HELDON FOYLE dropped his cigar on the pavement, crushed it under his heel, and went thoughtfully on his way as the woman stepped into a taxi-cab. In the distance some public clock faintly hammered out the stroke of twelve.
A touch of imagination if it be harnessed to common sense does no harm to a detective. It was just that quality of imagination which had caused Foyle of New Scotland Yard to pause for a second at the point where Clarges Street runs into Piccadilly. It was his common sense that took him on.
From one of the houses in that street of austere respectability a woman had emerged, closing the door behind her with infinite caution and listening before she descended the steps. It was her caution that attracted Foyle’s closer attention. He noticed that the house was in utter darkness. The woman was in evening dress of some dark fabric, and the wrap over her head had been drawn close to shield her face. Once, as she crossed the road, she had thrown a furtive glance over her shoulder as though she feared she might be followed. She had halted a passing taxi-cab with an air of furtive haste.
Now there was no man more acquainted with queer happenings in all grades of society than Heldon Foyle. Years of experience at Scotland Yard had made him slow to jump to conclusions. But it is not usual for well-dressed women to steal surreptitiously at midnight from houses in a fashionable quarter. The thing touched his imagination. He was stirred to speculation.
One of the great street electric lights shone down on him as he lit a fresh cigar. There was nothing of the police officer about him—he would have considered himself unfitted for his business if there had been. He might have been between thirty and forty. Tall, with broad shoulders and indomitable chin, a carefully-kept brown moustache and steady, shrewd, humorous blue eyes; he was dressed scrupulously but unobtrusively.
Coincidence is by no means a negligible asset to Scotland Yard. To Heldon Foyle the next day there was announced Count von Haussen, whose card bore in one corner the number of a house in Clarges Street. The chief detective gave a little whimsical whistle as he deposited the reports which he had been busy perusing in a drawer, and prepared to receive his visitor.
The Count von Haussen was a slim-built man with a lean, sallow face, which was now twitching with some strong emotion, so that he seemed to be perpetually readjusting the eyeglass that he wore. His morning coat accentuated the thinness of his figure, and he wore spats over his sharp-pointed, highly-polished boots.
‘Mr Heldon Foyle?’ he asked in quick staccato tones, as he shook hands. ‘You are the chief detective here?’ In spite of his German name and title his English was perfect.
‘The superintendent of the Criminal Investigation Department,’ answered Foyle. ‘Will you sit down? What can I do for you?’
Count von Haussen placed his silk hat and gloves on the corner of the table.
‘It is a case of robbery,’ he declared, plunging at once into his subject. ‘I have had a string of pearls stolen, taken from my safe somehow—it seems like magic. They were there two or three days ago; this morning they were gone.’
Foyle nodded and lifted the telephone receiver from its place.
‘Get through to Grape Street,’ he said quietly, ‘and ask Inspector Milford to come up here as soon as he can.’ He put back the receiver. ‘Milford is in charge of our West End fold,’ he explained; ‘we may want him. Go on, Count. What are these pearls worth?’
‘I don’t know. They have always been in my family. They are insured for £3000, but their value is more than that. The queer thing is that the safe was not broken open. It is quite a small one, but the makers assured me it was absolutely burglar-proof. I last went to it, I believe, three days ago. The jewels were all right then. This morning, an hour ago, I had to go to it again. They were gone.’
The detective stroked his chin, a habit he had when considering a problem. ‘You mean to say that someone opened it with a duplicate key?’ he asked.
‘That is impossible. There is only one key, and that never leaves my possession.’
‘You are sure you didn’t leave the safe unlocked?’
‘Quite certain.’
A head showed round the corner of the door. The chief of the department beckoned with his forefinger.
‘Come in, Mr Milford,’ he said. ‘This is Count von Haussen, of Clarges Street, Piccadilly. He has had some valuable pearls stolen. I wish you would go into the matter. Take a description and the Count’s statement. Let me know when you are ready, and we’ll go down to Clarges Street together.’
Milford bowed ceremoniously at the introduction, and disappeared with the Count.
In the next twenty minutes Heldon Foyle did many things which made several of the six hundred men under his charge exceedingly busy. He knew that the sooner the great machinery which he controlled was set to work the greater the chance of solving the problem that had been set him. A swift pursuit often saved long labour.
A list of those expert professional thieves who were known to have been in London on the day the jewels were last seen was instantly to hand, and a little army of men set to trace and check their movements. Reports were called for from the departmental men continually on duty at the London termini; from the watchers at the ports—Harwich, Dover, Folkestone, Southampton, and other places, including the Continental ports.
These were all first steps in routine, to be amplified or modified by instructions as developments might occur. A known jewel thief leaving London would scarcely have escaped the notice of the triple line of observers, and once his trail was picked up he would be watched until his guilt or innocence was reasonably settled.
A cable to Amsterdam, to which place it was likely that stolen jewels might be sent for disposal, advised the police in that city of the robbery.
There may be more sport in fishing with a rod and line, which is what the single-handed detectives in books do, but there is more certainty about a net. Foyle always regarded the capture of criminals as a business matter, and, as far as possible, adopted business methods. All his precautions might go for nought—the thief might not be a professional at all—but they left him free to deal with any matters that might arise in the course of the investigation.
The chief detective had five minutes to think over events when his last order had been despatched over the private telegraph wire. For the first time he allowed his thoughts to ponder over the mysterious woman he had seen leaving Clarges Street the night before.
Milford stalked in at last, a big sheet of foolscap paper in his hand. Heldon Foyle began to put on his hat and coat.
‘Well?’ he asked. ‘What do you make of it?’
The divisional inspector shook his head.
‘Nothing at present, sir. It’s odd, if what the Count says is right.’
‘Do you know anything about him?’
‘Only what he tells me. His father was a German, but he’s lived in England all his life. The pearls—there were eighteen of them—were a kind of heirloom. He is rather vague about them, but I phoned through to Halford and Jones, the assessors to Lloyd’s, who tell me that the man who examined them for insurance was struck by their individual purity and the way they were matched. They’re worth a lot more than the money they’re insured for. I’ve got a full technical description.’
‘Is this gentleman married?’
‘No.’ Milford referred to the paper in his hand. ‘The only people living in the house besides himself are a Miss Ethel von Haussen—a girl who comes of Devonshire stock, whom he adopted as his daughter nine years ago—and four servants—a housekeeper, two maids, and a page-boy.’
The chief detective rubbed his chin.
‘Right you are, Milford. You’d better let that description go out at once. Hurry up. We’ll take a taxi.’
He joined von Haussen, who was waiting in the corridor. There were few men who could turn a stranger into a friend or who knew more of the art of indirect cross-examination than Heldon Foyle. The dapper little Anglicised German was as empty of all information as a wrung sponge by the time the cab drew up at Clarges Street. Foyle had learnt much of the character and history of each person in the house—not excepting Miss Ethel and von Haussen himself.
A little hitch of the shoulder was all the sign he gave as he recognised the house from which the mysterious woman had emerged. His keen eyes noted the Yale lock on the outer door, and the couple of heavy bolts which secured it at top and bottom. Von Haussen led them through to a room at the back. It was furnished as a sitting-room. He drew aside a small curtain in a recess.
‘This is the safe, you see,’ he said.
The two detectives stooped to examine it closely. Foyle inserted the key and, turning the handle, swung back the heavy door. As the Count had said, there was no indication that it had been tampered with, Even their expert scrutiny could find nothing likely to prove of use to the investigation. Foyle shrugged his shoulders and Milford made a few notes in his official pocket-book.
‘You would like to question the servants?’ demanded von Haussen.
‘Mr Milford will see to that,’ said Foyle. ‘Perhaps you will introduce me to Miss von Haussen first if she happens to be in.’
‘Oh, certainly,’ said the little man. ‘She is probably in her room. Will you come with me? Excuse me for one moment, Mr Milford.’
Heldon Foyle found himself ushered into a dainty boudoir and bowing to a slim, girlish figure who rose from the depths of a big arm-chair as they entered. Miss von Haussen was a girl whose wholesome beauty would have attracted attention anywhere. Her exquisitely moulded cheeks were stained with a touch of scarlet as she bowed in response to the introduction. She stood uncertainly gripping the back of a chair, but her brown eyes met those of the detective steadily. Von Haussen had returned to Milford.
‘I do hope you’ll be able to recover the pearls, Mr Foyle,’ she said. ‘It’s terrible to have lost them like this. As you know, perhaps, they were to have been mine in six months’ time.’
‘We shall do our best, Miss von Haussen,’ he said smoothly. He was scrutinising her with subtle care, making up his mind how to deal with her. There was nothing in what von Haussen had told him that would have afforded any explanation of the midnight excursion, yet he felt sure that she was the woman he had seen.
He was becoming aware of a penetrating scent that filled the apartment. He glanced at the window. It was wide open.
‘Can you tell me if you suspect anyone?’ he asked. ‘I won’t conceal from you that my present idea is to believe that the robbery must have been carried out by someone in the house—someone who could have gained access to Count von Haussen’s keys.’
She spread out her hands—they were firm white hands—in an expressive gesture of hopelessness.
‘There is no one,’ she said. ‘With the exception of Robbins, the page-boy, they have all been with us for years. It is ridiculous to suppose that any of them had a hand in it.’
Again that whiff of scent. It was the pungent odour of smelling-salts. Foyle’s eyes dropped for a second to the empty fire-grate. He raised his expressionless face to the girl’s.
‘What time does the household retire?’ he asked.
‘Usually about eleven.’
‘You—pardon me—are not engaged?’
She shook her head laughingly.
‘Oh, dear, no. But I don’t quite see what that has to do with it?’
The detective laughed frankly and held out his hand.
‘It wasn’t mere vulgar curiosity, Miss von Haussen. I wanted to know if there might be any privileged visitor by any chance. Good-bye, and thank you so much.’
He bowed himself out with an idea beginning to germinate in his mind. But he did not permit whatever theory he might have formed to possess him entirely. Neither he nor Milford left the neighbourhood of Clarges Street until a telephone call had brought a couple of unobtrusive young men from the Grape Street police station. Foyle met them a little out of view of the house, and gave them curt, definite instructions. For the rest of the day one or the other of them was never out of sight of the Count von Haussen’s house.
Milford was cynical over the whole business.
‘It looks to me like a put-up job,’ he confessed frankly. ‘The servants haven’t had a hand in it, that I’ll swear. But we know that whoever got at that safe did it with a key. I’m inclined to think that the Count could say where those pearls are if he wanted to. But he’ll draw the insurance money before they’ll turn up.’
The chief detective chuckled.
‘Don’t you think that if this was a bogus business the safe would have been ripped to pieces?’ he asked. ‘Just take my tip, Milford, and let everyone who comes out of that house be kept under observation for a while. We’ll get those pearls back or call me a Dutchman. Hello, here’s Bond Street! I’ll leave you here. I want to go and get some smelling-salts.’
He strode away. Milford pulled at his moustache.
‘Smelling-salts?’ he repeated to himself. ‘Well, I’m hanged.’
On the mantelpiece in Heldon Foyle’s room at the Yard stood three green bottles of smelling-salts. Since his first visit to Clarges Street he had been content to leave the investigation of the missing pearls case to Inspector Milford. He knew that an inquiry on parallel lines had been opened by the corps of detectives employed by Lloyd’s assessors. He rarely interfered personally in a case unless it was of extreme importance, or unless it came beyond the ability of the man in whose charge it was.
But the Clarges Street developments he watched with considerable interest, so far as the formal daily reports of those engaged allowed. And at last, after three days, came Milford, his face wrinkled and worried.
He sank into a chair that his superior indicated with a long breath that was almost a sigh.
‘Well?’ demanded Foyle.
The other brushed back his hair from his forehead.
‘It’s that von Haussen affair, sir. That girl’s at the bottom of it somehow, though it beats me how. The night before last was when we first began to get on to her. She came out of the house about half-past eleven or so, and took a taxi-cab. Perring, who was on duty, followed her. She went to a place in Bloomsbury Street and let herself in with a latch-key. She was there ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, then she returned home. Of course, we made inquiries about the people staying at the place, and they all seem decent folk enough. I had it out with Miss von Haussen the next day. She declared that I was drunk or mad—and that she knew no one in Bloomsbury Street, and that at the time she was supposed to be there she was in bed. Of course I had to go cautiously, for Perring did not see her face, although he’s certain that it was she. What does she want gadding about at that time, and with the latch-key of a strange house too?’
Foyle was turning over the pages of a report that the inspector had given to him. Attached to it was a list of the occupants of the boarding-house, with pithy remarks giving detail of their avocations. He ran a finger over the list meditatively.
‘There’s nothing to indicate which of these people she went to see, I suppose?’ he asked.
Milford’s heel tapped the floor.
‘There are nine boarders there—seven men and two women. We have questioned them all, and they all deny knowledge of the girl. There’s no reason to suppose it should be one person more than another.’
‘I’ve a mind to look at this place,’ said Foyle. ‘Let the matter rest till you hear from me, Milford.’
It was an hour after this conversation that a military looking man who used a walking-stick to assist a slight lameness, whose gold-rimmed eyeglass encircled a blue eye, and whose moustache had been carefully waxed, limped along Bloomsbury Street. It was very exceptional for Heldon Foyle, or any of his men for that matter, to use disguises that might get out of order. It is wonderful what a change can be wrought in a man by a change of clothes, a different method of arranging the hair or moustache.
The card sent into the house he at last selected bore the inscription:
MAJOR JACOB DAVIS
WRINGTON
It brought him into the presence of a stern-faced, broad-built lady, whose black silk dress rustled as she rose with all the stateliness of a Bloomsbury landlady to receive him. His story had been well prepared. He had just been invalided from the Indian army, and wanted to secure permanent rooms. He had heard of her from a friend of his whose name he could not recollect.
Thus it was that Major Jacob Davis, otherwise Heldon Foyle of the C.I.D., became a lodger in the boarding-house of Mrs Albion.
He was a popular guest. Every morning he would limp away—to his club, he said, returning at half-past six in the evening. He would play chess, take a hand at bridge, discuss politics, or tell stories of Indian frontier life with an engagingly modest air. He became the recipient of many confidences, but he seemed drawn most of all to Mr Horace Levith, an artist, whose bedroom adjoined his own, and who used one of the top attics of the house as a studio.
Gradually the two became in the habit of smoking a farewell pipe together after the others had retired, and once or twice they shared a bottle of wine together in the privacy of Foyle’s bedroom. Levith was not averse to a bottle of Beaune at anyone’s expense, and Major Davis was an enjoyable companion.
But never was the soldier invited into Levith’s private room; and he knew, by demonstration, that the doors of both the studio and the bedroom were invariably kept locked. To a man of Foyle’s calibre, however, that mattered little. He merely bided his time.
There are always ways and means open to a man of determination who is willing to take risks. In France and other countries a detective is covered by law in whatever he may do. In England an officer has sometimes to commit a technical illegality to achieve his ends.
Heldon Foyle had no shadow of legal right to use a false key to gain access to Levith’s room. Strictly, he was stealing when he took a photograph from the dressing-table, smiled at the inscription on the back, and put it in his pocket.
Only one other thing he did before he left. A green-tinted smelling-salt bottle stood on a small dressing-table. He lifted the stopper, smelt it, and squinted within. Then he compared it with those three green bottles which had for a time adorned the mantelpiece of his office at Scotland Yard.
‘It’s not exactly the same, but it will have to do,’ he muttered.
Then he left, locking the door carefully behind him.
It was with Milford that Heldon Foyle called upon Count von Haussen. He was quite sure what might happen, and a reliable witness could do no harm. The dapper little German received them at once.
‘No news, I suppose?’ he asked gloomily.
Foyle smiled at him.
‘Did you ever hear of a Mr Horace Levith?’ he retorted.
‘I don’t recall the name,’ said the Count, frowning, a little puzzled. ‘Wait a moment—no, I can’t remember it,’
‘Well, he is an artist living at a Bloomsbury boarding-house. I have taken the liberty of ordering him to be brought on here as soon as he returns. Ah, there is a ring! That should be he now. Perhaps you’ll answer the door, Milford?’
The inspector slipped out. When he came back he was accompanied by two men—one a detective-sergeant, the other Levith. The artist was pale, and stared at Foyle with unfeigned astonishment as he came into the room.
‘What is the meaning of this—this outrage?’ he demanded angrily.
But Count von Haussen had leapt to his feet.
‘It is Ethel’s drawing-master!’ he exclaimed. ‘Levith—yes, that is the name. I could not remember. Why have you brought him here, Mr Foyle? Did he steal the pearls? Is—’
Foyle quieted him with a wave of the hand.
‘Keep still a minute, Count,’ he said. ‘He did not steal them; but he received them.’
‘It’s a lie!’ burst from the artist. ‘I know nothing. You can search me—search my rooms. You can’t prove it.’
Ignoring him, Heldon Foyle brought from his pocket a green smelling-salts bottle. He removed the stopper and shook the contents out on the table. Glowing iridescent against a green tablecloth was a string of pearls. Levith clutched at a chair to support himself.
‘You see that I have already searched your rooms,’ Foyle said coldly. Then turning to von Haussen, he continued: ‘There were reasons why you should have an explanation before we charge this man. It was luck that gave me a hint before I knew that the jewels were gone. As soon as I knew all the particulars it was obvious that the robbery must have been executed at least with the connivance, if not actually by, someone in the house. I had seen a woman, whom I afterwards learnt to be Miss von Haussen, surreptitiously leave one evening—sit still, Count, I have not finished yet! That gave me an excuse for regarding her with suspicion when I knew a crime had been committed. The servants might have been guilty, but their opportunities were limited compared to hers.
‘I was not satisfied with her manner when I questioned her, and it was then I came to the conclusion that my suspicions were well founded. I noticed that a bottle of smelling-salts had been recently emptied in her fire-grate. It had not been broken, for it and the salts would have been removed at the same time as the broken glass. Evidently she had emptied a smelling-bottle for some purpose. If it were needed as a hiding-place for the jewels, I could understand it. A smelling-bottle would not arouse suspicion.
‘I let the matter rest, and had her watched. Once again she left the house surreptitiously, and was traced to a boarding-house in Bloomsbury. There we were at a loss for a time because there were many people in the house, and we could not definitely determine which she had gone to. I took apartments there myself and for a week made myself acquainted with all the inmates. One of the reasons that made me fix on Levith as the culprit was that he always kept his rooms locked. I got him out of the way on a pretext, and, as I expected, I found the jewels hidden in a smelling-salts bottle. I left a similar bottle so as not to arouse his suspicions should he return before I was ready.
‘I had got from him some particulars of his life. He had been a drawing-master. He was a Devonshire man. He was, I knew, hard up. It was not difficult to suppose that Miss von Haussen had been his pupil at some time, and that they had become lovers. You would have objected to your adopted daughter becoming engaged to a drawing-master, I suppose?’
‘Most decidedly,’ said von Haussen, his lips tightening.
‘I thought so. It was, as I say, evident that the man was hard up. Whether he persuaded her or she did it on her own initiative, I don’t know, but the fact remains that she got the jewels and they were taken to him. I suppose they were only waiting for a suitable opportunity to dispose of them. Here is a photograph I found on his dressing-table.’
It was a portrait of Ethel von Haussen, and scribbled on the face of it were the words: ‘To my husband.’
Von Haussen wheeled round on the artist.
‘That is so?’ he demanded. ‘You are married?
Levith bowed his head.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘It is all my fault. We were married two years ago. I should have dissuaded her when she wanted to take the jewels. She argued that it was only anticipating matters, they would be hers anyway in a little while.’
The Count bit his lip, and stared straight in front of him. Presently he rose and abruptly left the room. He returned in a few minutes.
‘It was not what I had hoped for my daughter,’ he said dully. ‘But what is to be will be. At any rate, I have to thank you, Mr Foyle.’
The chief detective was standing.
‘Not at all,’ he returned. ‘I take it you will refuse to prosecute this man?’
‘Of course. Good-day, Mr Foyle. Good-day, Mr Milford.’
‘Good-day, Count von Haussen.’
Out in the street Foyle jerked his head back at the house.
‘At any rate, we’ve saved those people the airing of a scandal,’ he said.