Dutch Fred changed his seat to one less conspicuous and farther up the tramcar. He felt that his luck was dead out, that life was a blank. And that Heldon Foyle of all men should have chosen that particular moment to board that particular tramcar had, as Fred would have expressed it, "absolutely put the lid on." Fred knew very well how to circumvent the precaution taken by order of the police that public vehicles should have the back of the seats filled in to prevent pocket-picking. Instead of sitting behind a victim, one sat by his side, with a "stall" behind to pass the plunder to. A "dip" of class—and Dutch Fred was an acknowledged master—never keeps his plunder on him for a single second longer than necessary. But with Foyle on the car it was too expensive to operate, especially single-handed. Therefore, Fred felt the world a dreary place.
He had boarded the car alone and without thought of plunder. Had it been in professional hours, he would have had at least one "stall"—perhaps two—with him. As chance would have it, a portly business man, with a massive gold chain spanning his ample waist, had seated himself next the operator. And Fred had decided that the watch on the end of the cable was worth risking an experiment upon. Besides, the appearance of prosperity of the "mug" spoke of a possible "leather" stuffed with banknotes. Decidedly,even in the absence of a "stall," it was worth chancing. And then Foyle got on and spoilt it all. If any one on the tramcar lost anything he would know who to blame.
For Heldon Foyle had spoiled one of the greatest coups that ever a crook had been on the verge of bringing off. Fred, immaculately clad, and with irreproachable references, had approached Greenfields, the Bond Street jewellers, with a formula for manufacturing gold. He had discovered the philosopher's stone. "Of course, I don't want you to go into this until I've proved that it can actually be done," he said airily. "See there. I made that handful of gold-dust myself. You test it, and see that it's all right. Now, I'll sell you the secret of making that for £100,000. I don't want the money till I've given you a demonstration."
So an arrangement was fixed up. The jewellers, with a faith that long experience had not destroyed, believed in Fred. Nevertheless, they took the precaution of calling in Foyle, then unknown to Fred save by name. In a little room in Clerkenwell the experiment took place. With ingenious candour, Fred prepared a crucible in front of his select audience after the various ingredients had been submitted to strict examination. Then he placed it on the fire, and stirred the contents occasionally. At last the process was finished, and at the bottom of the crucible was found a teaspoonful of undoubted gold-dust. Then, while Fred, with a broad smile of satisfaction, awaited comment, the detective, who had noted the strange fact that he had kept his gloves on while stirring the crucible, stepped up to him and deftly whipped one off. In the fingers were tracesof gold-dust—enough to convict Fred and get him three years at the Old Bailey.
Out of the corner of his eyes, Fred watched the detective presently stand up and pass along the deck of the car towards him. The operator's face was bland, and he smiled with the consciousness of one who has nothing to hide as the superintendent sat down beside him.
"Hello, Mr. Foyle! I am glad to see you," he said, with a heartiness that he knew did not deceive the other. "It's a long time since we met."
The detective returned the greeting with a cheerfulness that was entirely unassumed.
"It's a piece of luck meeting you, Freddy," he went on. "But there, I always was lucky. You're just the man in the wide world I've been wanting to see."
"What's on?" growled Freddy, with quick suspicion.
"Oh, you're all right," the detective reassured him. "I want you to help me. Let's get off at the next stopping-place and have a drink."
His fears allayed, Freddy followed the detective off the car. They were professional enemies, it was true, but as a rule their relations were amicable. It was policy on both sides.
In the saloon bar of an adjacent public-house, Freddy unburdened himself fully and frankly while he sipped the mixed vermuth.
"I'm glad you struck me—on my word I am," he said earnestly, while his active wits were wondering what the detective wanted. "That bloke was carrying a red clock, and, though I was going for it, I had a feeling I should get into trouble. If you'd been a minute or two later, you'd——"
"Why talk of these unpleasant things, Freddy?" said Foyle, with a deprecatory wave of the hand. "You know how I'd hate to have to do anything to disturb your peace of mind." He drew him to a secluded corner of the lounge. "Come over here. Now, listen. Do you know Goldenburg or any of his pals?"
Freddy started a little, and looked meditatively at the tips of his well-polished boots.
"The chap that did in Grell. I knew him a bit," he said cautiously. "He was in a different line, you know. Mostly works alone, too. I can't say that I know much about him. There's Charlie Eden, he was in with him once—I guess he's in town. And Red Ike, he knew him, too. Perhaps there's some more of the boys who had some does with him. But he always was a bit above us common crooks. I only went for big game once,"—his gaze lingered on Foyle's ring,—"and then it didn't come off."
"Never mind about Eden. You keep your eyes skinned for Red Ike, or any one else that knew Harry, and give me the office. It'll be worth your while. You can come to me if you're hard up. Have a shot at —— and ---- and ——" He named several public-houses which are known rendezvous for crooks of all classes. "You see what you can pick up. And if ever you're in trouble, you'll know the wife and kid will be looked after."
Freddy grinned cynically to hide a real appreciation. He knew that Foyle would do as he said. And in the criminal profession, however big the makings, there is very rarely anything like thrift. For a man who at any time might find himself doing five years, it wassomething to know that those left outside were in no danger of the workhouse. For even "crooks" have human instincts at times.
"That's all right, Mr. Foyle," said Freddy. "What you say goes. Who'll I ask for if you're not at your office?"
"You can talk to Mr. Green."
"Right oh."
Freddy swung out into the dusk, whistling, for he had an assignment with his "stalls" outside one of the big theatres. Foyle waited a few moments to let him get clear, and himself stepped into the street.
To the surprise and disgust of the rest of the "mob," Freddy early relinquished the evening's expedition, although his deft fingers had captured no more than a silver watch (hung deceptively on a gold chain, which he had left hanging), a woman's purse containing fifteen shillings in silver, and a pocket-book inside which were half-a-dozen letters. It was a poor hand, and Micky O'Brady, who was one of the "stalls," frankly expressed his disgust.
"What's the use of chucking it at this time o' night? It ain't nine o'clock yet. There's the lifts at the Tube that we haven't worked for weeks. 'Struth; what did you want to fetch us out for at all? The stuff you've got won't buy drinks."
Freddy's lower jaw jutted out dangerously. He was a small man, but he had a hair-trigger temper. He always made a point to be unquestioned boss of his gang. Discipline had to be maintained at all costs.
"See here, Micky," he said tensely. "I've had enough to-night, and I'm going to give it a rest. Soyou'd better shut your face. I'm the man who's got the say, so here. You just bite on that."
Micky, an Irish Cockney who had never been nearer Ireland than a professional visit to the Isle of Man, clenched his fists with an oath. He was a recent ally, and had not fully learned his position in Freddy's scheme of things. In just two minutes, he was sitting gasping on the pavement, trying to regain his wits after a tremendous punch in the solar plexus, while his fellow "stall" was explaining to a constable that it was all an accident, and Freddy had quietly melted away in the direction of the Tube station.
The pickpocket never strained his luck, wherein he differed from the lower grade professors of his art. Common sense and superstition were both factors in his decision to suspend operations. He might as well spend his time, he decided, in trying to carry out Foyle's instructions. His intention took him to three public-houses as far apart as Islington, Blackfriars, and Whitechapel; at the latter place, in an ornate saloon bristling with gilt and glittering with mirrors, he found the man he wanted.
Leaning across the bar, exchanging sallies with a giggling barmaid, was a lean, sallow-complexioned man, whose rusty, reddish brown hair was sufficient justification for his nickname.
"Hello, Ike," said the newcomer, adjusting himself to a high stool. "How's things?"
"Hello, Dutch. Thought you got stuck the other side of the town. What are you going to have?"
Over the drinks they talked for a little on a variety of subjects—the weather, politics, trade—while the barmaid remained within hearing. Both were craftsmen in their particular line, and they spoke as equal to equal. Ike had made a specialty of getting cheque signatures for a little clique of clever forgers, and had his own ways of getting rid of his confederates' ingenuity. Nor was he above working side-lines if they promised profit, and in that respect, at least, he resembled Dutch Fred. His abilities in many directions had been recognised by Harry Goldenburg. It was not till they had gone over to a little table in a remote corner that Dutch Fred broached Goldenburg's name, in a tentative reference to the murder in Grosvenor Gardens.
"Funny thing you should speak about that," commented Ike, glancing casually about to make certain that no one was within earshot. "I hear that there's piles of stuff in that house, and there's only a butler and a man named Lomont, who was Grell's secretary, living there now to look after things. It would be easy to do a bust there."
Fred's pulses jumped a little faster as he toyed with his glass. He knew something of Red Ike's methods, and felt certain that some proposal was coming. He could see the gratitude of Foyle taking some tangible form if he were able to bring this off. He had no scruples. Even if Ike suspected treachery after the event—well, he could look after himself.
"I don't know," he said, shaking his head doubtfully. "It isn't like a lonely suburban street."
Ike grinned.
"I'm not a mug, am I? What do you say to walking in the front door, opening it with a key, and with thekeys of the rest of the house in my 'sky'? All I want is a straight man to keep doggo."
"Criminy! Have you got the twirls?" he gasped. "Where did you get 'em?"
"Never mind where they came from. I've got 'em. That's enough. More than that, I've got a lay-out of the house all marked out on paper, with every bit of stuff marked out where it ought to be. It's as easy as falling off a log."
"Am I in it?" demanded Freddy.
"Why should I be telling you if you wasn't? You keep doggo outside if you like."
More drinks were ordered, and Freddy came to business.
"What do I get?"
Ike let his chin rest meditatively on his slim fingers.
"Let's see. I cut in for a third, and I shall do all the work. I'll give you a quarter of that third. You won't have anything to do, except give me the office if anything goes wrong."
"'Struth!" Freddy was more hurt than indignant. "You aren't going to Jew me down like that. Who else is in it?"
"Never mind who else is in it. I give you first chance, as a pal. You can take it or leave it."
"Right, I'm on," agreed Freddy.
The compact between Heldon Foyle and Sir Ralph Fairfield had begun to bear fruit. For three days an advertisement had appeared in the personal column of theDaily Wire—
"Will R. G. communicate with R. F. Very anxious."
"Will R. G. communicate with R. F. Very anxious."
Much thought had gone to the wording of the line. If Grell or any of his companions noticed it, Foyle felt certain that in some way or other an attempt would be made to get in touch with the baronet. He was fairly confident that the missing man needed money. He would probably not question how Fairfield knew that he was alive. If he rose to the bait there would be a catch of some sort. Whether Grell was the murderer or not, he held the key to the heart of the mystery. The superintendent emphasised this in a talk with Fairfield.
"It's a fair ruse. We're pretty certain he's hiding somewhere in London, and it's a big field unless we've got a starting-point. That's our trouble—finding a starting-point. In detective stories the hero always hits on it unerringly at once. There was one yarn in which the scratches on the back of a watch gave the clue to the temperament and history of its possessor. Now, that watch might have been borrowed or bought second-hand, or lost and restored at some time, andthe marks made by any one but its owner. That kind of subtlety is all right in print, but in real life it would put you on a false track in nineteen out of twenty cases. In ninety cases out of a hundred the obvious solution is the right one. In an investigation there may be coincidences of circumstantial evidence pointing in the wrong direction. But when you get first one coincidence, then a second, a third, and a fourth, you can be fairly sure you're on the right track. You don't add proof together. You multiply it. See here."
He drew a piece of paper towards him and rapidly scribbled upon it.
"That's the kind of thing in terms of arithmetic. Now look at the parts in relation to each other. Grell leaves the club and gets you to lie about his absence. Coincidence number one. A man astonishingly like him is murdered in his study a short time afterwards. Coincidence number two. He is apparently dressed in Grell's clothes and has Grell's belongings in his pockets. Coincidence number three. Both Grell and his valet, Ivan Abramovitch, disappear. Coincidence number four. Ivan is found with the pearl necklace on him. Coincidence number five. Grell writes you a note, which I stole from you. Coincidence number six. You follow me? I could go on with other proofs. Grellmustknow who committed this murder, and if we get hold of him we shall know."
"I see the point," confessed Fairfield. "All the same, I don't believe, even if he knows as you say, that he had a hand in it. This may be the hundreth case, you know, and there may be some satisfactory explanation of his actions."
"I quite agree. Even cumulative proof may be destroyed. I can guess what you are half thinking. You believe that I've fastened my suspicions on Grell, and that I'm determined to go through with it right or wrong. That's a common mistake people fall into in regard to police functions. In fact, it doesn't matter a bit to a police official whether he gets a conviction or not—unless, of course, he neglects an important piece of proof through gross carelessness. All he has to do is to solve a problem and to place his answer before a magistrate, and then a judge and jury to decide whether he's right or wrong. No one but a fool would attempt to bolster up a wrong answer. In this case, too, you must remember that there are finger-prints. They cannot lie. If we get the right man—Grell or any one else—there will be no question of doubt."
Fairfield tapped a cigarette on the back of his left hand and rose.
"Well, even if you do draw Grell with that advertisement, I doubt if you'll get anything from him if he doesn't want to talk. I know the man, and he's hard to beat out of any decision that he makes up his mind to, as hard"—he bowed smilingly to the detective—"as you would be."
"Thank you. If it were a question of Grell against Foyle I might have to go under. But it isn't. Behind me is the C.I.D., behind that the whole force, behind that the Home Secretary, and behind him the State. So you see the odds are on my side."
A jerky buzz at the telephone behind the superintendent's desk interrupted any reply that Fairfield might have made. With a muttered "Good-day" the baronet moved across the carpeted floor out of the room. As he closed the door Foyle put the receiver to his ear.
"Hello! Hello!... Yes, this is Foyle speaking. Oh yes, I know.... No, you'd better not tell me over the telephone. You can't come here. Somebody who knows you might see you.... Is it important?... All right. You'd better come to Lyon's tea-place in the Strand—the one nearest Trafalgar Square. I'll get Mr. Green to go along and have a talk with you. Good-bye."
Rubbing his hands together thoughtfully, the superintendent sent for Green. In a few moments the big figure of the chief inspector loomed in the doorway.
"Dutch Fred thinks he's got hold of something," opened Foyle abruptly. "I've told him to meet you at Lyon's in the Strand. I think he's all right, but don't let him have any money until you've tested his yarn."
"Very good, sir," said Green. "I'll look into it."
As he left Foyle bent over his desk and, with the concentration that was one of his distinguishing traits, busied himself in a series of reports on a coining raid in Kensington, sent up to him by those concerned forhis perusal. He had a theory that the efficiency of the battalion of detectives under him was not lessened by making his men tell him exactly how they were performing their work, both verbally and in writing. "You may have brains, you may have intuition, you may have courage, but you'll never make a good detective without system," he sometimes told young officers when they joined the staff of the C.I.D. There were things, of course, that could not be put in writing, but Foyle never invited his subordinates to act against the law. Such things have to be done at a man's own discretion without official sanction.
It was less than an hour when the chief inspector returned, portentously grave.
"Well?" demanded Foyle.
"The real goods," said Green, who was obviously feeling pleased with himself. "Your long shot has come off. They're falling short of money, for they've put Red Ike up to break into Grell's house and steal all the stuff in sight. Ike has asked Fred to give him a hand."
A low whistle came from Foyle's lips. Why hadn't he thought of this? Discreetly done, with the help of a confederate—and apparently Grell had no lack of confederates—it would get over the money difficulty quite simply.
"Sit down, Green. Let's hear all about it," he said, diving into his pocket for the inevitable cigar.
"It's all fixed up. Ike walks into the place with Grell's keys at eight o'clock to-night, while Freddy keeps watch outside——"
"And some one keeps an eye on Freddy, if I'm any judge. Go on. Who put Ike up to it?"
"He won't say. He's as tight as a drum about all that, according to Freddy. When we arrest him we must get something out of him."
"I don't know," said Foyle slowly. "Ike's a queer bird. Dutch Fred will need to look after himself if ever he knows who gave the game away. Well now, let's fix up things. Is any one keeping an eye on the place for Ike?"
"Freddy's supposed to be there."
"And I guess that they've found out that Lomont and Wills will be out of the house to-night. You might find out for sure, Green. 'Phone Lomont, but don't stop 'em if they've made arrangements. It would simplify matters if we could get one or two of our own men in the house. We daren't do that, though."
"Why not? If Freddy's keeping watch——"
"That's all right. It isn't Freddy I'm afraid of. There'll be some one else there. The people who put this game up are not going to trust a couple of crooks entirely. I think I'll take a stroll out that way myself about seven o'clock. We'd better have the place surrounded. I'll send for a section map of that part."
A clerk brought the map, and Foyle's fingers described a wide, irregular circle, now and again halting at one spot where he wished a man to be placed.
"That ought to do," said the superintendent when Green had finished taking a note of the various points. "Pick out some good men, though I don't suppose they will have much to do. It's only a measure of precaution. You'd better be on hand yourself about half-past seven. If all goes well we shall get bigger game than Ike."
Within the invisible cordon that Foyle had drawn about Grell's house in Grosvenor Gardens, Dutch Fred loitered, his keen, ferret eyes wandering alertly over passers-by. Misgivings had assailed him during a vigil that had lasted several hours. It was all very well to be "in with" the police; but suppose their plans miscarried? Suppose Red Ike and his unknown friends got to know that the "double cross" was being put on them? Fred fingered a heavy knuckle-duster in his pocket nervously. Man to man, he was not afraid of Ike, but there were his friends.
The tall straight figure of Heldon Foyle, with coat collar turned high up, had passed him once without sign of recognition and vanished in the enveloping shadow of the slight fog that confused the night. Yet, though the superintendent had apparently paid no heed, he was entirely alert, and he had not failed to observe Freddy. What he wanted was to see who else was in the street. He returned by a detour to an hotel in the Buckingham Palace Road, outside which a big motor-car was at rest, with a fairly complete mental picture of three people who might be possible spies among those he had passed.
The thickening fog was both an advantage and a disadvantage to the detectives—an advantage because it would force any person watching on behalf of Grell and his associates to keep within a reasonable distanceof the house if Ike was not to be lost sight of, and a disadvantage because it would afford increased facilities for any one to slip away.
To Green, seated in the motor-car, Foyle commented on this fact.
"You'll have to have your breakdown rather closer to the house than we thought," he said. "Give Ike a good chance inside. You've got the duplicate key all right?"
"That's safe enough," answered Green, tapping his pocket. "If I don't see you after we've bagged him I'd better charge him with housebreaking, I suppose?"
"Certainly. Now get along. It's a quarter to eight."
The car moved silently forward and took the corner of Grosvenor Gardens. Thirty paces beyond the spot where Dutch Freddy was lighting a cigarette it came to a stop, while the chauffeur, dropping to the ground, rummaged fiercely with the interior. Green leaned back in the shadow, his eyes fixed on the steps leading to Grell's house. There was a sufficient air of plausibility about the whole accident to impress any one but the most suspicious.
Heldon Foyle had entered the hotel, for he did not care to run the risk of frightening his quarry by showing himself again until it was necessary. But he kept a vigilant eye on the clock. Promptly as the hands touched ten minutes past eight he made his way once more to the corner of Grosvenor Gardens. A labourer, with corduroy trousers tied about the knee and a grimy, spotted blue handkerchief about his neck, approached him with unlit pipe and a request for a match.
"Red Ike's gone along," he said, as Foyle supplied him. "Nobody else has been hanging round except Freddy. The constable on the beat passed along just after Ike."
The match, was dropped in the gutter, and the superintendent, his face set grimly, moved slowly on. The labourer crossed to the other side of the road and followed. Foyle was quite near the house when Green walked up, accompanied by his chauffeur, and made quickly up the steps. Shadowy in the fog, the superintendent could see the dim outline of a constable's uniform. The man was peering anxiously at the doorway through which Green had gone.
"Well, my man," said Foyle sharply, "are you on duty here? Who are those people who have just gone in there?"
The policeman gave a barely perceptible start, and then took a pace forward.
"I—I believe they have no right there. I must go and see," he said, but was brought up with a jerk as Foyle's hand clutched his wrist. The labourer who had wanted a light was coming across the road at a run and, though a little puzzled, had seized the constable's other hand.
"No, you don't," said Foyle peremptorily. "When you masquerade as a policeman again, my friend, make sure you have a letter of the right division on your collar. This district is B, not M. I am a police officer, and I shall arrest you on a charge of being concerned in an attempt at housebreaking. You'd better not make a fuss. Come on, Smithers. Let's get him into the car."
The prisoner made no resistance. He seemed dazed.Once in the car, the detective took the precaution to handcuff him to his subordinate—right wrist to the officer's left wrist—for he did not know how long the wait for Green might be, and it seemed wisest not to run risks. Detectives rarely handcuff their prisoners unless travelling. It is conspicuous and unnecessary.
"Now we're more comfortable," said Foyle, sinking into the cushions of the car. "If you want to give any explanation before I formally charge you, you may. Only don't forget that anything you say may be used in evidence against you."
"Is it an offence to go to a fancy-dress ball in a police officer's uniform?" asked the prisoner. "Because if it is, I shall plead guilty."
"You can make that defence if you like—if you think it will be believed," retorted Foyle. "It will be better for every one if you tell the truth, though."
The man lapsed into a surly, sullen silence, and the superintendent could feel that he was glaring at him in the darkness of the closed car. The other detective looked through the window.
"Here comes Mr. Green, sir."
Arm in arm and in amicable converse with Ike, the chief detective-inspector was approaching the car, with the chauffeur on the other side. Ike, it appeared, had been run to earth in the dining-room, and had surrendered at discretion. He had all the philosophy of the habitual thief who knows when the game is up. He grinned a little when he saw the handcuffed policeman in the car.
"Why, it's you, Mr. Smith! Didn't you think I could be trusted for fair does over the stuff inside?You've fallen into it this time, and no blooming error. Where's Fred?"
"Fred who?" queried Foyle. "Is there some one else in this job?"
But Red Ike was too old a bird to be deceived. Instinct, as well as reason, told him that he had been betrayed, and the absence of Fred but lent fuel to his suspicions.
"Aw—don't come it, Mr. Foyle," he said disgustedly, and added a picturesque flow of language, elaborating the steps he would take to get even with Dutch Fred when he had the opportunity. Not one of the detectives interrupted him. The more he talked the better, for he might drop something of value. Not until they drew up at the police station did his eloquence desert him. The superintendent descended first and gave a few instructions, while thesoi-disantconstable was taken to the cells. Ike found himself escorted upstairs into the C.I.D. office. Only Heldon Foyle and Green remained with him.
"Sit down and make yourself comfortable," said the superintendent cheerfully. "We want to have a little talk with you, Ike. Would you like a drink? Here, have a cigar."
Red Ike's swift wits were on the alert. Never before had he known this kind of hospitality to be tendered in a police station to a man arrested red-handed. And although suspicious, he was nevertheless flattered. All criminals, whether at the top or bottom of their profession, are beset by vanity.
"A little out of your usual line this," went on Foyle, watching his man intently. "As neat a job as everwas spoiled by accident. Now you know, as well as I do, that we can't force you to talk. But it'll help us a bit if you tell us who you got those keys from, for instance."
The office was small and plainly furnished, and Ike stared into the fire as he sipped his whisky, with placid face. That the interview was to be the English equivalent of the third degree, he knew not. There would be no bullying, only coaxing. Foyle was in a position where consummate tact was needed if he was to extract anything from the prisoner. He dared neither threaten nor promise. However helpful Ike might be, he would still have to submit the issue of guilt and punishment to a judge and jury. Ike, unlike Dutch Fred, had no relations, and if he had it was doubtful if any promise of consideration for them would move him.
"It's no good, Mr. Foyle," said Ike. "The only man that was in this with me was Dutch Fred. You'd better go and get him, because I shall tell all about it in court. He gave me the keys."
"Don't be a fool, Ike," interposed Green.
The prisoner glanced from one to the other with cunning, twinkling eyes. He was too wary to say anything that may be used as evidence.
"I guess that it isn't bursting into the place that's put you two to work," he said. "You want to know something. If I could help you I s'pose you'd drop this case?"
Heldon Foyle shook his head resolutely.
"You know we can't do that in a case of felony. Mr. Green will put in a good word for you at the trial. That's the farthest we can go to."
Ike put down his empty glass. He believed he held the whip hand—that he had much to gain and nothing to lose by holding out for better terms. It was a false impression, though a natural one. Heldon Foyle had neither the power nor the inclination to drive a bargain that would permit Ike to go unscathed to renew his depredations on society.
"It's no good, guv'nor," said Ike. "If you want me to talk I'll do it—if you'll let me go."
"Right." Foyle rose abruptly. "We'll let it go at that, Ike. You please yourself, of course. Mr. Green, you'd better charge him now."
He had passed out of the door, and his footsteps were dying away when Ike awoke to the fact that his attempt at bluff had failed. He raised his voice. "Hi! Mr. Foyle! Don't go yet. I'll cough up what I know. Come back."
A grim smile flickered under Chief Inspector Green's grey moustache as Heldon Foyle stepped briskly back into the room and closed the door. Ike met a stare of the superintendent's cold blue eyes squarely.
"You've got the bulge on me this time, guv'nor," he admitted ruefully. "I give you best. You're welcome to all I know—though that isn't much."
Now that he was near attaining his end, Foyle had to steer a delicate course. The law very rightly insists that there shall be neither threat nor promise held out to any person who is accused of a crime. From the moment a police officer has made up his mind to arrest a man, he must not directly or indirectly induce a person to say anything that might prove his guilt—and a warning of the possible consequences is insisted upon even when a statement is volunteered. Otherwise admissions or evidence so obtained are ignored, and there is trouble for the police officer who obtained them. That is one of the reasons why detective work in England demands perhaps nicer skill than in most other countries.
Green had pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and adjusted a couple of sheets of official foolscap. Foyle remained standing.
"Don't let's have any misunderstanding," he said. "We're not making any promises except that the court will know you helped us in another case. If you choose to keep quiet we can't do a thing to you."
"I know all about that," said Ike, with a little shrugof his shoulders. "You know I wouldn't squeal in an ordinary job. I'm no Dutch Freddy to give my pals away. I don't owe the chap anything who put me up to this. What do you want first?"
"Tell us all about it your own way. Where did you get the keys of the house?"
"Off that chap you raked in along of me. I was sitting in a little game of faro at a joint in the Commercial Road about a week ago, when this tough pulls me out and puts it up to me. I didn't much like it, but the chink who runs the show told me he was straight, and he offered me half——"
"You told Freddy you were only getting a third," interposed Green.
"Did I?" Ike grinned cunningly. "It must have been a slip of the tongue. Anyway, I said I'd chip in for half or nothing. He pow-wowed a bit, but at last he gave in. Funny thing about it was he wouldn't hear of keeping an eye open on the day we brought the job off. Said I must get a pal. Yet here he turns up as large as life all the time."
The prisoner had hit on a point which had puzzled Foyle for a time, but light had already flashed upon him. In the ordinary course of things, a robbery at Grosvenor Gardens by two known criminal characters would not of necessity be associated with the murder. The third man was taking no chances of being identified as an associate.
"Anyway, I took the job on, and he handed me over the twirls and a lay-out of the house. He didn't tell me who was behind him. And I didn't ask too many questions. He called himself Mr. Smith, and we metonce or twice at the ——" He named a public-house in Leman Street, Whitechapel. "That's where I was to have met him to-night with the stuff. Now you know all I know."
"Not quite," said Foyle quietly. "What's the address of this gambling-joint where you first met him?"
Ike shook his head. "Oh, play the game, guv'nor. You aren't going to have that raided after what I've done for you?"
"We'll see," evaded Foyle. "Where is it?"
Reluctantly, Ike gave the address. Green held out a pen to him and pointed to the bottom of the foolscap.
"Read that through and sign it if it's all right."
The man appended a dashing signature, and with a cheerful "Good night, Mr. Foyle," was ushered by a chief detective-inspector down to the charge-room. Heldon Foyle rested his elbows on the table and remained in deep thought, immobile as a statue. He roused himself with a start as Green returned.
"Both charged," said the other laconically. "The other chap refuses to give any account of himself. Refuses even to give a name. Seems to be a Yankee. I had his finger-prints taken. There was nothing on him to identify him."
"Yankee, eh?" repeated Foyle. "So is Grell. There won't be any one in the finger-print department at this time of night. We'll go along and have a search by ourselves, I think. If we've not got him there, Pinkerton of the U. S. National Detective Agency is staying at the Cecil. We'll get him to have a look over our man and say whether he recognises him."
"Very good, sir. There's one other thing. WhenI searched this man I found this. I don't know if you can make anything out of it. I can't."
He handed across an envelope already torn open, addressed to "The Advertisement Dept., TheDaily Wire." Within were two plain sheets of notepaper and a postal order. On one was written: "Dear Sir, please insert the enclosed advts. in the personal column of your next issue.—John Jones." On the other were two advertisements—
"R.F. You are closely watched. Don't forget 2315. Don't forget 2315. G."E. £27.14.5. To-morrow. B."
"R.F. You are closely watched. Don't forget 2315. Don't forget 2315. G.
"E. £27.14.5. To-morrow. B."
"Very curious," commented Foyle. "Copy them out carefully and have 'em sent to the paper. They can't do any harm. Now let's get along."
The fog hung heavy over a muffled world as they walked down Victoria Street. Green, whose wits were a trifle less supple than those of his chief when imagination was required, put a question. Foyle answered absently. The mysterious advertisements were not altogether mysterious to him. He recalled the cipher that had been found at Grave Street, and decided that there was at least room for hope in that direction. Besides, there was at least one man now in custody who knew something of the mystery, and, even if he kept his lips locked indefinitely, there was a probable chance of a new line of inquiry opening when his identity was discovered. And even if finger-prints and Pinkerton failed to resolve that, there was still the resource of the newspapers. With a photograph scattered far and wide, the odds were in favour of some one recognising its subject.
As Foyle switched on the lights in the finger-print department, Green sat down at a table and with the aid of a magnifying-glass carefully scrutinised the prints which he carried on a sheet of paper. Ranged on one side of the room were high filing cabinets divided into pigeon-holes, numbered from 1 to 1024. In them were contained hundreds of thousands of finger-prints of those known to be criminals. It was for the detectives to find if among them were any identical with those of their prisoner.
The whole science of finger-prints for police purposes resolves itself into the problem of classification. It would be an impossible task to compare myriads of records each time. The system employed was absurdly simple to put into execution. In five minutes Green had the finger-prints of the two hands classified into "loops" and "whorls" and had made a rough note.
"W.L.W.L.L.
"L.W.W.L.W."
That done, the remainder was purely a question of arithmetic. Each whorl was given an arbitrary number according to its position. A whorl occurring in the first pair counts 16 in the second, the third 4, the fourth 2, and the fifth 1. Thus Green's effort became—
16
—
4
—
—
20
=
—
8
4
—
1
13
The figure one was added to both numerator and denominator, and Green at once went to the fourteenth pigeon-hole, in a row of the filing cabinet numbered 21.There, if anywhere, he would find the record that he sought. For awhile he was busy carefully looking through the collection.
"Here it is," he said at last and read: "Charles J. Condit. American. No. 9781 Habitual Convicts' Registry."
"Put 'em back," said Foyle. "We'll find his record in the Registry."
The two detectives, uncertain as to where the regular staff kept the files of the number they wanted, were some little time in searching. It was Foyle who at last reached it from a top shelf and ran his eye over it from the photograph pasted in the top left-hand corner to the meagre details given below.
"This is our man right enough," he said. "American finger-prints and photograph supplied by the New York people when he took a trip to this country five years ago. Never convicted here. It says little about him. We'll have to cable over to learn what they know."
"That gives us a chance for a remand," remarked Green.
"Exactly. And in the meantime he may tell us something. A prisoner gets plenty of time for reflection when he's on remand."
Five minutes after Big Ben had struck ten o'clock Heldon Foyle walked into his office to find Sir Ralph Fairfield striding up and down and glancing impatiently at the clock. He made no direct answer to the detective's salutation, but plunged at once into the object of his visit.
"Have you seen theWirethis morning?" he asked abruptly.
Foyle seated himself at his desk, imperturbable and unmoved.
"No," he answered, "but I know of the advertisement that brought you here. As a matter of fact, I sent it to the paper. I should have called on you if you hadn't come. Grell meant it for you, right enough."
The significance of the detective's admission that he knew of the advertisement did not immediately strike Fairfield. He unfolded a copy of theDaily Wire.
"What do you make of the infernal thing?" he demanded. "It's absolute Greek to me."
With a letter selected from the pile of correspondence on his desk unopened in his hand, Heldon Foyle swung round and faced his questioner.
"It's simply a sighting shot, Sir Ralph," he remarked quietly. "Grell credits you with intelligence enough to remember that number later. Have you any knowledge of ciphers?"
"I have an elementary idea that to unravel themyou work from the most frequently recurring letter; E, isn't it?"
"That's right," said Foyle. "But there are other ciphers where that system won't work. Mind you, I don't pose as an expert. If I had a cipher to unravel, I should go to a man who had specialised in them, exactly as I should go to a doctor on a medical question. Still, the advertisement to-day isn't a cipher. It means exactly what it says."
"Thank you," said Fairfield drily. "I am now as wise as when I started."
"Sorry," murmured Foyle suavely. "You'll be wiser presently. The thing isn't complete yet. If you'll excuse me a few minutes, I'll just run through my letters, and then, if you don't mind taking a little walk, we'll go and see Lady Eileen Meredith."
Some formal reply rose to Fairfield's lips—he never knew what. The last time he had seen Eileen was fixed in his memory. Then she had practically denounced him as a murderer. Since then she had learnt that every shadow of suspicion had been cleared away from him. How would she receive him if he visited her unexpectedly with Foyle? Why did Foyle wish him to go? Perhaps, after all, there was nothing in it. He told himself fiercely that there was no reason why the meeting should embarrass him. Some day, sooner or later, they would have to meet. Why not now? He was hungry for a sight of her, and yet he was as nervous as a child at the thought of going to her.
The slamming of a drawer and the soft click of a key in the lock told that Foyle had finished. He picked up a copy of theDaily Wireand his hat and gloves.
"Now, Sir Ralph," he said briskly, and together they descended the narrow flight of stone steps which leads to one of Scotland Yard's back doors. The detective was apparently in a talkative mood, and Fairfield got no chance to ask the questions that were filling his mind. Spite of himself he became interested in the flow of anecdotes which came from his companion's lips. There were few corners of the world, civilised or uncivilised, where the superintendent had not been in the course of his career. He had the gift of dramatic and humorous story-telling. He spoke of adventures in Buenos Ayres, in South Africa, Russia, the United States, and a dozen other countries, of knife-thrusts and revolver shots, of sand-bagging and bludgeoning, without any suspicion of vaunting himself. The baronet made some comment.
"No," said Foyle. "Take it all round, a detective's life is more monotonous than exciting. It's taken me thirty years to collect the experiences I'm telling you about. Things always happen unexpectedly. Some of my narrowest squeaks have taken place in England, in the West End. Why, I was nearly shot in one of the best hotels by an officer sent over from the United States to take charge of a man I had arrested. He was the sheriff of some small town and had a bit of a reputation as a gun-man, and had come over with the district attorney to escort the chap back. They did themselves well while they were here waiting to catch a boat back. One morning I strolled into the hotel, and who should run into me but the attorney with a face the colour of white paper.
"'That you, chief?' he gasps. 'For God's sakedon't go upstairs. ——'s on the landing, blazing drunk and with his gun out. He's a dead shot.'
"Well, I could see that a Wild West sheriff was out of place in a decent hotel, so up I went. He had me covered like a flash, and I yelled out to him not to shoot.
"'Hello, chief,' he says. 'That's all right. Come right up. I won't do a thing. Just wait till I've plugged that cur of an attorney and we'll go and have a drink.'
"By this time I was up level with him. I daren't risk trying to get the revolver from him, for he was a quick shot, so I pushed my arm through his.
"'I haven't got much time, sheriff,' says I. 'Let's go and have a drink first, and you settle up with him afterwards.'
"'That's a bet,' he says, and I led him down to the bar. I persuaded him to try a new drink of my own invention—its chief component was soda-water—and followed it up with strong hot coffee. Meanwhile I managed to get the gun away, on the pretext of admiring it. He was reluctant at first, telling me I could have it for keeps after he had finished that cur of an attorney. But I got it, and he was fairly sober by the time I left him.
"Then there was a sequel. I had warned the sheriff and the attorney, who had made up their differences, that the man they had got was a slippery customer to handle. However, they got him in the boat all right. When they got to New York I had a cable from the captain—a friend of mine. He said the prisoner had not only cleared off the ship by himself, but had carried away the hand-baggage of his escort."
This reminiscence had brought them to Berkeley Square. Fairfield felt his heart thumping quickly although his face was impassive as the door was opened in response to Foyle's ring. She might be out; she might refuse to see them. Neither of the two alternatives happened. Within three minutes Eileen had descended to them in the drawing-room.
She stopped, a graceful figure in black, by the doorway, and gave a barely perceptible start as her eyes rested on the baronet. She bowed coldly.
"I did not know you were here, Sir Ralph. I understood Mr. Foyle wished to see me."
She was frigid and self-possessed. He had half expected some expression of apology for the wrong she had done him, but she entirely ignored that. But that Fairfield had himself well in hand he would have openly resented the snub inflicted on him. It was Foyle who answered.
"I brought Sir Ralph here. I thought his presence might be necessary."
She moved across the room, and sank on a couch with a petulant frown.
"Well, I suppose you have some disagreeable business to transact. Let us get it over."
The superintendent knew that he was dealing with a woman entirely on her guard. Her steady grey eyes were fixed on him closely, as though she could read his thoughts. He thought he could detect a slight twitching of the slender hands that rested idly on her lap.
"I want to know," he said slowly, "the meaning of the advertisement addressed to you by Robert Grell in this morning'sDaily Wire."
He could have sworn that his shot had hit, that she flinched a little as he spoke. But if so she showed no further sign. Instead, her face was all astonishment as she replied—
"I don't quite understand. What advertisement? I know nothing about Mr. Grell since he left Grosvenor Gardens. Will you explain?"
Deliberately the superintendent took from his breast-pocket a copy of theDaily Wire, folded back at the personal column, and read:
"E. £27.14.5. To-morrow. B."
"That," he said, "is addressed to you. It is hardly worth while denying knowledge of it. It was found last night on a man arrested for attempted housebreaking at Mr. Grell's house. I ordered that it be sent to the paper, together with another intended for the eye of Sir Ralph Fairfield."
Her interest was plainly awakened.
"Then the other was for you!" she cried, turning to Fairfield. "I wondered if——"
She paused with the realisation that she had admitted what she had a moment before denied. Foyle's foot pressed heavily on the toe of the baronet to warn him not to speak.
"Yes, it was for Sir Ralph," he said. "That is why I brought him here. It is you, though, who hold the key to this mystery. We know that you would have sent your jewels to Grell, that you are in communication with his friends. You are young, Lady Eileen, and don't realise that you are playing with fire. Your silence can do your lover no good—it may do him and yourself harm. You have been visited by the PrincessPetrovska, an adventuress not fit to touch the hem of your skirt. You are already involved. Take the advice of a man old enough to be your father, and confide in us."
She had risen, and her slim form towered over the seated detective. She seemed about to resent his words, but suddenly burst into a ripple of laughter.
"You would be offensive if you were not amusing, Mr. Foyle. Don't you think my help would be a little superfluous, since you know so much?" she asked with a quietness that robbed the remark of some of its bitterness. "I think you had better go now."
"I am sorry," said Foyle. "You may regret that you did not take my advice."
She herself held the door open for them to pass out. To the surprise of Fairfield, she held out her hand to him while ignoring the detective.
"Come back alone as soon as you can," she whispered. "I want to speak to you."
Foyle had apparently neither heeded nor heard. Yet, as soon as they were out of eye-shot of the house, he turned to Fairfield.
"She asked you to go back?"
"Eh?" The baronet was startled. "Yes. How did you know? Did you overhear her?"
"No, but I hoped she would when I took you there. That was the whole reason of our visit. I didn't expect to get her to say or admit anything."
Fairfield came to an abrupt halt and gripped his companion by the arm.
"You intended— For what reason? How could you know?"
"Absolute common sense, my dear sir. That's all. Absolute common sense. If you are a chess-player, you know that the man who can foretell what move his opponent is going to make usually wins. Here, let's find a quiet Piccadilly tea-shop and I'll tell you all about it."
There is no place which one may find more convenient for a quiet conversation than the London tea-shop before twelve in the morning. Over a cup of coffee in the deserted smoking-room Foyle spoke to the point.
"I did not tell you why I took you to see Lady Eileen, because I was afraid you might refuse. She has been antagonistic to you hitherto. The fact that Grell advertised you in somewhat the same manner as herself has given her the idea that, after all, you too might be trying to shield him. Naturally, she wants to be certain, in order that you may join forces. That's why I prevented you saying anything. Now, if you go back to her you may tell her that I practically forced you to accompany me. You can win her confidence, and through her we may get on the right track."
An angry flush mounted to Fairfield's temples.
"In short," he said curtly, "you want me to act as a spy on an unsuspecting girl. No, thanks. That's not in our bargain."
He was genuinely angry at the proposal. The superintendent saw that he had been too blunt, and made haste to repair his error.
"Don't be in a hurry," he protested. "The girl, as I told her, is beginning to be mixed up in a dangerous business. This is the only way to extricate her.You may help her and Grell and us by doing as I ask. Consider it coolly, and you will see it is the best thing to do."
Sir Ralph set down his cup and fingered his watch-chain. Foyle signalled the waitress, paid the bill, lit a cigar and waited.
"I'll have to think over it," said Fairfield thoughtfully. "Give me an hour or two."
"Right you are," agreed the detective heartily, and they made their way out into the street.
It was with mixed feelings that Fairfield yielded at last to Foyle's arguments and returned to see Eileen Meredith. To his consent he had attached the condition that he was to be allowed to use his own judgment as to how much of the interview he should communicate to the detective, and with this Foyle had to be content.
The baronet found the girl waiting for him, her face alight with eagerness. She was in her own boudoir, luxuriously ensconced in a big arm-chair, and she smiled brightly at him—such a smile as he had not seen since before the murder. He obeyed her invitation to sit down.
"You wanted to see me alone," he said.
She nodded. "Yes, I want to know if we are allies—or enemies. I know I have treated you abominably, but I was driven half mad by the thought that Bob was dead. Now we are working together—are we not?"
He made a little gesture with his hands, helplessly as one at a loss.
"In so far as we both wish to get Grell out of his difficulty—and I wish I knew what that was—yes," he replied. "I don't believe him to be a murderer, but why does he remain in hiding? He is not the sort of man to do foolish things, and that is foolish on the face of it. He has some strong reason for being out of the way. Can you explain?"
She pulled her chair closer to him, and laid one slim hand on his.
"I cannot explain—I can only trust. He looked to us to help him. I know that he wants money, for he sent a friend to tell me. I had none, but I gave her my jewels. Detectives were watching her, and they, with the connivance of my father, took them from her. Now, you, his most intimate friend, must help him. He has given you the key to the cipher which will appear, and then, I suppose, he will tell you how to get it to him."
She had apparently taken it for granted that the baronet was with her in whole-souled devotion to her lover. His fingers beat a tattoo on his knee.
"So that advertisement was the key to a cipher? Do you know when I shall get a message?"
"I shall get one to-morrow. You—who knows?"
"Then you can tell me how to read it?"
She hesitated a moment, finger on chin. Then, animated by a quick resolve, she moved to a little inlaid desk and unlocked a drawer. She returned with a piece of paper in her hand.
"What was the number mentioned in your advertisement?"
"2315."
For a little the only sound in the room was the scratching of pencil on paper. At last she finished, and handed the result to him. He wrinkled his brows as he studied it.
"The bottom line is the top one turned into cipher," she explained. "The middle line is the key number. In the first word you take the second letter from T, the third from H, the first from I, and so on. It is a cipher that cannot be unravelled without the key number. H becomes K once and M once."
"I see." The simplicity of it at once dawned on him. "That was what Foyle meant when he said that some ciphers could not be solved by the recurring E," he said unthinkingly.
She had risen and flung away from him in quick revulsion. One glance at her face told him what he had done.
"You spy!" There was stinging scorn in her tone. "You have talked it over with Foyle, and that man knows all. You are here to worm out what I know in order to betray your friend. Oh, don't trouble to lie,"—as he would have spoken,—"I can see your object. And I nearly fell into the trap."
The man was not without dignity, as he stood a little white but steady. "You may call me what you like," he said in a low voice. "Spy, if you will. Believe me or not, I have acted for the best, for you and for Grell. You once called me a murderer—with what justification you now know. Are you so ready to judge hastily again?"
If he had hoped to move her from her gust of passion, he quickly learned his mistake. Her lips curled in contempt, and, drawing her skirts aside as she passed him as though a touch might contaminate her, she swept to the doorway. For one instant she stood posed.
"You call yourself a spy. It is a good name. For a police spy there is no room in this house."
With that she was gone. The man had flushed under the biting contempt in her voice and words, and now stood for a little with hands tightly clenched, gazing after her. He felt that, from her point of view at least, there was some truth in her words. He was—whatever his motives—a police spy. And yet he was but concerned to clear up the horrible tangle in which his friend and the girl had become involved.
He did not know that he was watched from behind the curtains as he walked blindly into the street. Eileen, with lips firmly set and face tense, was concealed behind curtains. No sooner had he gone than she hurriedly dressed herself and ordered an electric brougham. She had come to believe that her lover's safety depended on her actions that day. Foyle knew the secret of the cipher, and Grell's advertisement told her that he intended communicating something to her by that method the next day. At all costs she must prevent him betraying himself.
Only one course occurred to her. She must go to the office of theDaily Wireand prevent his advertisement from appearing. How she was to do it she had not the slightest idea. That she left for later reflection.
The car rolled smoothly towards Fleet Street, but no inspiration came to her. She alighted at the advertisement office, with its plate glass and gilded letters, and was attended by an obsequious clerk. Outwardly calm, but with her heart beating quickly beneath her furs, she put her inquiry to a sleek-haired clerk. Hewas polite but firm. It was quite possible that such an advertisement as she mentioned had been sent for insertion the following day, and again it might not. In any case he was forbidden to give any information. It would be quite out of the question to stop any advertisement unless she held the receipt.
"But if the advertisement has not already been given in, can you give a note to whoever brings it?" she asked, in a flash of inspiration.
"Yes, that could be done." She tore off her glove, and with slim, nervous fingers wrote hurriedly. The sleek clerk supplied her with an envelope, and as she placed her message in it and handed it to him she felt it was a forlorn hope. There was only one other way of outwitting the detectives. Should Grell give any address in his message, she must reach him early in the morning before the police could act. A couple of questions elicited the fact that the paper would be on sale by four the next morning. That would mean another journey to Fleet Street, for the ordinary news-agents' shops would not be open at that time. The brougham turned about and began the homeward journey.
A respectably dressed working man, who had apparently been absorbed in a page of advertisements of situations vacant displayed on a slab in the window, slouched into the office, and a man bareheaded and wearing a frock-coat moved briskly forward, apparently to attend to him. Yet it was more than coincidence that they met at a deserted end of the counter.
"That was Lady Eileen Meredith," said the workman, in a quick, low voice. "What did she want?"
"She's guessed that we know the cipher," retorted the other. "She gave a letter to be handed over to whoever brings the advertisement. Here is what she says." He pulled the letter which Eileen had written five minutes before from its envelope: "'The police know the cipher. Be very cautious. R. F. is acting with them.' I'll telephone to Mr. Foyle at once. You had better stay outside."
The second man went back to the pavement and resumed his study of the advertisement board, but a close observer might have seen that his eyes wandered past it now and again to the persons inside the office. Half an hour went by. Then the frock-coated man inside took a silk hat from a peg and placed it on his head. Simultaneously a woman went out. A dozen paces behind her went the workman, and a dozen paces behind him the frock-coated man.
Heldon Foyle had selected his subordinates well for their work. Acting on the policy of leaving nothing to chance, he had taken a hint from the advertisement addressed to Eileen, and had the office watched from the time it opened. It was simple to get the manager's permission to place one man within, and to get him to direct the clerks to pass through his hands all cipher advertisements for the personal column. If the advertisement came through the post, their time would be thrown away. If it was delivered by hand, there was a chance of learning whence it had been dispatched. The intervention of Lady Eileen was an accident that could not have been foreseen. In that matter luck had played into Foyle's hands.