The compact between Heldon Foyle and Sir Ralph Fairfield had begun to
bear fruit. For three days an advertisement had appeared in the personal
column of the _Daily Wire_--
"Will R. G. communicate with R. F. Very anxious."
Much thought had gone to the wording of the line. If Grell or any of his
companions noticed it, Foyle felt certain that in some way or other an
attempt would be made to get in touch with the baronet. He was fairly
confident that the missing man needed money. He would probably not
question how Fairfield knew that he was alive. If he rose to the bait
there would be a catch of some sort. Whether Grell was the murderer or
not, he held the key to the heart of the mystery. The superintendent
emphasised this in a talk with Fairfield.
"It's a fair ruse. We're pretty certain he's hiding somewhere in London,
and it's a big field unless we've got a starting-point. That's our
trouble--finding a starting-point. In detective stories the hero always
hits on it unerringly at once. There was one yarn in which the scratches
on the back of a watch gave the clue to the temperament and history of
its possessor. Now, that watch might have been borrowed or bought
second-hand, or lost and restored at some time, and the marks made by
any one but its owner. That kind of subtlety is all right in print, but
in real life it would put you on a false track in nineteen out of twenty
cases. In ninety cases out of a hundred the obvious solution is the
right one. In an investigation there may be coincidences of
circumstantial evidence pointing in the wrong direction. But when you
get first one coincidence, then a second, a third, and a fourth, you can
be fairly sure you're on the right track. You don't add proof together.
You multiply it. See here."
He drew a piece of paper towards him and rapidly scribbled upon it.
One coincidence ..... = 0
Two coincidences .... = 2
Three coincidences ... = 6
Four coincidences ... = 24
Five coincidences ... = 120
"That's the kind of thing in terms of arithmetic. Now look at the parts
in relation to each other. Grell leaves the club and gets you to lie
about his absence. Coincidence number one. A man astonishingly like him
is murdered in his study a short time afterwards. Coincidence number
two. He is apparently dressed in Grell's clothes and has Grell's
belongings in his pockets. Coincidence number three. Both Grell and his
valet, Ivan Abramovitch, disappear. Coincidence number four. Ivan is
found with the pearl necklace on him. Coincidence number five. Grell
writes you a note, which I stole from you. Coincidence number six. You
follow me? I could go on with other proofs. Grell _must_ know who
committed this murder, and if we get hold of him we shall know."
"I see the point," confessed Fairfield. "All the same, I don't believe,
even if he knows as you say, that he had a hand in it. This may be the
hundreth case, you know, and there may be some satisfactory explanation
of his actions."
"I quite agree. Even cumulative proof may be destroyed. I can guess what
you are half thinking. You believe that I've fastened my suspicions on
Grell, and that I'm determined to go through with it right or wrong.
That's a common mistake people fall into in regard to police functions.
In fact, it doesn't matter a bit to a police official whether he gets a
conviction or not--unless, of course, he neglects an important piece of
proof through gross carelessness. All he has to do is to solve a problem
and to place his answer before a magistrate, and then a judge and jury
to decide whether he's right or wrong. No one but a fool would attempt
to bolster up a wrong answer. In this case, too, you must remember that
there are finger-prints. They cannot lie. If we get the right man--Grell
or any one else--there will be no question of doubt."
Fairfield tapped a cigarette on the back of his left hand and rose.
"Well, even if you do draw Grell with that advertisement, I doubt if
you'll get anything from him if he doesn't want to talk. I know the man,
and he's hard to beat out of any decision that he makes up his mind to,
as hard"--he bowed smilingly to the detective--"as you would be."
"Thank you. If it were a question of Grell against Foyle I might have to
go under. But it isn't. Behind me is the C.I.D., behind that the whole
force, behind that the Home Secretary, and behind him the State. So you
see the odds are on my side."
A jerky buzz at the telephone behind the superintendent's desk
interrupted any reply that Fairfield might have made. With a muttered
"Good-day" the baronet moved across the carpeted floor out of the room.
As he closed the door Foyle put the receiver to his ear.
"Hello! Hello!... Yes, this is Foyle speaking. Oh yes, I know.... No,
you'd better not tell me over the telephone. You can't come here.
Somebody who knows you might see you.... Is it important?... All right.
You'd better come to Lyon's tea-place in the Strand--the one nearest
Trafalgar Square. I'll get Mr. Green to go along and have a talk with
you. Good-bye."
Rubbing his hands together thoughtfully, the superintendent sent for
Green. In a few moments the big figure of the chief inspector loomed in
the doorway.
"Dutch Fred thinks he's got hold of something," opened Foyle abruptly.
"I've told him to meet you at Lyon's in the Strand. I think he's all
right, but don't let him have any money until you've tested his yarn."
"Very good, sir," said Green. "I'll look into it."
As he left Foyle bent over his desk and, with the concentration that was
one of his distinguishing traits, busied himself in a series of reports
on a coining raid in Kensington, sent up to him by those concerned for
his perusal. He had a theory that the efficiency of the battalion of
detectives under him was not lessened by making his men tell him exactly
how they were performing their work, both verbally and in writing. "You
may have brains, you may have intuition, you may have courage, but
you'll never make a good detective without system," he sometimes told
young officers when they joined the staff of the C.I.D. There were
things, of course, that could not be put in writing, but Foyle never
invited his subordinates to act against the law. Such things have to be
done at a man's own discretion without official sanction.
It was less than an hour when the chief inspector returned, portentously
grave.
"Well?" demanded Foyle.
"The real goods," said Green, who was obviously feeling pleased with
himself. "Your long shot has come off. They're falling short of money,
for they've put Red Ike up to break into Grell's house and steal all the
stuff in sight. Ike has asked Fred to give him a hand."
A low whistle came from Foyle's lips. Why hadn't he thought of this?
Discreetly done, with the help of a confederate--and apparently Grell
had no lack of confederates--it would get over the money difficulty
quite simply.
"Sit down, Green. Let's hear all about it," he said, diving into his
pocket for the inevitable cigar.
"It's all fixed up. Ike walks into the place with Grell's keys at eight
o'clock to-night, while Freddy keeps watch outside----"
"And some one keeps an eye on Freddy, if I'm any judge. Go on. Who put
Ike up to it?"
"He won't say. He's as tight as a drum about all that, according to
Freddy. When we arrest him we must get something out of him."
"I don't know," said Foyle slowly. "Ike's a queer bird. Dutch Fred will
need to look after himself if ever he knows who gave the game away. Well
now, let's fix up things. Is any one keeping an eye on the place for
Ike?"
"Freddy's supposed to be there."
"And I guess that they've found out that Lomont and Wills will be out of
the house to-night. You might find out for sure, Green. 'Phone Lomont,
but don't stop 'em if they've made arrangements. It would simplify
matters if we could get one or two of our own men in the house. We
daren't do that, though."
"Why not? If Freddy's keeping watch----"
"That's all right. It isn't Freddy I'm afraid of. There'll be some one
else there. The people who put this game up are not going to trust a
couple of crooks entirely. I think I'll take a stroll out that way
myself about seven o'clock. We'd better have the place surrounded. I'll
send for a section map of that part."
A clerk brought the map, and Foyle's fingers described a wide, irregular
circle, now and again halting at one spot where he wished a man to be
placed.
"That ought to do," said the superintendent when Green had finished
taking a note of the various points. "Pick out some good men, though I
don't suppose they will have much to do. It's only a measure of
precaution. You'd better be on hand yourself about half-past seven. If
all goes well we shall get bigger game than Ike."