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Grell Mystery, The

<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII</h2> Heldon Foyle and Chief Inspector Green paced to and fro along Westminster Pier watching a couple of motor-boats as they swung across the eddies to meet them. A bitter wind had chopped the incoming tide into a quite respectable imitation of a rough sea. There were three men in each boat. Wrington at the tiller in one, Jones, his lieutenant, steering the other. "It's going to be a cold job," commented Foyle, as he turned up his coat collar and stamped heavily on the frosty boards. "Ay," agreed Green. Then, without moving his head: "There's that chap Jerrold of the Wire behind us. Has he got any idea of what we're on?" Foyle wheeled sharply, and confronted a thin-faced, sallow-complexioned man with a wisp of black hair creeping from under his hat, and with sharp, penetrating, humorous eyes. Jerrold was one of the most resourceful of the "crime investigators" of Fleet Street, and, while he had often helped the police, he could be a dangerous ally at times. He started with well-affected surprise as Foyle greeted him. "Well, I never! How are you, Mr. Foyle? And you, Mr. Green? What are you doing down here?" "For the matter of that, what are you doing?" asked the superintendent, who had made a shrewd guess that he and his companion had been seen from the Embankment, and that Jerrold, scenting something afoot, had descended to wait an opportunity. But Jerrold was ready. "Me?" he retorted. "Oh, I'm writing a story about Westminster Bridge. Cracks have developed in the pier. Is it safe? You know the kind of thing." "Yes, I know," agreed Foyle, with a smile and a glance at the waiting boats. "Well, it's nice weather. Green and I are just going off with Wrington. There's some question of increasing the river staff, and we've got to go into it." Jerrold nodded as gravely as though he quite accepted the explanation. In fact, Foyle, shrewd as he was, could not feel certain that he had. The journalist took a casual glance about the wide stretch of water, and with an unconscious gesture that had become habitual with him flung back the lock of hair that dangled over his right eyebrow. "Got a minute to spare?" he asked. "A rather quaint thing happened at our office. You know they're excavating the foundations for a big hotel in Piccadilly? Well, on Monday a couple of burly navvies, carrying a big paper parcel, came up to the Wire office and Brashton saw them. "'Me an' my mate 'ere,' says the spokesman, ''ave been employed on those works in Piccadilly, and we made an interesting discovery to-day. Seeing as the Wire is an enterprising paper an' pays for news, we thought as 'ow we'd come along.' "'Always glad to pay for information if we use it,' says Brashton. "'We'll leave it to you,' says the spokesman, undoing the parcel. 'Look at this.' "Inside the wrappings was a battered but full-sized human skeleton. Brashton was a bit staggered, but put a few more questions to the men, and they went away. He forgot all about the skeleton till M'Gregor, the news editor, happened in. Mac's hair stood on end, and he pointed at the skeleton with a long forefinger. "'What's that?' he demanded. "Brashton looked up from some copy he was writing. 'That,' he said calmly. 'Oh, that's not necessarily for publication; it's just a guarantee of good faith.' And he explained. "Mac was horror-struck. He stared at Brashton as though he had taken leave of his senses. "'Good God, man,' he cried, 'why did you let them leave it here? It might have died of the plague or something.' And, stepping back into the corridor, he yelled for a boy. 'Take that thing away,' he ordered. 'Get rid of it. Put it in the furnace.' "Well, they took it down and cremated it. To-day, a fine, old, crusty police sergeant rolled up to the office. He wanted to see some one, he said, about the find of a body in Piccadilly. "Brashton received him suavely. 'Very good of you to come, sergeant,' he said. 'We're always grateful for any information about matters of interest.' "The sergeant fidgeted with his helmet. 'That's all right, sir,' he said. 'As a matter of fact, though, I've come to you for information this time. You see, I'm a coroner's officer, and we've got to hold an inquest, but we ain't got no body to hold it on!' "For a moment Brashton was flabbergasted, but he recovered himself almost immediately. 'I'm very sorry,' he apologised, 'but the fact is, although we had the skeleton here it has—er—been mislaid.' "That coroner's officer," went on Jerrold gravely, "is now looking over the excavations to see if it's possible to find a few odds and ends to hold the inquest on. But I see Mr. Green's getting impatient. Don't let me keep you." The boats had been brought up to the quay and, as the detectives stepped aboard, slipped downstream, hugging the Embankment. Foyle turned a speculative eye on the pier they had just quitted. A steam launch had just brought up, but Jerrold had vanished. The superintendent swore softly. "So that's why he kept us talking," he said. "He suspects something, and wanted to keep us till he could send for a boat himself. We shall be a regular procession if we don't stop that." He leaned over and spoke to Green in the second boat. Immediately it slackened speed, and as the launch came alongside the chief inspector swung deftly aboard. "Where's Mr. Jerrold?" he demanded of the man at the wheel. "Who's he?" was the gruff response. "Come, you know who he is well enough. He's the man who's borrowed or hired this craft, and he got on board just now. I want to speak to him. If he has ordered you to follow us, let me tell you that I am a police officer, and shall be justified in arresting you for obstructing me in the execution of my duty if you are not careful." "Hello, Mr. Green. Threatening the skipper? What's wrong?" said the equable voice of Jerrold, emerging with cigarette between his teeth through the sliding door of the saloon. The detective swung round upon him angrily. "This isn't the game, Mr. Jerrold. We can't have you following us like this." The journalist gave a shrug. "Really? Do you object to me having a blow on the river? Because I'm going on, in any case. I can't help it if you're going the same way." Green was helpless, and he knew it. Although he raged inwardly, he knew that it would be unwise to arrest the journalist, though such a course might be justified. Apart from the bad feeling such procedure might create, there was the difficulty of establishing a case without disclosing the object of their journey. It was a dilemma where diplomacy might with advantage be employed. He smiled at the reporter. "Mr. Jerrold, can't we settle this without quarrelling? We're on a queer job, and you might spoil it all by hanging around. Leave us to it, and if there's anything fit for publication you shall have first pull. Don't ask me anything else and I'll promise you that." "Honour?" queried Jerrold. "Honour," repeated Green. "Right you are. Slip off and we'll go back. Ring me up at the office." The steam launch wheeled about as Green took his place in his own boat. Both men were satisfied. Each knew that the other would not go back on his word. The chief inspector's boat caught up with that which carried Foyle and Wrington just below Waterloo Bridge. They were threading the tiers of barges moored on the southern side. The group of detectives, with eyes ceaselessly watchful, passed comments in a low voice. They were not hopeful of finding their quarry yet. The search was merely one of precaution. Now and again one of the boats stopped and a man clambered aboard a barge, dropping back in a few minutes with a shake of the head. Foyle and Green left all this to the river men. They knew the work. But, swift as they were, they made slow progress. Foyle glanced uneasily at his watch. It was already growing dusk, and the lights on the bridges were reflected in fantastic shapes from the dark waters. The superintendent spoke in a low voice to Wrington, who jerked his head in sharp assent. "You're right, sir. If we take the likely one now we can leave the others till we've finished. We'll get on. Let her out, boys." The two boats leapt forward, unobtrusively stealing a course in the shadow of the barges. It was delicate work in the gathering darkness, for many times a lighter swinging at its moorings threatened to crush them; but always they avoided the danger, though to the untrained faculties of Foyle it seemed that the margin of safety was no more than the breadth of a knife blade. At London Bridge they crossed to the northern side, and here the real hunt began. Wrington signalled for the lights to be put out, and they stole forward, two black blotches on the dark water. Once they narrowly escaped running down a Customs' patrol boat, and voices cursed them with vigour out of the gloom. Again, as they were about to pass under a mooring rope, some one yelled to Foyle to duck. The warning came too late, and he would have been swept into the water but that a ready knife severed the rope. Then there was a halt for a little, while the barge was secured again. "There's a new caretaker on a tier of barges just above Tower Bridge," whispered Wrington tensely. "We'll try there first. Keep your voice low if you want to speak, sir. Sound travels a long way on the water. Ah, there it is." Foyle had got good eyesight, but he could make out nothing but a smudge where Wrington pointed—a smudge emphasised by a tiny point of twinkling light. The two motor-boats slowed down and approached, as it were, on tiptoe one on either side of the vessel. As they came nearer a barge took shape at the head of a long string. "Stop her," ordered Wrington. "Now, sir, will you board her with me? Get ready." As they lurched against the sides of the craft the two leapt aboard. Green and Jones had come up from the other side. The superintendent gave a whispered order, and the other three ranged themselves around a small deck cabin, while he thrust open the door and entered. It was quite dark within, and a smell of stale tobacco smoke met his nostrils. He stood still and lit a match, holding himself in readiness for anything. A figure was dozing in a chair at the other side of the cabin. Foyle crossed stealthily and quietly encircled the man around the waist, pressing his arms to his side with all his strength. The man, suddenly awakened, struggled vigorously. "Keep still," ordered Foyle, doggedly maintaining his hold. "Hi, Green, Wrington! Give me a hand here, will you?" <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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