by Frank Froest
‘Yes, I suppose so. What does the advertisement say?’
‘He couldn’t tell me on the ’phone. He had to hurry away to look after the woman. It is being sent up by taxicab.’
‘That’s good. By the way, Green, keep half-a-dozen men handy, and be about yourself.’
‘Very good, sir. Is there anything on?’
‘I don’t quite know. We may have to go out in a hurry. I’ll tell you after we have deciphered the advertisement.’
CHAPTER XXXI
IT was with an eagerness sternly suppressed that Heldon Foyle took from a messenger the note which he knew contained Grell’s advertisement. Although outwardly he was the least emotional of men, he always worked at high tension in the investigation of a case. No astronomer could discover a new comet, no scientist a new element with greater delight than that which animated the square-faced detective while he was working on a case.
He drew out the sheet of paper gingerly between his finger-nails, and tested it with graphite. Eight or nine finger-prints, some blurred, some plain, appeared black against the white surface, and he gave an ejaculation of annoyance.
‘The fools! I warned them to handle it carefully. Now they’ve been and mixed the whole lot up.’
He blew down one of the half-dozen speaking tubes hanging at the side of his desk, and gave a curt order. When Green appeared he was engrossed in copying the advertisement on to a writing-pad. He laid down his pen after a while.
‘That you, Green? Send this up to Grant, and ask him to have it photographed. See if he can pick out any of the prints as being in the records or bearing on the case. Somebody’s been pawing this all over, and the prints are probably spoilt. It’s been printed out, too, so there isn’t much chance of identifying the writing. Anyhow, we’ll have a look more closely at it when the finger-print people have done.’
He bent once more to his desk with the copy of the cipher. He knew the key, and it was not necessary to resort to an expert. By the time the chief inspector came back he had a neatly copied translation on his pad.
‘Listen to this, Green,’ he said.
‘“E. M. Am now safe on board a barge moored below Tower Bridge, where no one will think of looking for me. Have good friends but little money, owing to action of police. Trust, little girl, you still believe in my innocence, although things seem against me. There are reasons why I should not be questioned. Shall try to embark before the mast in some outward bound vessel. Crews will not be scrutinised so sharply as passengers. There are those who will let you know my movements. Fear the police may tamper with your correspondence, but later on when hue and cry has died down will let you know all.”’
The two detectives looked at each other.
‘A barge below Tower Bridge,’ repeated Green, with something like admiration. ‘That was a good shot. He might have stayed there till doomsday without our hitting on him, or anyone taking any notice of him.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Foyle. ‘A newcomer on the river would attract attention. These watermen know each other. There’s only one way that I can see in which he would avoid being talked about. He is a watchman.’
‘You’re right, sir,’ agreed the other emphatically. ‘This is a matter where Wrington of the Thames Division will be able to help us. Hope we can find him at Wapping. Shall I ring through?’
‘There’s no hurry for a minute or two,’ said Foyle. ‘Let’s get the hang of the thing right. There’s probably some hundreds of barges below Tower Bridge. It will be as well to keep a close eye on the docks and shipping offices. You see, he asserts his innocence.’
‘H’m,’ commented Green, with an intonation that meant much. ‘He says, too, that there are reasons why he shouldn’t be questioned.’
‘Well, we shall see. There had better be an all-station message about the docks. Send two or three men down to Tilbury to watch outgoing boats there. We shan’t need any other men from here. Wrington’s staff know the river, and will get on best with them. I don’t want to leave here until Blake lets us know more about the woman who left the advertisement. That gives us another possible clue.’
It was some time before Wrington, the divisional detective-inspector at the head of the detective staff of the Thames Division, could be found, for like other branches of the C.I.D. he and his men did their work systematically, and usually left their office at nine o’clock only to return at six. At length, however, he was found at a wharfinger’s office, where there had arisen some question of a missing case of condensed milk. Within half an hour he was at Scotland Yard.
A tall man with tired grey eyes, about the corners of which were tiny wrinkles, with a weather-beaten face and grey moustache, he aimed to look something like a riverside tradesman. There was a meekness in his manner and speech that deceived people who did not know his reputation. He spoke five languages fluently, and two more indifferently. Along the banks of the thirty-five-mile stretch of river for which he was responsible he had waged incessant warfare on thieves and receivers for thirty years, till now practically all serious crime had disappeared.
He it was who, a dozen years before, had fought hand to hand with a naked and greased river thief armed with a knife, in a swaying boat under Blackfriars Bridge; he, too, solved the mystery of a man found dead in the Thames who had been identified by a woman as her husband—a dare-devil adventurer and unscrupulous blackmailer, who was declared by a doctor and a coroner’s jury to have been murdered. Step by step he had traced it all out, from the moment when a seaman on a vessel moored at one of the wharves had taken a fancy to bathe, and being unable to swim had fastened a line round his waist and jumped overboard. He had neglected to make the end on board properly fast and was swept away by the current. The rope had twirled round him, and as the body swelled became fixed. A blow on the head from the propeller of a tug completed a maze of circumstantial evidence which might have served as an excuse to most men for giving up the problem. Yet Wrington had solved it, and the record, which had never seen the light of publicity, was hidden in the archives of the service.
This was the man Foyle had now called in. He stood, with stooping shoulders, nervously twisting his shabby hat, apparently ill at ease. His nervousness dropped from him like a garment, however, when he spoke. Foyle made clear to him the purport of the excursion they were to embark on.
‘Very good, sir,’ he said. ‘If you think the man you want is on the river, we will find him. I guess, as you say, he’s got a job as a watchman. He’s probably had to get somebody to buy a barge, for they don’t give these jobs without some kind of reference.’
‘A reference could easily have been forged. But that doesn’t matter. How soon can you get your men together?’
‘An hour—perhaps two. They’re scattered all over the place. I sent out to fetch ’em before I left Wapping.’
‘Three or four will be enough. With Green and yourself and myself we should be able to tackle anything. Have a launch and a motor-boat at Westminster Bridge Pier in a couple of hours’ time. If you can borrow them off someone, so that they don’t look like police craft, so much the better.’
‘I can do it, sir.’
‘Good. In two hours’ time, then.’
And Heldon Foyle turned away, dismissing the subject from his mind. Green had gone upstairs to find how Grant of the Finger-print Department had progressed in his scrutiny of the finger-prints on the advertisement. He found his specialist colleague with a big enlargement of the paper on which the advertisement had been written mounted on paste-board, and propped up in front of him, side by side with an enlargement of the prints found on the dagger.
‘Any luck?’ asked Green.
Grant shifted his magnifying glass to another angle and grunted.
‘Can’t tell yet,’ he said irritably. ‘I’ve only just started. Go away.’
‘Sorry I spoke, old chap,’ said the other. ‘Don’t shoot; I’m going.’
Grant rested his chin on one elbow and stared sourly at the intruder
.
‘Great heavens!’ he said. ‘Isn’t it enough to have two of my men ill when there are four hundred prints to classify, to have three newspaper reporters and a party of American sociological researchers down on me in one day, without—’
But Green had fled to the more tranquil quarters on the first floor.
‘Mr Foyle asking for you, sir,’ said the clerk.
He pulled open the door of the superintendent’s room. Foyle had got his hat and coat on.
‘Blake’s wired that the woman has taken a ticket for Liverpool,’ he said. ‘He’s gone on the same train. Now that’s settled, let’s see if we can’t hurry Wrington up.’
CHAPTER XXXII
IN the corner of the first-class carriage farthest away from the platform, the Princess Petrovska sat with her hands on her lap and a rug round her knees, glancing idly from under her long eyelashes at the people thronging the Euston departure platform. Her eyes rested incuriously now and again upon a couple of men who stood in conversation by a pile of luggage some distance away, but within eyeshot of the compartment.
She had some vague recollection of having seen one of the men before, and though she remained apparently languidly interested in the business of the platform, she was racking her brains to think who he was or where she had seen him. It was recently, she was certain. Suddenly she leaned forward, and her smooth brow contracted in a frown. Yes—she was nearly certain. He had an overcoat and a silk hat on now, but when she last saw him he had been a bare-headed, frock-coated clerk in the advertisement office of the Daily Wire. The frown disappeared and she dropped back. But behind the placid face an alert brain was working. Had the man followed her, or was it a mere coincidence? Was he a detective? With an effort of will she stilled the apprehension in her breast. Her confidence reasserted itself. Even if he were a detective, what had she to fear? She had merely delivered a cipher advertisement over the counter. It was unlikely that it would be read by others than the person for whom it was intended. Even if it were, there was nothing in it to incriminate her.
Her lips parted in a contemptuous smile.
‘I don’t believe he is a detective at all,’ she murmured.
All doubts on the subject, however, were set at rest as the express began to glide out of the station. As though taken unawares by its departure, the man hastily shook hands with his friend and sprinted for the train, swinging himself into the woman’s compartment with a gasp of relief.
‘Phew,’ he said. ‘A narrow shave that,’ and then, as if realising the sex of his companion, ‘I—I beg your pardon. I hope the carriage is not reserved. If so, I will change.’
She smiled winningly at him.
‘No, don’t disturb yourself, I beg. It would be a pity after all the trouble you have taken—to catch the train.’
Detective-Inspector Blake was not by any means dull. His immobile features gave no sign that he was half inclined to believe the woman was gibing him. ‘Now, what the devil does she mean by that?’ he said, under his breath. He bowed in acknowledgment of her courtesy, and drawing a paper from his pocket unfolded it.
‘And how is the charming Mr Foyle?’ said the Princess, speaking with a soft drawl. ‘I do hope he is still well.’
This time Blake was taken unawares. He dropped the paper as though it were red-hot, and the woman laughed. A moment later he was ashamed of himself. She had trapped him into a tacit admission that he was a detective. A surprised denial of acquaintance with Mr Foyle might have ended in an apology on her part for a mistake. Well, it was too late now.
‘So you are a colleague of Mr Foyle’s?’ she went on, and though her voice was soft there was a trace of mockery in it. ‘He is charmingly considerate to send you to look after me. I was desolated to think that I should have to take such a long journey by myself.’
‘The pleasure is mine,’ said Blake, falling in quickly with the atmosphere she had set. Nevertheless, he was not quite easy. He recalled the troubles that had beset Waverley, and half regretted that he had not brought his companion on the train with him.
‘Smoke, if you like,’ she said, with a gracious wave of her hand. ‘I know you are dying to do so. Then we can talk. Do you know, I have long wished to have a talk with a real detective. Your work must be so fascinating.’
He took a cigarette case slowly from his pocket, and dangled it in his hand. He had never before seen the Princess, but he was certain of her identity.
‘Indeed,’ he said grimly. ‘I thought you had met Mr Foyle. In fact, I believe that he afforded you some opportunity of seeing a portion of the workings of our police system. Do you smoke? May I offer you a cigarette?’
She selected one daintily.
‘Thank you. But that was different. I don’t think it quite nice of you to refer to it. It was all a mistake. Mr Foyle will tell you so, if you ask him. Do detectives often make mistakes?’
Her air of refreshing innocence tickled Blake. He laughed.
‘Sometimes,’ he admitted. ‘I made a mistake just now in coming on this train alone.’
She laughed musically in pure amusement.
‘I believe the man is afraid of me,’ she said, addressing the ceiling. Then more directly, ‘Why, what harm could a poor creature like myself do to a great stalwart man like you? I should have thought you’d greater sense.’
‘Common sense is my strong point,’ he parried.
‘And therefore you are afraid,’ she laughed. ‘Come—Mr—Mr—’
‘Smith—John Smith.’
‘Mr John Smith, then. It’s a good English name. I shan’t do you any harm. But if you like to lose sight of me when we reach Liverpool—’
‘Well?’
‘It would be worth £50 to you.’
He shook his head. ‘I am afraid, Princess, you have a very poor opinion of the London police. Besides, I told you just now that common sense was my strong point.’
She shrugged her shoulders for answer. The train droned on. They had lunch together and chatted on like old friends. It was when they had returned to their own compartment, and the train was nearing Liverpool, that Blake found his cigarettes had run short. The Princess produced a daintily-jewelled enamelled case.
‘Won’t you try one of mine?’ she asked. ‘That is, if you care for Egyptian.’
He took one. What harm would there be in a cigarette? Yet, in half an hour’s time, when the train slowed into Lime Street Station, the Princess descended to the platform alone. In his corner of the compartment Blake slumbered stertorously.
CHAPTER XXXIII
HELDON FOYLE and Chief Inspector Green paced to and fro along Westminster Pier watching a couple of motor-boats as they swung across the eddies to meet them. A bitter wind had chopped the incoming tide into a quite respectable imitation of a rough sea. There were three men in each boat. Wrington at the tiller in one, Jones, his lieutenant, steering the other.
‘It’s going to be a cold job,’ commented Foyle, as he turned up his coat collar and stamped heavily on the frosty boards.
‘Ay,’ agreed Green. Then, without moving his head: ‘There’s that chap Jerrold of the Wire behind us. Has he got any idea of what we’re on?’
Foyle wheeled sharply, and confronted a thin-faced, sallow-complexioned man with a wisp of black hair creeping from under his hat, and with sharp, penetrating, humorous eyes. Jerrold was one of the most resourceful of the ‘crime investigators’ of Fleet Street, and, while he had often helped the police, he could be a dangerous ally at times. He started with well-affected surprise as Foyle greeted him.
‘Well, I never! How are you, Mr Foyle? And you, Mr Green? What are you doing down here?’
‘For the matter of that, what are you doing?’ asked the superintendent, who had made a shrewd guess that he and his companion had been seen from the Embankment, and that Jerrold, scenting something afoot, had descended to wait an opportunity. But Jerrold was ready.
‘Me?’ he retorted. ‘Oh, I’m writing a story about Westminster Bridge. C
racks have developed in the pier. Is it safe? You know the kind of thing.’
‘Yes, I know,’ agreed Foyle, with a smile and a glance at the waiting boats. ‘Well, it’s nice weather. Green and I are just going off with Wrington. There’s some question of increasing the river staff, and we’ve got to go into it.’
Jerrold nodded as gravely as though he quite accepted the explanation. In fact, Foyle, shrewd as he was, could not feel certain that he had. The journalist took a casual glance about the wide stretch of water, and with an unconscious gesture that had become habitual with him flung back the lock of hair that dangled over his right eyebrow.
‘Got a minute to spare?’ he asked. ‘A rather quaint thing happened at our office. You know they’re excavating the foundations for a big hotel in Piccadilly? Well, on Monday a couple of burly navvies, carrying a big paper parcel, came up to the Wire office and Brashton saw them.
‘“Me an’ my mate ’ere,’ says the spokesman, “’ave been employed on those works in Piccadilly, and we made an interesting discovery today. Seeing as the Wire is an enterprising paper an’ pays for news, we thought as ’ow we’d come along.’
‘“Always glad to pay for information if we use it,” says Brashton.
‘“We’ll leave it to you,” says the spokesman, undoing the parcel. “Look at this.”
‘Inside the wrappings was a battered but full-sized human skeleton. Brashton was a bit staggered, but put a few more questions to the men, and they went away. He forgot all about the skeleton till M’Gregor, the news editor, happened in. Mac’s hair stood on end, and he pointed at the skeleton with a long forefinger.
‘“What’s that?” he demanded.
‘Brashton looked up from some copy he was writing. “That,” he said calmly. “Oh, that’s not necessarily for publication; it’s just a guarantee of good faith.” And he explained.