The evidence of the finger-prints was entirely negative. Though Foyle
believed that Fairfield was innocent, he never permitted himself to be
swayed by his opinions into neglecting a possibility. It was still
possible that the baronet might have been concerned in the crime even
though they were some one else's prints on the dagger. At any rate
Fairfield was suppressing something. It could do no harm to continue the
watch that had been set upon him. So Foyle left Green and his companion
to continue their unobtrusive vigil.
To justify his stay in the box--for he was artist enough to do things
thoroughly even though it might be unnecessary--he lifted the receiver
and put a call through to Scotland Yard.
"This is Foyle speaking," he said when at last he had got the man he
asked for. "Is there anything fresh for me?"
"Nothing important, sir, except that Blake has found a curiosity dealer
who says that the knife is one that must have come from South America.
It is, he says, an unusual sort of Mexican dagger."
"Oh. Is the man who says that to be relied on? He isn't just guessing?
We can do all the guessing we want ourselves."
"No, sir, we think he's all right. It's Marfield--one of the biggest men
in the trade. By the way, sir, there's a lot of newspaper men been
asking for you since you left. They want to know about Goldenburg."
"So do I," retorted the other. "You'd better be strictly truthful with
'em, Mainland. Tell 'em you know no more than is on the reward bill.
They won't believe you, anyway. You can say I've gone home to bed, and
that there will be nothing more doing this evening. Good-bye."
"A Mexican dagger," he muttered to himself as he left the telephone-box.
"Now, if I were a story-book detective I should assume that the murderer
was either a South American or had travelled in South America. It looked
the kind of thing a woman might carry in her garter. And a veiled woman
called on him that night"--he made a wry face. "Foyle, my lad, you're
assuming things. That way madness lies. The dagger might have been
bought anywhere as a curiosity, and the veiled woman may have been a
purely innocent caller."
His meditations had brought him to a great restaurant off the Strand. He
passed through the swing doors into the lavishly gilded dining-room, and
selected a table somewhere near the centre. With the air of a man taking
his ease after a strenuous day in the City, he ordered his dinner
carefully, seeking the waiter's advice now and again. Then his eye roved
carelessly over the throng of diners while he waited for his orders to
be fulfilled. The apparently casual scrutiny lasted rather less than a
minute. Then he shifted his seat so that he could see without effort the
table where two men lingered over their liqueurs. A moment later one of
the men noted the solitary figure of the detective.
He emptied his glass without haste and signalled to the waiter. Before
that functionary had made out the bill Foyle had strolled over to the
table, his face beaming, his hand outstretched.
"How are you, Eden?" he cried effusively. "Who'd have thought of seeing
you here! Business good? Still picking flowers?"
An expression of annoyance crossed the face of the slighter built of the
two men, yet he shook hands readily.
"Why, it's Mr. Foyle!" he exclaimed heartily. "How are you? We were just
going. Let me introduce Mr. Maxwell."
They called him the Garden of Eden at Scotland Yard--probably because
the unwary might have thought him full of innocence. His smooth, bronzed
boyish face showed ingenuousness and candour in every line. A glittering
diamond pin adorned his necktie, a massive gold chain spanned his
waistcoat, a gold ring with a single great ruby was on his finger. That
was the only ostentation about him, and his quiet, well-cut clothes were
in good taste.
Foyle acknowledged the introduction.
"From the colonies, I suppose, Mr. Maxwell? I suppose Eden has told you
he's just come over." Eden surveyed the detective with wide-open,
innocent blue eyes in which there dwelt hurt reproach. "I hate to
separate you, but I've got important business with him. Perhaps you'll
meet another time."
"Yes, you'll excuse me now, old man," chimed in Eden blandly. "Call for
me at the Palatial at eleven to-morrow, and we'll make a day of it."
Maxwell had no sooner accepted his dismissal than Foyle led the other
over to his table. Eden walked with the manner of one uncertain what was
about to happen.
"It is all right, Mr. Foyle," he protested eagerly. "It is _all right_.
I haven't touched him for a sou."
Foyle began on the soup placidly.
"You're a joker, Jimmy," he smiled. "Don't get uneasy. I'm not going to
carry you inside. Only you'll have to leave the Palatial to-night,
Jimmy--to-night, do you understand? And if Maxwell turns up with a
complaint against you there'll be pretty bad trouble. You'll be put out
of temptation for good and all. There's such a thing as preventive
detention in this country now, you know."
The Garden of Eden looked pained.
"Truth, Mr. Foyle, I haven't done a thing," he declared earnestly. "I'm
trying the straight game now."
Heldon Foyle wagged his head.
"And staying at the Palatial," he smiled. "Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy! I believe
you, of course." And he went on with his soup.
Suddenly he looked up. "When did you last see Goldenburg?" he demanded
curtly. "No nonsense, mind, Jimmy."
Eden's face had cleared. "So that's the lay, is it?" he said with
relief. "I saw the bills out for him, and I don't mind helping you if I
can, Mr. Foyle. He was never what you'd call a proper pal, and I don't
bear any malice, though you've just done me out of a cool five hundred.
That mug who's just gone"--he jerked his head towards the door--"was
going to follow my tip and back a horse that won't win to-morrow. That's
a bit hard, isn't it, Mr. Foyle?"
From his breast-pocket Foyle took a ten-pound note and slid it across
the table. He followed Eden's meaning.
"Cough it up," he advised.
The Garden of Eden took the note and thrust it into his trousers pocket.
"He was in Victoria Station, talking to a foreign-looking chap, on
Wednesday night." A look of astonishment crossed his face while he
spoke. "By the living jingo, there's the very man he was talking to
coming in now."
Foyle folded his serviette neatly and rose.
"Right, Jimmy. I'll talk to you later. Go to the Yard and wait till I
come," he said, and, walking swiftly across the room, thrust his arm
through that of the new arrival.
"You are the man who used to be Mr. Grell's valet," he said quietly in
French. "I am a police officer, and you must come with me."