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Updated: June 18, 2025
Gently stroking his chin, Foyle answered in a soft voice, "The other day a man came to see me. He was a man of high social standing and had fallen into the clutches of a gang of blackmailers. He wanted us to take action, but he absolutely refused to go into the witness-box to give evidence. I pressed him, pointing out that that was the only way in which we could bring home anything against them.
Heldon Foyle had many avenues of information when it was a matter of ordinary professional crime. The old catchword, "Honour among thieves," was one he had little reason to believe in. There was always a trickle of information into headquarters by subterranean ways. The commonplaces of crime were effectively looked after.
"I didn't have a chance," retorted Freddy. "I was in a little run-about with a pal when he came scooting by hell-for-leather. We only got a glimpse of him, and if he noticed us he made no sign. I thought you'd like to know, that's all. It was an open car, brown colour. I couldn't see the number for dust; it was A something." "Well, we know all that," said Foyle.
It is a cipher that cannot be unravelled without the key number. H becomes K once and M once." "I see." The simplicity of it at once dawned on him. "That was what Foyle meant when he said that some ciphers could not be solved by the recurring E," he said unthinkingly. She had risen and flung away from him in quick revulsion. One glance at her face told him what he had done. "You spy!"
On one was written: "Dear Sir, please insert the enclosed advts. in the personal column of your next issue. John Jones." On the other were two advertisements "R.F. You are closely watched. Don't forget 2315. Don't forget 2315. To-morrow. "Very curious," commented Foyle. "Copy them out carefully and have 'em sent to the paper. They can't do any harm. Now let's get along."
He was in the position of a man who might solve a puzzle by hard, painstaking experiment and inquiry, but rather hoped that some brilliant flash of inspiration or luck might give him the key that would fit it together at once. They rarely do come. Once Lomont, Grell's secretary, knocked and entered with a question on his lips. Foyle waved him impatiently away. "I will see you later on, Mr. Lomont.
What is at the back of it?" Ivan studied his questioner suspiciously. Foyle made haste to dispel what was at the back of his mind. "You had reason for refusing to speak before," he insisted. "I'm not blaming you. Consider the thing fairly as it stands now and you'll see that you best serve your master by perfect frankness. I'm not trying to trap you. You may trust me."
Sir Ralph Fairfield was not the murderer of the man so astoundingly like Robert Grell. The evidence of the finger-prints was entirely negative. Though Foyle believed that Fairfield was innocent, he never permitted himself to be swayed by his opinions into neglecting a possibility.
Wrington hailed the other boats, and the detectives returned to the barge. A light thrown into the tiny cabin disclosed amid the disorder an open kit-bag full of linen. Green pulled out the top shirt and felt its texture between thumb and finger. Then he pointed to the name of a West-end maker on the collar. "Yes, it's hardly the kind of thing a barge watchman would wear," commented Foyle.
The butler found him...." When a man has passed thirty years in the service of the Criminal Investigation Department at New Scotland Yard his nerves are pretty well shock-proof. Few emergencies can shake him not even the murder of so distinguished a man as Robert Grell. Heldon Foyle gave a momentary gasp, and then wasted no further time in astonishment.
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