 CHAPTER XXXIII. Held in foil and Chief Inspector Green paced two and frail 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, wringing at the tiller in one, Jones his lieutenant steering the other. It's going to be a cold job, commented Foil, as he turned up his coat-collar and stamped heavily on the frosty boards. I agreed green, then, without moving his head. There's that chap Gerald of the wire behind us. Has he got any idea of what we're on? Foil wheeled sharply and confronted a thin-faced, salo-complexioned man with a wisp of black hair creeping from under his hat, and with sharp, penetrating, humorous eyes. Gerald 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 Foil greeted him. Well, I never! How are you, Mr. Foil, 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 Gerald, senting something afoot, had descended to wait an opportunity. But Gerald was ready. Immediately 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 Foil with a smile and a glance at the waiting-boats. Well, it's nice weather. Green and I are just going off with Rington. There's some question of increasing the river staff, and we've got to go into it. Gerald nodded as gravely as though he quite accepted the explanation. In fact, Foil, 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, while on Monday a couple of burly navies carrying a big paper parcel came up to the wire office, and brashed and saw them. Me and my mate here, says the spokesman, have been employed on these works in Piccadilly, and we made an interesting discovery today. Seeing as the wire is an enterprising paper and pays for news, we thought as I would 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 McGregor, the news editor, happened in. Max Hess 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 a 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. While they took it down and cremated it, today a fine old, crusty police sergeant rolled up to the office. He wanted to see someone, 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, but he 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 Gerald Gravely, is now looking over the excavations to see if it's possible to find a few odds and ins 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 key, and as the detective stepped aboard, slipped downstream, hugging the embankment. Foil turned a speculative eye on the pier they had just quitted, as steam launch had just brought up, but Gerald had vanished. The superintendent swore softly. So that's why he kept us talking, he said. He suspect 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. Gerald 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'm 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 equitable voice of Gerald, 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. Gerald. 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. Gerald, 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 the first pull. Don't ask me anything else, and I'll promise you that. Honor, queried Gerald. Honor, 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 which carried foil and rington just below Waterloo Bridge. They were threading the tears 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. Foil and Green left all this to the rivermen. They knew the work. But, swift as they were, they made slow progress. Foil 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 rington, who jerked his head in sharp ascent. 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 foil 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. Rington 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 vigor out of the gloom. Again, as they were about to pass under a mooring rope, someone yelled to Foil to duck. The warning came too late, and he would have been swept into the water, but the to-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 Rington 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. Foil had got good eyesight, but he could make out nothing but a smudge where Rington pointed, a smudge emphasized by a tiny point of twinkling light. The two motor-boats laid 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 Rington. Now so 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 the smell of stale tobacco smoke met his nostrils. He stood still and lit a match, holding himself in readiness for anything. A figure was dazing in a chair at the other side of the cabin. Foil 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 Foil, doggedly maintaining his hold. Green, Rington, give me a hand here, will you? Powerful as he was, and with his prisoner at a disadvantage, Foil found it all he could do to maintain his hold until his companions break through to his help. Even then it was no easy task, and the fight raged over the tiny cabin, with the police hanging onto 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 Foil, 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 Foil, Green, and Rington 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 Rington. Light up, and get close into the bank. With the alacrity of men well used to sudden emergencies, those detectives in the boats were at work on the 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 Rington 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 Foil, and there was an unwanted 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, Rington? 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. Helden Foil rubbed his chin. Every moment their chance is 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 dodge the searchers. He might have committed suicide, it was true, but somehow Foil did not think that likely. For two hours the search continued, and then Foil, chilled to the bone, decided that it was hopeless. Rington 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 Foil. We'd better take the bag along, and you can go through it at your leisure. The laundry-marks will tell who's they are. You'd better stop here, Rington, and take charge. Find out who 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 anyone who comes aboard. One of the motorboats took Foil and Green back to Scotland Yard. Both were glum and silent. Foil, 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 realize now that the whole question was one of light. Had someone thought to strike a match whilst 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 Foil at his office tend to make him more pleased with the progress of the investigation. A telephone message had come through 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, CID 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, and now endeavouring to find her. Can you suggest any steps we can take? Foil 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 them to detain her if they come across her. We charge her with administering a noxious drug, and that will 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. Gerald 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 Foil, accompanied by Chief Detective Inspector Green, divisional Detective Inspector Rington, and other detectives examined the body of a man found in the river, whom it was supposed might be the man Goldenberg for whom search is being made. The police are of the opinion that the drowned man is not Goldenberg. A light of amusement twinkled in Foil'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 promise to let him know something, and it's true that a body has been found. I asked Rington, and it's true that it's not Goldenberg. 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. CHAPTER XXXV Sir Hillary Thornton had come to Helden Foil's stock-taking. 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. Foil recapitulated the events of the preceding day. It was sheer foolishness, Sir Hillary, 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 closed. You still think that Grell had a hand in it? I'm never positive, Sir Hillary, 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, when Tanfoil, as a matter of evidence though, practically all we want is to identify the fingerprints. They of themselves would determine the investigation, but we can't tell whether they are Grells 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 Rington. He may have something further to report. About Goldenberg, I got Pinktons 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 or may not be, Grell's movements were pretty well chronicled in the American press at that time, and it is at any rate conceivable that Goldenberg 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. Goldenberg 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 Town via New 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 Hillary, with the jerky nod of the head. More than that, on the New York visit, Goldenberg was accompanied by a woman whose description in every particular corresponds with that of the Princess Petrovska, though she called herself the honorable Catherine Bolton. There is material enough in that information, Sir Hillary, 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 mustache and his eye twinkled appreciatively. That's all right, he said, but how do you account for Grel finding people ready to his hand in London to help him disappear the very moment he needs them? There are several people mixed up on 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 a hypothesis, Grel 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 Hillary with a little frown. What do you propose to do? Heldon Foyle's lips became dogged. Break him up piece meal as we lay our hands on him now. We've got one, the man we wrote 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 the Princess. 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 Abramovich. We may be able to lay our fingers on him. If there's any more in this business I don't know him, but every one of the gang we take means so much less help for Grel. 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, so 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 Goldenberg 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, matching reports that she left her home at five this morning, walked to Charon Cross station, bought a copy of the Daily 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. Matching 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 Foil's teeth and his eyes met Thornton. She knew the advertisement was to appear in the Daily Wire, and she got up early to warn Grel 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 Hillary Thornton strayed to the door, returning the greeting of Rington, whom he passed as he retired. The river man was evidently pleased with himself. Foil 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' denial 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 dingy hired from Blackfriars. The regular waterman hardly ever caught a glimpse of him. He never showed himself by day. This morning a letter was sent aboard addressed to James Floyd Esquire. I never opened it, thinking perhaps you might prefer to do so. We searched the barge from end to end, and James 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 Foil'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? End of Chapter 35 Chapter 36 of The Grail Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. The Grail Mystery by Frank Froust Chapter 36 The motive of the actions taken that day by Eileen Meredith had been accurately diagnosed by Helden Foil. 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 Grail, 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 has 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 Grail'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 Grail 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 brown walking 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 brown 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 Foil'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 care to see. She had dropped into a chair, and her grey eyes met his, half defiant, half in-treating. 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. Foil, something has happened since yesterday morning. I demand to know what it is. Foil was invariably gentle with women, and her insistent dignity rather amused than angered him. Since you demand it, he said swavly, 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 the Daily 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 someone in the following terms. The police know the cipher. Be very cautious. RF 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 the Daily Wire. Having deciphered the advertisement, and finding that it afforded no direct clue to Grail'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, where I certain that Grail 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. Foil 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 Grail 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 vow almost with cordiality. Foil only stayed long enough to thrust a 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 Foil'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 married 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 sidestepped warily round the young man. Be careful, greenish, she a widow, laughed Foil, 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 tonight, 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 Floweryland. 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 today, 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 McCurty, 146 Smikes 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, pharaoh, or phantan into an innocent game of bridge or wist, with a few innocent spectators, and to hide all gambling instruments between the time the police knock and the time they affect 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. Smyke Street at one time had been a street of some pretensions. Even now, in comparison with the neighborhood in which it was set, it maintained an air of genteel respectability, and its gloomy three-storied 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 laborers, seamen, all trades jostled here, one or two of the houses bore a sign, Hotel for Men Only. It was at the corner that Foil and Green were joined 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 an obtrusive 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 Fu, and a man who was a bit of a bruiser in San Francisco at one time, a chap called Keller. He looks after the pharaoh game in a back room on the first floor, while the chink runs the black smoke upstairs on the stop story. They're the bosses, but there's three underdogs, and the places kept going night and day. Foil granted. How long have you known this? Couldn't you have dropped on them before? The other made a depicatory 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 Foil'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 and that 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 Foil 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." CHAPTER 37 The game of Pharaoh is one that makes no strenuous demands on the skills of the players. It is chance pure and simple and therein lies its fascination. While Baccarat or Shaminda Fair are almost invariably games to be most in favour when the police raid a gambling house in the west end, at the other side of the town it is invariably discovered that Pharaoh holds first place in the affections of gamblers. In its simplest form it is merely betting on the turn of each card throughout a pack. Although it was broad daylight the room in which the operations took place was shuttered and had the blinds drawn. A three-light gasolier beat down on a big table in the centre of the room round three sides of which were arranged a dozen or fifteen men eagerly intent on the operations of the banker. A heavy jowled man with overhanging black eyebrows he was seated in a half-circle cut into the centre of one side of the table. In front of him was a bright steel box sufficiently large to contain a pack of cards with the face of the top card discernible at an opening at the top. The cards were pressed upwards in the box by springs, and at the side of a narrow opening allowed the operator to push the cards out one at a time, thus disclosing the faces of those underneath and deciding the bets. On each side of the box were the discarded winning and losing cards and on the dealer's left a tray which served the purpose of a till in receiving or paying out money. A cloth with painted representations of the thirteen cards of a suit was pinned to the table nearest to the players and they placed stakes on the cards they fancied would next be disclosed. Twice the box would click out cards amid a dead silence. Those who had staked out money on the first card disclosed one. Those who had staked on the second lost. There was often dead silence while the turn was being made save for the click of a marker shown on the wall and guarded by a thick-set little man with red hair, fierce eyes, and an enormous chest. But directly afterwards Babel would break out to be sternly quelled by the heavy jowled man. I had set on to nine. Say that king was copied. I ought to have split it. The jargons of all the world met and crossed at such time. It was rarely that there arose a serious quarrel for Keller and his mermidens had a swift way of dealing with malcontents. When a man became troublesome the fias-eyed little marker with the big chest would tap him on the shoulder. That's enough, you, he would say menacingly. If the warning were not sufficient the left hand of the little man would drop to his jacket pocket and when it emerged it would be decorated with a heavy brass knuckle duster. It took but one blow to make a man lose all interest in the game and thereafter he would be handed over to the tender mercies of Jim, a giant of a doorkeeper, who after dark would drop him into the street at some convenient moment with a savage warning to keep his mouth shut lest a worse thing befall him. This was the place Heldenfoil had made up his mind to enter single-handed, a place in which the precautions against surprise were so complete that every article which could be identified as a gambling implement was made of material which could be readily burnt or soluble at temperature lower than that of boiling water. A big saucepan was continually simmering on the fire so that the implements could be dropped in it at a second's notice. But Heldenfoil had hopes at the worst he could only fail. He returned to Scotland Yard and shut himself up for twenty minutes in the makeup room. When he reached Smyke Street again he was no longer the spruce upright well-dressed official. A grimy cap covered tousled hair. His face was strained, his eyes bloodshot, and his moustache combed out raggedly. A set of greasy mechanics overalls had been drawn over his own clothes. He walked uncertainly. Green and the local inspector saw him reel past the public house in which they still remained as affording an excuse to be near the spot and reel up Smyke Street. Towards the end he appeared confused and gravely inspected several houses before approaching the gambling joint. He rapped on the door with his knuckles ignoring both the knocker and the bell. It opened a few inches wide enough for the scowling face of Jim the doorkeeper to appear in the aperture. Supporting himself with one hand on the doorpost Foil leered amiably at the Cerberus. Hello, old sport. I once come in. Open the door, can't you? Get out of it, you drunken swab. You don't live here," said Jim, taking stock of the drunken intruder and coming to a quick decision. The door slammed. Foil beat Tattoo on the panels with his hands swaying perilously to and fro the while. Again the door opened the cautious six inches and Jim's face was not pleasant to look on as he swore at the Disturber. That's all right, old sport. Hiccuped Foil. I want to come in. A bill read told me if I wanted— game, I was to come here. You know, Bill Read. This almost pleadingly. He'll tell you are more I.A. The doorkeeper of the gaming house holds an onerous responsibility. On him depends the safety of the gamblers from interference by the representatives of law and order. Jim's suspicions were lulled by Foil's quite obvious drunkiness. Nevertheless, a drunken man who had apparently been told of the place was a danger so long as he remained clamouring for admittance on the step. Jim tried tact. There's nothing doing now, he explained. You go away and come back to-night. It'll be a good game, then. That's a lie, said Foil, with an assumption of drunken gravity. Oh, Bill Read, he says to me, he says, but Jim had lost the remainder of his small stock of patience. He jerked the door again in Foil's face, pulled off the chain, and leapt out, his intention of throwing the other into the street, and so ending the argument once for all, written on every line of his stalwart figure. That was his programme, but Foil had also his programme. He had got the door open. All that remained between him and the entrance was the muscular figure of Jim. He suddenly became sober. The doorkeeper's hand grasping at his collar clutched empty air. The detective's head dropped. Jim was met halfway by a short charge, and Foil's shoulder caught him in the chest. Both men were forced by the momentum of the charge back through the open door and fell in a heap just within. At ordinary times the two would have been fairly evenly matched. Both were big men, though the doorkeeper had slightly the advantage in size. He had, however, been taken by surprise, and received no opportunity to utter more than a stifled eighth before his breath was taken away. Inside the house, Foil stood on no ceremony in order to silence his opponent before those within could be alarmed. He had fallen on top of Jim. Pressing down on him with head and knee, he swung his right fist twice. Jim gave a grunt and his head rocked loosely on his neck. He had, in the vernacular of the ring, been put to sleep. The effects of a knockout blow, however deftly administered, do not last long. The detective's first move was to close the street door, leaving the bolts and chains undone, so that it was fastened merely by the catches of the Yale locks. Then he whipped a handkerchief about the unconscious man's mouth, and silently dragging him to a sitting posture handcuffed his wrists beneath his knees, so that he was trust in the position schoolboys adopt for cock-fighting. He surveyed his handiwork critically, and a new idea occurring to him unlaced the man's boots, and taking them off tied the laces round the ankles. That would prevent the man rattling his boots on the floor when he came to, and so have given the alarm. The inner door had been left open by Jim, a lucky circumstance for Foil, as otherwise he would have been at a loss, for it was of stout oak, and he must have made considerable noise enforcing it. Yet he did not make any attempt to soften his footsteps as he climbed the stairs. He hoped to be taken as an ordinary client long enough, at any rate, to discover the whereabouts of Ivan. Once that was achieved he was reckless as to his identity becoming known. He needed no guide to the right door, for the clink of money and the exclamations of many voices guided him. He threw it open, and entered the fairer room with quiet assurance. Beyond a quick glance from Keller, no one took any notice of him. They took it for granted that Jim had gone into his bona fides, and that he was square. He took up a position at the end of the table nearest the door, and apparently watched the game before staking. In reality, he was studying the faces of the players. He was uncertain whether he would find Ivan there, but he had calculated that the Russian would at least be watching if not taking a hand, if only as a means of passing the time during his voluntary imprisonment. And he was right. Seated at the table two or three paces away was the Russian, lost to all, saved the turn of the card. Foil bent over and staked a coin. At the same moment Ivan's eyes met his in puzzled recognition. There was a crash and the gambler sprang up overturning his chair. His hand was outstretched, the finger pointing at the detective. That man, how did he get in here, he cried, with something like alarm. End of Chapter 37 Chapter 38 of The Grail Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. The Grail Mystery by Frank Froust Chapter 38 For a second or a trifle more a dead silence followed Ivan's denunciation. Heldon Foil back towards the door, dragging with him a chair which he had clutched with some idea of using it as a shield, should there be a rush. There arose an angry snarl among the gamblers, for with them suspicion was quick. A rush of crimson had swept across Ivan's face at the first alarm. He ejaculated something excitedly in Russian, and then went on in English. He is a police officer. I know him. It is the man Foil of Scotland Yard. At the mention of the word police, the Hubble died down a little. Heldon Foil leaning quietly on the back of the chair took advantage of the lull. Yes, I am a police officer, he admitted confidently. The place is surrounded. It will pay you to behave yourselves. You over there put that knife away. Do you hear? The order was sharp and authoritative, and the Greek in whose hand the detective had caught the gleam of steel thrust it back hastily into the sheath at his belt. There were men there who would have thought little of murder, and Foil knew that once they were roused to fighting pitch he stood little chance. At the first sign of flinching on his part they would be on him like a pack of wolves. He held them for the moment only as a lion tamer holds his beasts under control by fearless domineering assumption of authority. They were like a flock of sheep. Only two men he feared, Ivan and Keller, both were men above the average intelligence, and both had more reason to fear the law than the others. If either of them took the initiative he might be placed in an ugly position. He felt for his whistle while they remained inactive, uncertain. Let's teach the dog a lesson, his stavenimous voice, that of Keller. He's trying to bluff us. Boot him, boys, incited Ivan, edging forward, and so creating a movement towards the detective. Heldon Foil put his whistle between his teeth and gripped the heavy chair with both hands. As the rush came he blew the whistle three times in the peculiar arrangement of long and short blasts that is the special police call, and swung the chair down with all his force on the leading man. It was Keller. The gaming housekeeper dropped, stunned, and the detective swept the chair sideways and so forced a clear space about himself. Again the whistle thrilled out and Ivan dodging sideways seized one of the legs of Foil's unwheel menacing faces besieged the detective on all sides. Other hands assisted the Russian to hold the chair and still no help came. Once the door opened and the wrinkled leavened face of a China man protruded through the slit, took in the scene with quick understanding and disappeared. That was all the notice taken of the row by the habitues of the opium den on the high floor. The two or three clients who were stretched on the low couches were either entirely under the influence of the drug or too listless to worry about anything short of an earthquake, if even that would have aroused them. It was with small hope that the superintendent sounded his whistle again. A heavy blow on the face laid open his cheek and he saw the little red-headed man who had slipped on his heavy brass knuckle duster dodged back into the crowd. He relinquished his hold of the chair and defended himself with his hands. He carried a pistol in his pocket, but imbued with the traditions of the London police, he would not use a lethal weapon saving the last extremity. Inch by inch he sidled along the wall, fighting all the while until he reached the corner. Here the crowd could only come at him from the front. A knife was thrown and a bottle crashed against his shoulder. The crisis had come. He dropped his guard and his hand closed over his pistol. Those nearest him recoiled as the muzzle was thrust into their faces. He didn't shoot, insisted a voice which Foyle recognized as that of Ivan. In fact, the jibe was partly true. The detective had himself well in hand and he knew that even though he were justified, a wounded man would lead to an inquiry which at the very least would prevent his going on with the Grell investigation for some time. But to let the taunt pass would invite disaster. He dropped the weapon to his thigh, forefinger extended along the barrel to help his aim and pressed the trigger with his second finger twice. The reports were deafening in the confined space of the room and one man put his hand to his head with a sharp cry. He did not have disturbed himself for the bullets had passed over him and were buried in the opposite wall. We'll see whether I dent fire, said Foyle grimly. Come on, who'd like to be the first? There was no answer to his challenge, for from below came the sound of a crash and the quick tread of many men racing up the stairs. One or two of the gamblers turned white and Foyle felt the tension of his nerves relax. Half a dozen men headed by Green and Penny were rushing into the room. A little gurgling laugh burst from the superintendent and he waved his hand about the room. You see, Penny, it could be done single-handed. That is Ivan over there. Take good care of him, Green. Keller is that man knocked out down there. And swaying, he crashed forward to the floor in a dead faint. When he came round, he was lying on a couch with his injured face and shoulder neatly bandaged. There were only two other persons in the room. Green and one of the local detectives who were systematically making an inventory of everything in the room. The superintendent struggled to a sitting position and the movement brought Green to his side. Hello, Green, said the superintendent cheerfully. You've got them all away, I see. How long have I been lying here? Matter of half an hour. This is only a case of loss of blood, I think. You must have been bleeding for some time before we broke in on the tea-party. We put some first-aid bandages on. I'm all right, said Foyle, rising stiffly. What happened? You were adduce of a time answering my whistle. We tried the wrong door first, and it's my belief that nothing short of dynamite would move it. It steel-lined, and with all the bolts pushed home we stood no chance. We gave it up after a while and tried the other. Luckily that was not bolted. I know, I left it like that purposely. Well, we didn't know. By that time we got thirty uniform men down here and they followed us up. Once we got the door down and found the chap you'd trust behind it, we had no trouble worth mentioning, except with Master Ivan who fought like a wild cat. We got the kerfs on him at last, but even then it took four men to get him away. Penny is down at the station waiting till you come before charging him. What is it to be, attempt to murder? No, I don't think we can get a conviction on that, answered Foyle. There's plenty up against them. Unlawful wounding, assaulting a police officer in the execution of his duty, frequenting a gaming-house, and, of course, Ivan could be charged with the Waverly Affair if we find it necessary now. I see you've started running over the house. Only just started. We were waiting for the divisional surgeon to see to you and three men who were sleeping like logs in the opium joined upstairs. The Chinaman seems to have vanished at any rate he can't be found. It's just about time this place was broken up. Keller took no chances with the bank. He picked up the ferry box. Now in the States this kind of thing would not go. It's a two-card needle-tell swindle. That's done with fifty-four cards to the pack, isn't it? Asked Foyle indifferently, handling the box. I've seen something like it before. The deal is warned of the approach of duplicate cards by a tiny needle-point jumping out of one side of the box. That's it. Well, all that will have to be explained when the case comes on for trial. I'm more interested in Ivan just now. It's something to have him under lock and key. I'll leave you here to handle the remainder of the business and get down to the station. No, I'll not wait for the doctor. I feel perfectly fit now. In spite of his assertion the superintendent felt a little dizzy when he reached the open air. A big crowd filled the street, and a dozen reporters who had been held sternly at bay by the constables on duty at the gambling-house pounced on him determinedly. He laughingly waved them aside, but they would not be denied, and while they walked at his side gave a succinct account of what had happened, omitting all reference to Ivan Abramovich. New thing for you to come all the way to the east end to take charge of a gambling-raid, isn't it? asked Gerald, the wire man, in a tone that told of a shrewd suspicion of something underlying. Oh, it's been an experience, said Foyle, lightly, indicating his bandaged head. I've told you everything I know now, boys. If there's anything else you can use, I'll have it at the yard presently. So long." The journalists melted away, and Foyle presently found himself in a dingy back street where the local police station was situated. Here also a crowd of men and women had gathered, and the reserved men at the door were repelling eager women who, not knowing he had been taken in the raid, feared that their husbands might be included, and were anxious to know the worst, for news of that kind spreads rapidly. A motor-car standing without told the superintendent of Sir Hilary Thornton's presence, and the assistant commissioner was the first person he saw as he entered the place. Thornton came forward with hand outstretched. Thank God, Foyle, we had a rumour at the yard that you had been badly hurt. I see you've been knocks about a bit. What made you take a hand yourself down here? Couldn't you leave a raid to be carried out by the local folk? I didn't come down here especially for that reason, smiled the superintendent. I wanted to get hold of Ivan Abramovich, and everything else was purely incidental. They're waiting for you to settle who shall be charged with what, said Thornton. Be as quick as you can, and I'll wait and give you a lift back in the car. I'll not be happy till I've heard all about this." The two passed into the charge-room, where Penny was in conversation with the superintendent of the division. In reply to a question he thought for a little. We've got eighteen men in all, sir, he answered. It would have been fifty if we'd been able to bring our coup off at night. Very well. Have them all in, except Abramovich and Keller. I will pick out those I want charged with assault or who I think were mixed up with Keller. The remainder might be let out on bail after you have verified their addresses. The prisoners were ushered into the room, a shame-faced, sullen, dispirited gang now. Penny and a clerk passed along the line, taking their names, while foils scrutinized their faces. Finally the superintendent touched four men on the shoulder, one after the other. One was Jim, the doorkeeper, another the red-haired man with the big chest, the third and fourth two men who had been prominent in the attack. Penny put a tick against their names, and the whole of the prisoners, many of whom had broken into voluble protest and appeal, were taken back to the cells. Foil had determined to leave the business of charging them to Green and Penny. End of Chapter thirty-eight. Chapter thirty-nine of The Grail Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. The Grail Mystery by Frank Froust. Chapter thirty-nine. Something of the chagrin caused to held in foil by the escape of the man on the barge had vanished with the success of his operations in Smike Street. If his frontal attack had failed he had at least achieved something by his flank movement. The break-up of the gambling den, too, was something. Altogether he felt that his injuries were a cheap price to pay for what had been achieved. In bare detail he related the sequence of events to Sir Hilary Thornton, who with a gloved hand jerking at his grey moustache, listened with only an occasional observation. The inevitable crowd of journalists who had been warned by telephone from their colleagues at Smike Street were jumbled in a tiny, tiny waiting-room when foil and his superior reached headquarters. The superintendent, having changed his attire, made it his first business to satisfy their clamorous demands, by dictating a brief and discreet account of the raid to be typed and handed out to them, then with a head that ached intolerably he forced himself to do some clear thinking. With the dossier of the case before him he read and reread all that had been gathered by his men and himself, since that night when he had been called from his sleep to find Harry Goldenberg dead, was there some point he had overlooked. He knew how fatal it was in the work of criminal investigation to take anything for granted. Although the main work of the explorer was now focused on Grell, it was not entirely certain that he was the murderer. Indeed, strange as his proceedings had been, there might be some explanation that would account for them. It might be that after Grell was found the whole investigation would have to begin again with the scent grown cold. Stranger things had happened. The superintendent dropped his papers wearily into a draw and turned the key. His speculations were unprofitable. He turned over in his brain his plans for running down Grell. Of the people who had been assisting him to evade capture, three were out of the way for the time being. Ivan Abramovich and Condit were safely under lock and key. The princess Petrovsko was out of London and there was a fair margin of assumption that she was located somewhere in Liverpool where the local police were assisting the Scotland Yard men. It was hardly possible that she would double back even if she evaded their rigorous search. Would the detectives on duty at the London Termini reinforced an unstrict watch? Her chances of doing so were very slim. With three of his friends out of touch and hampered by want of money, Grell would have to seek a fresh refuge. The chief result of Foyle's actions had been to make any steps he might take more difficult. That was all. It was still possible for him to dodge the pursuit. The evening papers with the story of the raid were already upon the streets. What would be the effect upon Grell's plans when he learned that Ivan had been captured? In the case of an ordinary criminal, Helden Foyle might have forecasted what would happen with a fair degree of certainty, but Grell was not an ordinary criminal, even if he were a criminal at all. If he could gain a hint of the possible intentions of their fugitive, he might be able to meet them. There was a vague chance that either Ivan Abramovich or Condit might be induced to volunteer a statement although the possibility was remote. In America or France there would have been ways of forcing them to speak. In England it was impossible. With a yawn, Foyle relinquished his efforts and his head dropped forward on his desk. In a little he was fast asleep. He was roused by a light touch on the shoulder. Green had returned. Hello! said the superintendent. I must have dozed off. How have you got on? Green adjusted his long body to the comfort of an armchair. We found the Chinaman. He had climbed through a trap door onto the roof. We went over the house with a tooth-cone, both before and after. I had had a little talk with Keller. It seems that both he and his partner, the Chinaman, had known the man for some time before they gave him a room. They rolled hands at the game and won't talk too much. He went out very occasionally and mostly at night. We found nothing bearing on the murder, but plenty to show that Keller and his pal were running a pretty hot shop. Could you dig anything out of any of the others? There was the doorkeeper. No, tighter's oysters, all except those who don't know anything. Ivan has a fit of the sulks. He's called in Mordix to help him fix up his defense. The superintendent was rubbing his chin. Mordix isn't too scrupulous. I think we'll hold over the charge of abduction for the time being until we see how things look. Nobody hurt much, I suppose. The Saturnine features of the Inspector wrinkled into as near a grin as they were capable of. Some of them are rather sore, but the doctor thinks they can all appear in court tomorrow. Foils stretched himself and rose. Right, we won't worry any further about it for the moment. I'm feeling that the best thing for me is a good night's rest. You'd better go home and do the same. Good night. End of Chapter 39 Chapter 40 of The Growl Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. The Growl Mystery by Frank Froust Chapter 40 A note came to Sir Ralph Fairfield while he was lingering over his breakfast, and the first sight of the writing even before he broke open the envelope caused a thrill to run through him. You must see me at once, said the well-remembered writing imperatively. Urgent, urgent! The paper trembled in Fairfield's hands, and it was only the reminder of the servant that the messenger was waiting that brought him sharply out of his days. Yes, yes, show him in, and, Roberts, while I am engaged, I don't want to be disturbed by anybody or anything. Don't forget that. If Roberts had not been so well-trained, it was possible that he might have shown surprise at his master's order, for through the door he held open there shambled an ungainly figure of a man, hunchbacked with a weakth growth of beard about his chin, and wearing heavy patched boots, cord roys, a shabby jacket, and a bright blue muffler. His cap he twisted nervously in gnarled, dirty hands, as he stood waiting just inside the room till he was certain that the servant had retired out of hearing. Then with a swift movement he locked the door, straightened himself out, and strode with outstretched hand to where Fairfield stood, stony-faced, and impassive. The baronet deliberately put his hands behind him, and the other halted suddenly. Fairfield! Then it was that the impassivity of Sir Ralph vanished. He gripped his visitor by the arm, almost shaking him in a gust of quick, nervous passion. You fool! You damned fool! Why have you come here? If they catch you, you will be hanged. Do you know that? For all I know the places watched. They may have seen you come in. Perhaps the places surrounded now. I'll risk it, said the other coolly, drawing a chair up to the table. I've got to risk something. But I don't think they saw me come in. I don't think they'll catch me, and if they do, I don't think they'll hang me. What do you think of that, Fairfield? There was the old languid mockery in his voice, but his friend, looking at him closely, could see that the face had become a trifle thinner, that beneath the dirt that begrimed it, there were haggard traces that betrayed worry and sleeplessness. Fairfield had thought much of Robert Grel lately, but he had never dreamed that the hunted man would come to him, come to him in broad daylight, without a word of warning. Did Grel know that he was in touch with the police? Had he come a driven desperate man to fling reproaches at the friend who had joined in the hunt? That was unlikely. Grel, murderer or not, was not that type. He did nothing without a reason. He was, Fairfield reflected, a murderer, a murderer who had not dared stay to face the consequences of his deed, that surely severed all claims, whatever their old friendship might have been. What do you want, he asked, with a hard note in his voice. Why have you come to me? The man in the chair lifted his shoulders. That is fairly obvious. I want you to do what, if our situations were reversed, I would do for you. I want money. If you can get me a few hundreds, I shall be all right. Asphasm contracted Fairfield's face for a second. He had not asked for explanations. Grel had volunteered none. It seemed as though he were taking for granted the assumption that he was guilty of the murder. Surely an innocent man would have been eager to assert his innocence at the first opportunity. When Sir Ralph answered, it was slowly, as though he were weighing each word that he spoke. I would be willing enough to help a friend, you know that, Grel. But why you should think I would lift a finger to help you evade justice, I failed to see. I know enough of the law to know that I should become an accessory to the fact. You really think I killed that man? The words came quick and sharp like a pistol shot. I thought you had known me long enough. Words, interrupted Fairfield Bitterly. All words, you were the last man I should have thought capable of such a thing, but all the facts are against you. Need I go over them? Let me tell you that if ever a jury knows what Scotland Yard knows, and you stand in the dock, no earthly power can save you. If that crime is on your conscience, it seems to rest lightly enough. Grel stood up and rested one hand lightly on the sleeve of his companion. Fairfield, old chap, he said earnestly, we have been through enough together to prove to you that I am not a coward. I swear on my honour that I had nothing to do with that man's death, though I have had reason enough to wish him dead, God knows. Do you think it is fear for myself that has driven me into hiding? Fairfield shook his head impatiently, and shaking himself clear, paced quickly up and down the room. That's all very well, Grel, he said, more mildly, but it is hardly convincing in the face of facts. You disappear immediately after the murder, having got me to live to cover your retreat, and the next I hear from you is when you want money. It's too thin. If I were you, I should go now. For the sake of old times, I will say nothing about your visit here, but to help you by any other means, no. If you had no hand in that murder, come out like a man and make a fight for it. I will back you up. Thanks. There was a dry bitterness in Grel's tone that did not escape Sir Ralph. I couldn't have got better advice if I had gone to Scotland Yard itself. His voice changed to a certain quality of harshness. Look here, Fairfield, suppose I do know something about this business. Suppose I know who Harry Goldenberg was, and how and why he was killed. Suppose I had stayed while inquiries were being made. Then I should either have to have betrayed a friend or taken the burden on my own shoulders. Suppose I say I was honest that night when I asked you to conceal my absence from the St. German's Club that I did nothing which I would not do over again. He banged his fist on the table and his eyes glowed fiercely. I tell you I have had no choice in this matter. Even you, who know me as well as any man, do not know what I had been through until that man lay dead. Since then I have suffered hell. The police have been at my heels ever since. I carried little enough money away with me, and I dare not attempt to change a check while I was thought to be dead. He drew a gold watch from his pocket. I dare not even pawn this, for even the pawn-brokers are watched. They stopped all my efforts to raise money in other directions and have isolated me from my friends. I have fifteen shillings left, and yet since they rooted me out of cover the day before yesterday I have not dared get a lodging for fear that I might arouse suspicion. I slept on the embankment last night. He paused, breathless, from his own vehemence. Fairfield had seen him in moments of danger, yet never had he seen him so roused out of himself. He could see one of the sinewy hands actually trembling, and that alone was brief enough of the violence of the hunted man's emotion. He went to a side-table and pouring out a generous dose of brandy from a decanter, squirted a little soda-water in it, and handed it to Grell, but his face was still hard and set. "'Drink that,' he said, and then as the other obeyed. "'It is no use fencing with the question, Grell. If you want me to help you, you will have to give some explanation. I am not going to dip my hands in this business blindly. Don't think it's a matter of you and I simply. This concerns Eileen.'" Grell put down his empty glass and stared into the other's eyes. "'Ah, yes, Eileen,' he said quietly. "'What about her?' "'This,' Fairfield spoke tensely, that if you are guilty, you have ruined her life. If you are innocent and cannot prove it, you might as well be guilty. I'll not conceal from you that I have given Scotland Yard some measure of assistance in trying to find you. Do you know why? Because I judged you to be a man. Because I thought that if put to it, you might prove your innocence, or take the only course that could spare her the degradation of seeing the man she loved convicted as a murderer. A grim and mirthful smile parted Robert Grell's lips. He understood well enough what was meant. "'You always were a good friend, Fairfield,' he retorted. "'Perhaps you have a revolver you could lend me.' "'Will you use it if I do?' burst impulsively from Fairfield's white lips. He was sincere in his suggestion. To his mind there was only one escape from the predicament in which his friend found himself. Anything was preferable in his mind to the open scandal of public trial. "'Don't be a fool,' said Grell, making a gesture as though waving the subject aside. "'I shall not commit suicide at any rate while I've got a fighting chance. Let's get to the point. Will you lend me some money?' The clear-cut face of Fairfield had gone very pale. When he answered, it was with dry lips and almost in a whisper. "'Not a farthing.'" And then with more emphasis, "'Not a farthing.'" A mist was before his eyes. The lock of the door clicked and Grell shambled out. For ten minutes or more, Grell Fairfield remained, his fingers twitching at the buttons of his waistcoat. A revulsion of feeling had come. Had he done right? Was Grell's course the wisest after all? How had his own feelings towards Eileen influenced him in his decision not to help the man who had been his friend? He resolved to try to shake the matter from his mind and his hand sought the bell-push. Twice he rang without receiving any reply, and he flung open the door and called imperatively, "'Robots!' Still his man failed to answer. He walked quickly through all the rooms that constituted his apartments. There was no trace of the missing servant. A quick suspicion tugged at his brain, and he wondered why he had not thought of it before. Of course, Robert's knew Grell, but the disguise of the explorer was not absolutely impenetrable. In spite of his clothes, his missing moustache and his tazzled hair dyed black, Fairfield had known him. Why not the servant? And if Robert had recognized him and was missing, Fairfield began to hurriedly put on an overcoat. End of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 of the Grell Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. The Grell Mystery by Frank Froust Chapter 41 The police court proceedings in connection with the gambling joint in Smyke Street had opened satisfactorily so far as the police were concerned. All the prisoners, but the principals, and those involved in the attack on Heldon Foyle, had been subjected to small fines, and were, as the legal phrase goes, bound over. The remainder had been reminded for a week at the request of the prosecuting solicitor, a half-hearted request for bail being refused. For the first time since he had attained the rank of superintendent, Foyle himself had gone into the witness box. That was unavoidable as he was the only man who could give direct evidence of the character of the house. Here the two he had arranged so that the courtwork fell on his subordinates, while he gave his attention to organization and administrative detail. For the giving of evidence is only the end of the work of a detective. There are men behind the scenes in most cases that come into the criminal courts who are never told off, happenings never referred to. They are summed up in the phrase, acting on information received, I— The business of a detective is to secure his prisoner and give evidence, not to tell how it was done. Still no news from Liverpool, said the superintendent, as he left the court with Green, I begin to wish I'd sent you down there. That woman has got the knack of vanishing. Yes, agreed his lieutenant, producing a well-worn briar and pressing the tobacco down with a horny thumb. And yet people think we've got an easy job. Lola knows her business, and I'm open to bet she'll not be found before she wants to be found. Foyle chuckled at this enunciation of rank heresy. Only a veteran of Green's experience would have dared question the ability of Scotland Yard to maintain assent once picked up. The superintendent did not take the pessimism too seriously. In theory, it is not difficult for one person to disappear among forty millions, but to remain hidden indefinitely in the face of a vigorous sustained search by men trained to their business is not so simple in practice. You've got a habit of looking on the worst side of things, he laughed. I've never known us want anyone we knew badly, but what we got him at last. Besides, Blake's down there, and he's a good man. He's got a personal interest in running her down now. Commented Green, in the tone of one not entirely convinced, and lapsed into a stolid silence which would have irritated some men, but merely amused the superintendent. They separated at the door of Foyle's room at headquarters, and an impatient detective sergeant, whose duty it was to weed out callers, promptly headed Heldon Foyle off. A man's been waiting to see you, sir, he said. He refused to give his name, but said he had some important information which he would only give to you personally. He wouldn't hear of seeing anyone else. Yes, of course, they've all got important information and they all want to see me personally, or else the commissioner. Well, where is he, Captain? Show him in. I can't. He's gone, sir. He'd been waiting here half an hour or so when he was taken away by Sir Ralph Fairfield. If he had not been trained to school his feelings, Heldon Foyle might have started. As it was, he picked up a pen and toyed idly with it. The man who had a fair idea that his news was of importance was a little disappointed. I see, said the superintendent. What happened? Why, Sir Ralph asked to see you and was shown into the waiting-room with the other man. They both seemed a bit upset and the first chap's jaw dropped. So you are here, says Sir Ralph a bit angrily. Yes, sir, says the other, and he had become sulky. This is my man, says Sir Ralph to me, and I would like a word with him alone, if you don't mind. Of course, I left him alone. In a quarter of an hour they came out and Sir Ralph told me that there had been a little misunderstanding that neither of them wished to see you after all. Thank you, Captain, said the superintendent, resting his chin on his hand. Ask Mr. Green if he can spare a moment, will you? In the interval that elapsed before the chief inspector came, foil did some quick thinking. Criminal investigation is always full of unexpected developments, and this seemed to him to offer possibilities. It was clear to him that a man had come to Scotland Yard to give some information, and that Fairfield had followed post-haste to shut the man's mouth. For the moment he put aside all speculation as to the baronet's motive. The question was, who was the man he had taken away? Who would be likely to know something? It must be someone intimately associated with the baronet, someone who probably lived with him. There was only one man, his servant. The line of reasoning became clear. What would a servant know which he would recognize as of obvious importance? Fairfield might have received a letter from Grell, but if he did not wish to let the police know of it, he would scarcely have been careless enough to leave it where his man might have obtained access to it. The second solution was more probable. Suppose Grell had paid a visit to Fairfield, and the man had recognized him. Foil was not led away by theories. He knew that the most ingenious deductions often led to failure. But in this case, he had nothing to lose by putting the matter to the test. He had not taken off his hat or coat, and when Greene came in, he was ready to put his plan into execution. In a few words, he told what had happened and his conclusions. What I want you to do, Greene, is to ring up Fairfield and get him out of the way on some pretext. Keep him here till I come back. I'm going to have a talk with that servant. If you can't get him on the phone, you'll have to go around and get him out somehow. I want a good man whom he doesn't know to come to the Albany with me. Give me a chance to get there before you ring up. Very good, sir. Maxwell is free. I'll tell him you want him. In a quarter of an hour, Maxwell, an unobtrusive, well-dressed man, had taken up his station and was casually loitering where he could see all who entered or emerged from the Albany. Foil himself was out of view, but he had a fine sight of his subordinate. Ten minutes elapsed. The well-dressed detective dropped the stick he was listlessly swinging between his fingers, and Foil knew that Sir Ralph had risen to the bait. It remained to be found out whether the servant was still in the chambers. Waiting just long enough for Fairfield to get a reasonable distance away, Foil was welled up in the lift to the baronet's rooms. His first pressure on the bell remained unanswered, but at a second and longer ring he was confronted by the upright figure of Roberts. The servant gave a little gasp of astonishment as he saw his visitor. Sir Ralph is out, sir, he stammered. Yes, I know, said the detective pleasantly. I did not come here to see Sir Ralph, but to see you. You know who I am. Let me in, won't you? He pushed his way into the place and entered the sitting room, Roberts following closely behind him. The man was evidently very nervous. Foil sat down. Now, my man, you needn't feel nervous. Your master won't be back yet a while. You came to my office to see me this morning and left before I got back. I've come to see what this important information you've got for me is. Roberts shifted his weight from one foot to the other and rubbed his hands together nervously. His eyes never met the superintendents. It's all a mistake, he asserted unsteadily. I—I— That won't do, my man, said Foil brusquely. You know something, which is as important, I should know. Sir Ralph has told you to keep your mouth shut, but you're going to tell me before either of us leaves this room. I want you to speak now. Never mind about thinking of a lie. His blunt manner had its effect. Roberts drew himself together. Right, sir, I'll tell you what I came about. You're a gentleman and won't see me a loser. Sir Ralph, he promised to look after me if I kept my mouth shut. It is no part of a detective's duty to allow personal feelings to interfere with his business. Foil's contempt for a man who was ready to bargain to betray his master's confidence was sunk in his content at so easily obtaining his ends. That will be all right, he answered. You'll be paid according to the value of your information. Then it's this, sir, blurted out Roberts. Mr. Grell, whom you thought was murdered, is not dead. He came here an hour or two ago and was in with Sir Ralph for quite a time. Oh! The detective smiled incredulously, and snapping open his cigar case selected a smoke, nipped off the end, and deliberately struck a match. You've got hold of some cock-and-bull idea. I suppose you've deceived yourself with some fancied resemblance. It was Mr. Grell himself, I tell you, avert the servant earnestly. Don't I know him well enough? He was roughly dressed and had shaved off his moustache, but uncertain of it. He came up by the lift as large as life with a note for Sir Ralph. I didn't notice him much at first, because I thought he was a street messenger. But when Sir Ralph told me to bring him in, I had a good look at him. I knew I had seen him before, but the change in him threw me off for a while. It was only after I left him with Sir Ralph that it came on me like a shot. I knew that there was a reward out in connection with the murder, and I came on to you at once. If you had been in, I should have told you all this then, but Sir Ralph came after me, and promised to pay me well to keep my tongue between my teeth. But right is right, Sir, and I hope you'll do what you can for me, for I'll take my dying oath that the man I saw here was Mr. Grel. With calm expressionous face, foil listened. His inferences were justified. It would be necessary to keep Roberts from gossiping, and for that reason it was policy to discount the importance of his information. The detective puffed a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. You seem pretty sure of yourself. I think you've made a mistake, but we'll go into the thing fully, and you'll get whatever your information is worth. How long was this chap in with your master? I don't know. I didn't see him come out. He had been in there about 10 minutes when I started out to see you. Right. Now I'm going to wait here till your master comes back. You can deny that I have questioned you, or that you have told me anything, if you like. I shan't give you away. Where's the telephone? With a little breath of relief, the servant conducted foil to an inner room and pointed out the instrument. A few seconds, suffice to put the superintendent in communication with Green, and in a quick low-voiced conversation he was told what device had been practiced to keep Sir Ralph away. I'll let him go now then, said Green and his superior, assented. When Sir Ralph Fairfield returned to his chambers, he found held-in foil seated before the fire engrossed in a paper and with his feet stretched out to the cheerful blaze. Good morning, Sir Ralph, said the detective rising. I just dropped in, as I was near here, to tell you how things were progressing, and to see if you'd got any news. But that his breath came a little faster, Fairfield gave no sign of the perturbation that held-in foil's presence caused him, that the summons to Scotland Yard had been a pretext to get him out of the way was now obvious. The only question was whether Roberts had divulged anything to the detective during his absence. It was quite impossible to allow Ralph's visit to him to be used in the investigation, that was not in the bargain with foil. Innocent or guilty, his friend had trusted him, and to use that trust to hand him down would savor of treachery. There was no doubt that foil knew something. He wondered how much. He returned his visitors' greeting. Always glad to see you, Mr. foil, though I'm afraid there's nothing fresh so far as I'm concerned. I see my man's made you comfortable. There's been a mistake somewhere. I've been to Scotland Yard waiting for you. His head was in the shadow, and foil could not see his face. He could not be sure whether the words were a challenge and made little gesture with his hand. That's a pity, he said. Things have got muddled up somehow. However, now we're here, it's all right. By the way, we narrowly missed laying our hands on Grel an hour or two ago. Although he was staring classedly into the fire, he did not fail to note the quick start that the baronet gave, and it was not a feigned start. Fairfield could not understand this indirect method of attack. What! he stammered. You nearly arrested him. It was touch and go, said foil languidly. Some of our men got on his trail and followed him until he reached here. They never saw him come out. Do you mean to say that Grel has been here? Here to-day, demanded Fairfield, putting as bold a face on the matter as was possible. I do, said foil quietly. Without my knowledge, Heldon Foil shook his head and thrusting his hands into his jacket pockets faced the baronet squarely. That's what I want to know. Was it without your knowledge, Sir Ralph? Fairfield met that search in gaze unflinchingly. There was a touch of hoarder in his tone when he replied, Do you suggest that I am hiding him? Had Foil not been sure of his facts, the manner of the baronet might have convinced him that he was in error. As it was, he ignored the evasion. It was essential to know whether the fugitive had been supplied with any money and whether he had given any indication of his plans. I feel quite certain that you have had a talk with him lately, he said. I thought you were going to do what you could to help us clear up this mystery. Why deny a fact that is plain? Sir Ralph clenched his teeth. It was clear that Foil was certain of his ground, that it was no use any longer trying to throw dust in his eyes. Well, he demanded icily. I suppose I am not entirely aspire at your disposal, Mr. Foil. I am like most men. I have my limits. I prefer to remain master of my own actions. I should be the last to dispute it, said Foil with a slight bow, or to take advantage of the good nature that has led you to assist us hitherto. Of course, you could not foresee that Grel would come to you, and you naturally do not want to take advantage of his confidence. But we already know of his visit, so there is no breach of trust there. All I ask is that you should simplify the matter by telling me what occurred at your interview. Perhaps you have forgotten, Sir Ralph, that there is a punishment for assisting a man to escape, by lending him money or otherwise. That is merely for information. It is not a threat. Thank you, said the other. It would make no difference to me whether it was a threat or not. He remained in thought for a moment. The fact that Grel had entered the place, and apparently got clear away, had led him to believe that the police knew nothing of the visit, that the only risk of the interview being disclosed lay with Roberts. If the detectives had really been close on the heels of the fugitive, as Foil said, it could do no harm to admit the truth. His promise to say nothing could hardly be considered to cover the contingency. Has Roberts been talking to you? he asked abruptly. Roberts, repeated the superintendent with a puzzled frown. Oh, of course, he's your servant. I asked him one or two questions, but he didn't seem to understand me. The answer was so quick, so naturally given, that any suspicion that remained in Fairfield's mind was lulled. He shrugged his shoulders. Well, for what it's worth, I don't mind admitting that Grel did come to see me. All he wanted was money. He is frightfully hard up, and apparently the operations of your people have harassed him dreadfully. Did you let him have any money? Fairfield shook his head. No, I absolutely refused unless he would come out of concealment and try to justify himself. With that, he went. He was here less than twenty minutes or half an hour. The detective played with his watch chain. Yes, yes, I don't see that you could have done anything else. I suppose you made no suggestion to him. In what way? Gently stroking his chin, Foil answered in a soft voice. The other day a man came to see me. He was a man of high social standing, and had fallen into the clutches of a gang of blackmailers. He wanted us to take action, but he absolutely refused to go into the witness box to give evidence. I pressed him, pointing out that that was the only way in which we could bring home anything against them. It will ruin me, he declared. Is there no other way it can be put to stop to? I replied that we were helpless. What can I do, he cried. Is the thing they accuse you of true, I asked. He flushed and admitted that it was. Well, I said, if you ask my advice as a man and not as an official, I should meet with an accident. But he would not take my advice, he concluded, with a keen glance at the baronet on whom the parable was not lost. I did suggest that way out, admitted the baronet reluctantly. He wouldn't hear of it, and Grel is not a coward. He gave no hint of where he was going when he left you. Not the slightest. Foil picked up his hat. There was nothing more of value to be gained by prolonging the interview. I am very much obliged to you, Sir Ralph, he said. Perhaps you will keep in touch with me in case anything arises. Good morning. Long ago Foil had made up his mind as to the probable course that would be taken by Robert Grel. The man was evidently driven into a corner, or he would scarcely have taken the enormous risk of going to see Ralph Fairfield. There remained two things, the detective reasoned, which he might now do. Pennyless, and without help, he might try to plunge back into the obscurity of underground London. Or he might try some other friend or acquaintance. But every person he confided in would increase his risk. Fairfield was his closest friend, and yet he had declined to lift a finger. Would he go to men he was less intimate with, or would he endeavour in person to enlist the aid of the woman he was to marry? No one knew better than Helden Foil the danger of jumping to conclusions. Influences, however clever, however sound they may seem when they are drawn, are apt to lead one astray. The detective, who habitually used the deductive method, would spend a great deal of his time exploring blind alleys. Yet Foil, with the unastentatious Maxwell at his right hand, hurried in the direction of Barkley Square, with the hope that his theory might not be ill-founded. A little distance away from the Duke of Burley's house, he crossed the road and spoke to a cabman, who was lounging on the seat of his motionless vehicle. Curiously enough, the Constables patrolling the beat did not order that particular cabman away to a rank, although he had been there for several hours, creating a technical obstruction. Have you seen a man call over the road lately, asked the superintendent? No, sir, answered the cabman alertly. The only person has been a messenger boy with a note for Lady Eileen Meredith. He told me it had been handed in at the District Messenger Office at Victoria. Lady Eileen came out shortly afterwards and walked away in the direction of Piccadilly. Phillips has gone after her. Right, report to the yard directly she returns and keep a sharp lookout. Very good, sir, said the cab driver, and Foil turned away to mount the steps of the house. The footman who answered the door replied that both his grace and the Lady Eileen were out. He could not say when they would return. The superintendent tapped the step impatiently with the tip of his well-polished American boot and his brow puckered. Finally, he produced a card. I think I had better wait, he said. My business is important. That procured his admission into the house, but he had no idea of waiting in idleness in one of the reception rooms. Eileen had received a note which had taken her out. He shrewdly suspected that it was from Grell. It was conceivable, though it was not probable, that she might have left it about. It was for him to learn the contents of that note, if possible. Look here, old chap, he said with an assumption of familiarity that flattered the frigid footman. I want to see Lady Eileen directly she comes in, and I don't want to be announced. He winked as though from one man of the world to another. You understand, don't you? The footman grinned knowingly as he thrilled all over with the knowledge that the Scotland Yardman was making a confidant of him. It was one of Foil's ways always to attach as many people as he could to his object. He had an extensive acquaintance with waiters and hotel hall-porters. Yes, sir, I think I can arrange that, said the footman. I can put you in her own sitting-room, and she'll most likely go straight there when she comes back. That's the ticket, said Foil. I like a man who's got brains. A sovereign changed hands. Now, if you ever hear anything, perhaps you'll let me know. Drop into my office when you'll buy, and have a chat and a cigar. I will that, sir, said the man. Thank you, sir. Helden Foil was left alone in the room. He sat quite still for a little, but his eyes were busy. At last he rose and aimlessly paced the floor once or twice. In the grate a dull fire was burning, and a few fragments of blackened paper lay on the dying coals. Here and there a word stood out in a mouldy gray against a black background. Foil did not touch the paper till he had read, both, minute, sufficient money to aid for patrov, guest, fear, timidly exposure must come. If, open check, they're gold, and bring, god's sake, desperate. Foil's lips puckered into a whistle as he transferred the words to his pocketbook. He dared not touch the fragments till he had done so, and every moment he feared that some draught might destroy the whole thing. His keen professional instincts were saddened by the impossibility of saving what might be an important piece of evidence. Under favourable circumstances there might have been some chance of retrieving and preserving it by blocking the chimney to prevent a draught, and then carefully sticking the burnt fragments with gum onto transparent paper. But that method was impossible. Foil tried gingerly to rescue the fragments, but a burst of flame frustrated him, and a moment later they were destroyed. An ejaculation of annoyance escaped his lips, and he turned to the dainty little desk at another portion of the room. It was locked, but that was a matter of little consequence. Like most detectives, Foil carried a bunch of keys rather larger than are to be found in the possession of the ordinary man, and the fourth that he tried fitted. The neat interior slab of the desk was clear and tidy, one or two letters of no consequence reposed in an inside drawer, and these the superintendent replaced. A footstep outside caused him hurriedly, but noiselessly to close the desk and resume his seat, sitting idly with crossed legs. But the interuptor passed, and he returned to the desk. From a recess he drew out a checkbook, and examined the counterfoils of the used checks with interest. The last counterfoil was blank. Ah! he muttered with a jerky little nod of satisfaction, and turned his attention to the blotting pad. A few minutes close inspection, and he drew the top sheet away, and rolling it up, placed it in the breast pocket of his overcoat. Again he closed the desk and glanced at his watch, a touch at the bell summoned the footman. I don't think I'll wait after all, said Foil, time's getting on, and I've several things to attend to. Shall I tell Lady Eileen you called, sir? Oh, yes, certainly! Tell her I'll call back about six this evening. In deep thought, Helden Foil sauntered away from the house, and Maxwell joined him as they turned a corner. The superintendent said nothing till they reached Piccadilly, then he tore a sheet of note paper from his pocket book, and handed it to his companion. Cut along up to the Metropolitan and Provincial Bank, Maxwell. A check, number A83076 for £200, signed Burley, has been presented this morning. Find out who cached it, and how it was paid, if there were any notes, get their numbers, and come straight onto me at the yard. The superintendent swung himself onto a passing motor-bus, and selected a seat on top, with his brain still revolving the events of the morning. Once he took out a pencil, and drafted a description of Grail's appearance and dress, as Roberts had seen him. As a matter of course, he intended that to be telegraphed, and telephoned to his men all over London. It was as well not to neglect any precaution. He was passing through the little back door, which leads to the quarters of the CID, when he came face to face with a young man bearing all the appearance of a clerk who was just passing out. Hello, Phillips, he exclaimed. You've been after Lady Eileen, haven't you? What luck did you have? I've just reported to Mr. Green, sir, was the answer. She walked to the Metropolitan and Provincial Bank, and took a taxi when she came out. I followed in another cab, but my man punctured a tyre in the strand, and I missed her. Foil frowned, and gripped the man's arm. Come upstairs with me, and tell me all about it. What number was her taxi? County Council LD 6132 Police 28293 Mr. Green has got the name of the driver from the public carriage department, and I was just going out to see if I could get hold of him. Right, you get along then, and don't forget that if you miss people like that again, accident or no accident, they'll be trouble. Green was waiting for his chief. A question elicited the steps he had taken to get hold of the driver of the cab, from whom some account of Lady Eileen's movements might be expected. An all-station message had been flashed out, asking that the cab, wherever it was sighted, should be sent, unless still carrying a passenger, to Scotland Yard. There was little chance of the driver neglecting to obey the summons. It's unlucky that our man failed to keep her in sight, said Foil. I'll bet a hundred to one that she's arranged to meet Growl somewhere. However, there's nothing to do now but to wait. Just look here, Green. Here is something I picked out of the lady's fire. Help me, and we'll see if we can reconstruct the entire message. He laid his pocketbook containing the string of disconnected words on the desk as he spoke, the two bent over them. End of Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Of The Growl Mystery This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. The Growl Mystery by Frank Froust, Chapter 43 There is no person in London easier to find than a cab driver whose number is known, for the supervision of the public carriage department is exhaustive. Yet even so it was some hours before the man Foil sought was reported as being on his way to Scotland Yard. He came at last, wonder, and a little alarm in his face, as he was brought into the room where the superintendent and Green sat. There are many rules, the infringement of which will imperil a license, and he was not quite sure that he might not have broken one. Foil motioned for the door to be shut. So you're the cab driver we're looking for, are you, he said? You're William White? Yes, sir, answered the man. That's my name. All right, White, there's nothing to be alarmed about. You picked up a lady outside the Metropolitan and Provincial Bank this morning, just sit down and tell us where you took her. Oh, that is it, said White, relieved to find that it was merely an inquiry, and not an offence that he was called upon to answer for. Yes, sir, I did pick up a lady there. I took her along to the general post-office, and waited while she went in. Then—wait a minute, interrupted Foil, how long was she in there? Ten minutes is near as a touch, according to the way the taxi meter jumped while I was waiting. When she came out, she asked me if I could take her to Kingston. I said yes, and she told me to stop on the surrey side of Putney Bridge, because she expected to pick up a friend, sir, while he was waiting there for us. What kind of a looking man was he? A tough sort of customer, dressed like a labouring chap. I thought it was a queer go, but it wasn't none of my business, and ladies take queer fancies at times. She didn't say nothing to him that I could hear, but just leaned out of the window and beckoned. He jumped in, and off we went. We stopped at a tailor's shop in Kingston, and the man went in while the lady stayed in the cab. What was the name of the shop? I didn't notice. I could show it to anyone, though, if I went there again. Very well, go on," said Foil, curtly. Well, in a matter of a couple of minutes, out comes the chap again, and spoke to the lady. She got out and paid me off. He went back into the shop, and she walked away down the street. And that's the last you saw of them, I suppose, asked the superintendent, with his left hand rubbing vigorously at his chin. White shook his head. No, sir, I went away and had a bit of grub before coming back. As I passed Kingston Railway Station, I saw the lady standing by a big motor-car, talking to the man seated at the wheel. I thought at first it was the chap I had driven down, but I could see it wasn't when I got a closer look at him. He was better dressed, and held himself straighter. Ah! Could you describe him? Did you notice the number of the car? The driver scratched his head. A sort of ordinary-looking man, sir. I didn't take much stock of him. The car was A-1245, a big brown thing with an open body. Right you are white, said foil with a nod of dismissal. That will do for now. You go down and wait in the yard with your cab, and we'll get someone to go with you to Kingston, and keep your mouth shut about what you've told us. When the door closed behind the man, his eyes met those of the Chief Detective Inspector. You'll have to go to Kingston Green. It's a hot scent there. You've got the numbers of the notes that Maxwell got from the bank. Find out if any of them were changed at the tailors. They've taken precautions to blind the trail. What I think happened is that she telephoned from the General Post Office to some motor-car firm to send a car from London to Kingston Railway Station under the impression that it would be less risky. He went into the tailors' place to arrange for a change of clothes, and she dismissed the taxi as a measure of precaution. It was a piece of luck that the man noticed the motor car, but we can't be absolutely certain of the number he gave. He had no particular reason to remember it. Anyway, I'll send it out to the county police, and ask them to keep their eyes open. Meanwhile, I'll set some men to work to see if any of the big garages have sent a car to Kingston and get the number verified. If you phone me when you get down there, I'll let you know how things stand. Green had his hand on the handle of the door, but suddenly something occurred to him. Do you think she's gone with him, sir? Helden Foyle made a little gesture of descent. I don't think it likely. It would double the danger of identification, but we can soon find if she's gone back to her home. I told Taylor, who is watching in Barkley Square, to report when she returned. He touched a bell and put a question to the man who entered. Yes, sir, was the reply. He rang up half an hour ago. You told me I wasn't to disturb you. He reported Lady Eileen Meredith had just gone in. There you are, then, Green, said Foyle. That point settled. You get along. I wish I could come with you, but it won't do for me to leave London just now, and goodness knows where you may have to finish up. Goodbye, and good luck! When Green had gone, Foyle gave a few instructions to cover the points that had arisen, and walked to Sir Hilary Thornton's room. The assistant commissioner looked up and proffered a cigar. Think of the angels he said. I was just wondering how things were going. Things are straightening out a bit, said the superintendent. It's been a busy day, and it's not over yet. And puffing a ring of smoke into the air, he told in bare, unadorned fashion the events of the day. It has been a narrow thing for Grel, he concluded. Even now I fancy we shall get him. Green's as tenacious as a bulldog when he's got something to take hold of. With his hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, Sir Hilary strode to and fro across the room. It's time we got a bit forward, he said. The adjourned inquest will come on again soon, and we shan't be able to keep the question of identity up our sleeves any longer. There's a week yet, answered Foyle. I don't think it will much matter what is revealed then. The assistant commissioner came to a halt. You're not a man to be overconfident, Foyle, he explained. Do you feel pretty certain of having Grel under arrest by that time? I've not interfered with you hitherto, but for heaven's sake be careful. It won't do to make a mistake, especially with a man of Grel's standing. Heldon Foyle lifted his shoulders deprecatingly. It all depends upon an idea I have, sir. I am willing to take all responsibility. You're still convinced that Grel is guilty? I am convinced that he knows all about the murder, answered Foyle ambiguously. With the help of Pinkerton's, I've traced his history back for the last 25 years. He's had his hands in some queer episodes in his time before he became a millionaire. There are gaps which we can't fill up, of course, but we're pretty complete. There was one thing in his favour. Although he's known toughs in all corners of the world, he's never been mixed up in any dirty business. And as he's carried out one or two political missions for the United States, I suppose he's had to know some of those people. Tomorrow or the next day, I expect to have the records of both Ivan Abramovich and Condit. It will all help, though the bearing on the murder is perhaps indirect. You're talking in parables, like a detective out of a book, said Thornton, with a peevishness that his covering smile could not entirely conceal. But I know you'll have your own way when you don't want to be too precise. How do you regard the burnt paper? Is it important? It would have been if I could have saved it, said the detective regretfully. As it is, it's of no use as evidence in a court, for it only rests on my word. I keep pegging away at it, but I'm not certain that I can fill it out as it should be. But you never know your luck in our trade. I remember a case of forgery once. The counterfoil of a tradesman's paying in-book showed a hundred pounds, with which he was not credited in the books of the bank. The cashier was confident that his initials in blue pencil on the counterfoil were genuine, yet he was equally certain that he had not received the money. The tradesman was certain that he had sent the money. There it was. I was at a dead end. One day I noticed a little station is store near the tradesman's office. In the window were some blue pencils. I walked in and bought something, and casually remarked that I shouldn't have thought there was much demand for those pencils. Oh, school boys buy them, said the old woman who served me. There's old blank son over the way. He buys half a dozen at a time. Well, off I went to the grammar school that the boy was attending, and had a talk with one of the masters. He admitted that the lad was exceptionally clever at drawing. I was beginning to see my way, so had the boy called out of his class into a private room. Now tell me, my boy, I said, what did you do with the money you stole from your father on such and such a date? The bluff worked. He turned pale, and then admitted that he had forged the initials, taken the money, and gone on a joy-jaunt for a week while he was supposed to be staying with an aunt. There was the luck of the idea coming in my head through looking at those pencils. Have you been looking at blue pencils today, asked Thornton with interest? Something of the kind admitted Foil with a smile, and before he could be questioned further, had vanished. He had said nothing of the blotting paper incident, for there were times when he wished to keep his own counsel, even within the precincts of Scotland Yard itself. He did not wish to pin himself down until he was sure. In his own room he unlocked the big safe that stood between the two windows, and taking out the roll he had abstracted from Lady Eileen's desk, surveyed it with a whimsical smile playing about the corners of his mouth. Once he held it to the mirror, and the word burly was plainly reflected. That ought to do, he murmured to himself, and replacing it in the safe swung the heavy door too. The jigsaw puzzle, to which he had likened criminal investigations, was not so jumbled as it had been. One or two bits of the picture were beginning to stick together, though there were others that did not seem to have any points of junction. Foil pulled out the dossier of the case, and again went over the evidence that had been collected. He knew it practically by heart, but one could never be too certain that nothing had been overlooked. He was so engaged when Mr. Fred Trevelyn was announced. Fred Trevelyn? Who is he? he asked mechanically, his brain still striving with the problem he wished to elucidate. That's the name he gave, sir, answered the clerk, who ranked as a detective sergeant. I should call him Dutch Fred. Oh, I was wondering. Send him in. There was nothing of the popular conception of the criminal about Freddy as he swaggered into the room, wearing a glossy silk hat of the latest fashionable shape on one arm. His morning coat was a faultless cut, his trousers were creased with precision, grey spats covered his well shone boots. Foil shook hands with him, and his blue eyes twinkled humorously. On the war-path I see Freddy. Sit down. What's the game, going to the big fight? The last remark was made with an object. Professional boxing attracts perhaps a larger number of the criminal fraternity than any other sport, except possibly horse racing. In many cases it is purely and simply love of the game that attracts. There is no ulterior motive. But in the case of Freddy, and men in his line, there was always the chance of combining pleasure with profit. The hint was not lost on the pick-pocket. A hurt expression crossed his face. No, Mr. Foil, he declared earnestly, I don't take any interest in boxing. I just called in to put you wise to something as I was passing. That's very nice of you, Freddy. What is it? The pick-pocket dropped his voice. It's about Harry Goldenberg, he said. I saw him today. Foil beat a tattoo on his desk with his fingers. That so, he said listlessly, out on the Portsmouth Road, I suppose. Dutch Fred sat up with a start. Yes, he agreed. Just outside Kingston. How did you know? Just a guess, laughed the superintendent. Well, what about it? Did you speak to him? I didn't have a chance, retorted Freddy. I was in a little runabout with a pal when he came scooting by hell for leather. We only got a glimpse of him, and if he noticed us, he made no sign. I thought you'd like to know, that's all. It was an open-car brown colour. I couldn't see the number for dust. It was A something. Well, we know all that, said Foil. All the same, Freddy. I am glad you dropped in. I won't forget it. Righto, Mr. Foil. Good evening. And the pick-pocket swaggered out, while Foil thoughtfully stowed away his papers. Someone brought in a cup of tea and some biscuits, and his watch showed him that it was a quarter to five. He had promised to call on Lady Eileen about six o'clock, and his mind dwelt on the potentialities of the interview, as he lingered over his frugal meal. He had just poured out his second cup, when the telephone buzzer behind him jarred. A call from Liverpool, sir, said the man in the private exchange. Mr. Blake wants you. Shall I put him through? A few minutes elapsed before Foil heard the voice of the man who had been outwitted by the Princess Petrovska. Is that Mr. Foil? This is Blake speaking. We've got on the track of the lady again. She'd been staying at a boarding-house, pretending she was a member of a theatrical company. A local man spotted her, and came back to fetch me to make certain of her identity. But she must have got wind of it somehow, for she's hired a motor and slipped off. We're after her now. She's only got half an hour's start, and we've wired to have the main roads watched. I expect we'll have her in an hour or two. The superintendent coughed. Get along then, Blake, and don't smoke when you're on the job this time. Goodbye. He replaced the receiver, and returned to his neglected cup of tea. Things were evidently stirring. Was it altogether chance, he wondered, that Petrovska had chosen the day to make a move? Strange coincidences did happen at times, yet there was a possibility that her movements were correlated to those of Grel. Had the two managed to communicate? Well, at any rate, he could rely on Blake and his assistants to find out whether she had received letters or messages. The matter was out of his hands, and it was not his habit to worry about affairs which he could not influence. CHAPTER 44 That Heldon Foyle had come so closely on the heels of Grel's message was something of a shock to Eileen. She had not supposed that the detectives would be so quickly again on the trail. Her heart beat a little quicker, but her face gave no sign as she drew off her gloves, while the footmen told her of the superintendent's call at six. When she was alone, she sat with her long slender hands gripping the arms of her chair, her gray eyes reflecting the light of the fire as she stared abstractedly into its depths. That she had done her utmost to help Grel escape she did not regret. She rather triumphed in the fact. Foyle could know nothing of that, at the worst he could only suspect. Her precautions had been too complete. She was confident that she and Grel were the only two people who knew of the day's happenings. In any case she argued to herself it was better to see Foyle. She had come to respect his acumen and fear he might draw an inference not too far from the truth if she denied him an interview. Besides she asked herself what had she to fear, Grel was safely away, and she could trust not to betray herself. At six o'clock to the minute a footman, whose wooden face gave no indication of the fact that a moment before he had confidently informed Foyle in a stage whisper, she seemed pretty cheerful when she came in, sir, been sitting all alone since, brought her a card. Then Foyle was ushered in, calm and unruffled as though he were merely making a social call. She returned his bow frigidly. I hope you will not consider my call inconvenient, Lady Eileen, he said, suavely. I considered it of importance that I should see you as soon as possible. She crossed her knees and regarded him composedly. I am sorry I was out when you called this morning, had I known I should have waited for you. The detective admired the manner in which the girl carried off a difficult situation. She spoke quite indifferently, and yet he knew that she was entirely on her guard. He smoothed the top of his hat with his hand. Sometimes an appointment with one's bankers is a thing one can't put off, he said blandly. A tiny spot of colour burned in each of her cheeks, and she flashed one quick look at the detective. This was an attack in flank which she had not expected. My bankers—she lied instantly—I have not been to my bankers. I beg your pardon, he said, his voice keyed to a curious inflection. I was under the impression that you had, that, in fact, you changed a check for two hundred pounds made payable to bearer. She tried to hide a new feeling of alarm under a smile. Well, and if I did, she challenged, that is, of course, my private business, Mr. Foil. You surely haven't come to cross-examine me on my habits of personal extravagance. Partly, he counted, shall we be plain with one another? She rose and stood with one arm resting on the mantelpiece, looking down on him. By all means, let us be plain. I am only a girl, and I cannot altogether follow the subtleties of your work. We are not such dreadful people, really, he smiled. We try to do unpleasant work as little and pleasantly as possible. As you say, you are only a girl, and although perhaps uncommonly clever, you are, if you will pardon me, a little apt to let your impulses outreach your reason. More than once I have tried to advise you as I would my own daughter. Well now, here is some more advice for what it is worth. Tell me exactly what you did between the time you went out this morning, and the time you came in, whom you saw, and where you went. Will you do that? The tick of a small clock on the mantelpiece was loud. Eileen contemplated the tips of her boots with interest. Then a little ripple of laughter shook her. You are a dreadfully suspicious man. If it interests you, then you can have it. I went to the bank, and from there took a cab to my dress-makers, where I paid a bill, and was fitted for a new gown. I went on and did some shopping at various places. Shall I write out an exact account for you? If it had been the detective's design to entrap her into a series of falsehoods, he might easily have done so. But there was no object in pursuing that course. He met her ingenuous gaze with a little lift of his shoulders. This is me a foolishness, Lady Eileen. I want to give you the opportunity of stating frankly what occurred from the moment you got Robert Grail's letter this morning. You know this story of the dressmaker would fall to pieces the instant we started making inquiries to verify it. So I'm on my defence then, she said abruptly. He nodded, and watched closely the changing expression of her features. I have done nothing that gives you any right to question me, she went on defiantly, and I am not going to submit to any more questions. Good morning. Can you find your own way out?" She caught at her skirt with one hand, and with her chin tilted high in the air, would have withdrawn haughtily from the room. She was afraid that his shrewd, persistent questioning and persuasion might end in eliciting from her more unguarded admissions. He had reached the door before her, however, and stood leaning with his back against it, and his legs crossed and his arms folded. She stopped sharply, and he divined her attention. I shouldn't touch the bell if I were you," he said, peremptorily. It will be better for both of us if I say what I have got to say alone. The decision in his tone stopped her as her hand was half-way to the bell-push. She paused, irresolute, and at last her hand dropped at her side. Foyle moved to her, laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, and half-forced her to a seat. After all, with all her beauty and her wits she was but a wayward child. Her eyes questioned him, and her lips quivered a little. Now, he said sternly, tell me if your father signed the cheque you cashed, or whether you put his signature to it yourself. Her lips moved dumbly, and the room seemed to quiver around her. Finally, as she had held herself in control, hitherto, she was now thoroughly unnerved. She covered her face with her hands, and her frail figure shook with dry sobs. Foyle waited patiently for the outburst to pass. Suddenly she sprang to her feet and faced him with clenched hands. Yes, I did sign it, she blazed. My father was out, and I wanted the money at once. He will not mind. He would have given it to me had he been here. He checked her with a deprecating movement of his hand. Don't excite yourself, please, he said soothingly. I felt bound to let you see there was a serious reason why I should press you to give an account of your movements to-day. Sit down quietly for a moment." He waited patiently while she resumed her seat. He had foreseen that while she was on her guard he was unlikely either by threats or coaxing to induce her to speak. The hint of forgery had been deliberately intended to throw her off her balance. She could not know that her blotting-pad had betrayed that and more. Nor could she know that without the evidence of her father and the bank officials, neither of which was likely to be willingly given in the circumstances, she was not amenable to a criminal charge. Will you tell me now why you were so anxious to obtain that money? Why you could not wait for an hour or two until your father returned? Don't hurry yourself, think. Remember that I shall be able to check what you say. I—I—she choked in gulps as if swallowing something. Will it help you if I tell you that two of the notes which were given in exchange for the check were changed at a tailor's shop at Kingston where a rough-looking man bought an overcoat and a suit of clothes? You know that? she gasped, the words coming slowly one by one from her lips, the accuracy of his knowledge and the swiftness with which it must have been gained both astonished and astounded her. I know that, he repeated, and I know more. I know, for instance, that Mr. Grel went to Sir Ralph Fairfield before applying to you. Did he tell you that? He waited, but she made no answer. I know, too, that he has left London. You know where he is making for. Where is it? Slowly, she shook her head. I can't tell you, she cried vehemently. You cannot force me to. He is an innocent man. You know he is. You can expose me. Tell all the world that I have been guilty of forgery if you like. You will not get me to lift a finger to hound him to his death. Foil had failed. He knew it was of little use pushing the matter further. He picked up his hat and gloves and mechanically passed a hand over his forehead. But there was one thing that had to be done before he left. I will not trouble you any further now," he said, in a level voice. I may take it you will tell your father of the banking episode that will relieve me of a rather painful task. I will tell him, she said, dullly. Then good evening, Lady Eileen. Good evening. The superintendent drew on his gloves as he passed out to the street door. She knows her own mind, that girl, he said to himself, she won't give away a thing. Either she's very much in love with him, or— He rounded the corner into Barkley Street. CHAPTER XIV The first part of the commission given by Helden Foil to Chief Detective Inspector Green was simple to execute and cost him no effort of ingenuity. A straight drive-through into Kingston, a call at the tailor's shop where Grell had refitted himself with clothes, and a few minutes' conversation with the assistant who had served him gave him all the facts concerning the appearance of the man he was following. I'd better take these two notes away, he said, beginning to fold up the flimsies. I shall want you to keep a note of the numbers in case you are called upon to give evidence. The tailor scratched his head doubtfully and cast a glance on a policeman passing slowly on the other side of the street. He was beginning to suspect the tall stranger who asserted he was a police officer and so calmly appropriated money. He was wondering whether, after all, it might not be an ingenious scheme of robbery. He had heard of such things, and the composure of the detective did not comfort him. Green had given no proof of his identity beyond his bare word. With some mumbled excuse the tailor stepped to the door and beckoned to the policeman. With much volubility he explained the situation and his suspicions. The constable listened gravely. He was very young to his duties, and remembered the cautions that had been given him not to accept any one's word where actions were suspicious. He didn't show you a warrant card did he? He asked. All right, Mr. Jones, you leave this to me, and he marched importantly into the shop. Green, who had just little well-worn brier pipe, and was waiting for the assistant to return in order to pay him the value of the notes, smiled grimly at the apparition of the constable in uniform. He guessed exactly what had happened. This is the man, asked the police officer. The tailor nodded, and he went on, addressing Green, what's this about you taking money and pretending to be a police officer? He had produced an official notebook, and looked very important as he loomed in the doorway, gazing sternly at the detective. Don't answer any questions unless you want to. You know I shall have to take anything you say down in writing, and it may be used as evidence against you. The situation had a pecan humour that tickled Green. The constable was strictly within his duty, as he had been called in, but the pomposity of his manner betoken that he was very, very young in the service. In a deliberate silence the detective felt in his pocket for a warrant card that would clear up the mistake. A moment later he was wildly searching in all his pockets without success. For the first time in a lifetime in the service he must have been careless enough to leave it at home. He flourished a number of envelopes inscribed Chief Detective Inspector Green knew Scotland Yard S.W., but the knowing look of the young constable was emphasised by the cock of the eyebrows. Green never carried official documents except when he was obliged to. That won't do, old chap, said the constable, in the manner of one well used to the ways of the criminal fraternity. You don't come that on me. You might have written those envelopes yourself. You'll have to come along. If the letters had failed to impress him, Green felt certain that his visiting card would be of little use, since he had decided to visit the police station in any case, it did not much matter. It was humiliating in a way, but it did not much matter. All right, my man, he said authoritatively, I'll see the station officer. Send for a cab. Cool hand, isn't it? whispered the policeman to the tailor. See how he's dropped trying to pull off his bluff on me. Just hop out and see if you can find a cab. I'll keep an eye on him. So it was that a high official of the Criminal Investigation Department reached an outlying police station under the conduct of a young constable, whose swelling pride was soon reduced to abject misery as the divisional detective inspector, who is leaning on a high desk and chatting with a station sergeant, sprang forward to greet the suspect. They phoned through from headquarters for me to meet you here, sir. There's one or two messages come through for you." The constable's jaw dropped. "'Is this man—this gentleman from the yard,' he gasped. The local man stared from Green to the policeman, and from the policeman to Green. Some notion of what had happened began to occur to him. What the blazes,' he began, but the chief inspector cut him short. "'That's all right,' he said. "'I was careless enough to come out without a warrant card, and this young man has made a little mistake. Don't you worry about it, my lad. Only next time don't put so much zeal into a doubtful case. Cut along back to your beat, and give that chap this.' Some sovereign's chinked. "'Now, Mr. Malley, I'll be glad to have those messages, and to put a call through to Mr. Foyle.' He followed Malley into an inner room, and the local man handed him a couple of messages which had been telephoned to Scotland Yard by the county police, and one sent by Foyle immediately after his interview with Dutch Fred, giving amplified particulars of the car. Green made his report over the telephone, and then replacing the receiver turned to Malley. This last message shows he's got a good start. He passed through Hazelmere an hour ago. Can you get away yourself, or have you got a good man you can lend me? That's all arranged, sir, was the answer. Mr. Foyle said that I was to go with you if you wanted me. Right, we'll have to rake out a good car somewhere. You see to that. We'll pick up any fresh news at the county police station at Hazelmere. This man may have been stopped by now. Malley was already speaking into the telephone. He paused for a moment. Will a chauffeur be necessary, sir? I could drive if you liked. So much the better. Tell him to hustle the car along here. It'll be just as well to have plenty of petrol." A matter of ten minutes or a quarter of an hour before the moat car was at the police station, Malley slipped into the driver's seat, and Green coiled up his long body by his side. With a jerk they started, and in a little were out on the broad Portsmouth Road, while a thin penetrating rain was powdering the wind-screen. Presently Malley increased the speed, and though it was well outside the legal limit, Green made no remonstrance. Stollid and unimaginative as he might seem to casual acquaintance, the chief inspector usually worked with tremendous enthusiasm and doggedness. As Foyle had said, he was as tenacious as a bulldog. He was determined to catch growl if human wit and perseverance could do it, and he chafed to think that the start had been so long. Dusk had fallen before they entered Hazelmere, pausing only to ask their way to the local police headquarters. Short as the run had been, they were both chilled to the bone, and their overcoats were sodden with rain. There was no thought of a halt, however. A man ran bare-headed out of the police station door as though he had been waiting for them. Mr. Green, he asked. That's my name, answered the chief inspector. Your people have been on the phone to us, and so have the Hampshire constabulary at Petersfield. Nothing has been seen of the car you want since it passed through here, apparently on the way to Petersfield. We didn't know you wanted it held up till too late, but one of our bicycle patrols remembered having seen it go by. Ten minutes later we got word. Both Petersfield and Midhurst have had men out waiting for it, no luck at all. It seems to have vanished clean off the face of the earth. You'll probably meet some of our bicycle patrols if you're going on. We've been searching the by-roads. Green bit back in expletive. The prospect of a night search in the wet and wind and rain did not appeal to him. There seemed no help for it, however. Much obliged, he said, we'll watch for your men, drive on, Mr. Malley, and they slipped forward into the gloom. There's too much of the needle in a haystack business about this to suit my taste, he complained, when once they were clear of the town, that car might have taken any one of fifty side-turnings. Anyway, we'll go on to Petersfield and see whether they've had any luck. Slow down a bit, there's not much object in speed now. Presently their big acetylene lights picked out caped policemen standing in the centre of the roadway, his arm upraised for them to halt. They could see his bicycle resting on the grass. As they stopped he advanced, and glancing at the number on the bonnet scrutinised the two detectives sharply. It's all right, Constable, said Malley, we're not the people you're looking for, we're from London and we're looking for the same man. The policemen, satisfied, stepped back with a clumsy salute, and a beg pardon, gentlemen, and once more they were off. Ten minutes later another cyclist peddling furiously rode into the zone of light cast by their headlamps. A hail brought him to a stop, and Green put a question in explaining who he was. We found it, sir, exclaimed the man excitedly. It's in a lane at the other side of the little village called Dalehurst, a mile farther up. It had been run into a ditch and left there. There's no sign of the man who is in it. I'm just riding into a report. There's a sergeant looking after it. Never mind about reporting yet, said Green. You come back with us and show us where this car is. I'll take all responsibility. They travelled on at a pace that permitted the cyclist to keep alongside, and presently, turning sharply to the right, picked their way along a narrow roadway which overgrown with grass and flanked by densely wooded country was as desolate and lonelier spot as could be conceived. The car bumped and swayed over ruts and hummocks, and Green touched his companion's sleeve to bid him stop. We shall get on quicker and safer if we walk, he said, and dropped stiffly to the ground. Malley followed suit and swung his arms vigorously about his body to restore some degree of warmth to his cramped frame. We'll carry one of the headlights with us, said Green. Faith it's muddy! Their boots made a soft, squelching noise as they tramped on under black shadows of the trees for a hundred yards. The track of the previous car was embedded plain in the soft earth, and here and there were footmarks recently made which the three avoided confusing on Green's order by keeping to the side of the roadway. The wheel marks ended abruptly round a slight bend where they came upon the car itself. It was tilted at an acute angle with its leading front wheel embedded in the low ditch. All the lights had been extinguished, and the rear of the car, with the number, was picked out in high relief against the dark background by the acetylene light carried by Malley. Who's that? growled a husky voice, and a police sergeant stepped into the section of light. It's all right, sergeant, said the man who had acted as guide to the detectives. It's only two gentlemen from London who are engaged on the case. I met them and brought them along. The chief inspector had taken the lamp from Malley, and was throwing its light on the ground around the car. Then he stepped into the car itself and began a minute inspection of rugs and cushions. The search was only a matter of habit, and it revealed nothing. He stepped down and pointed to some footprints. Anyone been here but you two men, he asked. Here both of you, press your right feet here. That's it. He contemplated the marks with careful deliberation for a while, and then stepping wide, followed a series of footmarks leading up the lane. Our gentleman walked pretty fast, observed green, see how plain the heel and toe marks came out, while the rest of the impression is blurred. Hello, what's this? The road had terminated abruptly in a bridal path, leading apparently to the interior of the wood, and the footprints had become more and more indistinct with the transition to ground covered with fallen leaves. They had failed entirely as green spoke, and he flung the light about in an effort to pick them up again. Then something met his eye on a spike of blackthorn, and he carefully picked off a thread of brown cloth. We're done for tonight, I'm afraid, he said. He's gone off the track and got into the wood. We'll get back, Malley, and try to find a room or somewhere to sleep near here. Then we can turn out with daylight. But first of all, we must phone to the yard. By the way, Sergeant, do you know whose estate we're on? I'm not quite sure, growled the officer. It used to be Colonel Sorghards, but I believe he sold it to that man who was killed in London a little while back. Growl was his name, wasn't it? Really? Thank you, Sergeant. Come on, Malley, perhaps we can find the village post office and use the phone.