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Updated: June 18, 2025
A big saucepan was continually simmering on the fire, so that the implements could be dropped in it at a second's notice. But Heldon Foyle had hopes. At the worst he could only fail. He returned to Scotland Yard and shut himself up for twenty minutes in the make-up room. When he reached Smike Street again he was no longer the spruce, upright, well-dressed official.
To resign had seemed extreme; because, though the Commissioner was vexed at Halbeck's escape, Foyle was the best non-commissioned officer in the Force. He had frightened horse thieves and bogus land-agents and speculators out of the country; had fearlessly tracked down a criminal or a band of criminals when the odds were heavy against him.
"I don't think it will much matter what is revealed then." The Assistant Commissioner came to a halt. "You're not a man to be over-confident, Foyle," he explained. "Do you feel pretty certain of having Grell under arrest by that time? I've not interfered with you hitherto, but for heaven's sake be careful. It won't do to make a mistake especially with a man of Grell's standing."
You are openly on our side now, Sir Ralph, so there can be no fear of your again being accused of acting in an underhand manner. There is nothing more to be done at the moment. I will keep you posted as to any steps we are taking." "Very well. Good morning, Mr. Foyle." The baronet was gone. The superintendent resumed his perusal of documents. He felt some little compunction at what had happened.
Fairfield, awakened from sleep by the news of the murder of his friend, had stared stupidly at the detective Foyle had sent to him. "Grell killed!" he exclaimed, "Why, he was with me last night. It is incredible awful. Of course, I'll come at once though I don't see what use I can be. What time was he murdered?" "About ten o'clock.
Then his jaw set, and he strode to where the superintendent was sitting and clutched him tightly by the arm. "What's all this?" he demanded hoarsely. "Do you mean to say Grell is not dead?" "As far as I know he is as alive as you or I at this present minute," said Foyle. "If you want to hear about it all, give me your word and sit down. You're hurting my arm."
Innocent or guilty, his friend had trusted him, and to use that trust to hound him down would savour of treachery. There was no doubt that Foyle knew something. He wondered how much. He returned his visitor's greeting. "Always glad to see you, Mr. Foyle, though I'm afraid there's nothing fresh so far as I am concerned. I see my man's made you comfortable. There's been a mistake somewhere.
His thoughts wandered to Sir Ralph Fairfield. Here was a man whose services would be invaluable if he could be persuaded to help. Grell knew him; trusted him. Foyle was a man who never neglected the remotest chances. He deemed it worth trying. True, so far as their encounters were concerned, Fairfield had not been encouraging. He would probably need delicate handling.
A jerky buzz at the telephone behind the superintendent's desk interrupted any reply that Fairfield might have made. With a muttered "Good-day" the baronet moved across the carpeted floor out of the room. As he closed the door Foyle put the receiver to his ear. "Hello! Hello!... Yes, this is Foyle speaking. Oh yes, I know.... No, you'd better not tell me over the telephone. You can't come here.
Besides, the appearance of prosperity of the "mug" spoke of a possible "leather" stuffed with banknotes. Decidedly, even in the absence of a "stall," it was worth chancing. And then Foyle got on and spoilt it all. If any one on the tramcar lost anything he would know who to blame. For Heldon Foyle had spoiled one of the greatest coups that ever a crook had been on the verge of bringing off.
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