The motive of the actions taken that day by Eileen Meredith had been
accurately diagnosed by Heldon Foyle. She had returned to her home after
her visit to the police at Waterloo Bridge in a state of the keenest
uncertainty. Not for an instant did she credit the paragraph referring
to the dead body. The police had been able to read the cipher message
from Grell, and she assumed correctly enough that they had been more
successful than herself in obtaining an early glimpse of the
advertisement. What, then, had become of her note of warning?
She was half reclining in a big easy-chair, her arms resting on the
broad ledges, her fists tightly clenched. Her train of thought led her
to alarming conclusions. If the police had been watching--and that now
occurred to her as having been an obvious step--they must not only have
seen her note, but they might have secured and questioned the person who
brought the advertisement. And if so, might not Robert Grell's
hiding-place have been betrayed? Her heartbeats became unsteady. What if
the visit of the detectives down the river had been not to identify a
drowned corpse, but a living prisoner? Suppose Grell were already in
their hands?
She jumped to her feet. The watch on her wrist spoke to quarter to
eleven. Her reflections had occupied many hours. She was already dressed
in a brown walking costume, and she had not even removed her hat since
she returned. In answer to her summons a maid appeared with a cup of
coffee and a couple of biscuits on a tray. That reminded her that she
had not eaten since she had risen. She drank the coffee and ate the
biscuits, while waiting for the brougham she had ordered. Within a
quarter of an hour she was on her way to Scotland Yard.
In the circular hall, entered through swing-doors from the wide steps of
the main entrance, a uniformed policeman hurried forward to take her
card. Through the big windows she could see beneath her the surging life
of the Embankment and the smooth traffic of the river. Had the river
given up its secret? The constable returned, and she was ushered along a
grey and green corridor to Foyle's room. He had his overcoat on, and his
hat and stick lay on the table. He smiled a polite welcome at her, and
she strove to read his genial face without success. For her there was
something of humiliation in the situation. She, who had taken pains to
be offensive on the last occasion that they had met, was now dependent
upon his good-nature for the information she wanted.
"What can I do for you, Lady Eileen?" he asked with grave courtesy.
She had dropped into a chair and her grey eyes met his, half defiant,
half entreating. She answered with quick directness--
"You can tell me what has happened to Mr. Grell."
He opened his hands in a gesture of surprised expostulation. "My dear
young lady! I only wish we knew."
Her foot tattooed impatiently on the floor. "Please don't treat me as if
I were a child, Mr. Foyle. Something has happened since yesterday
morning. I demand to know what it is."
Foyle was invariably gentle with women, and her insistent dignity rather
amused than angered him. "Since you demand it," he said suavely, laying
a scarcely perceptible stress on the word demand, "I will tell you. As
the result of certain information, observation has been kept on Lady
Eileen Meredith. She was followed yesterday to the advertisement offices
of the _Daily Wire_, where she made inquiries respecting a certain
cipher advertisement which was to appear in that paper. Failing to
obtain what she wanted, she left a note warning some one in the
following terms: 'The police know the cipher. Be very cautious. R. F. is
acting with them.'"
An angry flush swept across the girl's pale cheeks. "I know you have set
your spies about me," she said scornfully. "I did not come here to ask
you that. What----"
"One moment. Let me finish. This morning Lady Eileen rose at an
unfashionable hour--about four, to be exact--and went out to obtain a
copy of the _Daily Wire_. Having deciphered the advertisement, and
finding that it afforded no direct clue to Grell's whereabouts, she
returned home and there came across a paragraph--which I will confess
was inspired in this office--that set her wondering whether, after all,
her lover was safe. She went out again--this time to Waterloo Bridge
police station--and there made some inquiries----"
Eileen had got to her feet. She was plainly angry. "I don't want to know
how effective your spying on a harmless woman can be."
"I am glad you admit it is effective," he answered quickly. "I wanted to
bring that home to you. You cannot or will not understand in how
perilous a situation you may find yourself if you go on playing with
fire. There is no one else who has fuller sympathy with you or greater
understanding of your feelings than I. Therefore I warn you. Do you know
that merely on what you have done and are doing I should, were I certain
that Grell was guilty, be justified in having you arrested as an
accessory after the fact?" His voice became very grave. "If your conduct
has not hampered this investigation, Lady Eileen, it has not been for
want of effort. Take the warning of a man who wishes you well. For
neither your position nor your friends will save you if ever you stand
in my way. I shall do my duty, whatever the consequences."
She was more impressed by his words and his tone than she would have
cared to admit. But except that her face became a shade paler, she gave
no indication that the warning touched her. Foyle had picked up his hat
and stick.
"You have not found him, then?" she cried. "Can it be doing you any harm
to say what has happened?"
"We have not found Grell--yet," he answered. "We found where he had been
hiding, but he got away."
A sigh of relief came from between her lips. She scarcely noticed the
abruptness with which he ended the interview, and returned his bow
almost with cordiality. Foyle only stayed long enough to thrust a few
papers into the safe, and then followed her out. Two resounding smacks
called his attention to the landing of the private stairs, where Chief
Detective-Inspector Green was struggling in the embrace of a stout,
matronly woman, while a half-suppressed snigger came from a passing
clerk.
Green, his solemn face crimson, pushed the woman gently away from him
towards a girl and a young man who were apparently waiting for her.
"There, there; that will do. Let us know if everything does all right.
Won't keep you a moment, sir," and he disappeared along the corridor.
When he returned he had recovered something of his usual impassivity.
But he could not be oblivious to the twinkle in Foyle's eyes. "Women are
the very devil," he said as if in answer. "There's no knowing what
they'll do. Now, the young girl there wanted to run away with a man of
fifty, who is already a married man. So her mother--the old lady you saw
kissing me--brought her up here, evidently under the impression that we
can do anything. I took the girl into my room and gave her some good
advice, telling her she had much better marry the young man you
saw--they had been engaged, and quarrelled--and I told of some cases
like her own that had come under my own knowledge. She wept a bit,
admitted I was right, and then suddenly flung herself on top of me and
started hugging and kissing me. I got her outside, told her mother that
the matter was all right, when I'm blessed if she didn't try it on too.
That was just as you came out. You may have noticed that I side-stepped
warily round the young man."
"Be careful, Green. Is she a widow?" laughed Foyle. And then, more
seriously: "How far is it to this place? Our man may be out when we get
there."
"Shall we leave it till to-night, sir? It will be more certain then."
"No, we'll chance it. Let's have a look at the letter." He fished a note
out of his pocket and paused to read it through, carefully replacing it
in its envelope as he finished.
It was the letter that had been addressed to Floyd on the barge "Flowery
Land." It read--
"DEAR MR. FLOYD,--I have tried to carry out your instructions, but
luck has been against me, as I have to be very careful. It has been
easy enough to buy the seamen's discharges that you require, but I
have been unable to see Lola since she took the advertisement
to-day, so do not know if she has managed to raise money. I believe
I am fairly safe here, and my friends are to be relied upon, though
they are much occupied with the gambling and the smoke, so there is
not much quietness. If you write, address me as Mackirty, 146 Smike
Street, Shadwell."
It had needed little penetration to identify the writer of the note as
Ivan, and to guess that he had taken refuge in a gambling and opium den.
Indeed, this latter fact was soon verified by a telephone appeal to the
detective-inspector in charge of the district, who declared that he was
only waiting for sufficient proof of the character of the house before
making a raid. Foyle had promptly ordered the place to be discreetly
surrounded, but that no steps were to be taken until his arrival. He had
conceived an admiration for Ivan's cunning in the matter, for there was
no place where a fugitive could be more certain of having the intrusion
of strangers more carefully guarded against than a gambling-house.
He was willing to forego a conviction against the keepers of the place
rather than miss an opportunity of securing Ivan. For cautious steps are
always necessary in proceeding against such places. It is so easy to
transform a game of baccarat, faro, or fantan into an innocent game of
bridge or whist with a few innocent spectators, and to hide all gambling
instruments between the time the police knock and the time they effect
an entry. Then, however positive the officers may be, they have no legal
proof, unless one of their number has been previously introduced as a
"punter," and to do that would require time.
Smike Street at one time had been a street of some pretensions. Even
now, in comparison with the neighbourhood in which it was set, it
maintained an air of genteel respectability, and its gloomy
three-storeyed houses had in many cases no more than one family to a
floor. It was, however, one of those back streets of the East End which
are never deserted, for its adult inhabitants plied trades which took
them abroad at all hours--market porters, street hawkers, factory
workers, dock labourers, seamen, all trades jostled here. One or two of
the houses bore a sign, "Hotel for Men Only."
It was at the corner that Foyle and Green were joined by the divisional
detective-inspector, and the three swung into the deserted saloon bar of
a shabby public-house which afforded a better opportunity for
unobtrusive conversation than the street. Leaving the glass of ale he
ordered untouched upon the counter, the superintendent rapidly learned
all steps that had been taken.
"It's a corner house on this side," said the local man, "kept by an old
scoundrel of a Chinaman calling himself Li Foo, and a man who was a bit
of a bruiser in San Francisco at one time--a chap called Keller. He
looks after the faro game in a back room on the first floor, while the
chink runs the black smoke upstairs on the stop storey. They're the
bosses, but there's three under-dogs, and the place is kept going night
and day."
Foyle grunted. "How long have you known this? Couldn't you have dropped
on 'em before?"
The other made a deprecatory gesture with his hands. "They're cunning.
The show had been running three months before we got wind of it. That
was about a month ago, and we've tried every trick in the bag to get one
of our men inside. There's no chance of rushing the place on a warrant
either, because both front and back doors are double, and only one man
is allowed to go in at a time. They won't open to two or more. Before we
could get the doors down there'd not be a thing left in the place as
evidence."
A gleam of temper showed in Foyle's blue eyes. "That's all very well,
Mr. Penny. It won't do to tell me that you've known of this place for a
month and that it is still carried on. Why didn't you let a man try
single-handed? With the door once open he could force his way in."
"I couldn't send a man on a job like that," protested the other. "Why,
you don't know the place. They'd murder him before we could get at him."
He flinched away from Foyle as though afraid his superior would strike
him. For the superintendent's hands were clenched and his eyes were
blazing. Yet when he spoke it was with dangerous quietness.
"A man of your experience ought to know by now that it's his business to
take risks. If you'd made up your mind there was no other way of
obtaining evidence you should have sent a man in. Never mind that now.
Take your orders from Mr. Green for the day. Green, I'll be back in an
hour. I'm going into that place. Act according to your own discretion if
you think I'm in difficulties."