Half a dozen men had rushed into the room at the noise of the struggle, and strove vainly to tear the Russian from his hold. But he hung on with the tenacity of a mastiff. There was a ringing in Foyle’s ear and a red blur before his eyes. With a superhuman effort he got his elbow under the Russian’s chin and pressed it back sharply.
The grip relaxed ever so slightly, but it was enough. Instantly Foyle had wrested himself free, and Ivan was pinioned to the floor by the others.
‘Handcuffs,’ said the superintendent sharply.
Someone got a pair on the prisoner’s wrists, and he was jerked none too gently to his feet. A couple of men still held him. At a word from Foyle the others had gone about their business, with the exception of Norman. The superintendent flicked the dust from his clothes, and picked something, which had fallen during the struggle, from the floor.
‘You admit you are Ivan, then?’ he said quietly.
The Russian showed his teeth in a beast-like snarl.
‘Yes, I am Ivan,’ he said. ‘Make what you can of that, but you cannot have me hanged for the murder of Mr Grell—and you know why.’
‘Because Mr Grell is not dead,’ retorted the detective smoothly. ‘Yes, I know that.’
He counted the rough-and-tumble but little against the fact that the Russian had now admitted that he knew it was not Grell’s body that had been found in the study. Here was a starting-point at last.
‘What I want now,’ he went on slowly, ‘is an explanation of how you came to have possession of these.’
He held up the thing he had picked from the floor. It was a case of blue Morocco leather, and as he opened it a magnificent string of pearls showed startlingly white against a dark background.
‘These pearls were bought at Streeters’ by Mr Grell as a wedding present to Lady Eileen Meredith,’ he said. ‘How do they come in your possession?’
‘They were given to me by Mr Grell,’ cried Ivan. The fierce passion that had made him attack Foyle on the hint of arrest seemed to have melted away.
Heldon Foyle’s mask of a face showed no sign of the incredulity he felt. He made no comment, but ran his hands swiftly through the Russian’s pockets, piling money, keys, watch, and other articles in a little heap on the table. Beyond a single letter there were no documents on the man. He scanned the missive quickly. It was an ordinary commonplace note from a jeweller in Paris, addressed to Ivan Abramovitch. This he placed aside.
‘May as well have his finger-prints,’ he said, and one of the officers present pressed Ivan’s hands on a piece of inky tin, and then on a piece of paper. The superintendent glanced casually at the impression.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Take those handcuffs off. You may go, Mr Abramovitch.’
The Russian stood motionless, as though not understanding. Foyle wheeled about as though the whole matter had been dismissed from his mind, and caught Norman by the sleeve.
‘Drop everything,’ he said in a curt whisper. ‘Take a couple of men and don’t let that man out of your sight for an instant. I’ll have you relieved from the Yard in an hour’s time.’
‘Aren’t you going to charge him, sir?’ asked the other in astonishment.
‘Not likely,’ said Foyle, with a laugh.
HELDON FOYLE walked thoughtfully back to Scotland Yard, satisfied that the shadowing of Ivan Abramovitch was in competent hands. With the strong man’s confidence in himself, he had no fears as to his decision to release the man. He was beginning to have a shadowy idea of the relation of pieces in his jig-saw puzzle. Ivan, he knew, ought to have been arrested if only for failing to give a satisfactory account of his possession of the pearl necklace. But the superintendent had, as he mentally phrased it, ‘tied a string to him,’ and it would not be his fault if nothing resulted.
It was well after midnight before he had finished his work at Scotland Yard. He had had a long interview with the Garden of Eden, in which promises were adroitly mingled with threats. In the result the ‘bunco-steerer’ had promised to keep his eyes and ears alert for news of anyone resembling Goldenburg. There was a string of other callers who had been discreetly sorted out by the superintendent’s diplomatic lieutenants. Finally, he pulled out the book which dealt with the case, and with the aid of a typist added several more chapters. With a sigh of relief, he at last sauntered out into the cool, fresh midnight air.
Nine o’clock next morning saw him again in his office. Sir Hilary Thornton was his first caller. Foyle put aside his reports at his chief’s opening question.
‘Yes, we’ve taken every human precaution to preserve secrecy,’ he replied. ‘Everyone who knows that it is not Grell’s body in the house has been pledged to hold his tongue. I have managed to get the inquest put back for three days, so that there will be no evidence of identification till then. That gives us a chance. And I’ve made out a confidential report to be sent to the Foreign Office, so that Grell’s Government shan’t get restive. Here are the latest reports, sir.’
The Assistant Commissioner bent over the sheaf of typewritten documents for a little in complete absorption. As he came to the last sheet he gave a start of surprise.
‘So you let this man Ivan go? Do you think that wise?’
‘I’m fishing,’ answered Foyle enigmatically. ‘I couldn’t have better bait than Ivan. There are three men sticking to him like limpets now, and a couple are keeping an eye on Sir Ralph Fairfield. I think that will be all right. Do you remember the Mighton Grange case? We knew there had been a murder, but couldn’t do anything till we found the body. Dutful, the murderer, would have slid off to some place where there’s no extradition, but for the fact that I had him arrested on a charge of being in the unlawful possession of a pickaxe handle. This affair is the converse of that. We can’t afford to have Ivan under lock and key.’
Sir Hilary Thornton bit his lip and looked steadfastly at the scarlet geranium on the window-sill, as though in search of enlightenment.
‘I believe I see,’ he exclaimed after a pause. ‘Ivan must have been something more than a valet. He’s a superior type of man, and the conclusion to be drawn if he knows that Grell is alive—’
‘Precisely,’ interrupted the superintendent.
‘Any result from the offer of a reward for Goldenburg?’
A flicker of amusement dwelt in Heldon Foyle’s blue eyes. ‘Yes. He has been seen by different people within an hour or two of each other in Glasgow, Southampton, Gloucester, Cherbourg, Plymouth, and Cardiff. Our information on that point is not precisely helpful. Of course, we’ve got the local police making inquiries in each case, but I don’t anticipate they will find out much. Still, it will keep ’em amused.’
The necessity of a conference broke up further conversation. Gathered in the building were some thirty or forty departmental chiefs of the C.I.D., the picked men of their profession. Most of them were divisional detective inspectors who were in charge of districts, and some few were men who had special duties. They were ranged about tables in a lofty room, its green distempered walls hung with stiff photographs of living and retired officials. Men of all types were there, from the spruce, smartly groomed detectives of the West End to the burly, ill-dressed detectives of the East. Between them they spoke every known language. Here was Penny, who had specialised in forgeries; Brown, who knew every trick of coiners; Malby, the terror of race-course sharps; Menzies, who had as keen a scent for the gambling hell as a hound for a fox; Poole, who was intimate with the ways of railway thieves and shoplifters. Not one but thoroughly understood his profession, and knew where to look for his information.
Foyle