Between Berkeley Square and Scotland Yard, Fairfield consumed ten cigarettes in sharp jerky puffs. Yet he was scarcely conscious of lighting one. Indeed, as he climbed the wide flight of steps at the main entrance, it seemed as though no palpable interval of time had elapsed since he had been practically turned out of her father's house by Eileen Meredith.
Heldon Foyle put away the bundle of documents that contained the history of the case as the baronet was announced, and waved his visitor to a chair.
"Well?" he asked.
Fairfield shrugged his shoulders. "A nice mess you've got me into," he complained. "Why didn't you tell me you knew the secret of the cipher?"
The detective's face was full of ingenuous surprise as he answered—
"Didn't I? I thought I made it perfectly clear to you. I am sorry that you misunderstood. I should have made it plainer. What has gone wrong?"
Sir Ralph made an impatient gesture. "Oh, what's the use of talking nonsense? You did not tell me that you knew the cipher, and as a consequence Lady Eileen now knows that you know."
The superintendent gave no indication of the chagrin with which the news filled him. His features were perfectly expressionless. A part of his plans had failed from excess of caution. He did not need Fairfield to tell him what had happened. He could make a fairly accurate guess as to the manner in which he had been unwittingly betrayed. His thoughts turned at once to the question of what the girl would do. If he had judged her right, she would try to warn Grell. Either she knew his address or not, but it was unlikely that she did, as they were communicating in cipher. The obvious thing for her to do was to try to stop the advertisement. There was, however, little he could do. He had men on duty in Berkeley Square and in Fleet Street. He would soon hear of any new developments.
"That's a pity," he said reflectively. "It may mean a re-arrangement of our plans. And believe me, Sir Ralph, I badly regret now that I did not go into fuller details with you. What happened?"
Stumblingly, Sir Ralph recapitulated the scene at Berkeley Square, giving even the epithets by which the girl had addressed him. Foyle tapped lightly on his desk with the end of a penholder. The event had been as he thought. He looked Sir Ralph straight in the eye.
"She told you that you were a spy—that I had used you as a tool," he said sharply. "You have been hurt by her words. I don't want you to feel that you are anything but a free agent, or to do anything that you consider dishonourable. But I must know whether you are still willing to act with us, or whether you wish to stand aside."
Fairfield threw the stump of cigarette viciously into the fire.
"I am acting with you, of course," he answeredsullenly, "though I wish you to ask for my help only when it is absolutely necessary. What I complain of is, that I have not been frankly treated, and that I have been placed in an invidious position with Lady Eileen. You must remember that I have feelings, and that it is not pleasant to be told one is acting as a spy, especially by—by an old friend. You know, Mr. Foyle, that I have only been wishful to serve those I have known."
There was something pathetic in his endeavour to justify his actions to himself. Foyle murmured a sympathetic, "I understand—yes, yes, I know," and then became thoughtful.
"After all," he said at last, "this does not make us so very badly off. You are openly on our side now, Sir Ralph, so there can be no fear of your again being accused of acting in an underhand manner. There is nothing more to be done at the moment. I will keep you posted as to any steps we are taking."
"Very well. Good morning, Mr. Foyle."
The baronet was gone. The superintendent resumed his perusal of documents. He felt some little compunction at what had happened. Yet it was his business to clear up the mystery, and to use what instruments came to his hand, so long as the law was not violated. There is a code of etiquette in detective work in which the first and most important rule is: "Take advantage of every chance of bringing a criminal to justice." In using Fairfield as an instrument, Foyle was merely following that code.
In a little, Foyle had finished and sent for Green. The chief inspector came with a report.
"A woman brought the advertisement to Fleet Street, sir," he said. "Blake has just telephoned up that he and Lambert are keeping her under observation. He 'phoned earlier that Lady Eileen Meredith had been there."
"Yes, I suppose so. What does the advertisement say?"
"He couldn't tell me on the 'phone. He had to hurry away to look after the woman. It is being sent up by taxicab."
"That's good. By the way, Green, keep half-a-dozen men handy, and be about yourself."
"Very good, sir. Is there anything on?"
"I don't quite know. We may have to go out in a hurry. I'll tell you after we have deciphered the advertisement."
It was with an eagerness sternly suppressed that Heldon Foyle took from a messenger the note which he knew contained Grell's advertisement. Although outwardly he was the least emotional of men, he always worked at high tension in the investigation of a case. No astronomer could discover a new comet, no scientist a new element with greater delight than that which animated the square-faced detective while he was working on a case.
He drew out the sheet of paper gingerly between his finger-nails, and tested it with graphite. Eight or nine finger-prints, some blurred, some plain, appeared black against the white surface, and he gave an ejaculation of annoyance.
"The fools! I warned them to handle it carefully. Now they've been and mixed the whole lot up."
He blew down one of the half-dozen speaking tubes hanging at the side of his desk, and gave a curt order. When Green appeared he was engrossed in copying the advertisement on to a writing-pad. He laid down his pen after a while.
"That you, Green? Send this up to Grant, and ask him to have it photographed. See if he can pick out any of the prints as being in the records or bearing on the case. Somebody's been pawing this all over, and the prints are probably spoilt. It's been printed out, too, so there isn't much chance of identifying thewriting. Anyhow, we'll have a look more closely at it when the finger-print people have done."
He bent once more to his desk with the copy of the cipher. He knew the key, and it was not necessary to resort to an expert. By the time the chief inspector came back he had a neatly copied translation on his pad.
"Listen to this, Green," he said.
"'E. M. Am now safe on board a barge moored below Tower Bridge, where no one will think of looking for me. Have good friends but little money, owing to action of police. Trust, little girl, you still believe in my innocence, although things seem against me. There are reasons why I should not be questioned. Shall try to embark before the mast in some outward bound vessel. Crews will not be scrutinised so sharply as passengers. There are those who will let you know my movements. Fear the police may tamper with your correspondence, but later on when hue and cry has died down will let you know all.'"
The two detectives looked at each other.
"A barge below Tower Bridge," repeated Green, with something like admiration. "That was a good shot. He might have stayed there till doomsday without our hitting on him, or any one taking any notice of him."
"I don't know," said Foyle. "A newcomer on the river would attract attention. These water-men know each other. There's only one way that I can see in which he would avoid being talked about. He is a watchman."
"You're right, sir," agreed the other emphatically. "This is a matter where Wrington of the ThamesDivision will be able to help us. Hope we can find him at Wapping. Shall I ring through?"
"There's no hurry for a minute or two," said Foyle. "Let's get the hang of the thing right. There's probably some hundreds of barges below Tower Bridge. It will be as well to keep a close eye on the docks and shipping offices. You see, he asserts his innocence."
"H'm," commented Green, with an intonation that meant much. "He says, too, that there are reasons why he shouldn't be questioned."
"Well, we shall see. There had better be an all-station message about the docks. Send two or three men down to Tilbury to watch outgoing boats there. We shan't need any other men from here. Wrington's staff know the river, and will get on best with them. I don't want to leave here until Blake lets us know more about the woman who left the advertisement. That gives us another possible clue."
It was some time before Wrington, the divisional detective-inspector at the head of the detective staff of the Thames Division, could be found, for like other branches of the C.I.D. he and his men did their work systematically, and usually left their office at nine o'clock only to return at six. At length, however, he was found at a wharfinger's office, where there had arisen some question of a missing case of condensed milk. Within half an hour he was at Scotland Yard.
A tall man with tired grey eyes, about the corners of which were tiny wrinkles, with a weather-beaten face and grey moustache, he aimed to look something like a riverside tradesman. There was a meekness inhis manner and speech that deceived people who did not know his reputation. He spoke five languages fluently, and two more indifferently. Along the banks of the thirty-five-mile stretch of river for which he was responsible he had waged incessant warfare on thieves and receivers for thirty years, till now practically all serious crime had disappeared.
He it was who, a dozen years before, had fought hand to hand with a naked and greased river thief armed with a knife, in a swaying boat under Blackfriars Bridge; he, too, solved the mystery of a man found dead in the Thames who had been identified by a woman as her husband—a dare-devil adventurer and unscrupulous blackmailer, who was declared by a doctor and a coroner's jury to have been murdered. Step by step he had traced it all out, from the moment when a seaman on a vessel moored at one of the wharves had taken a fancy to bathe, and being unable to swim had fastened a line round his waist and jumped overboard. He had neglected to make the end on board properly fast and was swept away by the current. The rope had twirled round him, and as the body swelled became fixed. A blow on the head from the propeller of a tug completed a maze of circumstantial evidence which might have served as an excuse to most men for giving up the problem. Yet Wrington had solved it, and the record, which had never seen the light of publicity, was hidden in the archives of the service.
This was the man Foyle had now called in. He stood, with stooping shoulders, nervously twisting his shabby hat, apparently ill at ease. His nervousnessdropped from him like a garment, however, when he spoke. Foyle made clear to him the purport of the excursion they were to embark on.
"Very good, sir," he said. "If you think the man you want is on the river, we will find him. I guess, as you say, he's got a job as a watchman. He's probably had to get somebody to buy a barge, for they don't give these jobs without some kind of reference."
"A reference could easily have been forged. But that doesn't matter. How soon can you get your men together?"
"An hour,—perhaps two. They're scattered all over the place. I sent out to fetch 'em before I left Wapping."
"Three or four will be enough. With Green and yourself and myself we should be able to tackle anything. Have a launch and a motor-boat at Westminster Bridge Pier in a couple of hours' time. If you can borrow them off some one, so that they don't look like police craft, so much the better."
"I can do it, sir."
"Good. In two hours' time, then."
And Heldon Foyle turned away, dismissing the subject from his mind. Green had gone upstairs to find how Grant of the Finger-print Department had progressed in his scrutiny of the finger-prints on the advertisement. He found his specialist colleague with a big enlargement of the paper on which the advertisement had been written mounted on paste-board, and propped up in front of him, side by side with an enlargement of the prints found on the dagger.
"Any luck?" asked Green.
Grant shifted his magnifying glass to another angle and grunted.
"Can't tell yet," he said irritably. "I've only just started. Go away."
"Sorry I spoke, old chap," said the other. "Don't shoot; I'm going."
Grant rested his chin on one elbow and stared sourly at the intruder.
"Great heavens!" he said. "Isn't it enough to have two of my men ill when there are four hundred prints to classify, to have three newspaper reporters and a party of American sociological researchers down on me in one day, without——"
But Green had fled to the more tranquil quarters on the first floor.
"Mr. Foyle asking for you, sir," said the clerk.
He pulled open the door of the superintendent's room. Foyle had got his hat and coat on.
"Blake's wired that the woman has taken a ticket for Liverpool," he said. "He's gone on the same train. Now that's settled, let's see if we can't hurry Wrington up."
In the corner of the first-class carriage farthest away from the platform, the Princess Petrovska sat with her hands on her lap and a rug round her knees, glancing idly from under her long eyelashes at the people thronging the Euston departure platform. Her eyes rested incuriously now and again upon a couple of men who stood in conversation by a pile of luggage some distance away, but within eyeshot of the compartment.
She had some vague recollection of having seen one of the men before, and though she remained apparently languidly interested in the business of the platform, she was racking her brains to think who he was or where she had seen him. It was recently, she was certain. Suddenly she leaned forward, and her smooth brow contracted in a frown. Yes—she was nearly certain. He had an overcoat and a silk hat on now, but when she last saw him he had been a bare-headed, frock-coated clerk in the advertisement office of theDaily Wire. The frown disappeared and she dropped back. But behind the placid face an alert brain was working. Had the man followed her, or was it a mere coincidence? Was he a detective? With an effort of will she stilled the apprehension in her breast. Her confidence reasserted itself. Even if he were a detective, what had she to fear? She had merely delivered a cipher advertisement over the counter. Itwas unlikely that it would be read by others than the person for whom it was intended. Even if it were, there was nothing in it to incriminate her.
Her lips parted in a contemptuous smile.
"I don't believe he is a detective at all," she murmured.
All doubts on the subject, however, were set at rest as the express began to glide out of the station. As though taken unawares by its departure, the man hastily shook hands with his friend and sprinted for the train, swinging himself into the woman's compartment with a gasp of relief.
"Phew," he said. "A narrow shave that," and then, as if realising the sex of his companion, "I—I beg your pardon. I hope the carriage is not reserved. If so, I will change."
She smiled winningly at him.
"No, don't disturb yourself, I beg. It would be a pity after all the trouble you have taken—to catch the train."
Detective-Inspector Blake was not by any means dull. His immobile features gave no sign that he was half inclined to believe the woman was gibing him. "Now, what the devil does she mean by that?" he said, under his breath. He bowed in acknowledgment of her courtesy, and drawing a paper from his pocket unfolded it.
"And how is the charming Mr. Foyle?" said the Princess, speaking with a soft drawl. "I do hope he is still well."
This time Blake was taken unawares. He dropped the paper as though it were red-hot, and the womanlaughed. A moment later he was ashamed of himself. She had trapped him into a tacit admission that he was a detective. A surprised denial of acquaintance with Mr. Foyle might have ended in an apology on her part for a mistake. Well, it was too late now.
"So you are a colleague of Mr. Foyle's?" she went on, and though her voice was soft there was a trace of mockery in it. "He is charmingly considerate to send you to look after me. I was desolated to think that I should have to take such a long journey by myself."
"The pleasure is mine," said Blake, falling in quickly with the atmosphere she had set. Nevertheless, he was not quite easy. He recalled the troubles that had beset Waverley, and half regretted that he had not brought his companion on the train with him.
"Smoke, if you like," she said, with a gracious wave of her hand. "I know you are dying to do so. Then we can talk. Do you know, I have long wished to have a talk with a real detective. Your work must be so fascinating."
He took a cigarette case slowly from his pocket, and dangled it in his hand. He had never before seen the Princess, but he was certain of her identity.
"Indeed," he said grimly. "I thought you had met Mr. Foyle. In fact, I believe that he afforded you some opportunity of seeing a portion of the workings of our police system. Do you smoke? May I offer you a cigarette?"
She selected one daintily.
"Thank you. But that was different. I don't think it quite nice of you to refer to it. It was all a mistake.Mr. Foyle will tell you so, if you ask him. Do detectives often make mistakes?"
Her air of refreshing innocence tickled Blake. He laughed.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "I made a mistake just now in coming on this train alone."
She laughed musically in pure amusement.
"I believe the man is afraid of me," she said, addressing the ceiling. Then more directly, "Why, what harm could a poor creature like myself do to a great stalwart man like you? I should have thought you'd greater sense."
"Common sense is my strong point," he parried.
"And therefore you are afraid," she laughed. "Come—Mr.—Mr.——"
"Smith—John Smith."
"Mr. John Smith, then. It's a good English name. I shan't do you any harm. But if you like to lose sight of me when we reach Liverpool——"
"Well?"
"It would be worth £50 to you."
He shook his head. "I am afraid, Princess, you have a very poor opinion of the London police. Besides, I told you just now that common sense was my strong point."
She shrugged her shoulders for answer. The train droned on. They had lunch together and chatted on like old friends. It was when they had returned to their own compartment, and the train was nearing Liverpool, that Blake found his cigarettes had run short. The Princess produced a daintily-jewelled enamelled case.
"Won't you try one of mine?" she asked. "That is, if you care for Egyptian."
He took one. What harm would there be in a cigarette? Yet, in half an hour's time, when the train slowed into Lime Street Station, the Princess descended to the platform alone. In his corner of the compartment Blake slumbered stertorously.
Heldon Foyle and Chief Inspector Green paced to and fro along Westminster Pier watching a couple of motor-boats as they swung across the eddies to meet them. A bitter wind had chopped the incoming tide into a quite respectable imitation of a rough sea. There were three men in each boat. Wrington at the tiller in one, Jones, his lieutenant, steering the other.
"It's going to be a cold job," commented Foyle, as he turned up his coat collar and stamped heavily on the frosty boards.
"Ay," agreed Green. Then, without moving his head: "There's that chap Jerrold of theWirebehind us. Has he got any idea of what we're on?"
Foyle wheeled sharply, and confronted a thin-faced, sallow-complexioned man with a wisp of black hair creeping from under his hat, and with sharp, penetrating, humorous eyes. Jerrold was one of the most resourceful of the "crime investigators" of Fleet Street, and, while he had often helped the police, he could be a dangerous ally at times. He started with well-affected surprise as Foyle greeted him.
"Well, I never! How are you, Mr. Foyle? And you, Mr. Green? What are you doing down here?"
"For the matter of that, what are you doing?" asked the superintendent, who had made a shrewd guess that he and his companion had been seen from the Embankment, and that Jerrold, scenting something afoot, haddescended to wait an opportunity. But Jerrold was ready.
"Me?" he retorted. "Oh, I'm writing a story about Westminster Bridge. Cracks have developed in the pier. Is it safe? You know the kind of thing."
"Yes, I know," agreed Foyle, with a smile and a glance at the waiting boats. "Well, it's nice weather. Green and I are just going off with Wrington. There's some question of increasing the river staff, and we've got to go into it."
Jerrold nodded as gravely as though he quite accepted the explanation. In fact, Foyle, shrewd as he was, could not feel certain that he had. The journalist took a casual glance about the wide stretch of water, and with an unconscious gesture that had become habitual with him flung back the lock of hair that dangled over his right eyebrow.
"Got a minute to spare?" he asked. "A rather quaint thing happened at our office. You know they're excavating the foundations for a big hotel in Piccadilly? Well, on Monday a couple of burly navvies, carrying a big paper parcel, came up to theWireoffice and Brashton saw them.
"'Me an' my mate 'ere,' says the spokesman, ''ave been employed on those works in Piccadilly, and we made an interesting discovery to-day. Seeing as theWireis an enterprising paper an' pays for news, we thought as 'ow we'd come along.'
"'Always glad to pay for information if we use it,' says Brashton.
"'We'll leave it to you,' says the spokesman, undoing the parcel. 'Look at this.'
"Inside the wrappings was a battered but full-sized human skeleton. Brashton was a bit staggered, but put a few more questions to the men, and they went away. He forgot all about the skeleton till M'Gregor, the news editor, happened in. Mac's hair stood on end, and he pointed at the skeleton with a long forefinger.
"'What's that?' he demanded.
"Brashton looked up from some copy he was writing. 'That,' he said calmly. 'Oh, that's not necessarily for publication; it's just a guarantee of good faith.' And he explained.
"Mac was horror-struck. He stared at Brashton as though he had taken leave of his senses.
"'Good God, man,' he cried, 'why did you let them leave it here? It might have died of the plague or something.' And, stepping back into the corridor, he yelled for a boy. 'Take that thing away,' he ordered. 'Get rid of it. Put it in the furnace.'
"Well, they took it down and cremated it. To-day, a fine, old, crusty police sergeant rolled up to the office. He wanted to see some one, he said, about the find of a body in Piccadilly.
"Brashton received him suavely. 'Very good of you to come, sergeant,' he said. 'We're always grateful for any information about matters of interest.'
"The sergeant fidgeted with his helmet. 'That's all right, sir,' he said. 'As a matter of fact, though, I've come to you for information this time. You see, I'm a coroner's officer, and we've got to hold an inquest, but we ain't got no body to hold it on!'
"For a moment Brashton was flabbergasted, buthe recovered himself almost immediately. 'I'm very sorry,' he apologised, 'but the fact is, although we had the skeleton here it has—er—been mislaid.'
"That coroner's officer," went on Jerrold gravely, "is now looking over the excavations to see if it's possible to find a few odds and ends to hold the inquest on. But I see Mr. Green's getting impatient. Don't let me keep you."
The boats had been brought up to the quay and, as the detectives stepped aboard, slipped downstream, hugging the Embankment. Foyle turned a speculative eye on the pier they had just quitted. A steam launch had just brought up, but Jerrold had vanished. The superintendent swore softly.
"So that's why he kept us talking," he said. "He suspects something, and wanted to keep us till he could send for a boat himself. We shall be a regular procession if we don't stop that." He leaned over and spoke to Green in the second boat. Immediately it slackened speed, and as the launch came alongside the chief inspector swung deftly aboard.
"Where's Mr. Jerrold?" he demanded of the man at the wheel.
"Who's he?" was the gruff response.
"Come, you know who he is well enough. He's the man who's borrowed or hired this craft, and he got on board just now. I want to speak to him. If he has ordered you to follow us, let me tell you that I am a police officer, and shall be justified in arresting you for obstructing me in the execution of my duty if you are not careful."
"Hello, Mr. Green. Threatening the skipper?What's wrong?" said the equable voice of Jerrold, emerging with cigarette between his teeth through the sliding door of the saloon.
The detective swung round upon him angrily. "This isn't the game, Mr. Jerrold. We can't have you following us like this."
The journalist gave a shrug. "Really? Do you object to me having a blow on the river? Because I'm going on, in any case. I can't help it if you're going the same way."
Green was helpless, and he knew it. Although he raged inwardly, he knew that it would be unwise to arrest the journalist, though such a course might be justified. Apart from the bad feeling such procedure might create, there was the difficulty of establishing a case without disclosing the object of their journey. It was a dilemma where diplomacy might with advantage be employed. He smiled at the reporter.
"Mr. Jerrold, can't we settle this without quarrelling? We're on a queer job, and you might spoil it all by hanging around. Leave us to it, and if there's anything fit for publication you shall have first pull. Don't ask me anything else and I'll promise you that."
"Honour?" queried Jerrold.
"Honour," repeated Green.
"Right you are. Slip off and we'll go back. Ring me up at the office."
The steam launch wheeled about as Green took his place in his own boat. Both men were satisfied. Each knew that the other would not go back on his word. The chief inspector's boat caught up with that whichcarried Foyle and Wrington just below Waterloo Bridge. They were threading the tiers of barges moored on the southern side. The group of detectives, with eyes ceaselessly watchful, passed comments in a low voice. They were not hopeful of finding their quarry yet. The search was merely one of precaution. Now and again one of the boats stopped and a man clambered aboard a barge, dropping back in a few minutes with a shake of the head. Foyle and Green left all this to the river men. They knew the work.
But, swift as they were, they made slow progress. Foyle glanced uneasily at his watch. It was already growing dusk, and the lights on the bridges were reflected in fantastic shapes from the dark waters. The superintendent spoke in a low voice to Wrington, who jerked his head in sharp assent.
"You're right, sir. If we take the likely one now we can leave the others till we've finished. We'll get on. Let her out, boys."
The two boats leapt forward, unobtrusively stealing a course in the shadow of the barges. It was delicate work in the gathering darkness, for many times a lighter swinging at its moorings threatened to crush them; but always they avoided the danger, though to the untrained faculties of Foyle it seemed that the margin of safety was no more than the breadth of a knife blade.
At London Bridge they crossed to the northern side, and here the real hunt began. Wrington signalled for the lights to be put out, and they stole forward, two black blotches on the dark water. Once they narrowly escaped running down a Customs' patrol boat,and voices cursed them with vigour out of the gloom. Again, as they were about to pass under a mooring rope, some one yelled to Foyle to duck. The warning came too late, and he would have been swept into the water but that a ready knife severed the rope. Then there was a halt for a little, while the barge was secured again.
"There's a new caretaker on a tier of barges just above Tower Bridge," whispered Wrington tensely. "We'll try there first. Keep your voice low if you want to speak, sir. Sound travels a long way on the water. Ah, there it is."
Foyle had got good eyesight, but he could make out nothing but a smudge where Wrington pointed—a smudge emphasised by a tiny point of twinkling light. The two motor-boats slowed down and approached, as it were, on tiptoe one on either side of the vessel. As they came nearer a barge took shape at the head of a long string.
"Stop her," ordered Wrington. "Now, sir, will you board her with me? Get ready."
As they lurched against the sides of the craft the two leapt aboard. Green and Jones had come up from the other side. The superintendent gave a whispered order, and the other three ranged themselves around a small deck cabin, while he thrust open the door and entered. It was quite dark within, and a smell of stale tobacco smoke met his nostrils.
He stood still and lit a match, holding himself in readiness for anything. A figure was dozing in a chair at the other side of the cabin. Foyle crossed stealthily and quietly encircled the man around the waist, pressing his arms to his side with all his strength. The man, suddenly awakened, struggled vigorously.
"Keep still," ordered Foyle, doggedly maintaining his hold. "Hi, Green, Wrington! Give me a hand here, will you?"
Powerful as he was and with his prisoner at a disadvantage, Foyle found it all he could do to maintain his hold until his companions broke through to his help. Even then it was no easy task, and the fight raged over the tiny cabin with the police hanging on to their prisoner like dogs to a wounded bear. No one spoke a word; there was only the quick panting of struggling men, the shuffling of their footsteps, and now and again a sharp crash as some piece of furniture overturned. Their very numbers handicapped the police in that confined space. Hands sometimes tore at Foyle, sometimes at the prisoner. The superintendent hung on with the tenacity of a bulldog, until a sudden lurch against the side brought his head sharply in contact with the boarding. Half dazed, he involuntarily relaxed his grip. The prisoner tore himself away and struck out viciously. A man fell heavily. For the fraction of a second a shadowy figure was indistinctly outlined in the doorway. Almost simultaneously Foyle, Green, and Wrington flung themselves in pursuit. They were too late. A soft splash told that the man had taken the only possible avenue of escape.
"Look lively with those boats. He's gone overboard," yelled Wrington. "Light up and get close in to the bank."
With the alacrity of men well used to sudden emergencies those detectives in the boats were at work onthe word. One darted to cut off retreat to the northern bank, though the forbidding parapet of the Tower made it impossible for any man to land for a hundred yards or more. The other cruised cautiously among the strings of barges, watching for any attempt to land on one of them.
The superintendent had dashed to the stern of the barge and dropped into a small dinghy tethered there. At his word the others came running, and with Wrington at the oars they also crept about in determined search.
"It's hopeless," growled Green, in an undertone. "On a night like this we might as well look for a needle in a haystack."
"We won't give up yet, anyway," retorted Foyle, and there was an unwonted irritability in his tone. "We've mucked it badly enough, but I'm not going to fling it up while there's a sporting chance of finding him. Do you think he'll be able to swim across the river, Wrington?"
"It would need a good man to do it in his clothes. The tide's running pretty strong. More likely he's let himself drop down below the bridge, and will try to pull himself aboard one of these craft."
Heldon Foyle rubbed his chin. Every moment their chances of catching the fugitive lessened. In the darkness, which the lights from the bridge and from adjacent boats only made more involved, there was little hope of finding the man they wanted. He had not been seen from the moment of the first plunge, and there were a score of places on which he might have taken refuge, and where, now that he was warned, he could dodgethe searchers. He might have committed suicide, it was true, but somehow Foyle did not think that likely.
For two hours the search continued, and then Foyle, chilled to the bone, decided that it was hopeless. Wrington hailed the other boats, and the detectives returned to the barge. A light thrown into the tiny cabin disclosed amid the disorder an open kit-bag full of linen. Green pulled out the top shirt and felt its texture between thumb and finger. Then he pointed to the name of a West-end maker on the collar.
"Yes, it's hardly the kind of thing a barge watchman would wear," commented Foyle. "We'd better take the bag along, and you can go through it at your leisure. The laundry marks will tell whose they are. You had better stop here, Wrington, and take charge. Find out whom the barge belongs to, and make what inquiries you can. Better have it thoroughly searched, and report to me in the morning. Use your discretion in detaining any one who comes aboard."
One of the motor-boats took Foyle and Green back to Scotland Yard. Both were glum and silent: Foyle because his plan had miscarried at the very moment that he had reached the keystone of the problem; Green because it was his natural habit. It was easy enough to realise now that the whole question was one of light. Had some one thought to strike a match while the struggle was going on there would have been no confusion, and the man would have been unable to get away.
Nor did the news that awaited Foyle at his office tend to make him more pleased with the progress of the investigation. A telephone message had comethrough the chief of the Liverpool detective force—
"Man found drugged in first-class compartment of express from London, bears warrant card and other documents identifying him as Inspector Robert Blake, C.I.D., London. Is now under care of our surgeon, and has not yet recovered consciousness. In no danger. He travelled from London with a woman fashionably dressed, dark hair, dark blue eyes. Am now endeavouring to find her. Can you suggest any steps we can take?"
"Man found drugged in first-class compartment of express from London, bears warrant card and other documents identifying him as Inspector Robert Blake, C.I.D., London. Is now under care of our surgeon, and has not yet recovered consciousness. In no danger. He travelled from London with a woman fashionably dressed, dark hair, dark blue eyes. Am now endeavouring to find her. Can you suggest any steps we can take?"
Foyle banged his fist viciously on his desk. "There! We're not the only people who have made blunders to-day, Green. Look at that. Wire to them a full description of this woman Petrovska, and tell 'em to detain her if they come across her. We charge her with administering a noxious drug, and that'll hold her safe till we get the business cleared up. If she's trying to slip out of the country, they're pretty safe to get her in one of the liners. Wire over our men at Liverpool to the same effect."
Green slipped away. In a little he returned with a slip of paper in his hand. "Wire's gone to Liverpool. I've drafted this out for Mr. Jerrold, if you'll just look at it. I promised him he should know anything there was to tell."
The sheet of paper read—
"In connection with the investigation into the murder of Mr. Robert Grell, Superintendent Heldon Foyle, accompanied by Chief Detective-Inspector Green, Divisional Detective-Inspector Wrington, and other detectives, examined the body of a man found in the river, whom it was supposed might be the man Goldenburg, for whom search is being made. The police are of the opinion that the drowned man is not Goldenburg."
"In connection with the investigation into the murder of Mr. Robert Grell, Superintendent Heldon Foyle, accompanied by Chief Detective-Inspector Green, Divisional Detective-Inspector Wrington, and other detectives, examined the body of a man found in the river, whom it was supposed might be the man Goldenburg, for whom search is being made. The police are of the opinion that the drowned man is not Goldenburg."
A light of amusement twinkled in Foyle's blue eyes.
"Don't you think he'll discover that to be a deliberate lie, Mr. Green?"
"Well," said Green doggedly, "we can't tell him what has happened, and we've got to satisfy him somehow. I promised to let him know something, and it's true that a body has been found. I asked Wrington. And it's true that it's not Goldenburg."
"Oh, all right, let it go. You'd better arrange the laundry inquiry first thing in the morning. Now let me alone. I want to think."
Sir Hilary Thornton had come to Heldon Foyle's stocktaking. The superintendent, with a mass of papers on the desk in front of him, talked swiftly, now and again referring to the typewritten index of reports and statements in order to verify some point. The Assistant Commissioner occasionally interpolated some question, but for the most part he remained gravely silent. Foyle recapitulated the events of the preceding day.
"It was sheer foolishness, Sir Hilary," he admitted bitterly. "If we hadn't blundered Grell would have been in our hands now. As it is, we have to begin the search for him all over again."
Through the open window came the rumble of a motor-omnibus used by the police to test applicants for licenses. Thornton swung the window close.
"You still think that Grell had a hand in it?"
"I'm never positive, Sir Hilary, when it is a question of circumstantial evidence. But there can be no question that if he is not guilty himself he knows who is. I am so certain that I had a schedule of witnesses made out for the Treasury. Here they are."
He selected a sheet of paper and passed it to the other. Thornton read it and handed it back without comment.
"There are gaps in it, of course," went on Foyle. "As a matter of evidence, though, practically all we want is to identify the finger-prints. They of themselves would determine the investigation. But we can't tell whether they are Grell's or not until we get hold of him. We've identified the linen found in the bag on the barge as having been bought for Grell, but there is no name or initials on the bag itself. I have not yet heard from Wrington. He may have something further to report. About Goldenburg. I got Pinkerton's to look into his career in America. They have discovered that five years ago he was in San Francisco for three months, and at that time he was apparently well supplied with money. Grell arrived there a month before he left, and they left the city within a day of each other."
"A coincidence."
"It may be or may not. Grell's movements were pretty well chronicled in the American Press at that time, and it is at any rate conceivable that Goldenburg went there with the express intention of meeting him. More than that, Grell was staying at the Waldorf Astoria in New York two years ago. Goldenburg went straight there from India—which he had made too hot to hold him—stayed at the same hotel, and left within three days for Cape Town. Why should he go to Cape TownviaNew York? I may be right or wrong in the opinion I have formed, but at any rate we have established a point of contact between the two men."
"There is something in that," agreed Sir Hilary, with a jerky nod of the head.
"More than that, on the New York visit Goldenburg was accompanied by a woman whose description in every particular corresponds with that of the Princess Petrovska—though she called herself the Hon.Katherine Balton. There is material enough in that information, Sir Hilary, to draw a number of conclusions from. At any rate, they go to confirm my opinions at present. I know very well that there is sometimes smoke without fire, but my experience is that you can usually safely lay odds that there is a fire somewhere when you do see smoke."
The elliptic form of speech was sometimes adopted by Heldon Foyle in discussing affairs with one whose alertness of brain he could depend upon. Thornton twisted his grey moustache and his eye twinkled appreciatively.
"That's all right," he said. "But how do you account for Grell finding people ready to his hand in London to help him disappear at the very moment he needs them? There are several people mixed up in it, we know; but how is it that they are all loyal to him? We know that criminals will not keep faith with each other unless there is some strong inducement. How do you account for it?"
"There may be a dozen reasons. Purely as an hypothesis, Grell may have a hold on these people by threatening them with exposure for some crime they have committed. Self-interest is the finest incentive I know to silence."
"All the same, it's queer," said Sir Hilary, with a little frown. "What do you propose to do?"
Heldon Foyle's lips became dogged. "Break 'em up piecemeal as we lay our hands on 'em now. We've got one—the man we roped in with Red Ike. He's as tight as an oyster; but while we've got him he can't do anything to help his pals. Then there's thePrincess. She's as slippery as an eel; but if the Liverpool people can get hold of her we may reckon she'll be kept safe for a few weeks on the charge of drugging Blake. Then there's Ivan Abramovitch. We may be able to lay our fingers on him. If there's any more in this business I don't know 'em; but every one of the gang we take means so much less help for Grell."
A discreet knock at the door heralded the entrance of a messenger, who laid an envelope on the table and silently disappeared.
"Western Union," muttered the superintendent. "This may be something else from Pinkerton's, Sir Hilary. Don't go yet." And, tearing open the envelope, he crossed the room and pulled down a code-book. In a little he had deciphered the cable. "We're getting closer," he said. "Pinkerton's have got hold of 'Billy the Scribe,' who identified the photograph of the dagger with which the murder was committed as one that he believes was in the possession of Henry Goldenburg when he last saw him. That may be fancy or invention, or it may be important. Hello! what is it?"
It was Green who had interrupted the conference. "Lady Eileen Meredith, sir—Machin reports that she left her home at five this morning, walked to Charing Cross Station, bought a copy of theDaily Wire, looked hurriedly through it, and then worked out something on a small notebook. Then she returned home, and came out again in half an hour's time and went to Waterloo Bridge floating station. There she asked to see one of the detective branch, and they referred her to headquarters at Wapping after nine this morning.Machin says he had no chance to telephone through before. She has not gone to Wapping," he added, as he saw the eyes of his chief seek the clock. "She went straight back home and has not come out since."
A low whistle came from between Foyle's teeth and his eyes met Thornton. "She knew the advertisement was to appear in theDaily Wire, and she got up early to warn Grell that we know, in case he should give an address. She did not discover a little paragraph of Mr. Green's invention till after she returned home, and then her curiosity was stirred, and she hoped, by going to Waterloo, to find a subordinate detective whom she might pump. What do you think, Green?"
"I agree with you, sir. She'll turn up here later, I shouldn't wonder."
Sir Hilary Thornton strode to the door, returning the greeting of Wrington, whom he passed as he retired. The river man was evidently pleased with himself. Foyle took a place in front of the fire and waited.
"Had a cold night?" he queried.
"Been too busy to think about it, sir," he chuckled. "We discovered that the owners of the barge engaged the man who gave the name of Floyd on the written recommendation of a firm of steamship agents—that, by the way, was forged, for the agents deny all knowledge of the man. He was supposed to have been an American sailor. Once or twice he has been visited on the boat by a couple of men who pulled up in a dinghy hired from Blackfriars. The regular waterman hardly ever caught a glimpse of him—he never showed himself by day. This morning a letter was sentaboard addressed to James Floyd, Esq. I never opened it, thinking perhaps you might prefer to do so. We searched the barge from end to end, and Jones is outside with a bag of different things you might like to see. What I thought most important, however, was this."
He dipped his hand in his jacket pocket and, withdrawing a small package wrapped in newspaper, carefully unfolded it. Something fell with a tinkle on Foyle's desk.
"By the living jingo!" ejaculated Green. "It's the sheath of the dagger!"
The superintendent picked up the thing—a small sheath of bright steel with, on the outside, a screw manipulating a catch by which it might be fastened to a belt. He handled it delicately from the ends.
"I believe you're right," he said. "Now, what about the letter?"
The motive of the actions taken that day by Eileen Meredith had been accurately diagnosed by Heldon Foyle. She had returned to her home after her visit to the police at Waterloo Bridge in a state of the keenest uncertainty. Not for an instant did she credit the paragraph referring to the dead body. The police had been able to read the cipher message from Grell, and she assumed correctly enough that they had been more successful than herself in obtaining an early glimpse of the advertisement. What, then, had become of her note of warning?
She was half reclining in a big easy-chair, her arms resting on the broad ledges, her fists tightly clenched. Her train of thought led her to alarming conclusions. If the police had been watching—and that now occurred to her as having been an obvious step—they must not only have seen her note, but they might have secured and questioned the person who brought the advertisement. And if so, might not Robert Grell's hiding-place have been betrayed? Her heartbeats became unsteady. What if the visit of the detectives down the river had been not to identify a drowned corpse, but a living prisoner? Suppose Grell were already in their hands?
She jumped to her feet. The watch on her wrist spoke to quarter to eleven. Her reflections had occupied many hours. She was already dressed in a brownwalking costume, and she had not even removed her hat since she returned. In answer to her summons a maid appeared with a cup of coffee and a couple of biscuits on a tray. That reminded her that she had not eaten since she had risen. She drank the coffee and ate the biscuits, while waiting for the brougham she had ordered. Within a quarter of an hour she was on her way to Scotland Yard.
In the circular hall, entered through swing-doors from the wide steps of the main entrance, a uniformed policeman hurried forward to take her card. Through the big windows she could see beneath her the surging life of the Embankment and the smooth traffic of the river. Had the river given up its secret? The constable returned, and she was ushered along a grey and green corridor to Foyle's room. He had his overcoat on, and his hat and stick lay on the table. He smiled a polite welcome at her, and she strove to read his genial face without success. For her there was something of humiliation in the situation. She, who had taken pains to be offensive on the last occasion that they had met, was now dependent upon his good-nature for the information she wanted.
"What can I do for you, Lady Eileen?" he asked with grave courtesy.
She had dropped into a chair and her grey eyes met his, half defiant, half entreating. She answered with quick directness—
"You can tell me what has happened to Mr. Grell."
He opened his hands in a gesture of surprised expostulation. "My dear young lady! I only wish we knew."
Her foot tattooed impatiently on the floor. "Please don't treat me as if I were a child, Mr. Foyle. Something has happened since yesterday morning. I demand to know what it is."
Foyle was invariably gentle with women, and her insistent dignity rather amused than angered him. "Since you demand it," he said suavely, laying a scarcely perceptible stress on the word demand, "I will tell you. As the result of certain information, observation has been kept on Lady Eileen Meredith. She was followed yesterday to the advertisement offices of theDaily Wire, where she made inquiries respecting a certain cipher advertisement which was to appear in that paper. Failing to obtain what she wanted, she left a note warning some one in the following terms: 'The police know the cipher. Be very cautious. R. F. is acting with them.'"
An angry flush swept across the girl's pale cheeks. "I know you have set your spies about me," she said scornfully. "I did not come here to ask you that. What——"
"One moment. Let me finish. This morning Lady Eileen rose at an unfashionable hour—about four, to be exact—and went out to obtain a copy of theDaily Wire. Having deciphered the advertisement, and finding that it afforded no direct clue to Grell's whereabouts, she returned home and there came across a paragraph—which I will confess was inspired in this office—that set her wondering whether, after all, her lover was safe. She went out again—this time to Waterloo Bridge police station—and there made some inquiries——"
Eileen had got to her feet. She was plainly angry. "I don't want to know how effective your spying on a harmless woman can be."
"I am glad you admit it is effective," he answered quickly. "I wanted to bring that home to you. You cannot or will not understand in how perilous a situation you may find yourself if you go on playing with fire. There is no one else who has fuller sympathy with you or greater understanding of your feelings than I. Therefore I warn you. Do you know that merely on what you have done and are doing I should, were I certain that Grell was guilty, be justified in having you arrested as an accessory after the fact?" His voice became very grave. "If your conduct has not hampered this investigation, Lady Eileen, it has not been for want of effort. Take the warning of a man who wishes you well. For neither your position nor your friends will save you if ever you stand in my way. I shall do my duty, whatever the consequences."
She was more impressed by his words and his tone than she would have cared to admit. But except that her face became a shade paler, she gave no indication that the warning touched her. Foyle had picked up his hat and stick.
"You have not found him, then?" she cried. "Can it be doing you any harm to say what has happened?"
"We have not found Grell—yet," he answered. "We found where he had been hiding, but he got away."
A sigh of relief came from between her lips. She scarcely noticed the abruptness with which he ended the interview, and returned his bow almost with cordiality. Foyle only stayed long enough to thrusta few papers into the safe, and then followed her out. Two resounding smacks called his attention to the landing of the private stairs, where Chief Detective-Inspector Green was struggling in the embrace of a stout, matronly woman, while a half-suppressed snigger came from a passing clerk.
Green, his solemn face crimson, pushed the woman gently away from him towards a girl and a young man who were apparently waiting for her. "There, there; that will do. Let us know if everything does all right. Won't keep you a moment, sir," and he disappeared along the corridor.
When he returned he had recovered something of his usual impassivity. But he could not be oblivious to the twinkle in Foyle's eyes. "Women are the very devil," he said as if in answer. "There's no knowing what they'll do. Now, the young girl there wanted to run away with a man of fifty, who is already a married man. So her mother—the old lady you saw kissing me—brought her up here, evidently under the impression that we can do anything. I took the girl into my room and gave her some good advice, telling her she had much better marry the young man you saw—they had been engaged, and quarrelled—and I told of some cases like her own that had come under my own knowledge. She wept a bit, admitted I was right, and then suddenly flung herself on top of me and started hugging and kissing me. I got her outside, told her mother that the matter was all right, when I'm blessed if she didn't try it on too. That was just as you came out. You may have noticed that I side-stepped warily round the young man."
"Be careful, Green. Is she a widow?" laughed Foyle. And then, more seriously: "How far is it to this place? Our man may be out when we get there."
"Shall we leave it till to-night, sir? It will be more certain then."
"No, we'll chance it. Let's have a look at the letter." He fished a note out of his pocket and paused to read it through, carefully replacing it in its envelope as he finished.
It was the letter that had been addressed to Floyd on the barge "Flowery Land." It read—
"Dear Mr. Floyd,—I have tried to carry out your instructions, but luck has been against me, as I have to be very careful. It has been easy enough to buy the seamen's discharges that you require, but I have been unable to see Lola since she took the advertisement to-day, so do not know if she has managed to raise money. I believe I am fairly safe here, and my friends are to be relied upon, though they are much occupied with the gambling and the smoke, so there is not much quietness. If you write, address me as Mackirty, 146 Smike Street, Shadwell."
"Dear Mr. Floyd,—I have tried to carry out your instructions, but luck has been against me, as I have to be very careful. It has been easy enough to buy the seamen's discharges that you require, but I have been unable to see Lola since she took the advertisement to-day, so do not know if she has managed to raise money. I believe I am fairly safe here, and my friends are to be relied upon, though they are much occupied with the gambling and the smoke, so there is not much quietness. If you write, address me as Mackirty, 146 Smike Street, Shadwell."
It had needed little penetration to identify the writer of the note as Ivan, and to guess that he had taken refuge in a gambling and opium den. Indeed, this latter fact was soon verified by a telephone appeal to the detective-inspector in charge of the district, who declared that he was only waiting for sufficient proof of the character of the house before making a raid.Foyle had promptly ordered the place to be discreetly surrounded, but that no steps were to be taken until his arrival. He had conceived an admiration for Ivan's cunning in the matter, for there was no place where a fugitive could be more certain of having the intrusion of strangers more carefully guarded against than a gambling-house.
He was willing to forego a conviction against the keepers of the place rather than miss an opportunity of securing Ivan. For cautious steps are always necessary in proceeding against such places. It is so easy to transform a game of baccarat, faro, or fantan into an innocent game of bridge or whist with a few innocent spectators, and to hide all gambling instruments between the time the police knock and the time they effect an entry. Then, however positive the officers may be, they have no legal proof, unless one of their number has been previously introduced as a "punter," and to do that would require time.
Smike Street at one time had been a street of some pretensions. Even now, in comparison with the neighbourhood in which it was set, it maintained an air of genteel respectability, and its gloomy three-storeyed houses had in many cases no more than one family to a floor. It was, however, one of those back streets of the East End which are never deserted, for its adult inhabitants plied trades which took them abroad at all hours—market porters, street hawkers, factory workers, dock labourers, seamen, all trades jostled here. One or two of the houses bore a sign, "Hotel for Men Only."
It was at the corner that Foyle and Green werejoined by the divisional detective-inspector, and the three swung into the deserted saloon bar of a shabby public-house which afforded a better opportunity for unobtrusive conversation than the street. Leaving the glass of ale he ordered untouched upon the counter, the superintendent rapidly learned all steps that had been taken.
"It's a corner house on this side," said the local man, "kept by an old scoundrel of a Chinaman calling himself Li Foo, and a man who was a bit of a bruiser in San Francisco at one time—a chap called Keller. He looks after the faro game in a back room on the first floor, while the chink runs the black smoke upstairs on the stop storey. They're the bosses, but there's three under-dogs, and the place is kept going night and day."
Foyle grunted. "How long have you known this? Couldn't you have dropped on 'em before?"
The other made a deprecatory gesture with his hands. "They're cunning. The show had been running three months before we got wind of it. That was about a month ago, and we've tried every trick in the bag to get one of our men inside. There's no chance of rushing the place on a warrant either, because both front and back doors are double, and only one man is allowed to go in at a time. They won't open to two or more. Before we could get the doors down there'd not be a thing left in the place as evidence."
A gleam of temper showed in Foyle's blue eyes. "That's all very well, Mr. Penny. It won't do to tell me that you've known of this place for a month andthat it is still carried on. Why didn't you let a man try single-handed? With the door once open he could force his way in."
"I couldn't send a man on a job like that," protested the other. "Why, you don't know the place. They'd murder him before we could get at him."
He flinched away from Foyle as though afraid his superior would strike him. For the superintendent's hands were clenched and his eyes were blazing. Yet when he spoke it was with dangerous quietness.
"A man of your experience ought to know by now that it's his business to take risks. If you'd made up your mind there was no other way of obtaining evidence you should have sent a man in. Never mind that now. Take your orders from Mr. Green for the day. Green, I'll be back in an hour. I'm going into that place. Act according to your own discretion if you think I'm in difficulties."