfield into an admission that it was the portrait of Lola of Vienna, and I purposely showed it to some newspaper men on a pretext. One of them commented on the likeness to the Princess Petrovska, who was staying at the Hotel Palatial, and I at once telephoned to the hotel, and discovered that she was supposed to have left at ten on the evening of the murder. A reference to the St. Petersburg police gave us a few more facts about her. She became a possibility as the veiled visitor.
"The finger-prints on the dagger, although we should have adopted a different method had we known what we know now, helped us to narrow the investigation, for they apparently—and actually by luck—settled the innocence of several people who might have been suspected.
"Lady Eileen Meredith came to me with a story that seemed to implicate Sir Ralph Fairfield. There seemed just a possibility that she was right, for I could conceive jealousy might be a motive—though, of course, there was so far nothing to explain why the master of the house and his valet should take to flight. I took Sir Ralph's finger-prints by a ruse, and to me that seemed fairly satisfactory proofthat he was not the man. Of course, I was then presuming that the finger-prints were those of the murderer.
"Then I received information that Ivan and a man my informant took for Goldenburg had been seen at Victoria Station on the night of the murder. I managed to find Ivan and, by a threat, got a partly formed opinion confirmed. He knew that the murdered man was not Mr. Grell. I took from him the pearls that were to have formed a wedding present, and let him go after taking his finger-prints. My idea was to have him watched, for I felt confident that he was in touch with his master—whom I believed to be the murderer.
"But it was not enough to follow one line. We used the fact of the striking similarity of Grell and Goldenburg to advertise for the former under the name of the latter. The mere fact of throwing the description broadcast, was calculated to make any attempt to escape more difficult. Meanwhile, we were making inquiries about every one concerned in the case by co-operation of foreign police-forces, and particularly with the help of Pinkerton's agency in the United States. It was all organisation, you see—the individual counted for little.
"The first attempt to communicate with Fairfield failed, not through the working of any miracle on our part, but by patient watching. I stole a note from Fairfield, which gave us something to act upon, in the East End. Remember, the immediate object of our search was Robert Grell—not necessarily for the murderer. Do you follow?"
"I think I do," answered Grell. "You wanted, at least, an explanation from me."
"Precisely. Well, on top of that, we got a typewritten letter, informing us of the kidnapping of Waverley. That letter was important, for its contents showed that we were up against people who were absolutely reckless. We were able to trace, too, a typewriting machine as having been sold recently to a man named Israel, in Grave Street, There were finger-prints on the letter, and they corresponded to those on the dagger. As a matter of fact, I recently found out that the letter had been written on paper given by you. You had torn a half-sheet from an old letter, and I can only presume it was one that had been written to you by Lady Eileen Meredith. For they were her finger-prints.
"We paid a surprise visit to Grave Street, and, although we were unable to lay our hands on any one of much importance to the investigation, we hit on the cipher with which it was intended to communicate with your friends. Now, we had already, as you know, taken every precaution to stop supplies. It was obvious that, sooner or later, money would be wanted, and we rigorously watched the persons who were likely to be applied to. Up to this point, circumstantial evidence pointed clearly to you"—he nodded towards Grell—"as the murderer.
"Something of the sort happened, for Lola went to Lady Eileen, and we were able to lay hands on her. But we failed to get her identified as the veiled woman who had visited the house in Grosvenor Gardens. I will confess that, at that time, I never had any suspicion that she was the actual murderess. We had no adequate excuse for detaining her after she handed the jewels over, with an explanation endorsed by Lady Eileen Meredith. I had taken her finger-prints, and they did not agree.
"It was palpable that the attempt to baffle us was being shrewdly organised. I tried a different way of getting information—an attack, so to speak, by the back door. I enlisted the help of a criminal. He was acting more or less blindly, but by his help we stopped the burglary affair that was planned. In the pocket of one of the men we arrested, we discovered two advertisements, worded so as to convey a cipher key without exciting suspicion. We had them inserted, and naturally arranged to keep an eye on the office—for the word to-morrow suggested one to be inserted the following day.
"There is always wisdom in gaining the confidence of those concerned in a case if you can. I was trying hard to establish friendly relations with Lady Eileen and Sir Ralph Fairfield. Each was difficult to handle, but with Sir Ralph I succeeded to some extent. I used him to try and learn something from her. She realised that the cipher was known, and went to the newspaper office to try and stop the insertion of the advertisement that might enable us to find Grell. Of course she failed, and we got a message which had been handed in by Petrovska. One of our men followed her.
"We deciphered the message, and it enabled us to discover your hiding-place on the river. But the business was muddled, and you got away. We found the sheath of the knife used in the murder amongother belongings you left behind. By the way, we understand that that dagger had belonged to Harry Goldenburg—how came it to be lying about your room?"
Grell shook his head. "That is a mistake. The dagger was mine. It is possible that he had a similar one."
"Yes, that is possible. But in the event, the point does not matter much. What was more important was, that we had driven you out of a secure hiding-place.
"Meanwhile, Pinkerton's had been hard at work on the other side of the Atlantic, and many episodes of your private life were minutely examined. Their detectives it was, too, who had discovered that Goldenburg and Petrovska had in some way been associated with you. What they found out pointed to blackmail. Here appeared an adequate motive for you to murder Goldenburg."
Grell tapped impatiently on the table, but did not interrupt. Heldon Foyle went on.
"We could not blind ourselves to the fact that you were not the type of man who would commit an ordinary crime under stress of temptation. But homicide is in a class by itself. You might have committed murder. Indeed, there was the strongest possible assumption that you had done so.
"You will observe that there was nothing miraculous in what we did. One step led to another in natural sequence. On the barge, we got the letter that led to the tracing of Ivan at the gambling-house in Smike Street. We knew your finances were cramped. Wewere, as opportunity offered, limiting your helpers, so that we might force you to show yourself.
"That is what happened. You went to Sir Ralph Fairfield, and succeeded in dodging our men—so far. It was Fairfield's servant who gave you away. He came to Scotland Yard and, in my absence, was taken away by Sir Ralph. When I returned, I arranged to get Sir Ralph out of his chambers for a time, sufficient to allow me a talk with his servant. I then bluffed some idea of your mission out of Sir Ralph. I found you had been refused money.
"You had already applied once to Lady Eileen Meredith for money. There seemed a chance that, in your desperate state, you might do so again. I went to Berkeley Square. Lady Eileen had gone out. I got into her sitting-room on pretext of waiting for her. On the fire were fragments of a note from you, and I was able to make clear several words.
"That made me determined to examine her desk. I found a cheque-book, but the used counterfoils were not in her handwriting, nor did the amounts and the people to whom they were payable seem those that would be found in a personal cheque-book of hers. I searched the blotting-pad, and was able to make out the words Burghley and £200. The assumption I drew from that was startling enough, but it was still more startling to discover on the blotting-pad a finger-print which, as far as my recollection went, corresponded with those on the dagger.
"Up to that moment, the possibility that Lady Eileen might be the guilty person had not occurred to me. But now a rearrangement of the circumstances,apart from the finger-print, began to throw a new light on the matter. It would explain much if you, Mr. Grell, were shielding Lady Eileen.
"I could think of no motive, however, and resolved to hold the matter over for the time being. Even if I had good cause for my suspicion, it was still essential to find you. You obviously held the key to the mystery.
"We found out that you had met Lady Eileen, and driven to Kingston—not by shadowing, for our man failed there—but by getting hold of the cabman who drove you. With the aid of the provincial police, we were able to trace you to Dalehurst Grange. I feared that you might be on the alert for any step taken by Mr. Green, and so acted by myself in getting into the house.
"Your manner, when I confronted you, impressed me favourably. It was not that of a guilty man. But I could not let an opinion bias me, for, in spite of everything, you might still have been guilty. There was a great possibility that you were an accessory.
"One thing struck me. Your walk was uncommonly like that of Harry Goldenburg. Now, people may be uncommonly like each other in face and figure and be unrelated. But I have noticed often that little peculiarities of gait, run through a family. I had thought you might be a relative of Goldenburg's, but not till that moment did I become certain of it. You will remember that I put some questions that might have seemed offensive. I wanted you to lose your temper—it was conceivable that you might blurt out something.
"I found it very difficult to place Petrovska. Whileyou were asleep, I thought the matter over and formed an hypothesis. I put several questions to you later, and found that a woman had visited your house with Goldenburg. That was Lola Petrovska. Now, if she was not the veiled woman who came later, who was? For the sake of my theory, I put her as Lady Eileen.
"Very well. Lola and Goldenburg had visited you together. But she had assisted you since the murder, and she was hardly likely to do that if she was on friendly terms with the blackmailer and knew you had killed him. So it came to my mind that you might have used her in an attempt to get the compromising letters. And then it occurred as a remote possibility that she might, after all, be the guilty person, but, to assume that, it was necessary to explain away the finger-prints—for they were not hers.
"All this led to the supposition that the dagger had been handled by some oneafterthe crime. That person must have been Lady Eileen—therefore she must have been the veiled woman—you see?
"But this was supposition, which a single fresh fact would destroy. I held on to you, and Lola walked into our trap. An interview with Ivan cleared up some of the vague points in the story, and confirmed my theory—you will understand that I was ready to drop it the moment it failed to fit the facts. Indeed, to make assurance more sure, I sent a story out to the papers, which I felt sure would convey to Lady Eileen Meredith that you were in great peril—and which, if she was guilty, might induce her to confess to save you. It had an effect rather different to that which I intended.
"Your clumsy attempts to take the guilt on yourself made me more sure than ever of your innocence. This morning we laid a trap for Lola. She was suddenly aroused out of her sleep, and I surprised her into what amounted to an admission of guilt."
Grell rose from his chair with extended hand. "I rather believe that I have made a fool of myself," he said. "You have done a great deal more than you adopt credit for. I cannot thank you now, but later—I suppose I am at liberty now. I must see Ei—Lady Eileen at once."
"You will have to give evidence at the inquest," said Thornton. "That is all. The step this woman has taken will save us all a great deal of trouble. Of course, what Mr. Foyle has told you is entirely confidential."
"Of course."
"Lady Eileen is here, if you would care to see her now," said Foyle. "Will you come with me?"
Grell followed the superintendent along the corridor. At the door of his own room, Heldon Foyle stopped and knocked.
"Here you are," he said.
Robert Grell opened the door.
JOHN FOX, JR'S.
STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.
THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE.