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Updated: May 10, 2025
The sheet of paper read "In connection with the investigation into the murder of Mr. Robert Grell, Superintendent Heldon Foyle, accompanied by Chief Detective-Inspector Green, Divisional Detective-Inspector Wrington, and other detectives, examined the body of a man found in the river, whom it was supposed might be the man Goldenburg, for whom search is being made.
He saw Pierre, coming from it. The look on the gambler's face was one, of gloomy wonder. His fingers trembled as he lighted a cigarette, and that was an unusual thing. The form of Heldon edged within the light. Pierre dropped the match and said to him, "You are looking for your wife?" Heldon bowed his head. The other threw open the door of the hut. "Come in here," he said. They entered.
Heldon Foyle had seen much of Robert Grell's writing during his search of the house in Grosvenor Gardens, and had no doubt that the note was his. His peace of mind was not increased by the reflection that had he waited and continued to shadow Fairfield he might have discovered the whereabouts of the missing diplomat.
He caught at his breath once or twice and his temples flamed scarlet. "Speak plainly now!" he cried hoarsely. "What are you hinting at?" Slowly Heldon Foyle began to tear the sheet of paper bearing Grell's finger-marks into minute fragments. He was calm, inscrutable. "I thought I made myself clear," he replied.
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.
The mixture of indignation and haughtiness might have imposed upon some people, and the threat of appeal to the Russian Ambassador had been very adroit. Heldon Foyle merely nodded. "This is not arrest," he replied. "It is not even detention unless you force me to it. I am inviting you to accompany me to give an account of your movements on the night that Harry Goldenburg was murdered.
So rapid, so unexpected was the movement that, although Heldon Foyle had not ceased his careful watchfulness, and although he writhed quickly aside, he was borne back by his assailant. The two crashed heavily to the floor. As they rolled over, struggling desperately, the grip upon the detective's throat grew ever tighter and tighter.
The first grey daylight had found Sir Ralph Fairfield pacing his sitting-room with uneven strides, his hands clasped behind his back, the stump of a cold cigar between his teeth. His interview with Heldon Foyle had not been calculated to calm him. "I'm a fool a fool," he told himself. "Why should they suspect me? What have I to gain by Grell's death?"
The emotion that possessed her was too deep for tears. She gazed in a kind of stupor at the immobile face of the detective. "You have made a ghastly mistake," she said, and her voice was level and dull. "Mr. Grell had nothing to do with the murder. I killed that man. I have come here to-day to give myself up." A twinkle of amusement shot into the blue eyes of Heldon Foyle.
I never saw it before," she retorted, and passed out. But Heldon Foyle had her finger-prints. Sir Hilary Thornton lifted his coat-tails to the cheerful blaze as he stood with his back to the fireplace. Heldon Foyle, with the book which he was giving his nights and days to compiling on the desk in front of him, sat bolt upright in his chair talking swiftly.
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