Grave Street, Whitechapel, is not a savoury neighbourhood. One may pass
from end to end of its squalid length and hear scarce a word of English.
Yiddish is the language most favoured by its cosmopolitan population,
although one may hear now and again Polish, Russian, or German. In its
barrack-like houses, rising sheer from the pavement, a chain of tenancy
obtains, ranging from the actual householder to the tenant of half a
room, who sublets corners of the meagre space on terms payable strictly
in advance. A score of people will herd together in a room a few feet
square, and never realise that they are cramped for space.
Here you will find petty thieves, versatile rascals ripe for any
mischief, and sweated factory workers; here sallow-faced anarchists
boldly denounce the existing order of things to their fellows and scheme
the millennium. Slatternly women quarrel at the doors, and horse-flesh
is a staple article of diet.
The neatly dressed Fairfield descending at the end of the street from
his taxicab was as conspicuous among the unshaven idlers who hung about
the pavements as the moon among the stars.
Sir Ralph picked his way towards a newspaper shop, his mind full of the
message that had brought him to the spot. The letter delivered by the
messenger had contained but a few words in printed characters.
"If you would learn the truth about the murder in Grosvenor
Gardens, come immediately to No. -- Grave Street."
There was no signature, no clue to the identity of the writer. Fairfield
had leapt at the chance to do something. Even if it were a hoax it would
occupy his mind for a time, and take his thoughts away from the sinister
shadow that overhung him. Somehow, however, he did not think it was a
hoax.
The newspaper shop displayed the number given in the note on its grimy
facia. The baronet, as he moved towards it, was unconscious of the
slouching figure of the labourer, who had been selling matches near the
Albany, a few paces behind him. His foot was on the threshold of the
shop when a man, black-bearded and swarthy, pressed an envelope into his
hand.
Foyle watched the incident and his pace quickened. Before Fairfield had
time to do more than glance at the inscription of the envelope he was
abreast. He lurched inward and his fingers snatched quickly at the note.
The next instant he was running with long, even strides for the open of
the main road.
It was barefaced robbery, of course, but he had not the inclination to
stick at trifles. That the note had some bearing on the case he was
investigating he felt certain. There was only one way to get it at once,
and that was to steal. Anywhere else but in Grave Street he would have
waited to face the matter out. Not that Grave Street would have frowned
upon a theft, but that he would have been forced to reveal his
identity, and Grave Street was not a healthy neighbourhood for solitary
detectives.
Sir Ralph stood thunderstruck, but some one else acted. The
black-bearded man had disappeared. From somewhere there were a couple of
dull thuds like a hammer falling upon wood, and Foyle heard the whistle
of bullets over his head.
"I'll get even for that," he muttered between his teeth, but his
headlong flight never slackened.
Behind him was a clatter of pursuing feet. Fairfield, recovering
himself, had raised a cry and it was taken up.
"Stop thief! Hold him!"
He passed the man who had been so eagerly intent on the bookshop. The
man made a clutch at him, missed and fell headlong right in the path of
Fairfield, now a few paces behind. The baronet tripped over his body and
was thrown violently to the ground.
Foyle made a mental note in favour of Detective-Sergeant Chambers, who
had so adroitly intercepted the pursuit. As he came to the main road he
slackened his pace to a sharp walk, and dived into an underground
station. He breathed a sigh of relief as he passed down the steps to the
platform.
He had anticipated trouble, but pistol-shots in broad daylight, even in
Grave Street, had been outside his calculations. He had recognised the
peculiar report of an automatic pistol. His adversaries, whoever they
might be, were obviously very much in earnest. Pistol-shooting at
detectives is not a commonplace pastime even with the most reckless of
criminals. Foyle decided on another and early visit to Grave Street, and
promised himself grimly that the target should be some one else, if it
came to shooting again. He was in danger of losing his temper.
Not until he had got in the train did he open the note that was still
between his fingers. He frowned as he read it.
"Curse it! This comes of acting on impulse. Why couldn't I have waited!
I had the whole thing in my hands."
The note said simply--
"I am alive. I must see you. Follow the man who gives you this
note.--R. G."
Heldon Foyle had seen much of Robert Grell's writing during his search
of the house in Grosvenor Gardens, and had no doubt that the note was
his. His peace of mind was not increased by the reflection that had he
waited and continued to shadow Fairfield he might have discovered the
whereabouts of the missing diplomat. Now he had merely given notice as
plainly as though he had shouted from the housetops that Fairfield was
under observation. He had committed a blunder, and he did not forgive
blunders easily, especially in himself.
Even a bath and a change into his normal clothing did not restore his
equanimity. In his office he found Green, with a strange excitement in
his usually stolid face.
"Hello, Mr. Green. What's wrong?" he demanded.
The veteran chief detective-inspector pulled at his moustache.
"I don't know, sir, yet. You've come just in time. Waverley is missing.
"Waverley missing! That's nonsense. He was put on to relieve Norman in
shadowing Ivan Abramovitch."
"He's missing," repeated the other doggedly. "Ivan went into a shop with
an entrance in two streets, and the man who was assisting Waverley
slipped round to the other side. He waited there an hour, and then went
to look for Waverley."
The superintendent gave a short, contemptuous laugh.
"Green, I guess you've been working too hard lately. You ought to apply
for a fortnight's leave. Can't you see, Ivan came out and that Waverley
never had time to give the tip to his man, but followed him straight
away? There ought to have been three men on the job."
Green drew himself up stiffly. Foyle had not recovered from the
irritation caused by his own mistake, otherwise he would not have spoken
as he did. Green was not the kind of man to hastily jump to conclusions.
"A third was not available when Waverley left," he said. "Here is why I
say Waverley is missing. It came by messenger five minutes ago,
addressed to you. As senior officer I opened it."
Foyle took a typewritten sheet of paper from the other's hand. It read
simply--
"DEAR MR. FOYLE,--You had better call your men off. We have got one
of them safe, and hold him as a hostage for our own safety. If your
people go on trying to make things unpleasant for us, things will
get unpleasant for him. This is not melodrama, but brutal fact."
There was no signature. Foyle's square jaw became set and grim. He had
no doubt that the unknown writer fully meant the threat. He liked
Waverley, yet the thought of the other's peril did not sway him for a
moment. The man had fallen a victim to one of the risks of his
profession.
"Do they expect us to back down?" asked the superintendent harshly. "If
Waverley has been fool enough to get himself in a fix, he must take his
chance if we can't get him out. Let's have a look at this paper."
He thrust his hand in a drawer, and, flinging a pinch of black powder on
the letter, sifted it gingerly to and fro. In a few seconds four
finger-prints stared out blackly from the white surface. They were at
right angles to the type, and just beneath it. Foyle's face relaxed in a
pleased smile.
"They've given us something that may help us, after all, Green," he
cried. "Look here; these two middle ones are the prints on the dagger.
Now let's see if we can learn anything from the typing."
Half an hour later three men stood in a tiny room, darkened, save for a
vivid patch of white on a screen a yard and a half square. Foyle and
Green watched the screen intently as the third man inserted the slide in
the powerful magic lantern. Magnified enormously, the typewritten
characters stood out vividly black against the white.
"What do you make of it, Green?" asked the superintendent after a
pause.
"Remington machine, latest pattern," answered the other briefly. "The
letter 'b' slightly battered, and the 'o' out of alignment. Used by a
beginner. There is double spacing between some of the lines and single
in others. A capital 'W' has been superimposed on a small one."
"That's so," agreed his superior thoughtfully. "You might see if the
Remington people can give us any help with that. If possible, get a list
of all the people who have bought machines during this last six weeks.
It's a long shot, but long shots sometimes come off. And if you come
into my room I'll give you a pistol. It'll be as well for you to carry
one while you're on this case. I was shot at myself, to-day."
"Thank you, sir, I think I'll do without one," said the other quietly.
"My two fists are good enough for me."
"As you like," agreed Foyle, and Green departed on his mission. When he
returned, he walked into Foyle's room and laid a long list before his
chief. The superintendent cast his forefinger slowly down it.
"October 14," he read, "Mr. John Smith, c/o Israels, 404A Grave Street,
Whitechapel." He looked up into the stolid face of Green. "That seems
like it," he went on. "You and I will take a little trip this evening,
Green. And I think you'd better have a pistol, after all."