Tony Medawar – The Grell Mystery (страница 13)
‘Didn’t ’urt you, did it?’ stormed the labourer aggressively. ‘’Course I look where I’m going.’ Then in a lower tone: ‘I’m Foyle. I got your telephone message. Anything moving now?’
‘If you don’t go away I shall call a constable.’ Green had been quick to see his cue and spoke loudly. He went on rapidly. ‘He hasn’t stirred out. A post-office messenger has just gone in with a letter for him. I said I was expecting one, and got a glimpse at it.’
‘All right, old pal. Don’t get excited. You go home and tell the missus all about it,’ retorted the labourer.
Green walked rapidly away, spoke a few words to a man who was standing on the other side of the road, deeply interested in a bookseller’s window, and departed.
The superintendent felt in his pockets and produced a couple of boxes of matches. A constable strolled up, dignified and stern. A swift word in an undertone sent him away with burning cheeks.
In half an hour Foyle had sold a box of matches, for which he received sixpence with profuse thanks and inward disgust. If he sold his second box and still hung about, his loitering without excuse might attract undesirable attention. The contingency, however, did not arise, for a minute or two later Fairfield himself strolled into the street. Foyle rushed to open the door of a taxicab, which he hailed, but another tout was before him. Nevertheless, he heard the address.
‘Grave Street, Whitechapel,’ he murmured to himself, as the cab slipped away. ‘Ivan has got to work.’
A short argument with a second cab-driver, who distrusted his appearance, was cut short by a deposit of five shillings as a guarantee of good faith, and the superintendent also began the journey. Behind him a third cab carried the man who had been so deeply interested in the bookseller’s window.
GRAVE STREET, Whitechapel, is not a savoury neighbourhood. One may pass from end to end of its squalid length and hear scarce a word of English. Yiddish is the language most favoured by its cosmopolitan population, although one may hear now and again Polish, Russian, or German. In its barrack-like houses, rising sheer from the pavement, a chain of tenancy obtains, ranging from the actual householder to the tenant of half a room, who sublets corners of the meagre space on terms payable strictly in advance. A score of people will herd together in a room a few feet square, and never realise that they are cramped for space.
Here you will find petty thieves, versatile rascals ripe for any mischief, and sweated factory workers; here sallow-faced anarchists boldly denounce the existing order of things to their fellows and scheme the millennium. Slatternly women quarrel at the doors, and horse-flesh is a staple article of diet.
The neatly dressed Fairfield descending at the end of the street from his taxicab was as conspicuous among the unshaven idlers who hung about the pavements as the moon among the stars.
Sir Ralph picked his way towards a newspaper shop, his mind full of the message that had brought him to the spot. The letter delivered by the messenger had contained but a few words in printed characters.
‘IF YOU WOULD LEARN THE TRUTH ABOUT THE MURDER IN GROSVENOR GARDENS, COME IMMEDIATELY TO NO.— GRAVE STREET.’
There was no signature, no clue to the identity of the writer. Fairfield had leapt at the chance to do something. Even if it were a hoax it would occupy his mind for a time, and take his thoughts away from the sinister shadow that overhung him. Somehow, however, he did not think it was a hoax.
The newspaper shop displayed the number given in the note on its grimy facia. The baronet, as he moved towards it, was unconscious of the slouching figure of the labourer, who had been selling matches near the Albany, a few paces behind him. His foot was on the threshold of the shop when a man, black-bearded and swarthy, pressed an envelope into his hand.
Foyle watched the incident and his pace quickened. Before Fairfield had time to do more than glance at the inscription of the envelope he was abreast. He lurched inward and his fingers snatched quickly at the note. The next instant he was running with long, even strides for the open of the main road.
It was barefaced robbery, of course, but he had not the inclination to stick at trifles. That the note had some bearing on the case he was investigating he felt certain. There was only one way to get it at once, and that was to steal. Anywhere else but in Grave Street he would have waited to face the matter out. Not that Grave Street would have frowned upon a theft, but that he would have been forced to reveal his identity, and Grave Street was not a healthy neighbourhood for solitary detectives.
Sir Ralph stood thunderstruck, but someone else acted. The black-bearded man had disappeared. From somewhere there were a couple of dull thuds like a hammer falling upon wood, and Foyle heard the whistle of bullets over his head.
‘I’ll get even for that,’ he muttered between his teeth, but his headlong flight never slackened.
Behind him was a clatter of pursuing feet. Fairfield, recovering himself, had raised a cry and it was taken up.
‘Stop thief! Hold him!’
He passed the man who had been so eagerly intent on the bookshop. The man made a clutch at him, missed and fell headlong right in the path of Fairfield, now a few paces behind. The baronet tripped over his body and was thrown violently to the ground.
Foyle made a mental note in favour of Detective-Sergeant Chambers, who had so adroitly intercepted the pursuit. As he came to the main road he slackened his pace to a sharp walk, and dived into an underground station. He breathed a sigh of relief as he passed down the steps to the platform.
He had anticipated trouble, but pistol-shots in broad daylight, even in Grave Street, had been outside his calculations. He had recognised the peculiar report of an automatic pistol. His adversaries, whoever they might be, were obviously very much in earnest. Pistol-shooting at detectives is not a commonplace pastime even with the most reckless of criminals. Foyle decided on another and early visit to Grave Street, and promised himself grimly that the target should be someone else, if it came to shooting again. He was in danger of losing his temper.
Not until he had got in the train did he open the note that was still between his fingers. He frowned as he read it.
‘Curse it! This comes of acting on impulse. Why couldn’t I have waited! I had the whole thing in my hands.’
The note said simply:
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. Now he had merely given notice as plainly as though he had shouted from the housetops that Fairfield was under observation. He had committed a blunder, and he did not forgive blunders easily, especially in himself.
Even a bath and a change into his normal clothing did not restore his equanimity. In his office he found Green, with a strange excitement in his usually stolid face.
‘Hello, Mr Green. What’s wrong?’ he demanded.
The veteran chief detective-inspector pulled at his moustache.
‘I don’t know, sir, yet. You’ve come just in time. Waverley is missing.’
‘Waverley missing! That’s nonsense. He was put on to relieve Norman in shadowing Ivan Abramovitch.’
‘He’s missing,’ repeated the other doggedly. ‘Ivan went into a shop with an entrance in two streets, and the man who was assisting Waverley slipped round to the other side. He waited there an hour, and then went to look for Waverley.’
The superintendent gave a short, contemptuous laugh.
‘Green, I guess you’ve been working too hard lately. You ought to apply for a fortnight’s leave. Can’t you see, Ivan came out and that Waverley never had time to give the tip to his man, but followed him straight away? There ought to have been three men on the job.’
Green drew himself up stiffly. Foyle had not recovered from the irritation caused by his own mistake, otherwise he would not have spoken as he did. Green was not the kind of man to hastily jump to conclusions.
‘A third was not available when Waverley left,’ he said. ‘Here is why I say Waverley is missing. It came by messenger five minutes ago, addressed to you. As senior officer I opened it.’
Foyle took a typewritten sheet of paper from the other’s hand. It read simply:
‘DEAR MR. FOYLE,—You had better call your men off. We have got one of them safe, and hold him as a hostage for our own safety. If your people go on trying to make things unpleasant for us, things will get unpleasant for him. This is not melodrama, but brutal fact.’
There was no signature. Foyle’s square jaw became set and grim. He had no doubt that the unknown writer fully meant the threat. He liked Waverley, yet the thought of the other’s peril did not sway him for a moment. The man had fallen a victim to one of the risks of his profession.