Heldon Foyle was on his feet in a second, and he pushed a chair towards
his subordinate. Detective-Inspector Waverley sat down and drummed
nervously on his knees with the fingers of his left hand.
"Well, you've got back," said the superintendent in a non-committal
tone. "We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you. I hope that
arm of yours is not badly hurt. What has been the trouble?"
The inspector winced and sat bolt upright in his chair.
"I guess I was to blame, sir," he said. "I fell into a trap like a
new-joined cabbage-boy. This man, Ivan Abramovitch, must have known that
he was followed by a couple of us, so he threw off Taylor, who was with
me, very simply, by going into a big outfitter's place in the City. I
dodged round to a second entrance and, sure enough, he came out there. I
couldn't get word to Taylor, so I picked him up, and a pretty dance he
led me through a maze of alleys up the side of Petticoat Lane and round
about by the Whitechapel Road. You will know the sort of neighbourhood
it is there. Well, I suppose I must have got a bit careless, for in
taking a narrow twist in one of those alleys some one dropped on me from
behind. I hit out and yelled, but I didn't get a second chance, for my
head was bumped hard down on the pavement and I went to sleep for good
and plenty. There were a couple of men in it, for I could hear 'em
talking before I became properly unconscious. They dragged me along,
linking their arms in mine, and we got into a cab. I guess the driver
thought I was drunk, and that they were my pals helping me home.
"When I came round my head was bandaged up, and I was in quite a decent
little room, lying on a couch, with Mr. Ivan Abramovitch sitting
opposite to me. I couldn't give a guess where it was, for the window
only looked out on a blank wall. I sat up, and he grinned at me.
"'I am a police officer,' I said. 'How did I get here?'
"'I brought you,' he says with a grin. 'You were taking too great an
interest in my doings for my liking. Now I am going to take an interest
in yours.'
"At that I jumped for him and got a knife through my arm for my pains.
After he'd sworn at me like a trooper in English, French, and Russian
for about ten minutes he bandaged up the cut with his handkerchief, and
told me if I made any more fuss I was in for trouble. Some one knocked
at the door, but he ordered them off.
"'You won't get away from here alive without permission if I can help
it,' he said; 'but if you do, you won't be able to identify any one but
myself. If you take it coolly there'll be no harm come to you.'
"I tried to bluff a bit, but he just laughed. And then I stayed with him
in the same room up to within an hour or two ago, when some one came
into the house and he was summoned outside the door. They had an excited
pow-wow, and I could hear a woman talking. Finally, the man came back
and told me they'd determined to let me go. He put a handkerchief over
my eyes, and after a while I was taken down into what I thought was a
taxicab. I was turned out a quarter of an hour ago at the Blackfriars
end of the Embankment."
Foyle was by now striding up and down the office, his hands thrust deep
in his trousers pockets. He paused long enough to blow down a
speaking-tube and put a quick question.
"What was the number of the cab?"
"It had no police number. Its index mark was A.A. 4796."
The superintendent drew from his pocket a little black book, such as is
carried by every police officer in London. On the outside was inscribed
in white letters: "Metropolitan Police. Pocket Directory." He turned
over the pages until he found what he wanted. A messenger had pushed
open the door.
"Southampton registration," said the superintendent. "Johns, get through
on the 'phone to the Southampton police, and ask 'em to trace the owner
of this car the moment the county council offices open."
The messenger disappeared, and he turned on Waverley.
"The number's probably a false one--a board slipped over the real
number, as they did in the Dalston case when some American toughs went
through that jeweller a month or two back. We might as well look into
it, though. These people are wily customers, or they wouldn't have kept
you from seeing the rest of the gang. They tried to frighten us by
threatening to make away with you. I think it likely that they found it
rather a nuisance to look after you--especially when Green and I tumbled
on to some of their people an hour ago. You haven't exactly covered
yourself with glory, Waverley, but under the circumstances I shall take
no disciplinary action. Now go and write out a full report, and then go
home. The police surgeon will recommend what leave of absence you want
to get over the stab in the arm. Good night--or rather, good morning."
"Thank you, sir. Good morning, sir."
Foyle never forgot discipline, which is as necessary, or more necessary
within limits, in a detective service as in any other specialised
business. To have sympathised with Waverley would have been bad policy.
He had been made to feel that he had blundered in some way, and the
feeling with which he had entered the room, that he was a martyr to
duty, had vanished in the conviction that he was simply a fool.
Foyle lit a cigar and fell into a reverie that lasted perhaps ten
minutes. He was glad that Waverley was safe, but a little disgusted that
he had failed to baffle the precautions taken while he was a prisoner,
and so have learnt something that might have been of value in the
investigations. Presently he lifted the telephone receiver and ordered a
taxicab from the all-night rank in Trafalgar Square. In a little while
he was being whirled homeward.
Not till midday next day did he arrive at the Yard. A slip of paper was
lying on his desk--the record of a telephone message from the
Southampton police. It read--
"Halford, Chief Constable, Southampton, to Foyle, C.I.D., London.
"Car No. A.A. 4796 belongs to Mr. J. Price, The Grange, Lyndhurst.
Mr. Price is an old resident in the neighbourhood and a man of
means. The car is a six-cylinder Napier."
"As I thought," commented Heldon Foyle thoughtfully, tearing the paper
into little bits and dropping them into the waste-paper basket. "The
number was a false one. They knew that Waverley would have a look at the
number. Oh, these people are cunning--cunning."
Green found him, half an hour later, hard at work with the collection of
typewritten sheets which formed the book of the case. Foyle was still
juggling with his jig-saw puzzle, trying to fit fresh facts in their
proper position to old facts.
"Well?" asked the superintendent abruptly.
Green read from a paper in his hand.
"Taylor, who is watching the Duke of Burghley's House in Berkeley
Square, has just telephoned that a woman who corresponds to the
description of Lola Rachael has just been admitted and is still there."
Into Foyle's alert eyes there shot a gleam of interest.
"You don't say so?" he muttered. And then, more alertly, "Is he still on
the telephone? If so, tell him to detain her should she come out before
I can get down. He must be as courteous as possible. We mustn't lose her
now. And send a man down at once to bring Wills, the butler at Grosvenor
Gardens, here. He's the only man who saw the veiled woman enter the
house on the night of the murder."