A grim smile flickered under Chief Inspector Green's grey moustache as
Heldon Foyle stepped briskly back into the room and closed the door. Ike
met a stare of the superintendent's cold blue eyes squarely.
"You've got the bulge on me this time, guv'nor," he admitted ruefully.
"I give you best. You're welcome to all I know--though that isn't much."
Now that he was near attaining his end, Foyle had to steer a delicate
course. The law very rightly insists that there shall be neither threat
nor promise held out to any person who is accused of a crime. From the
moment a police officer has made up his mind to arrest a man, he must
not directly or indirectly induce a person to say anything that might
prove his guilt--and a warning of the possible consequences is insisted
upon even when a statement is volunteered. Otherwise admissions or
evidence so obtained are ignored, and there is trouble for the police
officer who obtained them. That is one of the reasons why detective work
in England demands perhaps nicer skill than in most other countries.
Green had pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and adjusted a couple of
sheets of official foolscap. Foyle remained standing.
"Don't let's have any misunderstanding," he said. "We're not making any
promises except that the court will know you helped us in another case.
If you choose to keep quiet we can't do a thing to you."
"I know all about that," said Ike, with a little shrug of his
shoulders. "You know I wouldn't squeal in an ordinary job. I'm no Dutch
Freddy to give my pals away. I don't owe the chap anything who put me up
to this. What do you want first?"
"Tell us all about it your own way. Where did you get the keys of the
house?"
"Off that chap you raked in along of me. I was sitting in a little game
of faro at a joint in the Commercial Road about a week ago, when this
tough pulls me out and puts it up to me. I didn't much like it, but the
chink who runs the show told me he was straight, and he offered me
half----"
"You told Freddy you were only getting a third," interposed Green.
"Did I?" Ike grinned cunningly. "It must have been a slip of the tongue.
Anyway, I said I'd chip in for half or nothing. He pow-wowed a bit, but
at last he gave in. Funny thing about it was he wouldn't hear of keeping
an eye open on the day we brought the job off. Said I must get a pal.
Yet here he turns up as large as life all the time."
The prisoner had hit on a point which had puzzled Foyle for a time, but
light had already flashed upon him. In the ordinary course of things, a
robbery at Grosvenor Gardens by two known criminal characters would not
of necessity be associated with the murder. The third man was taking no
chances of being identified as an associate.
"Anyway, I took the job on, and he handed me over the twirls and a
lay-out of the house. He didn't tell me who was behind him. And I didn't
ask too many questions. He called himself Mr. Smith, and we met once or
twice at the ----" He named a public-house in Leman Street, Whitechapel.
"That's where I was to have met him to-night with the stuff. Now you
know all I know."
"Not quite," said Foyle quietly. "What's the address of this
gambling-joint where you first met him?"
Ike shook his head. "Oh, play the game, guv'nor. You aren't going to
have that raided after what I've done for you?"
"We'll see," evaded Foyle. "Where is it?"
Reluctantly, Ike gave the address. Green held out a pen to him and
pointed to the bottom of the foolscap.
"Read that through and sign it if it's all right."
The man appended a dashing signature, and with a cheerful "Good night,
Mr. Foyle," was ushered by a chief detective-inspector down to the
charge-room. Heldon Foyle rested his elbows on the table and remained in
deep thought, immobile as a statue. He roused himself with a start as
Green returned.
"Both charged," said the other laconically. "The other chap refuses to
give any account of himself. Refuses even to give a name. Seems to be a
Yankee. I had his finger-prints taken. There was nothing on him to
identify him."
"Yankee, eh?" repeated Foyle. "So is Grell. There won't be any one in
the finger-print department at this time of night. We'll go along and
have a search by ourselves, I think. If we've not got him there,
Pinkerton of the U. S. National Detective Agency is staying at the
Cecil. We'll get him to have a look over our man and say whether he
recognises him."
"Very good, sir. There's one other thing. When I searched this man I
found this. I don't know if you can make anything out of it. I can't."
He handed across an envelope already torn open, addressed to "The
Advertisement Dept., The _Daily Wire_." Within were two plain sheets of
notepaper and a postal order. On one was written: "Dear Sir, please
insert the enclosed advts. in the personal column of your next
issue.--John Jones." On the other were two advertisements--
"R.F. You are closely watched. Don't forget 2315. Don't forget
2315. G.
"E. £27.14.5. To-morrow. B."
"Very curious," commented Foyle. "Copy them out carefully and have 'em
sent to the paper. They can't do any harm. Now let's get along."
The fog hung heavy over a muffled world as they walked down Victoria
Street. Green, whose wits were a trifle less supple than those of his
chief when imagination was required, put a question. Foyle answered
absently. The mysterious advertisements were not altogether mysterious
to him. He recalled the cipher that had been found at Grave Street, and
decided that there was at least room for hope in that direction.
Besides, there was at least one man now in custody who knew something of
the mystery, and, even if he kept his lips locked indefinitely, there
was a probable chance of a new line of inquiry opening when his identity
was discovered. And even if finger-prints and Pinkerton failed to
resolve that, there was still the resource of the newspapers. With a
photograph scattered far and wide, the odds were in favour of some one
recognising its subject.
As Foyle switched on the lights in the finger-print department, Green
sat down at a table and with the aid of a magnifying-glass carefully
scrutinised the prints which he carried on a sheet of paper. Ranged on
one side of the room were high filing cabinets divided into
pigeon-holes, numbered from 1 to 1024. In them were contained hundreds
of thousands of finger-prints of those known to be criminals. It was for
the detectives to find if among them were any identical with those of
their prisoner.
The whole science of finger-prints for police purposes resolves itself
into the problem of classification. It would be an impossible task to
compare myriads of records each time. The system employed was absurdly
simple to put into execution. In five minutes Green had the
finger-prints of the two hands classified into "loops" and "whorls" and
had made a rough note.
"W.L.W.L.L.
"L.W.W.L.W."
That done, the remainder was purely a question of arithmetic. Each whorl
was given an arbitrary number according to its position. A whorl
occurring in the first pair counts 16 in the second, the third 4, the
fourth 2, and the fifth 1. Thus Green's effort became--
16--4---- 20
--------- = --
--8.4--1 13
The figure one was added to both numerator and denominator, and Green at
once went to the fourteenth pigeon-hole, in a row of the filing cabinet
numbered 21. There, if anywhere, he would find the record that he
sought. For awhile he was busy carefully looking through the collection.
"Here it is," he said at last and read: "Charles J. Condit. American.
No. 9781 Habitual Convicts' Registry."
"Put 'em back," said Foyle. "We'll find his record in the Registry."
The two detectives, uncertain as to where the regular staff kept the
files of the number they wanted, were some little time in searching. It
was Foyle who at last reached it from a top shelf and ran his eye over
it from the photograph pasted in the top left-hand corner to the meagre
details given below.
"This is our man right enough," he said. "American finger-prints and
photograph supplied by the New York people when he took a trip to this
country five years ago. Never convicted here. It says little about him.
We'll have to cable over to learn what they know."
"That gives us a chance for a remand," remarked Green.
"Exactly. And in the meantime he may tell us something. A prisoner gets
plenty of time for reflection when he's on remand."