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Updated: June 10, 2025
"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.
One of them seemed to shriek out, and threw up his hands, and made as if to rush forward; but the other drew him back. Heldon knew what revenge and disgrace may be at their worst. In vain he tried to reach God's Playground.
"As I thought," commented Heldon Foyle thoughtfully, tearing the paper into little bits and dropping them into the waste-paper basket. "The number was a false one. They knew that Waverley would have a look at the number. Oh, these people are cunning cunning." Green found him, half an hour later, hard at work with the collection of typewritten sheets which formed the book of the case.
Heldon Foyle rubbed his chin. Every moment their chances of catching the fugitive lessened. In the darkness, which the lights from the bridge and from adjacent boats only made more involved, there was little hope of finding the man they wanted.
The more he talked the better, for he might drop something of value. Not until they drew up at the police station did his eloquence desert him. The superintendent descended first and gave a few instructions, while the soi-disant constable was taken to the cells. Ike found himself escorted upstairs into the C.I.D. office. Only Heldon Foyle and Green remained with him.
She wondered how much Foyle knew. It was evidently of no use trying to impress him with the importance of her rank and connections. Princesses are cheap in Russia. "You are Mr. Heldon Foyle, of course," she said. "I have heard that you are very clever. I don't see what I can have had to do with the murder, even if I am Lola Rachael which I admit." "We shall see.
The handle turned and an erect man with his right arm carried in a black silk handkerchief improvised into a sling entered the room. It was Detective-Inspector Waverley. Heldon Foyle was on his feet in a second, and he pushed a chair towards his subordinate. Detective-Inspector Waverley sat down and drummed nervously on his knees with the fingers of his left hand.
It's smudged the paper a bit, but that won't matter. It's still readable. Good-bye, Sir Ralph." So admirably had the accident been contrived that even Fairfield never suspected that it was anything but genuine. In a public telephone-box, a few hundred yards away, Heldon Foyle was examining the half-sheet of notepaper side by side with the photograph of the finger-prints on the dagger.
"I don't think I'll wait, after all," said Foyle. "Time's getting on, and I've several things to attend to." "Shall I tell Lady Eileen you called, sir?" "Oh yes, certainly. Tell her I'll call back about six this evening." In deep thought Heldon Foyle sauntered away from the house, and Maxwell joined him as they turned a corner. The superintendent said nothing till they reached Piccadilly.
He was a methodical man. Resolutely he put from his mind all thoughts of the murder. No good would come of spinning theories until he had all the available facts. For ten years Heldon Foyle had been the actual executive chief of the Criminal Investigation Department. He rarely wore a dressing-gown and never played the violin.
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