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Updated: May 10, 2025
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.
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.
Heldon Foyle put on his hat and coat and ordered a taxi. "Brixton Prison," he said to the driver. There are many people who pass Brixton Prison everyday who have no conception of its whereabouts. The main entrance is tucked away a hundred yards or so down an unobtrusive turning off Brixton Hill. Within a little gate-house inside the barred gates a principal warder sits on duty.
He wondered vaguely what he ought to do, and decided to consult Brown Brown being the senior member of his firm of family solicitors. In his room at Scotland Yard Superintendent Heldon Foyle, a cigar between his teeth, was studying the book which his staff was compiling. Already it formed a bulky volume of many hundred typewritten pages.
It was to Heldon Foyle's own house, and not to Scotland Yard, that Green telephoned eventually. Clad in a bright blue dressing-gown, the superintendent listened, with a few non-committal interjections, until his lieutenant had finished. "On his own land, eh?" he said at last. "What do you make of it, Green? Is it genuine, or has he done it just to throw us off, and doubled back on his trail?
Well, at any rate he could rely on Blake and his assistants to find out whether she had received letters or messages. The matter was out of his hands, and it was not his habit to worry about affairs which he could not influence. That Heldon Foyle had come so closely on the heels of Grell's message was something of a shock to Eileen.
The blaze of electric lights under their opal shades in Heldon Foyle's office became dim before the growing of the dawn. The superintendent, a cigar between his lips, was working methodically over half-a-dozen piles of papers.
Nor would she leave London to try and forget amid fresh surroundings. "Here I will stay until Bob's murderer is punished," she had said, and her white teeth had come together viciously. A night and a day had passed since her interview with Heldon Foyle. Reflection had not convinced her that his cold reason was right. She had made up her mind that Fairfield was the murderer.
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.
With Green and yourself and myself we should be able to tackle anything. Have a launch and a motor-boat at Westminster Bridge Pier in a couple of hours' time. If you can borrow them off some one, so that they don't look like police craft, so much the better." "I can do it, sir." "Good. In two hours' time, then." And Heldon Foyle turned away, dismissing the subject from his mind.
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