Heldon Foyle walked thoughtfully back to Scotland Yard, satisfied that
the shadowing of Ivan Abramovitch was in competent hands. With the
strong man's confidence in himself, he had no fears as to his decision
to release the man. He was beginning to have a shadowy idea of the
relation of pieces in his jig-saw puzzle. Ivan, he knew, ought to have
been arrested if only for failing to give a satisfactory account of his
possession of the pearl necklace. But the superintendent had, as he
mentally phrased it, "tied a string to him," and it would not be his
fault if nothing resulted.
It was well after midnight before he had finished his work at Scotland
Yard. He had had a long interview with the Garden of Eden, in which
promises were adroitly mingled with threats. In the result the
"bunco-steerer" had promised to keep his eyes and ears alert for news of
any one resembling Goldenburg. There was a string of other callers who
had been discreetly sorted out by the superintendent's diplomatic
lieutenants. Finally, he pulled out the book which dealt with the case,
and with the aid of a typist added several more chapters. With a sigh of
relief, he at last sauntered out into the cool, fresh midnight air.
Nine o'clock next morning saw him again in his office. Sir Hilary
Thornton was his first caller. Foyle put aside his reports at his
chief's opening question.
"Yes, we've taken every human precaution to preserve secrecy," he
replied. "Every one who knows that it is not Grell's body in the house
has been pledged to hold his tongue. I have managed to get the inquest
put back for three days, so that there will be no evidence of
identification till then. That gives us a chance. And I've made out a
confidential report to be sent to the Foreign Office, so that Grell's
Government shan't get restive. Here are the latest reports, sir."
The Assistant Commissioner bent over the sheaf of typewritten documents
for a little in complete absorption. As he came to the last sheet he
gave a start of surprise.
"So you let this man Ivan go? Do you think that wise?"
"I'm fishing," answered Foyle enigmatically. "I couldn't have better
bait than Ivan. There are three men sticking to him like limpets now,
and a couple are keeping an eye on Sir Ralph Fairfield. I think that
will be all right. Do you remember the Mighton Grange case? We knew
there had been a murder, but couldn't do anything till we found the
body. Dutful, the murderer, would have slid off to some place where
there's no extradition, but for the fact that I had him arrested on a
charge of being in the unlawful possession of a pickaxe handle. This
affair is the converse of that. We can't afford to have Ivan under lock
and key."
Sir Hilary Thornton bit his lip and looked steadfastly at the scarlet
geranium on the window-sill, as though in search of enlightenment.
"I believe I see," he exclaimed after a pause. "Ivan must have been
something more than a valet. He's a superior type of man, and the
conclusion to be drawn if he knows that Grell is alive----"
"Precisely," interrupted the superintendent.
"Any result from the offer of a reward for Goldenburg?"
A flicker of amusement dwelt in Heldon Foyle's blue eyes. "Yes. He has
been seen by different people within an hour or two of each other in
Glasgow, Southampton, Gloucester, Cherbourg, Plymouth, and Cardiff. Our
information on that point is not precisely helpful. Of course, we've got
the local police making inquiries in each case, but I don't anticipate
they will find out much. Still, it will keep 'em amused."
The necessity of a conference broke up further conversation. Gathered in
the building were some thirty or forty departmental chiefs of the
C.I.D., the picked men of their profession. Most of them were divisional
detective inspectors who were in charge of districts, and some few were
men who had special duties. They were ranged about tables in a lofty
room, its green distempered walls hung with stiff photographs of living
and retired officials. Men of all types were there, from the spruce,
smartly groomed detectives of the West End to the burly, ill-dressed
detectives of the East. Between them they spoke every known language.
Here was Penny, who had specialised in forgeries; Brown, who knew every
trick of coiners; Malby, the terror of race-course sharps; Menzies, who
had as keen a scent for the gambling hell as a hound for a fox; Poole,
who was intimate with the ways of railway thieves and shoplifters. Not
one but thoroughly understood his profession, and knew where to look for
his information.
Foyle took the chair, and the buzz of conversation became general. It
was a business conference of experts. Views were exchanged on concrete
problems; the movements of well-known criminals discussed.
"Velvet-fingered Ned" had disappeared from Islington and reappeared in
Brixton. "Tony" Smith was due out of prison. Mike O'Brien had patched up
the peace with "Yid" Foster, and when they got together----
So the talk went on, and so every district learned what was taking place
in other districts. The superintendent sat silent for a while,
listening. At last his smooth voice broke in.
"The man Ivan, whose description was circulated, is not to be touched
now. Tell your men to let him alone if they come across him."
There was a deep chorus, "Very good, sir," and Foyle, with a nod of
dismissal, left the room. He stopped to make an inquiry in the clerk's
office, and passing along the corridor unlocked a door and pressed a
bell.
In under half an hour a big labourer, with corduroys tied about the
knees, lurched unsteadily out of the Lost Property Office and passed
into Whitehall. Rough, tousled hair, an unkempt moustache, and a day's
growth of beard on the chin were details warranted to stand inspection.
Heldon Foyle rarely used a disguise, but when he did he was careful that
nothing should get out of order. Hair and moustache were his own, dyed
and brushed cunningly. Yet, when he reeled against Green near the
Albany, the inspector, who was an observant man, pushed him roughly
aside with an anathema on his clumsiness.
"Didn't 'urt you, did it?" stormed the labourer aggressively. "'Course I
look where I'm going." Then in a lower tone: "I'm Foyle. I got your
telephone message. Anything moving now?"
"If you don't go away I shall call a constable." Green had been quick to
see his cue and spoke loudly. He went on rapidly. "He hasn't stirred
out. A post-office messenger has just gone in with a letter for him. I
said I was expecting one, and got a glimpse at it."
"All right, old pal. Don't get excited. You go home and tell the missus
all about it," retorted the labourer.
Green walked rapidly away, spoke a few words to a man who was standing
on the other side of the road, deeply interested in a bookseller's
window, and departed.
The superintendent felt in his pockets and produced a couple of boxes of
matches. A constable strolled up, dignified and stern. A swift word in
an undertone sent him away with burning cheeks.
In half an hour Foyle had sold a box of matches, for which he received
sixpence with profuse thanks and inward disgust. If he sold his second
box and still hung about, his loitering without excuse might attract
undesirable attention. The contingency, however, did not arise, for a
minute or two later Fairfield himself strolled into the street. Foyle
rushed to open the door of a taxicab, which he hailed, but another tout
was before him. Nevertheless, he heard the address.
"Grave Street, Whitechapel," he murmured to himself, as the cab slipped
away. "Ivan has got to work."
A short argument with a second cab-driver, who distrusted his
appearance, was cut short by a deposit of five shillings as a guarantee
of good faith, and the superintendent also began the journey. Behind him
a third cab carried the man who had been so deeply interested in the
bookseller's window.