Something of the chagrin caused to Heldon Foyle by the escape of the man
on the barge had vanished with the success of his operations in Smike
Street. If his frontal attack had failed, he had at least achieved
something by his flank movement. The break-up of the gambling-den, too,
was something. Altogether he felt that his injuries were a cheap price
to pay for what had been achieved.
In bare detail he related the sequence of events to Sir Hilary Thornton,
who, with a gloved hand jerking at his grey moustache, listened with
only an occasional observation.
The inevitable crowd of journalists, who had been warned by telephone
from their colleagues at Smike Street, were jumbled in a tiny, tiny
waiting-room when Foyle and his superior reached headquarters. The
superintendent, having changed his attire, made it his first business to
satisfy their clamorous demands by dictating a brief and discreet
account of the raid, to be typed and handed out to them, then with a
head that ached intolerably he forced himself to do some clear thinking.
With the dossier of the case before him, he read and re-read all that
had been gathered by his men and himself since that night when he had
been called from his sleep to find Harry Goldenburg dead. Was there some
point he had overlooked? He knew how fatal it was in the work of
criminal investigation to take anything for granted. Although the main
work of the explorer was now focused on Grell, it was not entirely
certain that he was the murderer. Indeed, strange as his proceedings had
been, there might be some explanation that would account for them. It
might be that after Grell was found the whole investigation would have
to begin again with the scent grown cold. Stranger things had happened.
The superintendent dropped his papers wearily into a drawer and turned
the key. His speculations were unprofitable. He turned over in his brain
his plans for running down Grell. Of the people who had been assisting
him to evade capture three were out of the way for the time being. Ivan
Abramovitch and Condit were safely under lock and key. The Princess
Petrovska was out of London, and there was a fair margin of assumption
that she was located somewhere in Liverpool, where the local police were
assisting the Scotland Yard men. It was hardly possible that she would
double back, even if she evaded their rigorous search. With the
detectives on duty at the London termini reinforced and on strict watch,
her chances of doing so were very slim.
With three of his friends out of touch, and hampered by want of money,
Grell would have to seek a fresh refuge. The chief result of Foyle's
actions had been to make any steps he might take more difficult. That
was all. It was still possible for him to dodge the pursuit.
The evening papers with the story of the raid were already upon the
streets. What would be the effect upon Grell's plans when he learned
that Ivan had been captured? In the case of an ordinary criminal, Heldon
Foyle might have forecasted what would happen with a fair degree of
certainty. But Grell was not an ordinary criminal, even if he were a
criminal at all. If he could gain a hint of the possible intentions of
the fugitive he might be able to meet them.
There was a vague chance that either Ivan Abramovitch or Condit might be
induced to volunteer a statement, although the possibility was remote.
In America or France there would have been ways of forcing them to
speak. In England it was impossible.
With a yawn Foyle relinquished his efforts, and his head dropped forward
on his desk. In a little he was fast asleep. He was roused by a light
touch on the shoulder. Green had returned.
"Hello!" said the superintendent. "I must have dozed off. How have you
got on?"
Green adjusted his long body to the comfort of an arm-chair. "We found
the Chinaman. He'd climbed through a trap-door on to the roof. We went
over the house with a tooth-comb, both before and after I'd had a little
talk with Keller. It seems that both he and his partner the Chinaman had
known the man for some time before they gave him a room. They're old
hands at the game and won't talk too much. He went out very
occasionally, and mostly at night. We found nothing bearing on the
murder, but plenty to show that Keller and his pal were running a pretty
hot shop."
"H'm! could you dig anything out of any of the others? There was the
door-keeper."
"No. Tight as oysters, all except those who don't know anything. Ivan
has a fit of the sulks. He's called in Mordix to help him fix up his
defence."
The superintendent was rubbing his chin. "Mordix isn't too scrupulous. I
think we'll hold over the charge of abduction for the time being until
we see how things look. Nobody hurt much, I suppose?"
The saturnine features of the inspector wrinkled into as near a grin as
they were capable of. "Some of them are rather sore, but the doctor
thinks they can all appear in court to-morrow."
Foyle stretched himself and rose. "Right. We won't worry any further
about it for the moment. I'm feeling that the best thing for me is a
good night's rest. You'd better go home and do the same. Good night."